The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal

By: olivieblake

Fandom: harry potter

Summary: Objectively speaking, Hermione Granger knows Britain has a monarchy, just as she knows Prince Draco (the grandson of the King of England) is probably off somewhere living his royal life in total unrelation to hers. Seeing as she isn't delusional, she doesn't really expect to be his friend. She doesn't expect anything that comes after, either. Dramione, modern royalty AU. COMPLETE.

Status: Completed

Fic type: Books/Harry Potter

Pairings/Main char.: [Draco M., Hermione G.] [Theodore N., Daphne G.]

Published: 2018-07-03

Last updated: 2020-03-04

Words count: 527,574

Chapters count: 45

Converted using www.FF2EBOOK.com
Date: 2020-05-07

1. Spontaneity

The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal

Summary: Objectively speaking, Hermione Granger knows Britain has a monarchy, just as she knows Prince Draco (the grandson of the current King of England) is probably off somewhere living his royal life in total unrelation to hers. Seeing as she isn't delusional, she doesn't really expect to be his friend. She doesn't expect anything that comes after, either. Dramione, modern royalty AU.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and claim no profit from this work. Credit where credit is due, Joanne Rowling. Additionally, while the story is inspired by the romances of Prince William and Prince Harry, all of the accounts/characterizations herein are fictional. While I have read The Royal We by Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan and this story does share the same premise, it takes several different turns after the initial set-up of chapter one.

a/n: This story is a continuation of the one shot of the same name from my Amortentia short story collection. It is based on something of a mash-up of the Wills and Kate/Harry and Meghan romances (with a few extra influences) and is intended to be a fairly light-hearted comedy. I've made some changes to the world, of course, which will become clear over time.

As ever, I can't wait to start another story with you, and hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Spontaneity

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Draco and Hermione: A Royal Love Story
By Rita Skeeter

While many of us here in Britain have been captivated by the blossoming romance between His Royal Highness Prince Draco of Wales and his American sweetheart, Miss Hermione Jean Granger, very few are privileged to know the true story about how the young couple met. A fairy tale from the very beginning, it was love at first sight when Draco took notice of Hermione, the daughter of hardworking American parents eager to give their only child the education they had both been denied by curses of circumstance. At the time, Hermione had risen to the top of her class at Stanford University in sun-kissed, tropical California, and was granted acceptance as a foreign exchange student to Hogwarts University. Needless to say, the effervescently pretty Hermione, along with several would-be hopefuls who'd learned of Prince Draco's enrollment, was lucky enough to come across the dashing young royal in her classes—though her academics were, of course, her primary concern.

Both fastidious, intensely dedicated students, Draco first caught sight of Hermione's luxurious silken curls in his English Literature class at Hogwarts, and from there, a whirlwind courtship between two intellectual equals began. It is said by their peers that Draco was enamored with Hermione from the start, and as anyone close to him would be quick to confess, the prince has known with absolute certainty from the moment he laid eyes upon Hermione that she was meant to be his wife, his confidante, and ultimately, his Queen.

Stop. Stop reading. This is absolute rubbish. Yes, I said rubbish, even though I'm an American and apparently a peasant, too (my parents are dentists, and certainly not 'cursed by circumstance,' but sure). Two months ago Rita Skeeter was openly calling me 'the frizzy colonial upstart,' and now this ABOMINABLE TROSS has been released? Let me tell you, it was hardly the fairy tale she claims. It was only a fairy tale in that I did occasionally want to saw off my own effervescent toes.

In reality, the British press has been absolutely ruthless. Even Draco, despite his signature capacity for appearing collected, has been known to have a cold sweat or two over what his father (yes, that would be HRH Lucius, Prince of Wales, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland, in case you were wondering) calls a 'truly abysmal union.' Absolute certainty? What a joke. What an absolute forking joke. What utter motherboarding nonsense. I don't think Draco was ever really certain; not even when he was down on one knee, struggling beneath a diamond the size of New Zealand while I shouted the last of my once-beloved profanities. Was he certain he loved me, at least? Oh yes, definitely, I trust that. I trust that absolutely, or else I would have gone positively flanking insane by now. But was he ever certain that his country would accept me? That's another matter altogether, which is what makes this whole Rita Skeeter book bollocks to the highest degree of bollockery.

Do you want the real story? Maybe you don't, as it's a bit of a mess, despite what Rita so feverishly insists. I'm a bit of a mess, actually, and frankly so is Draco (no matter what the newspapers would have you believe), but considering I'm sitting here in a haute couture wedding dress staring down the barrel of a truly earth-shattering scandal, I'm sort of in the mood for truth; so maybe you, like me, have no choice in the matter. The thing is, once upon a time, I fell deeply, inescapably (tragically) in love with a man and subsequently had to learn how to be the consort of a prince, which mostly meant learning that truth may only out on occasions less frequent than bank holidays. But for once in my gourd-drammed life, I want to say something real—so here's what really happened, in all its terrible, awkward, humiliating glory.

Here's how I, the Colonial Upstart, accidentally bagged myself the most eligible man in Britain.

August 30, 2010
Hogwarts University

Well, there was no escaping it. Hogwarts was a castle. A castle with many stairs, and Hermione, a girl with many suitcases, was encountering the first of her very many problems. She eyed the staircase, frowning, before glancing down at her bags, wondering if it would be possible to carry one of them on her back. Apparently there wasn't anyone around to help; hazards of arriving before term officially started, she lamented internally.

"Excuse me," came a voice behind her. "Are you by chance trying to grow an extra arm?"

She turned, startled, to find a tall young man standing there, his lips curled up in something of an arrogant (albeit playful) smirk. He was dressed somewhat formally (more formally than anyone at Stanford had ever dressed, aside from the tech fanboys who lived in Sperry boat shoes and those slightly-too-short coral-colored shorts) and looking at her with amusement. His pale blond hair was swept off to the side, a hint of strands falling across his forehead as if he'd just popped in from some sort of high-class sport on horses, and he was cute. Very cute.

Hermione, on the other hand, was very not, given that the messy bun piled atop her head was much more a show of convenience than fashion. Luckily, she was also very distracted, and therefore unable to focus on how cute or not-cute either of them happened to be.

"Is that an option?" Hermione asked, frowning slightly at her bags. "I'm beginning to think I miscalculated. I sort of just got out of the cab," she explained, gesturing vacantly over her shoulder, "and didn't really think to bribe the driver into helping."

"Well, for future reference, extortion always works," remarked the blond, his accent as airy and crisp as the unseasonable breeze outside. "Though we do consider ourselves a country of gentlemen. Perhaps you might have heard?"

"You're the first I've met," Hermione replied. "Countrymen, I mean," she amended, waving a hand around the empty courtyard, "not gentlemen."

His smirk curved up slightly. "Is that an accusation?"

"Gentlemen do carry bags, don't they?" she prompted, and he chuckled, sparing her a genial shrug.

"Well, I suppose I have something to prove, then," he determined, hoisting her duffel bag over his shoulder and taking the larger of her suitcases, "on behalf of my country, that is. I'm Draco, by the way," he added, shoving the bag over to extend his right hand. "And you must be some sort of foreign succubus, seeing how you've talked me into manual labor. You're the exchange student, I take it?"

"Hermione," she confirmed, giving his hand a quick pulse of pressure before picking up the last of her suitcases, "and yes. I just got off a plane, actually—though I can't imagine what could be giving me away," she remarked drily, wondering if she shouldn't have checked for sweat stains. The Stanford t-shirt she'd opted to wear on the plane wasn't exactly flattering so much as it was… old. And vaguely ill-fitted. She gave herself a testing sniff as discreetly as possible before turning her attention back to him.

"Hold on, isn't Draco the prince's name?" she asked, abruptly registering a hazy sense of recognition. She fuzzily considered she might have seen the name plastered on a tabloid or two while standing in line for groceries, though she was fairly confident the British prince was older. He certainly looked solemnly regal in all the pictures she'd seen. "Coincidence or namesake?"

"I believe it was a very popular choice the year I was born," Draco remarked, gesturing ahead as a series of stairs branched off in several different directions. "So, which dorm?"

"Um—" She glanced down at the informational packet in her hand. "Slytherin?"

"Ah, excellent," Draco said, beckoning her ahead. "The dorms are down under the lake. I take it you're filling Tracey Davis' spot, then?"

"Yes," Hermione confirmed with a frown, "I think."

"Well, you'll like your roommate," Draco assured her. "Daph's great. The good kind of posh," he added as an afterthought.

"The good kind?" Hermione echoed uncertainly.

"Yes. Pansy is, of course, the bad kind. She's a very dear friend," he informed her, "and Blaise is much, much worse. He's also disastrously charming, so do be careful."

"Ah," Hermione said, momentarily dizzied. "Who else should I know about?"

"Well, there's Theo," Draco supplied thoughtfully, guiding her through the winding old corridors of the castle. "He's one of those old-money-nobility types. We all have a bit of a wager going as to whether he and Daphne will kill each other or get married."

"Sometimes they're not mutually exclusive options," Hermione remarked, following as he made his way to a set of enormous iron doors.

"Well, I'll put you down for both, then," Draco said with a cheeky grin, pausing to pull a set of keys out of his pocket. "Sorry," he said, shuffling through a set of them, "security's a bit tight down here."

"I see that," Hermione commented, as he finally seemed to jimmy the old door open, gesturing her inside. "Any particular reason?"

"Oh, none, I'm sure," Draco replied casually, pointing up a set of winding stairs. "Yours and Daph's room is up there. People sometimes study here," he explained, gesturing to the still-empty seating, which was about what Hermione had expected. The other students would be arriving en masse in approximately two days, according to the administrative guide at Hogwarts; Hermione, however, had wanted to acclimate in advance. "More often the library, but this can be nice on occasion. Convenient, at least."

"I take it you're in this dorm too?" Hermione asked, following him as he briskly took to the stairs. The common room, as it appeared to be, was lit by a large, warm fire, and provided a strange, almost eerie view of the lake. "I suppose I should have asked—"

"Yes," Draco said. "It's the only one successfully bulletproof, I think."

"Bulletproof?" Hermione echoed. "Are you some sort of secret agent, then?"

He laughed. "Only a little," he assured her, and paused beside a door, knocking twice. "Daphne," he called, sparing Hermione another small grin, "I have a parcel for you."

The door swung open, revealing a breathless girl dressed in perfectly-fitted jeans and a worn Hogwarts t-shirt, her long auburn hair pulled back in a high ponytail that swung down over her shoulders.

"Is she here? Is she—oh good," the girl apparently called Daphne exhaled, looking over Hermione with glowing approval. "Look at you, you're real! And already putting the crown to work," she joked to Draco as Hermione paused, startled. "And to think, we're considered the imperialists—"

"Wait a minute," Hermione said, blinking with confusion at the reference. It seemed jet lag had vastly limited her cognitive skills. "You're actually… the Draco?"

"Oh balls, she doesn't even know," Daphne sighed happily to no one in particular, ostensibly delighted. "You're a real live person, aren't you?" she asked Hermione again, tugging her inside before glancing over her shoulder. "Draco, set those down, you look positively ridiculous. Was there no one else to help with the bags?"

"I haven't a clue, Lady Daphne," Draco replied grandly, letting Hermione's duffel bag slide gracefully from his shoulder to the floor before setting the suitcase down beside it, "but it's certainly been an honor serving as ambassador on behalf of my country, Miss…?"

It took a moment before Hermione realized he (him, actual Prince Draco, whom she probably should have recognized but didn't, because who ever expects the actual prince to be wandering around?) was waiting for an answer.

"Oh, um. Granger," she supplied, wondering now if she was supposed to have curtsied. "And you, uh. Prince, um—"

"Draco will be fine," he assured her, looking mischievously pleased. "And don't bother about gratuity. Just be sure to leave a little extra on your taxes," he suggested, "or I'll have to charge you with treason, and frankly, who has the time?"

"He's joking," Daphne assured Hermione, rolling her eyes at Draco. "Still coming out for drinks with us this evening, Your Royal Highness?"

"Have an engagement with the Prince of Darkness, actually," Draco replied coolly, as Daphne made a sympathetic face, "along with your sister, who's been ringing me nonstop about, I don't know. Dresses, I suppose, or possibly hats—"

"Ah, I'd forgotten about that dinner," Daphne said, deflating slightly. "I suppose that means Theo and Harry are out too, aren't they? I'd hoped they'd come meet Hermione tonight," she lamented, flashing Hermione a look of apology, "but I suppose duty calls—"

"Unfortunately duty not only calls, but veritably drags," Draco lamented, before suggesting hopefully, "Tomorrow night? Before term starts?"

"Oh, of course," Daphne confirmed, warm again. "And I can ring my sister for you, if you want," she offered, as Draco made a face of obvious relief, "but do tell Theo to wear a better jacket this time, would you?"

To that, Draco scoffed. "You tell Theo to wear a jacket—"

"He doesn't listen to me!"

"He only listens to you—"

"Actually, you know who he'll listen to is—"

"—Pansy," they said in unison, and then gave gloriously dazzling peals of laughter, both clearly in on a joke Hermione had yet to understand.

"She'd scare the knickers off anyone," Daphne explained to Hermione, who abruptly realized she'd been staring between them with something equal parts curiosity and bemusement. "You'll meet her later. Though, try not to look her in the eyes when you do."

"Yes, you'll almost certainly turn to stone," Draco said, and then offered her a nod. "Until next time, Miss Granger—"

"Oh right, um, bye…" Hermione trailed off, uncertain what to call him, and he laughed again, consummately tickled.

"Draco," he reminded her. "Just Draco, unless we're at a ribbon cerem- ah, hold on, seems it's too late for you to handle this for me, Daph," he mused to her, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and holding it to his ear. "Yes, hello, you've reached Draco Wales," he said into it, sparing Hermione a wink and Daphne a wave before ducking out of their door frame. "Astoria, I'm joking. Half the job is elaborate theatrics, you know this—"

"Well," Daphne said, letting the door fall shut in Draco's absence and turning to Hermione with a smile. "I see you've met the future King of England, then?"

"Does he really just—wander around like that?" Hermione asked, slightly dazed, and Daphne shook her head.

"No, almost never, actually, but term hasn't officially started, so…" She trailed off with a shrug before permitting a long exhale, offering Hermione a brilliant, lovely smile. "I have to say, it's such a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, and you," Hermione said, recalling with a start just how apprehensive she'd been about her roommate up until minutes before she'd walked in. The benefit of having accidentally bullied the nation's heir into carrying her bags was that she'd temporarily abandoned her nerves, but now she was here, finally, tucked into an old dorm room with a girl she'd just met and hoped to live harmoniously with for at least the next four months. "It was so nice of you to send me a letter before term started—"

"Ah, I was worried you'd find it dreadfully formal, but it's my breeding, I'm afraid," Daphne told her, ushering her further inside the room and gesturing to the fixtures. "Desk, bed, vacant floorspace for aerobics and interpretive dance," she joked, giving Hermione the grand tour. "My grandfather would absolutely have a heart attack if he knew the positively shameful plebeianism I'm living in," she added with a light-hearted shrug, "but I suppose that's the benefit of him being dead."

"Are you—" Hermione hesitated. "Um. Nobility also?"

"Only barely," Daphne said with a laugh, "though it's enough for my sister to formally date Draco with Prince Lucifer's approval, it seems. Of course, who knows how long that'll last—"

"Lucifer?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, sorry, bit of a slip on my part," Daphne sighed, scolding herself. "Prince Lucius, though Draco and Harry both call him—well, you heard, I hardly have to repeat it—"

"Harry?" Hermione echoed. "As in—"

"Henry, Duke of… whatever he's duke of these days," Daphne said, frowning. "Grimmauld now? I think? Everyone calls him Prince Harry, which is of course not remotely accurate, but it helps Draco to not have all the focus from the press, so—ah, I'm rambling," she lamented, cutting herself off with a shake of her head. "Apologies, you must be tired. Are you tired? I can show you around the school," she offered, and then frowned. "Unless you'd prefer to rest, in which case I could rustle up some tea? Unless you don't drink tea—"

"Daphne," Hermione exhaled, half-laughing. "I'm fine. A tour would be great," she added, as Daphne's expression lit up with pleasure. "It's really nice of you to offer."

"Tracey and I weren't particularly friends," Daphne explained tentatively. "But I suppose I'm quite used to having a girlfriend around, given my growing up with a sister, so…" She trailed off. "I'm rather hoping to have another go at it. If you're up for it, that is."

Hermione wished she could express the degree of relief she felt at this, a highly vulnerable offering from a pretty rich girl who could have so easily snubbed her. Daphne would have made the most popular girls at Carondelet look like absolute trolls, and yet she was far kinder than any of the girls Hermione had gone to high school with.

"I'm an only child, personally, and I always thought it would be fun to have a sister," Hermione assured her. "Besides, my last roommate wasn't much to compete with. Actually, she stole my underwear, so—"

"You're joking," Daphne said, looking horrified. "She thieved your knickers?"

"She thieved my knickers," Hermione confirmed solemnly. "In fairness, it was for a Take Back the Night rally, but still—"

"Well, I don't know why I'm trying so hard, then," Daphne noted, looking smugly pleased. "At the very least, I can confirm I possess my own knickers and have no particular desperation for yours."

"So it's settled, then," Hermione said, holding out a hand and forgetting all about the prince who'd carried her luggage. "Friends?"

Daphne accepted with a luminous smile. "Friends."

The Hog's Head wasn't quite as nice as the Three Broomsticks, Daphne explained, but it was at least quiet enough that nobody was going to have a fuss about all of them being there. Draco wouldn't be there, she'd reminded Hermione, but photographers would still try. It was apparently not a particularly well-kept secret who the prince's inner circle was.

"He grew up with Pansy," Daphne clarified as they each ordered a pint of richly brown beer Hermione was sure would be much too thick to go down easy, "and Harry, obviously, and Theo, but—ah, rats," she sighed, the beer slopping over the glass and onto her wrist. "Honestly, one of these days my coordination will improve—anyway, what was I blathering on about?"

"Theo," Hermione supplied, and a voice behind her chuckled.

"Well, I do love to know you're talking about me, Greengrass," remarked a lanky dark-haired man, his mouth quirking up in something of a half-smile. He offered Daphne a wink in greeting, and Hermione abruptly remembered the wager Draco had so carelessly mentioned to her. "Discussing my unconventional attractiveness, I take it? Perhaps my ebullient charm?"

"More like your incestuous family tree," Daphne replied, turning to roll her eyes. "Hermione, this is Theodore Nott. Theodore, Hermione Granger."

"Ah, the new Tracey Davis," Theo said as Hermione gave his proffered hand a perfunctory shake. "And also, never call me Theodore. That's my father's name, as Greengrass here knows perfectly well. She lives to torment me," he remarked, flashing Hermione a conspiratorial grin.

"It's not my primary vocation," Daphne assured Hermione, "but really, everyone should have a hobby. Even though using your given name is hardly a torment," she informed Theo, with a particularly challenging glare.

Theo, meanwhile, took Daphne's beer out of her hand, permitting himself a long, obnoxious sip before replacing it. "I meant that dress you're wearing," he remarked quietly, and though Hermione caught a momentary degree of widening from Daphne's eyes, it was quickly obscured by the entrance of another, much noisier body to their right.

"Ah, is this the new Tracey Davis?" asked a spectacularly attractive dark-skinned young man, whose overall appearance was hindered slightly by a v-neck cut nearly below his pectorals. "I thought you were coming from California," he remarked with a bemused frown, as Daphne cleared her throat, shoving her beer into Theo's chest and nudging him away.

"Just have that, Nott, it's got your germs on it now—and Blaise, you mustn't be such a glorious idiot," she scolded him firmly. "Why wouldn't she be from California?"

"Well, shouldn't she be, I don't know—more tan? Or more blonde?" Blaise asked irreverently, before turning back to Hermione. "I don't suppose you had class on the beach, did you?"

"I go to Stanford," Hermione said, stifling a laugh. "It's not exactly beachy."

"So does that mean you don't surf to school?" Blaise asked, looking disappointed, and Hermione was about to open her mouth to inform him that first of all, surfing wasn't a mode of transportation, and second of all, what did she just say, when yet another person joined them—or was about to join them, though Daphne pulled her aside in warning first.

"That's Pansy," Daphne explained, gesturing to a slender young women with one of those elegant long bobs Hermione would never be able to pull off, the sharp raven tips of her hair slicing against the defined line of her clavicle. "She's got about six names and none of them are worth hearing all in a row, but suffice it to say—"

"She's about one or two major flu epidemics away from the throne," Theo supplied, "and if you ask me, she's in desperate need of coitus."

"I—sorry, what?" Hermione asked, as Daphne gave Theo an alarmingly ferocious glare of disapproval.

"She's really not so bad when you get to know her," Daphne clarified hurriedly. "The problem is just that she, um—"

"Detests when people are talking about me behind my back," Pansy inserted coolly, joining them with something of a disinterested scowl. "You're new, then," she noted with a sniff, acknowledging the air around Hermione before glancing away at nothing.

"The word Daphne was looking for was 'bitch,'" Theo whispered-declared to Hermione, and Pansy rounded on him, obviously less than amused.

"Theodore," she said, and he instantly blanched. "Did you wear the jacket?"

From Blaise: "Yes. Didn't you see the pictures?"

From Theo: "For the record, I only wore it because it complimented my singular muscularity."

From Daphne: a wordless scoff, though Hermione caught her looking.

From Pansy again, impatiently: "You're going to have to learn to follow instructions, Nott."

From an indignant Theo: "Why? I'm not the one trying to bed a prince—"

Pansy, irritably: "Good thing, too, because at this rate, you certainly wouldn't succeed."

Blaise, delighted: "Another crushing blow from Lady Parkinson! What is that, twenty points?"

Theo, pouting: "I thought this was about my jacket, not my flaws as a human."

Pansy: "It's about both. And anyway, you're not the Daily Prophet, Theodore, don't make this about Astoria—"

"They're talking about my sister now, unfortunately," Daphne whispered to Hermione, who was very much amusing herself watching Pansy and Theo have something of a highly British standoff, neither quite challenging the other. "Tonight was Astoria's second public event as Draco's, um. Female friend," she murmured, and this time, it was Theo who scoffed.

"Ridiculous, the whole thing," Theo informed Hermione. "The whole 'relationship' is a sham. I mean we all know Prince Lucif-"

"Don't," warned Pansy, tartly.

"His Royal Highness, the Prince of Darkness," Theo amended irreverently, "is practically falling over himself with approval. He tried to force you on Draco when he first started here," he reminded Daphne, pointedly taking a sip of his beer as her gaze cut guiltily to Hermione's.

"And here you made it sound like you were hardly aristocratic at all," Hermione commented playfully, sipping at her own beer. It wasn't quite as bad as she expected, but more importantly, she was perfectly able to drink it despite not being twenty-one for the next three weeks. That, at least, tasted satisfying.

"Well, I certainly have no interest in being with a prince," Daphne said firmly. "Besides, Draco and I didn't even meet until university, so it's hardly like I'm in with the rest of you," she pointed out, gesturing to the others as they exchanged clannish grins (except for Pansy, who made more of a pursed and-don't-I-know-it face).

"How about being with someone prince-adjacent, then, Daph?" Blaise asked her, nudging Theo with a wink.

"Theo's not remotely prince-adjacent," Pansy scoffed, coming to Daphne's rescue. "At least four dozen people would have to die before he came anywhere near the crown—"

"Well, I'm not a coward, if that's what you're saying," Theo assured her.

"That's treason," Daphne informed him.

Theo shrugged. "People have really gone soft on treason these days," he remarked, taking another sip of his (her) beer. "If I can't pluck the crown up from a battlefield, what's even the point of having it?"

"My opinion exactly," came another voice. "Of course, I suppose that's due to being the spare."

"You're hardly the spare," Pansy said, rolling her eyes, though even she managed to look a little affectionate as the latest member of their little circle joined in, giving his ruffled black hair a shove from his face. "And what are you doing back so early? One of these days you'll have to put the incessant knavery to bed—"

"Along with the rest of Britain," Theo remarked, grinning.

"Ah, that's ten for Nott," Blaise said, scribbling it an imaginary notepad as the person Hermione suddenly realized from her minimal tabloid exposure was Prince Harry (in reality only a duke, as Daphne had mentioned, though in general Hermione was finding herself a bit swamped with ambiguous British succession lines) shifted to throw an arm around Pansy's shoulder, smacking a loud kiss against her forehead.

"Hello, Lady MacBeth," he told her, sparing her a roguish grin. "Besmirching my good name already?"

"Much as I love that extremely flattering comparison," Pansy said drily, "never call me that again. As for your good name, I'm besmirching nothing you haven't irreversibly blackened," she corrected, sliding out from under his arm and giving him a nudge in the ribs. "I'm merely commenting you're supposed to be at a state dinner."

"They don't need me," Harry said. "Besides, I don't see you asking Theo why he's here—"

"You both left Draco alone with that dreadful bore?" Pansy realized, appalled.

From Daphne: "That 'dreadful bore' is my sister, Pans."

From Theo and Blaise: "She knows."

From Pansy, haughtily: "I know."

"Draco's fine," Harry assured Pansy. "He and the Prince of Darkness were getting along swimmingly when I left. I believe they successfully exchanged one or two words? One of which may have even been a pleasantry."

"But was he doing the thing?" Pansy prompted apprehensively. "You know. The smile thing?"

From Theo: "The thing where his smile doesn't reach his eyes?"

From Blaise: "Where it looks like his soul has evacuated his body?"

Theo again: "A bit like he's died somewhere on the inside?"

"Yes, that," Pansy said.

"Oh, definitely," Harry confirmed, nodding. "Very much so to all of the above."

"Right, yes, he's miserable," Theo contributed, "but it's not as if the press is going to know that, which is what I assumed your main concern was."

From Pansy, at a growl: "You're all impossible."

From Blaise, Theo, and Harry, in spirited unison: "We know."

"Oh," Harry said, his gaze suddenly landing on Hermione's with a jolt. "Well, hello—didn't see you there."

"She's not a topiary, Harry," Daphne said.

"Well, maybe if she were, he might have noticed her sooner," Theo suggested, giving Daphne another nudge. "Harry loves a good topiary."

"Shut up," Daphne sighed.

"I'm Hermione," supplied Hermione, as Harry slipped from Pansy's side to stand next to her at the bar. "I'm the new Tracey Davis."

"Who?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Oh, Harry's not in Slytherin," Daphne explained to Hermione, reaching over to give Harry's cheek an affectionate pat in greeting. "He just pops by to visit when he feels like antagonizing Draco."

"Which I often do," Harry added with a grin. "Though I suppose now I can pop by to antagonize you as well," he commented, slipping almost effortlessly into a low tone of flirtation as he spared her a slow, sidelong glance. "Lucky me."

All at once, Hermione realized why it was Harry's face she recognized from the tabloids. He was the one always romancing some actress or model or another, and while she might have otherwise been flattered by the attention of an obviously handsome man, part of her withered a little at the idea that he might have selected her, the naive little American girl, as yet another notch on his bedpost.

Luckily, to Hermione's immense relief, Daphne smacked him in the arm with her clutch.

"Ouch," Harry said, with a radiantly childish scowl. "What's that for?"

"Leave the poor girl alone," Pansy cut in, her expression souring. "The last thing she needs is to be forcefully ushered out of your disease-ridden bedchambers."

Hermione, who wanted to point out that was hardly the trajectory of the evening, determined it not worth the effort as Pansy's gaze collided with hers, the sharpened arch of a single brow enough to caution her to silence. Something that was either disapproval or Chanel No. Five seemed to seep from every single one of Pansy's perfectly-sized and blemishless pores, leaving Hermione feeling more than a little bit inadequate.

"Ignore her," Daphne advised in Hermione's ear, pulling her towards the bar. "She's just outrageously protective of Draco and Harry—not that you can tell. She's sometimes very lovely, but—" She paused, considering it. "I'd say her personality is about a fifty-fifty split between natural venom and a very, very strange form of showing affection."

"Is she interested in…" Hermione paused. "Either of them?"

"Hm? No, no," Daphne said, half-laughing. "No, I don't think she relishes the idea of being thrown in the spotlight. Nor do I, truth be told," she admitted with a grimace. "My sister is another story, of course. Like Theo said, I don't think it'll last with Draco, but I suppose she's having fun for the time being."

"Where does Harry go to school, if not here?" Hermione asked, regrettably hazarding a glance at where he'd joined Blaise and Theo near the impromptu dance floor. To her dismay, he was watching her with a rather fox-like look of amusement, his messy hair giving him an unruly halo from the light refracting around his face.

"He doesn't," Daphne said. "He's in the army, actually, which is where Draco wanted to be as well, only…" She trailed off hesitantly. "Well, you can't really be too careful with the heir to the throne, can you? Whereas Harry's a cousin, so he can really do whatever he likes."

"Seems he often does," Hermione remarked, and then struggled to hide an enormous yawn, covering her mouth with sudden, jolting exhaustion. "Yikes," she managed, feeling her eyes water. "I'm so sorry—"

"Nonsense, you must be tired," Daphne said at once, looking feverishly concerned in a way that nearly delivered Hermione to delirious laughter. "We can go immediately, of course. I suppose I forgot all about the jet lag—"

"Greengrass!" Theo called, toasting her from afar as he and Blaise made their way onto the dance floor. "Are you coming or what?"

"No, I'm—" Daphne gestured apologetically to Hermione. "We're just leaving—"

"NOOOOOOO," Blaise howled, as Theo flashed a set of mopey puppy-eyes at her. "MINUS TWENTY POINTS—"

"So sorry," Daphne sighed, angling Hermione towards the door despite being unable to resist a glance over her shoulder, unsuccessfully feigning disinterest. "It's just that we haven't seen each other all summer—but we'll see them tomorrow anyway," she reminded Hermione, forcing a casual reassurance, "so it's fine, really—"

"You stay," Hermione told her, struggling to withhold another vastly cavernous yawn. "Seriously, I'll be fine. I'll get some sleep tonight and try again tomorrow," she offered, as Daphne frowned hesitantly.

"Are you sure?" Daphne asked, concerned. "It's not a problem, really, I'll just tell them that—"

"No, stay," Hermione insisted, giving her hand a squeeze. "I'll be fine! The walk will do me some good, honestly. Have fun," she said, dodging both the curious glance from Harry and the unnerving stare from Pansy as she turned towards the door. "Seriously," she added with a laugh as Daphne's expression turned pained with conflict. "Breakfast tomorrow?"

At once, Daphne's face brightened. "Oh yes, defin-"

She broke off with a shriek as Blaise picked her up with an arm around her waist, gracelessly hauling her backwards. Satisfied, Hermione gave an exaggerated wave, shaking her head before turning to the door and hiding yet another oppressive yawn.

Hermione had only just finished fussing with the keys when she realized the yelling she thought she'd imagined in some sort of exhaustion-haze was both very real and very much coming from inside the Slytherin common room.

"—don't know what you want from me. You told me to bring her, so I brought her. That doesn't mean I'm interested in this going any further—"

"You need to be serious about your reputation, Draco," came a harsh male voice in reply. "With you holed up here at Hogwarts the press has nothing to do but speculate about what sort of wildly irresponsible decisions you're making—"

"And how is that my fault?" Draco's voice countered. "You're the one who told me I had to come here. Harry's already been in the military for almost three years! He's already an officer, and I'm—"

"You have a responsibility as my heir," returned what could only have been Prince Lucius' voice. "You cannot simply flit around turning your life into a spectacle for public consumption. The people want to see you in a committed relationship, with someone appropriate—"

"I'm twenty years old!" Draco shouted back. "What exactly does it prove about my capacity to rule by flashing Astoria Greengrass around like some sort of… of fancy cufflink—"

"She comes from a good family," Lucius cut in impatiently. "You're friends with the elder sister, are you not? How hard can this be?" When there was no answer, he pressed, "I had no idea being asked to stand beside a beautiful girl was such a dreadfully unpleasant chore for you, Draco—"

"I just want one thing in my life to be real," Draco begged his father, "and I certainly have no interest in getting married anytime soon! Look what happened to M-"

"Do not," Lucius said sharply, "bring her up right now."

Silence.

Hermione crept forward slowly, trying to ease her way into the room. Unfortunately, this did not work even remotely, as she stubbed her toe on one of the spindly table legs and abruptly doubled over, muttering a string of quiet obscenities under her breath.

Immediately, the two men snapped into place. In a matter of seconds, both had adopted identical expressions of neutral impassivity that could only have been the result of decades of practice. Hermione, however, having had no such lifetime of rehearsals, tried and failed to bite back a pained grimace, awkwardly attempting to straighten.

"So sorry," she offered, cheeks almost certainly flushed with equal parts ouch-throbbing-toe and yikes-this-is-awkward. "I, um—I'm so sorry, I was just heading to my room, and—"

"No need to apologize," said Lucius, in the sort of tone that suggested exactly the opposite. "Draco, you and I will discuss this later. I presume I don't need to ask you to keep this to yourself?"

It took a moment before Hermione realized he was talking to her. "What?"

"I'll need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement," Lucius began loftily when Draco stepped forward, shaking his head.

"Father, it's fine," he muttered, tone gruff with displeasure. "She's going to bed, not to run off and speak to the press."

At that, Lucius turned to his son, obviously irritated. "Draco. How many times must I tell you—"

"I won't say anything," Hermione cut in quickly. By the look on Lucius' face, she could see he was not often interrupted, and certainly wasn't pleased about it now. "Your son is my friend," she said, giving Draco what she hoped was a supportive glance, "and I have no interest in sharing the details of his personal life."

Rather than help the situation, however, she seemed to have conspicuously hindered it. Lucius' eyes narrowed, falling on hers with rigid opposition.

"Who are you?" he demanded accusingly.

She opened her mouth, but Draco spoke for her.

"This is her dorm, Father," Draco pointed out, "and we're the ones intruding. And seeing as Hermione's just arrived today, I imagine she's rather in a hurry to go to bed. We won't keep you any longer," he assured her, giving her an apologetic look as he added, in a tone of princely finality, "My father was just leaving."

At that, Lucius' eyes narrowed again, trapped by the necessity of anything resembling manners. He spared a final glower at his son before turning to exit, pausing briefly beside Hermione.

"If you breathe a word of this," he said, and didn't finish. She supposed he wasn't in the business of needing to complete his threats.

"I wouldn't do that to him," she replied simply, and then managed to collect herself enough to bow her head, realizing she was probably required to show some courtesy, even if she felt none.

Lucius made something of a noncommittal noise and strode out of the room, letting the door shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, Draco finally let out a breath, shaking his head.

"Well," Draco said. "I don't suppose I need to tell you that you just met Prince Lucius, do I?"

Hermione winced, and Draco fell into the sofa behind him with a sigh, leaning his head against the cushions. For a moment, she hesitated, wondering if there was something she should say, but when he didn't move, she opted to take a step toward the stairs, quietly making her way back to her room.

Draco's voice paused her. "You faced him rather gloriously, you know." She froze, and he gave a little hum of something like amusement to himself. "I expect he'll hold it against you for some time."

"I—" She hesitated. "I'm not sure whether an apology note would help the situation."

At that, Draco chuckled, though there wasn't much energy to speak of in the sound. Hermione waited, her hand still on the banister; suddenly, she couldn't quite remember how tired she was and simply stood frozen in place, uncertain what to do next.

He solved it for her. "Did you really not know who I was?"

She turned slowly, making her way to the sofa as Draco's eyes fluttered open, regarding her with something that looked to be equal parts frustration and jagged, cut-open misery.

"I promise," she said, "I really did not know who you were."

He nodded. She had a feeling there was more coming, so she settled herself on the coffee table opposite where he sat, figuring it wouldn't cost her too much to listen.

"You know, it's funny," Draco said, proving her right. "The last spontaneous thing I did was carry your luggage. Before that, it was the time I climbed up a trellis outside my mother's childhood home and broke my arm." He swallowed. "I was five."

Hermione bit her lip, waiting.

"I suppose it's incredibly selfish to complain," Draco continued, "as there are so very many lives harder than mine. And so many who envy my life, I'm sure. It seems a very stupid thing to feel so much resentment when I have so many privileges, and it makes it worse, really, that it's such a selfish problem to have," he admitted softly, glancing up at her. "It makes it hard to breathe sometimes, knowing that nothing I do comes without strings, or without responsibilities, or even with the benefit of my choice. In the end, everything I do is measured and premeditated and preapproved by my father or my advisors or my grandfather—and my god, I want to kiss you," he suddenly said, and she blinked, startled. "I want so badly to kiss you, I wanted to kiss you when I saw you this morning, only I can't, because even now I'm thinking to myself that I won't want to stop at a kiss, but I certainly can't go any further, because would that really be fair to you? Would it be fair to subject you to constant scrutiny and horrible invasions of privacy and can I even—could I even do it? My father would disapprove; my grandfather would certainly never allow it. You're an American, and you've only just arrived, and that's to say nothing of your feelings, which could be—"

He swallowed hard, coming to an abrupt, screeching halt. "Which could be," he exhaled slowly, "that I'm a conceited prick who just said all of that without even wondering whether you might have any inclination to kiss me, too."

Despite her captive breath, Hermione astoundingly managed to exhale.

Eventually.

After perhaps a minute.

Maybe less, if she were flattering herself.

Either way, she managed it.

"It would be a pretty bad time for a kiss," she eventually said, clinging to whatever bits of her sanity had not been swallowed up by transcontinental travel, or by what was unquestionably the single strangest day of her life. "Considering you have some sort of girlfriend-type situation, don't you?"

He grimaced, baring his hands in his lap. "So it would seem."

"That, and you're upset with your father," Hermione noted slowly. "So, probably looking for a rebellion, I imagine?"

"A reasonable conclusion," Draco replied, shrugging.

"And," she finished, drawing her thumb carefully over her bottom lip, "we've only just met. We could hardly be friends if we kissed now," she told him. "Pretty awkward, don't you think?"

"That's true," he agreed, and this, unlike his other commentary, he seemed to genuinely mean. "And I do want to be your friend."

"As do I," Hermione returned. "So probably no kissing, for all the reasons listed above."

"Right," Draco exhaled, nodding. "Right. We should probably never kiss, in fact," he determined, looking briskly certain. "It would make things so difficult, really. And I do need friends," he lamented, faltering slightly. "I think many people speculate about my relationship with my father, but—" He waved a hand to where Lucius had been. "Nobody's actually seen it."

"Understandable," Hermione confirmed. "So, we're agreed, then."

"Yes, definitely," Draco said, propping himself upright with a nod. "No kissing."

"No kissing," she confirmed. "But we can definitely be friends. I don't have to treat you like a prince, you know," she hurried to assure him, hoping the offering sounded slightly less stupid than she suspected. "I mean, to be honest, I'm not totally sure how I would even go about treating you like a prince. I have no idea how to curtsy," she admitted. "I don't even know your proper title."

"True," Draco said, looking pleased. "You know nothing about me or my family, do you?"

"Everything I know about the British monarchy stops at 1776," Hermione promised firmly, as his mouth twitched up in a smile. "Believe me, I have absolutely no clue who your third cousins are. Even if Daphne did try all evening to educate me."

"Well, that's a relief," Draco remarked, chuckling. "So I suppose I can really be whatever I want with you, can't I?"

"You can," Hermione promised again. "Largely because I won't know the difference either way."

"Well, that's marvelous," Draco declared, smacking his palms on his thighs and rising sharply to his feet. He was wearing a tuxedo, Hermione realized, with all the trimmings; the cummerbund, the cufflinks, the whole nine yards. He was unforgivably handsome in it—in all of it— and the firelight danced with a glow around his face, making him a painting come to life; like a portrait, like a fantasy, like a daydream.

"So. Friends, then?" he prompted, holding out a hand for hers.

She rose to her feet, accepting his grip. "Friends," she assured him, giving his hand a squeeze.

He didn't let go.

Neither did she.

"What do friends do in California?" he asked, a bit breathless.

She blinked.

"Hug, I suppose," she said, dismayed to find her voice a horribly distracting rasp. "I, um. Here," she offered, reaching her arms up and giving him a perfunctory hug.

He leaned in, holding her for a moment. He bent his head, his chin pressing into the line of her shoulder, and she felt his cheek against hers, warm and comforting. He had a masculine smell, all sage and cedar. The tux material was stiff, but not scratchy. His arms around her waist were both anchored and weightless; perfectly complementary shapes. Part of her hoped he wouldn't lean away, but after a moment he released her, sparing her a nod.

"Right," he said, gaze fixing on hers. His eyes were a blue so pale they were grey, sharp and strange, and wholly signs of warning; the sky before the rain. "So, friends, then."

"Friends," Hermione said again. "Definitely friends."

He didn't step away.

Neither did she.

"Please don't tell the press I'm such a dreadful liar," were the last words she remembered him saying before her entire brain was swallowed up by delirium, his lips falling to hers with a sense of lawlessness that came from desperation; from the knowledge on both sides that if it could have possibly been avoided, it would have been, if not for a paralyzing impossibility to deny. His hands fell to her waist with the perfect synchronicity they'd had before, but now with urgency, with pressure, with direction, until she was stumbling with the backs of her knees against the table, snaking her arms around his neck to keep herself aloft.

There was no reason for him to be a good kisser. She imagined no girl on earth would have told him if he were doing it wrong, and therefore there was no plausible reason he should have any talent for it whatsoever, and yet the reality was that he—him, an actual prince, with his actual royal tongue in her hopeless colonial mouth—was criminally skilled, and she—a commoner who would be spending no more than four months in his country—had never been kissed so breathless in her entire god-almighty life. He fit against her perfectly, and she molded faultlessly into him, and what sort of joke was this, that he would be here and be him and she would be there and he would be her friend and really, truly, could they honestly be friends? Could anyone be friends who kissed like this? Could anyone exist apart from someone else after knowing this, all of this and everything, was what they were together?

His hands slid under her shirt and crept up to her ribs and she very nearly moaned in his mouth yes, yes, do it, definitely do it, don't stop, but they heard the fumbling of an old key in an ancient lock and sprang apart, Draco turning away sharply as Hermione pressed a hand to her too-warm cheeks, almost collapsing again on the table.

"Draco," came Pansy's voice, and Hermione didn't have to look at her to know the look on her face was admonishing at best. She did anyway, and immediately regretted it, feeling her face heat as Pansy's gaze slid past her to land disapprovingly on Draco. "You're back early."

"Pans," Draco said in greeting, nodding vaguely. He was looking furiously away, awkwardly adjusting his stance like a child avoiding a scolding. "Dinner didn't go particularly long."

"Mm," was all Pansy said.

"I should, um. I should go," Hermione said hurriedly, launching herself for the stairs. She didn't even bother saying goodnight to Draco, which was probably rude, and it occurred to her that maybe she shouldn't have turned her back on him (was that an archaic rule? Was it even a rule?) but she was too busy making her way to her dorm room, fumbling once again with the unfamiliar keys.

She paused as a set of footsteps sounded behind her, followed by the sound of a throat clearing.

"He's a job," Pansy said, and Hermione froze, turning slowly over her shoulder. "He's a job," Pansy repeated, folding her arms over her chest, "and you're unqualified to hold it."

"He's—" Hermione hesitated. "It's not like that. We're friends."

"You'd better hope that's all you are," Pansy said simply. "He's one of the most scrutinized people in the entire world, you know. It bothers him, and that's even knowing he was born into it. But you," she mused, flicking her disdainful gaze over Hermione's face, "I'm not sure you could handle it. I'd advise you to keep your distance."

"I didn't ask for your advice," Hermione said, stiffening slightly, and Pansy let out something of a tiny, disinterested scoff.

"He'll never marry an American," Pansy said. "His wife will be some insipid, well-born idiot like Astoria Greengrass, and I absolutely do not encourage you to let him pretend differently."

Hermione bristled. "I'm not trying to marry him—"

"No, certainly not. But do you think he can have a casual girlfriend?" Pansy asked pointedly. "Do you really think the Prince of Wales gets to have flings? No. Stay away," she warned again. "I'm not interested in watching him get hurt, and certainly not by someone like you."

The last bit was said with considerable derision, and Hermione, who suddenly remembered how thoroughly exhausted she was, only permitted her mouth to tighten as Pansy took a step back, sparing her a tiny shrug.

"By the way," Pansy said casually, "I suppose I didn't mention it earlier: Welcome to Hogwarts."

Then she turned down the corridor, disappearing into her room.

He's a job, and you're unqualified to hold it.

I never forgot those words, which was strange to me at the time, particularly because I was (back then) in the habit of discarding nearly everything Lady Pansy Parkinson-Six Names said to me. Not to mention that I was tired, exhausted, mentally adrift and, unfortunately, still fairly exhilarated from being transcendently kissed by the man I would later fall madly, stupidly, desperately in love with—and still, despite all those things, I never forgot those words.

In retrospect, it's probably because somewhere, somehow, I always knew they were true.

a/n: Thank you (and also shame on you! But thank you) to all those who asked me to extend this one shot from Amortentia. Chapter two will post next week. Thanks for being here!

2. Focused

Chapter 2: Focused

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Meeting of the Minds

The woman the world now knows as Prince Draco's future wife was once a charming and voraciously studious young ingenue who could easily boast (but would never, of course) of her countless academic achievements. Widely considered the brightest student of her age at both Carondelet High School and Stanford University, it's no surprise she was an outstanding addition to the Hogwarts Department of English Literature.

"Hermione was an absolute treasure to have in class," trumpets Hogwarts fellow Horace Slughorn, "and it was exceedingly obvious from the start that she and His Royal Highness shared a common undeniable thirst for knowledge. They sent me a postcard this Christmas, by the way—I always tell them there's no need to continue thanking me, naturally, it's so kind of them of course but still, completely unnecessary—I mean really, I had nothing to do with their courtship outside of the initial introduction and oh, maybe the occasional amiable urging to share their respective talents here and there, but did that have something to do with their marriage? Well, who's to say, really. They seem to think so, obviously, but of course I'm just a humble academician. In any case, I've never known anyone to be so focused on their studies as the Prince and the future Princess. I suppose their falling in love was inevitable, but I certainly couldn't have predicted it at the time! Though I did, obviously. Hence their continued gratitude—which, of course, I hardly need!"

I truly don't even know where to begin identifying the most ridiculous thing about this. It's a long trucking list. On the one hand, there's the idea that Slughorn had anything to do with our relationship, which he most certainly did not. (The postcard he mentioned—if we actually sent one, which I don't know that we did—was probably one of the standard ones issued to a horrifyingly long list consisting of nearly everyone we've ever met. That, or something he purchased in a gift shop.) I'm not actually sure Slughorn could even tell you who I was, truth be told, until they put my face all over the bloody internet. Even then, I'm surprised he noticed it was me. I never saw him do anything but drift half to sleep during his own interminably self-congratulatory lectures.

Then there's the idea that Draco and I had some sort of academic affair, which is a close contender on the list of most audacious statements. Believe me, I'd love it if that were true. Wouldn't that be romantic? I'd love to think Draco was studying in the library, or devotedly taking notes, and then one day some sort of light from the heavens shone down on my perfect, glossy curls—but that's definitely not what happened.

Focused on our studies? I wish. I think at the time, I would have given absolutely anything to be focused on something other than him.

August 31, 2010
Hogwarts University

"Oh, this is perfect," Daphne sighed as she took a bite of slightly-burnt toast, pausing to rest her head against the back of her chair with a whimper. "You had the right idea going home early, Hermione. I'm always foolishly neglecting sleep and then looking like death in the morning as cosmic punishment—truly, there's no karma so swift."

Privately, Hermione thought that was a rather absurd thing to say; though, as with all things Daphne did, it was charmingly so. In reality, Daphne had done little more than wash her face before heading out the door that morning and still, her skin was positively flawless. Hermione suspected she could use Daphne's natural glow as a flashlight the next time she was looking for something in the dark.

Hermione, on the other hand, had tossed and turned for hours and then woken up (to no conceivable relief) at three in the morning. By that point, her mind had been bustling with thoughts of Draco's kiss until the sun had risen—which, she told herself firmly, was probably just another delightful result of jet lag.

"Did you sleep well?" Daphne asked kindly, and Hermione grimaced.

"Well enough," she conceded, figuring it best not to get into it. "What about you? How was the rest of your night?"

"Oh, you didn't miss much," Daphne assured her. "Just Theo being a bit of a prat, as always, and Blaise being… well, Blaise—"

"Don't neglect to tell her I was being my usual charming self," came a voice behind them as Harry slid into the vacant chair on Daphne's right, leaning over to kiss her cheek. "Morning, Daph. And Hermione," he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek, too, which delivered Hermione momentarily to clumsily-handled misjudgments about the placement of her hands. "Missed you last night," Harry murmured with a wink, half-smiling.

"Oh, ignore him," Daphne sighed, reaching out to jab a finger into Harry's arm. "Turn the charm down, Harry, it's only breakfast. I'd hate for us to have to abandon our morals when we've only just gotten our eggs."

"Well, that's what I get for missing dinner," Harry said spiritedly.

"How'd you find us, anyway?" Daphne asked him, reaching for another piece of charred toast. "Thought you'd still be bunkered down with Theo and Blaise."

"Ah, well, you know me; military training. Bit of an early riser, you understand. Actually, I was stopping off to talk to Draco before I left," Harry explained, as Hermione coughed, suddenly struggling to swallow her ambitiously large forkful of eggs, "but he's in a rush to go somewhere—Kensington for something or another, I expect. Told me he'd seen you two sneak off early."

"Did he?" Daphne said, frowning. "Odd. He didn't say anything."

Hermione gradually managed to swallow, wondering if Draco's silence might have been her fault. She hadn't said anything to him when she'd left last night, after all, and maybe he thought the whole thing had been a mistake. Maybe Pansy had even told him it was.

Either way, they'd agreed to be friends, but they certainly hadn't said best friends. Draco was under no obligations to say hello if he was otherwise occupied.

Right?

"He was in a hurry," Harry assured Daphne. "I'm sure it was nothing personal. That, or he didn't want you to see his morning hair. A travesty," he clarified, turning to Hermione. "Not everyone pulls off rumpled nonchalance with quite my level of expertise."

"It's not genetic?" Hermione asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Well, maybe it is, but Draco and I aren't biologically that similar," Harry assured her. "He's only my cousin by way of adoption."

"Harry's parents died in a plane crash when he was just a boy," Daphne explained, and reached over to rest her hand briefly on his, brushing her thumb against his knuckles with something that was both comfort and reassurance. "A national tragedy."

For a moment, Harry's facade of roguish impertinence faded, leaving something strained and exposed underneath. But just as quickly as it had arrived, he was back to his usual joviality, sparing Hermione a sly, everything's-just-fine sort of grin.

"My godfather raised me until he passed away a few years ago," Harry explained, "and when he had no other children, I inherited his title. Sirius is Narcissa's cousin," he added offhandedly, conspicuously eyeing Daphne's plate of eggs.

"Narcissa?" Hermione asked, and then blinked, abruptly remembering the royal wedding her mother loved to nostalgically reminisce about from her teenage years in the eighties. "Wait, Princess Narcissa?"

"Yes, Draco's mother," Daphne confirmed, sliding her plate over to Harry as he cheerfully commandeered her fork. "She's, um." She glanced at Harry, who pointedly shoveled a bite of eggs into his mouth and shrugged. "Nobody actually knows, but people sometimes say that she's—"

Daphne broke off, delicately clearing her throat. "Well, the press is never kind," she finished uncertainly.

"That, and the Black line is positively famous for madness, I'll say that much," Harry supplied for her. "Prince Lucius dated Narcissa's older sister first, actually, and of course that ended in an absolute implosion. Two wildly public personas, and from two of England's oldest families?" He and Daphne exchanged a knowingly conspiratorial glance. "Suffice it to say Abraxas was furious, and Lucius' people were doing damage control for months. Really, it's no surprise Prince Lucifer is always keeping Narcissa locked u-"

"What," came a clipped voice behind them, "do you think you're doing?"

Hermione turned to see Pansy waiting there, arms folded. "Harry," Pansy warned, and to Hermione's surprise, he gave something of a sheepish grimace.

"Pans," he sighed, "I wasn't—"

"You have questions about Draco's mother?" Pansy cut in, falling into the seat beside Hermione and fixing her with a challenging glance. Unfortunately, while Hermione had been hoping not to step any further onto Lady Pansy Six-Names' sullenly possessive toes, it seemed that was relatively impossible to avoid.

"I—no," Hermione assured her. "I just—I didn't mean t-"

"To pry?" Pansy prompted scathingly.

"Oh Pans, relax," Daphne sighed, shaking her head and giving Hermione a comforting glance. "Harry brought it up. And besides, it's not as if we don't all have questions about Narcissa," she added, as Harry raised his fork in agreement, sparing Pansy a not-too-subtle, See? "Not even Theo or Blaise know anything about her, and I certainly don't."

"The Princess of Wales is a very private person," Pansy said, sliding her dark gaze to Hermione. "My mother is her best friend," she offered stiffly as Hermione reached for her coffee, hoping to permit her own eye contact to land elsewhere. "They grew up together—like Draco and I did," Pansy added, as if anyone at the table might have managed to somehow forget.

"Well, you say private, the rest of the world says reclusive," Harry reminded Pansy. "Can't fault them for speculating, can you?"

"Mm, well, speculation hour is over," Pansy said firmly. "Certainly don't let Draco hear you talking about her. You of all people should know how sensitive he is about the whole thing," she said to Harry, before letting her gaze cut once more (disapprovingly, which seemed to be one of her three primary expressions outside of 'disdain' and 'conceit') to Hermione's.

"I really wasn't trying to pry," Hermione told her. "I just don't know very much about the monarchy, that's all."

"Certainly can't fault her for that," Daphne pointed out, nudging Pansy with her foot beneath the table. "This is anthropological research."

Pansy cleared her throat. "Well, in that case, King Abraxas is well on his way to becoming England's longest reigning monarch—"

"—which, to be clear, is making the Prince of Darkness rather anxious," Harry cut in, grinning at her. "Naturally, that results in a series of neuroticisms he then passes onto Draco, making our Prince one of the more uptight people in existence. Present company notwithstanding," he assured Pansy, who rolled her eyes.

"Draco is under a lot of pressure," Pansy said simply, "but he handles it. He's a working royal. It's his job to be a public figure."

"Yes, quite," Harry agreed, "which is why I do my part for the crown by being vastly more public." This time, he turned his cheerful smile on Hermione. "The only chance Draco ever has to breathe without the press hounding him is when I'm the one doing something interesting."

"By which he means stupid," Pansy supplied, "and careless."

"That was implied," Harry assured her.

"Well, that clears it up," Hermione said, though in truth, she was closer to twice as curious now, considering what she'd overheard between Lucius and Draco the night before. What could have happened to Narcissa that Lucius would be so vehemently opposed to discussing? If Daphne didn't know, then she certainly wasn't going to find out anytime soon.

"Are you looking forward to term starting tomorrow?" Hermione asked instead, and Daphne groaned.

"Not so much," Daphne admitted. "Though I've managed to sneak in a drawing class, which my mother is going to loathe." At that, Harry flashed her an approving smile, and Daphne rolled her eyes. "Stop trying to lure me to rebellion, Harry. It's truly unhelpful."

"Rebellion?" Hermione echoed. "What's rebellious about a drawing class?"

"Ah, well, my mother finds my interests in the arts to be…" Daphne paused. "What word would you two use?"

From Harry, optimistically: "Unrealistic?"

From Pansy: "Mm, no. Vulgar."

"What?" Hermione asked, aghast. "But—"

"The acceptable areas of study are somewhat limited," Pansy informed her. "University isn't necessary for public duties," she clarified with a gesture to Harry, who looked immensely pleased with himself, "but if one is going to go, then the options are generally history, literature, classics; things of that nature. Things are slightly less strict for someone like Daphne," she added, waving a hand in her direction (Daphne, meanwhile, pulled a face at Hermione, mimicking Pansy's lofty perception of her rank), "but her parents are something of a unique situation."

"Mostly in that they're dreadful," Daphne supplied, and Hermione fought a laugh, managing to nod soberly instead. "Ideally, I'd love a career in fashion," Daphne continued, "but it's rather frivolous in my parents' view, if not a bit distasteful. So, I sneak in drawing and sometimes anatomy when I have spare credits."

"And she's magnificent at it," Harry contributed proudly, as Daphne's cheeks flushed a beguiling shade of pink. "Did a series of portraits last term. Pansy's never looked more lovely, in fact," he said. "Or as convincingly human."

"What'd you do with that, by the way?" Daphne asked Pansy.

"Burned it," said Pansy, stoically raising her cup of tea to her lips.

"No, she didn't," Harry growled, shooting Pansy his own (much rarer) look of disapproval. "It's in safe-keeping, Daph. Promise."

"Well, it's really nothing," Daphne said, though Hermione thought she looked a little wistful at the mention of it. "Just some silly school project, that's all."

"I'm sure it's not nothing," Hermione said, just as another chair scraped out from beside hers.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," said Pansy, as Blaise casually draped himself between her and Hermione. "How did you get here?"

"First of all, Hogsmeade is only so big. Secondly, minus twenty points for the pretense in bemoaning my arrival," Blaise informed her, reaching for her coffee, "but plus five for the early morning savagery."

"Plus five?" Daphne echoed doubtfully.

"I like to know where I stand," Blaise said with a shrug. "Daddy problems, you know how it is."

"Blaise's mother is a wonderful scandal," Harry told Hermione, leaning over to speak to her. With Blaise at her side, she had no choice but to scoot closer to Harry, prompting her to learn (without less opposition than she might have preferred) just how crisp his cologne smelled. "She's been widowed seven times."

From Pansy: "It's not a scandal, it's a crime."

From Blaise: "Well, minus thirty points for murder accusations."

From Daphne: "I like your mum, Blaise! She's very stylish."

From Blaise, knowingly: "Well, that's what happens when you're draped in the wealth of seven husbands. The subsequent wardrobe is thoroughly unimpeachable."

Harry, chiming in: "Also does great things for the skin, I hear."

From a scoffing Pansy: "And what would you know about skin?"

From Harry again: "That I keep mine youthful with reckless indiscretion."

From Blaise: "But in a pinch, blood sacrifice will do."

From Daphne, with a nudge: "Allegedly, of course."

Blaise again: "Oh yes, too true. Ten points to Greengrass."

"What's with the points?" Hermione asked him.

"It's a game," Blaise said. "Everyone's playing, and I'm the omnipotent referee."

From Harry: "It's pronounced 'self-important,' actually."

From Blaise: "That'll be minus twenty, Your Highness."

Harry: "What? What for?"

Daphne, guessing: "Irreverence?"

Harry, to Daphne: "Blaise doesn't know the meaning of the word. Last night Theo got fifteen points just for telling Blaise his shirt looked like it belonged on an erotic kangaroo."

Blaise, with a shrug: "He wasn't wrong."

Daphne, with a scoff: "Yes, but was he right?"

Pansy: "Probably a question of irrelevance, then."

Blaise: "Poor wordplay is what it is."

Harry, heaving a great sigh: "Some of us have off days, you know."

Pansy, sniffing: "We know."

"So who's winning, then?" Hermione asked, daintily raising a strip of bacon to her mouth.

Daphne, Pansy, and Harry, in unison: "Me."

Collectively: "What? No, you aren't."

In perfect harmony: "YOU WISH."

"You're all deeply in the negative, actually," Blaise said, opting to confer with his imaginary notepad, "which I suppose means—" He glanced up, locking eyes with Hermione and arching a brow. "The new Tracey Davis is winning by default."

"Is she?" Harry asked, snaking his arm around the back of Hermione's chair and nudging her shoulder.

Jasmine, she determined unwillingly. Mostly his scent was comprised of woodsy, masculine things, but beneath it there was a hint of jasmine. It was a familiar smell; comforting, in a way, despite the strangeness of his proximity.

"Can you still win the throne by right of conquest, do you think?" Hermione posed in reply, ignoring her ill-timed observation in favor of winning over the expectant nobles. "Asking for a friend, obviously."

"Generally frowned upon since World War II," Daphne assured her, "but I doubt the United Nations is going to step in without a formal invitation to the conflict. You know how terribly entitled supranationalism can be."

"Yes, and furthermore, I like where your head's at," Blaise said, leveling a piece of bacon at Hermione. "Tentative points. I like a woman who keeps an eye to conquest."

From Pansy, brusquely, before Harry could speak: "Do not."

From Harry: nothing, though his smirk was hardly reassuring.

"Well," Hermione replied, thoughtfully finishing a swallow of coffee, "I have to say, for me the game is very simple. If I find myself losing, I'll simply declare my independence from its sovereignty."

There was a brief silence as the others looked to Blaise, waiting.

"On behalf of king and country," he proclaimed gravely, tutting his disapproval at Hermione, "I'm afraid I must detract twenty points."

"Ah, balls, now you're down here with the rest of us," Harry lamented, and as Hermione caught Daphne's laughing eye across the table, she thought maybe he was right.

Maybe in some respect, she was—or at least, would be—one of them.

The night before term started, they had something of a party in the common room. Nothing too outlandish, Daphne assured Hermione, but still—something to occupy them upon their return, at least while it was still quiet.

A few more people had moved back into the dorms (a girl named Millicent, and a pair of thick-shouldered boys referred to as the unit of 'Crabbe and Goyle') but it was obvious they weren't considered part of the core group. Harry had returned to London by then, bidding Hermione farewell with a jubilant kiss on her hand, but Pansy, Daphne, Blaise, and Theo were their usual charming (or in Pansy's case, dismissively abrasive) selves, tucked into a corner and musing about oddities like a quick-tongued nineties sitcom. That they had permitted Hermione into their little circle was immensely flattering; she suspected she owed the immediate welcome to Daphne, who was undeniably beloved (and also masterful at a Pimm's cup). It made Hermione grateful to Daphne in ways she felt she couldn't possibly put into words—which was probably why she hated keeping the secret of what she'd done.

"Where's Draco?" Theo asked, as Hermione fought not to choke on her gin. "I thought he was planning to be here tonight."

"He told me he was," Daphne said with a delicate frown. "Can't imagine what's keeping him. He has class in the morning, doesn't he?"

"Yes," Pansy confirmed crisply, sparing Hermione a warning glare (as if she'd needed one) reminding her to silence. "And I'm sure he'll be here by then. He has—"

"Duties, yes, yes, we know," Theo groaned. "We also know him, Pans."

"Not all of us," Pansy murmured into her Pimm's cup, as Daphne rolled her eyes.

"Well, he sounded like he wanted to be here," Daphne said a sigh, "so maybe he's just, I don't know. Running late."

Just as she said it, the ancient common room door burst open, revealing Draco's silvery head in the frame. He was fumbling with the keys, hastily freeing them from the latch while switching his cell phone from one ear to the other.

"—yes, I know, I've only just arrived—may I have a moment to breathe, please? Hold on a second, service is terrible down here and—Daph," he mouthed to her, gesturing with an apologetic frown, "I can't again tonight. So sorry."

In response, Daphne pantomimed a frown, mouthing the words next time.

Draco nodded, his gaze traveling briefly to land on Hermione's face. She smiled at him, offering a small wave, but by the time she'd reacted he had already aimed himself up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Right, yes, I know, I'm sorry," he said in a low tone into his phone, "I've had that on the books for months, I just didn't realize it was going to coincide with the start of classes—"

"Well," Pansy remarked near Hermione's ear, sounding horrifyingly pleased. "Hope you didn't have your hopes up."

Hermione stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, and pointedly stepped closer to Daphne, who seemed to have caught traces of their interaction.

"Everything okay?" Daphne said quietly.

He barely looked at me, Hermione didn't say, because of course she was only the naive American, wasn't she? She didn't actually belong here. She was a temporary visitor, and all of them would forget her in a blink the moment she was gone—as easily replaced as the mysterious Tracey Davis.

"Everything's fine," Hermione told her, less firmly than she would have wanted to, and Daphne reached out, giving her hand a squeeze. "More than, I promise. This is delicious," she added, gesturing to her glass, though Daphne seemed to see through her overly ambitious attempt at reassurance.

"Don't worry, you'll settle in soon," Daphne said.

Maybe it's best if I don't, Hermione thought. Better I not get attached and start missing aristocratic friend groups and kisses I should never have had in the first place.

But was it really the kiss she was missing? For a moment she'd seen a glimpse of a person—a man, not a prince—who had let her in somewhere close, somewhere vulnerable. Surely she hadn't imagined that, had she? But what if none of it was real, and that was all just something he said? Some speech that worked on every silly girl? She was hardly that wide-eyed and dupable.

It couldn't have been nothing, could it?

Still—"Oh, I'm sure," was what she offered instead. All things considered, lies required significantly less explanation.

"So, are you excited for school?" her mother had asked over Skype (at midnight, as they hadn't quite gotten the time difference right), and at the time, Hermione had found it supremely easy to say yes.

"I did come here for the academics," Hermione reminded her mother, and Helen laughed.

"Of course you did, honey," she said, "but still, it's got to be more fun going to class in a castle, right?"

And it was. Hermione had woken up that morning to begin one of her favorite traditions: the first day of school. The new pens, the fresh notepads, the textbooks that still smelled like textbooks and not like late nights of spilled coffee and institutional library air—it was the sensation of a fresh start, and Hermione was in a positively chipper mood by the time she and Daphne parted ways after stumbling to the Great Hall for coffee that morning, bidding each other luck before heading to their respective classes.

The first class of the day was a literature course exploring confessionary narratives, which was highly niche in a way Hermione found appealing to her more historically-minded interests. She'd annotated the syllabus, making some cursory notes on each of the works they'd be studying, and had already begun the first reading assignment by the time she walked in the door fifteen minutes early. School was easy; school she was good at, and books she understood. She'd been warned that the Hogwarts curriculum was rigorous, but she doubted it would be any more challenging than Stanford. All in all, she hadn't been particularly worried.

Until she realized Draco was in her class.

He was impossible to miss; not because of his hair or face or clothes, all of which were already becoming familiar to Hermione, but because of the number of heads that turned towards him as people settled, gaping, into their seats. For a moment Hermione sat up straighter, thinking she might beckon him to sit in the vacant spot beside her, but he merely ducked his head and turned into the opposite aisle in the room, taking a seat somewhere behind her.

Hermione swallowed, trying to manage something other than bemused disappointment as someone barreled in to take the seat beside her.

"Thank god," Theo sighed, falling into the seat on her right. "I thought I was going to have to sit through this rubbish alone, and frankly, this is the sort of hellscape I like to have company in. Just to be sure other people are suffering equally," he assured her, and she stifled a laugh.

"Draco's right there," Hermione told him, gesturing with a pen behind her as Theo turned with a furrowed look of surprise, spotting him in one of the other rows. "Though I appreciate you joining me, in any case. I certainly don't know anyone else."

"Well, why didn't he sit with you?" Theo asked, frowning to himself. "Odd. Though I suppose he does sort of come and go," he remarked, waving a hand and digging into his messenger bag for the syllabus and his laptop. "Doesn't always make it to every lecture, so I doubt he bothers finding any sort of permanent seat."

"Oh?" Hermione asked, feigning disinterest.

"I'm sure he's not avoiding you," Theo said, and paused. "That's not what you were thinking, was it? Because I'm quite sure it's not true."

Actually, it had been exactly what she was thinking, but by then, class was starting, and any thoughts of Draco would have to wait. The professor, a rotund and pompous man called Horace Slughorn, was insisting they admire a rare piece of art a previous student had sent him from some sort of archaeological dig, and Hermione was grateful to put the Draco issue to bed. So what if they weren't going to see much of each other? She'd gone to Hogwarts to go to Hogwarts, so this, right now, was precisely what she'd come for.

"We're going to start with Saint Augustine," Slughorn was saying jovially (by then, Hermione half expected him to claim the historical figure as some sort of close personal friend), "and move right along to Margery Kempe—"

"Oh, balls," Theo muttered. "Not that mystical trollop again."

Hermione stifled a laugh, turning her head to obscure it with a cough, and in the same motion, she caught a glimpse of Draco's silhouette again, watching him bend pensively over his notes.

He was focused, she reminded herself, and exhaled, intent on doing the same.

She could focus, too.

Even if it was on a mystical trollop.

Within a few days, Hermione had nearly forgotten all about Draco, who seemed to come and go without pause, only ever bustling in on his phone before disappearing behind the door of his room. To everyone else, this appeared to be normal behavior. Eventually, Hermione came to realize Draco's presence in their friend group was more often a topic of discussion than any real thing. He was almost mythical—every now and then someone would make some sort of reference to something Draco liked, or had liked, as if he were some sort of ghost—and after a while, she stopped wondering where he was. Instead, she got comfortable with a routine, studying with Daphne, Theo, and Pansy (sometimes Blaise, when he could deign to pay attention) in the common room or the library after class.

Inevitably, though, the weekend came around again, and while Hermione might have liked another quiet night joking from time to time over their respective assignments, it was obvious the others were going vaguely stir-crazy from being cooped up with their books.

"Hog's Head?" Daphne asked, nudging Theo as they walked into the Slytherin dorm.

"Why are you asking me?" Theo retorted. "Aren't you seeing Michael Corner these days? Or is pen-lending always such a sensual exchange?"

Hermione and Blaise exchanged a furtive glance. "Minus ten points for blatant jealousy," he murmured to her, and she arched a brow.

"Only ten?" she asked.

"I'd say more, but I like to give Theo the benefit of the doubt," Blaise assured her, sniffing. "It's all that aristocratic inbreeding floating around in his blood. Clouds his better judgment."

"—hardly think you have any right to stalk me," Daphne was saying, having rounded on Theo by then. "What do you mean sensual? He needed a pen, Theodore, and considering I'm not a prolifically underachieving peon, I had one, so one thing led to another—"

"Oh please," Theo scoffed. "Has he never heard of computers? And besides, I have never once been in possession of any writing implements, and yet when have you ever lent me one?"

"I'm trying to teach you to be more responsible," Daphne informed him irritably. "It's like Pavlov's dogs. I'm conditioning you."

"First of all, I'm not a dog," Theo said. "I'm completely incapable of learning new tricks—and second of all, stop trying to change me, Greengrass," he added brusquely, lifting his chin to glare down at her. "My personality's already fully formed!"

"Yes, you're right, you're totally beyond hope," Daphne snapped. "I don't know why I bother. So are you coming to the Hog's Head or not?"

"Of course!" Theo gritted furiously.

"Then I'll see you tonight," Daphne retorted, storming up the stairs as Hermione passed Blaise an amiable, what-can-you-do sort of shrug, following after her.

"YOU CERTAINLY WILL," Theo shouted back much too late, pivoting sharply in the opposite direction. "Come on, Blaise, she's impossible—"

"Minus five points," Blaise drawled, loping after him with a final eye-roll in Hermione's direction, "for ill-conceived antagonism and total, unseverable delusion."

"Well, I've done worse," Hermione heard Theo mutter in reply as she turned into the corridor after Daphne, realizing the other girl was already speaking to someone else.

"Oh, no," Daphne was saying, as Hermione realized with a jolt she was talking to Draco. "Really? I'm so sorry, Draco. I know Astoria can be quite a handful—"

"I just don't think she quite understands the pressure I'm under, and—oh, hello," he said, blinking as Hermione materialized in the corridor. "Hi, I, um. How are you?" he asked, running a hand through his hair.

In a total rarity, Hermione realized that for once, she was the less awkward party. "I'm doing well," she assured him, sparing a smile. "Everything okay?"

"Oh, it's just—" His gaze cut away, drifting somewhere near his shoes. "Just a very busy week," he mumbled, "and I'm afraid I've fallen rather behind."

"Oh, it'll be okay," Daphne said. "If you want, I can talk to Astoria for you. See if maybe I can't convince her to be less…" She trailed off, grimacing. "Insistent?"

"No, no, I can take care of it myself," Draco assured her. "I just—I have a paper due Monday, and I have to be back at Malfoy Manor with the Prince of Darkness for a press thing this weekend—one of those centenary things. Honestly, things are always turning one hundred—"

"The Slughorn paper?" Hermione asked, as Draco looked up, startled. "Is that the one you're talking about?"

"Yes, actually," he said slowly. "Have you finished yours?"

In fact, it was the assignment she'd been hoping to work on that evening prior to Daphne suggesting they all go to the Hog's Head. She'd started it, of course, but knew perfectly well it could use another layer of polish.

"Well, no, but I was going t-"

"Hermione," Daphne interrupted, glancing between Draco and Hermione with a curiously indeterminable expression on her face, "weren't you just saying you were going to work on that tonight?"

"Oh, well, I'd considered it," Hermione admitted. "But if you were planning t-"

"Were you really?" Draco asked, his entire countenance brightening. "You wouldn't want to stay back and work on it with me, would you? I do hate studying alone," he said with a grimace, as Daphne gave him a suspiciously sympathetic nod. "Though, on a Friday night, my god, how positively banal—"

"Oh," Hermione said, hesitating. "Well—"

"You were just telling me you'd feel so much better if you got it done early—right, Hermione?" Daphne asked, turning to flash Hermione a very pointed glance.

"Er, well, yes—" What are you doing? Hermione mouthed at her the moment Draco's attention shifted elsewhere.

What does it look like? Daphne replied emphatically, jerking her head to Draco, who was shuffling through his pockets for his phone.

"Ah, yes, wonderful, she's already calling for the fourteenth time—hello, Astoria?" he said into his phone, flashing Hermione and Daphne a grimace. "Yes, right, I did check my schedule, actually, and I'm rather not free tonight—please," he whispered, covering the mouthpiece of his phone to flash Hermione a pleading glance. "Please, would you mind? I'm sure it's not at all what you want to do tonight, but—"

"It's no problem," Hermione assured him. "I'm happy to help."

He gave her a beatific smile of relief. "Excellent, I'll come fetch you tonight, then, and—yes, Astoria, I'm still here," he said into the phone, giving Daphne's shoulder a nudge in gratitude before heading back to his room. "No, it's for class, Astoria. You know, the thing I do from time to time that you find such a terrible inconvenience? Yes, that—"

"What was that?" Hermione demanded, rounding on Daphne, who gave her an innocent smile.

"What? You said you wanted to work on your paper," Daphne reminded her, turning towards their door. "Didn't you?"

"I don't like him," Hermione told her, and amended the statement hastily. "I mean, I wasn't—I just meant—"

"Hm? Oh, of course not," Daphne replied with an idle sing-song, her grin widening mercilessly as she opened the door, beckoning Hermione inside. "I just thought, you know, what better way to aid the crown than to identify resources to ensure my future king's academic success?"

"He's dating your sister," Hermione grumbled, falling down on her bed as Daphne perched next to her, giving her shoulder a reassuring pat.

"Yes, and I love my sister," Daphne said firmly, "but the last thing that girl needs is a crown, much less access to the royal treasury. And Draco's my friend," she added, slightly more sincere that time, "so I can say with certainty they are not a very good match, even if it were in any way real."

"I think his father disagrees," Hermione said, and then sat up, frowning. "And anyway, how did you even know—"

"That you like him?" Daphne prompted. "I don't, of course. As I said, this is entirely a question of loyal service to my country. And nevermind what Prince Lucifer thinks," she added, shrugging. "It's just one evening of studying, isn't it? Hardly a matter for the Prince of Wales. Or darkness."

"That's true," Hermione said, realizing she was getting ahead of herself. "We're just going to be studying, that's all."

"Right," Daphne said, sparing her another blissful smile. "Of course. What salacious thing has ever happened in the Hogwarts library, after all?" she added insincerely, with an air of someone who knew better, and Hermione arched a brow.

"Michael Corner, really?" she prompted, as Daphne made a face that wasn't entirely demure. "You do realize you're positively torturing Theo, don't you?"

"Well, if he's going to be difficult, he deserves it," Daphne said curtly. "And anyway, Theo's not—" She hesitated. "He's just… it's just a joke that got out of hand, that's all," she finished, before turning pointedly to her closet, rifling through her dresses. "It's not a real thing."

"Mm," Hermione permitted doubtfully, as Daphne pulled out an emerald green dress and eyed it. "He'll like that," she said, and Daphne whirled around, glaring at her. "What? Two can play this game," she pointed out.

"You," Daphne said, brandishing a finger at her, "had better wear nice knickers tonight. No excuses."

"Sounds extremely ambitious," Hermione sighed, rising to her feet and nudging Daphne aside. "Wear the green one," she suggested, "with…" She bent down, finding a pair of Daphne's strappy pumps. "These."

Daphne nodded approvingly, picking up the shoes and tossing them near the bed.

"Excellent choice. And for the record, ambition will get you everywhere," Daphne murmured, before letting out a melodic laugh, delighting in Hermione's heavy sigh.

Draco rapped on her door just after Daphne and the others had trooped out, Pansy flashing Hermione a warning grimace before disappearing in a contemptuous whirl of Burberry. Draco's knock was, oddly, just like him; formal, neat, and with a little lift at the end, as if there might have been something hopeful and sincere lounging on the other side.

"Hi," Hermione said, pulling the door open with a whirl. Daphne had insisted on her removing her customary ponytail, but outside of that unnecessary attempt at vanity, she'd gone with a pair of yoga pants and a trusty oversized crewneck for the evening.

Draco, meanwhile, was wearing a pair of trousers and a sweater that must have been a supremely buttery cashmere—not that Hermione intended to find out. "Hi," he agreed, gesturing into the hallway. "M'lady," he offered, sparing her a grin. "I was thinking the library."

Hermione shoved aside Daphne's commentary. "Sure," she agreed, stepping into the corridor to fall into step with him.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Most of the castle had been emptied of students, all of them going out to the taverns in Hogsmeade or else making their way to Edinburgh or somewhere more exciting for the weekend. Occasionally, Hermione caught people taking notice of her (or more accurately, her companion), but she was content to walk in silence until Draco cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," he said in a low voice. "I know I should have said so sooner, but it's rather difficult to get you alone."

"I—why should you be sorry?" Hermione asked, treading delicately. "We're friends, Draco. Nothing to apologize for."

"True, but I haven't exactly been a good friend to you, have I?" Draco said with a grimace. "You're new here and I'm not, and I've done nothing to make it easier for you. I'd have sat with you in class," he added hastily, brow furrowing as he spoke, "but you never know who's talking to the press, and really, the last thing you need is to become the subject of excessive scrutiny—and I've been wanting to talk to you outside of class, but when I haven't been bouncing back and forth between here and Malfoy Manor, you've been having such fun with Daphne and the others and I didn't want to interrupt, and really, my father is just—"

"Draco," Hermione exhaled, pausing to face him. "Really. It's fine."

And it was. In an instant, the heaviness of wondering what his absence had been about lifted from her shoulders, and she barely remembered why she'd ever had any doubts. Still, it was a very good example of what he (and Pansy) had always said, wasn't it? He was a working royal. He didn't have time for romance, and he was right, really, that she didn't either. After all, he had a point—she had plenty to occupy her time. She had the very great benefit of a normal, happy life, which was something he must have longed for.

"We're friends," she told him, conjuring what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "We'll be friends whether you sit with me in lectures or not."

He nodded, looking relieved. "Still, I can't thank you enough for helping me," he said, gesturing to where his laptop and notes were tucked under one arm. "I like to think I'm not a total idiot, but it can be somewhat challenging during weeks like this one. My work tends to suffer when my attention is split between public appearances and schoolwork."

"I doubt Slughorn's going to give you any less than an A star," Hermione told him, and he made a face.

"Yes, but that's the trouble, isn't it? I'd like to think I've earned things, but I never really know, do I? Even if something is earned, people still assume it's been given to me," he said, deflating slightly. "Still, I'd hate to give up trying."

Hermione blinked. "That's…" she began, and paused. "Draco, that's very admirable of you," she managed, and he looked up, frowning.

"Really? Because it feels positively daft," he muttered, "or at least a bit ungrateful."

"Why?" she insisted. "Plenty of people would be content with half-assing everything if they thought they could get away with it. You have every reason in the world not to care whether something's earned, and you do. It's nice," she said, as he gave her a sheepish look of gratitude. "I think it says a lot about you."

The corners of his mouth quirked, supporting the promise of a smile.

"You're nice to me," he noted. "You don't have to be, you know."

"Well, I'm sure there'll be plenty of opportunities to be a dick," Hermione assured him. "I sort of have high standards. This paper's going to be excellent," she said firmly, "or I'm not letting you go to bed."

He grinned, gesturing for her to continue through the library doors. "Perfect," he ruled as she slipped inside, the two of them making their way to the tables near the stacks where they'd be successfully out of sight from prying students.

To her surprise, Draco was a remarkably good study partner. He was mostly very focused (unlike Theo, who could be counted on to find absurd things on the internet at regular half-hour intervals that would set them all off track) and only interrupted her editing to pose interesting questions that ended up improving her initial analyses of the text. He had a unique way of viewing the world; not only as a prince, but as a Brit. His instinctual responses to autonomy of the self and morality were fascinatingly foreign, and before she knew it, she and Draco had been discussing Augustine's confessions until close to midnight.

"I can't believe you've let me go on about inner turmoil for half an hour," Draco said, rubbing his eyes with a grimace. "Haven't I bored you to tears yet?"

"You listened to me talk about religion for forty-five minutes," she reminded him, giving his shoulder a nudge. "How quickly you forget."

"Yes, but that's interesting," he said. "You're interesting. I'm—"

"Thoughtful. And thorough," Hermione said, and smiled. "And deeply in turmoil."

He made a face. "God, don't tell anyone. Can you imagine? 'Melancholy Prince Contemplates Meaning of Life at Disturbing Length, Murders Woman with Relentless Moaning'—"

"You give yourself entirely too much credit," Hermione told him. "Murder? Hardly. A coma, maybe."

"You're too kind," he said, giving her a penitent bow, and she struggled not to giggle at the expression of total solemnity on his face.

"Ah, I'm starting to come a little unglued, I think," she said, struggling to drag her attention back to her laptop. "Come on, back to work. Have to finish the draft at least before I let you go."

"By all means, keep me all night," Draco told her. "It's a pleasure to be doing something that isn't simply running through my daily schedule in my head while wondering how I'm going to fit it all in."

"Don't you have to leave in the morning?" she asked him.

"Yes," he said with a shrug, "but who cares?"

"Pansy will be deeply upset if you have dark shadows under your eyes in any of your pictures," Hermione noted. "You know how dearly she cares about your reputation."

"True, and Harry's always making me look bad whenever he's standing next to me. He's so unrepentantly cheerful," Draco lamented grumpily. "He always looks so bloody rested. It's the knavery in his genes, I imagine. Scamps all over his bloodline."

That time, Hermione's giggle was unavoidable. Draco gave a weakly suppressed chuckle as well, eventually succumbing to a laugh, and then both of them dissolved in helpless fits of howling as delirium seemed to gradually take hold.

"I—honestly," Draco exhaled between peals of unsuccessfully withheld laughter, "have not laughed this hard in such a dreadful amount of time. I think I've gone a bit mental, really."

"'Crazed American Reduces Prince to Madness,'" Hermione suggested.

"'Prince Who is Only Trying to Live His Life Chokes to Death, Blames Saint Augustine.'"

"'Shameless Yankee Tears Apart British Monarchy, Blithely Destroys Insomniatic Royal.'"

"'Corpse-Resembling Prince Looks Terrible in Public, Blames Liberal Californian, Alludes Problematically to Catholicism in Tasteless Remark.'"

"'Liberal Californian Responsible for Collapse of the Western Economy, Brazenly Claims 'Wait, he's a Prince'?'"

Draco collapsed in a fit of laughter, doubled over in his seat, and Hermione wiped at the moisture pooling in the corner of her eyes. "Stop, it's—if you don't stop, I won't stop—"

"Oh, my stomach hurts," Draco managed, heaving a breath and then bursting into laughter again. "My god, what have you done?"

"What have I done?" Hermione echoed, fanning herself as she struggled to catch her breath. "I wasn't doing anything, you started this—"

He looked up at her from where he'd folded over in his seat, eyes bright and bold and unapologetically on hers.

"You're right," he said simply, curling a hand around his mouth and tugging breathlessly at the edges of his smile. "It's my fault."

She blinked.

Suddenly, it wasn't quite so funny.

"What?" she asked hoarsely, swallowing.

"It's my fault," he said. "I like you too much." He paused. "I like you."

"Draco," she exhaled, "I—"

"No, no, it's—" He shook his head. "I'm sorry. We're friends, I know. It's best, really, but I—" He trailed off, running a hand through his hair and smiling guiltily at her. "I'm not exaggerating; you do know that, right? When I say I haven't laughed like this in ages. I haven't laughed," he exhaled sharply, "in ages, and you make me laugh. You make me laugh, and I like you."

He shook his head, returning to the screen of his laptop. "Honestly, every time I speak, I swear, you just reduce me to the saddest possible version of myself. Truly, I'm supposed to be some sort of worldly man of talents and instead I just say the stupidest th-"

He broke off with a muffled gasp of surprise as she leaned forward, taking hold of his chin and turning him towards her. She pressed her lips to his and after a moment of shock, he returned her kiss with vigor, with fury, with a sense of why didn't I think of this sooner? that was mixed with a sigh of relief. He shot forward to slide one hand around her waist, pulling her half into his lap, and she didn't resist, slipping one hand around the back of his neck and locking him in place; keeping him there. It was more breathless than the first time; more hasty, less artful; but the sensation of being disastrously ignited was still undeniably present, tapping up the entirety of her spine with a desperate, defiant shiver.

His arms were steady around her, holding her close, and for a moment, she let her fingers wander over the shapes of him; traced the bones at the back of his neck down to his shoulders, grazing lightly along his clavicle. His breath quickened, pulse leaping beneath her touch, and she drew her hand down the length of his chest, hovering lightly to rest her palm flat against his sternum. She paused there for a moment, feeling him take a breath, and then his hand rose from where it had been possessively curled around her hip, fingertips brushing with an inconceivable gentleness over hers. She drew back, swallowing hard, and as his eyes floated open, fixing again on hers, she blinked, unsure how to explain what had just happened.

"Sorry," she managed, her voice half a whisper.

"Why?" he asked hoarsely, brushing his thumb carefully over her lips. "I should have done it."

"But—" She cleared her throat. "We should be studying."

Reality sank down on her like a wave, numbing her head to toe before flooding through every limb. He was still a prince. She was still only here temporarily. He couldn't even speak to her in public, could he—so what was she doing?

"Right," she exhaled, rising stiffly from his lap and returning to her own chair. "So. Augustine."

Draco blinked, but nodded. "Right," he said, glancing down at his screen and shifting in his seat. "Right, yes. Good shout."

She nodded. "Back to work?"

"Back to work," he promised her, and they turned back to their screens, rigidly facing away from each other.

After a few minutes, though, she glanced up from yet another dangling preposition to find his grey eyes were fixed somewhat longingly on the line of her neck.

"Sorry," he said quickly, looking back down, and she felt her cheeks heat.

"It's fine," she said, and turned back to her laptop, trying to remember what she'd been reading (that's supposed to be 'on,' not 'of,' she recalled, tapping the keys and making the correction, and then unhelpfully, he was looking at me, wasn't he?)

She fought it, but eventually, it happened. After a moment, she felt the unavoidable twitch of a smile.

Ridiculous, isn't it? A common thirst for knowledge, Rita proclaims with thundering certainty, and a devotion to academia which can only be shared by two such focused, determined people.

HA. Sure. I mean yes, maybe there were some academics involved, but as much as that seems a truly serendipitous way to classify a romance, it really seems circumstantial at best. The truth is, Draco and I always had a distracting amount of chemistry. It was what kept us going, really—when we wanted to be together, yes, but also when we didn't. It seemed like there was always something magnetic between us, something unbroken and irrepressible, and it kept us in this constant cycle of drifting apart and inevitably returning, always finding ourselves drawn to each other again.

Even when—especially when—we really didn't want to be.

a/n: Hope you are enjoying! Is this what people want? I don't know, but here it is. A reminder that my latest fairytale collection, Midsummer Night Dreams, is now available (olivieblake dot com), and if you are a Paradox reader, that will update later this week.

3. Exclusive

Chapter 3: Exclusive

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Only Eyes for Her

From the moment Prince Draco was born, he was inevitably going to become the most eligible man in Britain. As the only child of Prince Lucius and Princess Narcissa (the elusive Lady Narcissa Black, whose own shrouded past is deserving of its own chapter, if not its own book), Draco is the sole heir to the British throne after his father, and would therefore be greatly desirable to young women everywhere on the basis of stature alone. If that were not enough, Draco's breathtaking good looks and graceful charm—of a more stoic variety than his famously philandering cousin Prince Harry, though not unappealing by any means—ensured his appeal to a variety of young ladies from England's most noble families.

The Prince's romantic history is by no means lacking interest; in fact, for much of his teens and twenties, the entire British press had themselves in quite a stir over which eligible young woman Draco might have been romancing. Sometimes connected with two or three girls at a time, Draco was never without some pretty young thing on his arm, all of whom were approved by Prince Lucius and vetted by the entire royal family. Lady Pansy Parkinson, for example, was a constant face in the young Prince's circle for many years, as was Lady Daphne Greengrass.

Along with His Highness' privileged position came the obvious expectation that he would ultimately wed one of the alluring heiresses who represented the best of England's prominent families. Every woman connected with Prince Draco was met by speculation: could this be our new Princess? Our new Queen? But for Draco—who had been counseled by his mother in her younger years to follow his heart (her own marriage being wrought with tension and rumored infidelity on both sides for much of his adolescence)—his affections and his crown could not be severed.

The moment Draco met Hermione, he had eyes only for her, and in the face of true love, no matter of birth or title or blue-blooded heiress could have possibly stood a chance.

I have only one thing to say to this: most of it is actually true (good for you, Rita! Good show, old girl), but Ms Skeeter is conveniently forgetting one very important obstacle in the beginning of my relationship with Draco, and it goes by the name Lady Astoria Greengrass.

October 8, 2010
Hogwarts University

"I have good news and bad news," Daphne had announced while they were studying together that Monday, setting her phone down on the table and sparing them all a grimace.

"Give us the good news, then," Blaise replied firmly. "The bad news can wait outside until we're ready to invite it in."

"Not a bad stance," Theo acknowledged, as Blaise tipped an imaginary hat. "So what is it, Greengrass?"

She took a deep breath. "Astoria's coming to visit this weekend," she told them, her voice a touch too high, and the others all shared a groan.

"I thought I said no bad news," Blaise trumpeted in opposition. "Minus ten points for flagrant disregard for my feelings."

"Why is that bad news?" Hermione said, frowning at him before turning back to Daphne. "You do like your sister, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do," Daphne said hastily. "I love my sister—"

"But we do not," Pansy supplied stiffly, and glanced up at Hermione. "And I'm rather surprised you wouldn't consider it unwelcome too, frankly."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione demanded, though she was pretty sure by then Pansy was going to tell her anyway, and she was right.

"You realize Astoria clearly isn't visiting Daphne," Pansy informed her stiffly. "She's coming here to keep an eye on Draco."

"Oh, come on," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Not everything is about Draco, Pans," she said, intentionally using the diminutive she knew by then would make Pansy's mouth tighten in annoyance. Unfortunately, it did not have the effect Hermione had been hoping for in this particular instance.

"Actually," Daphne said with notable hesitation, "I think, in this case, Pansy's probably right."

"What?" Hermione asked, surprised. "But Draco and Astoria are fine, aren't they?"

Just a week or so before, in fact, Daphne had slid a tabloid cover over to Hermione with a look of terrible guilt on her face. It had featured Astoria and Draco from one of his recent public appearances (some sort of state dinner) and in the picture, Astoria was leaning up to kiss Draco's cheek, the two of them looking genuinely smitten. I just thought you should hear it from me in case Pansy decided to be awful, Daphne had said, but Hermione had shrugged it off, reminding her that she and Draco were friends. Friends who spent every Friday night cooped up together in the library, sure—which certainly sounded fake even to Hermione—but in truth, they hadn't done anything romantic since the first time in the library when she'd kissed him and pulled away. There'd been a moment on her twenty-first birthday (Daphne had bullied her into wearing a tiara, and Theo gifted her a sash that read It's a Girl!) when she thought she'd caught Draco looking at her lips, but aside from that, everything was hugely above board.

They were friends, Hermione assured Daphne, really. His father wanted him to give Astoria a real chance, so for the last few weeks, he had been. And honestly, Hermione had insisted at Daphne's look of hesitation, she really didn't mind. In fact, she'd hoped Draco was falling for Astoria (which was only, oh, 45% a lie. In the ratio of falsehood to truth, the lie was certainly not the majority. Hermione was mostly happy for him, truly—and besides, it wasn't like they could be together, anyway).

Daphne had nodded warily and had not brought up her sister's relationship with Draco again—until now.

"Well, actually," Daphne said, grimacing, "I haven't wanted to say anything, but it seems Astoria's been, um—"

"Losing his interest," Pansy supplied flatly. "Which was bound to happen. Wasn't it?" she asked, turning to Theo, who glanced apprehensively at Daphne before throwing his hands in the air.

"Don't look at me," he mumbled. "I'm studying."

"Theodore, you've never studied in your life," Pansy informed him. "You've only memorized enough motions to make it look like you're doing responsible things. Tell her what I'm talking about," she said, flapping a hand at Hermione. "It'll sound more convincing if you do it."

"No comment," Theo said, and Pansy sighed irritably.

"Blaise?" she prompted.

Blaise pointedly held a book in front of his face. (It was upside down, but still.)

"Look, the point is," Pansy grumbled, turning back to Hermione, "things with Draco never last. It's difficult to keep his attention, firstly, and secondly, he never stays with anyone for long, publicly or otherwise. The last thing he wants is for people to believe he's found the next Queen of England."

"That," Daphne remarked tentatively, "and Prince Lucifer has apparently been pressing them to be more serious; which is appealing to Astoria, but—"

"But she wants to know what exactly he does every Friday night," Pansy pointed out, giving Hermione a wary look that was a slightly more posh version of duh. "Frankly, I would, too, if I were in her shoes," she murmured, glancing back down at her laptop.

"We honestly just study," Hermione told them. Again. "We have a class together, as you might recall—"

"A class that I'm also in," Theo pointed out slyly, looking up from the notes he was doodling mindlessly in, "and yet these invitations are ever so conveniently never extended to me."

"Oh, so now you have an opinion?" Pansy demanded, glaring at him.

"No," Theo insisted. "I'm just saying—"

"Come to think of it, I'd like to detract twenty points for not being invited to exclusive library time either," Blaise announced, and Hermione sighed.

"You're all invited," she pointed out, though Daphne (not very furtively) hid a laugh. "You just don't want to study on Friday nights."

"Oh, then plus five," Blaise permitted, quietly applauding her. "But some of the loss must remain for lack of official monogrammed invitation."

"Unlike the rest of you, I don't have a family crest," Hermione reminded him, and he shrugged as if to suggest that was an easily reconcilable issue, "but that's not the point. The point is, so what if Astoria's coming to see Draco? There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"Oh, not on principle, no," Daphne assured her. "It's more that Astoria is—"

"Flighty," offered Pansy, ticking descriptors off on her fingers, "dull, insipid, vain—"

"—hard to get to know," Daphne finished, glaring at her. "She doesn't let anyone see the real her right away, that's all."

From Pansy: "Largely because the real her is a vast and empty crevice."

From Blaise: "Ooh, cutting. Plus five for devastation."

From Daphne: "Blaise!"

From Blaise: "Hm? What?"

From Theo, neutrally: "I think Astoria's fine. She's a bit hard to talk to at times, but so am I, right? In different ways, obviously."

From Daphne, with a startled glance: "I—thank you, Theo. That's—thank you, that's surprisingly supportive."

Hermione arched a brow at Theo, and he hastily glanced down, cheeks ever-so-slightly flushed.

"Well, anyway," Daphne said, turning to Hermione, "she'll be staying with us all weekend. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," Hermione assured her. "I'm looking forward to meeting Astoria."

"Yes, and I'm sure it will hardly be hellish at all," Pansy sniffed insincerely.

That had been Monday.

Starting Thursday, the heat wave had struck.

"Good lord, it's warmer in here than it is outside," Astoria remarked, walking into the room at Daphne's prodding and immediately fanning herself. The first thing Hermione noticed about Astoria Greengrass was that she did not particularly resemble her sister. Astoria's hair was darker, a mahogany closer to Pansy's raven-black than to Daphne's rich auburn, and she was also a few inches taller than her sister, gracefully slender and lithe in cropped trousers and a tailored blazer where Daphne typically wore wrap-dresses and skirts for her faintly pear-shaped curves.

"I told you it was hot," Daphne said, her own hair sticking to the back of her neck as she struggled to swing her ponytail to the side, hoisting Astoria's bag into the room. "Something's gone terribly wrong with the ventilation in the castle. Old buildings, who knows—"

"Clearly. It's a swamp. Oh, and you must be Hermione," Astoria said, gaze falling on hers. "Such a pleasure. Cute top," she added, as Hermione glanced down, not entirely sure what she was even wearing until she realized it was the sweat-soaked tank top she still hadn't changed out of since her second shower that afternoon. Almost immediately, though, Astoria's attention had wandered; she perched daintily on Daphne's bed and pulled out her phone, checking the face of it. "How's service down here?"

"Not great," Daphne admitted, swiping at her forehead.

Hermione, who'd just hung up with her mom ("A heat wave, really? Bloody hell!" had been Helen's highly unhelpful commentary) had to agree. "It's better in the common room, if you need to reach someone," she offered, and Astoria looked up sharply, fixing her gaze on Hermione with something that was obviously qualitative scrutiny. It was something Hermione was accustomed to receiving from Pansy, but unlike her, Astoria painted a distressingly false smile on her lips in reply.

"Well, I can just go down the hall and see him, can't I? I'm sure Draco's been waiting for me to let him know I've arrived." Astoria got to her feet, grimacing around the room. "It's terribly tiny in here, Daph. You should really request a better room. I'm assuming Draco doesn't have this problem, thankfully. You know I hate to sleep anywhere too warm."

"I thought—" Daphne frowned. "I thought you'd be staying with us."

"Well, officially, yes, of course," Astoria said with a laugh. "You know I'd want to, Daph, if it were up to me, but I just think Draco probably has other plans."

She gave Hermione a coquettish smile. Hermione, meanwhile, reminded herself in a soothing, rational internal voice that none of this bothered her.

After all, why would it?

She and Draco were friends.

(She'd certainly said it enough to believe it by now, hadn't she?)

"Okay," Daphne said, obviously unsure how to proceed. "Well, anyway, it might be a little cooler at the Hog's Head. Did I tell you that was the plan for tonight?"

Astoria wrinkled her nose. "That dreadful place again?"

"Draco likes it," Daphne pointed out, and Astoria gave a wearied sigh.

"One of these days I'll stamp that out of him," she lamented, sparing Hermione a look of conspiratorial exasperation. "He does so love his quaint establishments, it's positively tiresome. It's as if he doesn't know there are nicer places, honestly. You should see the sorts of places he tries to take me. Do you know him?"

It was such a rapid and surprising stream of thoughts leading to an outrageous question that Hermione wondered temporarily if they were even thinking of the same person.

"I told you, Astoria," Daphne cut in gently, "Hermione is one of Draco's good friends. They study together. I'm sure he's mentioned her."

"Oh, well, maybe once or twice," Astoria said, glancing down at her phone. "In any case, at least he won't have to study tonight. Poor thing, always working so hard," she lamented, scrolling blindly. "So, pig's face, you said the place was called? What time?"

"Hog's Head," Daphne corrected. "And I don't know, I thought we'd get dinner first, and then maybe—"

"Draco and I have plans," Astoria said, "so we'll have to meet you there. Which way's his room?" she asked, glancing up. "That way?"

"Yes," Daphne said tentatively, glancing at Hermione. "But, you know, I actually thought maybe you'd like to have dinner with the others. You remember Theo and Blaise, don't you? Oh, and Harry's coming tonight—"

"Oh god, is Theo the skinny one who makes all those jokes?" Astoria asked, making a face. "He thinks he's so terribly funny, doesn't he? Though I suppose boys who never grow out of their awkward stage have to develop something in exchange."

"Theo's not awkward," Daphne insisted, leaping to his defense (as she always did, exclusively when he wasn't around to hear it). "He's just, you know. Lean. And difficult."

"Mm, I'm sure," Astoria permitted apathetically, reaching for the door. "I'll see them at the boar nose, anyway. You don't talk much," she noted to Hermione, half-startling her. "I would have thought someone who was supposedly so clever would have a bit more to say."

For a moment, Hermione wanted to snap in irritation—it's hot, and frankly, you haven't said anything worth responding to—when a delicious thought struck her in its place.

Clearly, Astoria had heard of her.

(And her cleverness.)

"Astoria," Daphne said, appalled, but she only smiled.

"I'm sure we'll be great friends by the end of the weekend," Astoria assured her sister, "assuming Draco doesn't want too much private time. He rarely gets to be alone with me but when he does, he really takes advantage," she said, voice carefully bright, "not to be uncouth, of course. Anyway, see you tonight!"

With a whirl of motion and a long, cattish stride, Astoria Greengrass was gone.

"Oh, balls," Daphne sighed, and Hermione glanced at her, questioning.

"What?"

"She's threatened by you," Daphne said, falling back on her bed. "You're not going to see any of her better nature, I'm afraid. She's really very sweet, you know," she said, with something of a big sister's urgency to her defense. "And she's loads of fun, when she's up for it."

"But she's not up for it now?" Hermione guessed, sniffing her shirt. Time for another shower.

Daphne turned her head with a grimace.

"No," Daphne lamented. "No, I'm afraid it's just as I expected."

"Which is?" Hermione asked.

"Astoria came here for a war," Daphne said, and closed her eyes. "Hey, you think Theo's attractive, don't you?" she asked, abruptly changing the subject. "I mean he's not conventionally gorgeous, by any means, but he isn't awkward. Is he?"

"Not at all," Hermione said. Skinny, yes. Awkward, no. He wasn't Draco, but he wasn't anything Astoria made him out to be either.

She hoped nothing Astoria thought was true, actually.

Daphne nodded. "I thought so," she said, and then added, "By the way, Michael's coming tonight."

Hermione groaned. "Daphne."

"Oh, don't take that tone with me," Daphne said, stretching out on her bed. "It's too hot."

Hermione sighed, relenting. It definitely was that.

The unseasonable heat seemed to have no relief, even in the dark. As they made their way from the Three Broomsticks to the Hog's Head, Hermione found she was already sweating, moisture pooling at the small of her back as they made their way through Hogsmeade. For once, she wasn't all that concerned about missing her usual Friday night studying with Draco, since the library currently seemed to be about twenty degrees warmer than it was outside. Sure, she enjoyed her time alone with him, but still. The heat seemed to be getting under all their skins, leaving them giddy and perhaps a little tipsier than usual as they made their way into the Hog's Head, spotting Draco and Astoria from afar where they were standing away from the door with Harry.

"There she is!" Harry said, reaching for Hermione's hand the moment she walked in. "Listen, it's your song!"

The song was, in fact, California Gurls by Katy Perry, which actually seemed to delight Blaise most out of any of them. Still, it was Harry who was most forcefully enthused, in that he seemed to be vigorously intent on ensuring Hermione joined him.

"Come on," Harry pressed, giving Hermione's fingers a tug into his arms. "We're dancing."

"Nobody's dancing," Hermione informed him, leaving out the details of 1) how unbearably hot she was, and subsequently 2) how little she wanted to be touched, but unsurprisingly, the lack of dancing patrons from the rest of the room didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. Harry wildly swung Hermione under his arm, nearly barrelling her into the bar before pulling her back, leaving her breathless.

"Oh, I'm not remotely ashamed to say I love this song," Daphne said, reaching for the hand beside her, which happened to be Theo's. "Come on, don't let the American have all the fun—"

"I'm going to need a lot more to drink, Greengrass," Theo said, holding back, and Daphne reached for Pansy, undeterred.

"Alright, fine," Pansy said, making a face as she permitted Daphne to tug her into the center of the room with Harry and Hermione, "but for the record, you should definitely be ashamed."

"Well, spoiler, I'm not—sun-kissed skin, so hot, we'll melt your popsicle," Daphne sang jubilantly, and Pansy, much to Hermione's shock, joined in in the exact moment Harry chose to dip Hermione nearly to the ground, one arm secured just below her shoulders as she gave a none-too-elegant yelp.

"Hi," he said to her, grinning, and then yanked her back up, prompting another collision between her and his (unfortunately, noticeably muscled) chest. "Having fun yet?"

"Oh, a little," she replied weakly, as he spun her again, laughing as only he could laugh. Behind him, Hermione caught sight of Michael Corner entering the Hog's Head, and watched Theo leap quickly to his feet, joining Daphne's side the moment he'd walked in.

"Minus ten points for desperation," yelled an already-dancing Blaise.

"Plus twenty for my sick moves," Theo shouted back, pointedly providing a spirited shimmy for evidence as Daphne laughed, having evidently forgiven him by then for some taunt he'd provided over dinner.

As the song transitioned into something equally overplayed (Down by Jay Sean, which led Harry to move from wildly hurling Hermione around the room to some kind of competition with Blaise as to who could get lower to the ground), Hermione looked up to see Draco still standing off to the side, brow furrowed as he spoke in undertones to Astoria. It was unclear what the conversation was, but the tension was obvious, and it was difficult to see which of them was more upset. Inevitably, though, Draco remembered himself first, clearing his face of any particular expression and raising his pint of beer to his lips, obviously conceding to her point with a nod.

Hermione had learned to read him pretty well by then. His face rarely gave things away; it was his hands that showed how he was really feeling. When he was anxious, his fingers tapped lightly on his laptop. When he was lost in conversation, they rested around his mouth, near his face, drawn through his hair. At the moment, his hand was so tight around his beer his knuckles were white, and though it was probably a stupid idea, Hermione found herself walking towards him before she could stop herself, only remembering she hadn't been invited over when Astoria turned to face her, irritation flitting across her brow.

"Oh, hi again," Astoria said, extending her hand, and Hermione blinked. "Remind me your name?"

"Astoria, this is Hermione," Draco said impatiently. "Daphne's roommate?"

"Right, of course," Astoria said coolly, slipping her arm around Draco's waist. "Having fun, then?"

It was like she was the hostess of a party to which Hermione had been lucky to receive an invitation. "Fine," Hermione said, forcing a smile. "Just wanted to say hello. But you're obviously both busy," she determined, taking a step back, "so—"

"Wait," Draco said, taking a step after her. "I wanted to check—could we possibly reschedule our study session?" he asked in a low voice. "I'm not quite finished with my Margery Kempe analysis, and as I'm having to—" He hesitated. "As our plans had to change for the evening," he amended carefully, "I wondered if we could still meet. Would tomorrow morning be too early? Around seven?"

"I—" Maybe he wasn't spending the night with Astoria, then. She tried not to be too pleased; what did she care what he did? The word 'friends' beat itself against her temples. "Yes, that's fine," she assured him. "I'm an early riser."

"Great," he exhaled with relief, just as Harry sidled up to them.

"Going to join us?" Harry asked Draco, one hand already reaching for Hermione's. "This is, after all, an excellent song."

"This is 99 Luftballons," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Excellent might be a stretch."

"It's certainly no Hungry Like the Wolf," Harry agreed, "but it's a classic, and such things cannot be easily dismissed. May I?" he asked, offering his hand and bowing low, and Hermione laughed, glancing for a moment at Draco. He was smiling, she noticed, but at his side, one hand was brutally locked by his thigh.

"You go," Draco advised Hermione. "Have fun. Your chariot awaits," he joked, gesturing to Harry.

"Just don't dip me again," Hermione warned Harry, who looked as though he would promise no such thing. "Or if you're going to, then mind the sweaty bits."

"Oh, don't tease me," he joked, pulling her onto the dance floor as Draco rejoined Astoria's side. "How are you enjoying this marvelous heat wave we're having, by the way? I'm surprised Pansy hasn't melted, if we're being honest. It's about as foreign to us as you are."

"More so, even," Hermione said, and Harry laughed, taking one of her hands and pulling her close. The jasmine smell in his cologne was once again unmistakably present, his shoulders appealingly broad, hair falling leisurely onto his forehead; the heat was an unfairly good look for him, and she couldn't help but notice. "You, me, and the polar bears are in some real trouble, climately-speaking."

Harry gave another low chuckle, throwing her out for a spin and pulling her back. He really was Draco's opposite, Hermione thought; eternally unbothered, for one thing, and where Draco carefully kept his distance, Harry boldly got too close.

"I'm definitely in trouble," Harry murmured to her, and despite the undisputed temperature around them, Hermione half-shivered.

Over Harry's shoulder, Hermione caught a glimpse of Astoria leaning her head against Draco's chest, her fingers reaching down to twine with his. But then, just as quickly, Hermione saw nothing but Harry's laughing eyes, delivered once again to the mercy of yet another breathless dip.

Astoria did not spend the night with Draco. Instead, she was waiting in Hermione and Daphne's room for them after they made their way back, Daphne stepping out quickly to wash her face as Hermione dug through her drawers for something suitably resistant to inevitable night sweat.

"He told me you're meeting him to study in the morning," Astoria commented to Hermione's back, and she paused, not quite able to read the other girl's tone.

"Yes," Hermione said carefully, and turned over her shoulder. "We're just studying."

"I know you are," Astoria agreed, crossing one long leg over the other. "And do you know what else I know?"

Hermione grimaced, expecting a Pansy-esque lecture, only to be thoroughly surprised by what she got.

"I know how I must look to you," Astoria said, lifting her chin. "I know you must think I'm terribly rude and jealous and petty, so maybe you hope it doesn't work out for me with him. But before you go thinking this is easy, or that I'm some kind of horrible person, you should know it's nothing like it looks." She met Hermione's eye with a surprising sincerity. "It's one thing to try to convince a boy you like to like you, isn't it? But try doing that while everyone's watching. And try convincing a country to like you. Or the media. They'll forgive him everything, you know. Oh, sure, he has a reputation to uphold," she said, expression souring, "but for him, it'll always be easier. Boys will be boys, won't they? It always comes back to that. Look at Prince Harry. Look at Prince Lucius. Even if Draco were to do something truly awful, they would eventually forgive him—but they never forgive the woman on his arm."

For a moment, Hermione could say absolutely nothing, idly paralyzed as Astoria's expression hardened.

"They'll treat you like you're nothing," Astoria said. "They'll call you everything under the sun. Make assumptions. If you do nothing wrong, they'll say you're boring. If you're too affectionate, they'll say you're desperate. Too stern in one picture? Uptight. Not smiling in a candid? A bore. Catch you laughing too hard for a moment? Silly. They'll say you're stupid. They'll say you're dull, or that you try too hard, or that you're not trying, and it will be something new and different from day to day. They'll say he's losing interest because he's looking somewhere else when you're looking at him. They'll say you'll be gone soon, just like the others, and all of a sudden you'll find yourself hating people he hasn't spoken to in years. They'll paint you like you're nothing, like you're just a bookmark in his more interesting story, like you're replaceable—and then worst of all," she exhaled sharply, "you will be."

Hermione swallowed, completely taken by surprise.

"It's not fun, you know," Astoria told her eventually, clearing her throat. "It's not all pictures and posh dinners and pretty dresses."

For a moment, Hermione wasn't going to say anything. Astoria was clearly upset, and nothing Hermione said was going to be particularly fruitful to the situation.

But still, she couldn't help herself. Not after she'd already been fighting it all day—or maybe much longer, if she were being honest.

"Maybe it's not fun," Hermione said slowly, "but it's still Draco. He's a person, you know," she said, and brutally, she realized while she'd been trying so hard to feel nothing for him, it hadn't been particularly effective. Astoria had Draco—really had him, and not just stolen moments trying to be friends in a library—and for that, Hermione couldn't hold her tongue. "He's a person, and a good one, and the person you're in a relationship with isn't just a job."

To that, Astoria laughed bitterly. "Do you really think I get to see any of him?" she asked. "Or that he ever bothers to see me?"

Before Hermione could answer, the door opened, Daphne walking in with her hair piled on her head.

"I'll tell you one thing, this humidity is extremely impolite to my skin," Daphne lamented, and then paused, catching the tension in the room. "What happened?" she asked, glancing suspiciously between them.

"Oh, nothing. I was just telling Hermione that Theo isn't quite as strange-looking as I remembered," Astoria remarked airily, her tone suddenly completely different as she gave her sister a small smile. "Maybe I was just misremembering."

Hermione blinked, entirely unsure now what to make of Astoria, and then forced a nod, confirming her story.

"Oh?" Daphne said. "Well," she determined, looking relieved. "That's something, I suppose."

Hermione slipped out of her room the next morning, tiptoeing quietly, at the same time Draco was approaching her, something obviously bothersome furrowed deep into his brow. The moment he arrived at her side, though, he quickly smoothed a mask of pleasantness over his features, nodding to her.

"Good morning," he said, his voice a bit strained. "Thanks again for this."

"You don't have to thank me every time, Draco," Hermione reminded him, rolling her eyes and fighting a yawn as they made their way to the corridor. By now, they could have followed the route to the library in their sleep, which was very much like what she was currently doing. Coffee would be necessary, and soon. "I also have work to do, you know."

"Mm," he said, not really listening, and then caught himself. "Right, sorry, yes—"

"Draco," Hermione said, giving his arm a yank towards the common room's coffee maker. "Pause. What's going on?" she asked, struggling with the bag of filters as he leaned against the counter with his arms folded, grimacing.

"It's—it's nothing," he said, though she watched his gaze snag on one of the papers that had been left out. "Nothing," he said again, forcing brightness, and she sighed, picking up the newspaper and not even bothering with the headline after seeing the picture.

"Oh, no," she murmured, seeing that someone had managed to take a shot of Draco and Prince Lucius in the midst of what was clearly an argument. In the picture, Draco was tensed and rigid, jaw set in unflattering evidence of conflict, but it was Lucius who was the villain. He was obviously accosting his son, and whatever the conversation had been about, Hermione could only imagine what presumptions had been made.

"Are you okay?" she asked, looking up at Draco, who turned his head away.

"It's bad press," he said tightly, "but it's nothing. Really." He stood up, beginning to pace. "Don't worry about it."

"Draco," Hermione sighed, taking his arm and nudging him away. Coffee could wait. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but there's no reason to lie. It's clearly not fine."

He grimaced, but motion seemed to have helped. They settled into the path to the library and slowly, gradually, he seemed to toy with the option of confessing.

"He wants me to, um. Well, it's a few things, but primarily he wants me to go public with Astoria," Draco said, and Hermione blinked.

"Aren't you already—"

"I'm making appearances with her," Draco confirmed, voice clipped. "I'm physically in her presence, but that's not quite official. I tried—I'm trying," he exhaled, "to make things work, but it just isn't—" Another pause. "It's not even that it's Astoria. I barely know her, honestly, and it's not as if there's anything wrong with her. She's lovely, and quite understanding of my position, but it's just that it's different, making a relationship public versus letting the public speculate. He's just really pushing me to consider marriage, and it's all just…"

He trailed off, smoothing a hand through his hair.

"Can I tell you the truth?" he asked, coming to a sudden halt, and she turned, frowning at him.

"Of course," she said. "Always."

It was still too early on a Saturday for many people to be around, so she was able to lean a little closer as he nodded, both of them resuming their comfortable strides while he considered what to say.

"The thing is," Draco said, not quite looking at her, "I understand that my role has… expectations. That sometimes I have to do things for how they look. I even understand that there's a very good chance my marriage will be, in some respects, arranged by my father. But seeing as I'm still young, and I'm nowhere near being king, it just seems—" he sighed, and gradually his grey eyes slid to hers. "It just seems that at this point in my life, I should be able to have one thing that's real. Just one."

It seemed unlikely that he was saying what she thought he was saying, but still.

Her rebellious heart leapt a little in her chest.

"You should be able to be in a relationship that's meaningful, if that's what you want," Hermione said slowly, and Draco nodded, though he didn't look entirely relieved.

"The truth is, if it wasn't this, it'd be something else," Draco told her. "If it isn't my romantic life or my personal life, my father would find a way to be upset with me about something. It's just that my mother—" He paused. "It's just that there's quite a lot of pressure on our family," he amended, "on all of us, and sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be easier to just listen to him. But then I see you with Harry, and I just—"

"What?" Hermione asked, startled, and the color rose in Draco's cheeks.

"No, nothing," he said hastily, waving it away. "I just meant that sometimes I wish my life could be a little more normal, that's all. That I could dance with you in the middle of a bar and not worry about what might be printed about me the next day."

"With… me?" she echoed.

"Well, of course," he said, too quickly. "Or, you know, just—everyone. Theo," he joked. "He's got those mobile hips."

"I'd say Blaise has the best footwork, actually," Hermione remarked, though she wasn't quite able to dismiss the look he'd given her, or what he'd said; I see you with Harry, and I just—

"You do know nothing's going on with me and Harry, don't you?" she asked him as she opened the door to the library, and he gave her a hurried nod.

"Of course," he said quickly. "Though, if it were, I wouldn't mind. I'd understand, actually. After all, it's Harry," he said, looking as though he were struggling to get the words out. "Everyone loves him."

"Harry's fun," she assured him, "but so are you. And you're my friend. And," she exhaled, squirming a little as she spoke and wishing she weren't so committed to the stupid terms of friendship, "I think you deserve to be happy, Draco. I really do. And if being with Astoria could make you happy—or at least ease the tension with your father," she clarified, "then maybe you should give it a real try."

He nodded, settling down at their usual table, and gave a heavy sigh, scrubbing briefly at his face with his hands before shaking his head.

"Let's just study, shall we?" he asked. "I'd just like to spend the morning with my friend, and not have to worry about any of—" He waved a hand. "That."

She wanted to hug him.

She had the distinct and terrible urge to hold him, to brush his hair back from his forehead, to stroke her thumb along his cheek and tell him everything would be fine, that she was here for him, but she didn't.

"I assume by friend you mean Margery Kempe," Hermione joked instead, and knew immediately that she'd done the right thing. At once, his expression brightened to a warm, familiar smile.

"Oh, of course," Draco said. "Why, is there someone else here?"

Immediately, normality reigned. She gave his arm a shove, shaking her head; he pretended at grievous injury, sparing her a broadened smile; then they pulled out their laptops, settling in to work.

And for the rest of the morning, she did not, despite the anxious coiling in her stomach, ask him what he was going to do about Astoria.

By the time Hermione returned to her room, Daphne had left a note that she and Astoria had stepped out for lunch. I'd have waited, Daphne said apologetically, but I never get to see her, so I hope you don't mind!

Hermione didn't, of course. She was happy for Daphne, and she was just about to go out and grab something for herself when there was a knock at the door.

To her surprise, it was Pansy, who was wearing a crisp bateau sundress which seemed to magically lack any wrinkles, despite the continuing oppression of the heat.

"Oh," said Pansy, pursing her lips. "Well, fine. Hungry?"

"My goodness, what a persuasive offering," Hermione said drily. "I take it everyone else is gone, then?"

"Yes," Pansy sniffed, pivoting away with a scowl, "and if you're going to press me—"

"Oh, come on, just—wait," Hermione growled, grabbing her keys. "Fine. Let's go."

"I wouldn't bother, honestly, except it's so unbearably hot," Pansy muttered, directing them both brusquely toward Hogsmeade. "I'm going positively mad from all this dehydration, and the Three Broomsticks is the only place with any air."

"Well, while I do covet any opportunity to be your last resort," Hermione exhaled, and Pansy spared her a look that was almost (almost) playful, "you're a modern woman, you know. You could technically eat alone."

"I could," Pansy agreed. "Bye, then," she added, taking a sharp left turn out of the common room, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Very funny," she grumbled, chasing after her, and she could have sworn she saw Pansy hide a smile.

It wasn't a particular chatty lunch. Hermione was relieved, actually, that they didn't speak much, as she wasn't sure whether Pansy knew where she'd been that morning. In any case, she certainly wasn't going to tell her, and considering she and Pansy had little to nothing else in common aside from Draco, Hermione was happy to enjoy the slightly cooler air of the Three Broomsticks (and a salad that wasn't actively wilting) without much conversation.

Partway through lunch, though, Pansy was absentmindedly rubbing her hand around a red mark on her wrist, and Hermione frowned, catching the motion.

"What happened?" Hermione asked, gesturing, and Pansy blinked, startled out of whatever she'd been thinking about.

"A burn," Pansy said curtly, immediately releasing her wrist. It was such a reflexive action that Hermione thought it must have been something she'd been scolded about before. "An accident. I do have moments of humanity," Pansy added with a sulky drawl, "despite what the others love to say about me."

"What are you using to treat it?" Hermione asked, eyeing it. "Looks like it hurts."

"I'm fine," Pansy said flippantly. "I'm well-born. We regenerate quickly."

Per usual, Hermione fought the urge to groan. "Well, if you want, I have some tea tree oil back in my room," she said, "if your aristocracy isn't doing the trick quickly enough. It's a natural anti-inflammatory," she added, as Pansy frowned.

"Is it?" she asked.

Hermione nodded. "I use it for my skin sometimes. For us commoners," she added, gesturing to her face. "We sometimes get zits? You may have heard rumors."

"The proletariat is so inventive," Pansy remarked loftily, and then paused. "But yes, I'd like some, if you think it'll work."

"It'll sting a bit," Hermione said, "but it'll heal faster. Might help keep you from touching it, too," she added, as Pansy's brow furrowed.

"Thank you," Pansy said uncertainly, and Hermione nodded.

"Of course," she said, about to return to her salad when Pansy sighed heavily, setting down her fork and folding her arms over her chest.

"Stop trying to fix us," Pansy said.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione said, fork halfway to her mouth, and Pansy made a face.

"You know what I mean," Pansy said brusquely. "Daphne and her drawing. Draco and his father. You see us like we're problems you need to solve, don't you?"

"I—what?" Hermione asked, startled.

"We're fine," Pansy said firmly. "We were fine before you, and we'll be fine after you leave."

"I know that," Hermione said, still entirely taken aback. "I'm not trying to fix you, I just—" She set her fork down. "I just like my friends to be happy," she explained, and then added, "Maybe it's one of my American eccentricities. Think of it like some sort of commoner's virus."

"Ha ha," Pansy said, but she looked to be considering it. "Fine."

She glanced down, picking up her fork, and for a moment, Hermione thought the outburst was over.

She was wrong.

"Don't sleep with Harry," Pansy warned, and Hermione blinked.

"What the—"

"I see how he looks at you," Pansy said sternly. "And if it isn't going to work with Draco, then believe me, it isn't going to work with Harry, either."

"Listen," Hermione sighed impatiently, "I get that you have some sort of weird protective thing with those two, but—"

"It's not," Pansy began, and then paused. "It's not what you think. I don't care what Harry does," she said, not missing an opportunity to pass Hermione her usual scolding glare, "but you absolutely cannot sleep with him."

"Why not?" Hermione demanded. She hadn't particularly wanted to, but still, she didn't love being told she couldn't. It seemed unfair, and more importantly, it seemed highly judgmental. It felt sexist, actually, and totally small-minded. And it felt awful, too, to be presumed some sort of… of lesser value, especially by someone she'd already spent so much time with, and—

"Because," Pansy said stiffly, interrupting Hermione's bruised inner monologue, "it would hurt Draco immensely, and I would quite literally murder you with my bare hands before I ever let you do that to him."

With that, she stabbed her fork into her salad, having made her point.

"Oh," Hermione managed faintly.

"Oh," Pansy agreed, daintily raising a small bite of spinach to her lips.

"But Draco doesn't," Hermione began, and then faltered. "But he wouldn't."

Pansy delicately finished chewing before dabbing at her lips with a napkin.

"He shouldn't," Pansy clarified, "and to be clear, I'll never approve of you for him. This is not my approval. But that doesn't mean I want him to hurt over this." She fixed Hermione with a firm glare, driving her point home, and then softened so slightly Hermione might have missed it if not for weeks learning Pansy's subtle degrees of emotion. "Believe me, this Astoria thing won't last," she said. "She'll be gone soon."

Hermione blinked uncertainly, wondering if (by some miracle) Pansy had been trying to make her feel better.

"Don't gawk, Hermione," Pansy said. "It's rude. Were you taught absolutely nothing in the colonies?"

Hermione sighed. "You're unbearable," she informed Pansy.

"Thank you," Pansy replied, "and for the record, don't get comfortable. I doubt we'll ever do this again."

But rather than a disapproving look, she spared Hermione a smirk, which seemed like something of an improvement.

"Right," Hermione agreed, and took a bite of her salad, suddenly quite certain she could get used to Saturday lunches with Lady Pansy Parkinson.

That evening, they'd planned for another night out in Hogsmeade. Once again, Astoria had left Daphne and Hermione to their own devices, and Pansy, Blaise, and Theo joined them for dinner instead. To their surprise, though, about thirty minutes into their meal, they were joined by two more people.

"Oh, good," Harry declared, sitting down at one end of the table beside Hermione and Pansy as someone else sat down on the opposite end. "I was hoping you'd have left some starters, I'm positively starved—"

Pansy smacked his hand away and kissed his cheek in one fluid motion as Hermione glanced down to realize Draco had been the one to sit at the other end, leaning towards Theo to spare a few words in a low voice.

"Oh?" Theo asked, looking briefly concerned. "And how did Prince Lucifer take it?"

"I'm sure I'll hear from him first thing," Draco replied quietly, turning to find Hermione looking at him and flashing her a somewhat hesitant smile. Hi, he mouthed, and Daphne, who was on her left, looked to be conflicted at the sight of him.

"Where's Astoria?" Daphne asked, and a brief haze of silence fell over the table as Pansy preemptively clapped a hand over Harry's mouth.

Draco shook out a napkin, not quite meeting anyone's eye. "Astoria felt it best she return home this evening," he said, spreading the napkin across his lap. "She's sorry she couldn't join us, but I'm sure she'll speak to you soon." He glanced up, looking apologetic, but held his voice firm. "I'm sorry, Daph."

Daphne nodded slowly. "Right. Of course," she said, clearing her throat. "Yes, well, I'm sure she'll call. Here," she added, shoving a plate of fries (chips, as it were) towards Harry. "Have some."

It was obvious she was disappointed to hear her sister had left without saying goodbye, and Hermione reached over, giving Daphne's hand a comforting squeeze beneath the table.

"Sorry your visit was cut short," Hermione murmured to her, and Daphne grimaced.

"Well, she was never really here to see me, was she?" Daphne said lightly, obviously pretending at being unbothered. "It's perfectly fine. Oh, you need another glass," she said, turning around to locate the waiter. "You know, what I'll just—let me just go and—"

She rose to her feet, heading for something that was almost certainly not the waiter, and Theo fumbled to leave his seat after her.

"Toilet," he lied, clapping a hand on Draco's shoulder briefly before hurrying after her, leaving the others to glance at each other in helpless bemusement.

"Mmmmphpmh?" Harry said, his mouth still obscured by Pansy's hand, and she sighed, releasing him.

"Don't," she warned, and he scowled.

"Why do you always assume I'm going to ruin things?" Harry demanded. "It wasn't me, for once. Any awkwardness this evening is, in a classic plot twist, entirely Draco's fault."

"Thanks," Draco said, rolling his eyes, as Blaise chuckled. "Very kind of you, Harry."

"I mean, let's face it," Harry continued. "Normally, I admit, it's my fault when a woman's been unceremoniously left on her ar-"

"HARRY," Pansy growled, and Draco sighed, shaking his head.

"Okay, fine, I broke up with Astoria," he said, pointedly not looking at Hermione. "Okay? We broke it off, she's upset, she went home. But I would really prefer if we didn't discuss it."

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then there was a light scraping noise against the table as Blaise slowly pushed his beer towards Draco, who rolled his eyes.

"Yes, fine," Draco said, bringing his tankard to his lips. "Just one, okay?"

(Spoiler: Draco would not, in fact, have just one.)

"Plus ten points to the monarchy for superior coping strategies," Blaise said spiritedly in response, and Harry laughed, permitting the rest of the table to begin the helpful stages of returning to normal—which they did, once Daphne and Theo returned, both slightly pink-cheeked.

Hermione arched a brow, and Daphne shook her head warningly.

"Nothing happened," she whispered. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Mm, of course, and is Michael still coming tonight?" Hermione asked drily, and Daphne pursed her lips, elbowing Hermione into silence in answer as they all continued to eat—and more importantly, to drink.

From Blaise: "A toast. Shall we?"

From Theo: "To our royal princes, and their corresponding trail of tears- ouch, Daph—"

From Harry, loudly: "To Prince Lucifer, and to this heat, which is his natural habitat."

From Theo: "Hear, hear!"

From Draco: "Is this honestly what you people do when I'm not here?"

Theo, briskly: "What is this, the Star Chamber Courts? Enough with the inquisition, King George."

From Blaise: "Yes, and drink your beer, Your Highness. Waste not, want not."

Draco, to Pansy: "Lady Parkinson? Do you agree?"

From Pansy: "With Blaise? Of course not."

Blaise: "MINUS THIRT-"

Pansy, brusquely: "—but in general, yes. Drink your beer, Draco."

Blaise: "—oh. Points tentatively suspended."

Harry, to Pansy: "Are you drunk?"

Pansy, sagely, back to Harry: "You're drunk."

From Theo, loftily: "And for the record, Draco, when you're not here, we cease to exist. We simply sink into the swamps of our woeful, empty lives."

From Daphne: "In fact, I suspect we're just a collective delusion, Draco. We're just the imaginary friends you dreamt up."

Draco, to Daphne: "Are you drunk?"

Theo: "Everyone at this table is positively sloshed. So, if you happen to confess your affections, Daph, nobody will remember."

Daphne, brightly: "Excellent idea. Hermione, I love you."

From Hermione, gravely: "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep—"

From Harry, incredulously: "Is that a euphemism?"

From Pansy: "It's Shakespeare, you beautiful idiot."

Harry, wiping away a tear: "Thank you—"

From Blaise, interrupting: "So yes, it's a euphemism. Ten points to the new Tracey Davis!"

Hermione, sighing: "I do have a name, you know. But I accept the points."

From Draco, across the table: a smile. A slow, teasing, distracting smile, and a toast in her direction.

From Daphne: "Oh, balls. My glass is nearly empty."

Theo: "Look on the bright side, Greengrass. Your glass matches the rest of the table's moral deficiencies."

Harry, preparing to drain his beer: "In that case, mine's much too full."

From Hermione: nothing, except a tingling of warmth in her belly and a sleepy, happy sensation.

From Draco: another look in her direction, furtive and longing and lingering.

From Blaise: "I'd say this place has been successfully imperialized. Shall we conquer new lands?"

From Theo: "Excelsior!"

In unison: "EXCELSIOR!"

Between Draco and Hermione: a smile that meant the night wasn't over yet.

Unfortunately, trouble struck shortly afterwards as they traipsed leisurely through Hogsmeade. From afar, it was obvious someone had tipped off the Hog's Head that Draco was roaming about the village that evening, and cameras were flashing the moment they arrived within sight of it.

"Oh no," Draco said under his breath, freezing rigidly at the sight of it. "I'm—I'm not sober enough for this, my father will have my head. I can't, I have t-"

"I'll handle it," Harry murmured to him, painting a highly convincing look of supreme drunkenness on his face and offering Draco a wink. "Just slip off before they see you," he advised, and then whirled around, grabbing Theo's shoulder as they both initiated something that looked to be entirely too rehearsed. "Hello, gents, funny seeing you here—"

"Oi, Prince Harry, smile for the camera!" called one of the paparazzos as Draco took Hermione's hand, holding her back.

"Do you mind coming with me?" he asked her. His breath was warm and close and tempting as he ducked with her against one of Hogsmeade's cobblestone buildings. "Unless you'd rather go with them—"

"No, no," she told him, shaking her head. He'd slid his fingers between hers, briefly. Just long enough to convince her she didn't particularly want to be anywhere he wasn't. "Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere," he said, half-smiling. "As long as you'll come with me."

She nodded, heart foolishly fluttering and head dizzily spinning, and they headed the other direction as Harry began posing for shots in the doorway of the Hog's Head, laughingly shouting that he was so sorry they'd come all this way just for pictures of the spare.

She and Draco made their way back to the castle, releasing each other and faking sobriety on their way in, just in case any other photographers were smart enough to linger near the school's entrance. Every now and then, though, he'd lean towards her, making excuses to do so; brushing his knuckles against hers, or touching the small of her back.

"Not to be presumptuous," he said, speaking near her ear, "but in terms of privacy—"

"Your room," she agreed, breathless.

He nodded, glancing around, and then took her hand, leading her into his room and then closing the door behind them, falling against it with relief.

It was the first time she'd ever been inside it. Unsurprisingly, given what she knew about him, it was extremely ordered and neat. There were very few personal details; a few framed pictures of his family, his father and mother and one of his grandfather, King Abraxas, but outside of the sparing personal touches, it could have belonged to anyone. Hermione perched on the edge of his perfectly made bed (the duvet an emerald green, which she was half-surprised didn't come embroidered with some sort of royal seal) and waited as he paused in the threshold, staring at her.

For a moment, realizing she was in a very different space (one that smelled like him; and worse, like being too close to him) she paused, abruptly recalling what had happened only hours before.

"So," she said, suddenly uncomfortable. "You and Astoria."

He blinked, registering her tone. "Oh god," he said, aghast. "You must think I'm terrible, I wasn't—I didn't plan to—"

"No, I just—" She stopped. "So, you two…"

She trailed off, but he clearly knew what she was asking.

"If you can call ending something that was never a relationship to begin with a break-up, then yes," Draco said, taking a tentative step towards her. "I told her I wasn't ready to consider making the relationship more serious, and that I really didn't think it would be fair to her if I—"

He stopped.

"It wasn't fair to either of us," he amended, "for her to have to be with someone who's only going through the motions."

Hermione swallowed. "I see."

"I might have been able to do it, you know," Draco admitted after a moment, his voice a little tainted with misery. "If you hadn't existed, I might have been able to—"

He broke off.

"If you'd never existed," he exhaled, gaze falling inescapably on hers, "maybe I could have spent a few more months trying to be with her. Or maybe I even could have been. But you do exist. You do, and every minute I'm not with you—"

"Oh, fuck," Hermione whispered, "don't say it."

He blinked, surprised. "What?"

"You can't say it," Hermione said, rising sharply to her feet. "Don't, I can't—you and me, we can't—"

He flinched. "Right," he said, swallowing. "Right, I know."

"We're friends," Hermione told him again. "We have to be, don't we? Because I'll be gone soon," she rambled, "and you'll be king one day, and this is… this could never happen. We both know this could never happen."

"I know," Draco pressed, taking a step towards her. "But whether anything happens with us or not, Hermione, I can't be with Astoria. Don't you understand? Whether you're mine or not, I still can't be hers. I can't even pretend to belong to someone else, not when you're here—"

"Oh god, stop talking immediately," she half-wailed. "Draco, don't—"

"You're right," he said instantly, arms rigid at his side. "Right. Let's… we could talk about something else. Or just talk," he suggested. "About, I don't know. Anything. Tell me about your family."

She wanted to scream. She wanted to leap into his arms and cry. She wanted to rip off his clothes and dig her fingers into the lines of him and never let go. She wanted to run out of this room, get on a plane, and never look at his perfect face again.

"My parents are dentists," she said hoarsely.

"Oh," he said, forcing a nod. "That's—that's wonderful. Do they find their work meaningful?"

Jesus, he was so close. He was so close, and he was so handsome, and his mouth, and his hands and his eyes and his obvious misery, and all of it was just right there—

Her mind flashed unhelpfully to the last time they'd kissed.

And the time before that.

And—

What had she been talking about?

"Sorry," she said hazily. "What was the question?"

He pressed his fingers to his furrowed brow.

"I don't know," he admitted, exhaling in frustration.

She wondered if she should just leave.

That, or talk about her cat. That seemed appropriately mundane. What was sexy about cats?

That could work, she thought, but then he blurted out, "Wouldn't it be worth it?"

"What?" she asked, dazed.

"However long we got. Wouldn't it be worth it?" he asked, stepping towards her. "I know there's problems—I know there's countless obstacles, I know it wouldn't be easy, but—but if you feel anything for me at all—"

"I do," she confessed, desperately hating that she'd already been trying to fight it for so long. "I do, Draco, but…"

She couldn't remember her reasons anymore.

She knew they existed, though.

She was… pretty sure they existed.

He nodded, looking helplessly at his feet.

"Then I'll walk you back to your room," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have asked you to come back with me, it was wildly inappropriate—and anyway, I'm sure my father's going to be furious, so I should probably just wait for his call."

At the look on his face, Hermione's entire chest ached.

"Draco," she said, pained, and he looked up, painting on a smile.

"It's fine," he said. "Come on, I'll take you back."

She nodded, not sure what else to do, and shifted towards the door, but as he stepped behind her she paused, turning to face him.

"Draco," she said again, and this time, when the impulse to comfort him struck her, she didn't resist. She brushed his hair away from his face, smoothing her fingers through it, and beneath her touch, his eyes fluttered shut. She slid her hand around his cheek, brushing her thumb against the bone. He leaned into her hand, letting out a tired breath, and she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into her, easing the tension from his shoulders until he returned her embrace with gratitude, arms tight around her waist.

"It's okay," she told him, voice muffled in his shoulder. "It'll be okay."

"Thank you," he said, shifting just enough to slide her hair from her neck to tuck it behind one ear. "Really," he said, fingers soft against her cheek. "I needed that."

She tried not to look up at him.

Honestly, she tried.

Unfortunately, it was difficult not to, and once she had, it was impossible to look away.

"Oh no," she said.

He swallowed.

"Do you want to ruin it, or should I?" he asked.

"Yes, please," she managed faintly, and gasped as he kissed her, maneuvering her effortlessly back against the wall of his dorm room and then hoisting her up, guiding her legs around his hips. It was a messier process than the first two times had been—what with him stumbling slightly and her giggling into his mouth as she accidentally bit down on his lip—but it was also undeniably more intense. He took both her hands, pressing them back against the wall, and she let out what was almost definitely a moan—not just a moan; like, a porn moan, good god—as he started kissing her neck, lingering in the spot behind her ear.

Eventually, standing was too difficult; he tossed her onto his bed and she pulled him by the collar of his shirt, fumbling with his buttons as he slid his hand up the side of her dress. He paused once, arms locked unhelpfully behind his back as she nudged the fabric over his shoulders, and she stared, not even bothering to hide it as she took in the muscles of his chest and his abs and oh my god what was she even supposed to call those, did they even have names? What right did he have, honestly—

"You look upset," Draco said warily, suddenly tense. "Is this—are you—"

"You stupid prince," she whispered, and reached out, running her fingers down his torso. "Jesus. Are you even real?"

He laughed, tugging her hips lower on the bed and falling against her again. "You can't imagine how badly I've wanted to touch you," he murmured, sliding his hands around the shape of her waist. "When I watched you and Harry dancing, I honestly wondered whether I could legally have him arrested. Just for a second, obviously," he assured her, his fingers tracing the fabric of her underwear, "and just so you know, the answer is probably yes—"

She moaned again as he brushed the obvious slickness between her legs, and then she clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Oh my god," she said, bolting upright and colliding with him, smacking her forehead into his cheek. "Oh god, I'm so sorry—"

"Are you," he began, and paused, wincing as he touched his cheek. "You have quite a forehead on you, you know that? But more importantly, what is going on?"

"I just—" Could this be more mortifying? "Look," she exhaled swiftly, "I like you. Really, I do, I completely want to—" She waved a hand. "You know. But let's face it, I'm a little drunk," she said, trying not to be too distracted by his bare chest despite the way she was blindly running her fingers over his arms, "and you just broke up with Astoria—"

"Okay, I hear you," he exhaled at once, nodding. "Right. It's—timing."

"Bad," Hermione clarified. "Very bad timing. I want to, but tonight…" She trailed off, wincing. "I just don't want to have to face Daphne after her sister just, you know…"

"Completely understood," Draco assured her. "Right, of course, but—another time?" he asked, reaching for his shirt where it had been deposited on the floor. "I can wait," he added firmly, shrugging it back on. "However long you want me to, I'll wait. But I'd like to know there could be another time, at least."

She hated that he was saying all the right things. It was making her convictions extremely forgettable, and her better judgment seemed to be fading entirely to nothing each time she looked at him.

"Yes," she said, nodding slowly. "Definitely another time. But tonight, I have to—"

She gestured to the door, and he nodded.

By the time he walked her back to her room, Daphne still wasn't home, and neither was anyone else. He paused in the doorway, looking around, and then pulled her into him for a careful, breezy kiss; a little brush of see you later, and she smiled against his lips, giving him a shove.

"Goodnight, Your Highness," she said, and he grinned, catching her hand before she went inside.

"We can make this work," he told her, his voice firmly resolute. "You and I can make this work, Hermione. I promise."

And she smiled, because against the odds, she believed him.

"Study tomorrow, then?" she asked. "Still have to finish the paper on Margery Kempe."

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away," he said, "much less Margery herself."

She laughed, and he lowered his head with a grin, kissing the tips of her fingers.

"Sleep well," he murmured, and she nodded, gently closing the door between them and falling backwards onto her bed.

She was already sweating; it was going to be another unpleasantly hot night.

But for once, she really didn't mind.

The next morning, when Hermione and Daphne made their way down to the common room for coffee, the newspaper headline was impossible to miss.

LATEST ROYAL ROMANCE ENDS IN TEARS AS LADY ASTORIA GREENGRASS SLAMS PRINCE DRACO FOR BAD BEHAVIOR AT HOGWARTS

"Oh no," Daphne exhaled, as Hermione hurried to skim the page, catching the words 'partying with friends' and 'larking around' and, horribly, 'suspected infidelity.'

"This is bad," Hermione whispered, as Daphne leaned closer, reading the end of the article with her.

Astoria claims to be heartbroken over Draco's thoughtless treatment of her; this reporter has been informed that while Prince Draco led Astoria to believe he was serious about their relationship, she's now been left devastated and humiliated by his actions. One wonders, now, what Prince Lucius will have to say about his son's reckless behavior. Perhaps this is yet another event in a string of conflicts that indicate father and son haven't been seeing eye to eye.

"Listen, I'll handle it," came a voice, and Hermione looked up to catch Draco making his way through the common room, obviously in a rush to leave. "No, listen to me, just schedule some public appearances, I'll be on my best behavior with the press. Tell my father I'll call him from the car. Just do it, please, Dobby, I'll be right there—"

He broke off, grimacing, and in an instant, Hermione's heart sank.

There was no way they could be together now. He would have to be twice as careful.

"Oh, no, Hermione," Daphne said softly, reaching for her, but the moment Draco had disappeared through the common room door, something loud creaked and clanged overhead, and immediately, cold air started blowing down on them where they stood.

Hermione's phone buzzed in her pocket.

I can't study tonight

I'm sorry

And just like that, the heat wave was over.

In retrospect, it's funny to think Rita Skeeter and I go back nearly as far as Draco and I do, but that first bowlshirt article she wrote (which wasn't really about me, but was, kind of) was the beginning of what would be a very strained and strangely codependent relationship between us. Needless to say, I learned right away that any relationship I had with Draco couldn't really be just the two of us; instead, it was him, me, and whatever Rita Skeeter was writing that particular day, and on that day, it happened to be Astoria Greengrass.

For the record, I don't hate Astoria; really, I don't. In fact, I like her, sort of. The way you can like someone but also not want to be trapped in an elevator with them. And anyway, she was hardly the worst of it.

After all, she was only the beginning.

a/n: Hope you're still enjoying! I mentioned on tumblr that if you read my last story, How to Win Friends and Influence People, you may see some familiar characters pop up as we move further into the plot (and specifically, Draco's family).

4. Ghosts

Chapter 4: Ghosts

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Royal House of Malfoy

For the past seventy years, King Abraxas has been England's longest reigning monarch, beloved by his own people and by international leaders around the globe. But where Abraxas has long been admired—married to his wife Adelaide for thirty years without so much as a breath of scandal until her death in 1998—Prince Lucius, Draco's father, has had a rather different relationship with the public. Prince Lucius married Lady Narcissa Black when she was only twenty years of age (the Prince himself being nearly ten years her senior) after a very public string of flawed relationships, including one with Lady Bellatrix Black, Narcissa's eldest sister. The subsequent marriage to Narcissa, a popular and highly fashionable young woman, was ostensibly to assure the public their Prince of Wales could be trusted to stabilize the monarchy. Aptly, the wedding was one of the grandest events in recent memory. The marriage, however, would later be plagued by scandal, leading to Narcissa's eventual self-imposed retreat from public life.

While one can only speculate about the role Lucius and Narcissa's marital struggles played in their son Prince Draco's development, it's clear the expectations for his behavior were deeply influenced by the obstacles of his father's younger years, which perhaps explains why his subsequent engagement would be met with both riotous joy and tangible relief. It's been said that upon hearing the news Draco would be marrying Hermione, Lucius threw his arms around his son and wept, declaring Draco the worthy and beloved heir he and Narcissa had so dearly hoped he would be. While there has been some speculation that Lucius and Draco were not particularly close (with some going as far as to say the two 'avoid each other like the plague, only certainly don't print that, that's off the record, but I'm just saying—the two of them are constantly fighting, it's antagonistic to the highest degree—though, again, don't tell a soul I've said it'), it is widely believed that they have come together in their agreement that Hermione Granger is the best thing to have happened to their relationship.

Uh, pause. I was there when Draco told Prince Lucifer we were getting married, and he definitely did throw his arms around Draco—but believe me, there was no weeping. Not at first, anyway, at least by my recollection. Though, to be fair, I don't think I realized Lucius was tackling Draco until they'd both hit the ground, and by then, I was just trying to get out of the way.

But, obviously, that's a story for another time (as is the person who almost certainly gave that outrageous quote about Draco and Lucius), which is fine. I have plenty of Prince of Darkness stories before we even get to that part, and believe me, I wish I could say that was the only one that ended in tears. Or medical attention. The point is, Lucius wasn't happy about me. He still isn't happy about me. I hope it's not too bleak to say he'll never be happy about me, but…

Let's just get to the story, shall we?

October 17, 2010
Hogwarts University

"Don't bother," Hermione murmured as Theo sat down beside her, obviously sparing a questioning glance around the room despite trying (not very hard) to hide the motion. "He isn't back yet."

Which, in fact, was something Hermione would have known even if Slughorn had not announced to the class that 'his very close pupil, the Prince' had requested some of his lectures in advance, which of course Slughorn was 'only too happy to give, though it isn't favoritism, let that be known, I'd do the same for all of you, without doubt,' in a statement that was both irritating and almost certainly false. But, as Slughorn had mentioned it, the rest of the class (minus a predictably tardy Theo) was already fully appraised as to Draco's continued absence.

"Balls," Theo muttered, glancing at his phone. "I still haven't heard from him, either." He paused, drumming his fingers on the desk without even bothering to feign intent to take notes on Slughorn's lecture. "This can't be good."

"You said he typically comes and goes," Hermione pointed out, and Theo grimaced.

"Yes, but usually not without warning," he clarified, "and certainly not with how unpleasant the Prince of Darkness is surely behaving."

"Why on earth would his father be so upset about this?" Hermione asked him. She kept her voice low so as not to disrupt the lecture, though Slughorn was hardly teaching. At the moment, he was telling them all about a vacation home he had once temporarily occupied, which Hermione gathered, vaguely, had belonged to a Greek prince before she'd simply abandoned her attempt to pay attention. "Lucius can't honestly think people believe Draco's some sort of man-whoring slimeball all of a sudden, can he?"

"Well—" Theo hesitated. "It's more that history is repeating itself, I suppose. Which is none of your business," he informed her, ambushing her with a finger of warning. "Don't ask me any more questions unless you want Pansy to spontaneously appear and curse us both into oblivion."

"Is this about Draco's mother, then?" Hermione asked knowingly, raising a brow, and Theo gave a brief huff of a sigh.

"Did I not just say—"

"How did you meet Draco, by the way?" Hermione pressed, knowing Theo well enough by now to be comfortably assured persistence was key. If she asked enough questions, he gradually caved; that, or she'd just get Daphne to ask him, and that would expedite the process. "You grew up with him, right?"

"My father is friends with King Abraxas," Theo supplied with a nod. "They were schoolmates at Eton."

"Your father?" Hermione echoed, surprised. "But King Abraxas is—"

"Old as the hills," Theo confirmed, "as is my father. Well, more aptly, my father is perhaps a few years younger than the hills, but the general concept stands. My mother was considerably younger," he clarified with a subsequent gesture to himself, "hence the genetically reasonable progeny you see before you, not to boast."

Hermione stifled a laugh, glancing up to make sure Slughorn was still droning on about his wealthy patrons (which he was). "So, you were—"

"A built-in chum for the young, sheltered royal," confirmed Theo. "Practically a brother," he recited airily, "and one probably selected from among dozens of far more eligible noble sons, on the basis of there being no conceivable danger he might overshadow the Prince's accomplishments."

"Ouch," Hermione said, wincing. "Sounds like Rita Skeeter's work."

"Right on the first try," Theo said, tapping his nose. "Were Blaise here, he would award you twenty points for your keen ear."

"He probably would have left the conversation by now, actually," Hermione disagreed, which Blaise had definitely done many times before, "but thank you, I appreciate it. What problem does she have with you?"

"Only that I'm criminally unremarkable," Theo replied, "which I imagine is her most punishable crime. She's called me, on several occasions: an unrepentant loner, a weedy sidekick, 'the saddest of Draco's bad lads,'—"

"What?" Hermione demanded, abruptly furious on his behalf. "What on earth does that mean?"

"Oh, the Bad Lads," Theo joked. "You haven't heard of us?"

"Uh," Hermione said, and he chuckled.

"It's mostly me, Blaise, and Harry," he said, "so, actually, congratulations. You're rather intimately familiar. Harry is the wild one," he clarified, "Blaise is the cheeky one, and I'm the sad one. We were all at Eton together, and, you know…" He flapped a hand disinterestedly. "In all honesty, yes, the three of us did misbehave from time to time. But better we were seen misbehaving than let Draco take on all the scrutiny himself."

"I—" Hermione paused, recalling Harry and Theo's practiced charade of drunkenness for the benefit of the cameras the last time they'd been out; clearly, they were accustomed to covering for Draco, and did so without hesitation. "But none of that is true," Hermione said uncertainly, frowning a bit. "You sacrificed your own reputation for his because, what—because he's the Prince?"

To that, Theo fixed her with a long, discerning stare.

"Because he's Draco," he corrected her, his voice fiercely low. "Prince or not, I'd do whatever he needed, whether he asked for it or not. In fact, he'd never ask," he clarified firmly, "and that's precisely why I have no problem doing it. He was my friend my entire life when he didn't have to be; when he could have been friends with anyone. Rita Skeeter isn't the only person who finds me underwhelming, but Draco never once put me aside." He paused, and finished, "Comparatively, then, my reputation is unimportant."

Theo looked away, staring into nothing, and a very strange thought occurred to Hermione.

"Theo," she said, "you didn't actually need to go to university, did you?"

He glanced at her. "Hm?"

"You didn't need to go," Hermione noted, tapping her pen against her mouth. "You certainly didn't need to go to the same school Draco went to, did you?"

"Mm," he said impassively, and she felt a sudden rush of warmth on his behalf.

"Oh, Theo," she crowed, and he rolled his eyes. "You're not the sad one. You're the sweet one, aren't you?"

He grimaced. "Please," he said, sounding pained, "do not tell people that. It will crush me. Blaise will take all of my hard-fought points, and truth be told, I've only just resurfaced from a crippling deficit."

"You're not actually keeping track, are you?" she asked, amused, and he gave her an immensely stern look of disapproval.

"Of course I am," he said. "I have two entire points, and I covet them."

"Noted," Hermione said, stifling a laugh. "But anyway," she determined, shifting in her seat, "you said you haven't heard from Draco?"

He shook his head. "No, and I shudder to think how he's doing isolated with the Prince of Darkness." He paused, toying with something, and then asked offhandedly, "What are you doing this weekend?"

"Nothing," Hermione said, "but also, if you're thinking of something mutinous, count me out. I doubt Draco wants to see me right now."

"False," Theo countered. "I'm sure he'd be immensely relieved to see you."

"Maybe so," Hermione permitted, hoping he was right while also clinging to something resembling rationality (recalling, as she so frequently did, her own lack of messages from Draco), "but still. I'm not going to be part of this."

"Well, come on, you've hardly gotten outside the castle," Theo reminded her disapprovingly. "So, what if you came to stay the weekend at mine? My father and I live out in the country, which is rather lovely this time of year. If you wanted, you could ask Daphne to come," he added slyly, which Hermione suspected had been an integral part of his plot all along. "If, that is, she's not busy with that hapless goon Michael Corner—"

"She's not seeing him anymore," Hermione assured him, once again smothering the urge to laugh at his expression of exuberance at the news. "She never was. Not really."

To Hermione's understanding, Michael was a fling that had kept Daphne occupied for a few weeks until he wanted something more than a few hurried minutes in the restricted section. She had told him very firmly she wasn't interested in a relationship, and evidently they hadn't spoken since. When asked why Daphne hadn't simply admitted this was because she already had feelings for Theo, her reply was "these feelings you allege are entirely of your own invention, Hermione Granger, and furthermore, were they in any way real, they would be totally impossible and probably friendship-ruining, as Theo and I would never work and probably call it off within a week, so you can just take your judgy face off and leave it on the side table until we need it for Pansy"—or something to that effect.

"Oh," said Theo, looking gleefully relieved, "terrible, terrible, what a tragedy, I was rooting for him. But, that being the case, if she's available—"

"I'll ask," Hermione said, shifting uncomfortably, "but if I do, you have to promise me this has nothing to do with Draco. I really, really don't want to just… accost him," she said, grimacing. "If he wanted to see me, he would say so."

"Ah, yes, well," Theo began leisurely, "as I can see that you and your five entire minutes of knowing him have vastly more experience than myself and my mere handful of decades—"

"Two," Hermione said. "Two decades, Theo—"

"—I will gladly acquiesce to your request," he supplied, grinning, "and promise this has nothing to do with Draco. After all, it can't hurt to get out of the dorms for a weekend, can it?"

That was true. Hermione and Daphne were both going a little stir-crazy. Just the other day, Daphne had flung out the idea of abandoning society and escaping to the woods, and Hermione wasn't entirely sure she was joking.

"Where exactly do you live?" she asked Theo, who shrugged.

"Oh, you know," Theo said. "Just a little place out in the country."

"You bloody liar," said Daphne, as they stepped out of Theo's private plane onto the manicured lawn of the Nott family estate. "You call this 'a little place in the country'? Are you mad?"

For her part, Hermione wasn't entirely sure she could speak. She'd thought as they were flying over the landscape that it had been a hallucination. Needless to say, expansive was an understatement. As was grandiose. And impressive.

"That's my house," Theo said, pointing a bit away to something for which 'house' was a terribly inaccurate descriptor. The building (or series of buildings, difficult to tell from a distance) was a beautiful white building atop a flattened hill, featuring a series of rounded turrets and towers around the perimeter that ended with a graceful set of stairs into a lush green series of gardens.

Daphne glanced around, shading her eyes. "And what's that?"

"What's what?" Theo asked, in a tone that made Hermione highly suspicious.

"The castle, Theo," Daphne groaned, sounding exasperated as she gave him a shove, pointing to what was, in fact (rather unquestionably) a castle, the ivy covering its walls visible from where they were standing. "Is that yours, too?"

"Hm? No, of course not," Theo said. "That's a royal residence."

"Oh," Daphne said, as Hermione rounded on him, furious.

"Are you joking?" she demanded. "I told you—"

"What?" Theo replied, swatting her away. "So my house happens to be right next to Prince Lucifer's hellish country castle. What am I supposed to do, move?"

"He's not there, is he?" Hermione asked tentatively, straining to remember what Draco's last public appearance had been. "I mean, last I saw, he was in London with his grandfather, so—"

"So no, he's probably not there," Theo confirmed, gesturing for them to follow as he led them to a waiting towncar. "And I'm not going to make you see him, okay? My goodness," he said, sniffing with displeasure. "It's almost as if I haven't offered a lovely gesture by inviting you ungrateful sirens to my home, only that can't possibly be right—"

"Hush," Daphne said, permitting him to gallantly take her bag while opening the car door for her. "You'll ruin it the more you keep talking."

Theo pantomimed a zipper across his mouth, unable to prevent a smile.

"Charming silence it is," he assured her, winking at Hermione before gesturing her into the car.

Theo's house wasn't any less nice inside, though it had something of a foreboding and antiquated air to it. Most of the art on the walls consisted of broody landscapes of the actual landscape outside the windows, giving the whole house something of a surreal mysticism; as if they'd fallen through the looking glass into yet another looking glass. Hermione, whose entire country of origin was newer than some of the art on the walls, was relieved to see that Daphne, too, was tiptoeing through the house, hardly daring to breathe too long on anything.

"My family's a bit more London posh than country wealthy," she murmured to Hermione in explanation. "I'm absolutely terrified to touch anything."

"Well, if it helps, not everything in the house is priceless," Theo cheerily assured her, startling her with his apparently keen hearing (or, more likely, fixation with every word she said). "Some things are more tawdry than others."

"I assume you're talking about yourself?" Daphne asked him, and he shrugged.

"Well, as my father would say, 'if the shoe fits, just buy it, you idiot, we haven't got all day,'" Theo determined, leading them both up a grand set of stairs before gracefully changing the subject. "By the way, you two don't mind sharing a bedroom for the weekend, do you? Only because I'd hate for one of you to be totally defenseless."

"From?" Daphne asked, arching a brow.

"Oh, I don't know. Being murdered by a vengeful ghost," Theo suggested casually, "of which I imagine there are several dozen floating around. Lots of violent deaths in the family," he added, gesturing idly to a wall lined with portraits. "Hazards of being shitty for so many generations."

"Any beheaded victims we should know about?" Hermione asked him.

"Oh, one or two, but certainly no beheadings which occurred indoors," Theo sniffed. "We're not animals. Severed heads remain outside where they belong."

"Good to know," Hermione murmured, exchanging a muted glance with Daphne. "And did you have plans for us for the weekend, or will it just be high tea all the time?"

"Well, it's that or shoot clay pigeons," Theo said. "Only those two things, though."

In reality, Theo had planned something of a picnic for them, proving that he was not entirely inept at hosting. Since it had cooled off considerably from the heat wave by then, they loaded an ancient bicycle down with blankets and sent Theo ahead with it, leaving Hermione and Daphne to casually follow in his unsteady wake (unsurprisingly, he wasn't a strong cyclist). The Nott Manor gardens made for beautiful and leisurely scenery, so they took their time. From several feet away, they watched Theo gradually topple over from the bicycle before he pulled out a bottle of champagne, popping it open and taking a sip before attempting to wrangle the blankets.

"He's ridiculous," Daphne sighed, rolling her eyes as she watched him. "I don't know why I agreed to come here."

"Nobody believes you, you know," Hermione reminded her. "And just so you know, if anything does happen between you two this weekend, I promise, I won't tell anyone. Especially because it means I'll lose the bet."

"Oh, stop," Daphne groaned, giving Hermione a shove. "First of all, that bet is a sham. Secondly, I wouldn't do anything with him for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that Pansy would win—"

"She would?" Hermione asked, surprised. From afar, Theo had given up on unloading things altogether, having instead falling to the ground with the bottle of champagne in hand. "I would have thought she'd find the whole thing 'trivial and banal,' or whatever she would say about it."

"That sounds right," Daphne agreed, "but no, evidently she's convinced we'll get drunk enough one of these days to find each other more appealing than—I don't know. Being alone, I suppose, but anyw- ah, speak of the devil," she grumbled, digging her phone out of her pocket. "Her ears must have been burning. She says—"

Daphne paused, blinking.

"Nothing," she said, typing something rapid in response and shoving her phone back in her pocket. "Just, um. Telling me she'll win if I sleep with Theo tonight, which obviously we already knew, so—"

"Oh, no you don't," Hermione said, reaching for her phone. "Give me that—"

"Excuse me," Daphne said, swatting at her. "Hands to yourself, please—"

"What is it? What'd she say?"

"Absolutely nothing," Daphne insisted, pulling from Hermione's reach. "And anyway, all of you need to get over this nonsense. Nothing is going to happen between me and Theo, ever—and do you know why?" she asked, fixing Hermione with a stern glare and holding her at arm's length. "Because relationships are complicated, and worse, non-relationships are more complicated. All that 'is this going to happen?' 'Is it going to last?' 'What would we be if we slept together?' All of it, the whole thing, it's exhausting," Daphne determined, finally giving Hermione's still-reaching wrist a loud, final smack. "So, none of that. Theo and I are friends. Possibly even nemeses. Understood?"

"What are you two fussing about?" Theo called out to them, having now used the still-folded picnic blanket as a pillow. It propped his head exactly high enough for him to bring the bottle of champagne to his exceedingly smirky mouth, though not a breath higher. "I've had to start without you."

Daphne gave Hermione a silent look of warning, and she sighed, conceding.

"We noticed," Hermione said, nudging the blanket out from under his head and spreading it out over the grass instead. "What'd you pack?"

"Looks like—" Daphne dug around in the basket. "Half a loaf of bread, some cheese, and…" She trailed off, reaching around. "At least two more bottles of champagne."

"No," Theo corrected, sitting up just long enough to admonish her. "One of them is whisky."

"Oh, good," Hermione said. "And did you bring glasses?"

"Nope," Theo said cheerfully. "Why, did you think I was going to share?"

Daphne and Hermione exchanged a glance.

"You most certainly are," Daphne informed him, snatching the champagne from his hand as Hermione gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs, the two of them high-fiving once they'd wrestled it free. "Now," she said, giving the bottle a sniff, "what are we drinking to?"

"To our supreme youth," Theo said, "and irresponsible choices. And to the slow trudge towards mortality," he added on a whim, "which, as you know, continues unabated."

"To the saddest 'Bad Lad'?" Hermione suggested as an alternative, nudging Theo again as he mumbled his opposition.

"To Theo's ghastly ancestors," Daphne determined for them. "May they head to Theo's room and not ours, should they find themselves in the mood for headless vengeance."

"I accept," Theo said, reaching for another bottle and wrenching it open, "though, for the record, Greengrass, you'd miss me if I were obliterated by familial ghosts."

"Presumptuous of you," Daphne sniffed, taking a long swig from her bottle.

"Well, Hermione would miss me, then, even if you wouldn't," he determined, turning to her. "Wouldn't you?"

"Oh, like crazy," Hermione agreed, reaching for Daphne's bottle, "particularly if meant I wouldn't 'accidentally' be brought to a massive mansion next door to Draco's family castle without even a hint as to where we were going."

"Well, some families have ghosts," Theo said, "and some have castles. It can't be helped. And anyway, I did a nice thing," he reminded her, before glancing at Daphne. "Didn't I? You did say you wanted to get away, and look," he clarified, gesturing around them to the gardens. "Here we are—away, precisely as you desired."

"Don't pretend you did any of this for me," Daphne sighed, giving him a shove.

"Well, so true," Theo agreed, sitting up to rest his arms around both their shoulders. "Why pretend, after all? I took you both here to languor in the countryside—and, of course, to have some help operating the ghostbuster equipment."

"Did you really grow up in that house?" Hermione asked him, glancing at where it cast a shadow from afar. "Seems… not very child-friendly."

"I read a lot of books," Theo said in answer. "It's why I'm so socially maladjusted."

"But you had Draco and Harry, didn't you?" Daphne asked, taking the bottle back from Hermione. "And Pansy?"

"Well, Draco split his time, of course, and Pansy lived in London," Theo said. "I only saw her on holidays and the like. Harry spent most of his time with his godfather, who my father didn't particularly like, so—" He shrugged. "It was me by myself, mostly, until Eton. I mean, there was primary school before that, but I didn't quite get on with anyone." He smiled weakly, not quite looking at either of them. "I suppose nobody ever really wants the weedy one with the morbidity complex for a friend, do they?"

"Theo, that's—" Daphne paused, swallowing her sip of champagne and then letting her hand float down, resting on his arm. "That's not true. And anyway, children are little idiots," she determined, pulling out of his reach the moment his gaze slid down to where they'd touched. "I bet not a single one of them had the proper foresight to realize they could be sitting on a picnic blanket right now, drinking champagne, if they'd just not been little twats about it."

"Why, thank you, Greengrass," Theo said, sweeping her a bow with one arm. "That's almost too kind of you."

"You're right," Daphne replied loftily. "In that case, I retract everything."

Only by then, Daphne was smiling at Theo, and he was smiling back at her, and Hermione was (silently, of course) pretty sure she could stand to lose a bet to Pansy if it meant the two of them could finally admit something in words to match the looks on their faces.

"Share," Daphne commanded after a moment, pointedly nudging Theo, and he handed her the bottle. Their fingers brushed, briefly, and then Theo cleared his throat, ducking his head as Daphne turned back to Hermione. "So, anyway," Daphne said. "Tell us what you were like in school, Hermione."

"Honestly?" Hermione demurred, making a face.

"Yes," Theo agreed, "and do try to put it in terms we understand."

"Ah," Hermione said, and tilted her head, considering it. "In that case, I was a bloody swot," she said in a horrendous imitation of Pansy, leaving the other two to choke on their respective swallows of champagne.

Hermione had almost forgotten about the mysterious text message from Pansy until she wandered back into the study later that night, where Daphne and Theo were having a whisper-shouted argument that seemed to be increasing in urgency. She caught a hasty exchange of the words 'not my fault' and 'of course it's your fault, you did this on purpose, you unsubtle goon' before a particularly violent gesture of silence from Daphne.

At that, Hermione sighed, wandering over to them to take the bottle (as being indoors did not, apparently, necessitate glassware) from Daphne's hand. "So," Hermione began, as Theo and Daphne both glanced guiltily away, "Is this foreplay, or do I need to intercede?"

She took a dainty swig, expecting a laugh of protest from Daphne, which didn't come. Instead, Daphne glanced anxiously at Theo.

"Well?" he asked her, gesturing to Hermione. "Are you going to tell her?"

"Hm? Tell her what?" she replied innocently.

He growled in disapproval. "Greengrass—"

"Nothing," Daphne said again, glaring pointedly at him. "It's nothing. Isn't it?"

"Well, that's what I said," he retorted, "and you apparently disagr-"

"Oh, come on," Hermione cut in, glaring disapprovingly at them. "This is about Pansy's text, isn't it? Was it about Draco?" she demanded, leveling the bottle at Daphne before rounding on Theo. "Because you said—"

"Well, if Greengrass knows something from Pansy that she hasn't shared with you, then it's almost certainly none of my business," Theo cut in, shrugging. "Is it?" he prompted Daphne, exuberantly throwing her under the bus.

"I—" Daphne hesitated. "I definitely don't know anything—"

"Oh, don't wordplay us," Theo scoffed, theatrically replacing an unlit cigar in his mouth.

"Okay, look, it's nothing. It's just that Pansy—" Daphne glanced at Hermione, who gave her a threatening look of you'd better spill it, sister, or I'll take sole custody of this champagne. "Pansy said Draco called her," Daphne exhaled quickly in answer, as Hermione paused, waiting. "He was looking for Theo. Because he hasn't been answering his phone," she shot at him, and he shrugged.

"It's called being a good host," he informed her, though Hermione was pretty sure he'd simply misplaced it. He was nearly impossible to reach via any communication devices, even under the best of circumstances.

"Well?" Hermione demanded. "What did Pansy say?"

"Well, presumably she told him where he was," Daphne said, "though I don't know, because when I asked, she simply replied 'Daphne, my personal communication is none of your business,' and then I was asking Theo if he thought Draco was going to come here, but—"

"But I obviously don't know," Theo supplied for her, "as my phone has clearly been pilfered by poltergeists." He paused, brightening. "Hey, that's a good title, isn't it? Someone write that down—"

"Not the time, Theo," Hermione growled, frustrated. "Should we leave, then?" she asked Daphne, who considered it.

"No," she determined slowly. "Unless… yes?"

"You're both overreacting," Theo assured them, toying with his cigar. "If he comes here—which is a big if," he informed Hermione, "I highly doubt he's going to think you personally hatched a scheme to befriend his childhood best friend, latch on, show up in his house on the precise weekend he was gone, and then be waiting for his appearance like it's some sort of psychotic pseudo-romantic heist—" He paused. "Actually, that does sound like something someone would do to get his attention. Not you," he assured her hastily. "Just, you know. Someone. Someone desperate." Another pause. "Which is, of course, not you. Not that he knows you particularly well, so, maybe, but. You get what I'm saying."

Hermione let out a muted groan. "Theo—"

"You're not helping," Daphne scolded him, swatting at his arm. "Listen, Theodore's idiocy aside—"

But somewhere else in the house, a door had opened. Then shut. Then footsteps echoed through the corridors. Then murmured voices. Daphne, Theo, and Hermione all froze, waiting, and outside the door, someone informed another person that "young master Theodore is inside the study," and then, after another moment, someone else replied in a deeply familiar voice, "no, no, I don't need to be announced, honestly, how many times have I been here?"—

"Oh," Theo said. "Hm."

"Theo," came Draco's breathless voice as he burst through the half-open doors, "you will not believe what my father's been up t-"

He broke off, catching sight of Hermione, who was still holding the bottle of champagne halfway to her mouth. Daphne promptly snatched it from her hand, surreptitiously (or not) obscuring it from sight, and Draco blinked, smoothing a hand through his hair as he looked at her, suddenly a bit dazed.

At that precise moment, it struck Hermione with the vengeance of Theo's beheaded ghosts that she hadn't seen Draco in nearly two weeks. It also struck her that she'd scarcely known him for much longer than that, and yet, somehow, those two weeks without him had been awful. They'd been awful. Because yes, she was enjoying herself at Hogwarts, and yes, it was wonderful that she'd made friends, but still; what she felt for him was not so easily put on hold. It wasn't easily forgotten. In fact, would she have come after him if he'd asked her to? Yes. Yes, absolutely, no questions asked, she knew that now. She'd have followed him anywhere if he'd asked her to.

But he hadn't asked, had he?

He hadn't asked, and that was what mattered.

She swallowed heavily, wishing now she hadn't agreed to come.

"I wasn't expecting to see you," Draco noted slowly, and Hermione briefly wondered if it were possible to suddenly learn the art of magical disappearance.

"I wasn't expecting to see you, either," she replied, relieved her voice sounded almost completely normal (to her, anyway). "This is entirely Theo's fault."

"In my defense," Theo inserted loudly, "I didn't plan this, seeing as one of you was invited and the other has simply barged in, as if he is some sort of entitled monarchical figure—"

"I'm so glad you're here," Draco interrupted, and in three long strides that took all of them by surprise, he'd dropped a small bag to the ground and taken Hermione in his arms, wrapping them so tightly around her she nearly forgot to breathe.

"Statement retracted, I planned all of this," Theo said gleefully, coughing as Daphne's hand shot out to smack him in the abdomen. "Honestly, Greengrass, will you desist?"

"Don't you have literally one iota of restraint, Theodore—"

But Hermione wasn't listening. She was busy revelling in the comforting sensation of being close to Draco, her hands wandering soothingly through his hair as he buried his fingers in her clothes, his lips finding her cheek—softly, reverently, sweetly—and then her ear.

"I wanted so many times to call you," he murmured to her, as she nodded breathlessly in agreement. "It's been a hellish couple of weeks, and all I wanted to do was come back, to talk about absolutely nothing with you—"

She laughed, reduced to joyful relief now, and slid her hand around the back of his neck.

"I thought you'd think I was crazy for just showing up here," she lamented, pulling back to look at him. She was vaguely aware of Daphne and Theo toasting each other with satisfaction as they watched, but she pushed it out of her mind (at least temporarily) and focused on Draco, his grey gaze falling gladly to hers. "I really didn't want to bother you, but—" she exhaled. "But I missed you, too."

He smiled broadly, golden and princely, and Theo cleared his throat, joining them to offer Draco the bottle he held in his hand.

"Libation, my Prince?" Theo asked, and Draco turned to give Theo a long look of utter relief.

"I'd love one," Draco said, and though he released Hermione to greet Theo and Daphne, she still felt a giddy sense of delight fluttering through her stomach.

He was here. He had missed her. He had missed her, and he was happy she'd missed him, and maybe for one weekend—one night, even, or possibly just one hour—this was the one place in the world he could tell her that, and she could tell him, and it didn't matter what any socialite had called him in the newspaper. Maybe for one night, nothing would matter but them, and this, and their best friends, and the joy of having a drink in the middle of a medieval manor house, joking morbidly about blood on the walls.

And then—after an hour or so, once Theo had managed to make an old radio play something that sounded convincingly like pop music—Draco held out his hand for Hermione's, smiling down at her from where she'd rested her head against Daphne's legs.

"Will you dance with me?" he asked her, and for once, she didn't hesitate.

"I thought you'd never ask," she said, and he pulled her up to her feet and into his arms, delivering her to absolute satisfaction.

They all stumbled to their respective bedrooms a little after one, deliriously bidding each other goodnight. By six in the morning, though, Hermione was wide awake. She slid out of her bed, tiptoeing quietly so as not to wake Daphne, and made her way into the corridor, only to find she wasn't alone.

"Oh, hi," Draco said, catching sight of her where he stood near an open window at the end of the hall and walking over. He was rumpled from sleep, wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a white t-shirt, and he was also barefoot, which in that particular context, Hermione found especially endearing. She'd never seen him this undone before, and for a moment, she forgot all about the fact that her hair must have been wild, her face was completely bare, and these were decidedly unsexy pajamas. "Not running off, are you?"

He was smiling. She smiled back.

"Just couldn't sleep. Happens sometimes after I have… a bit too much to drink," she admitted, sparing a guilty wince. "What about you?"

"Same, actually," he said, and glanced around, gesturing to the stairs. "Want to take a walk?"

"Wouldn't that require shoes?" she asked, glancing pointedly at his feet, and he shrugged.

"Come on," he said, "live a little," and then he nudged her down the hall, letting his hands settle on her hips for just a moment—brushing his lips against the back of her neck just briefly—before leading her to the stairs, grabbing a blanket from one of the enormous sitting rooms.

"Here," he said, wrapping it around her as he led her outside. He didn't seem to mind the dewy grass beneath his feet; it seemed this was something he'd done before. She, meanwhile, permitted him to settle her within the blanket's hold; making her comfortable, though she might have been just fine without it.

"Won't you be cold?" she asked him, and he shrugged.

"Not yet," he said, taking a deep breath of morning air. He seemed to be luxuriating in the chill, and she watched him as discreetly as she could, estimating she was learning something important about him by the way he took his little freedoms. He was comfortable here, she noted. Certainly more comfortable than at Hogwarts, where people were always watching. She guessed that maybe Theo had been as much a home for Draco as the other way around, and reminded herself to tell Theo that in her view, his gratitude for Draco's friendship wasn't in any way unrequited.

For a few minutes, they walked in silence. Draco seemed to be thinking about something (which Hermione felt no need to interrupt), but gradually he turned towards her, pausing them both and leading her onto a yawning stretch of grass before falling down onto it.

"Come here," he beckoned, holding his hands out for hers, and she settled herself easily between his legs, leaning back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. "I like to watch the sun come up from here," he offered in explanation, murmuring it in her ear, and she nodded, leaning comfortably against him. "And, if I'm being honest, I was getting a bit cold."

She laughed, warming his arms with her hands. "You could have just said that, you know."

"Fine, fine." She shifted, pulling free of her unnecessary swaddling, and draped the blanket over both of them. "Don't tell anyone," Draco said, "but sadly the privileges of divine right don't extend to temperature control."

"I would hope not," she told him. "Otherwise the amount of grey skies in this country would be positively criminal."

He chuckled. "I don't suppose the sunshine in California is democratic?"

"What, do we vote on it, you mean?" she asked. "Of course. It's in the constitution."

"Mm. You must be desperate to go back, then."

She hesitated, unsure how honest she wanted to be. "Not at this particular moment," she determined eventually, and he nodded into her shoulder, satisfied.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I'm sure you must be tired of hearing that, but I am. If it had been up to me, I'd have stayed at Hogwarts, but unfortunately, very little is up to me."

Hermione opened her mouth, then paused.

"What?" Draco asked, sensing her reticence.

"Nothing," she said, biting her lip. "Nothing."

"Hermione," he sighed. "You know I don't believe you."

"Well, it's just—"

"What?"

"It's just—it is up to you, mostly," she told him. "Nobody actually told you you had to leave, did they?"

She felt him swallow. "Well, it's just—"

"Which is not to say you didn't do the right thing," she hurried to reassure him. "I know bad press is… messy, and I know your image is important to you, so after that article I wasn't exactly surprised, but—"

"Oh. Do you think my absence was about Astoria?" he asked, sounding slightly bemused.

"Wasn't it?"

"Well," he began uncomfortably, and she turned to face him, frowning slightly. "Initially, yes, it was. But it's… a bit more than that. Which I suppose I haven't explained, really, because it's not very interesting."

Hermione arched a brow. "Draco."

"It's—" He broke off, glancing away. "It's just that any press along those particular lines is something of a sore subject, particularly for my father. He has a tendency to overreact when it comes to my behavior."

"But nothing in that article was true," Hermione said, skating over her own questionable role in the events of his breakup in favor of… well, skating over it. "So wouldn't ignoring it work just as well?"

"Ah—" Draco grimaced. "The thing is," he began carefully, "you have to understand, a lot of this comes back to my parents. To my mother, specifically," he clarified, and Hermione braced herself, recalling Pansy's comments on how sensitive the subject was to Draco. "She's…" He hesitated, glancing apprehensively at her before demurring. "It's just a very private matter."

Hermione deflated slightly. "Oh. Right, of course."

"It's just that my mother was once—and continues to be, whenever she leaves the house," Draco told her, hastily rushing to assure her, "a highly public figure. This was a very distressing thing for her," he added slowly, "as she married my father when she was about my age. Quite young, I think, for someone with no experience in how to be constantly picked apart, or being scrutinized for every move she made. When their marriage started to—"

He broke off again, glancing at her—reading her, Hermione guessed, for her reflexive response—she reached out, gently touching his cheek.

"I won't say anything," she promised him, and he exhaled slowly.

"Well, it's just… it's not exactly a secret that my parents' marriage isn't perfect," he admitted, grey eyes darting away. "My mother was supposed to salvage my father's reputation. He'd had some missteps when he was my age, and there were all these rumors about discord in our family, and in an effort to hide what was really going on—" He swallowed, grimacing. "He married my mother very quickly. She was popular, and beautiful. Regal, I suppose. She certainly looked like she was born to be queen."

Hermione nodded. Her own mother had remarked something similar about Princess Narcissa, who had been Helen's fashion icon in the nineties.

"But, of course, my mother was a human being, not just a symbol," Draco said bitterly, "and my father isn't particularly warm. He didn't… help her, much. I've never bothered to know the details, but I know there were some affairs, and…" He trailed off, not quite looking at her. "The more media coverage my mother got, the worse it was. The worse she was. There was something, an incident, and—"

He flinched at the thought of it, whatever it was, and Hermione shifted in his arms, turning to face him.

"It's okay, Draco," she told him. Her curiosity would clearly have to wait for another time. "You don't have to talk about it."

He paused for a moment and then nodded, leaning forward and brushing his lips against her forehead.

"I'll tell you someday," he promised her quietly. "Just not right now, I think. If you don't mind."

Hermione shook her head. "Take your time," she said, though the moment she said it, she wanted to wince, abruptly recalling they had very little of it. "It's your story, Draco. Not mine."

"Well, it's hers, actually, which is the problem," Draco lamented. "I don't feel like I know my mother as well as I'd like to; my father doesn't let me see her much. Or let her see me, I assume, though I have no idea. I can't contact her directly, and she's often away, and—" He exhaled heavily. "The thing is, I remember her," he admitted, and Hermione curled up in his arms again, resting her head against his chest as he spoke. "She was so full of life, you know? She was fun and warm and funny, and everything my father isn't. Now I only see glimpses of her, and my father is usually there watching, and it's just not the same."

"I'm sorry," Hermione murmured, and she was. It was difficult to sit so close to him, to the steady pulse in his chest, and not feel the pain of it herself.

She also had the distinct feeling the words were (unlike a number of his actions) totally unrehearsed. Draco had never practiced this. He had never said these words before, in this order, and they were unfamiliar, heavy on his tongue. Maybe he hadn't had to, Hermione reasoned, because the people close to him—Harry, Pansy, Theo—would have seen it for themselves, but still. He was trusting her, and she did her best to share the weight with him; to assure him she could carry whatever he chose to give her.

"Anyway," Draco exhaled eventually, "all of this is to say that sometimes it's my first instinct to disappear, and normally, I admit, I don't think about what that does to the people around me. It feels rather selfish, now that I think about it," he admitted, resting his chin lightly atop her head, "and I'm sorry about that. That I'm out of practice, you know. At having someone else in my life who might wonder where I am."

"I'm not the only one," Hermione pointed out, shifting to glance up at him. "Pansy was worried. And Theo, too—who I'm beginning to think definitely did plan this, at least to some extent."

She felt the low rumble of Draco's laugh from his throat. "It's a code between Theo and me," he confessed. "He actually hates it here." He paused, and Hermione caught traces of remorse on his face. "He hates it here, always did, so when he had to be at home, I would come to stay with him—and then, at some point, that switched from being something I did for him to being something he did for me." Something tugged warmly at his expression, then; a wistful smile. "When I've been gone too long, Theo comes home, because he knows I'll follow."

Hermione, who didn't quite know what to do with all the information she'd gathered about Theo Nott in the last week, went with an eye roll.

"So it was a mutinous plot," she grumbled, and Draco laughed, pulling her close.

"If it helps, he's never done this before," he assured her, gesturing between them. "He's never brought a girl home." He paused, and then added, "I'm not sure Daphne knows that."

"Those two," Hermione sighed, "are so deeply in denial it's amazing Blaise ever gives them any points."

"You do know I'm winning that game, right?" Draco told her. "Blaise actually does keep track of the points. You're in third."

"What?" Hermione squawked, sitting up. "Third, really? That's—" She frowned. "Why am I so devastated about my placement in an imaginary and vaguely despotic game?"

"I don't know, actually," Draco said, fighting a laugh even as he shrugged. "I mean, third's on the podium, isn't it? And quite frankly, I don't know that you're eligible to be there. I told him he should really lend some consideration to citizenship, but alas, here we are—"

"Who's second?" Hermione demanded furiously, and this time, Draco's laugh wasn't so easily concealed.

"I'm certainly not telling you now," he informed her. "I'm worried you might take some sort of violent action—or worse, toss our precious tea overboard—"

"You'd better tell me," Hermione warned, brandishing a finger at him, "or I'll broadly distribute pamphlets about the death of the monarchy to all of your friends and nobles."

"Okay, and by death, do you mean—"

"Political," Hermione sniffed, "for now."

"For now?" Draco echoed, smiling broadly. "Miss Granger, I do believe that's a threat against the crown."

"Glad you noticed," she informed him. "Means I've delivered it properly."

"You've been spending far too much time with Pansy," Draco informed her, falling backwards onto the grass as Hermione gave him a pointed shove, tumbling with him. "The last thing we need is for you to weaponize her already-authoritarian techniques."

"We as a society, you mean?" Hermione asked, propping herself up on her elbows, and he reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, brushing his thumb over her lips.

"We as a species," he assured her, and lifted his chin, closing the (admittedly, very minimal) distance between them and kissing her gloriously, epically, and with undeniable enjoyment as his arms slid around her ribs, securing her against his chest.

For a moment the kiss was slow, almost penitent, her fingers brushing over the column of his throat; he pulled back, opening his eyes to look at her, and then drew close again, not-quite-kissing, not-quite-touching for a long moment. He took her chin between his fingers, looking at her, until she abruptly remembered she must have looked terrible and nudged his hand away, kissing him again. He laughed, probably seeing her insecurity for what it was, and rolled over her, yanking one leg up and smoothing his hand over it.

"You're going to ruin the blanket," she scolded him, breathless. "Grass stains."

"I'll buy Theo another one," he assured her, kissing her again.

"You can't just buy things, I mean, what if—what if it means something to him—"

"Ah, I don't know. Then I'll knight him," Draco offered solemnly, and she laughed as he wriggled down lower, kissing the exposed skin of her stomach and then drawing her t-shirt up.

"Here?" she asked hazily, and he shrugged.

"How am I ever supposed to learn to be spontaneous if I never practice?" he asked her, and she rolled her eyes, stretching out blissfully as he kissed the curve of her thigh.

"You do know that's not how it works, ri-"

"Oi," came a voice above them, and Hermione jerked upright as Draco fumbled to free himself from the tangle of blankets, both of them finding Theo (who was even more sleep-mussed than Draco, all of his hair standing wildly on end) frantically waving his arms. "I've been looking all over for you—"

"Theodore," Draco said grumpily, "what the—"

"Your father," Daphne said, arriving after Theo and panting, obviously having sprinted from the house. She—unlike any of the others—looked perfectly in place, minus the flush in her cheeks, which Hermione felt certain other women would have willingly paid for. "He's here, Draco, and he's looking for you—"

The blood drained from Draco's face as he scrubbed at it, obviously frustrated.

"Fine. I'll just—" He shifted to stand and then paused, glancing at Theo. "A little help, please?"

"My dad," Theo said instantly. "My dad's bulging, wrinkled bollocks. My father, while wearing a bikini, getting out of a sauna, bollocks on parade. Yoga. My father doing yoga—with, again, sweaty, damp boll-"

"That's enough," Draco said with a wince, rising firmly to his feet. "Please," he added to Hermione, holding out a hand to help her up, "do not mention anything you just heard."

"Really, it's a compliment," Theo told her, offering her a formal salute, and she groaned.

"Let's just go," she suggested, sparing a glance at Draco, whose fingers had already clenched and unclenched in distress. "Are you going to be okay?" she asked him.

But by the time he turned to her, the mask of pleasantry had already been fixed on his face, and he was a Prince of England yet again.

"Everything," Draco said smoothly, "is going to be fine."

Predictably, everything was not fine.

"What were you thinking?" Lucius demanded without preamble, rounding on Draco the moment he entered the door from the gardens. "You can't just go sneaking off without warning! What if the press had followed you here? What were you going to tell them, Draco? If Rita Skeeter finds out you're here—"

"I'm visiting a friend for the weekend," Draco sighed, gesturing to Theo. "I hardly think that's any of her business."

"Sure it isn't," Lucius drawled sarcastically. He was wearing a navy suit, Hermione noted, in a very portrait of formality, and unlike the first time she'd met him—wherein Draco and Lucius were practically mirrors of each other—she could identify now the little differences in demeanor between father and son. They were approximately the same height and build, all things considered, but Draco's features were slightly softer. The nose was less angular. The eyes were wider, warmer in color and shape. The cheeks, more forgiving of his defined jaw, were less sunken in. Most significantly, though, the obvious rage was less pronounced. "Nevermind that all Skeeter has to do is note the two girls also staying in this house—"

"You remember Daphne," Draco cut in loudly, gesturing to her, and Lucius paused, blinking. "Astoria's sister? And Hermione, of course."

Lucius' mouth tightened, and then he fixed his attention on Hermione. "You again," he noted flatly.

"Yes. Me again," she agreed, and though Daphne had bowed her head, Hermione intentionally did not. She could see the lack of deference was noted, and luxuriated privately in Lucius' obvious look of hatred; glad, for a moment, it was directed at someone who wasn't Draco.

"Draco," Lucius said, and jerked his head to the door of Theo's study. "A word?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but Theo touched the inside of her arm, shaking his head in warning.

"Don't make it worse," he warned under his breath, and she swallowed, nodding once as Draco followed his father into the study.

It was moments like this, Hermione would come to learn, that things could so easily be different. The door might have successfully latched, and maybe they wouldn't have heard anything. Maybe they would have even exited the room. Father and son could have argued to their hearts' content, and then Draco might have simply left with Lucius, with no damage to speak of done to either party. But, unfortunately, the door didn't quite shut, and when Theo didn't move, Daphne and Hermione didn't either, standing rigidly on the other side as Lucius began speaking in low tones of fury to his son.

"Which one?" Lucius asked instantly.

"I beg your pardon?" Draco countered, obviously startled, and Lucius scoffed.

"Which one," Lucius repeated. "If it's the Greengrass girl, then fine. You'll have to pose for some pictures making nice with her sister to make it work, but so be it. The press will love it, in fact. You can sell it as a love story and that horrible Skeeter woman will turn it into the romance of the century. But if it's the American—"

"Her name is Hermione," Draco said through gritted teeth, and while it hadn't exactly been an answer, there was a pause that indicated as much.

"No," Lucius said flatly. "Absolutely not. No."

Daphne reached out, lacing her fingers tightly with Hermione's.

"You can't say no," Draco countered irritably. "You don't even know what you're saying no to, Father."

"Do you want this for her?" Lucius demanded. "Do you want what happened to your mother to happen to her?"

"Father, I—"

"She's unprepared, and worse, she's unsuitable. She's an American, Draco, and a commoner, and even if I liked one thing about her—which I do not, considering her timing seems to be more than a little suspicious, and that hair—she would still be entirely inappropriate for you. What exactly do you plan to do, hm? Have your fun and then leave her?"

"Have my fun? You're one to talk—"

"Don't, Draco. Listen to me. We discussed this. You're supposed to know better than this. You assured me you knew better than this—"

"I'm not you, Father, and I'm not making your mistakes! I'm just—"

"You're just what? What, Draco? Do you honestly think I saw your mother and somehow thought it best I intentionally ruin her life?"

"I'm not saying that." Draco's voice was already wearied. "I'm not, I'm just saying, I've done everything you've asked for the past two weeks—"

"But don't you even see how this looks?" Lucius' voice, by contrast, seemed to be growing harder by the minute. "Astoria Greengrass accused you of straying at Hogwarts, and now that you're here with the American, you think people won't put these things together?"

"Father, listen to me. What we talked about—"

"And worse! Do you really think I could permit you spending more time with your mother after this?" Lucius demanded, and Hermione blinked, startled. "Of course not, Draco. You know what she's like! I certainly can't permit her out in public when you're off gallivanting around like this—"

"No," Hermione muttered under her breath, loosening her hand from Daphne's, whose face paled.

"Hermione, I'm not sure you should—"

But she had already crossed the room, yanking open the door to the study and slamming it shut behind her.

"Don't do this," she said to Lucius, who rounded on her without hesitation, expression flickering with fury before settling carefully to cold disinterest. "It's not his fault. He didn't know I was here."

"Not that it matters," Draco said. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides. "Whether I knew she was here or not, I would have wanted to see h-"

Lucius held up a hand, cutting him off. "Don't do what?" he asked Hermione tightly.

Hermione hesitated for a moment—a breath—before grudgingly saying, "Don't keep his mother from him. And don't blame him for this, either," she added fiercely. "He didn't do anything wrong with Astoria, and he's not doing anything wrong now, so—"

"You," Lucius said sharply, "have no idea what you're talking about. Particularly when it comes to my wife."

"Maybe not," Hermione retorted, "but I do know that Dr-"

"You don't know my son, my wife, or anything about my family," Lucius warned, stepping towards her. "You don't have any place in our lives—nor will you, no matter how cleverly you try. You may be desperate to date a prince, Miss Granger," he threatened, with a voice she was certain meant he knew more about her than he'd let on, "but you will not get your hands on my son."

"Father," Draco protested, stepping after him, but Hermione cut him off.

"I can speak for myself," she assured him, still glaring up at his father. "You think I'm desperate? That I have any interest in your titles when all it seems to bring either of you is pain? Do you even know your own son doesn't sleep because he has your mistakes to make up for—"

"Do not confuse your ability to read a headline with any requisite knowledge about my life," Lucius growled. "You may think you're some kind of—"

He broke off, coughing.

"You—clearly you think—"

Lucius staggered slightly, and for a moment, Hermione thought he'd been struck, only she was pretty sure she hadn't moved. "How," Lucius began, and froze, his hand rising to his chest.

Hermione blinked, suddenly paralyzed.

"Draco," Lucius said, and there was a notable difference in the sound of his voice; something pleading now, and the look of barely-concealed anger melted from Draco's face as he leapt forward, steadying his father. "Draco, I can't—I can't breathe, it's—"

"Oh my god," Hermione gasped, hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my god, is he—is it—" She stumbled forward, helping Draco to keep his father upright. "Are you in pain? Draco," she added frantically, glancing at him as beads of sweat began to form on Lucius' forehead, "if it's a heart attack—"

"No," Lucius said firmly, struggling to lock eyes with his son. "Draco, think—"

"THEO," Draco shouted, and the door burst open, Theo promptly entering the room. "Theo, call Dr Pomfrey, tell her to make arrangements—"

Theo nodded hurriedly and ran, Daphne following at his heels.

"He needs a hospital," Hermione protested raggedly, but Draco's mouth was grim.

"We can't just take the Prince of Wales to a hospital," he said, voice clipped, and Hermione flinched, realizing she should have known as much; if she'd been Theo, or Pansy—or anyone besides the American who popped up without warning two months ago—she would have already known as much. "Not until they've prepared a private room and permitted secure entry."

"Right, yes," Hermione said weakly, "of- of course—"

Theo reappeared, nudging Hermione aside and supporting Lucius' left side. "She's on her way," he told Draco, "and in the meantime, we can take him to my father's rooms. They're closest for emergency vehicles."

"Okay," Draco exhaled. "Yes. Okay. We'll go there, just—Hermione," he said abruptly, turning hurriedly to her. "Don't go, okay? Don't go," he said, grey gaze pained. "I need you. Don't leave."

"I won't," she promised him, and Daphne joined her, nodding to Draco in reassurance. "We'll be here. We'll be right here, Draco, I promise."

Draco nodded, and then he and Theo were gone, carefully helping his father through the door.

Hermione sank into the sofa, burying her head in her hands, and Daphne sat down beside her, tentatively resting her cheek on Hermione's shoulder.

"It'll be okay," Daphne said softly. "It'll be fine. I'm sure it's fine. He's still young, and he's really quite healthy—"

"But what if it isn't fine?" Hermione asked, pained. "What if…" She swallowed hard. "Daphne," she whispered hoarsely, "what if I accidentally killed the Prince of Wales?"

For a moment, Daphne said nothing.

Then she started to tremble slightly, which Hermione thought was a bit of an overreaction (they hadn't liked him that much, after all) until she realized Daphne was actually laughing, and then Hermione wasn't quite sure she could prevent herself from doing precisely the same.

"Stop it," Hermione snapped, trying to be stern, though something bubbled up and nearly left her lips in a blurted peal of laughter. "Stop, it's not funny—"

"I know," Daphne forced out, trying to bite it back. "I know, it's not funny at all, but—but kind of, actually, if you really think about it—"

"I might have murdered him," Hermione wailed, which didn't seem to help, as both of them were now fighting fits of giggles, swiping at their eyes. "Oh my god, think of what they'll say!"

"Probably that the American revolution is an ongoing process," Daphne agreed, sputtering with barely suppressed hysteria. "You know, if you pick up his crown, I think it might technically be yours—"

"Oh my god, STOP," Hermione sobbed, as Daphne clutched at her stomach. "What if Draco comes back in here and I'm laughing at his dead father—"

Daphne struggled to call for pause, fumbling for her pocket, and managed to pick up her phone, holding it unsteadily to her ear. "Hello?" she attempted, choking on withheld laughter, and then held it out to Hermione, offering it for her. "It's for you."

"Oh god," Hermione said, fanning herself, and took the phone. "Hello?"

"What," Pansy's lofty voice said, "on earth. Did. You. Do."

"Um," Hermione said, abruptly clutching Daphne's arm. "Uh—"

"Nevermind," Pansy sighed. "Just sit quietly and do nothing. I'll be right there. What are you wearing? No, don't tell me, I already know it's entirely unsuitable. Do you have any—actually, no. You don't. I don't know why I'm asking. Just—don't move. Don't go near windows. Draw the curtains. Paparazzi will be outside soon enough, and—are you listening? Hermione. Listen to me. Do. Not. Move."

Then a click, and she was gone, and Daphne and Hermione exchanged a panicked glance, confidently certain the nightmare wasn't even close to over.

Don't worry, Lucius didn't die. (Unfortunately. No, wait—I don't actually mean that. Okay, I kind of mean that, if we're being honest. Only a little. NO. I don't mean it. He and I are… fine. Everything's fine.) Actually, it was a fairly minor situation, medically-speaking, though I remember being forking terrified at the time, and not exclusively because Pansy has an utterly frightening telephone voice.

Really, the important thing about that particular experience with Lucius was what it proved to me about Draco; that even then, he needed me, and I needed him. That even from the start, when he and I knew so little about each other, we still knew we were stronger together. Looking back, that was the first time I knew—really knew—that he wasn't just some guy. He wasn't just a crush. He certainly wasn't just a friend. He was something I'd spend my life fighting for, or fighting against, or just… fighting, because what we had wasn't something you stumble on every day. It was real, and it was good, and whatever else it was, it was worth it.

Which was something I would ultimately have to remind myself quite often, considering everything we had yet to face.

a/n: I am always in a rush to post this late at night (sorry!) so my author's notes are basically useless, but listen, I promise to be consistent if you promise to stay with me!… she says, not remotely needy. Thank you for reading! Oh, and some of you asked about my graphic series with Little Chmura, so fyi you can find all of my work on olivieblake dot com.

5. Chaste

Chapter 5: Chaste

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Measured Courtship

A study of Prince Draco's romances prior to Hermione Granger's arrival at Hogwarts University would be an interesting portfolio indeed, counting among them a number of stunningly beautiful young women. Perhaps a result of having such a volume of interested parties, the Prince's track record throughout his pre-Hermione years is best categorized as a series of ephemeral flings, though none particularly sordid. Outwardly, Prince Draco maintains an obvious preference for measured cordiality towards his partners that suggests a resistance to any form of affection or intimacy; in fact, even now, little evidence exists to show the Prince clasping hands in public, or embracing.

While some might interpret Prince Draco's demeanor as cold, those possessing close familiarity with the Prince know it is in fact far more indicative of his more reserved nature. By all accounts, Draco's relationship with Hermione began with a mutual perimeter of practicality. She first appeared in the public eye as an unobtrusive (though hardly unremarkable) face among the Prince's intimate circle of friends, listed without a name while attending a gala celebrating the anniversary of King Abraxas' reign. The earliest pictures of Hermione in Prince Draco's presence show a quiet, thoughtful distance between the two, their relationship obviously then-confined to their shared academic pursuits and her respectful support for his family. Clearly, any physical flame between them took hold slowly, gradually, and with a beatific patience; truly, a love that grew from chaste and humble roots.

I'll tell you one thing: if Rita Skeeter had any motherfracking clue about literally anything, she wouldn't be quite so quick to paint Draco as some sort of adorably celibate monk. Obviously, though, this is part of the deal when it comes to Draco; what's on the surface is hardly anything to go on at all. Take the picture Rita mentioned, for example, which was a shot of me entering the gala for King Abraxas a few weeks after Prince Lucius collapsed at Theo's house. I was with all the usual suspects that day, hidden in plain sight and dressed to blend to my surroundings after being explicitly told (not very politely, and by Pansy, as you might have guessed) not to make eye contact with any cameras. Draco and I intentionally did not touch. We didn't speak. We didn't even look at each other.

But if you look closely, you can see something Rita Skeeter missed; a little code between Draco and me, a game we played with each other, which started with that very picture. If you look at his hands, you can see he has his signet ring on his left pinky instead of his right, and it means this: I want you. Right. Now.

And if you look even closer, you can see my response.

But why reveal it now, when I haven't even gotten to the good part?

October 23, 2010
Nott Manor

"I really don't think it was necessary for you to come," Hermione told Pansy for the third or fourth time, watching her knee jiggle impatiently beneath the table. "Apparently it was just, I don't know. Palpitations."

This being, of course, an attitude Hermione could only take now, having already been assured by Draco via text about an hour ago that his father was going to be fine—which was probably also why Pansy had transitioned from helpfully barking instructions at Theo's household staff to merely casting moody glances at Hermione and Daphne, much to both girls' displeasure. Pansy in panic mode was far preferable to You've Mucked Everything Up Tremendously Pansy, which was a new and unpleasant take on Disapproving Noblewoman Pansy.

"Repeat everything you said to him," Pansy said tightly, "verbatim."

"Pansy," Daphne began exasperatedly, but Pansy held up a hand.

"Nothing from you," she sniffed, and then added snidely, "Miss Enabler."

"Miss Enabler?" Daphne echoed, scoffing. "First of all, not your best work. Secondly—"

"You should have stopped her," Pansy cut in sharply, and Hermione frowned, about to intercede when Pansy launched into something of a rant, beginning to rapidly pace the floor. "She's totally unpolished in every conceivable way, and you let her verbally assault the Prince of Wales!"

"Pansy," Daphne attempted gruffly, looking a bit bruised by the accusation, but clearly, Pansy wasn't finished.

"And worse, do you realize that while you've both been playing this silly game of make-believe, you've filled her head with the concept that she can simply be herself and everything will be fine?" Pansy demanded, and then rounded on Hermione, thrusting a hand out in reference. "She bites her nails, Daphne!"

"Well, hold on," Hermione said, only to be rapidly interrupted.

"You know the rules," Pansy was continuing to Daphne, jabbing a finger in her direction and, for some reason, ignoring Hermione altogether. "You know how to dress, don't you? How to behave? You're Lady Daphne Greengrass, and yet here you are, acting like you're in some sort of foolish romantic comedy wherein every bumbling idiot who wanders into a castle is going to traipse back out of it with a prince!"

"Pansy," Hermione warned. "You're being ridiculous."

"Actually," Daphne said, and winced. "She has a point." She turned slowly, facing Hermione with a strange look of apology on her face. "I do know better, Hermione," she murmured, and when Hermione's eyes went wide with betrayal, she hurried to reassure her. "No, no, I meant—you do bite your nails," she said, gesturing to Hermione's hands. "When you're thinking. From time to time."

"Everyone does," Hermione argued, but Pansy lifted her hands, wordlessly thrusting them in front of Hermione's face.

Perfect, Hermione noted glumly. Pansy's nails were unpolished, but obviously buffed to shine. Short, but not too short. The little white crescent that was uneven at best on Hermione's nails were present in perfect harmony across each of Pansy's. Her nail beds were flawless, her skin lightly moisturized, her jewelry minimal. She wore only one ring, with her family crest, on the ring finger of her right hand.

"When I was a child I used to chew on my cuticles," Pansy explained flatly, as Daphne raised her own hands guiltily, offering them for Hermione's scrutiny. Her nails were just as uniformly unblemished, but were painted a pale, barely noticeable pink. "When I was six years old," Pansy continued, "my mother lathered my hands in lemon juice. Vinegar. Sometimes she rubbed hot peppers on them. To this day, if my fingers ever linger near my mouth, my entire tongue burns with the taste of it, and I'd be willing to bet the same thing happened with Daphne and Astoria." Pansy removed her hand from Hermione's grip and turned sharply to Daphne, who grimaced. "Didn't it?"

"It did," Daphne admitted slowly, with a sheepish glance at Hermione.

"But why should it matter what my nails look like?" Hermione demanded, and Pansy sighed irritably, typing something into her phone and then brusquely holding it out for her to see.

On the screen was an image from an article about Draco's mother, dated a year or two after his birth. In it, Narcissa was extending a hand to some sort of foreign diplomat, and there was a close-up on her bitten fingernails, along with a little blurb about how all wasn't well for the Princess of Wales: Trouble at home? the caption said, with a nearly-audible cluck of disapproval. Seems there's trouble in paradise for the Prince and Princess of Wales, and rumour has it it's a real nail-biter.

Despite the smile on Narcissa's face—the perfection of her hair and makeup and the exquisite beauty of her gown—the article had located her one flaw and used it against her. Hermione looked up slowly, catching the expressions looking back at her (ruthlessly determined on Pansy, faintly saddened on Daphne) and pausing.

"But," she said. "This… it doesn't matter. Does it?"

"It shouldn't," Pansy confirmed flatly. "Not for you, because you have no future with Draco. I know you don't, which is why I've done nothing to prepare you. But Daphne, on the other hand," she said, glaring briefly at Daphne, "seems to think this is all a delightful fairy tale, and therefore, she's done you a disservice. Because if you want him," she pressed, fixing her dark gaze on Hermione again, "if you really want Draco, you're going to have to change a lot of things. Including but not limited to your appearance," she sniffed, "and more importantly, how you speak to the Prince of Wales."

"I—" Hermione swallowed. "I was angry. He was yelling at Draco, and—"

"Ask Daphne how she felt while listening to the same thing you were," Pansy said instantly. "Go on. Ask her."

Hermione grimaced, and Daphne flinched.

"Pansy, she gets the point," Daphne said quietly, but Pansy merely arched a brow.

"Do you think Daphne cares less about Draco than you do?" Pansy demanded from Hermione, who hesitated.

"No, but—"

"Do you think that any of us," Pansy snapped, "care less about him when we've known him years longer than you have? For our entire lives, even? When we have much more intimate knowledge about him and his relationship with his father than you could possibly possess?"

"Pansy, I just—"

"If it were up to me," Pansy said, taking a threatening step in Hermione's direction, "I would have strangled the Prince of Darkness myself. I'd have poisoned his tea and strung him up by his ears. But the fact of the matter is that Lucius isn't going anywhere," she hissed, "so straining Draco's relationship with him only causes more problems in the long run, especially if—"

She paused, mouth tightening.

"If you plan to be here for the long run," she finished with a dangerous voice of quiet, and Hermione inhaled sharply.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I really don't."

To that, Pansy looked consummately unimpressed.

"Are you willing to give up your life for him?" she asked simply. "He can't leave England. He's the sole heir and future king of this country. There is simply no compromise to be made, and that's the distant future. What about now? Are you willing to transfer to Hogwarts? To move here?"

Hermione blinked. "I really don't think—"

"And what if it lasts beyond that?" Pansy asked without missing a beat, in a tone far too dark to be as leisurely as she pretended. "Did you have plans for a job after university? A career of your own? Smart girl like you, you have goals, don't you?"

"I—yes, but—"

"Are you ready to have a man who was born in 1935 tell you how you should behave?" Pansy asked, folding her arms over her chest. "When King Abraxas tells you how you can dress, who you can see, what you can do, what you can say—are you going to give him heart palpitations, too? Are you ready to murder the King of England, Hermione Granger? Are you prepared to have that on your conscience?"

Daphne made a sound like a hiccup, and Hermione glanced at her. "Uh—"

"What's next?" Pansy demanded. "The Duke of York is a known misogynist, and a horrifying xenophobe, to boot. Are you planning to give him a stroke?" she asked, absurdly stone-faced. "Are you going to verbally smite him, too, Hermione, or is that sort of antagonism only reserved for Draco's direct paternal line?"

"I—" Hermione bit her lip, recognizing that once again, Daphne was shaking with laughter. "Pansy, I'm hardly out here assassinating people—"

To that, Daphne let out a sound like a strangled yelp, and Pansy flashed her an impatient glance.

"This is ridiculous," Pansy said, as Hermione collapsed in the seat beside Daphne, reaching for her with a renewed bout of hugely inappropriate laughter. "Neither of you are taking this seriously."

"Look," Hermione said, wiping her eyes and taking a deep breath, "I get it, okay? I'm unsuitable, fine. I swear, Pansy, I'll leave in December and it won't be anything. I won't have to murder anyone. Nobody has t-" she paused, stifling another laugh as Daphne giggled shrilly into the sleeve of her t-shirt. "To die, okay?"

"I hope you mean that," Pansy sniffed, and then paused, pursing her lips and sighing. "But fine," she conceded eventually, rolling her eyes as Daphne and Hermione attempted (unsuccessfully) to contain themselves. "What did you say to him? The only thing Draco told me in his text was that there'd been an emergency and I should call you straight away."

"Oh, you know," Hermione said, struggling to straighten. "That I was a grubby commoner, the usual. The same things you say, actually, only he was also telling Draco he couldn't see his mother, so—"

"Oh." Pansy's mouth tightened. "Well."

With a loud sigh, she flung herself down between Hermione and Daphne, brusquely shoving them aside.

"You both know I would never speak ill of Draco's family," Pansy informed them threateningly, "but in this instance, I'm glad somebody said something. Especially if that somebody promises not to get into any more trouble," she warned, and Hermione sighed.

"I was just frustrated—"

"Well, rightfully," Pansy agreed, looking as though the concession pained her. "My mother hasn't seen Princess Narcissa in quite some time, either."

Hermione and Daphne exchanged a glance behind Pansy's back before sitting up slowly.

"Why not?" Daphne asked, thankfully sparing Hermione any undue accusations of prying, and Pansy hesitated, but opened her mouth.

"Well," Pansy said slowly, "the truth is, Narcissa is—"

She stopped as the door swung open, revealing Theo and Draco in the frame.

"Oh good, you came," Draco said wearily, striding forward as Pansy instantly leapt to her feet, gathering him into her arms. "Thanks, Pans," he murmured to her, tightening his fingers in her buttery Emilia Wickstead blazer for a moment before composing himself, pulling away to nod. "I just wasn't sure how serious it was going to be."

"Unfortunately, not nearly serious enough," Theo supplied, kicking idly at the floor. He glanced briefly at Daphne, whose cheeks turned the slightest, most inconsequentially iridescent shade of pink. "You okay, Daph?"

"Yes, how are you two?" Draco asked, glancing between Hermione and Daphne. He let his gaze linger on Hermione's for a moment, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. "I'd hoped it wouldn't take so long, but—"

"We're fine," Daphne assured them. "Luckily we've had Lady Parkinson to alternately entertain and berate us for the last twelve hours."

Draco glanced sharply at Pansy, who shrugged.

"My blood sugar is low," she said drily, and at his skeptical glance, she bristled. "What?"

"Nothing I shouldn't have expected," Draco assured her, shaking his head before turning his attention back to Theo. "Well, I suppose we might as well stay the rest of the weekend, right? Lucius is being brought to his usual doctor in London," he added to the others with a sly undertone of suggestion, "but since he doesn't want anything to appear abnormal, he's asked me not to come along."

"So it was really nothing?" Hermione asked anxiously.

"Just some shortness of breath and stress-related palpitations," Draco assured her.

"Happens, you know," Theo chimed in, "when one is an ageless demon sent from the depths of the underworld."

"That's Hades," Daphne admonished him. "You're mixing myths again."

"Again?" Theo demanded, indignant. "First of all, no. Secondly, I'm simply providing an artful amalgamation between cultures. You know, like fusion cuisines, which everyone knows are all the rage among sophisticated palettes—"

"Theodore, honestly—"

"Hey," Draco said, sidling up to Hermione as Theo and Daphne continued to bicker. "Do you think I could borrow you for a moment?"

Hermione glanced at Pansy, whose mouth grimly permitted the slightest motion of, Well, if you must, but don't forget what we discussed.

"Sure," Hermione said tentatively, looking back at Draco. "Just to talk, right?" she added, as Pansy turned away, somewhere between disapproving and disinterested.

"Of course," Draco assured her. "I just wanted to talk about what happened. I wanted to make sure you were okay," he added, brow furrowing with sincerity. "I haven't forgotten my father was being extraordinarily cruel to you before… all of this," he finished, looking remorseful.

"Oh," Hermione realized, blinking. Of course he wanted to talk. She'd listened in on quite a lot, hadn't she? "Yes, right. Of course. I mean, I'm fine, but—"

"But still," Draco said. "I'd feel better if we could discuss it."

Hermione exhaled, nodding slowly. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I think we should talk."

"I said talk," Hermione gasped, reaching behind her for the post of his bed just as they stumbled into it, nearly tripping past it directly onto the floor. "This," she reminded him as he kicked off his shoes, hurriedly taking her back into his arms, "is very much"—a pause to let his tongue dance across hers as he told her, under no uncertain terms, I don't care—"not talking, Draco—"

The instant the door had closed behind them, talking had become something of a secondary impulse. The conversation had gone something like so, about my dad, and yes, true, about him, directly into other types of communication. Largely, picking up where they'd left off that morning, in something of a thank you for listening combined with let's see what happens if I touch you here, or here, or here, let's do it for science and yes, fine, let's do it, it's a service for mankind, which had of course brought them to… this moment.

To his left hand, specifically, which was under her shirt. He'd slipped it under her bra, in fact, clever little prince that he was, and sighed his particular sensation of approval into her mouth, curving his palm around her and delivering her to a furious shiver of delight.

To his right hand, too, which had traveled to the button of her jeans, flicking them open with a motion so quick and effortless she had to assume it had been written into some sort of fancy royal prep school manual. His fingers danced under the fabric, toying with the lace of her Victoria's Secret five-for-$25 underwear she desperately wished was La Perla, and his thumb swirled down lower, pressing dangerously close to lose-her-mind territory as Hermione leaned her head back, gradually giving in.

Then there was his mouth, which was resting against the hem of her v-neck. No, she thought, not resting. It was pulsing, prodding, exploring, traveling lower as his left hand, already inconveniently persuasive on her breasts, shifted from beneath her t-shirt to slide the whole ensemble lower, permitting his mouth to run over the places his fastidious hands had already been.

There were other things, too. Things she should be too ladylike to mention (except spoiler: she wasn't), like the outline of Draco's trousers, which were only too happy to announce to Hermione just what might come next if she let it. In response, she slid a hand up his thigh, testing. Just trying things out. An academic study. His ass? Perfect. Sculpted. A magnificent backside. She dug her fingers in, curious, and stifled a groan at his response. He had those little indentations at the base of his back; she could feel them under her fingers. What were they called? Oh, right. Dimples of Venus. Similarly, she could feel the little cuts above his hips. The little grooves that shouted HEY, LOOK WHAT'S DOWN HERE!—Apollo's belt. What was he, a prince or a myth? She slid her hands lower.

Oh god.

Oh god.

He groaned as she slid her hand over his totally unsubtle erection. His dick. His penis. His Royal Cock, which was deeply and distressingly promising. Jesus Christ, she thought, imagine how well he'd fit her. Or would he? She bit her lip, thinking about it as his fingers danced over her, slipping under the lace of her underwear and back again. Would he want it fast? Probably not. He was a diligent sort of person. She thought now of the way he took notes, reading and re-reading sections, annotating as he went. She'd seen him study often enough to know he rarely rushed his work. And sure, this felt dirty enough, but if this were some sort of work of smutty fiction with some other less scrupulous guy, then surely he'd have thrown her on the bed by now. Fucked her up against the wall. Wouldn't he? She thought about the time she'd opened up one of her mother's books at thirteen (Bridges of Madison County, in fact) and slammed it shut again, breathing hard. This was desperation like that, wasn't it? But it wasn't, because good lord, Draco knew how to take his time.

"Hey," he murmured, glancing down. "Are you, um. Planning to do something with that?"

Oh. Oh. She'd just been leisurely holding onto his penis, like she was using it for balance or something. Possibly trying to memorize the shape of it to recreate for herself later. Which she almost certainly would. In the shower. Which, at this rate, would need to be a very long, very cold shower.

"Um," she said, swallowing.

She was a modern woman. She'd had sex. Casually, even, so she could certainly have sex now with His Royal Hotness, Prince of Dicks, couldn't she? He was a nice boy. Her mother wouldn't fault her. Her sex ed teacher would probably give her the all-clear. Her gynecologist? Highly in favor, if she had to guess. Really, the Pope himself couldn't fault her. She'd just have to explain that it was Draco—that he had all the holy markings from all the classics which yes, she'd studied at length—and listen, if she told him no, then she'd be denying a man who'd very recently been afraid his father would die, and that wasn't exactly the Christian thing to do, was it?—and he'd say yes, my child, go forth and conjugate in peace. Amen.

"Hermione," Draco said, kissing her. She still hadn't released him and he shifted lightly against her hand, chuckling under his breath as she inhaled sharply. "You're killing me a little bit. And it really wouldn't be fair to almost kill two princes in one day."

With a clang, she suddenly remembered everything Pansy had said. She remembered, too, that if they had sex right now, she'd have to walk downstairs in her sex haze (a real thing, which her traitorous hair would almost certainly give away) and face Lady Pansy Parkinson-Six names, which would almost certainly be a very real nightmare.

Hermione looked down at her bitten nails and swallowed hard, releasing him.

"Oh," he said, frowning. "I just meant—"

"Listen," Hermione began, and Draco grimaced, obviously catching telltale signs the other shoe was about to drop. "Draco, I like you. I like you so much, and even if I didn't like you for your personality—"

She blinked, realizing she was still staring at the bulge in his pants before she cleared her throat, looking up to find him stifling laughter.

"Right," she determined, clearing her throat. "So, look. I like you. I really do. I really, really do."

"So far, so promising," he said. "I like you, too, which I believe I've mentioned—"

"Yes," she agreed, trying to regain some sense of decorum. "So listen. This is… we shouldn't do this. Because if we had sex, we couldn't… un-have sex."

He frowned. "Are you saying you don't want to?"

She looked down, catching his waning attention (more specifically, realizing her right breast was almost entirely exposed before tucking it hastily back into her bra) and taking a firm step back.

"No, I'm just saying we can't do this," she told him. "Look, I still have two months left, right? I don't want to chance making things awkward." Briefly, Daphne's reasoning for not sleeping with Theo flashed in her head; relationships are complicated, and worse, non-relationships are more complicated.

"The truth is that I can't date you, Draco," Hermione exhaled miserably, and he flinched slightly, proving the internal theory she'd been trying to ignore, which was that despite his optimism, he knew it just as well as she did. "Even if I weren't leaving, I'm still a huge problem for you. I'm American. I'm certainly not nobility. I'm Catholic, for god's sake!" she said, and he arched a brow. "Okay, so I'm not devout, per se, but still. The point stands—and I almost killed your father today," she reminded him, and to that, he permitted a sigh.

"But," he began, and paused.

She waited, comfortably certain he wasn't going to be able to come up with anything.

"But you're killing me," he eventually informed her, and she threw herself on the bed, stifling a wail.

"I know," she said, and he lay himself carefully beside her, turning his head to hers as she looked at him. "I know. I hate this. I wish it were easier. But still, this isn't something that can happen, and you know it. You know we can't be together," she told him grimly, which she was grateful he didn't bother trying to deny, "and to be honest, I think it would hurt too much to try."

She reached out, brushing his hair from his forehead.

"If I can't be with you, Prince Draco," she said sadly, "then I can't chance ruining our friendship. No matter how badly I want to. And I do," she clarified, watching his mouth twist with difficulty. "But am I willing to lose Draco, my friend, just so I can have Draco, Prince of Dicks? No." She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, but I'm just not."

He nodded, shutting his eyes, and exhaled deeply.

"Friends, then," he said. His misery was, per usual, skillfully restrained. "I don't want to lose my friend Hermione, either."

He slid his hand down, brushing it against her knuckles, and she closed her eyes, wishing things had been different. That even one thing had been different.

For a few minutes, she was pretty sure he was thinking the same thing, and they lay there in silence, contemplating their mutual lamentations; the farewells to what could have been.

"Did you," Draco began, breaking the silence, and then he frowned. "Did you call me the Prince of… Dicks?"

Hermione blinked.

"Doesn't sound like me," she told him, and he chuckled.

"Also, you didn't 'almost kill' my father," he assured her. "It was just, I don't know. Bad timing."

"Yeah, well. He's still going to hate me forever," she said grimly, "so it's probably best we don't date, don't you think?"

"Well, maybe he will," Draco sighed, turning his head to look at her again. "But either way, I really appreciate it, even if I can't technically approve." He squeezed her hand lightly. "It's nice to know I have someone on my side."

"You always have me," Hermione promised him. "I'm always on your side."

His mouth quirked into a smile, broadening slowly.

"We made a good choice," he said. "Now we can be friends for a lifetime instead of just two people who had sex in Theo's house."

"See?" Hermione said. "Responsible of us. We're so impressive."

"I'm impressed with us," Draco agreed, and when she sat up, he followed suit. "Shall we head back down, then?"

"Need me to talk about Theo's dad's bollocks first?" she prompted.

"No," Draco said, wincing. "In fact, please don't."

Hermione smiled. "So. Are you coming back to school then, friend?" she asked him. "I could really use my study partner back. Got a big paper due this week."

This time, his smile was more than tentative. She felt far braver, as it turned out, for having offered to be something for him she knew he couldn't find anywhere else. Sex was easy, she reminded herself. Being someone he could turn to for the rarity of normalcy—someone he could trust—was hard.

(Though, it was still too fresh to think about hardness. Not until the shower she definitely wasn't going to take. And the memory she definitely hadn't burned into her brain.)

"I genuinely cannot wait," Draco replied, and Hermione smiled back, certain she'd done the right thing.

Unfortunately for both of them (seeing as they'd been banking on a quiet, unexceptional week in order to test out the latest evolution of their friendship, which was probably best summarized as 'friends firmly without benefits') the week Draco returned to Hogwarts was rather not quiet at all.

"So," Blaise began, dropping his palms flat on the table and startling all of them (no one less than Theo, who clipped Pansy in the shoulder as he jumped) with the sudden motion before sliding a flyer out for their perusal. It was a Tuesday afternoon with nothing remarkable outside of Draco's quiet presence beside Hermione, idly scratching out errors in one of his essays for an art history class, and Blaise's apparent announcement. "What do we think?"

"Is this for a Halloween party?" Daphne asked, trying to read it upside down from where she sat with Theo, and Pansy pursed her lips.

"I believe it says Halloqueen," she corrected, and promptly made a face. "If this is some sort of liberal nonsense, Blaise, you should know that while I am more than happy to chip away at heteronormativity in all its contemptible forms, I'm hardly willing to watch you struggle with petticoats."

"Minus five points for the unfounded assumption I would struggle," Blaise retorted, jabbing an accusatory finger at her, "but plus two for the progressive agenda."

Pansy rolled her eyes but nodded, folding her arms over her chest in apparent concession as Hermione slid the flyer over, eyeing it.

"Looks like the Hog's Head is having a costume party," she noted, and Daphne came around to the other side of the table, eyeing it as Draco pretended not to look up from his essay. "Is this something they do every year?"

"Yes," Daphne confirmed. "Last year was a Monster Mash. Dreadfully overdone, in my opinion."

"It's pretty fun, actually," Theo contributed, looking up. "Greengrass made a very beguiling witch. Pansy, meanwhile," he remarked, blatantly hiding a mischievous smirk, "must have opted not to come in costume."

From Pansy, without looking up: "I'm sorry Theodore, do you want to die today?"

From Theo: "I can't today, I'm very busy. Please consult with my people tomorrow."

From Draco: "Well, in fairness to Pansy, never put off tomorrow what could be done today."

Pansy, licking a finger and turning the page of her book: "Draco's got it."

From Hermione, surprised: "Wait, what are you doing today, Theo? I thought you wanted me to look over your Slughorn essay."

A slightly flustered Theo: "Oh, well, yes. That's what I'm doing today."

"So, hold on a minute," Daphne interrupted, holding up the flyer. "Are we in agreement, then? We're doing the Hog's Head again this year? Because if so, we need to discuss costumes."

"Yes," Blaise approved quickly, snatching the flyer from her. "Twenty points to Greengrass for keeping us apprised of the important things. We should discuss this now, as I will not accept anything less than total group cohesion. Do not, under any circumstances, embarrass me as you did two years ago."

From Hermione, bemused: "What happened two years ago?"

From the group, in unison: "DO. NOT. ASK—"

"I'll tell you," Blaise interrupted grandly, nudging Draco over and half-seating himself on his chair. "Picture this: it's the year of Our Lord 2008, and it's Halloween week. Halloweek, if you will—"

From Pansy: "We won't."

From Theo: "Well, hold on. May I have a second to decide?"

From Blaise: "Shut up immediately. Anyway, it's Halloweek, and we've just met Daphne. And Tracey Davis, who is unimportant to the story outside of the fact that we also know her."

From Hermione, bemused: "I thought you guys liked Tracey."

From Theo: "We do, sort of. In the same way we like houseplants. Great in theory, optically pleasing, but a nuisance from day-to-day."

From Draco: "Get back to the story, Blaise. I don't think I've heard this one."

Hermione, surprised: "You haven't?"

Draco, clearing his throat: "Well, no. I mean, I can't exactly go to things like this, so. No, I don't know the story."

Hermione, blinking with hastily disguised pity: "Oh. Right, of course."

Theo, loudly: "Just tell the story, Blaise."

Blaise: "Don't tell me what to do, Theodore. Only Pansy can do that."

From Pansy: a wordless half-smile.

Blaise: "So, we had all agreed we would go to this party—which had a theme, like it does every year. That year, the theme was Cowboys and Indians."

Hermione: "Oof. Yikes."

From Theo: "In fairness to us, are we even English if we're not terribly misappropriating some other culture? Or stealing it for the benefit of putting it in a museum."

From Draco: a brief chuckle of agreement, hurriedly sobered.

Blaise: "SO, AS I WAS SAYING—"

Pansy, brusquely: "So, much to Blaise's dismay, our costumes were somewhat without a cohesive narrative. And that's it, that's the entire story."

Hermione: "Wait, why? What was everyone dressed as?"

Daphne: "Well, I went as a Bollywood dancer."

From Theo: "And I was a space cowboy."

Daphne, turning to him: "I think technically it was a child's Buzz Lightyear costume, wasn't it? Just with a cowboy hat? I recall it being several sizes too small."

Blaise, looking outrageously filled with mischief: "Well, you would know, wouldn't you, Daph?"

Hermione blinked. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, nothing," Daphne assured her, glancing hastily away. Hermione noticed her cheeks (always a dead giveaway) were positively flaming, and across the table, Theo was conspicuously silent. "It was—well, like they said, we'd really just met, and—"

From Hermione, in the midst of a revelation: "Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my GOD, did you two—"

From Pansy, stiffly: "Yes, yes, Daphne and Theodore had an indiscretion. Did you honestly think that bet was born from nothing?"

Daphne, insistent: "It wasn't an indiscretion—we just kissed! Once!"

From Theo, drawling: "Yes, and then she learned the intricacies of my personality and wisely backed away."

From Blaise, sulkily: "I hope all of you are aware you have each lost points for completely derailing my story—which, as a reminder, was about your woeful costume choices, and not remotely your apocalyptic approximations of romance."

Draco, doubtfully: "Yes, Blaise, this is imperialism to the highest degree."

Hermione, meanwhile, rounded on Draco. "Did you know about this?"

"Oh, everyone knew about it," Pansy assured her, cutting Daphne off as she opened her mouth. "Didn't you two have breakfast together in the morning?" she asked Daphne. "I distinctly remember breakfast."

"No," Daphne insisted. "Of course not. We just—"

"They stayed out all night," Blaise supplied with a cheeky grin, and as Hermione felt her eyes grow noticeably wide, Daphne looked as if she were about to burst with discomfort.

"It was nothing," Theo cut in sharply, giving each of them a glance of warning. "Greengrass and I had a very minor, very intoxicated kiss, and the rest of the night was…" He cleared his throat carefully. "Unremarkable. As one might expect from someone of my truly abysmal sexual caliber, I mucked it up entirely," he clarified with a grave half-smile, "and because Greengrass was too drunk to defenestrate herself away from my intolerable wit, the rest of the night consisted exclusively of pseudo-intellectual conversation between two platonic non-idiots. One non-idiot, that is," he corrected himself with a glance at Daphne, "and, of course, me. But either way, we've been friends ever since."

"Friends?" Hermione echoed, half-squeaking it. "But—"

"So," Draco interrupted with a pointed glance at Blaise. "What are you thinking for your costumes this year, then?"

"Beheaded monarchs," Pansy scoffed a day later, when she, Daphne, and Hermione had ventured out to a costume shop in one of the nearby towns after class. "Honestly, Blaise is the one who should be guillotined for something so absurdly tasteless."

"I don't see why you're upset," Daphne admonished her. "Marie Antoinette is the perfect costume for you."

"Still. That doesn't mean I'm pleased about the theme," Pansy sniffed, wandering away to look at powdered wigs while Daphne ran her fingers over a velvet gown.

"This counts for Anne Boleyn, don't you think?" she asked Hermione. "I mean, it's at least within the right time peri-"

"But what did Theo do?" Hermione demanded for the fourteenth time that day. "I still can't believe you never told me!"

"Well, it's ancient history," Daphne said, pointedly holding the dress up for Hermione's perusal, "so it's hardly worth discussing. So we kissed once," she said, shrugging. "You've kissed Draco and you're friends now, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah," Hermione said, deflating slightly. She and her mother had a very long talk about this over Skype upon Hermione's return from Nott Manor in a conversation that ended with Helen's unpractical insistence Hermione follow her heart… or some equally unusable advice. Helen Granger was a romantic where Hermione was unquestionably a pragmatist; Hermione's rose-colored glasses had been shattered a few too many times for Helen's unwavering belief that love conquered all. "But you and Theo are different, Daph. Just tell me what happened," Hermione begged, reaching out for Daphne's arm, and Daphne sighed.

"We kissed," she said curtly. "Then he said something, and it was—" She broke off. "He just said something stupid, that's all. You know how uniquely skilled Theo is at ruining the mood."

That was certainly likely, Hermione thought. "But still—"

"It's nothing, okay? And—oh my god," Daphne said, inhaling sharply as she removed a costume that was mostly thinly-woven, delicate metallic gold chains from the rack. "Are you seeing this? Hermione. Hermione." She shoved it into Hermione's arms. "You absolutely must wear this one."

"Are you joking? I can't wear this," Hermione protested, glancing down at it. "This dress would barely cover anything!"

"Yes, but it would be so perfect for you," Daphne crowed, delighted. "Come on, you only get one Halloqueen with us! You have to wear this one."

"Daphne, be serious. Why don't you wear it, if you like it so much?"

"Because I have a dress," she said, pointedly lofting up the Tudor-style gown, "and you don't. Come on, just think about it—"

"Alright," Pansy said, breezing back in with an elaborate white wig she seemed to have personally embellished with a complex arrangement of flowers and butterflies, "I'm going to have to find an appropriate shade of blush for this, but I think if I—" She broke off, frowning. "Whose is that?" she asked, pointing to the dress in Daphne's hands, and Daphne grinned broadly.

"Hermione's," she said. "Don't you think it's perfect for her?"

"No," Hermione cut in instantly. "No, no, it isn't—"

"I saw the most perfect thing for that," Pansy said, surprising both Daphne and Hermione with her enthusiasm. "What? I like costumes," Pansy sniffed, turning over her shoulder and disappearing as Hermione rounded on Daphne with a growl.

"I can't wear it, Daphne, it's ridiculous. I'm not remotely this ostentatious. And anyway, about you and Theo—"

"There's no me and Theo to speak of," Daphne reminded her, "and you have to. Give Draco some fun for his evening alone," she faux-pleaded with a wink, and Hermione felt her face heat with discomfort.

"First of all, stop, and secondly—"

"Here," Pansy said breathlessly, materializing with a narrow gold ring. It was a delicately-carved snake, coiled up in a tiny golden circle, which she slipped onto Hermione's hand and shoved rather brusquely down her finger. "See? Perfect."

"I—" Hermione paused, looking down at the ring and then up again at the dress, grimacing. It was a very appealing costume. Shiny, certainly, and nothing like she would have chosen for herself (possibly in a good way) but still. "She wasn't beheaded!"

Daphne and Pansy exchanged a glance.

"Screw Blaise's theme," Pansy determined eventually, taking the dress from Daphne's hands and holding it up to Hermione's frame. "You have to get it."

"Lady Parkinson has spoken," Daphne informed Hermione, who sighed heavily.

"Fine," she grumbled in concession, snatching the dress from Pansy's hands. "Cleopatra it is. Though, as a reminder, this costume is definitely not in any way culturally or historically accur-"

"Oh, just hush," Pansy commanded sharply.

"Yes, hush," Daphne agreed, "and hurry up, too, because I have to get back for a meeting tonight for class. Have you got everything you need?" she asked Pansy, who began explaining the intricacies of what seemed to be some sort of stocking situation as Hermione turned her head, noticing something on the wall beside her.

"—be fine, it'll look perfect, and—Hermione, are you coming?"

Hermione blinked, snatching up the item and tucking it under the dress in her hands.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Yes. Let's go."

"Wow," Draco said, eyeing her in the doorway. "Wow," he repeated, and swallowed with a ludicrously pointed gulp. "Is this some sort of cruel and unusual punishment? We invented the constitutional provision against that, you know. Look it up. Completely founded on English jurisprudence."

"Shut up," Hermione said, trying not to blink too aggressively beneath the fake eyelashes Daphne had insisted she put on. "I brought you something."

She held out her purchase, expectant, and Draco's lips curled up slowly.

"You're joking," he said, taking the Batman mask from her hand, and Hermione vehemently shook her head.

"I'm not," she assured him. "Come on," she added, batting her incredibly too-long lashes in what should surely be an Olympic sport of weighted coquetry. "I know you want to go, Draco. You looked so despondent when we were all talking about it, and Harry's here," she pointed out, as she'd seen him wander over to Blaise and Theo in the common room just minutes before she'd decided on this extremely ambitious plot to coax Draco out in public. "You don't really want to miss the party, do you?"

Draco hesitated, glancing down at the mask. "I don't know, Hermione. My dad's still not happy with me, and—"

"It's just one night," Hermione reminded him. "Nobody will be able to see your face. Or your hair. And we'll cover for you," she assured him, as he grimaced, obviously torn. "Come on. You haven't gotten to do anything fun in ages, have you? This is your chance."

"Blaise will take away all my points for failing to meet the theme," Draco pointed out, holding the mask up. "This is definitely not Halloqueen."

"Who cares? You can have some of my points if you want them so badly."

"What? Miss Granger, I don't know what kind of barbaric civilization you come from, but that's just not at all how things work around here—"

"Draco," she sighed, stepping forward to take hold of his wrist. "Come on. Come with us. Please," she added, with yet another gratuitous motion from her expertly Daphne-painted lips. "I want you to come with us."

It was a last-ditch effort that seemed to pay off.

"Fine," he said, and as she smiled with triumph, he caught her hand, eyeing the snake ring coiled around her finger. "This is very interesting," he noted. "You do know there's a snake in my family crest, don't you?"

He held up his signet ring for evidence. She'd noticed it on his right hand before, sitting idly on his pinky, but had never bothered to scrutinize it.

"Sounds symbolically inadvisable," Hermione informed him, and he laughed briefly before sobering, glancing over his shoulder at what looked to be the book he'd been planning to read for the evening.

In response, Hermione gave him one more pleading glance, and Draco sighed.

"Let's just go, then," he groaned. "Before I change my mind."

He pulled the mask over his head, staring comically down at her with nothing but his eyes and mouth visible.

"How do I look?" he asked, voice muffled beneath the fabric.

"Terrible," she assured him. "It's the worst you've ever looked."

She was pretty sure he was smiling back at her.

"Well, excellent," he sighed, giving in as she gave his arm a final tug. "Happy Halloqueen, I suppose."

"What are you supposed to be?" asked the bouncer-of-sorts. The party was big enough that the Hog's Head had hired additional security, and from what they could see of the inside, Hermione could tell the small bar was already packed.

"Are you serious?" Harry asked. "I'm clearly Prince Harry."

Harry was, of course, not wearing a costume. He seemed not even remotely shameful about it, and the bouncer shrugged, permitting him inside as a number of people took out their phones, indiscreetly snapping pictures of him. He threw an arm around Daphne, posing for one of the nearby girls, and Daphne rolled her eyes, giving him a yank inside as they followed Theo and Blaise towards the bar.

"Whoa, whoa, hold on, and what are you?" the bouncer asked, holding a hand out to keep Draco at arm's length from the door.

"I'm Batman," Draco informed him. "Seems fairly obvious, doesn't it?"

"Certainly seems obvious to me," Hermione agreed.

"You're not royalty," the bouncer noted, obviously displeased, and Hermione hid a laugh at the irony. "There was a theme, you know."

"I'm sorry, do you have some opposition to money?" Pansy cut in sharply, straightening her wig and glaring at him beneath what was the most flawless Halloween costume Hermione had ever seen. "Last I checked, you'd have more to gain by letting in the patrons who possess intent to consume alcohol, wouldn't you?"

"Hey, Marie Antoinette," the bouncer noted, chuckling at her. "Let them eat cake, right?"

"That quote is wildly misattributed," Pansy snapped, taking hold of Draco and Hermione's arms and dragging them inside behind her. "Honestly, some people—"

"You might want to rethink commenting on the hopeless commoners while dressed as a guillotined French queen," Hermione advised, turning to Draco to see his response, but he was clearly more interested in the rest of the party, making a beeline straight to where Theo and Blaise were downing shots.

"Have one," he shouted, holding a glass out for Hermione, who arched a brow.

"Better take it slow, Bruce Wayne," she advised, and he grinned.

"Bruce," he said emphatically, "does this every night. Bruce is a champion."

"Draco isn't," she reminded him, half-shouting it. "Draco gets tipsy off very little, as I recall."

"Well, Draco isn't here," he proclaimed jubilantly, thrusting the shot into her hand. "So, Cleopatra. Will you have this drink?"

"The Bad Lads insist," Theo added, looking just as pleased from where he held a drink in each hand, standing beside Harry. Theo had also broken Blaise's rules and come extravagantly costumed with an enormous fake mustache as Tsar Nicholas II (a monarch who was shot, not beheaded, though Hermione was beginning to think her fixation on accuracy was perhaps a touch too morbid), while Blaise himself was an opulently trousered and heavily ruffed Mary, Queen of Scots. "Have one, would you?"

Hermione feigned a sigh, accepting it. "Okay. Just one, though, right?"

"Yes, of course," Blaise sniffed. "What do you think we are, hooligans? Though, unrelated, everyone gets five points per shot."

With that, of course, there was a flurry of hands reaching as Daphne (who'd done a marvelous job of looking like a beautiful vampire queen in a particularly gruesome adaptation of Henry VIII's second wife) shoved another shot into Hermione's hand.

"Come on," Daphne said, making a face as she tipped the glass back against her lips, shuddering as it went down. "You're wearing the dress. You lured out the prince. Celebrate, would you? It's Halloqueen!"

"Halloqueen!" the others cheered in unison, and Hermione took the shot of what happened to be extremely cheap tequila, letting the alcohol slide down her throat.

In the same moment, she caught Draco's laughing grey gaze from beneath his mask, lingering from the sheen of alcohol on her lips to the very, very scandalous gold dress she was wearing, sliding over the curves of her waist and then slowly dragging back up.

She swallowed hard, letting the alcohol burn its way into her esophagus, and let herself stare back.

Looking back on it, she probably shouldn't have been surprised what happened next.

"Hey," she said as the door opened behind her, looking up and blinking vacantly into the bathroom mirror as she paused from checking her makeup. She'd stepped away from a very crowded and very sweaty dance floor to adjust what she was positive was an episode of leaky mascara, which she'd since come to learn was also a limited series featuring smudged lipstick and an avalanche of glitter that had once passed for eye shadow earlier in the night. "Everything okay? I thought you said you were going to get another dr-"

Draco cut her off with the kiss they'd so far been narrowly avoiding on the dance floor, dragging her backwards only far enough in the tiny single-stall bathroom to clumsily lock the door with one hand before abruptly switching directions, yanking her against him and lifting her up onto the sink in a confusing, haphazard series of motions. Out in the bar, Draco's hands had been distractingly present, holding tightly to her waist, and they were no different now, his mouth blissfully hot and spiced with some sort of cinnamon whisky as she hastily peeled the mask over his head to taste more of him, running her fingers through the sweat-dampened roots of his hair.

"Oh, thank god," he exhaled into her mouth. It was a shiver-inducing reminder of how his breath had skated across the back of her neck when he'd pulled her close, lips brushing the bare skin of her shoulder while she ground shamelessly against him (to the Jeremih song Down On Me, which would forever register in her memory as totally unhelpful enablement). "Was starting to be difficult to breathe under there—"

"Hold on," she gasped, head spinning slightly as his hand reached under her dress. "Are you—is this—Draco, I thought we decided—"

"Bruce," he corrected her firmly, which was certainly the only explanation for the aforementioned public grinding. "Tonight, I'm Bruce."

"Well okay, that sounds right," she permitted hazily, permitting him to kiss her again before realizing this was not, in fact, right, and perhaps she should not be listening to the tequila-influenced insistence of her more primal urges (and, evidently, his). "No, wait, hold on a minute—"

"I can't do it," he said, pulling back for a moment to look at her. "This, be near you, feel nothing, I can't. I really can't. I know why you don't want to be with me," he assured her, pained. "I understand, but please, if I could just—if you could just let me try—"

"Try," she echoed, swallowing hard. The faucet was progressively jamming further into her lower back but she was helplessly distracted, both by the placement of his hips between her legs and, more pressingly, by the things he was saying. "Try… what?"

"I don't just want you. I want to be with you," he mumbled, shaking his head. "I don't want once, Hermione, I want—" He broke off, dragging his hand through his hair and scraping it back with frustration. "What if we kept it secret?" he managed to ask raggedly, and grimaced as she blinked. "I know, no woman wants that, it's hardly a romantic proposition—but if the only way I can be with you is to keep it from everyone else—"

He was so handsome when he was uncomfortable, she realized abruptly. He was handsome all the time, really, but he looked like something else when he was being earnest. When he was out of his comfort zone, he looked like… like something unfamiliar. Something he never was with anyone else.

When he was telling her how he felt about her, he looked like hers.

She cut him off, yanking his mouth to hers as he let out something of a muted yelp, digging his fingers into her thighs as her teeth scraped clumsily against his.

"God, I want—" He struggled with her dress, shoving it unsuccessfully up her legs.

"Just rip it," she gasped, trying to pull him even closer, which was probably physically impossible. She felt the faucet jab her spine again and ignored it, grazing her nails over the indentations of his abs beneath his shirt. "It's not like I'm ever wearing it again."

"Don't say that," he groaned, though he obediently tore up the side of her skirt, ripping the fabric into something of a high slit. "I swear, I'm going to be thinking about how you look in this dress until I die—"

He fumbled with her underwear (this one was a seamless Calvin Klein thong which had come in a far more exclusive set of two, practically a splurge) and Hermione slid her hand up the back of his neck, considering everything. Did she want to do this here? No. Yes. Absolutely. Absolutely not, this was madness. God, she wanted him. Part of her was certain someone would bang down the door and stop it from happening. The pope? Possibly. More likely his father. She felt Draco's fingers dart inside her and she moaned in his ear, finding herself rewarded by the way his head fell back, luxuriously wrapped up in her. She moved her hips against his hand and helped him, translated her need for him; told him I want you, holy hell, I want you so badly in all the languages her hands and lips and tongue knew how to speak, and by the time she was panting—when she heard the words, "I want more, I need more, please," fall in anguish from between her own lips—she stopped asking herself questions, realizing she'd made up her mind already.

She was going to have sex with the Prince of England.

She was going to have sex with the Prince of England in the bathroom of a bar.

More than that, though, she was finally going to have sex with the boy she'd had a semi-debilitating crush on for weeks.

She was going to have sex with Draco.

"Draco," she murmured after the telltale sound of package-ripping, pulling him close and taking his face in both hands, kissing him slowly, sweetly. "Do you know how much I like you? I like you so, so much," she said, half-delirious with the overwhelming need to confess it, to let the words drip from her tongue. "This means something to me, I can't pretend it doesn't—"

He kissed her back, wrapping his arms tightly around her.

"Someday I'm going to take you home," he told her, and sure, they were drunk, but in a moment of uncharacteristic optimism, Hermione permitted a strand of hope, believing he might have meant it. "My home, I mean. I'm going to show you everything. My life. All of me. Someday I want you to see it, see everything. I'm going to kiss you on the nicest sheets in England and tell you how beautiful you are, how much I want you, how lucky I am to have met you. I'm going to, I swear—"

"Later," she gasped, letting his lips slide down the side of her neck. "Bruce, if you don't put your royal dick inside me right now, I—"

She broke off as he laughed, shifting one of his arms securely under her thigh and pulling her hips towards him. She could feel him pressing into her; could feel herself pulsing in anticipation; could feel time come to a complete stop as she looked at him.

"Draco," she whispered.

"Hermione," he said back, his voice heavy with longing.

He slid inside her.

She closed her eyes.

And it was fucking bliss.

"Tell me absolutely everything," Daphne said, eyes wide. They'd cleaned off their makeup by then and were huddled in Hermione's bed, not quite sober enough to regrow the conversational filters which ruled out words like 'Daphne, I just had sex,' (and a related sidebar featuring the heretofore rarely-used 'outstanding girth') and leaving them with no choice but to continue talking. "What was it like? Was he any good?"

"He was way too good," Hermione lamented, grimacing. "Part of me hoped he would like, fumble a little? But no," she sighed. "The boy really knows how to use his penis."

That, and his hands. And his mouth. He understood clitoral anatomy, that was for sure. Studies in rhythmic friction? A-star. Top marks in Geography of the G-Spot 101. She hadn't even been with a guy who knew how to find it before, much less how to angle himself against it while standing in a bathroom and half-carrying her over a sink. Only two people she'd ever been with could have even lifted her up successfully enough, and the other one had been too selfish to consider her needs even remotely.

Prince Draco of Wales ought to be sainted, Hermione thought grimly, and his biceps ought to have royal residences of their own.

"Maybe he's just talented," Daphne suggested. "A natural ability?"

"Doubtful," Hermione lamented. "He seems fairly practiced."

"Well, who cares," Daphne said, waving a hand and stumbling slightly to her feet. She crossed the room, reaching for a water bottle, and accidentally knocked over something on her desk. "He obviously genuinely likes you, so—"

"Daphne," Hermione said, blinking at what looked to be a series of sketches that had spilled onto the floor. "What are those?"

"Hm?" she said, and glanced down. "Oh. Oh my god. Nothing. Noth-"

"Lady Daphne Greengrass!" Hermione gasped, launching to her feet to pick them up before Daphne could kick them under the bed and out of sight. "Oh my god, is this—"

It was.

It unquestionably was.

"It's not what you think," Daphne said in a near-whimper, but Hermione couldn't take her eyes off the drawings.

"Daphne," she said, sorting through them. "This… you've been drawing… Theo?"

She was holding at least a dozen intensely detailed sketches of a very, very naked Theodore Nott, which was a fact that was clearly driving Daphne directly to insanity. She shifted from foot to foot, not meeting Hermione's eye.

"I just told you absurdly private details about Draco's penis," Hermione demanded, aghast, "and you were going to conveniently leave out that Theo has been posing nude for you?!"

"It's for class," Daphne protested, cheeks flaming scarlet. "I told you, I'm taking anatomical drawing. I needed a better model. A better angle, more accurately," she babbled anxiously, "because my class right before is across the castle and I swear, the staircases are conspiring to keep me from arriving in time to get a good seat—"

"Daphne," Hermione said, "stop talking. These are amazing."

And they were. Hermione could see each painstakingly drawn line of Theo's muscle, tracing elegantly down his thighs. Every aspect of him was angular, long, languid, the opposite of Baroque contortion; everything was smoothly relaxed, from the carved out portion of his abs to the elongated expanse of each of his limbs, down to the high arches of his narrow feet. He was bare and exposed, and strangely ethereal, too. There was a slight trail of hair down his stomach, just a shadow of it, which Daphne had captured with a perfectly light touch. The tension in his shoulders was drawn accurately enough that Hermione could practically see Theo sitting across from her now, afternoon light draping over his chest and stomach with a puzzled little frown on his lips: Greengrass, do you want me like this, or…?

"Oh my god," Hermione said, eyeing the quintessentially stubborn line of Theo's chin. Daphne had captured the precise shape of his mouth, the way his lips were full and slightly crooked. More specifically, Daphne had managed to draw the exact image of Theo Nott while looking at Daphne Greengrass, a version of him which seemed to always bear something of an artfully restrained half-smile. Altogether, the portraits were some of the most intimate works of art Hermione had ever seen. "Daphne, these are… these are beautiful—"

"You can't tell anyone," Daphne said instantly, snatching the drawings from her hand and shoving them back into the portfolio they'd fallen from. "It's nothing, okay? He agreed to do it as a friend. We're friends."

But Hermione was pretty sure that level of meticulous detail couldn't have been achieved by someone who'd simply looked at a model for a few hours. It bore the mark of an artist who had looked long and hard, memorizing every spare detail and conscientiously committing it to the page.

"Daphne—"

"Stop," Daphne said, hugging the portfolio to her chest. "Don't. Please."

Hermione swallowed hard, nodding slowly.

"Just—" She sighed. "I'll never say another word, I promise. Just tell me what he said. Please."

Daphne looked up at her, wincing. "You swear you'll never tell anyone?"

"I swear," Hermione said, reaching a hand out. "You'd never tell anyone what I said about Draco, right?"

Daphne exhaled. "No, I wouldn't." She took Hermione's proffered pinky, looping hers around it. "Okay. Swear nothing we say this night is ever repeated, ever? Even to each other?" Hermione nodded solemnly. "And after I tell you, you can't say anything," Daphne warned. "I've never told anyone. Anyone. Specifically because I don't want to be pelted with questions. Got it?"

Hermione nodded again.

"Okay. Okay." Daphne shakily steadied herself, releasing Hermione's hand and giving her a nudge. "Turn around. I don't want to see your face when I tell you."

Hermione groaned, turning to face the far wall. "Fine. Will you just—"

"I'd only met him that week," Daphne supplied hurriedly as Hermione glanced at the picture she'd tacked up above her desk of her parents, pointedly pretending not to listen. "We hadn't really even spoken. But we had a little too much to drink that night, so when he kissed me, I kissed back. He was a good kisser and, I don't know, it was fun. I thought he was funny, and kind of charming. You know how he is. But then he pulled away, and he looked at me, and he said—"

She swallowed, pausing, and Hermione waited.

"He said I was the girl he was going to marry," Daphne finally confessed.

Hermione went rigid, biting her tongue to keep from asking questions.

"It was weird, okay?" Daphne continued, her voice now accompanied by the sound of her pacing footsteps. "It was positively mad, and he sounded so certain. He didn't even blink. It was unnerving, and I don't know, I got—"

Scared, Hermione thought.

"Uncomfortable," Daphne determined firmly, "so I told him I thought we should just be friends. And as you know, we are."

"Daphne," Hermione sighed, about to turn around, but Daphne grunted her displeasure.

"No, don't look at me. Just go to bed, would you?" Daphne insisted. "There's nothing left to talk about."

Hermione grimaced, but she was pretty sure Daphne wasn't going to budge.

"Fine," she said. "Let's go to bed."

She heard the lights shut off behind her, followed by the sound of Daphne climbing wordlessly under her duvet. But before Hermione got into bed herself, she picked up her phone, finding one message waiting for her.

I can't wait to do that again. And again, and again, and again…

She smiled to herself.

Perv, she wrote back.

Oh, absolutely, the perviest. Library tomorrow? I swear I'll keep my hands to myself, no matter how hot and bothered Slughorn's reading list gets me.

Helplessly, Hermione smiled to herself.

She paused for a moment before responding, thinking about Daphne and Theo. Maybe her mother wasn't too far off on some things simply being what the heart wants, she thought, even if the more rational bits weren't quite equipped to handle it. Pansy's warning definitely echoed in Hermione's head, too, but for the moment, she thought maybe she could stand to disregard it.

Maybe we should have a code, Hermione wrote. For when it's okay to have the dirty thoughts.

She watched the text bubble pulse.

Hm, Draco replied. How about you just wear that costume? No, wait—too subtle, I know.

She smothered a laugh in her hand.

How about something small? she asked. Just the ring, maybe. And you can swap your ring, she suggested, from right hand to left. Like a secret code.

Works for me. Hey, ask me where my ring is.

She rolled her eyes, though she caught the sound of a little sniffle from the other bed.

"Hey, Daph," Hermione called across the room. "You okay?"

"I am positively dreadful," Daphne told her, voice muffled into her pillow, and Hermione glanced down at the phone.

Go to bed, she told Draco. I'll see you tomorrow, Bruce.

Really, that's it? Cruel and unusual, Hermione. Cruel and unusual.

"I'm coming," she said, putting her phone aside, and crossed the room to nudge Daphne over, climbing into bed with her. "Want to talk?"

"Absolutely not," Daphne said instantly, rolling onto her back, and then paused, swiping at her eyes. "Actually, yes. Distract me."

Hermione paused, thinking.

"I think I came three times in like, ten minutes," she eventually said. "What is that, some sort of record?"

Daphne giggled softly and turned on her side, facing Hermione.

"You're the best. You know that, don't you?" she asked.

Hermione shrugged. "Happy Halloqueen," she said, and Daphne smiled radiantly before continuing her shameless prying, not even missing a beat.

So, yes, by now I assume you've figured it out. The little gold snake ring on my finger that Pansy picked out for me (ironically, in what she probably considers a horrendous miscalculation on her part) is my answer to Draco's signet ring swap. It was our constant code in those early years, which is mostly a fun fact in that Rita Skeeter never did manage to uncover it, and fooling Rita Skeeter is always fun. You can definitely see I'm wearing the ring in the picture if you look closely enough, but luckily, people weren't in the business of looking at me closely. Not at the time, anyway.

Which is good, really, because if they had been, they might have seen a lot more than they bargained for—especially at that particular party. Amazing how a picture really can be worth a thousand words, even if those words happen to be 'you don't even know the half of what's really going on.' Of course, it's hard not to look at this picture and not feel a mix of happiness and frustration. Happiness, firstly, because I was definitely in the throes of a new romance—you know, the early days with all those helpless butterflies, which I admittedly still feel from time to time when I think about Draco—but definitely also frustration, because poor past Hermione had no idea what would come next. She was thoroughly convinced that if she just kept to the code and followed the rules, she'd never have a problem.

But oh, how wrong she was.

a/n: As always, happy to be here today. Thank you guys for continuing to follow along! Also, if you read (and hopefully also enjoyed) How to Win Friends and Influence People, keep an eye on Amortentia. There will be a follow-up one shot to the pairing in the epilogue going in there soon, if all goes according to plan.

6. Compatibility

Chapter 6: Compatibility

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Fraternity of Men

Despite being an enormously public figure, Prince Draco is not without some semblance of a vibrant private life, including a small circle of friends who have been at his side throughout the years. Though generally quite friendly with most of his peers, even considered quite popular in school, the Prince has always had a history of selecting his favourite companions and subsequently keeping them close. Perhaps because his father Prince Lucius is notoriously vigilant about his privacy, entry to Draco's intimate circle is said to be a difficult thing to earn.

Among the Prince's confidants are a mix of school chums and longstanding friends of the royal family. From boyhood, the Prince was often seen in the company of the quiet but sensible Theodore Nott, whose father, the elder Theodore, is a Knight of the Garter, having been invested in 1990 by his longtime friend King Abraxas. While at Eton College, Draco and Theodore were joined by the puckish and oft-misbehaving Blaise Zabini, son of illustrious songbird and national treasure Esmeranda Zabini. All three boys would later go on to attend Hogwarts University, subsequently sharing a flat for their final year of schooling.

Of course, no account of Draco's personal life would be complete without mention of His Royal Highness Henry James Potter, Duke of Grimmauld, whose relationship to his adopted cousin, the Prince, would ultimately account for perhaps the most formative friendship of Draco's youth. The so-called Prince Harry (closest in line to the throne after Draco and his father) was, from the beginning, Draco's opposite in nearly all things. Unlike Prince Draco's parents, whose intensely scrutinized relationship is considered a failure by even the most generous accounts, Harry's parents, James and Lily Potter, Earl and Lady Godric, had a famously touching love story that ended with disaster when Harry was barely one year of age. The accident which killed the Potters—an unexpected plane crash which resulted in an outpouring of mourning from the world—is broadly considered one of the great tragedies of the twentieth century.

Most citizens of Britain are perhaps equally likely to remember the wedding of Prince Lucius and Princess Narcissa as they are to recall the fateful day some years later when the world lost the two young Potters. But while Draco has often skirted the press, Harry has openly welcomed coverage of his life. Where Draco was reserved and private, Harry's personality and tendency towards illicit affairs would ultimately make him a tabloid darling.

Differences aside, however, Draco and Harry have always been exceptionally close, almost always seen to be smiling and laughing in one another's presence. By all accounts, tension between the two starkly different men is such a rarity as to render the friendship incredibly unburdened; in fact, those close to them often go as far as to say Draco and Harry consider themselves brothers, a statement which no one would contest.

Oh really, Rita? No one would contest it? Am I to understand, then, that you suddenly don't remember the time you wrote a headline about Draco nearly punching Harry the night before he proposed to me? I believe your exact words at the time were 'BITTER RIVALS COMMENCE ROYAL BRAWL,' so I'm going to go ahead and say I want whatever you're taking. I could certainly do with some memory modification.

Really, Rita's nonsense aside (and the comment about Lucius, who is less 'vigilant about his privacy' than he is 'friendless and unlikeable'), it will never cease to amaze me that two men as different as Harry and Draco had ever managed to find common ground.

Even more amazing? That for a time, that common ground was me.

October 31, 2010
Hogwarts University

Alcohol consumption had the strange (or not-so-strange; she'd done the research and knew the basis for the phenomenon, but for all intents and purposes it certainly remained highly unwelcome) effect of prompting Hermione to keep ungodly hours the following morning. When her eyes snapped open just before six, she slithered out from under Daphne's duvet and collided neatly with her bed frame, stifling a yelp as she stumbled sideways.

Coffee, she thought.

Coffee would be most welcome.

That, and water.

And possibly something to stop the invigorated pounding between her ears.

She forced herself upright with a wince, layering on some clothes (her fuzzy Patagonia, some old Carondelet sweatpants, and a pair of ankle-high Uggs—all things she avoided wearing here under all circumstances short of the ones involving her present state of death-approximation, and which certainly should not have been worn together) and careening into the hall, promptly forgetting her keys and phone inside her room. She sighed, rubbing at the recalcitrant swelling between her temples.

Clearly, she was off to an excellent start.

"Oh, hey," she heard as she made her way into the common room, grasping at the banister for stability and taking each step with pained deliberation. "Nice outfit."

She looked up groggily to find Harry sitting on one of the leather sofas, grinning widely as she managed to place both feet on the ground.

"Nailed the landing," Harry congratulated her, and Hermione sighed.

"Coffee," she managed.

"Ah yes, I see," Harry agreed, rising to his feet and heading over to the coffee maker, which had thankfully already been put to use. He was showered and dressed, his hair still a little damp and falling onto his forehead, and Hermione sidled over (feet shuffling in a way Pansy would surely bark her opposition to) and squinted up at him, frowning.

"Something's different," she noted, staring closely at his face.

"Is it?" Harry asked, sliding a mug over to her and refilling his own. At her continued inspection, he chuckled, nudging her to follow. "Come on. Let's get you some fresh air."

"Your face," she registered, obediently wrapping her fingers around the ceramic mug and dragging after him (Are you lost, Hermione? she imagined Pansy saying, because otherwise, I cannot imagine why your toes would need to personally identify each of the floorboards—?) in something of a hazy epiphany. "Your face has glasses on it."

To that, Harry was clearly fighting laughter. "Yes, my face does have glasses on it, well spotted. You know, you won't believe this, but I even use my nose to hold them up from time to time."

She rolled her eyes, grumbling something incoherent into her mug as he led her out into the corridor, making his way towards the castle's lake-facing doors with a patient approximation of her positively glacial pace.

"What was that?" he asked her, holding a cheery hand to his ear.

"Why," she clarified, detaching her mouth from her mug after burning the roof of her mouth, "are you wearing glasses?"

"Because I'm practically blind," he informed her, shrugging. "Weak eyesight. I got it from my father."

"But—"

"I wear contacts," he clarified. "But this morning I was rather without the urge to stick my fingers in my eyes. After you," he added, ushering her through the door, at which point she was hit with a crisp smack of near-wintry air, shivering slightly before pulling her jacket closer. "I always love a frigid start to the day, don't you?"

"Mmphmh," she replied succinctly, and he laughed again, tucking his free hand into his pocket and sipping his cup of coffee as they made their way down to the lake. It gleamed in the distance, preternaturally still; the willow tree beside the castle swung in the breeze, unimpressed by their presence.

"So," Hermione managed after a few moments in silence. "You're up early."

"As are you," Harry pointed out. "Though 'up' is a highly literal term. Upright, yes. Awake, slightly less so."

"Alive? Only barely," Hermione contributed drily, and Harry ducked his head, amiably smiling down at his feet before sparing her a sidelong glance, briefly skimming what was surely her disastrous profile. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, taking another sip before adding, "You looked like you were having fun last night."

She felt her cheeks flush slightly, fingers tightening around her cup. "Yeah, well, you always look like you're having fun," she pointed out, giving him what she hoped was a playful nudge. "I think you might be the most consistently cheerful person I've ever met."

"Well, you don't see me very often," he reminded her wryly. "I only come here for academia and debauchery. Academic debauchery, I should say," he amended, as she arched a brow, doubtful. "Other kinds of debauchery are, of course, reserved for separate occasions."

"Of course," she agreed, shaking her head before glancing at him. "Did you have fun?"

It took a moment. His mouth parted and paused, his tongue slipping out to moisten his lips before he finally scraped a hand through his hair, mouth twitching with something that wasn't quite the wattage of his usual grin.

"I did," he said eventually, but she made a face, flashing him what she hoped was an elegantly skeptical glance and not something too terribly unhinged. "I did," he repeated emphatically, laughing a little this time. "It's just—" He paused, eyeing the contents of his mug. "Halloween is a difficult time for me," he informed his coffee, taking another sip of it as Hermione frowned at him.

Caffeine had begun to supply her with something approximating her usual means of parsing emotional subtlety, though the rest of her hangover was less on board. "You're not going to be coy with me, are you?" she asked him, possibly a little too bluntly, though he took it with another glance of amusement. "I mean, coy isn't really one of your strengths."

"That," he said, "is extremely offensive. I'm not coy?"

She considered it. "You're more like… flagrantly bold. Boldly reckless?" she amended, and squinted into nothing, trying and failing to explain herself. "I mean, you're very, like—boom. Harry's here, take it or leave it. Feast your eyes, et cetera."

"Feast your eyes?" he echoed, playfully disbelieving. "Wow. Wow—"

"Hey, it's a compliment," Hermione insisted. "You know what you want and you go for it. Sometimes I wish I had your balls. Figuratively, of course," she added, with a fleeting glance at his smugly arched look of Is that so? "Though I'm sure your balls are, you know. Wonderful and all that."

"Wow," he said again, shaking his head as he curled a hand around his mouth. "You are… wow."

He was laughing into his palm. "Stop," she muttered, giving his arm a shove. "I'm weakened, okay? My intellect's been injured."

"Has it?" he prompted wryly. "Because if you do have curiosities about whether or not what I'm working with is wonderful, then—"

"Stop," she said again, a little flushed this time. He caught her shift in tone—identified the reticence—and gratifyingly cleared his throat, changing the subject.

"Anyway," he said, forcefully engaging a brighter tone. "Like I said, Halloween is something of a mixed bag, but it was certainly a fun night. Draco even managed to have fun, which is saying something."

For whatever reason, Hermione didn't particularly want to talk about Draco. Maybe because it felt a bit like a test. Harry had certainly dropped him into the conversation deliberately, and she knew he'd seen them dancing together the night before. Considering she didn't want to get into it before she'd had the opportunity to use any brain cells on the topic, she opted to guide the conversation elsewhere.

"What's wrong with Halloween?" she asked instead, and caught the motion of his uncomfortable swallow. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if it's something personal," she demurred quickly, "I just thought, you know. If you wanted to, you could—"

"It's fine," he assured her, as she rushed to fill her mouth with coffee rather than chance any further episodes of insensitivity. She watched him take a stabilizing breath before explaining, "It's my parents. They died on Halloween. Plane crash," he clarified, as Hermione tried not to choke on her stupidly overlarge swallow of coffee, having expected slightly lighter fare than the death of both his parents. "My dad was piloting my mum on what was supposed to be a quick flight from Cornwall. He'd done it dozens of times before," he added, swallowing. "Was a pilot in the Army Air Corps."

Hermione said nothing. Harry was eyeing his mug.

"Fluke accident," he said after a moment. "I mean, I have the benefit of knowing every single expert in Britain reviewed the detail of the flight piece by piece," he added, sparing her a somewhat humorless laugh she suspected was meant to make her feel more comfortable. "Nobody knows what happened. Plane was reported missing, and then they found my mother's suitcase in the water. But then—"

He broke off, and Hermione reached out, lightly touching his arm.

"You don't have to talk about them if you don't want to," she said quietly, and he shook his head in disagreement, not quite looking at her.

"You know, I spend every other day of the year trying not to think about them. So, that being the case," he exhaled sharply, "on Halloween, I think it's something I go through on purpose. Thinking about them as much as I can."

She felt impossibly sad for him; not that she quite knew how to translate that sort of pain, even under normal circumstances. Considering she was working with even less at the moment, she found herself lamentably empty-handed.

"Harry," she attempted softly, hoping he might hear something closer to I'm so sorry, and he glanced at her, forcing a smile.

"See?" he said. "Not always cheerful. Very disappointing, I'm sure."

"No," she told him. "No, not at all." She paused for a moment, catching the twitch of reservation at his jaw, and tugged him towards the lake, continuing their walk. "Tell me about them," she suggested, and he glanced at her, questioning. "Your parents. I didn't read about them in the papers," she reminded him, "so I'm a blank slate. I don't know anything about them. You can tell me anything. Everything." She shrugged, gesturing to her coffee. "I've got time."

Harry's smile then was something she hadn't seen before. It wasn't reckless, and it wasn't for show. He smiled with gratitude, and it warmed her as much as it brought edges of softness to his face, relief pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"The thing is," he said, clearing his throat and thinking, "I was only a year old when they died, so I don't know a lot of things outside of what my godfather told me. Everything I have is secondhand information."

"I promise not to fact-check with any unauthorized biographies," Hermione assured him gravely, and Harry chuckled, the smile on his face broadening.

"Well," he began, and though it must have been painful to recount, the smile on his face remained. "For starters, my father was aristocracy, but my mother wasn't. And when they met, my mother apparently had no interest in my father. In fact, she was dating someone else," he added, "but Sirius said James—my dad," he clarified, and Hermione nodded, "eventually won her over."

The warmth of the memory on Harry's face was enough to prompt Hermione to a smile herself. "How'd he do it?"

"Well, genetically gifted hair, for one thing," Harry said, gesturing to his own with a grin, "and a truly abominable persistence. He knew," he added with a wistful glance. "My godfather always said, 'James took one look at Lily and he knew,' and when she told him there was no way he could be so sure—because again," Harry said with a playful laugh, "she'd had a boyfriend, a fairly nice bloke she'd been dating for ages who was all set to propose to her—my dad just looked her in the eye and said, 'Take your time. I'm sure enough for both of us.'"

His smile faded for just a moment, fleetingly succumbing to obvious longing before brightening again as he glanced at Hermione.

"You sure you want to hear all this?" he asked her, and she could feel herself mirroring his smile.

"Tell me everything you remember," she said, and before long, she barely noticed her coffee had long since gone cold, the two of them chatting about his parents as the lake breeze swirled around them, carrying with it a hint of cedar and jasmine.

By the time Draco announced his presence at her door with his usual penitent raps of arrival, Hermione had managed to eat, shower, and regain some semblance of legitimate personhood, arriving at the threshold with a smile she battled with and lost, leaving behind the rotting corpses of her restraint (or at the very least, her self-preservation).

"Hi," she said, absurdly breathless.

"Hi," he returned, and upsettingly, he looked as though he'd had a perfectly restful night. His hair was parted neatly, his usual cashmere sweater looking buttery enough to spread on toast, and his trousers were perfectly pressed, the entire effect of him as neat and orderly as if he'd done nothing remotely sinful the night before, or possibly ever.

"Oh, hello," Daphne contributed unhelpfully, appearing in the door frame with a wink. "My goodness, Your Highness, what a surprise! Is there something one of our eligible ladies could help you with?"

"Will you desist," Hermione muttered, elbowing a laughing Daphne and closing the door behind her, hastily letting out a breath as she faced Draco in the corridor. "So," she exhaled, as he stifled a laugh at her obvious roommate-related trauma. "Library?"

"Yes, of course," he said, pointedly gesturing to the bag slung across his shoulders. "Ah, though, wait a moment—Daphne," he called without knocking, and the door immediately opened, revealing she'd yet to vacate the frame.

"Yes?" Daphne asked, with a merciless grin at Hermione.

"I wondered if you and Hermione might attend a little party my grandfather's hosting in two weeks," Draco said, and admittedly, it took Hermione a few seconds to register Draco was indeed talking about his grandfather, the King of England, in what was highly unlikely to be a 'little' party. "He's having his annual gala in London to celebrate the anniversary of his reign. Fifty-two years," he added to Hermione, who nodded, hoping to look sufficiently impressed by that number, despite having no conceivable method for comparison.

"Theo, Blaise, and Pansy are already attending," Draco clarified, "and Harry, of course, but I would love if you both could be there, too. Out of support for your divinely-appointed monarch, obviously," he assured them, "but also, to take advantage of what will surely be stuffy gin cocktails and paralyzingly dull conversation."

Daphne laughed. "Oh, good, wonderful. My favorite things, delightful—"

But Hermione, on the other hand, had the strangest sensation there was something slightly off about the invitation; something overly formal. She frowned a little to herself, drifting out of the conversation and registering that Draco inviting them both at once seemed to have been a purposeful move. Was it possible he wanted to be absolutely certain Hermione understood it wasn't a date?

She stood a little straighter, hoping the improvement of her posture might conveniently aid the little pinch of nerves that nagged beneath a swell of opposition. She wasn't an idiot, after all. Whatever else had happened between the two of them, she already knew she couldn't be Draco's escort to a royal party, of all things. Was it really necessary to go to these lengths?

She grimaced, scolding herself. So what if he thought it was necessary—did that really matter? It seemed her rationality was losing a battle. Mostly to deflated pride.

"Hermione," Draco said, having apparently been trying to get her attention. "Is that a yes?"

"Hm? Oh, sure, of course," Hermione said.

"Great! We can go shopping next weekend in Edinburgh," Daphne said. "I'll make a date for us with Pansy, which she will of course refuse until the last possible second. Thank you for the invitation, Draco."

"Of course," he told her, smiling. "I couldn't imagine either of you not being there."

There it was again, Hermione thought. Either of you. Was there a chance he'd changed his mind?

She was still pondering it as they made their way through the corridors, walking the all-too-familiar path to the library and scarcely noticing anything else until she felt Draco's fingers wrap around her forearm, tugging her into one of the castle's alcoves. He bent his head to hers, surprising her with a kiss that might as well have been a brutal shot to her solar plexus (read: it knocked the wind out of her).

"Whoa, hello," Hermione said into Draco's mouth, managing one (1) single gulp of oxygen before he was kissing her again, his fingers tight on her hips. Draco had a distinctly citrus scent to him, sharp and layered, like a spiced cocktail. He was all bergamot and sandalwood and cloves, and when he was this close to her, he all but filled her nose and her lungs and her concentration, serving to snatch her sanity right out from underneath her feet. She kissed him back, gloriously, for the span of several moments, until both of them separated just long enough to catch their breaths.

"Sorry," he said, clearing his throat. His cheeks were flushed and his mouth was red, a beautiful dash of colors alighting on his features. "I'd planned to… well. I'd specifically planned not to, actually, but I think the memory of last night got the better of me—"

"Oh?" Hermione asked, pressing her fingers to her lips. Studying was going to be a challenge. "Well, good, I guess," she determined weakly. "I mean, I wondered if maybe you thought, um. That maybe you'd thought better of it, but—"

"What? No," he said, aghast. "Better of it? What does that—"

"Well, you seemed pretty intent on inviting me and Daphne, so I thought—"

"Oh, no," Draco said, withering slightly as he pressed his forehead to hers. "Sorry, I thought—I just thought you'd be more comfortable if you knew you and Daphne were both invited. These things are terrible, honestly, and horribly formal. I always end up talking about the state of morality being in crisis with people my father's age, and anyway, I just… I thought it would be better if you and Daphne had each other, that's all—"

"Oh," Hermione exhaled, half-laughing. He seemed consummately awkward now, resigning himself to rambling as she tightened her grip on him, stroking her thumbs over his cheeks. "No, I was… Sorry. I was being stupid."

"The truth is, it won't be very enjoyable," he told her, looking massively apologetic. "And I'm afraid it's not at all an ideal Saturday evening under any circumstances, but I always feel better knowing you're around, so I thought if you knew everyone else would be there—" He exhaled, sheepish. "I just wanted to be sure you knew you wouldn't be there alone, because…"

He trailed off, bracing himself.

"Because as much as I would like to," he rushed out, "I won't be able to spend much time with you. Much as I wish I could simply show up with you on my arm, the truth is it would be rather… um. It's just—"

"Stop," Hermione exhaled, taking hold of his collar and giving him a little nudge of reassurance. "I get it. We talked about this, remember? We have a code now," she reminded him, brushing her thumb briefly over his lips. "That's enough."

"Is it?" he asked, obviously hesitant.

"Well, of course," she told him. "I'm leaving at the end of December, remember? There's no reason for me to suddenly make your whole evening a spectacle. I mean sure, I'm new here, but even I have some idea what would happen if you arrived at your grandfather's party with some mystery brunette on your arm."

"Well," Draco exhaled, relieved. "Still. That doesn't mean I don't wish I could, you know. Mystery brunette or not," he remarked with a chuckle, taking hold of one of her curls and twining it around his finger. "I really do prefer it when you're close. Probably because I know one day you won't be."

"That's—" Hermione swallowed, closing her eyes briefly. "Well, that's… cool," she finished underwhelmingly, and he laughed again as she shook her head, groaning at her own inability to communicate the precarious combination of god damn it, you always say the right things and how dare you exist so problematically? "I just meant, um. I'm happy to be there. And I understand," she added. "I mean, I'm the reason this can't be anything, right? So it's not like it's fair to expect things I know perfectly well you can't give me."

"You don't have to be fair," he assured her, giving her a slightly less invasive kiss. This one was comforting, affectionate. It struck her less in her unholy knickers and more in the little crevices of her heart. "You can unfairly say things. Or hate things. I know I do."

"Do you?" she asked, playing at doe-eyed innocence.

"Well, you'll never believe this," Draco said solemnly, "but I have it on good authority that other people in the world don't have to hide in castle alcoves when they want to kiss someone."

"Mm, no, I think that might just be a rumor," Hermione informed him. "It certainly sounds fake to me."

"Right? That was my thought. But whatever the case is," he continued, his hand slipping down her wrist to tangle briefly with her fingers, "I like being with you. Around you. Publicly adjacent to you," he joked, leaning forward to kiss the side of her neck. "Even if it's a secret."

"Well," Hermione mused, toying with his signet ring, "just so you know, I can be discreet."

She looked up to find him smiling.

"I look forward to your discretion," he told her, bending to kiss her again.

Much to Hermione's dismay, Draco was called away from Hogwarts the following Monday, though it was something of a relief to be able to focus solely on her schoolwork as he came and went from the castle. Her classwork was intensifying as they ventured further into the second half of term, and outside of Draco's brief appearances—and one or two mostly-clothed makeout sessions when Daphne was in class—Hermione had little to distract her aside from his grandfather's gala.

Though, the impending gala was certainly not not a distraction. Unsurprisingly, Hermione did not own a lot of formal evening gowns—which was to say, of course, that she owned exactly none. Preparation by Pansy about which designers were appropriate for the event (Jenny Packham, as Daphne tended to favor, or Temperley, as Pansy preferred) had done little to improve the situation; there had been no way that Hermione was about to put down two thousand dollars or more on a dress she'd only wear once, as she informed both of them—much as she might have wanted to.

"Well, nobody's going to be looking at you," Pansy had said in response, which was evidently meant to be a reassuring statement. Hermione had learned that with Pansy, the facial expression and not the phrasing was really the best way to determine whether or not she should be insulted, and at present, Pansy bore no discernable traces of mockery. "You could wear positively anything and it really wouldn't make much of a difference."

"Thanks," Hermione sighed, as Daphne spared her a sympathetic eye roll. "So comforting."

"You know, to be honest, there's nothing very good this season," Pansy added to Daphne, either continuing to be ambiguously nice or simply lamenting the failures of haute couture. "Did you see Dior's new line? It's practically the Mad Hatter's tea party. Nothing's remotely wearable, and even the marginally respectable ones would have to be thoroughly lined first."

"Better that than the My Fair Lady travesties from last year," Daphne replied, making a face as Hermione sifted through dresses, continuing to find nothing.

"I told you, that's ridiculous," Pansy told Daphne. "That was entirely in your head."

"Absolutely not. Didn't you see all the lace? And the exorbitant hats? Not to mention the ivory. Nobody needs that many ivory dresses in a single line—"

"Yes, but that's also the line with the—" Abruptly, Pansy paused, eyeing Hermione. "Actually," she began, and immediately pivoted away, digging her phone out of her purse and disappearing without another word.

A week later, Hermione finally sorted out what she'd done.

"Here," Pansy said without preamble, barging in with a garment bag held aloft the moment Hermione opened the door to her room. "I had to have the bodice taken in quite a bit," Pansy said nonsensically, adjusting her blouse over what even Hermione had to admit were objectively marvelous breasts, "or it would have been here sooner, but anyway, here it is."

"Here what is?" Hermione said, and Pansy sighed, nudging her aside to unzip the garment bag on her bed.

"This," Pansy said emphatically, gesturing to what was revealed to be a pale blue, floor-skimming gown with a narrow straps and a high neckline. She turned it, offering Hermione a glimpse of the low back, and replaced it inside the garment bag. "Looks ridiculous on me, so I've never worn it," Pansy sniffed, "but considering your shape, I think you'd get more use out of it."

"Pansy," Hermione said, frowning. "This dress is Christian Dior."

"Yes," Pansy said, nodding curtly as she flicked the label on the garment bag. "Very good, Hermione, you have correctly identified the designer. Brava—"

"But I can't accept th-"

"And hopefully this goes without saying, but I obviously don't want it back," Pansy continued, looking insulted that Hermione would even try. "It's no use to me if it's already worn, and besides—like I said, I look ridiculous in it. Naturally I'd hoped you'd do me the favor of taking it off my hands. Unless, of course, you have some desperate wish to continue being entirely unsuitable," she accused brusquely.

Slowly, Hermione smiled. Then laughed. Then, much to Pansy's dismay, rendered herself unable to answer for several minutes until Pansy finally let out a loud, impatient sigh, about to snatch the hanger back until Hermione's hand shot out, pausing her.

"Sorry," Hermione managed, "I was just—it took me a second to realize you were trying to do something nice for me."

"I wasn't trying to do anything," Pansy sniffed. "You needed a gown, and I happen to have one that makes me look positively shapeless. This is called efficiency, Hermione. This is purely economical."

"Oh, stop. You did a nice thing, Pansy. Own it," Hermione suggested, struggling not to laugh again as Pansy turned her head away, apparently in detest of her own supreme weakness. "Fine—thank you," Hermione sighed, taking the hanger from Pansy and shaking her head. "I will happily do you the favor of wearing a dress that you hate, and which you definitely did not specifically choose and have altered for me so that I would look pretty. How did you even know my measurements, by the way?" she asked, eyeing the gown with the distinct impression it had been masterfully recrafted; impossible to tell by looking, but Hermione was fairly certain it would fit.

"Daphne," Pansy supplied, shrugging. "As you know, she has foolish artistic aspirations. Though please," she added with a notably pained expression, "have a care to how you accessorize it. You'll have to blend, you know. Nothing too ostentatious, so try to ignore your outlandish American impulses. A single necklace," she suggested as Hermione sighed, fighting an eye roll. "Perhaps one—one—bracelet. And you'll have to borrow a clutch, of course, seeing as everything you own looks like it belongs to some sort of vagrant—"

Which was how Hermione came to be wearing custom (in a sense) Christian Dior while holding an Yves Saint Laurent clutch. Her feet wobbled only slightly in a pair of nude Aquazzura pumps she'd borrowed from Daphne, who had a habit of buying her shoes too big and simply padding the toe. "For comfort," Daphne had explained. "Fewer blisters."

Only two things on Hermione's body that night actually belonged to her. Her trusty Victoria's Secret underwear, of course, and the gold snake ring that sat covertly on her finger.

"Did you have to wear that?" Pansy asked her, eyeing it doubtfully. "You're aware this isn't a costumed event, aren't you?"

"Yes, she did have to wear it," Daphne said, giving Pansy a sharp nudge, "so leave her alone. Surely there's someone else here whose choices you can criticize."

"That's true," Pansy agreed, casting a hawkish glance around the room.

"Oh, good, you're here," Blaise announced, sidling up to them with cocktails. "And here I was beginning to wonder if I might have to drink these myself."

"These are clearly yours, but thanks," Daphne assured him, and Blaise spared her a disapproving purse of his lips.

"Minus five for judgment," he said, "but plus two for accuracy."

"Noted," she agreed, clinking her glass against Hermione's and taking a sip. "So," Daphne ventured after a moment, "has anyone seen Draco?"

Hermione was deeply grateful Daphne had been the one to ask. She wasn't sure her own peering around the room would have been very covert.

"Oh, he's around here somewhere," came a voice behind them, and Hermione and Daphne turned to find Harry and Theo approaching, both men dressed formally (as Blaise had been) in polished, well-fitted tuxes.

"In the meantime, you'll have to make do with us," Harry said, smiling down at Hermione, who couldn't help smiling back; Harry's charm was contagious. "So sorry to disappoint, but it is what it is, I'm afraid."

"You look nice," she said, pointedly tapping his black bow tie as he sidled up to her. "I see you left the glasses at home."

"Yes. You may have to keep me from accidentally falling off any balconies," he joked. "Near-blindness is the height of fashion, yes? I hate to think I might have been mislead."

"Oh no, never," she assured him. "Whoever's styling you is right on."

She shifted towards him slightly as beside them, Pansy and Blaise began rapidly discussing some noblewoman's offensively dull footwear. Briefly, Harry's hand rested just below the cut of Hermione's dress, carefully poised on the narrow stretch of fabric above her backside and below her exposed skin to guide her to a more suitable standing position.

"Well, fortunately I'm not actually blind," he murmured, removing his hand gently, "as I think I'd hate myself for the rest of my life if I'd failed to see you in this dress."

Hermione swallowed carefully. "This? It's… certainly different from the last outfit you saw me in," she said wryly, absentmindedly tucking back a curl from her low chignon, and Harry smiled broadly.

"You always look beautiful. No need to qualify it," he informed her, and looked up as Pansy shifted to greet him, brushing her lips smoothly against his cheek.

"You're behaving, I hope?" she said, which appeared to be more a warning than a question, and Harry laughed.

"Oh, only barely. You look nice, Daph," he added to Daphne, who Hermione agreed looked positively breathtaking in a swath of rust-colored silk that would have made almost any other woman look like a slightly rotting pumpkin.

"Oh, thanks, Harry," Daphne replied, and beside her, Theo rolled his eyes.

"Greengrass, honestly. When I tell you you look nice it's some sort of declaration of war, but then Harry says it and it's 'oh, thanks, Harry'—"

From Pansy, with a theatrical sigh: "Will you two please conjure the ability to wait until after food is served to commence your incessant bickering? I simply can't take it on an empty stomach."

From Daphne, defensively: "We're not bickering. Theo's posturing into the void and nobody else is listening."

From Blaise, gleefully: "Ten points to Daphne for total devastation!"

From Theo, loftily: "First of all, take those points back, Blaise, nobody is devastated. Secondly, posturing to my friends is hardly the void, Greengrass. For one thing, the void is much more comforting."

From Harry, with a laugh: "He has a point there."

Blaise, sniffing affectedly: "A point, maybe, but no points."

Theo, with palpable exasperation: "Blaise, whose side are you on?"

Blaise, shrugging: "I like a winner, Theodore. I'm English. It's uncontested glory or nothing."

From Harry: "Per usual, Blaise is always right and never wrong."

Blaise, slyly: "If you think I'll give you points for that—"

Pansy, sighing irritably: "He will."

Blaise: "—I WILL. You can have ten."

From Harry, chuckling into his glass with a wink at Hermione: "It's almost like I planned that."

Theo, to Daphne: "You know, it wouldn't kill you to tell us we look nice, Greengrass."

From Daphne, derisively: "Actually, it might."

From Hermione: "I'll take those odds. You do look nice, Theo. Does your little pocket square have a name?"

Blaise, with gusto: "May I suggest: Rupert."

Harry, clapping quietly: "A dignified name for the silks of a dignified man."

Pansy: "Are you just being indiscriminately sycophantic?"

Harry, with a wink: "Have I mentioned how lovely you look, Lady Parkinson?"

Pansy, scoffing: "Shut up immediately."

Harry: "Never. Your eyes shine like—"

Pansy: "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

Blaise: "Yes, there I agree. You know I loathe false poeticism."

Hermione: "Do you have some opposition to metaphors, Blaise?"

Blaise: "Like a cat to water."

Harry, grinning: "See what he did there? Beauty and brains."

Blaise: "If you think I'll give you points for that—"

Hermione, sighing: "You will?"

Blaise: "—I ABSOLUTELY WILL. Plus ten for Prince Harry."

Harry, smugly: "Personally, I'm feeling very good about all of my decisions."

Hermione: "Whereas I am developing some doubts. I'm beginning to suspect the referee of this game is susceptible to bribery."

Blaise, with piqued interest: "Why, what are you offering?"

Hermione: "What? Nothing. It was a hypothetical pondering."

Blaise, dismayed: "Minus two points!"

Hermione, shaking her head: "That's extortion, Blaise."

Blaise: "What are you, the king?"

Harry, to Pansy: "I'm surprised you passed on that one. You love crime-related wordplay."

Pansy, frowning: "Where are Daphne and Theo?"

Abruptly, the group stopped talking, realizing the other two had, in fact, disappeared.

"There," Hermione said eventually, gesturing to a few feet away where Daphne and Theo were silently arguing behind a pillar. "Is it just me, or does that look like an actual fight?"

"Well, as a general rule, we don't do that here," Harry reminded her. "Here being England, obviously. Our topics of conversation are usually limited to the weather and horses."

"No, affection is for horses. And on occasion, small dogs. But we can discuss other things," Pansy said. "And yes, it does look like they're having a row, so give them their privacy." To that, Hermione blinked, surprised. "What?" Pansy demanded, turning away. "If they wanted an audience, they'd have brought Blaise over to assign them points."

"True," Harry agreed. "I've seen them do it."

"Do you think they'll ever admit they're in love?" Hermione lamented, sighing.

"What is this, time travel?" Blaise demanded. "I'm fairly certain this is how the original wager was placed."

"I think they will," Pansy mused idly, "but, then again, I'm incredibly soft."

To that, Harry, Hermione, and Blaise all spared her a skeptical glance.

"What? Sometimes I'm nice," Pansy snapped, and Harry rolled his eyes, comfortingly patting her head as Daphne and Theo rejoined the group, both looking noticeably ruffled.

Hermione, noting the tensed line of Daphne's mouth, gave her arm a nudge.

"Let's get a drink, shall we?" Hermione said, hoping the others would opt not to mention her glass had scarcely been touched. "Come on," she said, coaxing Daphne towards one of the servers with trays of champagne. She unnecessarily swapped glasses, grimacing in apology to the server as Daphne stood sulkily beside her and sighed, shaking what appeared to be frustration from her shoulders.

"He's just being stupid," Daphne said without preamble or elaboration, taking a large gulp of champagne and wincing. "It's nothing new."

"Actually, you're being especially mean today," Hermione pointed out. "Aren't you? A little."

Daphne opened her mouth to protest and then stopped, conceding with little more than a sigh.

"Is it about the drawings?" Hermione pressed, and when Daphne grimaced, she figured she'd guessed correctly. "I told you, I'm not going to say anything about them. It's just for class," she added, adopting Daphne's careless (and blatantly false) stance on them. "It's nothing."

"I just—" Daphne paused, making a face. "I think he thought it would mean something."

"Oh?" Hermione asked, feigning surprise. "He sat naked as a personal favor for you and assumed you might consider being nicer to him as a result? What an absolute fucking fool," she remarked scathingly, lifting her pinkie as she brought her champagne to her lips.

Luckily, that was enough to jar Daphne from her position of irrationality.

"Fine," she grumbled, wilting slightly. "I'll apologize."

"Good girl," Hermione said, patting her shoulder, and then paused as she noticed someone else had joined their previous spot at the table.

Draco, dressed fantastically in black tie, had popped by to kiss Pansy's cheek and greet Harry, Theo, and Blaise, exchanging what looked to be pleasantries. Harry gestured briefly over his shoulder, ostensibly pointing out where Hermione and Daphne stood a few feet away, and Draco nodded, making a hasty motion with his hand and then departing.

In the opposite direction.

Hermione frowned, and Daphne gave her arm a nudge. "Did you at least see his hand?" she asked, and Hermione shook her head.

"No," she said, and forced herself to straighten. "He was too far away. Maybe he's just busy," she said, hoping to sound airily unfazed, and Daphne gave her a reassuring nod.

"I'm sure he is," she agreed, gesturing to where Draco had joined his father across the room. "He and the Prince of Darkness are supposed to be proving the gossips wrong, I imagine. Must be a truly horrific experience, actually, pretending to get along."

Hermione, who didn't want to think about it, turned back to Daphne, deciding a change in subject was probably best.

"Daphne," she said, "those drawings—"

"Don't," Daphne warned sharply. "You promised never to discuss them."

"Yes, but—"

"I'll apologize," Daphne assured her. "I'll be nice, I promise. Or try to be."

"Will you?" Hermione asked doubtfully.

"Yes," Daphne sighed, giving her arm a tug. "So come on, would you? And try to enjoy yourself," she added, giving Hermione's chin a tap. "Cheer up. We have a party to rejoin."

King Abraxas had a face relatively impossible to miss, considering it was rendered onto not only the country's entire currency but also most of the palace's art. It was difficult to see much from where they'd been seated, but even with the distance, his profile was unmistakable. Like his son and grandson, King Abraxas was a tall men, broad-shouldered, without any noticeable features of age (no portly belly, no stooped posture) outside of grey, slightly thinning hair. If he was any indication of what Draco and Lucius would be in their respective mid-seventies, they clearly had little to worry about.

The king also seemed to possess a slightly better temperament than his son. Occasionally, Abraxas would lean over Lucius to address Draco, and the latter would smile broadly, genuinely entertained. Lucius, meanwhile, would manage a smile that was more like a grimace, opting to remain intently focused on the salad in front of him.

"Narcissa isn't here," Daphne noted to Theo, gesturing to Lucius at the head table. "I thought you said she might come to this."

Theo shrugged. "I think the official palace line is that she's under the weather."

Pansy flashed him a warning glare.

"What?" he demanded. "I've said nothing!"

"Unfortunately," Daphne grumbled, and at Theo's raised brow, she sighed. "Not that I'm not pleased you give us something, anyway."

He nodded his approval, reaching out to tap her nose. "Much better, Greengrass," he said, and Daphne sighed, shaking her head in what was clearly falsified opposition.

After dinner, Hermione felt a nudge at her elbow. "Finally managed to get away from Prince Lucifer and his vapid attempt to right my numerous wrongs," Harry murmured in her ear, appearing at her side where she stood with Theo and Daphne. "Naturally, I told him I needed your help to keep from unforeseen defenestration from the balcony."

"I hope you didn't," she sighed, turning towards him. "I'm not sure if you know this, but the Prince of Darkness isn't my biggest fan."

"Oh, I know," Harry said with a grin. "Makes me like you that much more—which is hard to believe, really, though it's a good lesson. Reminds me never to put a ceiling on my capacity to appreciate you."

For a moment, Hermione wondered if she'd be better off discouraging the undertone of flirtation to the conversation. Privately, though, she was relieved to have Harry's company; Daphne had made good on her promise to be nicer to Theo, which meant the more time Hermione could spend not being their inadvertent third wheel was probably ideal. Meanwhile, Pansy was making small talk with her family friends and Blaise was nowhere to be found, which left Harry—who was admittedly both a very charming conversationalist and a highly attentive friend.

"How's your night going?" she asked him, opting for a delicate change in topic, and he faced her with something of a half-smile.

"These things are generally terrible," he assured her. "My responsibilities are incredibly minimal, of course. Just a few mandatory conversations here and there, but astoundingly, I do tire of people informing me I'm 'quite a scamp' with uncreative jokes about notches and/or bedposts."

"You're absolutely a scamp," Hermione assured him, feigning surprise. "Did you not know that?"

He laughed. "Not everything's what it seems," he assured her. "I'm hardly the rogue people think I am."

"Oh," Hermione said facetiously, "so you didn't sleep with that Scandinavian pop star last month, then?"

Harry opened his mouth, hesitating, and then awarded her the point with a grin.

"Amazing what the Daily Prophet considers news," he said, and Hermione lifted a brow, shaking her head as he laughed. "Okay, fine, so they got one thing right. What are you saying, once in a blue moon qualifies as journalism?"

"Not remotely," she assured him. "But you have to admit, you have a reputation."

Briefly, Harry's smile flickered.

"Is that really what you think of me?" he asked, and she blinked, caught off guard.

"Of course n-"

"Because I'm really not what the tabloids say," Harry said, looking genuinely bothered. "I thought you'd know that."

"Harry," Hermione exhaled, reaching out to close her hand firmly around his wrist. "Of course not. Of course not. I'm sorry, I was just teasing," she assured him. "I know you. I know you're far more than they say you are."

Unfortunately, his brow remained furrowed. "But that's why you never bothered to consider me an option, isn't it," he said, and it was less a question than a statement, leaving her voiceless in response. "You picked Draco because he's the responsible one—is that it? Because he's the good prince who knows how to behave, and therefore he would never hurt you?"

"Oh, come on. You were never seriously interested in me," Hermione scoffed, and Harry shifted towards her, abruptly standing very close.

"Wasn't I?" he asked in a low voice, and horribly, Hermione found herself suddenly quite unable to breathe, her pulse shooting up in her throat and lodging somewhere near the back of her teeth.

"I—" She forced herself to swallow. "Harry, you were—"

"You can't tell me you were never attracted to me," Harry told her, green gaze flicking over what was surely turmoil on her face. "So what was it that kept you away, Hermione? You thought I just wanted to sleep with you because you saw that once on the cover of a magazine?"

She thought of the many, many times she'd been close to him and wondered the same thing for herself. If she'd known nothing about Harry when she met him, would she have let something romantic happen between them?

She wished she had a better answer.

"I like you," Harry said flatly, and Hermione balked, utterly taken aback by the bluntness of the statement. "I liked you the moment I met you. This has never been a joke for me. It's not some kind of pointless conquest. Why do you think I told you about my parents?"

"Harry," Hermione said, swallowing hard, "I just—"

"I get it. You made your choice. You want Draco." He was still far too close, and her recalcitrant pulse throbbed somewhere in her ears. "He's the closest thing I have to a brother and I'd never do anything to hurt him, so consider this my white flag. But maybe someday you'll realize you could be with someone who doesn't ignore you," he pointed out, and in response, she did everything she could not to flinch. "Believe it or not, there are men in the world capable of putting you first."

He leaned forward, and for a moment, she stood absolutely still, not entirely sure what she would do if he kissed her. Her entire collection of useless limbs simply froze in place, bewildered and uncertain and vaguely terrified—not of what he wanted, but of what she might possibly want—but in the end, Harry merely brushed his lips against her cheek, delivering her to a violent shiver at what would look to a casual observer as nothing worth remarking at all.

"I just want you to know you have another option," Harry said softly in her ear, and then he turned away, leaving her to stare after him as he left to speak to someone across the room.

"What was that about?" Daphne asked, giving Hermione a nudge in Harry's absence.

Somehow, Hermione managed not to collapse in a boneless heap.

"Nothing," she said, forcibly clearing her throat and turning back to Theo and Daphne. "Just Harry being Harry."

She caught Theo's brow furrowing questioningly and turned away.

"Well," Theo attempted, forging ahead with something of a spirited aim for enthusiasm, "I think it's about time we pry Draco out from Prince Lucifer's clutches, don't you?"

Hermione, who genuinely hadn't the slightest idea if seeing Draco would be a crushing disappointment or a blessed relief, managed a nod.

"Sure," she said lamely, forcing a smile at Daphne's apprehensive glance.

"Oh good," remarked Prince Lucius, giving each of them a brief look of total disinterest. "Your friends are here."

"Father," Draco said through a carefully curated smile, "cameras."

Briefly, Lucius' hands tightened (he and his son had more in common than purely grey eyes and identical builds, Hermione thought, wondering if such a thing were worth pointing out to Draco on the off-chance he needed something else to go on) but he gave a polite smile, nodding vaguely in their direction as the cameras went off around them.

Don't look at the cameras, Pansy had warned (or more accurately, preemptively scolded) and don't expect Draco to look at you. If there's even a hint of eye contact there'll be dating rumors all over tomorrow's front page, and by next week you'll be pregnant with twins.

Well, my goodness, I had no idea Draco was so virile, Hermione remarked, and Pansy scowled.

I hope you mean that, she retorted, seeing as ill-wishing his sperm count would be actual treason.

"Well, if that's all," Lucius said, pointedly skirting Hermione as he let his gaze skim the tops of their heads, "I haven't spoken to the French ambassador yet." His grey eyes cut to Draco's, arching a pale brow. "I presume you won't be long?"

Draco shook his head. "Of course not, Father. I'd be happy to join you in just a moment."

His fingers tapped pointedly at his thigh, catching Hermione's attention.

Briefly, she smiled, noting the telling glint from his left hand.

"Theo," Draco said, casually leaning towards him as Lucius wandered away, "would you mind permitting me a small favor?"

"By all means, my liege," Theo replied, inclining his head. "The usual favor?"

"That's the one," Draco said curtly.

"Tonic or syrup?" Theo asked.

"Tonic."

"Shaken or stirred?"

"Shaken."

"With a twist?"

"Yes, please. Twenty minutes?"

"Twenty minutes it is," Theo confirmed, and Draco nodded, pivoting away without another word as Hermione and Daphne exchanged a glance, bewildered.

"What?" Theo asked them. "You both look distinctly nonplussed."

"What was that?" Hermione asked, frowning.

"Hm?" Theo replied, feigning ignorance. "Oh, that? Can't tell you, of course. Matter of national security."

Daphne sighed. "Theodore, honestly—"

"Well, suffice it to say," Theo said, tilting his head with a scarcely suppressed laugh, "Draco just informed me that if Hermione were so inclined, she might wish to join him in a more private setting."

Hermione blinked, recalling the placement of his signet ring. "That's…"

"Vaguely mistress-y," Daphne supplied.

"Yes," Hermione agreed, nodding to her. "That's approximately the term I was looking for."

"Well, if it helps, it's not typically a protocol for that," Theo said, rolling his eyes. "He often briefly escapes from these types of events. Usually to have a drink with one of the notorious Bad Lads without any snide comments from Rita Skeeter, which is hardly mistress-y at all."

"Just out of curiosity," Hermione said with a frown, "exactly how involved are you in Draco's sex life?"

"There's genuinely not an answer to that question you'll like," Theo assured her gravely, closing a hand around her shoulder, "and anyway, you certainly don't have to, but obviously he couldn't extend the invitation himself. If he'd asked you directly—"

"Yes, yes, I'd be pregnant within the week," Hermione grumbled, having already been well and fully briefed on the matter.

"Ah, I can't speak to that," Theo assured her. "Well, more accurately, I probably could, but I won't."

Daphne shook her head, frowning at him. "I honestly worry about you."

"Glad to hear it," Theo informed her cheerfully. "So, Hermione? Any thoughts? Requests? Anecdotes? Enemies whose bloodlines you wish to curse? This is a safe place for all of the above," he assured her, and after a moment to acknowledge the absurdity of his existence, Hermione glanced down at the ring on her hand, fighting a brief smile at the memory.

"Alright," she conceded eventually, letting out a breath. "Where am I going?"

"Okay, may I just open with: I am incredibly sorry," Draco rushed out the moment she entered the room, launching to his feet. "This is obviously ridiculous and if you want me to disappear and never speak to you again, I totally understand."

"Nice place," Hermione noted in lieu of an answer, glancing around as she shut the door behind her, determining at the last second a discreetly-handled lock was probably best, if not incredibly presumptuous. Better presumption than disaster, she reasoned, given they weren't all that far from the ceremonial drawing rooms. "Is this someone's study?"

"Mine," he confirmed, stepping tentatively towards her. "My grandfather had it built for me around my eighteenth birthday. Said a young man needed a place for quietude."

Hermione blinked. "This isn't… your house, is it?"

Draco laughed. "It is and it isn't. I have some things here," he clarified. "It does have many available rooms, as you might have guessed. But no, I don't live here."

"Oh." She cleared her throat, suddenly awkward. "Well."

"You look beautiful," Draco said, taking her hand in his. He ran his thumb carefully over her coiled snake ring, smiling at it with remnants of what must have been an identical memory to the one she'd had just minutes before. "I wish I could have spoken to you sooner, by the way. I'm positively dying of boredom."

"If it helps, small talk hasn't been known to cause fatalities," Hermione assured him, letting him lace his fingers with hers. "I mean, I'm sure correlated calamities do happen from time to time, but I'm afraid the science just isn't there."

"Ah, my apologies," he said, using his free hand to brush her hair from her eyes. "I've missed you this week," he told her, smiling slightly. "Unfortunately a few calls and texts to check in every couple of days isn't quite the same as being able to…" he trailed off, taking her face in his hands to guide her chin up, brushing his lips lightly against her neck, "touch you."

"Oh, is it not?" she asked, feigning indifference in the midst of an embarrassingly full-bodied thrill. "I hadn't noticed."

"Ouch." He leaned forward, his tongue darting out briefly against the lobe of her ear. "Hurtful, Hermione."

"Well, it's your fault," she reminded him as he leaned back, half-sitting on his desk and pulling her closer. "It's amazing you get anything done for school."

"It really is, isn't it?" Draco replied. "Though, considering I've done such masterful work this evening playing dutiful son and heir, I've finally convinced my father to let me finish out the rest of term without interruption. And, if I'm being foolishly honest, I'd hoped," he murmured, and slid his hand down, stroking his thumb along her jaw, "you might find that to be good news."

Her stupid heart leapt into her useless throat as she leaned her forehead against his, running her fingers over his mouth. "You're coming back for real?" she asked, a little more eagerly than she'd intended.

She felt his smile spread out from under the tips of her fingers. "Yes. I promise." He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I may only get a few more weeks of time, but for as long as I've got, I'm going to spend it with you."

Well, that was sweet, she thought grimly.

Unhelpfully sweet. Frankly, how dare he?

She sighed, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. "You're doing it again," she admonished him grumpily.

"Mm?" he asked. He ran his hands lightly up her spine, tracing idle patterns on the bare skin of her back until she felt a shiver expel from the blades of her shoulders, her very bones fruitlessly unable to persist with normal behavior.

"You're doing it again. Saying the things." He kissed her as she gave a disapproving sigh, letting him curve a hand around her cheek. "Saying all the right things. You're impossible."

"Impossible?" he echoed, with the ghost of a croaking laugh.

"Yes." She slid her fingers down from his hair, hooking them in his collar. "It's absolutely stupid that I'm even here with you right now."

"It is, isn't it?" he agreed, half-laughing. "Stupider that you aren't staying."

"Well, I can't stay," she said, which was a thing. Definitely a thing.

He kissed her again, his royal tongue sliding deftly between her lips to dance fleetingly along hers. "You could, though," he murmured. "Metaphysically speaking, I mean."

"Hm?" she asked, dazed.

"You could finish the year at Hogwarts. It's sort of a good school," he reminded her with a laugh. "Certainly been around longer than whatever that place is you came from."

"Ah, yes," she lamented. "The clown college that is Stanford—"

"But this is, of course, totally a matter of physical states of being," he assured her. "I'm only saying that if you stayed, for example, the earth wouldn't fall off its axis. I read that in a book once, so I'm fairly confident it's true."

"You don't know that," Hermione scolded firmly. "You're hardly qualified to be some sort of astrophysics expert. Unless you're a doctor prince? Prince-Doctor of Wales and Also Science?"

"To be honest, I barely know all my titles," Draco said, shrugging. "It could be in there for all either of us know, and then wouldn't you feel absolutely foolish?"

His hands slipped under the fabric of her dress, alternately skating over the material and darting under it as he drew his fingers along her back. She, meanwhile, had slid her fingers down over his chest, resting her palms against the muscle that strained against the fabric.

"You know what's foolish," she remarked, closing her eyes as he leaned forward, brushing his lips across the line of her clavicle, "is that I haven't seen you naked."

He stopped, halting in place, lips still pressed to the bone of her shoulder.

"Well," he said. "That does seem a grave error."

"Fixable, though," she said, leaning back to meet his eye. "Don't you think?"

He blinked, somewhere between exhilarated and terrified. "Here?"

She gave a theatrical sigh. "You're right," she told him, "that would be inappropriate. I mean, Bruce might do it," she mused, blithely tapping her mouth, "but Draco can't, of course. That would just be silly."

"Well," Draco said, obviously fighting a grin. "Draco certainly wouldn't be able to do it alone. Whoever Hermione felt the need to be would have to do it, too."

"As a reminder, I don't need an alter ego," she informed him. "Believe it or not, being a lowly commoner is my entire identity, so I feel highly confident saying—" She paused, leaning forward to speak in his ear. "The zipper," she murmured, placing his hand on the concealed seam at the base of her back, "is right here."

His hand smoothed around her backside, pausing.

"For the record," he ventured hoarsely, "this is not what I brought you here for."

"Well, maybe this isn't about you, Your Highness," she told him, leaning away and arching a brow. "I mean, I do have expectations." She tugged at his bow tie. "Like, for example, you'd have to go first."

He tilted his head, considering her. His eyes darted briefly to the clock on the wall, and then back to her.

"I shouldn't," he said. "My father will be expecting me back any minute."

Abruptly, Harry's face popped into her head—believe it or not, Harry whispered in Hermione's ear, there are men in the world capable of putting you first—and she brusquely shoved him out.

"Well, of course," she said, feeling a little flushed with embarrassment. She'd clearly gotten carried away. "It can wait. I just thought it'd be—"

Draco cut her off with a motion; the loosening of his tie from around his neck, and then he slid it out from his collar, holding it aloft for her to observe before letting it drop to the floor.

"Oh," she said, abruptly breathless, and he removed his jacket without any change in expression, setting it neatly on his desk before turning his attention to his cufflinks, removing them from his sleeves and setting them carefully aside.

"Now, you have to understand," he began, kicking his shoes off and beginning to unbutton his shirt, "I am somewhat pressed for time, so there will have to be rules. Fair is fair, and I'll want to see what's under there," he said, waving a hand in a general reference to her dress, "so no suddenly getting shy when it's your turn. Understood?"

She nodded dumbly, watching him ease his shirt over his shoulders before setting it aside. The more clothing items he removed, the less she seemed able to speak. The larger her tongue got, in fact. Was her tongue expanding? It didn't seem to fit in her mouth. It seemed to prefer the real estate of Draco's abdomen, in fact, which was actively playing host to a lavishly articulated landscape of muscle.

Belt. Socks. Weird order, Hermione thought vacantly, but when the trousers were next to go, she abandoned brain function altogether, holding her breath as Draco tugged the zipper down over her uncontested sovereign: his royal dick. The pants, too, were removed with abject care, and when he stood there in a pair of impossibly fitted black boxer-briefs proudly bearing the name of what would surely become her new deity (Hugo Boss), she actually clapped her hand over her mouth, pleading with herself to be reasonable.

He slid the underwear down his legs and kicked them aside, waiting.

"So," Draco said, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot under her gaze. "Uh."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Hermione whispered into the palm of her hand.

"Is that—"

"Don't speak." She stared at him, stepping slightly to the side to view him from different angles. "Are you… are you serious? Turn around," she demanded, and he seemed to be struggling not to laugh, obediently rotating for her to appreciate the details of his construction. "You're like the fucking statue of David."

"Actually, technically his penis is—"

"Please don't talk right now," Hermione said, pained. "I'm really not listening."

Draco laughed, shaking his head. "I believe I mentioned something about an exchange?"

She blinked. "Oh, right, um—" She slid her feet out of her shoes, setting them aside (noting, additionally, that it was a miracle she'd left them on this long; Daphne was clearly onto something) and reached behind her, struggling to sort out the clasp at the back of her dress. "Could you…?"

He stepped forward, carefully adjusting the clasp and undoing the zipper.

"Thanks, I just need to—"

Hermione wiggled ungracefully out of her gown, careful not to wrinkle it, and then stepped out of her trusty no-show thong. "Okay, well," she said, and swallowed, forcing herself not to slouch. Shoulders back, she thought. That would make everything look better. Right? "Anyway, this is—"

"Nope," Draco said, cutting her off to lean appreciatively against his desk, casting a glance over her. "Fair is fair. Spin."

Hermione rolled her eyes, commencing a theatrical rotation until they'd arrived face to face, clumsily colliding. Draco pulled her into his arms, hair falling onto his forehead, and kissed her forehead with a surprisingly unburdened laugh, as much unlike himself in that moment as Harry had been just hours before—which, again, she tried not to think about.

"You're incredible," Draco told her, tilting her chin up for his kiss. "Absolutely incredible."

In response, she tightened her fingers on his hips, experimentally digging her nails in.

"Could do some incredible damage to your desk," she suggested at a whisper, wondering for precisely one moment what had come over her before discarding the thought entirely and guiding him towards it. "If, you know. You wanted."

He deepened the kiss, absolutely dizzying her before sweeping an arm around her and lifting her up, settling her on top of the wood and chuckling into her mouth as she inhaled sharply, startled by the change in temperature. His skin was searing hot by comparison, and hers not much better; she let him lay her back and then pulled him down to her, fitting her hands possessively around the angles of his scapulae.

"Hermione," Draco said, turning his head to her ear as she slid her legs around his waist, tugging him closer. "Can I say something horribly unfair?"

Her fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck, finding roots and holding on. "Yes?"

The world went quiet as she waited. Outside the sound of her beating heart and the palpable silence of impending words from his tongue, everything stopped. Draco turned his head, pressing his lips to her ear, and said one thing:

"Stay."

She closed her eyes, breath catching in her throat.

"That's horribly unfair," she informed him, voice ragged, and he pulled back to look at her.

"I told you it was," he said. He paused a moment and then forced out, "Just pretend I didn't say it."

They looked at each other for a long moment, waiting for something she wasn't entirely sure would come.

Eventually, she cleared her throat, glancing down at their compromising (though not nearly compromising enough) position. "Do you have a, um. Do you have a—"

"Yes," he said, looking uneasy. "But—"

"Please don't make this more than I can handle right now," she blurted without warning, which wasn't something she realized she felt until she'd said it. "I want you, okay? I definitely want the next few weeks. I want to stare at you naked and study with you on friday nights and I want all of you, all the time, for the next few weeks—but I don't want to talk about this. Okay?"

He nodded carefully, swallowing. "You're sure you still want to…?"

"Yes. Absolutely, I've never been more sure about anything." She sat up slightly, hoisting herself up on one elbow and reaching out to curl a hand around the back of his neck. "Please," she beckoned as salaciously as she could manage, "put your royal penis inside me right now, Prince of Dicks, before your father notices you're off slumming it with peasants."

He managed a throaty chuckle, reaching somewhere into his desk drawer, and she lay back with her eyes closed (body tingling, all headily percussive things; heart pounding like steps against the pavement, blood drumming up against the tunnels of her veins) until she felt him return to her, his lips penitently finding hers.

She didn't expect it to be slow, given everything, and she was glad when it wasn't. She was relieved, in fact, that from the moment he filled her, palm flat against her stomach while he pressed his lips to the inside of her knee, it was urgent and frantic and hurried; something to shake her out from the grips of her fear when her instinctive response to his impractical whisper of stay was an equally impractical shout of yes. She dug her nails into his hips and he tugged her down on the wood, pulling her closer; letting his mouth travel over her neck and shoulders and lips to fall with excruciating imprecision; until here, here, here? was met with a much less burdened yes, yes, yes.

Sex was still new and thrilling; maybe one day she'd want more than to simply watch the sheen of sweat glowing from the curves of his shoulders, glinting from the ridges of his chest—but today, she swore she might have gotten off just from watching. When she finished—one leg thrown over his shoulder with his chest pressed down to hers, bent near in two and making words like penetration and friction and contortion into irresponsibly unhelpful understatements—he came shortly after, choking out something as perfectly incoherent as she and her stupid heart felt.

He released her leg first, letting it fall from his shoulder, and then shifted to take her in his arms, turning his head towards her as they both caught their breaths. It was the gradual release of a long-held exhalation; coming down with all the patient ease of a slowly-turning tide.

She felt his hesitant swallow; felt his heart thud patiently beside hers.

"I don't want to pretend I didn't say it," he eventually confessed, breathing slowly out as his lips brushed against her ear.

In response, Hermione looked down at her ring, eyeing the shape of the coiled snake from where she'd slid her hands up his back, fitting herself perfectly into him.

One pulse.

Two.

Three.

"I'll think about it," she conceded quietly, and he brushed his lips against her cheek, satisfied.

Here's the thing about unfair statements: just because they're unfair doesn't mean they're untrue. In my experience, some of the most unfair statements I've ever heard (stay, I love you, choose me) have also been some of the truest.

Another truth? I sometimes go back to those first couple of months and consider what would have happened if instead of studying on Friday nights with Draco, I'd gone dancing with Harry. Would I love him now? Could it have ever been his ring on my finger? That's not nearly how things went, of course, and I'm positive neither of us would have it any other way—but still, sometimes I wonder.

Not for long, though. For one thing, I'm confident I wouldn't be who I am now without my friendship with Harry. In a lot of ways, he helped me become the sort of person who could even begin to imagine spending my life at Draco's side. Harry was there for me through so many crises over the years, and I would never trade his friendship for anything.

And, for the record, I was also there for him—his primary crisis being much worse than any of mine, and a few years in the making. But again, that's a story for another time.

a/n: If you've ever wanted to hear me talk (for some reason) about literally anything, let me know in a review or send an ask or a tweet on whatever platform you prefer. mr blake's put me up to something of a secret project, which I'll clarify soon. Also, hey, thanks for being here! This is fun, right? I hope you're having fun.

7. Certainty

Chapter 7: Certainty

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Worlds Apart

To many, it comes as a surprise that the heir to the throne of England would take any interest in a girl born to a small town outside San Francisco, California. The likelihood the two would even meet was slim to none from the outset. From the beginning, Prince Draco and Hermione Granger lived vastly different lives, growing up amid completely different circumstances. Aside from both being only children, in fact, the two have very little in common.

Unlike the birth of Prince Draco, there was not a crowd of people waiting outside the hospital on the nineteenth of September in 1989, when the woman who would become the future Queen of England was born to David and Helen Granger. While the world witnessed the childhood belonging to the Prince—who was frequently and quite famously pictured with his mother, Princess Narcissa, in several iconic shots—Hermione grew up in relative normality, attending local Catholic schools and working summer jobs as a part-time receptionist for her parents' dental practice. Where Draco excelled in sports and took great interest in athletics, Hermione was quite bookish, participating in theatre, school government, and various honour societies, and where Draco was usually the topic of news, Hermione was behind the scenes of her school newspapers. She even earned a spot on the staff of The Stanford Daily her second year of university, which she retained until the point of her attendance at Hogwarts.

So far, so good. Impressive work sticking to the facts, Rita.

At the heart of Draco and Hermione's differences, though, wasn't the distinction in class or economic status, but rather the contrast between respective understandings of what each would one day become. Where Draco had known from birth he would one day rise to lead a country, Hermione was far less certain about what her future would hold. She changed her course of study twice during her time at Stanford—first from undecided to Journalism, and then from there to English Literature with an emphasis in pre-law studies—only to ultimately accept a rather unremarkable job working for a small non-profit arts initiative in London. In fact, it could conceivably be said that outside her obvious devotion to her future husband, Hermione was never quite certain of anything at all.

Now that, Rita Skeeter, is just plain unfair.

November 27, 2010
Hogwarts University

"Tell me about you," Draco murmured in her ear, pulling her closer to him in bed.

"What about me?" Hermione prompted sleepily, curling into the circle of his arms. "You already know all the important things. My plots to destroy the monarchy," she mused, idly drawing circles on his chest. "My adoration for mystical trollop Margery Kempe, my impressive hair care regimen—"

"Tell me about your family," Draco suggested, glancing down at her. "You don't talk about them much. Or your friends at home, really."

"Ah." Hermione cleared her throat, shifting slightly upright. "Well, my parents are great. We're very close. My mom and I Skype every few days, actually." She paused before adding, "She asks me a lot of questions about you."

"Understandable," Draco determined with a solemn nod. "I do have remarkable teeth."

Hermione rolled her eyes, giving him an admonishing nudge. "Not quite that."

"What? But I have such an indisputably excellent set of them," Draco informed her. "Ask anyone. Well, except Rita Skeeter, that is," he amended with a grimace. "I'm fairly certain she can see straight through to the cavity I got when I was eight years old."

Hermione chuckled. "If anyone can, it's probably her."

"I'd be willing to bet she knows more about my dental records than my father," Draco agreed, "but that's hardly relevant at the moment. What about your father?"

"Well, he's no Prince of Darkness, that's for sure," Hermione said, laughing a little at the thought of her dad's argyle sweaters in comparison to Prince Lucius' bespoke suits. "He's… well, he goes through these periods of being obsessed with some activity or another," she determined, figuring that said as much about David Granger as she could manage in one sentence. "He learns everything about it, goes on a hunt for all the best gear, befriends absolutely everyone who does it. Gets invited to all these events—he's so social." She smiled slightly at the thought. "Right now he's into trail running, I think. He has a group he meets up with every Saturday morning and they run the trails on Mount Tam. According to my mom, anyway."

"You and your dad don't talk much?" Draco asked, tilting his head to look at her.

"Well, we chat," Hermione began tentatively, "but it's… I just find it easier to talk to my mom. My dad's very enthusiastic, you know? He's a lot. I love him," she added quickly. "He's absolutely amazing and he's always there for me, but he's just… he and I are very different."

"Ah," Draco noted, chuckling. "Yes, I can relate."

He brushed his thumb over his shoulder, pondering something quietly as she dozed off again, comfortably wrapped up in him (and his notably luxurious thread count).

"And your friends?" Draco asked after a moment, reminding her she hadn't answered the question she'd very much hoped not to answer, and she hid a grimace in his chest.

"I had a really close friend in high school," Hermione said, "but we've drifted apart since going to different colleges. And at Stanford… I don't know. I have a few friends in my classes, but nothing like—" She hesitated, not wanting to confess she really didn't have anything of note to contribute. "I don't have a Theo," she admitted eventually. "Or a Blaise. And certainly not a Harry."

She'd said it with as light a tone she could manage, but was oddly grateful when Draco didn't laugh. In truth, she was more envious of his friendships than she was of his money or his crown, which she hoped he wouldn't think was too ridiculous. Or worse, as she feared he might find it—pathetic.

"You have a Daphne, though," Draco murmured, resting his chin atop her head. "That's pretty close, isn't it? And a Pansy," he added as an afterthought, "though that's a little harder to categorize, to say the least."

"Well, of course," Hermione permitted, half-smiling. "I just meant I don't have any lifelong friends like you do. I think I was always just focused on school. Or maybe I have terrible social skills," she said with what she hoped was a laugh, though it stuck slightly in her throat, swelling up until she was forced to swallow something of an emotional knot. "I've always been most comfortable on my own, I think."

Draco nodded slowly, tightening his arms around her.

"I can understand that," he said. "I actually think my best friends are who they are because they're the only people in the world who give me the same feeling I get when I'm alone. As opposed to being in a crowd, I mean." He paused. "I get to be me because they're them, if that makes sense? Which it probably doesn't."

She pulled away to look up at him. "Is that," she began, and faltered, lightly chewing her lip. "Is that how I make you feel?"

His grey gaze fell on hers, something hopeful pulling at the corners of his lips.

"No," he said.

She blinked. "Oh," she managed, pulling away, and he laughed, slipping his hand around the back of her head and battling her wild hair to pull her closer, brushing his lips against hers.

"You make me feel like a better me," he told her softly, stroking the side of her cheek. "When I'm with you, I'm…" A swallow. A trade of penitent breaths. "I'm a version of me that gets to have fun, to be young, to be happy. To think about something other than whatever monotonous task I have to get through next."

He kissed her again, lifting her chin to hold her still; a kiss with longevity, like a quiet meditation; a slow pulse of pressure. "You're a relief, Hermione. You're like a deep breath after I've been drowning, as positively stupid as that sounds."

She leaned her forehead against his, nodding.

"I know what you mean," she said.

Gradually he leaned back against the pillows, pulling her with him.

"I know you do," he said. "It's really very unhelpful, you know."

She didn't ask why, and he didn't explain. Neither of them had discussed the episode of 'stay' since it had happened, and she knew his silence on the matter was a personal favor to her. She'd given no indication of wanting to discuss it, and neither did she particularly wish to now.

Instead, she rested her head against his shoulder, Draco's lips lightly brushing her forehead before they both drifted off to sleep.

"So what's it like going to school in the snow?" Helen asked over Skype a few days later, as Hermione was unsuccessfully trying to show her mother pictures of the pristinely-blanketed campus from the screen of her phone (email would have been better, of course, but Helen was not particularly patient—a rare similarity between mother and daughter).

"Not too different," Hermione said with a laugh. "All my classes are inside the castle, so… it's just, you know. Cold?"

"Oh, well, that's good. And how's Daphne?"

"She's great, actually. She's been really enjoying her drawing class, and—" Hermione broke off, hearing a knock at the door. "Oh, hold on, Mom—"

"Sure, honey. I'll just be here daydreaming about your romantic Scottish winter."

Hermione got to her feet, rolling her eyes. "It's hardly a romantic winter, Mom, but fine." She pulled the door open, surprised to find Draco standing in the frame. "Oh, hey," she said to him, blinking, "I thought you said you had to do a phone call with your handlers this afternoon?"

"I did, but—is that the infamous Dr Granger behind you?" Draco asked, peeking over her shoulder and noticing Helen's image from her laptop.

"Oh my god, Hermione, is that him? He is cute—"

Hermione closed her eyes, briefly mortified, but it was too late to stop the nightmare from happening. Draco had already nudged her aside, making his way to the computer.

"Ah, Dr Granger, Draco Wales. It's an absolute pleasure. My goodness, are you sure you're quite old enough to be a mum?"

"A mum, Hermione! Where did you find this one?"

"Oh, just wandering around with the other peasants," Hermione said, grudgingly taking a seat beside him as he pulled her laptop into his lap. "Mom, Draco," she said, referencing a slyly grinning Draco, "and Draco, Mom."

"Your Royal Highness," Helen said gravely, bowing to the webcam. "It's an honor."

"The honor is all mine, Dr Granger. You've got quite a daughter, you know," he told her, wearing his best (and most princely) grin. "You've done the entire country quite a service in graciously lending her to our little kingdom."

"I have, haven't I?" Helen said with a laugh. "But enough about me, naturally. Tell me about you, Your Highness. Your likes, your dislikes, your mortal enemies—"

"Mom," Hermione said, mortified, but Draco was clearly enjoying himself.

"My enemies are unfortunately a state secret, unless you count my second nanny," he said. "I don't, naturally, because she's already been sent to the Tower for her lack of applause over my childhood drawings. And please, call me Draco—"

"Well then you'll have to call me Helen, Draco, because Dr Granger is going to make me feel like I should be dispensing flossing tips. Which, in my professional opinion, you don't particularly look like you need, though I suppose I can't tell from here. Open wide, please?"

"Ahhh," Draco permitted obediently as Hermione buried her flushed face in one hand, shaking her head.

"Excellent. Brush after every meal, Your Highness?"

"And floss twice daily, in fact."

"Well, aren't you just the dream—"

"Okay," Hermione said, easing the laptop away from Draco. "I think that's enough, don't you?"

"What? Hardly," Draco said, leaning against her shoulder to remain firmly in the frame. "Hermione told me I missed quite a feast at Thanksgiving," he informed her mother, apparently wishing to draw the conversation out (presumably to exasperate Hermione further, as she could only assume).

"You did," Helen half-scolded him. "I invited you. Didn't she tell you?"

Draco flashed Hermione an undignified glance, utterly betrayed. "You know something, Helen? She didn't—"

"Of course I didn't," Hermione sighed, "because the Prince of England can't just come to our family Thanksgiving, Mom, as I mentioned literally three dozen times—"

"Well, it's still a big deal to be invited," Helen said sternly. "Not just anyone gets to come to a Granger Thanksgiving, Draco."

"And I recognize it for the singular honor that it is," Draco assured her. "A pity I was given no choice but to rudely decline. I'd have at least sent a note—"

"Well, then at least one of you had the benefit of good breeding. I don't know where I went wrong, quite frankly—"

"Alright, alright," Hermione said, shaking her head. "That's enough from you two."

"Yes, fair, I interrupted your chat," Draco agreed, leaning closer to the screen. "Still, I'm glad I had the excellent fortune of meeting you, Helen. I'd shake your hand, but—"

"High five?" Helen asked, holding her palm to the camera, and in response, Draco solemnly raised his, the two of them engaging in a completely ridiculous internet gesture. "Wonderful to meet you, Draco. Take good care of my girl, would you? Make good choices. Also, never underestimate the importance of foreplay."

"MOTHER," Hermione groaned, but Draco was already laughing.

"Only the best choices, Helen, believe me. See you later," he added to Hermione, lightly kissing her cheek, and then he rose to his feet and sauntered to the door, winking at her before passing through it and pulling it shut behind him.

Hermione, meanwhile, turned to her mother with a slow, disapproving shake of her head.

"You're terrible," she informed Helen, who was clearly smiling brilliantly, even with the slightly lagging connection. "You do realize you just met a prince, right?"

"Oh, he's not a prince, he's the boy dating my daughter. Can't go too easy on him."

"Could go easier on me," Hermione mumbled, and Helen laughed.

"Are you sure you haven't given more thought to staying?" she asked, and immediately, Hermione's stomach twisted. "I mean, much as we'd love to have you back, sweetheart, you just seem like you're having so much fun there—"

"I can't stay, Mom," Hermione said flatly. "You know I can't. I can't just… derail my future for a boy, even if he is a prince. If I stay for the year, then what?" she prompted, grimacing. "Do I have to plan on getting a job in England, then? What kind of work would I do? And what if Draco and I just ended up breaking up, or—"

"Oh, my daughter the planner," Helen lamented, sighing fondly. "Okay, sweetie, you don't have to go through the whole spiel again. I'm just saying, if it's something you want, then—"

"I just—" I don't know what I want. "I can't be the girl who stays because of a boy. Especially not this boy," she said with a frown, "seeing as there's absolutely no future with him. In fact, remind me to have you meet Pansy," Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "She'll clear all this up for you."

"Must everything be about the future?" Helen asked, groaning. "You're a smart girl, Hermione. You could have a job no problem whether you graduated from Stanford or Hogwarts—"

"In this economy, Mom? Don't be ridiculous. If I'm going to get into a top twenty law school, I should be doing internships back home, not going to galas and Halloqueen parties with English aristocrats—"

Behind her, Hermione heard the lock turn, a rosy-cheeked Daphne entering the room and lighting up the moment she saw Hermione's laptop screen.

"Oh, is that Helen?" Daphne asked at once, throwing her bag down and nudging Hermione aside, gradually unwinding her scarf from around her neck. "Hi, hi, just came in—"

"Daphne, sweetheart, look at you! How are the drawing classes?"

"Oh, thanks for asking, they're going rather well. The professor asked to see my sketches and he thinks I have a real knack for it, actually—"

"Well of course you do, anyone with eyes could see that—"

For a moment, Hermione tuned them out, letting Daphne chat to her mother about her portfolio as she considered what Helen had said. On the one hand, it really didn't seem like such a terrible thing to take the year at Hogwarts, but if she took the entire year, how could she then return for her final year at Stanford? It seemed like one decision to stay would only snowball to another, and then another, and then another—

Briefly, Draco's face came to mind. Admittedly, it hurt Hermione to think of leaving him. They hadn't discussed what would happen when she left, but she had to assume anything they attempted to carry out long-distance would gradually fizzle out, as with all long-distance relationships. Eventually they'd talk less and less until they didn't talk at all, so wouldn't it be better to just have a couple of perfect months and leave them in the past? Clean break, Hermione thought to herself again.

Clean break. A good idea. A very excellent theory.

If only it didn't break her heart just to think about, that is.

"—mione, hello, are you listening?"

"Hm?" Hermione asked, jolted back to the conversation. "Sorry, Mom, what were you saying?"

"Someone's distracted," Daphne noted primly, giving Hermione a teasing sidelong grin. "Is it, perhaps, because a certain someone's mum just met a certain dashing Prince?"

"Both of you need to stop this immediately," Hermione grumbled as Daphne and Helen laughed, clearly already conspirators. "It's not like… he's not my boyfriend, okay?" she said, feeling her cheeks flush. "Can't you just—I don't know. Chill, please?"

"Well, for someone who isn't your boyfriend, he did seem perfectly happy to have a chat with your mother," Helen pointed out.

"And you've been seeing quite a lot of each other," chimed Daphne, the traitor. "I feel like I barely see you anymore. Not that I'm complaining, of course," she added hastily, "but it does seem like things are going rather swimmingly, don't you think?"

They were going swimmingly.

Which was precisely the problem.

"Draco and I both know we can't date," Hermione said firmly, "so this conversation is over. Besides, it's too late!" she erupted, grasping for something of a relevant point. "Tracey's already coming back next term, so I wouldn't have anywhere to live."

"Well, we wouldn't have to stay in the dorms," Daphne said, as Helen exuberantly nodded her agreement. "We could get a flat in Hogsmeade. Pansy hates living here," she added, brightening. "She tells me at least fourteen times a day, and then you and Draco can—"

"No more me and Draco stuff, okay?" Hermione cut in sharply. "Please. Just… don't."

There was a pause as Daphne and Helen both registered the change in Hermione's voice, glancing sheepishly at each other.

"Right, well… how's the snow?" Helen asked Daphne, clearing her throat.

"Positively dreadful," Daphne sighed, and after another moment she'd leaned her head against Hermione's shoulder, all three of them commencing an aptly meaningless discussion about the weather before Helen was called away for a patient.

"I can't believe this is our last class with Slughorn," Theo said, falling into his usual seat on Hermione's right. "What am I going to do without him, honestly? How am I going to know where he gets his fine scotches if he doesn't personally tell me three times a week?"

"It's a tragedy I hardly dare consider," Hermione agreed, shaking her head. "How are we going to know how close he is with his very close pupil the Prince if he doesn't monologue about it for our benefit?"

"Well," came a voice at the end of the aisle. "I suppose I'll just have to tell you myself, won't I?"

There was a quiet pulse of shock as Draco made his way to the vacant seat on Hermione's left, carefully lowering himself into it and removing his notebook from his bag. Unlike Hermione and Theo, who took notes on their laptops, Draco typically hand-wrote his notes so as to avoid having his screen photographed from elsewhere in the room. This, outrageously, was the first thought that occurred to Hermione as she watched him: a slow cataloguing of everything she knew about Draco's in-class behavior from the entirety of the term. For one thing, he never arrived to class early. He typically got there just as it started to avoid calling undue attention to his arrival, and furthermore, he sat in various spots around the classroom, sitting somewhere slightly different each time. He never sat with Hermione or Theo. He also never spoke to anyone, opting instead to be as forgettable as possible, and usually slipped out the moment class ended.

Now, though, as he pulled out his notepad, he glanced at her, catching her expression of total bemusement and smiling slightly.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

She was pretty sure she was staring at him. In her defense, she did manage to close her mouth rather quickly, although Theo nudging her sharply in the ribs may have been at least partially responsible for that limited success.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, and Draco chuckled.

"Sitting next to you," he replied. "Is that a problem?"

She shook her head dumbly, leaning back in her seat, and Theo leaned towards her from her other side.

"Before you inevitably ask, the answer is no," Theo said in a low voice. "He doesn't do this often."

Hermione glanced at him, alarmed, and Theo shrugged.

"He's trying," he murmured, but by the time Hermione opened her mouth to reply, Slughorn had already started speaking.

"Yes, right, hello students, wonderful to be here again, let's see… ah, Prince Draco, are you here?" A pause, and then a swivel of heads in their direction, brows furrowing around the room. Draco, meanwhile, lifted his pen in greeting, nodding his slightly-amused acknowledgement. "Oh, excellent!" Slughorn declared. "Well, we'll have to hear from you today, I'm sure, unless you have some other royal business to attend to, which I am of course happy to assist with, should you require anything at all—"

"No, Professor," Draco assured him, sparing his most aggressively polite smile. "I wouldn't dream of interrupting your lecture, sir."

"Well, of course, quite right, an excellent student you are, Your Highness. Now, if we could all turn our attention to where we left off last class: the literary confession," Slughorn said, turning his attention to the captive audience of the lecture hall. "By now we've traversed the significant historical landmarks of confessionary writings, haven't we? So, let's discuss. What, in your view, is the significance of the confession in literature? Your Highness," he added loftily, "would you start us off?"

Draco hesitated for a moment, glancing briefly at Hermione before turning to Slughorn.

"The confession is a testament to the most intimate parts of humanity," Draco said, leaning slightly forward in his seat. "It's a distinctly human impulse to confess. The confession of sins, for example, as with Augustine, or with a calling, as with Margery Kempe, are compulsions towards an inner truth which then become sympathetic in literature. An author, in penning a confession, reveals him or herself to be more… human," he suggested. "More real, perhaps, in his need for honesty—and more importantly, in what those truths reveal about his authentic self."

"Spot on, Your Highness!" Slughorn crowed jubilantly, but by then, Hermione was barely listening. She was watching Draco's pen travel over his blank page, writing a single sentence before setting his pen down, not looking at her.

She caught the shape of the words and blinked, disbelieving.

Confession: it's killing me to let you go.

"Miss, ahhhh… Miss Granger," Slughorn called, as Theo (in a subtle move Hermione would have to make a note to thank him for later) nudged her back to consciousness. "And what would you say to the Prince's thoughtfully crafted analysis?"

"I, um." She paused, her own thoughts positively racing in an extremely unhelpful way. "Well, I agree," she began slowly, "but also, I'd add that there is some level of danger in confession. The inherent risk of exposure, I mean," she clarified, as Slughorn tilted his head, considering her argument. "The author makes herself vulnerable, which is why the confessionary work is, by default, an act of self-sacrifice. Possibly even self-destruction," she added hurriedly.

"Or," Draco said, as again, the heads in the room swiveled to him, "the same could be called an act of courage, then, couldn't it? Depending on perspective."

"Well, right," Hermione permitted, feeling her face heat, "of course, but is it better to sacrifice for truth, or to preserve oneself to avoid the risk of damage? Is the literary argument, I mean," she clarified hastily. "That's, um. That's the question in literature. Especially because a confession carries risk," she added firmly, glancing at Draco. "Knowing that vulnerability has an inherent danger by leaving the truth exposed, then what's the value of the literary confession if the result would only be damaging, either to the confessor or to the subject of the confession?"

"The confession doesn't become valuable to meet an end," Draco argued, turning to face her. "It's valuable because it's a confession. Because the truth is always valuable, whether it causes damage or not."

"What about certainty, then?" Hermione countered. "The confessor would have to know the truth in order to confess it, wouldn't she?"

"Yes, but everyone has a truth," Draco said. "The difficulty isn't in the certainty, but in the act of revelation. That's the universality of the genre at question, isn't it? The confession as a reflection of the true self? Because the question isn't whether the confessor knows her truth or not," he told her firmly, the entirety of his attention fixed on her face. "The question is what moves her to confess."

"Right again, Your Highness!" trumpeted Slughorn, interrupting the conversation Hermione and Draco were most definitely having about literature and not at all about their personal relationship. "Brilliant analysis, excellent work. And if, as the Prince argues, the confession is inherently valuable, is the significance of the narrative schema equally valuable across all historical context?"

Gradually, the class turned their attention back to Slughorn, but Draco and Hermione were still looking at each other, his pen poised beside his confession.

It's killing me to let you go.

She turned back to her computer screen, tapping blankly at her keys, and finally sighed in resignation, conceding to type one sentence into the open document for her notes and angling the screen towards Draco.

I'm not sure about anything, she wrote, except how I feel about you.

She caught the motion of him smiling and deleted it quickly, amending, but that doesn't mean I'm staying. I'm not actually saying anything—it doesn't count.

Draco shook his head. "Still a confession," he said under his breath. "Counts for something."

"Shut up," she whispered, and for a fleeting moment, Draco's smile spread wide across his face. Then, just as quickly, it had been cleverly smoothed out by the palm of his hand as he bent his head, diligently returning to his notes.

In retrospect, exams at the end of the term flew by. While they were in the trenches, though, it certainly hadn't felt that way. For nearly a week, Hermione hardly thought of anything but literature tropes and obscure medieval battles, falling into bed with Draco (discreetly, of course, and often with all their clothes on, one or the other still muttering to themselves about narrative significance) and rising before the sun the next morning to stumble back to her own dorm room, reopening her textbook as Daphne would blearily look up, squinting from where she was hunched over her desk.

"Is it morning?" she would mumble, the words mostly incoherent through a wide, unladylike yawn.

"It's that or death," Hermione would grunt in reply, and then someone would bang on their door.

"Hello, children," Theo would say once Hermione opened it, offering them both cups of coffee. Daphne's would be iced with plenty of sugar (she wasn't typically a coffee drinker unless it was partially dessert) and Hermione's would be black and paired with a handful of almonds (she was very concerned about her protein consumption), the two of them stumbling like zombies to reach for them from the doorway.

"Thanks," they'd mutter in unison, and the process would repeat each day, Hermione and Daphne eventually making their way down for something resembling actual meals to find Blaise and Pansy looking perfectly rested, both arching their elegant brows at makeup-less Daphne and sweatpants-clad Hermione with apparent puzzlement.

"Are you two not studying?" Hermione had asked them once, which was apparently a stupid question, given Pansy's expression in response.

"Of course we're studying," Pansy said. "We're just also bathing."

"Sick burn," Blaise said, toasting her with an imaginary glass. "Twenty points."

"Twenty seems excessive," Theo commented, falling into the seat at the end of the table.

"Well, excess or death, as they say," Blaise cheerily replied.

"Nobody says that," Hermione informed him.

"They do now," Blaise corrected, disappearing behind a copy of The Economist.

"What about you?" Daphne demanded from Theo. "You look perfectly fine."

"Oh, thank you, Greengrass," Theo replied, overcome with emotion, though by then Hermione had remembered her own ravenous hunger, opting for a piece of toast in lieu of conversation.

Once or twice, Draco joined them in the dining hall (he was on the phone with his grandfather's people at the palace whenever he wasn't curled around his notes, frowning at them and sitting so still in thought Hermione had to flick him once or twice an hour to make sure he hadn't spontaneously turned to stone) and though Hermione noted people were starting to eye her more suspiciously in the halls than they had before, he didn't seem to take issue with the attention. He usually took the seat beside her without comment, and though they made no public contact, she remained comfortably soothed by his presence.

They never discussed her impending departure. Hermione understood that was mostly a favor to her, but as the days went by and exams gradually ended, she realized she'd let weeks pass without a single mention of what would happen to them once she was gone. It wasn't until their final night together (featuring the addition of Harry's presence on a visit from London) that it even hit her she was leaving.

"To the new Tracey Davis!" Blaise had offered on her behalf, lofting his glass in the air and toasting Hermione from his seat at the end of the table. "May the rest of her life be the best of her life—which seems highly unlikely," he conceded with a sigh, "seeing as she won't be having us in it."

"Bleak, Blaise," Pansy remarked, making a face of pursed disapproval. "You're not going to get sentimental on us, are you?"

From Harry, doubtfully: "I'm sorry, in what world was that sentimental?"

From Pansy: "Hush. Give her the thing, Daphne."

Hermione, turning to Daphne with surprise: "What thing?"

Daphne, sheepishly: "Oh, just a small thing. Theo has it."

Theo, grandly turning to something beside him: "From all of us, for our resident colonist: a patent of nobility, along with her own official seal."

(It was an elaborate scroll of parchment that had obviously been hand drawn by Daphne, and the seal featured California poppies and a stylized lioness. The detail to which Hermione's fake family tree had been constructed beneath it—including 'Creepy Uncle Blaise' and 'Family Patriarch Pansy'—bore obvious traces of signature Theo Nott.)

From Blaise, before Hermione could respond: "Don't forget the other thing!"

Harry, with a laugh: "Ah yes, the more important thing—"

Theo, grandly presenting it to Hermione: "Right—and the other thing, of course."

(This one was a certificate that had clearly been scribbled with colored Sharpie by someone who could have only been Blaise, placed in an opulent brass frame and featuring the words 'HONORARY POINTS WINNER.')

Blaise: "It can only be honorary, of course, because by virtue of leaving, you lose three hundred thousand points."

From Hermione, weakly: "Oh, is that all?"

Pansy, sniffing affectedly: "You should know, Hermione, it's quite a humiliating loss. The most of any player, I believe. You should be ashamed."

Harry, with a low tsk of disapproval: "It's even worse than the time I borrowed Blaise's favorite dress socks without asking. What was that, five hundred points?"

From Blaise: "TEN POINTS GONE FOR REMINDING ME! The indecency—nay, the audacity—"

Harry, with a frown: "Hm. A slight miscalculation on my part for bringing it up. Though, you're welcome for the distraction."

Blaise, bellowing into his Guiness: "NONE TAKEN!"

From Hermione, with a laughing sigh: "Well, I'm very sorry to have let you down, Blaise. Please know that this crippling point loss will haunt me for centuries."

Pansy, tartly: "Well, it's no less than you deserve for leaving."

Harry, patting Pansy's head: "Look at that, Hermione. Pansy's getting emotional."

From Pansy, stiffly: "I've never been emotional in my life, Henry James, and I'm certainly not going to start now."

From Blaise: "Now look what you've done! She's practically in tears!"

From Theo, nudging Daphne: "You're awfully quiet, Greengrass."

Daphne, with a sigh: "Oh, it's only because I might weep. It's nothing, I'm sure."

Hermione, to Draco: "You're quiet too, actually."

Draco, placing a hand discreetly on her knee: "I'll say my goodbyes later. Though, I should warn you now, I'm afraid I don't have anything as meaningful as Blaise's symbolic prize to offer you."

Blaise, loudly: "Don't be silly, Draco, you can give her your royal—"

From Pansy, with a groan: "Do not—"

Blaise: "—postage stamps."

Harry, chuckling: "An excellent plot twist."

From Hermione, with an eye roll: "Well, listen. I just wanted to thank you all for an amazing few months. I'm going to miss all of you, and—"

She broke off, promptly finding herself on the brink of tears. She wished she could blame it on the wine, but that seemed highly unlikely. Instead, as she looked at the faces around the table, she had the very distinct feeling she was about to say goodbye to the very best friends she'd ever had, and she wondered again at how quickly she'd come to consider them like family.

"Please," Pansy sighed from across the table, "try to hold it together, Hermione—"

"I will. I am." Hermione sniffled slightly, raising her glass and rising to her feet. "Okay, look, um. A toast." She lofted her glass in the air, waiting until the others had done the same. "If it's possible to be soulmates with an entire group of people, then… I don't know. I hope you guys are my soulmates. And I don't know, maybe we'll meet again or something—"

Blaise, wiping a tear: "'Maybe we'll meet again or something,' beautiful—"

Hermione, with a choked-back sob: "—but even if we don't, I just… I want you guys to know that you're all the very best people in the universe. Even you, Pansy."

Harry, dotingly: "Oh, Pans, don't cry."

Pansy, who was resolutely hiding her face: "For heaven's sake, Harry, I'm fine, shut up before I murder you—"

From Draco, rising to his feet beside Hermione: "And, likewise—to you, Hermione. For bringing a little something to each of our lives that can never be replaced."

He was smiling at her, his fingers tight around his glass. His signet ring was, of course, on his left hand rather than his right, and she tightened her own hand, letting her snake ring flash in the dim light that shone down through the Hog's Head.

"We'll miss you," Draco promised her, "all of us." Hermione swallowed with difficulty, struggling to contain herself, and Draco lifted his glass. "To Hermione."

"To Hermione," the others called in reply, Daphne wiping quietly at her eyes, and in that moment, Hermione felt certain she would never feel more… full. Of affection, or emotion, or satisfaction, or… Whatever it was, she was full of it. She was overflowing. She had more than she could carry, and by the time they'd all shuffled back to the castle that night, the others dutifully turning a blind eye as she and Draco slipped into his room, Hermione wasn't sure she was going to be able to tear herself away without leaving a gaping piece of herself behind.

"I have my own gift for you," Draco told her, taking her hand and leading her to his desk, where he slid open the top drawer and pulled out a small box. "I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" she echoed in dismay, reaching for the box. "Gimme."

He chuckled, holding it out for her as she carefully peeled the wrapping paper from around a small jewelry box. "It's not what you think," he warned hurriedly when her eyes widened, laughing to himself. "It's just… open it."

She did. It was…

She blinked. "Is this another snake ring?" she asked, doubtfully eyeing the object in the box, and Draco laughed.

"I noticed the costume one was turning your finger green," he said, sliding it off to replace it with the one he'd given her. "This one is gold. Which, hopefully you don't mind the little bit of extravagance," he demurred, carefully slipping it onto her finger, "but all things considered, it was really a matter of concern for your health."

"Well, excess or death, as Blaise would say," Hermione murmured, eyeing the flash of gold on her finger, and Draco's hand tightened in hers.

"That," he agreed, "and also, because the thought of you not wearing it…"

He trailed off, his grey gaze falling on hers with a restrained glimpse of sadness.

"I guess I'd just like to think you'll still wear it, at least from time to time," he eventually managed. "And maybe when you do… I don't know." He fidgeted slightly, shifting his feet. "I hoped you'd think of me."

Abruptly, Hermione's already-overfilled heart erupted in a monstrous wave of anguish, flooding her senses. "Draco," she burst with dismay, pulling him into her arms and brusquely kissing his cheek. "How could I ever not think of you?"

His arms came around her slowly. "I just," he began, and then stopped. "No. I'm sorry. I told myself I wouldn't say anything, but—"

"I can't stay," Hermione said again, disentangling only far enough to look at him. "I have a life back home. And a plan. And a future." She paused. "I can't put the rest of my life on hold, Draco," she reminded him gently, "no matter what I feel about you."

He slid her hand from around his neck, pressing his lips to the inside of her wrist in solemn contemplation. "And what is it you feel, exactly?"

She hesitated. "A lot of things. Big things." She squeezed her eyes shut, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "I feel all the things for you, Prince Draco of Wales, and maybe in another life—"

She broke off, unable to finish the sentence.

Maybe in another life, where you were just a boy and I was just a girl, you might have been it for me. You might have been everything. If you were the kind of prince who lived in storybooks, in fairy tales, then maybe you might have been my happy ending.

He nodded slowly, swallowing hard.

"I know," he eventually managed. "I understand."

"I'm American," she reminded him, reciting the many things she'd told herself countless times over every time she'd entertained the thought of staying. "I'm an American, I'm just… a hundred things you could never be with. Sorry, I'm poor," she joked, but he didn't laugh; only tightened his arms around her. "It just wouldn't work, Draco. No matter how much we wanted it to."

"Can we at least," he began, pained, and then grimaced. "Sorry," he exhaled. "I shouldn't, I know, but I'm in the bargaining stage of grief."

"By all means," Hermione assured him. "Bargain away. What are you offering?"

"Can we just keep talking?" he asked tentatively. "Can we let this fade because of something stupid, like distance, instead of just… cutting it off while it's still good?"

She paused, considering it.

"Okay," she said. "Sure, of course."

Even then, she was sure it was a lie. She doubted she'd be able to hang up the phone with him if she picked it up. If he called—if he told her he missed her—she'd probably put herself, her wild hair, and her stupid, stupid heart directly on a plane and fly right back to him, and she knew better than that.

He knew better, too. She could see it on his face. He accepted the lie for what it was, but both of them knew better.

He tilted her chin up then, kissing her for the hundredth time, and Hermione lamented that she would never know what it was to know a thousand others just like it. Someday, "God Save the King" would play during the Olympics or something and she would watch it on television and know the song was because sixty-five million other people loved him, not just her. And she reminded herself now that's why she couldn't have him. Because he was theirs, and therefore, he couldn't be hers.

Immediately, she felt tears burn at the back of her eyes, and she kissed him back, roughly, before shoving him back on his bed, knowing they'd be tasting the salted evidence of heartache on both their lips if she didn't rapidly change course. She fumbled with his shirt, tugging it over his head, and when she paused, digging her nails painfully into his chest, he took hold of her face with both hands.

"I'm not going to say it," he told her, grey eyes meeting hers. "But you should know it anyway."

She nodded, taking a ragged breath.

"I know," she replied, voice gruff and halted, and he dragged her lips down to his, kissing her with an uncharacteristic roughness before pulling her shirt over her head, letting it fall to the floor.

In retrospect, she probably already knew it wouldn't be the most mind-blowing sex she'd ever had, or would ever have. The best sex was always more spontaneous than this; always the sort of thing that jolted her heart into a false start, sending it leaping off and away from her so that every sensation was a rigorous foray into new territory. In her experience, good sex was exploration. Discovery. A venture into something vast. The best sex was a subversion of romance; it was unplanned, undaunted, unpressured. This, though, was sex in its rawest, purest form, because it was honest. Because there was pressure. Because it would be for the last time.

And because she couldn't say how she felt in words, she had to spell it out for him in motions, with the places she touched. Here, with my lips behind your ear, because you listen. Here, with my fingertips carved into your spine, because of how deeply I admire your certainty. Here, with my hand pressed to your chest, because your heart beats against it. Because of your heart, and mine.

It wasn't the most inventive sex she'd ever had. They did it in one position, at pretty much a constant speed, because as physical as the expression was, it was still mostly about something else. Because it was goodbye; because her heart would inevitably miss being close to his. Because her mind would run straight for thoughts of him every time she saw her gold ring flash in the dark. And true, he was always good—he knew her pressures and angles and met them without hesitation, the two of them far past being strangers—but she wouldn't remember the orgasm she had. She wouldn't daydream about how his body looked from the light of his desk lamp. As good as the sex was, she wouldn't lust over the occasion. But she would always remember the way his eyes never left hers, and the shape of his mouth when he said, Hermione.

Hermione, you have no idea—

You can't possibly know how much I'm going to miss you.

And when it was over, because she'd already said everything she needed to, Hermione slipped out of his bed after he fell asleep, sliding out from under his arm and tiptoeing carefully into the hall, leaving him behind.

When Hermione got to her room, Daphne was curled up on her bed beside Theo, the two of them sitting in silence. He was cross-legged, leaning his head back against the wall, and Daphne's legs were pulled into her chest, her gaze fixed on Hermione's suitcases.

At Hermione's entry, Theo rose to his feet, nodding to her.

"I'll have the car ready to go at ten, okay?" he said, having already agreed to be the one to take her to the airport. Hermione had felt confident Theo was the only one who'd make it easy; Daphne would cry, Draco would be too difficult, Blaise didn't know how to drive, and Pansy… well, maybe Pansy would have been a better choice, only Hermione wasn't in the habit of asking Pansy for favors. She figured Theo would make the goodbye the easiest, at the very least.

She nodded. "Thanks, Theo."

He gave her a quick smile, patting her shoulder, and then slipped into the corridor, shutting the door behind him.

Hermione replaced him in the spot beside Daphne, resting her head on Daphne's shoulder.

"You don't have to leave," Daphne said, her voice a little hollow, and Hermione sighed.

"I told you, I can't just stay here for Draco—"

"Then don't." Daphne's voice was rough around the edges. "This is a pretty good school, Hermione, in case you haven't noticed. You don't have to stay because of him."

"I know," Hermione said tentatively, "but then what? I'd still have to go to an American law school, so it's not like it does me any good to have a degree from a British university—"

"Do you even want to be a lawyer?" Daphne interrupted, turning to look at her. "You've never mentioned any interest in it. I didn't even know you were pre-law until your mother mentioned it."

"Of course I do," Hermione said, frowning. "And hey, you can't really talk, can you?" she prompted, arching a brow. "I mean… be honest, Daph. You're basically just pretending to study history while you spend all your time on your art classes."

Daphne pulled away, bristling. "So?"

"So it's just… it's not like you can relate," Hermione reminded her, perhaps a little too harshly. "And I'm not like you, okay? I don't just have some underground vault of money I'll have access to someday, I actually have to get a job, and—"

"Excuse me?" Daphne cut in, frowning. "So now I can't understand what you're going through because I'm rich? Is that it?"

"Well, I'm just saying," Hermione insisted, turning to face her, "you act like you can't understand why I have to follow a plan for my life, but you're following one too, aren't you? The only reason you're not doing what you love is because your parents disapprove."

"Okay, and the only reason you're not staying is… what, exactly?" Daphne demanded. "Nobody's making you do anything. You're just up on some high horse about how you won't make decisions based on a boy, but it's not like your plan is any better," she insisted. "Do you even really want it?"

"Hey," Hermione said, stung. "I work really hard, Daphne—"

"Yes, but why?" Daphne pressed. "You're just… you're just going through the motions, Hermione. You said yourself you don't have any friends at Stanford," she added brusquely, "so what exactly are you going back to?"

"There's more to life than shopping trips and brunch," Hermione snapped, and Daphne recoiled, obviously insulted. "Sorry, Daph, I didn't mean—"

"No, go on," Daphne said flatly. "Tell me more about how meaningless my life is, Hermione. Please, by all means, continue."

It was late, Hermione reminded herself.

It was late, she was sad. They'd been drinking, they shouldn't have been arguing, but—

"Why do you need me to stay so badly, anyway?" Hermione said, her voice definitely too harsh that time. "Is it just because you don't want to have to start over? Because without me, you don't have a built-in person to be your friend?"

Daphne balked, gaping at her. "Is that honestly what you think?"

"You're afraid of change, Daphne," Hermione shot back, suddenly furious. "You're terrified. It's why you won't admit you have feelings for Theo—"

"Leave him out of this," Daphne warned sharply, her beautiful face abruptly going cold, but Hermione had already started, and it was impossible to stop.

"It's obvious, it's so obvious to everyone—you're in love with him!" Hermione snapped, and Daphne pulled away, forcefully putting distance between them. "But you can't tell him because you're too afraid. And this isn't even about me!" she said, realizing she'd risen in volume but somehow unable to prevent herself from half-shouting it in Daphne's face. "You don't want me to leave because it means you'll be alone, right?" At that, Daphne flinched. "This isn't about me, or my life, or my choices—you just don't want to have to train someone new to be your best friend, but it's either that or be alone. Right, Daphne?"

"And what about you, then?" Daphne said through her teeth. "What are you going to do, Hermione? Go back and keep working at some career you don't even care about just to prove a point to yourself?"

"So what if I'm proving a point?" Hermione flung at her. "At least I'm doing something, not just coasting by and hoping nothing ever changes!"

The moment she said it, she knew she'd gone too far.

Miles too far.

Had she even meant any of it?

No, she knew with a pang, but by then, it was too late.

"Well, I hope you and your convictions are very happy together, then," Daphne said, rising to her feet and struggling to find her shoes. "Just… just go, Hermione," she said, swiping blindly at her eyes, and Hermione grimaced, reaching for her as Daphne stumbled out of reach. "Just—"

Daphne paused, straightening, and all at once, Hermione saw just how badly she'd hurt her, noting Daphne's inability to meet her eye.

"I guess I just thought you'd wake up one day and realize there was more for you here than just Draco," Daphne said quietly. "I guess I never figured out he was the only one that mattered all along."

Hermione winced, stung. "Daphne, that's not—"

"No, don't. It's fine." Daphne turned without another word, letting the door slam behind her.

Hermione bent her head, feeling tears prick sharply behind her eyes, and as she sat there, slowly going numb, she heard the sound of the door opening.

After a few quiet strides, Daphne's shoes materialized directly beneath Hermione's lowered gaze.

"I'm furious, and I'm hurt," Daphne said, voice unsteady, "but I'll hate myself forever if I leave things like that, so. Goodbye, Hermione. I'm sorry."

She kissed the top of Hermione's head roughly and then spun, leaving through the door once more, and Hermione curled up on Daphne's duvet, staring at her suitcases before finally letting herself start to cry.

The next morning Theo was at her door at ten, as promised, though nobody was with him. They walked through the common room and out of the castle without running into anyone else, in fact, though Hermione spent the entire time rigid with vigilance, waiting for Daphne to appear. Or Draco, maybe with some joke about helping her with her suitcases, since that's how they'd met. She waited for someone, anyone, to magically appear and tell her she was being a bloody idiot—but nobody did. If she'd been waiting for a sign, she thought, that was it. That was enough.

Eventually, Hermione loaded her bags into the car and slid formlessly into the passenger seat, staring out the window.

Theo didn't say much. He drove in silence while Hermione watched the receding shape of the castle disappear into the woods behind them. In fact, Theo only said one thing, really.

"You were a little hard on her."

Hermione hid a grimace. "I know. I feel terrible."

Theo shrugged. "I think she understands."

Hermione waited a moment before exhaling heavily, turning towards him. "You should really tell her how you feel, you know."

"Ha. Yeah." Theo spared a glance at her. "Maybe."

"I'm serious, Theo—"

"Yeah—hey. Can I say one more thing?" Theo interrupted, tapping the steering wheel with his right hand.

Hermione grimaced. "You're not really known for not saying things," she reminded him, and he chuckled in agreement.

"True. But look," he said, "I just wanted to tell you that you were right—I didn't need or want to go to Hogwarts." He glanced briefly at her. "I have no interest in school or my degree. I went so I could keep an eye on Draco. But if I'd never gone," he said slowly, glancing in the rearview mirror, "I would never have met Daphne. Or you. And now, as a result, my life is different, so, you know." He shrugged. "Maybe sometimes you just have to go with it."

"Yeah," Hermione sighed, "I know, but—"

"Don't," Theo said, shaking his head. "It's just something to think about."

When they got to the airport, he gave her a hug. Kissed her cheek, told her not to be a stranger, gave her a broad grin. She told him he was the best of the Bad Lads, blinking back another layer of fresh tears, and in reply, he gave her an amiable shrug.

"Don't tell Rita Skeeter," were Theo Nott's last words to her, and then he got in the car, and Hermione turned to the airport, angling herself towards her gate.

That afternoon, Hermione Granger got on an airplane bound for San Francisco International Airport, listened to the safety procedures, put her tray table in the upright and locked position, and buckled her seatbelt. Astoundingly, nobody stopped her. No divine hand of fortune stepped in. Nothing changed her mind.

The plane took off, and then it landed, and as quickly as her semester at Hogwarts had begun, Hermione Granger had left everything behind.

Her mother knew better than to interrupt her period of mourning, which was something Hermione figured she'd have to thank her for later. She mostly stayed in bed alone, watching sappy movies on her laptop and hiding her cell phone from herself, lest she be tempted to contact someone. They seemed to be respecting her unspoken wish for distance, though on Christmas morning, Hermione woke up to two emails.

One from Pansy: Do they celebrate Christmas there or is it, as I suspect, a country of godless heathens? Hopefully your time here has bettered you somewhat. I certainly tried my best. In any case, happy Christmas, Hermione. Thank you for leaving me the tea tree oil. Also, please remember that nail-biting is a detestable habit. Goodbye.

One from Draco: I rewrote this at least twenty times. Every attempt was some variety of the same thing, though, so figured I should just say the only important thing, which was this: I miss you.

She slid lower in the covers, pulling them over her head and trying very hard to ignore everything outside her fortress of jersey cotton.

No such luck. At approximately one in the afternoon, she heard a knock at her door.

"Hey, sweet pea," her father said gently, poking his head in. "You want to get dressed sometime soon? I don't love the trip to your grandmother's house either," David joked, "but, you know. Once a year, right?"

"Do I have to?" Hermione sniffled from beneath the cover.

"Er. Well." David paused. "Hold on. Let me get your mother."

"Okay," Hermione mumbled, and within fifteen minutes, Helen was at the door.

"Listen, sweetie, I was all set with my pep talk, but it turns out we've been hijacked," Helen said. "You have a visitor."

Hermione groaned. "Is it Grandma? Because I really don't want to—"

"No, not quite," came a cheery voice, and Hermione bolted upright, immediately forgetting the pile of tissues that had become part her of latest habitat (and, worse, the state of her unwashed hair) to find that Prince Harry himself was lounging spiritedly in the threshold of her bedroom. "I take it as a compliment, though, as I like to think I've got a delightfully granny-ish quality to me. Lovely home, by the way," he remarked to Helen, whose cheeks flushed pink.

"Exactly how many princes did my daughter pick up over there?" Helen asked him.

"Eh," Harry said. "I'm really more of a rogue."

"Right, of course," Helen said, glancing between a still-gaping Hermione and a characteristically nonchalant Harry before taking a tentative step back. "Well, if you're not here to, um—"

"No, no," Harry assured her. "Nothing untoward. Just delivering a message, as it were."

"Ah. Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Helen said, taking a few steps in retreat before muttering, "David, honestly, calm down, you act like we've never hosted royalty before—" and nudging her husband sharply, dragging him down the stairs.

In Helen's absence, Harry wandered inside the room, looking around at Hermione's bedroom decor. "Amélie," he noted, pointing to the poster. "An excellent film."

"Thanks," Hermione said warily, frowning at him. "Did you genuinely fly here from London to deliver a message?"

"Yes," Harry said, falling onto the bed beside her. "Do you doubt that I would?"

Hermione considered it. "No, actually." She sighed, then frowned suspiciously at him. "You're not here to proposition me romantically, are you?"

He arched a brow. "My, my. Someone's got quite an ego," he noted, and Hermione felt her cheeks flush, immediately embarrassed.

"Sorry, I just meant—"

"No, I'm teasing. I told you, you chose Draco," he reminded her, "and thus, I have rescinded my place in the running. Although, if you've changed your mind…?" he prompted, and when she shook her head, he grinned. "Perfect. Ideal, actually, because I'm not, in fact, here for that, and now I don't have to worry about my precious morals being tested. You do look ravishing, though," he told her, licking his thumb and blithely removing what she suspected might have been chocolate from her cheek.

Hermione nudged him away, making a face. "What are you doing here, then?"

Harry leaned back with a sigh, resting his head against the wall before turning to face her.

"Well," he said. "For starters, Draco told me what happened."

She blinked. "That we broke up, you mean?"

"Well, yeah. That," Harry permitted, "and that you fought with Daphne."

Hermione grimaced, but said nothing.

"Look," Harry said, "if Draco could be here, he absolutely would be. He was devastated when you left. Even less fun than usual. Moping in every room, which is saying more than you'd think." He paused, glancing at her, but she couldn't quite bring herself to laugh. "He can't be here, obviously, so I'm here. To tell you what he would be telling you. Though, try not to get confused," he added in warning, "because I know I'm much more handsome, but anyway—imagine I'm Draco, and I'm trying to tell you something he can't, which is: you never should have left."

Hermione froze, swallowing hard. "Harry, it's not that simple."

"Actually," Harry corrected her, "what it isn't is complicated. And listen, I get why you left," he told her, holding up a finger as she opened her mouth, "just like I understand why Draco, being the dutiful prince that he is, couldn't ask you to stay. But, seeing as I'm the reckless one," Harry reminded her, "I feel no shame in being the one to relay the message, and it is this."

He sat up straighter, taking hold of her shoulders.

"You're being stupid," he said.

"What?" she asked, taken aback.

"I said you're being totally stupid," he repeated, and she groaned.

"I heard you—"

"You never wanted to leave," Harry said flatly. "You wanted to prove something about your… I don't know. Your independence, I suppose, which is just like an American—no, don't interrupt, it's my turn to speak—or you wanted to stick with your goals, or something equally valid and totally worthy, but whatever. It's dumb." She blinked. "Really, it's absolutely the dumbest. You know you want to stay."

She blinked. "But—"

"But what?" Harry prompted, looking firmly like a prince of the realm for the first time in Hermione's memory. "Is being a lawyer really your dream, Hermione Granger?"

Hermione hesitated, then finally confessed the truth. "No, but—"

"Is there any reason why you couldn't have a perfectly good career if you spent a year at Hogwarts rather than Stanford?"

"Maybe not, but Harry—"

"In my experience, life isn't something you plan," Harry told her. "As far as I can tell, life is something that happens to you in spite of your plans."

"That's—" Hermione paused, blinking. "Harry, that's—"

"Wise, I know," he agreed, straightening. "Blaise isn't here, so I'm awarding myself fifteen points."

"But—"

"When you look back on your life, Hermione Granger," Harry said, reaching over her to pick up the patent of nobility she'd left sitting on her nightstand (the only thing she'd bothered to unpack) before tapping her nose with the scroll, "what will be the things you chose, and what will be the things that really mattered?"

A good point.

And from Harry, at that.

After a moment of hesitation (mixed, as it was, with disbelief), Hermione took the scroll from him, unrolling it to trace her fingers over the family tree drawn inside it for the hundredth time.

"So, wait a second," she said. "What was the message again?"

"Well, more of a task, really," Harry said. "To bring you home or die trying."

She smiled faintly. "And who sent this message, again?"

"Hm? Oh, me," Harry said, shrugging. "But Draco and his unbearable melancholy were pretty compelling, so… the details are fuzzy, really."

"Ah." Hermione looked up from the scroll slowly, thinking. "How'd you get here?"

"Broomstick." At Hermione's skeptical glance, he laughed. "Fine. So I have a plane. Sorry if you find that environmentally unsound, but—"

"No, I just—I have someone I need to see as soon as possible," Hermione said, relieved to finally be sure of something. "Do you think you could take me to London, like… right now?"

Harry smiled broadly. "Nothing would make me happier," he assured her, patting the top of her head. "Provided you change your clothes before we leave."

Luckily for Hermione, Helen and David were more than willing to make their apologies to her grandmother in favor of a trip to England, and a reasonable amount of time later, she was finally able to pay a very important visit, her parents remaining patiently in the car. Hermione, meanwhile, rapped on the front door, waiting patiently and shivering in the wintry air as a man dressed in a black suit materialized in the doorway.

"Yes?" asked what she could only assume was a butler of some sort.

"Um, hi," Hermione said. "I'm looking for—"

"Hermione?" came from behind the man, a familiar voice pairing with an unmistakable set of footsteps to come to a sudden stop. "What are you doing here? Sorry, Paul, I can take it from here—"

"Yes, Lady Daphne," said what was apparently a butler named Paul as Daphne beckoned Hermione inside the house.

"Come in, sorry, I wasn't…" Daphne trailed off, blinking with hesitant confusion. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Yeah, I was just, um." Hermione swallowed heavily. "Look, Daphne, I—"

"Daph, what are you—oh," came another voice. "You."

Astoria Greengrass had paused in the foyer of what Hermione was gradually realizing was a truly enormous house, staring suspiciously down at her from the top of a set of sloping stairs.

"What are you doing here?" called Astoria, her voice more bored than anything else, and Hermione sighed.

"Well, I'm just—honestly, I just needed to apologize," Hermione said, turning to Daphne.

"Oh," Astoria said. "Well, apology accepted."

"Not to you," Daphne snapped over her shoulder, hastily turning to shoo her sister away. "Go finish getting dressed."

"Fine, fine," Astoria muttered, wandering back from the stairs as Daphne turned back to Hermione with a sigh.

"Sorry, what were you—"

"I was apologizing," Hermione said firmly. "I said a lot of unfair things that I didn't even mean, but I wanted to tell you that I have a very important confession you need to hear." She took a deep breath, steadying herself, before digging the scroll out of her bag and unrolling it to reveal precisely what she'd been looking at for the past week.

A line between her name and Daphne's.

Sisters.

"According to this very legitimate patent of nobility, you're my sister," Hermione said, pointing to the family tree Daphne had drawn, "so it's your job to forgive me when I say stupid things. Right?" she prompted. "I'm inexperienced with siblings, but I'm pretty sure that's a rule."

"Ah," Daphne said, half-smiling. "I see."

"Yes," Hermione continued curtly. "See, the thing is, I knew I couldn't base all my life decisions on a boy. Or a relationship. But, I realized," she went on, watching Daphne's expression soften guardedly, "I could stay, you know, if my sister asked me to. You know," she said again, feeling immensely awkward. "Because… family and all that."

Daphne's mouth quirked at the corners. "Interesting."

"Well, right. Because the truth is, Daphne, you're the best friend I've ever had," Hermione said honestly, confessing it with a sigh. "And sure, maybe it'll be more of a challenge to study law from here, but it's not impossible, right? And besides, I can figure that out at the end of the year."

Daphne's smile broadened. "True. But you do realize I have a roommate," she cautioned. "Tracey Davis has already staked her claim, I'm afraid."

"Well, nobody likes the dorms," Hermione reminded her, shrugging. "In fact, I called Pansy on my way over and she told me she could probably find a suitable flat in Hogsmeade, provided I promised not to turn it into… well, I believe her words were 'a cesspool of inadequacy' or something along those lines—"

"Ah." By then, Daphne's smile was radiant. "Well, are you sure about this, then?"

"Oh, I'm so sure," Hermione promised, rolling the scroll back up and tucking it into her purse. "So," she said after a moment, aiming a wistfully lopsided attempt at a smile towards Daphne. "Do you think you can forgive me?"

To that, Daphne pulled Hermione into her arms, giving her a squeeze.

"Welcome home," she said warmly, and Hermione hugged her back with relief, absolutely certain she'd made the right choice.

Later that night, Hermione got a phone call.

"Hello?"

"Hermione Granger? Draco Wales."

She smiled, removing the phone from her ear to gesture to her mother from across the living room of the hotel suite.

"I'm just going to take this in my room," she mouthed, pointing to the phone, and Helen nodded, waving her away as she and David continued chatting with Daphne, who was cheerfully showing off her art in person.

"Hey," Hermione said once she'd shut the door behind her.

"Hi," Draco replied, his smile audible through the phone. "I take it Harry's gotten you and your parents settled, then?"

"Yes, we just arrived at the hotel after dinner. Thank him for me, would you? The room is absolutely beautiful."

"Thank him yourself. How about a tour of Buckingham Palace tomorrow? I can have him meet you and bring you over."

"Really?"

"Of course. I can't wait to meet Helen and David in person. Though, don't worry," Draco assured her, "I'll be sure to brush thoroughly beforehand. Wouldn't want to embarrass you."

"I—" Hermione stopped, surprised. "You want to meet my parents?"

"Of course," Draco replied. "Unless… oh no," he lamented facetiously. "Did you not realize that you coming back here would mean I'd be doing everything in my power to sweep you off your feet again?"

"Again?" Hermione echoed.

"Naturally. You didn't think I'd just assume, did you? No, no," he said, tutting quietly. "This will be quite a long process of earning you twice over, I'm afraid."

"Does this mean I have to seduce you all over again?" Hermione asked, dismayed.

"Excuse me, seduce me? Miss Granger, I believe I was responsible for the majority of the seduction."

She stifled a laugh, shaking her head. "Arguable. But then," she attempted, and paused. "Does that mean—?"

"…that I still want to be with you? Oddly, Hermione, a week apart did very little to change my mind."

She bit her lip, hoping not to embarrass herself.

"That's cool," she eventually said, and he laughed.

"Well, I won't keep you. Enjoy your night with your parents and Daphne. Call me in the morning?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes, definitely."

"Good, good, excellent. Oh, and Hermione?"

"Yes?"

She heard the sound of him hesitating.

"I'm not going to say it yet," he said. "Not on the phone, obviously. That would be so impersonal. Terrible, really."

She inhaled, half-holding her breath.

"Right. Of course not. But me too," she said, letting it out. "Me, too."

"Good." A little pause. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight," she said, and hung up the phone, smiling vacantly into nothing.

It was, without a doubt, the best Christmas ever.

I remember thinking it was going to be a pain to re-enroll at Hogwarts at the last second, but of course, it wasn't. I probably should have known then just how powerful the monarchy was on a scale of how little effort the logistical arrangements were that second term compared with the drudgery when I'd first applied. Still, at the time, it was hard to be anything but blissfully happy. My parents and I had an amazing trip in London, and by the time they saw me off to Hogwarts, I was more sure than ever I'd made the right choice to stay.

It didn't occur to me until much later that afterwards, some people (read: Rita Skeeter) would see all my subsequent decisions as revolving around the central nexus of Draco himself. Eventually, I would be plastered all over the newspapers and magazines as the desperate American who gave everything up for love—even when that wasn't precisely true.

But, then again, it's really quite difficult to see the consequences of any decision while you're still in the middle of it. No one knows that better than me.

a/n: Remember I said I had a secret thing? It is now a public thing! You can find my little youtube venture, Olivie Blake is Not Writing, on, well… youtube. And on my tumblr. If you have any questions or topics for discussion, just ask! And also, still very happy you're here. This one maybe more angsty than fun… but still fun in the grander scheme, I hope.

8. Speculation

Chapter 8: Speculation

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Covert Affair

While Draco and Hermione have since confirmed their relationship began while they were students at Hogwarts University, the story of their budding romance was rather another matter at the time. Given the Prince's need for privacy, the early stages of their courting were carefully guarded. However, there are some sharp-eyed observers who say the evidence for the relationship existed within the castle's sheltering walls.

The earliest rumours of Hermione's relationship with Prince Draco began around February of 2011, by which point Hermione had extended her stay at Hogwarts and begun living with friends in Hogsmeade. By her second term at Hogwarts, Hermione had been accepted into the Prince's close circle of schoolmates. As a result, she was often seen in his company, though it took some months before speculation began about whether the relationship was as platonic as it appeared. Still, given the sanctity of the university's aim for higher learning, it is understood that the respectful student body at Hogwarts were loath to lend any prying eyes to the Prince's private life, turning their attention instead to their devoted pursuits of academia.

Okay, put down your Instagrams and your Snapchats, children. We're about to take a trip through some internet history, and more specifically, the rise of social media through the age of anonymous confessions. Yes, that's right, it's time for some colonial drivel about a delightful little blog called 'The Inquisitorial Squad'—which, you'll notice, Rita Skeeter cleverly left out of her account of how Draco's privacy (and by extension, mine) was respected.

Perhaps you've heard of College ACB? Or, if you have some sort of very elderly friend or grandmother, possibly JuicyCampus? These are the American iterations, of course, but don't you worry—Hogwarts had its own version. The gist of these blogs was this: anyone, anywhere, could send in an unsubstantiated rumor without any evidence to support it, whatsoever. Gossip Girl ringing any bells? Imagine being Blair Waldorf. Actually, don't, because even at Gossip Girl's most invasive, Blair never had it as bad as I did. She was beautiful, rich, refined. I, on the other hand, was… American. An outsider, and one with the audacity to have curly hair. (Reprehensible, I know, particularly in the age of the flat iron.)

Now recall that at the time this was happening, I was dating the most eligible bachelor on campus, if not most of the world. Knowing that, how would you guess that wonderful little corner of the internet treated me?

Needless to say, The Inquisitorial Squad was… not a fan.

January 29, 2011
Hogwarts University

Spending the holidays in England turned out to be one of the best decisions Hermione ever made, which was particularly excellent news considering she was coming back from one of the worst. By the time she was watching Pansy move a sofa into their new flat (with one finger, obviously, directing the movers while wearing her best do not disappoint me expression) Hermione couldn't believe she'd ever considered leaving. It seemed an impossibility that faded to the edges of her memory moments after she arrived back at the castle.

Draco had been a hit with both her parents, of course. He'd only been able to spare a couple of hours with them given that he and his father were expected to make several ceremonial appearances for the holidays, but even that little window had been more than enough to prove everything Hermione had already known; that he was smart, considerate, charming, and well-mannered. David and Helen were happy to believe their daughter had a thoughtful boyfriend and good-hearted friends in both Daphne and Harry, and by the time they'd tearfully boarded a plane back to California, Hermione had all but discarded the shrapnel of minutiae that had held her back in the first place.

The commencement of her second term, unsurprisingly, stood in sharp contrast to the start of her first one. She understood now why Daphne had been so reluctant to leave the bar that first night she'd spent at Hogwarts; seeing the rest of the group after some time apart was like waking from a strange, half-paralyzed dream to suddenly realize she didn't know what the rest of her limbs had been up to while she slept. What did they do when she wasn't there? Did they really even exist without each other? And what happened, as she had asked Blaise, when he had no one to assign points to? ("Do not," Blaise replied idly, "ask my lovers.")

Theo, meanwhile, had looked pleasantly unsurprised to see her. "Ah, yes, you look familiar," he'd remarked upon swiping Daphne's beer. "Don't I know you from somewhere? Did we possibly share a taxi at some point?"

The major distinction had been the presence of Tracey Davis, who was about as much a houseplant as Theo had once described. "Oh, hi," she'd said, shaking hands with Hermione and then disappearing into the wallpaper of the Hog's Head. (Just kidding. She didn't disappear, but, well… safe to say Hermione didn't think of her much, aside from marveling that someone could be quite so gloriously blonde.)

Draco had returned the night before classes, appearing in the threshold of their new flat with his hood pulled low over his face.

"Hello," he'd said, right before Hermione had pulled him in by the lapel of his jacket, half-throwing her arms around his neck. "My goodness," he managed, stumbling into her, "did you miss me or something?"

"Or something," Hermione agreed, and dragged him directly to her bedroom, not quite in the mood for whatever restrained little dance he might have otherwise had planned.

Sex that night was exactly unlike the sex they'd had the night before she left. For one thing, there was no reverent disrobing; she'd barely managed to shimmy out of her yoga pants before Draco was reaching for her hips, fingers digging tightly into them while he dropped to his knees, maneuvering her back against some poor blameless piece of furniture. She stayed there—half-sitting half-standing against the desk with her knuckles white on the edge of the wood, one of her legs shoved up and over Draco's shoulder—while he went down on her for what could have been little more than a handful of minutes, by which point she was shoving his head away with a too-loud moan, proceeding to straddle him on the floor. Oh yes, the floor. On the place meant only for shoes, furniture, and existential crises, Hermione Granger tugged the Prince of England's jeans down to his knees and artlessly climbed on top of him, satisfying a sudden intense need to see him from a different angle. What did he look like when he had his eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched, head flat against the floorboards, a single blooming petal of profanity slipping out between his lips? What happened to him when she did this, or that, or (cut to a whisper in his ear: Do the noble girls touch you like I do, Your Highness?) and if she did all those things she wanted to—if she dared—would he melt at her touch; would he cry out at the feel of her; would he lose himself completely?

Yes.

The answer was yes.

They fell into a habit of not speaking. Which wasn't to say it was all sex all the time, because it wasn't (they kept to their tradition of Friday nights in the library and say what you will about Hermione Granger, but she never turned down an academic argument)—but it was certainly a process of tacet agreement not to speak about certain things, at the very least.

It was a collective surrender, a la: Well, we don't have to talk about feelings just now, do we? So let's not. "I'm not going to say it," for example, was what he whispered in her ear while he was inside her. "Not now. Not yet."

The absence of the sentiment drove Hermione crazy in the best way. She'd never said the words before and meant it, so the distinction in circumstance (meaning it, but not having to say it) was, put frankly, ideal. There was a mutual understanding that if one of them ever said it, everything would then become real.

Neither of them wanted to admit there was a veritable mountain of reasons they couldn't be together. Provided neither of them ventured into that territory, though, the troublesome landscape was easily circumvented. If neither of them said it, then there was nothing wrong with sneaking out in the middle of the night to see each other. It was perfectly fine that they had to keep their distance in public. It was even acceptable that he secretly had his hands up her shirt in the library stacks so long as nobody was looking and nobody was claiming to be in love. Love was candlelit dinners. Anniversaries. Public declarations. Grand gestures. Whatever they were doing was… not. It was tiny gestures, actually, like his fingertip writing the word tonight? on her leg, under the table, out of sight. Whatever they were, it was summed up with her reply yes please, scrawled with a fingernail into the flat of his waiting palm.

It helped that almost nobody asked them to talk about it. Theo and Blaise were notoriously tight-lipped about anything having to do with Draco's personal life, having long been practiced at a clever technique of silence. Daphne's curiosities were helpfully playful. She was eager to know the details of Draco's sexual prowess, not how many children he wanted or whether he'd lent any thought to Hermione's future career. Harry teased her or Draco sometimes, as Harry was wont to do, but he wasn't around often enough to really grasp the details of their arrangement.

The only exception was Pansy, though it was a very slight exception. She said very little. In fact, "Careful," had been the only word out of her mouth the first night Hermione had crept back to the flat from Draco's room. Hermione had the distinct impression Pansy had been waiting there for hours, hair perfectly coiffed and makeup done, just waiting for Hermione to arrive home in her typical walk-of-shame squalor.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, playing at something far too guilty to be innocence, and Pansy had pursed her lips.

"You know what I mean," she'd said, returning to the pages of her book and resolutely saying nothing further until Hermione had finally given up, throwing her hands in the air and aiming herself toward the shower.

In retrospect, Hermione would realize just how flagrantly she hadn't taken Pansy's advice. In fairness to her, though, happiness had something of a blinding effect. Too much of it was like staring into direct sunlight. Try looking at literally anything else for a minute, her brain might have requested politely, but such a thing was always easier said than done.

They'd been at it ('it' being whatever it was that wasn't officially love and certainly wasn't a 'relationship') for nearly a month before trouble started to show itself. Until then, everything had been dangerously idyllic. Hermione was taking another class with Slughorn—who was, unfortunately, one of the more specialized professors, and therefore harder to avoid amid the upper level literature courses—but really quite enjoying her courseload. She was gradually fighting her way out of her point deficit in Blaise's game (she'd been given one hundred thousand points for returning, but the initial loss was apparently nonnegotiable). She and Pansy were probably friends (always hard to tell with Pansy) and she and Daphne were closer than ever (even with the time Daphne spent working on her portfolio for an art class and Hermione spent with Draco).

Later, Hermione would think of that month as the Golden Age, and she would remember the precise moment the age had met its end. Draco had arrived at their flat with a weekender bag slung over his shoulder, looking positively delighted with himself.

"I have to be in London on Monday," he'd explained, "and everyone thinks I've already left. I can stay all weekend," he clarified emphatically, before sparing her a grin so broad it looked like one of the ones Harry might have trademarked. "It's genius."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, half-laughing as she beckoned him inside. "Galileo, Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking, Prince Draco of Wales—"

"Don't mock me," he growled with a kiss to her lips before glancing up to find Pansy eyeing him beneath an arched brow. "Oh, and you, don't do the thing—"

"What thing, pray tell?" she prompted airily, taking a sip from a glass of blush wine that perfectly matched her dress and flipping a page in that month's British Vogue. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Draco."

"Hey," Daphne said, bounding into the living room. "Did I hear correctly? Are we finally having a slumber party with the Prince of Wales?"

"Yes," Pansy confirmed before Hermione could answer, "and Harry, too."

"Harry?" Hermione asked, surprised. "I didn't know he was coming this weekend."

"It's Theo's birthday on Tuesday," Draco and Pansy supplied in unison, and Daphne and Hermione both blinked.

"I didn't know it was Theo's birthday," Daphne said, frowning to herself. "Is this something that happens every year?"

"I sort of thought maybe Theo wasn't born," Hermione remarked. "Doesn't he seem like he just… manifested from nothing?"

"Yes, just popped out fully-formed, like Athena," Daphne agreed, and Draco laughed.

"He doesn't care for the attention much," he explained with a shrug, leaning against the counter beside Pansy. "Says he wants recognition for his actual accomplishments, like getting out of bed every morning."

"That," Pansy agreed, flipping another page, "and because his father doesn't celebrate it."

To that, an uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

"I was leaving that bit out, Pans," Draco eventually said with a pained expression, and Pansy shrugged.

"Well, one of them was bound to accidentally mention it," she pointed out, glancing between Daphne and Hermione. "This one," she said, gesturing carelessly to Hermione, "was almost certainly going to make a fuss, wasn't she?"

"I—" Hermione frowned. "Well, yes, but—what do you mean Theo's father doesn't celebrate his birthday?" she demanded, succumbing to a sudden violent opposition. "Theo's his only son!"

"Well," Daphne said, chewing her words slightly, "Theo's mother. She, um. She died," she explained slowly, not looking at any of them. It seemed she was busy sorting something out for herself, and in the absence of any further clarification, Draco gently took the reins.

"Theo's mum died in childbirth," Draco explained to Hermione. "So naturally it's a bit of… mixed emotions. But as I said, he doesn't make a big deal of it, and—"

There was a knock at the door, cutting him off.

"Come in," Hermione called, and Blaise slid the door open, poking his head in.

"Oh, good," Daphne exhaled, looking vastly relieved. "I thought for a second you were—"

"Oi," Theo called from behind Blaise, following him inside with his laptop tucked under one arm. "Listen, we have a problem. Blaise and I were just—" He paused, registering their guiltily averted gazes at his entrance. "What were you lot talking about?" he asked suspiciously.

There was a brief, awkward pause in which the rest of the room struggled to collectively invent a topic of conversation, all of them failing rather spectacularly until Pansy drained her glass, rising to her feet.

"The problem," Pansy announced on their behalf, "is that there's far too many people coming and going in this flat. You're all much too entitled."

"Yes, so true. Minus ten to Theo for not calling first," Blaise agreed.

"What? This was your idea," Theo told him indignantly. "You said we had to come straight away—"

"Theodore, please," Blaise sniffed. "Do you have a reason for this intrusion?"

"Blaise, what the—you know what? Never mind. Look," Theo said, nudging Daphne aside to settle himself on the sofa, propping his laptop open. "Look at this," Theo beckoned, gesturing, and Daphne's mouth tightened as she leaned over, a look of hastily stifled distress coming over her features.

"Oh, um. Pans," Daphne called, voice strained with false pleasantry. "Could you take a look, please?"

"What's going on?" Hermione asked, watching Pansy lean over to take one glance at Theo's screen before promptly lurching away, lips immediately taking on their most authoritative formation. "Blaise," Hermione growled at him. "Speak."

"It's really easier to grasp if you see it," Blaise demurred with a delicate cough, eyeing his fingernails, and in the absence of any further explanation, Draco came around the other side of the coffee table, wearily pressing his hand to his mouth.

"Oh no," he exhaled into his palm.

"What is it?" Hermione demanded, her voice half-shrill with ambiguous dread, and Theo slowly turned his laptop to face her.

The words were in bright, glaring pink type, settled beneath a picture of Hermione that had obviously been taken with a cell phone, catching her entirely unaware. She calculated the timing of the picture quickly, eyeing her own clothes; it had been taken a few days prior, probably in one of her literature classes. The headline IS THIS PRINCE DRACO'S NEW GIRLFRIEND?! screeched beneath the image, and Hermione blinked, startled.

"This doesn't look like a newspaper," were the first words she managed, though she was dismayed to hear how steady her voice wasn't.

"That's because it isn't," Theo confirmed, looking troubled. "A student took this."

"A student," Hermione echoed, stunned. "Which one?"

"It's anonymous," Pansy noted from the edge of the sofa, folding her arms over her chest. "It could have been anyone."

"But there's no proof of anything," Daphne inserted quickly, jumping to her usual comforting optimism. "Right? It's just speculation, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

"Er," Blaise said.

"BLAISE," Pansy snapped, glaring expectantly at him, and he winced.

"Minus five for yelling," he ventured uncomfortably, "but, um. Perhaps look at the threads."

"Threads?" Hermione repeated, her voice a tepid squeak. "Plural?"

Theo grudgingly clicked a button, prompting hundreds of posts to reveal themselves beneath the initial caption. In seeing the spidery web of comments emerge, Hermione slowly moved forward, reaching for the laptop and picking it up to read the screen.

Wait, I was in that Slughorn class! She was ALWAYS looking at him. Do you think she was after him from day one?

Hermione flinched, scrolling down.

I thought she was going back to whatever school she goes to. They must be dating if she stayed, right?

Now that I think about it, she's in the Slytherin dorms a lot and she doesn't live there anymore.

No. Way. NO WAY he's dating her. Have you seen her?

WAIT OMFG I just remembered that article! astoria greengrass said draco cheated on her AT HOGWARTS, didn't she? IS THIS WHO HE WAS SLEEPING WITH? yikes

Hermione swallowed hard, glancing at Draco briefly before continuing. This wasn't good for either of them, but she was mostly focused on the damage to him—that is, until she kept reading.

Check her facebook. She has pictures with her parents outside Buckingham Palace from less than a month ago—how serious is this?

Omg her facebook is so lame wow does she even have friends

yesssss good detective work guys lol. quick what's her sign

she's a virgo

I was joking you twat. but also lmao, figures

For the first time that Hermione could remember, she thought about what was on her Facebook. What was her profile picture? Oh, shit. She pressed a hand to her temple, realizing it was a picture of her with her parents—in front of her house. A handful of students judging her appearance or hating on her from afar was one thing, but what would happen if the British press got wind of her personal information? Her name? Her family?

Luckily that hadn't happened yet, she reminded herself. And really, why would it? Hermione forced herself to take a deep breath, figuring she was overreacting. It was just a college blog, after all. Just an unsubstantiated blog, made up of anonymous comments and no facts. The whole thing would blow over.

She looked up at Draco, not wanting to say out loud: it would blow over, wouldn't it?

In response, he gave her an unreadable look, hesitating. His hands were still; no clue there. Maybe he didn't know. Was it possible he didn't know?

Then, abruptly, his phone rang, jarring them all back to consciousness as he glanced down at the screen.

"It's my father," Draco said, toneless, and rose to his feet as Hermione's limbs abruptly went numb. "I have to take this. Hermione, may I—?"

"Yeah, sure," she managed, waving him towards her bedroom, and he strode into it without another word, shutting the door behind him.

For a moment, there was silence.

"Don't say anything," Daphne warned Pansy, who was perching stiffly at the end of the sofa.

"Oh, I wasn't going to," Pansy said, eyeing Hermione. "She knows."

And she did.

Careful, Pansy had said.

Hermione had not been careful.

This, she supposed, was about to be the price.

"The Inquisitorial Squad?" Harry echoed that night at the Hog's Head, frowning at the banner across the blog from where he was eyeing his phone screen. "Dumb name." He shrugged, putting the phone back in his pocket. "It'll pass."

"Will it?" Hermione squeaked doubtfully in reply. "All Draco said to me before he had to leave for London was 'take down that picture,' which doesn't really sound like it'll pass—"

"You should disable your Facebook account," Pansy advised, taking a sip of her wine. "Easiest that way."

"But wouldn't that, like… confirm things?" Hermione asked apprehensively. She'd already been chewing relentlessly on her thumbnail until Pansy had swatted her hand away. "If I just ignore it, it'll go away, right?"

"Ha," scoffed Pansy. At Harry's look of warning, she sighed. "I mean, sure. Maybe."

"Let's change the subject," Daphne cut in, reaching over to place a hand on Hermione's arm. "Everything's fine, okay? It's just some gossip, that's all. It's going to be thoroughly mortifying for a bit, but then everyone will simply find something else to talk about."

"How did you find the blog?" Harry asked Blaise, who shrugged.

"I like to be informed," Blaise replied simply, as if that were answer enough. "And also," he explained to their skeptical glances, "I'd heard someone had some remarks about the shirt I wore to class last Thursday, which was frankly unacceptable."

"Minus forty points," Theo noted, reading aloud from one of the replies before looking up from his phone, lofting a brow. "I take it that was you, Zabini?"

From Blaise, curtly: "I have no idea how you would even begin to know that."

From Pansy: "Wait, I remember that shirt. Wasn't it silk? Purple silk?"

From Daphne, thoughtfully: "Really more of a mauve, actually."

From Theo, still reading the blog's threads: "The problem seems to be less that it was a purple silk shirt and more that it was unbuttoned to your sternum."

Blaise, stiffly: "You say problem, I say alluring invitation. And anyway, Greengrass is right—it's mauve. Minus five points for inaccuracy, Theodore."

Hermione: "If it helps, I thought that shirt looked rather beguiling on you, Blaise."

Harry, in an undertone: "You're just saying that to get points, aren't you?"

Hermione, innocently: "What? No—"

Blaise: "She is, and it's working. Plus ten for the new Tracey Davis!"

From Tracey Davis, across the room: "Sorry, Blaise, did you say something?"

Blaise, over his shoulder: "IT'S VERY RUDE TO INTERRUPT, TRACEY DAVIS. MINUS TEN."

From Tracey Davis, nonplussed: "Minus ten what?"

Blaise, turning back around with disgust: "Well, she's positively hopeless. Anyway, what were we saying?"

Hermione, with a sigh: "Oh, please don't make me think about it again."

Daphne, hastily: "Yes, true, let's move on. Onwards and upwards."

Harry, after a sip of whisky: "Well, you're all perfectly welcome to discuss me, if you prefer."

Pansy, with latent dismay: "Who are you allegedly romancing this week, Henry?"

Harry, smugly: "Twins."

Pansy: "We are not discussing that. End of story."

Blaise, with palpable disappointment: "Oh, come on—"

Daphne: "Actually, I agree with Pansy. Nott, is there anything you'd like to share with the class?"

Theo, with his beer halfway to his mouth: "What?"

Hermione, gleefully: "Yes, Theo. Anything new in your life?"

Theo, warily: "Uh-uh. No way. I sense a trap."

Daphne: "It's not a trap, you goon. Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?"

Harry, with a laugh: "Who, Theo? He wasn't born. He manifested."

Hermione: "It still would've happened on a day, Harry."

Theo: "Not if time's a construct. Which it very firmly is."

Blaise: "Ooh. Five points. Very meta."

Daphne: "Hello? We're discussing Theo's birthday?"

Theo, loftily: "No, actually, we aren't."

Hermione: "Theo—"

Pansy: "Frankly, I hardly need an excuse not to celebrate Theodore. There's so little to applaud."

Daphne, aghast: "Pansy!"

Theo: "See, Greengrass? That's true friendship. Why can't you be thoughtful and sympathetic like Pansy?"

Pansy, with grave severity: "A question I ask everyone several times a day."

Theo and Daphne continued to bicker quietly (or not-so-quietly) about whether or not it had been a loathsome betrayal of their friendship for him not to alert her of his birthday, which evidently had not even been a matter for discussion the previous year. Hermione, meanwhile, was beginning to notice that people around the room were looking at her. Necks were decidedly craning. Brows were definitely arching. Eyes were certainly narrowing. All sorts of actions were invading her sense of security and she could feel herself growing smaller, wondering firstly whether people were taking photos of her on their iPhones and secondly, whether she would ever know for sure. She slumped down in her chair, broodily pulling her pint towards her, and Harry glanced over from the rest of the group's conversation, catching her reticence.

"You know," he murmured to her, "you don't have to play their game."

"Don't I?" Hermione asked sulkily. "I never asked to be part of the game. I'm just here, playing against my will. Like Blaise's game," she added, perfectly aware she was pouting unreasonably, "only infinitely worse, because there's no winning."

"Well, that's not entirely true," Harry said, and then considered something before holding his hand out for hers. "Come on," he beckoned, rising to his feet as she stared up at him with confusion. "What? Just come with me."

"But—Harry, they're just going to—"

"Talk? Yes, Hermione. They are." He swept her up in a single motion, nudging her chair back with his foot in the same languid effort of pulling her into his arms. "Come on," he said, sashaying backwards with her, "we're dancing."

Hermione sighed, permitting herself to be dragged. "Harry—"

"They're going to talk, so give them something to talk about. Why let it be the truth?" he prompted, giving her hips a nudge and spinning her under his arm. "They want a show?" he asked, tugging her into his chest, "Then give them a show." His lips were close to her ear, his voice low, the familiar hint of jasmine lifting her spirits just slightly. "Do you honestly think I'm fucking a pair of twins just for the hell of it? Even I am not so dastardly, Hermione."

She blinked, letting him lead her on a set of steps far too complicated for the song that was playing (which was, in fact, Bad Romance by Lady Gaga—perhaps too fitting).

"Don't play their game," Harry said again in her ear, "play mine. Do you think Rita Skeeter has any idea I've been spending most of my time lying alone in bed thinking about the only girl in the world I can't have? Not to be too full of myself, that is," he assured her, giving her another elaborate spin. "I'm sure there are one or two other uninterested parties," he said with a grin, "but it's presently unclear who they are."

Hermione swallowed hard, glancing up at him with surprise. "What are you saying, Harry?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing you don't already know. Certainly nothing important. The point is, people are going to try to create a narrative for you," Harry said firmly. "If you're Draco, you're going to spend all your time trying to control it—trying to paint a picture so perfect nobody sees your flaws, and hey, that works for him. But seeing as nobody but him could possibly live that way for long, I suggest you try something different." He slid a hand around her waist and let her fall into his arms, catching her just before she might have hit the ground. "Someone got a photo of me with two lovely friends I happen to know, and now I'm suddenly Prince Harry, shameless romancer of twins. Is that unflattering? Maybe." He spun her back upwards, tucking a curl behind her ear. "But at least nobody knows what's real. That's the one thing they can't take from you, you know."

"What is?" Hermione asked, a little breathless, and Harry smiled at her.

"Your truth," he said firmly, and then swept her a bow, brushing his lips softly against her knuckles.

Okay, so. This girl is a total slag, right? Look at these pictures with Prince Harry!

How many people is she sleeping with?!

She spends a lot of time with Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, too. Look, you can see them in the background of all those photos.

Could be a ruse, maybe? The timing is a little suspicious. Besides, everybody knows how Harry is

Do you guys think she's found this blog yet?

Oh, DEFINITELY. nearly everything's been deleted from her facebook

I can't decide if I'm jealous of her or if I just loathe her

Both? Both is good.

"Stop reading that nonsense, would you?" Daphne sighed, coming up behind Hermione and giving her a nudge. "You're going to drive yourself mad."

"I already am," Hermione grumpily replied.

The weeks following her little outing with Harry hadn't been particularly successful. On the one hand, people had been scrutinizing her relationship with Draco slightly less, but their coverage of her day-to-day life was positively brutal. She barely left the flat anymore, and when she did, it was purely to go to class. She no longer ventured anywhere near the Slytherin dorms. She took all her meals back to the flat rather than sitting around the dining hall. Draco came by from time to time, but his father had suggested spending less time at Hogwarts until the buzz from The Inquisitorial Squad died down, and it seemed to be advice he was more than willing to follow.

"You can't let them win," Daphne said, sitting down beside her, but Hermione moodily didn't answer. She wasn't exactly trying to let them take over her life, was she? She was just… unused to the attention. Hiding out seemed to be the best option, assuming at some point they'd eventually leave her alone. "Look," Daphne continued, "we should do something. Maybe you and I should take a trip away. With Pansy?"

"I suppose we could go to Theo's house again," Hermione noted glumly. "He mentioned it as an option."

"Oh, um. Well." Daphne looked away. "Sure, maybe. I do have a lot of work to do for Professor Davies, so will have to see, but—"

"Daph, it was your idea," Hermione said, frowning at her. "And who is this professor you're always talking about?"

"Hm? Oh, Professor Davies? I had him for drawing last term," Daphne said, not quite looking at Hermione. "I told you, he said I had potential, remember?"

"Of course he did," Hermione said, parroting her mother. "Because you do."

"Right, yes, whatever," Daphne said, waving a hand. "Point is, he's asked me to flesh out my portfolio a bit more. No pun intended," she added wryly, sparing Hermione a smirk. "So… maybe not Theo's house. But something," she said, suddenly emphatic, and Hermione frowned.

"You've been weird about Theo," Hermione mused. "Weirder than usual."

She was realizing she probably should have caught the signs earlier and kicked herself for being so focused on The Inquisitorial Squad. Since Theo's birthday, in fact, Daphne had been in a weird, almost paranoid state, jumping slightly every time Theo's name was mentioned. It was as if any mention of him was somehow also a well-oiled mousetrap.

"Did something happen between you two?" Hermione asked carefully, and Daphne, who had already been looking elsewhere for the majority of the conversation, was now particularly loath to meet Hermione's eye.

"Nothing," Daphne said, and to Hermione's impatient scowl of disbelief, she sighed. "Just—I don't know. The usual." She cleared her throat, eyeing her hands. "A moment."

"A moment?" Hermione echoed doubtfully. "This is 'usual'?"

"Well, yes," Daphne said, her cheeks fluorescently bright. "You know how he is."

"Actually, I don't," Hermione reminded her, rolling her eyes. "He's not hopelessly in love with me, Daph, as you seem to regularly forget—"

"He's not in love with me." At that, Daphne's voice was sharp, prickly, pained. "He can't be. He's just… he doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't realize I'm not… I'm not what he thinks I am. I'm. I don't deserve to—" She exhaled, suddenly rocketing to her feet. "Look. The point is I have a lot of work to do, and—oh, good," Daphne sighed with relief as the front door opened. "Pansy's here!"

Pansy paused in the doorway, frowning at them. "Nobody ever reacts that way to me arriving," she determined flatly, setting her keys down on the table beside the door. "What've you done?"

"Nothing," Daphne said quickly, bounding over to her. "Hermione's reading the blog again."

It was a shameless attempt to change the subject (and thereby excuse herself from talking about Theo), but even Hermione knew there was a 0% chance it was going to fail. She let out a groan, and immediately, Pansy rounded on her.

"What did I say—"

"She's trying to distract you," Hermione growled, angling an accusatory finger at Daphne from across the room. "Daphne Greengrass, you get back here—"

"Oh," Pansy said tartly. "Is this about Theo, then?"

"No," Daphne insisted, hoisting her chin up in defiance. "Actually, Hermione was asking about my professor, and then she went off on a totally ill-advised tangent—"

"Is this that new art teacher?" Pansy asked, folding her arms over her chest. "His name's something horrid, isn't it? Frederick? Rupert?"

"Roger," Daphne supplied, rolling her eyes, "and speaking of him, I have to get to office hours, so I should probably go." She picked up her keys, dangling them in front of Hermione, and scooped up her portfolio with one hand. "Conversation over, love. Kisses!" she added shrilly, before disappearing into the corridor without her coat.

Pansy watched her go, frowning to herself. "Hm. Well, that was… odd."

"Do you know anything about that professor?" Hermione asked, and Pansy shook her head.

"Only that he's inordinately handsome," she replied with disinterest, waving a hand. "Maybe our little Daphne's got a crush."

"She does have a crush," Hermione muttered in agreement. "Only it's on Theo Nott."

"Ah, well, I wouldn't expect anything to come of that anytime soon, if Theodore's incessant glowering is any indication," Pansy noted, rummaging through her purse for a bit of hand cream before spying Hermione's laptop screen. "And she wasn't lying, was she? You are reading that blog again."

"I just…" Hermione trailed off with a sigh as Pansy promptly shut the screen, pursing her lips impatiently. "It's hard not to, okay?"

"Understandable," Pansy permitted, lifting her chin. "But still, stupid."

Hermione groaned, rubbing her forehead. "Can you help me?" she asked hopefully, wincing a little as Pansy arched a brow, apparently amused by the request. "You're always so… you know. Above everything. How can I do that?"

"You can't," Pansy said, voice clipped. "Other people could, but not you. I told you," she added. "Remember? That first night, I told you."

He's a job, and you're unqualified to hold it.

Hermione blinked, startled by the reminder. "But I thought—" She cleared her throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "I thought you'd warmed up to me a little since then. Silly me," she added, and Pansy sighed heavily, sitting in the chair where Daphne had been.

"This isn't about my feelings on you, Hermione. It simply is what it is. You're unprepared to deal with the scrutiny, the expectations. It's something learned from birth."

"But—"

"And to be clear, I never said I was qualified, either," Pansy told her, surprising Hermione with something that felt rather like sincerity. "I would never, ever consider being romantically involved with either Draco or Harry, specifically because I have never wanted this sort of speculation. I grew up with them," she said again, and though it was perhaps the thousandth time Hermione had heard her say so, the words seemed to mean something different this time. "I watched them learn how to cope with it, and I knew right away I could never do what they did. It's hard enough to be liked by friends, by people in your real life, without adding strangers to the mix. Believe it or not," Pansy added drily, "I am not particularly adored. I never wanted to be involved with them because I knew, even when we were small, I would never be liked the way they were liked."

It had never occurred to Hermione that Pansy might have ever been a child, much less a child with any insecurities. She found herself speechless in response.

"The woman Draco eventually marries will be tough," Pansy continued in her silence. "Thick-skinned. Impenetrable. She'll have a faultless background—the right birth, the right opinions, the right sense of style. She'll be virginal and kind and easy to love."

She paused, correctly guessing Hermione's insides were twisting with incomprehensible anguish at the thought of Draco's imaginary future wife, and locked eyes with her.

"She will be perfect in a way neither you nor I could ever hope to be," Pansy told Hermione, not unkindly, "and that is simply what will be. Even Harry's wife—whoever that poor unfortunate girl is," she muttered in an undertone, "will be the type of woman who can watch the newspaper headlines throwing her to the flames and still not bat an eye."

It was hard to imagine such a person existing at all, but at the moment, the idea that Pansy had ever lent any thought to who Draco or Harry would end up with was somewhat more intriguing. "Do you," Hermione began, and faltered, unsure how to ask. "Did you ever… have feelings for one of them?" she asked tentatively. "Romantically, I mean?"

Pansy shook her head, apparently repulsed by the thought. "No. I was around them when they were first discovering their pricks, Hermione, so no, definitely not. But sometimes I do think I envy the women they will ultimately choose, because I know I'm not it." She seemed genuinely saddened when she added, "It's nothing personal, Hermione. I don't dislike you. I don't think you lack any value whatsoever. I simply know you will never be Prince Lucius' choice, and therefore you can never be Draco's. I thought you might listen to me, though, and that maybe I could spare you… all this."

She finished with a wave of a hand over the laptop, and Hermione gradually managed a nod, swallowing back a lump in her throat.

"Either way, you can't let it keep you from living your life," Pansy said, admonishing Hermione with something almost like gentleness. "You can't keep hiding here. It's one thing for me to know you're moping," she added drily, rising to her feet, "but it's another to let them think you're weak."

"But I'm—" Hermione grimaced. "I'm just… I don't know what to do," she admitted, and Pansy sighed.

"Well, as someone who is often photographed in royal proximity, I've found it wiser to have no social media," Pansy said, and Hermione nodded glumly. "I also keep to a relatively predictable schedule. Easier," Pansy explained with a shrug. "They get what they came to see and then they leave me alone. I also do very mundane things in public—they get their pictures only to discover nobody cares."

Hermione nodded again, grasping the point. "Thanks."

"No problem." Pansy turned, about to head into her bedroom, and then backed up, resting a hand on the counter beside Hermione. "One more piece of advice, if you'll take it. Call Draco," she suggested, and Hermione glanced up with a frown, surprised. "You need help, don't you? He'll help you. If you ask for him, he'll do everything he can to come," Pansy assured her. "Prince or not, that's the kind of man he is."

She rested a hand briefly on Hermione's forearm before apparently determining it entirely too much contact for her liking, leaving the room in a swirl of Chanel and the predictable pattern of her supermodel strides. Hermione stared after her, shaking her head, and then picked up her phone, dialing Draco's number.

Voicemail. Ouch.

"Hi," she ventured uncertainly, "it's me… um. Hermione, I mean. I just—" She cradled her face in her hands, already appalled with herself. "I don't know. I don't really know why I'm calling, I just… I wanted to hear your voice? I don't know. It's been… tough." She winced. "Look, just pretend I didn't call. Jesus," she admonished herself under her breath, shaking her head. "Sorry. Okay, bye."

She hung up, letting the phone fall in her lap.

"Nice work," she muttered to herself, wondering if it would be worth it to cry. Probably not. Probably better to do something; to make something. She rose to her feet, considering the kitchen. Cookies? Cookies.

Cookies, she told herself firmly, and set herself about the kitchen, getting to work.

She opened the door a couple of hours later, swiping flour from her forehead and gaping in shock as Draco smiled warily from the threshold.

"May I come in?" he asked, and she nodded dumbly, stepping aside to permit him entry. "Smells nice," he noted, giving the air a testing sniff. "Looks a bit like you got into some sort of bakery-related heist, though," he added, brushing some of the flour from her face, and she grimaced.

"I'm not a fantastic baker," Hermione admitted. "But I was—"

"Hungry?" Draco guessed.

She didn't feel much like lying. "Sad," she admitted. "Frustrated. Lonely." She swallowed, shrugging. "Take your pick."

"Ah." He softened. "I thought as much." He reached out, curling a hand around her cheek. "Can we talk?"

She nodded, gesturing him towards her bedroom, and he settled himself on her bed as she closed the door behind her, wondering how best to begin speaking. "Listen, I know it's not your fault," she said carefully, "but not having you around recently has been kind of—"

"I'm afraid I've been a bit selfish," Draco cut in flatly, glancing down at his hands. "I knew perfectly well how hard it was for you here, and I confess it's weighed on my mind. But I saw those pictures of you with Harry, and I think I just—"

"What?" Hermione asked, blinking, and Draco looked up, knuckles clasped together.

"I have bad news," he said after a moment, and she fell into her desk chair, waiting. "My father is… displeased. To say the least." He fidgeted. "I'm sure you guessed as much."

She said nothing.

"He wants you to take down your social media," Draco said. "All of it." His gaze fell again. "I told him I couldn't ask you to change all the aspects of your personal life unless… unless he was willing to let our relationship go public." A long, unsettling pause. "He refused."

Hermione exhaled slowly, wanting to nod, but not quite able to manage it.

"On the one hand, I agree with him." Draco's expression was visibly pained. "It's quite a lot to go through, taking a relationship public, and I know it was… difficult, I suppose you could say, for my mother. It was partly the reason why she—well. It's just a lot." He took a deep breath. "I didn't want to expose you to all that quite yet, at least while everything is still so new. I mean, I haven't even told you how I—well. There's just so many things we haven't said, or done, and it's a lot. It felt too soon to me, but still, now that I know we can't—" A halted stumble. "I'm afraid I'm at a loss."

A wave of numbness washed over Hermione, chilling her to the tips of her toes.

"I don't want to be without you," Draco said slowly, "but knowing everything I'd have to ask of you, it feels quite wrong. It was rather devastating." He glanced at his hands. "And then I saw you with Harry, and I thought… maybe that would be better for her. Maybe that's what she wants."

"Draco," Hermione said, blinking, but he shook his head.

"If it is, Hermione, then please, consider it," he said flatly. "I would—" He glanced up, one hand rising to curl around his mouth. "I would hate it. I would hate it. But I couldn't face you knowing what I would have to ask of you, and—I know how well you and Harry get on, I've seen it myself. I couldn't possibly—"

"Draco, would you shut up," Hermione said, launching to her feet and startling him. "Please," she amended. "Would you close your royal mouth and listen to me for a second?"

He stared at her, caught off guard, and she took advantage of his silence. "It's you I want," she told him, frustrated he didn't already know as much. "I told you I could handle the secrecy, didn't I? I'm okay with it, really. The thing with Harry was just…" She waved a hand. "I was trying to sort out how to deal with all the attention, and it backfired. But if you'd been there," she pressed, reaching over to take his hand in hers. "If you'd been here, I would have been okay. I don't mind the secrets. I just… I want you," she told him firmly, and he softened regretfully, nodding.

"I just don't want to go through this alone," she finished, glancing down at his fingers where they laced with hers around the coiled snake ring, and he took hold of her chin with his free hand, tipping it up to look at her.

"You're right," he said. "I was selfish, and I'm sorry." He leaned towards her, brushing his lips softly against hers. "I left you here with the wolves," he murmured, "and I didn't even realize what I'd done until I heard how miserable you sounded in your message."

"I don't think I even realized how unhappy I was until I called," Hermione admitted, leaning her forehead against his. "But Pansy pointed out I was looking for advice from everyone except the one person whose help I really wanted."

"I'm so sorry, Hermione." He kissed her again, deeply this time, the little sob she'd been fighting suddenly hopping up to her throat, making an untimely appearance as he pulled her closer. "Truly, I'm so sorry—"

It became evident sooner rather than later that the conversation was transitioning elsewhere, Draco's hands sliding under her shirt to her ribs as she gladly shifted beneath him, grateful he was there, and real, and touching her with the fierceness she'd so painfully been missing. Let them say what they wanted, she thought, so long as he was the boy in her bed. So long as it was Draco kissing his way down her torso, pressing his lips to the little indentations of her, then let them say whatever they wanted to about her.

It was an easy thing to believe when she was touching him. For Hermione, touch was a romance language, and Draco spoke it like the honeyest poetry. There were never any awkward lags, no hitches of hesitation. How could she feel alone when she was in his arms? How could she want for anything when he was filling up her little vacancies, in the most literal sense? Let her carry her insecurity between the blades of her shoulders, and let his fingertips banish it away. Let her many thoughts of inadequacies fill her worried mind, and then let his little eroticisms drive her to distraction. The masculinity of him, all lined and lean. The way he tasted clean and touched her filthy. The way his hands looked on her breasts. The meandering veins and tunnels of his arms, carved around his muscle. He could have chosen any bed. Any girl. Any place to spend the night. But he was here, and for that, each punctuating motion of his hips meeting hers was a triumph; it was enough, enough, enough.

It was only when they were finished that she realized they hadn't actually said anything at all.

"I won't say it yet," he whispered to her, and however reverently he didn't say it, for the first time, it felt like a slightly hollow sentiment. "Not now. Today, after I've disappointed both of us? No," he said, kissing her fingers and shaking his head. "Some other time."

She nodded, unable to speak.

They never said anything, she realized. They hadn't fought. They never argued because they never talked. Because so long as neither of them called it what it was, they never had to fight for it. They would never fight for anything—and why would they have to? He still didn't confess to everything, and neither did she. If anything, their pattern was still to hold their feelings in and then confess. It was apology without explosion. It could never be damage unchecked, and true, maybe that made things easier—but if that were the case, then how easy would it be to fade away to nothing?

"Me too," Hermione told him hoarsely, running her fingers through his hair, and wondered how long saying nothing could possibly keep them satisfied.

About a week later, Hermione had finally recovered enough from The Inquisitorial Squad unearthing an old LiveJournal she'd had in high school to show her face again, though it was hard not to be aware how many people in her midst had read her angsty poetry from the time she'd been in love with a boy on the soccer team. The internet, she was learning, was an absolute trove of things she rather wished would die. It was like wandering around in a terrible cemetery, only it was full of the emotional zombies and absent any particular aesthetic.

Still, she'd drug herself up, trying to follow Pansy's advice ("make some appearances or they'll simply hunt you down") along with Draco's ("don't let them keep you from doing the things that make you happy, or you'll lose everything worth holding onto") and a bit of Harry's ("fix your hair a bit," he'd said, promptly tousling it to utter mismanaged chaos).

"Ah, she's back among the living," Theo noted with a little bite of irony, shoving his things aside. Hermione had appeared beside him in the library without a word, glancing sheepishly at Pansy and Blaise. "Pity that means I'll actually have to study."

"Oh, stop," Hermione said, though she gave him a grateful nudge as he grinned. "Hiding wasn't doing me any good, so I figured showing up couldn't be any worse."

"That's certainly true," Pansy agreed, aiming a pen in Hermione's direction without looking up. "This is an indisputable improvement."

From Blaise: "Yes, ten points."

From Hermione, doubtfully: "For what?"

From Theo: "Courage in the face of adversity?"

Blaise: "Adversity? I don't know her."

From Pansy, sighing: "You're ridiculous."

Blaise, snottily: "No points for that. Unambiguous truths have value, Lady Parkinson, but not if you never make other attempts."

Pansy, not looking up: "I'd be marginally insulted if I could manage not to be entirely apathetic."

Hermione, laughing a little at Blaise's expression of dismay: "You're awfully philosophical today, Blaise."

Theo, in an undertone: "The Inquisitorial Squad was, unfortunately, highly unfair about his wardrobe. He's having his version of a meltdown."

Hermione, frowning: "What, they don't like the lavender paisley? That's criminal."

Blaise, ruthlessly: "That's what I said! Five points to the new Tracey Davis."

From Tracey Davis, a table over: "What?"

Blaise, glowering: "THIS IS A LIBRARY, TRACEY DAVIS. Honestly."

Pansy, rolling her eyes: "In any case, Blaise, I don't see why you care what that blog has to say. Nobody at this school has any taste."

Theo, astounded: "Is that… Pansy. Was that a compliment?"

Pansy, stiffly: "Absolutely not. I was including Blaise in that assessment."

Blaise, gloriously injured: "Harsh but fair. Add five, take ten."

Pansy: a shrug, apparently in agreement.

Theo, glancing around: "Have any of you seen Greengrass? I swear, she's been missing in action for days."

Hermione, thoughtfully: "She has been a bit distracted, I suppose."

In the moment—perhaps because Theo was searching so intently for Daphne—Hermione stopped to look around the room, immediately coming to regret the decision. The rumors about her clearly hadn't died down in the slightest, and though she'd intended to focus purely on studying, she found it was going to be difficult to do while knowing cell phones were making their way out of pockets. On Theo's other side, she caught the motion of someone raising a phone, aiming the zoom from where they sat, and Hermione froze, momentarily torn between abandoning her post and simply staring down at her screen, pretending she hadn't noticed.

"That's it," Blaise said flatly, catching Hermione's apprehensive glance and slamming his pen down. "I've had enough."

Hermione and Pansy looked up, startled, as Blaise launched himself out of his chair.

"Blaise, what are you—"

But before any of them could do anything, Blaise had reached across the table, taking hold of Theo's face and kissing him firmly, successfully blocking the shot of Hermione and reducing Theo himself to total incomprehensible sputtering, his eyes blown wide as Blaise affectionately smacked his cheek.

"There," Blaise said, falling back into his chair. "That should distract them for a bit. WE'RE IN LOVE," he added at top volume to the rest of the room. "PLEASE TELL NO ONE, THANKS."

"Jesus, Zabini," Theo said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Might've warned me?"

"I don't see why," Blaise sniffed. "I wanted your enjoyment to be authentic."

Theo grumbled something that sounded like "you shameless Casanova" under his breath and Hermione stared across the table at Blaise, blinking with surprise.

"Blaise," she ventured tentatively, "I'm not actually sure if I should thank you, but…"

"You know, I find it very upsetting you asked everyone but me for advice," Blaise cut in, not quite looking at her. "I'd have deducted points for merciless insult, frankly, but you seemed to have been going through a bit of a time and I'm not a monster, so—"

"And what would your advice have been?" Hermione prompted, half-laughing. "Kiss Theo?"

"Oi," Theo muttered, making a face. "Please don't."

"No," Blaise corrected loudly, glancing up at her. "If you'd asked me," he informed her without hesitation, "my advice would have been to trust your friends."

Internally, Hermione felt the stirrings of something; a memory being formed. Someday, she knew, she would know this was the precise moment she learned she mattered to Blaise Zabini, and furthermore, that he mattered to her. Because he was the sort of person who would kiss his own best friend without warning purely to start a rumor that would overshadow hers.

Later, she would discover a blissful three weeks wherein the primary rumor coverage from The Inquisitorial Squad was that Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott (both belonging to the notorious Bad Lads) were not only debaucherous bachelors to the vulgarest degree, but also torrid lovers. For three entire weeks, nobody would mention anything about Hermione's romantic life, and she would get a bit of peace. Eventually, of course, the rumor would be debunked—a girl who'd slept with Blaise discussed the intricacies of his sock drawer and someone else would also point out the obvious, i.e. that Theodore Nott was famously and hopelessly in love with Daphne Greengrass—but still, it was one of the greatest gifts anyone had ever given her. Later, Hermione would try again at making cookies, which Blaise would accept, and they would each have one while walking amicably to class, ranking all of his shirts from purplest to least purple.

But today she merely smiled at him, and he smiled back at her.

"Ten points," she said to him.

"Ten?" Blaise echoed, totally aggrieved. "You're terrible at this. You think I enjoyed that?" he asked, gesturing to Theo, who rubbed his forehead impatiently. "Do you know how much I know about Theo? And specifically, Theo's mouth? He exfoliates nothing, Hermione—"

"Fine," she sighed, cutting him off before he got into any gruesome details. "One hundred points."

"That's better," Blaise sniffed, and they all returned their attention to their work as something that was either laughter or a sneeze pulled at Pansy's lips, forcing her to leave the table.

It was nearing midterm exams by the time Hermione began to reconcile the constraints of her new normal. People looked at her, yes, but luckily, reports of her day-to-day activity from The Inquisitorial Squad were banal enough to more established gossip rags that nothing she did ever extended beyond the scope of Hogwarts. She began to get mildly comfortable with a certain amount of staring, recognizing that people would eventually look away once they realized there was nothing to see. She'd never been all that interesting, after all. She hung out with her friends, studied, went to class. That she would suddenly be interesting for her rumored proximity to a Prince felt ironic. Even that scandal, for as much as she enjoyed his company, wouldn't have given them much to talk about.

Is it serious? people had begun to ask.

He isn't dating anyone else

Maybe he's just not dating at all?

That's ridiculous. They're probably just being secretive.

Well he must not like her much if he's keeping it a secret. Maybe she's just got great tits or something

Uh, hello? Do you have eyes? She doesn't

She learned to ignore most of it. The tits commentary (among other such discussions) was the sort of thing she could easily brush off after a while. People seemed vaguely disappointed with her physicality, but there was nothing she could do about that (nothing she was willing to do, anyway). The only thing that still got her, though, was that she wasn't sure she knew any better than The Inquisitorial Squad did.

Was it serious between her and Draco?

"You're being quiet," Draco noted, looking up from his book. He was reading in her bed, shirtless. It was the sort of thing she usually found pleasantly distracting. In fact, Draco seemed tailor-made for all her particular kinks—though she wasn't sure 'reading' counted as a very interesting one. "Everything okay?"

She turned from where she'd been sitting at her desk and eyed him for a second.

He really was very handsome.

Upsettingly handsome, actually. A little slip of blond hair fell casually onto his forehead and he brushed it away, his forearm flexing slightly as his fingers moved. Ugh, his forearm. Why did he have such nice forearms?

She suddenly recalled that earlier that day he'd had the utter audacity to send her a love song. He sent her a fucking love song. He just texted it to her casually, like hey, this made me think of you, only it was an abominably adorable song and it had made her smile the whole time she listened to it, all the while thinking he heard this song and thought of me, and now here I am, smiling.

How dare he?

She paused, abruptly disgruntled.

How very fucking dare he?!

She got more agitated the longer she stared at him, wondering how to put her sudden influx of bewildering emotions into words. It was a mix of thoughts, really; all little bits and soundbytes of things that might have been reasonable on their own becoming something entirely unintelligible when it was thrown together. It was pieces of what if this ends and how am I supposed to exist in the world having known you and wait a minute, what IS this and oh my god I'm panicking STOP PANICKING and if this ends, fuck me, I am so fucked, how will any other boy ever measure up to what you are and holy almighty god I would marry this boy tomorrow, is that weird? Oh my god it's so weird and I HAVEN'T SPOKEN IN LIKE FIVE MINUTES WHAT AM I DOING HE PROBABLY THINKS I'M HAVING A GODDAMN STROKE—

"Uh," Draco said, and Hermione blinked.

"Shit," she whispered under her breath, and he frowned a little, setting the book aside.

"Hermione, if there's something you have t-"

"I love you," she blurted wildly, launching to her feet, and he froze, somewhere between surprise and… something more paralyzing than surprise. Shock? Unclear. "But hold on," she interrupted, her mouth apparently continuing on without her permission as his lips parted briefly, "because that's not what I want to talk about."

"I'm sorry," Draco said slowly, "you… don't want to talk about that?"

"No," Hermione confirmed irritably, pacing the floor of her bedroom. "You know what I want to talk about?"

"I genuinely have no idea," he confessed, shifting forward on the bed, "but somehow, I suspect you're going to tell m-"

"I danced with Harry," she reminded him flatly, folding her arms over her chest. "I danced with Harry, knowing how he felt about me, and you saw the pictures and you just… you told me you'd be fine with it?"

He gaped at her. "Hermione, I'm sorry if that upset you, but it's not my place to—"

"No. No." She was furiously shaking her head. "Nope, don't apologize to me. Fight with me," she said, glaring at him. "Did it upset you?"

"I—that's… Hermione, it would be unfair of me to—"

"No. Stop. No," she said, giving him a little shove and landing hard on the edge of the mattress to drop herself across from him. "I don't care if it's unfair, Draco," she said, slightly aware she'd ventured into mania. "Your feelings don't always have to be fair, okay? But I do have to know what they are!"

He stared at her.

Frowned.

And then, abruptly, "Did you honestly think I was going to be okay with it?" fell brusquely out of his mouth, an emotion she'd never seen before gradually taking shape on his face. "I felt terrible that I'd left you alone. I was in such a hurry to get back to you, and then I found out you were just…" He waved a hand, flailing slightly. "Gallivanting about with Harry! Doing perfectly fine! And you know I wish I could do everything Harry does," he accused her, brow furrowing. "You know that—"

"Yes," Hermione said, absurdly delirious with pleasure. "Yes. Finally. Give it to me, Draco. Give me the whole spiel—"

"You hurt me," Draco informed her flatly, rising to his feet. "You know I can't help that I have to live my life by my father's rules. You know it upsets me. And you didn't say anything! You just went off on your merry way with my rogue of a cousin, and it didn't even occur to you to apologize—"

"No, it didn't," Hermione agreed. "And you know what else?"

"What?" Draco said, disarmed.

"You left me alone!" Hermione snapped. "You left me here to deal with this by myself—and you know what? It sucked," she informed him, standing up to face him. "It seriously sucked. Because you know better than anyone how awful it is, don't you?"

He grimaced. "I know. But I couldn't make it any better—"

"Yeah, but you being gone made it worse," she shot back. "Harry was there for me! Of course I turned to him!"

"Yes," Draco said, deflating slightly, "I know, and I'm sor-"

"No. Don't. I'm sorry, too," she told him. "I know you're sorry. I get it, we're both stupid and sorry, but we still have to talk about it—"

"Why?" he demanded, obviously frustrated. "I don't want to hurt you, Hermione! I don't want to say things I'll regret, or make accusations about things that aren't anyone's fault—"

"BECAUSE I NEED YOU TO ACT LIKE YOU'LL FIGHT FOR THIS," Hermione shouted at him, and then they both stopped, struck temporarily mute as the words launched themselves out of her, her mouth continuing to have no regard for any conceivable consequences to the rest of her.

"Draco," she exhaled shakily, "if you treat this thing like it's fragile—like anything could break it—then I think it's definitely going to break." She swallowed hard, staring up at him. "And I'm just not… I can't do that. I can't have one foot in and one foot out. I'm in this," she told him, glancing at her actual feet and struggling not to be completely humiliated by the admission. "And if you're not, then I need you to… I need this to stop. Because I just don't think I can—"

"I love you." His voice startled her out of her rambling and she looked up, mouth snapping shut. "I'm in love with you, Hermione. I'm so deep in this you can't imagine how stupid I feel, every day, looking at you like you're the bloody embodiment of the rest of my life."

"Oh. Shit," she said.

"'Oh shit' is right," he agreed, taking hold of her shoulders. "Don't you think it breaks my heart, Hermione?" he asked her, grey gaze meeting hers with a desperation that sent a shiver up her spine. "Don't you think the first thing I wanted to do when my father told me I couldn't be with you was to run directly back to your arms and tell him he could go to hell? But I can't do that. I'll never be able to do that. And asking you to just… to wait," he exhaled heavily, "to see if anything changes, it just feels so…"

"It's a lot, yeah," Hermione said, swallowing hard. "But I know what I'm getting into." She looked up, brushing his hair out of his forehead. "I choose you," she said to him, slipping her hand over his cheek. "I understand your responsibilities are part of who you are. I understand it's a terrible hand to be dealt, and nothing can ever be normal. But it's worth it. For you," she said, rising up on her toes. "For however long I get to be with you, Draco, it's worth it."

She touched her lips to his, softly, and he sighed, closing his eyes.

"The invasion of privacy," he said. "Worth it?"

She nodded.

"This… this Inquisitorial Squad—"

"Worth it," she whispered.

"My father, then. Is he—"

"Yes," she said firmly, kissing him again.

"You don't even know the half," he lamented, shaking his head. "For one thing, I have these French cousins—"

"Doesn't matter," Hermione told him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Whatever it is, it's worth it."

"Okay, well, just remember you said that, because—"

But she was kissing him firmly by then, having made her point, and he seemed like he could be persuaded to change the subject. He slipped his hand under the waistband of her pajama shorts, pausing for a moment.

"Are you not wearing underwear?" he asked curiously, and she pulled back.

"I haven't done laundry in a while," she admitted with a shrug. "Why, does that upset your sensibilities, Your Highness?" she mused facetiously. "Unfortunately, we commoners sometimes run out of our finest lingerie—"

"Actually, I love the expediency," he corrected gruffly, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her onto the half-made bed. "You know what else I love?" he asked, rolling over her and sliding the shorts down her hips. "This… scent you wear," he answered for her, hoisting her leg up to kiss the inside of her ankle. "You always smell like a damn garden."

"It's my lotion," Hermione said with a laugh, giving his chest a shove with the arch of her foot. "It's hardly a 'scent'—"

"Whatever. I also love these outrageous socks," he noted, peeling one of them from her foot and eyeing it skeptically. "What is this made of, Bigfoot's fur?"

"Yes," she told him drily, "and my feet get cold, so leave me alone."

"Mm-mm," he demurred, shaking his head as he dropped to kiss her torso. "No, shan't."

"I can't be sexy all the time," she growled, and he lifted his chin to look at her.

"Pity," he noted, "because you are."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't," she warned. "Save your compliments for the times you really mean it or I'll just never wear anything nice again. It'll be all Bigfoot, all the time—"

"Fine by me," he informed her, slithering up her stomach to prop himself up on his elbows, pushing her arms over her head. "It's you I love, Hermione Granger," he told her, his gaze fixed so intently on hers she felt the words in every bone of her body, her heart inconveniently pulsing with too much bass. "Whatever you wear, whatever you do, whatever you smell like," he murmured. "I love you."

In that moment, as Draco slid his hand between her thighs and she surrendered to her baser urges, Hermione determined it was no longer important what The Inquisitorial Squad or anyone else had to say. Let them speculate, she thought. Let them talk. Let them type their nonsense into the void of the interwebs while she lay here with Draco, whispering the words I love you into the sheets. Tomorrow, she'd smell his cologne on her pillow. She'd see his name on her screen. Tomorrow they might call her a slag or make fun of her body or her hair but she'd still have spent the night in his arms, and she'd be all the better for it.

Let them talk, she thought, rolling over him and putting his hands on her underwhelming tits, glorying in the whole of it.

Let them say anything they liked. She'd already said everything she needed to.

The next day, Hermione let Draco sleep in for a bit, slipping out of her room and tiptoeing into the corridor as Pansy emerged from her room, beckoning to Hermione.

"Come look at this," Pansy said, gesturing inside the room to her laptop screen. "We have a problem."

Hermione saw the brightly-colored banner belonging to The Inquisitorial Squad's blog and groaned. "Forget it, Pansy, I'm not reading that stuff anymore—"

"Not everything is about you, Hermione Granger," Pansy snapped irritably, turning the laptop screen. "Read this. It's important."

Hermione sighed, falling into Pansy's desk chair. "Fine. But for the record, this whole blog is just a bunch of—"

She stopped.

"Oh," she said, blinking.

"Yes," Pansy said curtly.

With one sentence, Hermione sorted out immediately why Pansy had called her in. It wasn't about her. It wasn't even remotely about Draco.

Professor Davies is sleeping with a student.

There was no doubt in Hermione's mind who the student was. She hadn't seen Daphne much in days, and when she had, Daphne had been… absent. Distracted. Daphne was also spectacularly vulnerable; much more so than a professor had any right to take advantage of, however attractive or young he happened to be.

"What do we do?" Hermione asked numbly, turning to Pansy.

"Try to save her, I expect," Pansy said, and then leaned over, reaching out to scroll down for the rest of the thread. "There's pictures."

Hermione slid a hand over her mouth, immediately turning away from the laptop screen. "I can't look at those—"

"Her face isn't in them," Pansy said quickly. "But if anyone sorts out who she is, or if the administration gets wind of this… she could be expelled. Not to mention—" She broke off, grimacing. "Theo will probably see these. If he hasn't already."

Hermione flinched, not even willing to consider his reaction. Was there no limit to the amount of damage the so-called Squad could cause? She hated that she'd been so selfish, and then hated even more that it shouldn't have been any of their faults. Was privacy really such a luxury even they, for all their nobility, couldn't afford?

"I hate this blog," Hermione spat passionately after a minute or so of silence, and in response, Pansy placed a hand lightly on her shoulder.

"So do I," Pansy said, mouth tightening. "So. Do. I."

The Inquisitorial Squad was my first exposure to the unpleasant consequences of micro-fame, though it wasn't nearly the most invasive. It was something of a training experiment, actually, for the upgrade I'd later have in terms of exposure. And really, seeing as the worst of the damage caused by the blog wasn't even to me, it's a little bit of a fracking laugh to think about how little the whole thing ultimately mattered. Considering the news that's about to break about me any moment, I almost wish I could have The Inquisitorial Squad back.

(…I said almost.)

Ah, simpler times. But as anyone knows, the higher you climb, the harder you fall—and obviously, I still had quite a rise left to go.

a/n: Oh, did you lot happen to request a look at what's going on with Theo and Daphne? Well. I have a surprise for you next chapter.

9. Competition

a/n: While the vast majority of this story is being told from Hermione's POV, some of it is, well… not.

Chapter 9: Competition

19 May, 2018
Nott Townhouse, London

Eligible Options

Of course, there's no discussing Prince Draco's romance with Hermione Granger without noting the women who existed in his periphery at the time. Aside from having intimate friendships with both Lady Pansy Parkinson and Lady Daphne Greengrass, both of whom would ultimately wed within the Prince's approved circle of companions, Prince Draco was often seen in the company of women who were considered friends of the royal family. The Prince's amiable and much-publicised presence often caused great speculation as to which of the women he greeted warmly on royal visits may have privately had a closer relationship with him.

Perhaps the most notable of these friendships is one shared between the Prince and Fleur Delacour, daughter of then-President of France Gabriel Delacour. Prince Draco became close with Miss Delacour during a trip to Paris during his Hogwarts years amid rumours of a passionate romance. Famously beautiful and beloved by fashion magazines and tabloids alike—even briefly serving as the inspiration behind the Chanel fragrance Siren—Miss Delacour is said to be the only woman Hermione has ever considered a rival for the Prince's affections.

It's really quite remarkable, isn't it, what this Rita Skeeter woman can magically conjure up? I suppose this is my fault for delving into this atrocious book on Hermione's wedding day, of all days (and for the second time at that, sadly. Blaise bought us all copies as one of his usual jokes, but I suspect we'd all rushed out to read it in secret the moment we parted ways that evening) but I suppose I couldn't help being sentimental, even if these particular sentimentalities are mostly false.

I remember the Fleur days, of course. How could I not? Certainly not my best era. Just stumbling across this chapter makes me teary with gratitude for the friendships Hermione, Pansy, and I had in each other, because we would each need them desperately at various points in our lives. Unsurprisingly, nothing in this account is true—not the way Rita tells it, anyway—but still, I can't help but look over these pages and remember how things were.

After all, would I be sitting here now without the Fleur years?

No. I suspect I wouldn't. But then… maybe that story requires a brief look back.

16 April, 2011
Hogwarts University

Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl, as there often are. The boy and the girl met at university, where boys and girls often meet. Perhaps there would be nothing of interest to the story at all had boy and girl done what boys and girls often do and simply fallen into bed with each other on the basis of mutual attraction on the event of the 2008 Hog's Head Halloween party. Unfortunately, this boy and this girl were wired rather problematically, and things didn't quite turn out that way.

"You're the girl I'm going to marry," Theo Nott said to Daphne Greengrass on the occasion of their first kiss, a statement that was hardly preceded by anything else. Maybe there had been a joke here and there, maybe a laugh. Maybe she'd been in some particularly flattering pose and he'd let himself get carried away. But in the moment, he'd said the words and she'd looked up at him and felt her heart twist and lurch and in that instant, she'd thought, my god, you idiot boy, you might be right.

But Daphne Greengrass had never been one to waltz easily into her fate. Her mother had tried several times to talk her out of attending Hogwarts, pushing her into charity work and patronage instead ("At least go to Cambridge!" Ava had said. "Scotland is positively dreary. The lighting won't flatter you at all.") and attempting to talk her out of her interest in art and fashion. Daphne was constantly walking a line between what was expected, what was inevitable, and what she actually wanted, and the moment she looked into Theo Nott's eyes, she wondered if it were even possible he could be all three.

It had seemed so enormously unlikely she'd been convinced the only plausible option was to simply push him away.

Still, for whatever reason—perhaps because Theo Nott was so absurdly unlike a normal person—the two managed to become friends. He began inviting her out with his circle of friends, insisting she join them, and after hardly any time had passed, they'd both fallen easily into a rhythm of companionship that Daphne found surprisingly fulfilling. Somehow, this fully incomprehensible boy became her friend. Her best friend, most of the time, at least until Hermione arrived. There were certainly moments when Daphne wondered if she might want more, but they were easily pushed aside once she fell into what she internally called The Theo Spiral. It went like this: What if he kissed her? What if she kissed him back? What if she went further, did more? What if she slept with him? What if they woke up and everything was different? What if it was ruined? What if it wasn't ruined, but she only ruined it later? A year, a month, a week, an hour later it could be over, and then what if he realized she wasn't at all what he thought? And what if one day he knew all her secrets? What if she let her guard down, let him see all her flaws? What if she wasn't the girl he thought she was? What if he was wrong, and what if she fell short, fell hard, fell face-first into heartache?, etc., etc. The Theo Spiral was an astronomically limitless hole into which she could grapple endlessly with what if what if what if—?

Daphne Greengrass didn't want to feel the things she felt for Theo Nott. She was never more breakable than when she was in his hands, never more fragile, and it was a sensation she positively loathed. Most of the time she could convince herself she felt nothing. Numbing herself was a reflex she'd perfected at a young age. Other people, people who weren't Theo Nott, were safe. They couldn't hurt her, certainly couldn't break her, and she was satisfied with them for now. She wasn't ready for forever yet.

There were moments when she felt otherwise, of course. The night Astoria had come to visit, leaving her without saying goodbye, and Theo had caught up to her in the alley behind the Hog's Head and slid her hair back from her face without a word, tucking it behind her ear, and held her while she cried. The day he saw her crumple up a sketch and throw it across the room, frustrated, and asked how he could help. The time she went to his house, saw his childhood bedroom, walked the halls where he'd been small and said softly, "Do you think it's possible to know someone before you even meet them?" and he said, "Daphne," and she said, "Theo," and thankfully the Prince of Darkness had interrupted, or she might have let him kiss her. Might have even wanted him to.

There were moments. Like the time he didn't tell her it was his bloody birthday, for Christ's sake, and so she bullied him into a cupcake, arriving at his dorm room unannounced.

"You can ignore it for the others," she said firmly, steadfast. "We don't have to have a big party. But for the love of god, Theodore Nott, if you think I'm going to let your stupid birthday go by without acknowledgement—"

"Greengrass," he said, mouth quirking. She may not have loved him yet, but she loved his mouth. Loved the shape of it, the things that came out of it, the way it said the most outrageous things. "If you're telling me I have to invite you inside and eat dessert, I accept. If you're saying there's a brass band waiting for me in the common room—"

"Oh, do shut up," she sighed, giving him a shove, and he laughed, shutting the door behind her and lingering in the threshold, his hands carefully slipped into his trouser pockets. She remembered with ill-timed clarity the times she'd seen him naked; not the nudity itself, which was of course limited only to artwork, but the way he'd undressed. Carefully, fastidiously. If it had been her, she'd have hurried out of her clothes, cheeks flaming. No, actually, if it had been her, she wouldn't have done it. That was the difference between the two of them; he was brave and she wasn't. But still, if she'd magically summoned the courage, she would have thrown everything aside and dropped herself down in a huff.

Not him. He slid out of his clothes and waited, watching her. "Here?" he'd asked, "Like this?" and she'd arranged him, tilting his head in the light she wanted and adjusting his posture, her fingers brushing with careful precision over his skin. It wasn't until she looked in his eyes that she realized she was bending over him and he was still looking at her face, delicately skirting his view of her breasts, and she was holding his chin in one hand, the other settled gently on his chest.

She'd cleared her throat, half-leaping away in apology. He'd smiled and said nothing.

Now he watched her as she sat on his bed, tucking her legs underneath her to sit like a child while offering him a fork, holding it out expectantly. He smiled now like he had then, nodding once, and sat beside her, long legs stretched out to the floor as he angled himself towards her.

"Chocolate?" he asked, eyeing the cupcake before shifting to take a bite.

"Of course," she said.

"Hm," he said neutrally, cutting a piece, and she scowled.

"What?"

"Hm?"

"You're displeased," she said. "You're doing… the thing. That thing."

His expression was playfully impassive. "Whatever 'thing' do you mean, Greengrass?"

"That thing you do. When you don't want to admit you don't like something." She frowned at him, scooting backwards. "What is it? You don't like chocolate?"

"Of course I like chocolate," he said neutrally.

"But what?" she demanded, and blinked. "You don't like it." She grimaced. "I did it wrong."

"Greengrass," Theo said with a laugh, shaking his head. "You did nothing wrong. You never do anything wrong."

Not true, she wanted to say, but she didn't particularly want to get into it. She waited silently for an explanation, propping her hands on her hips.

"I just prefer, um." He paused. "Well, no, this is fine—"

"Theo." His name fell from her mouth in a growl. "Tell me, would you? So I can do better next time."

"Daphne—"

"Tell me," she warned, brandishing the fork at him, and he rolled his eyes with a laugh.

"I prefer vanilla," he said. "Or even… even honey? Or cinnamon. Or carrot cake, actually, I quite like the frosting—"

"Nobody likes carrot cake," Daphne said, aghast. "It has vegetable in it, Theodore!"

He eyed her for a second.

Then, before she could stop him, he had taken the entire cupcake from her, peeling the side of the wrapping, and shoved half of it in his mouth, leaving her to watch him, wide-eyed, as he struggled to make out an incoherent word.

"Delicious," he choked out, though it sounded faintly foreign with a mouthful of chocolate. He managed a heavy swallow, eyes watering slightly, and grinned at her, frosting spread across his cheerfully smug face. "Perfection, Greengrass, the best thing I've ever put in my mou-"

She didn't know what came over her. Perhaps it had been because there'd been no time to run through any spiral, much less the Theo Spiral, between him smiling at her through his thin veil of horrifying lies and what she did next. He'd hated it, she realized in that little hairline fracture of a moment. He'd hated the cupcake, probably hated chocolate in general—now that she thought about it she'd never actually recalled Theo eating any desserts, and did he even eat at all? He was always so thin, someone should really feed him better, someone should really take care of him—and before she could stop herself she had pulled him into her and kissed him hard on the lips, directly onto the frosting that lined the sides of his mouth.

He froze for a second, the cupcake still in his hand, and didn't move as she came to a complete stop, uncertain how to explain to either of them what had just happened.

"I just," Daphne began, and immediately faltered. "I just wanted you to know somebody cared about you on your birthday," she murmured quietly. "That's all."

Probably an unforgivably foolish thing to say, but if anyone would understand an instinctual need to say unforgivably foolish things, it would almost certainly be him.

"Daphne," he said, swallowing hard. "Are you sure you want to—?"

It was the first time they'd kissed since the first one, that Halloween night. It was amazing it had come so easily, really, considering they were so out of practice. Maybe by then they'd come close so many times Daphne had memorized the shapes and motions of his lips and already knew how to choreograph them to her liking. Maybe she'd thought about kissing him so often it was as if they'd already done it a million times before.

"I don't know," she said, slowly disentangling herself, and he reached over her to set the cupcake down on his desk.

"Well," he said, glancing down at the chocolate on his fingers. "I suppose I should, um. Wash this off, then."

She couldn't quite let him go. She briefly imagined taking his hand, slipping her lips over his finger, licking it clean and watching his sanity flee from his bodily constitution. If he were some other boy she might have done it. If he were anyone else, she wouldn't hesitate.

But he wasn't. He was Theo. Cue spiral.

"Right," she agreed, releasing him. "Right, yes, go—"

"I think Blaise has a bottle of Ogden's," he said, gesturing to the wall they shared. "Want to fetch it? Have ourselves a very sad party? He's out for the night, but he never locks his bloody door—"

She wondered briefly if Blaise had done it on purpose. "Sure," she said, rising to her feet, and he slipped out while she wandered into the corridor, grabbing the bottle from Blaise's room and then slinking back to Theo's, relieved she hadn't run into anyone. Not yet, anyway, though Daphne was certain Hermione was going to ask where she'd been once she got home (though, Hermione had a marvelous habit of kindly refraining when she suspected it was Theo-related).

Luckily, Theo was his usual self upon entry, messily digging through his things for two shot glasses and handing her one without hesitation or preamble. "Drink, Greengrass," he said firmly, not mentioning anything about her egregiously foolish kiss, and she was so grateful to him she nearly kissed him again.

"…so then," Theo was half-slurring an hour later when the bottle was a little more than half-gone, "I told Abraxas that of course they were my glasses and what was he, blind?"

Daphne gave a shrill giggle. "King Abraxas? You stole His Majesty's specs?"

"I thieved them right out from under him," Theo said proudly. "And I told Draco to take me to the Tower if he dared—which of course he didn't, the weaselly little shit—"

"Oh my god," Daphne said, dazed. "Oh my god, I'm party to treason. This is it. This is how it ends."

"You're damn right, Greengrass," Theo trumpeted, firm. "Rita Skeeter thinks I'm boring? Well, how about this, Rita? In a shocking plot twist, Theodore Nott found guilty of traitorous sedition—"

She laughed and leaned against him, as she often did. His heart hammered beneath her ear, quickening slightly at the contact.

"You're nervous," she noted, and he shifted to glance down at her.

"Of course I am," he said. His mouth seemed dry. "I'm always nervous with you, Greengrass."

"Stupid of you," she said. "I think I'm more comfortable with you than anyone."

"Well, right," he agreed. "Hence the nerves. Could ruin it with anything, couldn't I?"

"What, you? Hardly," she told him. "I'm the disaster."

She felt her face fall, remembering again what she'd done, and he must have seen it.

"What is it?" he asked her, running his hand over her arm, and she sighed.

"Don't tell anyone."

"I wouldn't."

"Not even Draco."

"Draco who? Prince Draco?" He scoffed. "I don't know him."

She grimaced, shutting her eyes. "Don't joke, Theo. It's bad."

"Is it?"

She nodded, and he looped one arm around her ribs to pull her up, securing her back against his chest.

"Tell me anyway," he suggested, resting his chin on her head, and she sighed.

"You know my art professor?" She felt Theo nod. "I… I think he came onto me."

His arm stiffened. "What did he do?"

"I—" She grimaced. "I'm already lying," she sighed, wilting slightly. "He didn't just come onto me, Theo, he, um. Well, he and I were looking at my art, you know, and he… he offered to let me come in a few extra hours a week, to work more on my portfolio. He was so kind, you know, and… and thoughtful, but then he sort of slid his hand down my back, and I—" She swallowed. "I just, I didn't know what to do. I sort of stood there, and then he, um—"

He'd kissed her neck once, gently. She'd sighed a little in response. It had felt nice, really. It was a quiet motion and then his hand had slid over her fingers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. She could have said no. She could have pushed him away, but it had felt nice. He was so talented, so handsome. His art hung on the walls and she loved it, loved the softness of the features, the way the people in his paintings looked so peaceful and serene. She wanted to be one of those girls. So she'd let him turn her hips, let him place his hands on her waist, and let him brush his lips against hers once, softly.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said aloud, finding the whole experience vaguely pornographic to recount. It had ended with the kiss. She'd said it was getting late. But still, she was the student who'd kissed her teacher, and now she was saying it to… to Theo. She turned to look at him, finding his face worryingly unreadable. "The point is, Theodore, I'm terrible. You shouldn't be nervous around me. In fact, you should run far, far away."

He eyed her for a second. She reached out, brushing her fingers over his mouth.

She wished she hadn't told him. It was so very confusing, though, wanting him and wanting a safe distance from him at the same time.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?" he asked neutrally. "Sounds to me like an older man took advantage of you, Daphne."

"He's not that much older. But that's not the point." She glanced down, swallowing. "I know you think I'm… that I'm yours, somehow, but—"

"No. No, you're not mine. I'm very aware of it." He sounded more resigned than unkind, but still, she couldn't miss the undertone of strain. "You don't belong to me, Greengrass," he said quietly, reaching out to brush her hair behind her ear the way he'd done so many times before, "but it doesn't matter." He paused, looking at her. "Whatever you do, Daphne Greengrass, and wherever you go, I will always belong to you."

She was curled up in his lap, drunk and warm and painfully sorry. Her head spun. The practiced swarm of The Theo Spiral wouldn't come. She wasn't in her right mind.

"Theo," she said. "You shouldn't say things like that."

He smiled thinly. "And why not?"

"Because." She swallowed. "Because. Just because."

"Because why?"

"Because—"

But he kissed her, pulled her close and put his whisky-flavored lips to hers, and she was helpless, so terribly helpless in his arms. She clung to him, curling her hands tightly around his upper arms and dragging him into her, and the two of them tumbled over her on his bed as he braced himself above her, his elbows on either side of her head.

"What do you want for your birthday?" she whispered to him, her hands on that sliver of skin between his t-shirt and his jeans, and he pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes.

"Don't ask me that," he said hoarsely, and she slid her hand into his jeans, drawing a slow series of unplanned sketches with her fingers under the waistband of his underwear.

"Are you nervous?" she asked him.

"Yes." He shuddered. "Fucking terrified."

"Theo." She lifted her chin, brushing her lips against it. "You can't just stay there forever."

"Yes," he said firmly, "I can. If I don't…" He swallowed. "I know you, Daphne. I know you. If I go any further, you'll be gone. I won't be able to catch you."

"What?" she asked, frowning with confusion. "I'm right here, Theo. Come on," she urged him, tugging at his belt loops. "Call it a birthday gift between friends."

He let out a ragged breath. "Friends?"

She hesitated a moment. Then, "Yes. Of course. Friends."

"Is that really all we are, Daphne?" he asked very seriously, letting himself fall just slightly, just so the weight of him pressed her further down into the mattress. "We're friends, that's it, nothing else?"

"Yes." If only she wasn't such a relentless liar.

"Okay. Okay, then." If only he didn't let her believe her own stupid lies.

They stared at each other.

"Do you know my favorite thing about you, Theodore Nott?" she asked him, reaching up to slide her fingers through his hair, and he let his eyes fall shut, briefly. "You're never what anyone expects. You have us all fooled. You make it look like you're so easy to puzzle out, but underneath you go for miles, don't you?"

"Do you really want me, Daph?" he asked, pained. "Or am I just a warm body you can—"

"It's your birthday, Theo," she reminded him. "It's your birthday, and I want you. I want you," she said, voice hushed and desperate, "I want you, Theo, I want you—"

He kissed her, hard, and she gladly let her breath escape into his mouth, losing herself in an exhalation of relief. He yanked at her t-shirt, parting just long enough to pull it over her head as she fumbled with his, leaving faint marks in the places her nails dragged along his skin. He was adamant, ardent, and fell against her with an agonizing breath, pressing his lips to her jaw, her neck, her breasts, and down the line of her abdomen.

"Jesus," he mumbled to her navel. "Greengrass, you always smell like a bloody dessert."

She wriggled at his touch, shoving down the yoga pants she'd 'accidentally' lifted from Hermione's closet (which was fair, she thought, since Hermione was probably wearing her jumper as they spoke) and he pulled her knickers down with them, shaking his head as he deposited them on the floor.

"You're going to break my heart, aren't you?" he asked her, his lips pressed to her thighs, and she let her head fall back with a sigh.

"We're friends, Theo," she said. "Just friends."

He slid his tongue against her and she shivered.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really."

He was a multitasker of the finest degree. Fingers, lips, tongue, a little teeth to keep it interesting. She wriggled and let out a low, mournful whine.

"Really?" he asked her again.

"Really," she growled, and he slipped his tongue inside her that time, leaving her to groan. "If you're trying to make a point, Theodore—"

"I've already made it," he said, and she closed her eyes as he slid out of his jeans, out of his underwear, and replaced himself between her legs, making his way back up. He kissed her shoulder, slipping his hands underneath her to unclasp her bra, missing the hooks once or twice. She was relieved. She wanted him to fumble, to muck it up a little, to give her a little glimpse of inexpertise. She'd had perfect sex before. Now, she wanted his imperfections.

"We're friends for now, Daphne," he said, yanking one of her legs up roughly with his forearm, "but someday—" He slid inside her and she bit down hard, gritting her teeth around the sensation of having him. "Someday, you'll know I was right all along."

You're the girl I'm going to marry.

She clung to him while he drove into her, sweat glistening on his forehead as his eyes shut in concentration. He had so many artful variations, she thought; so many different fragments of himself. She'd seen him look like this before, studying something with an aim for precision. This was his focused face, his face of calculation. He was thoughtful, careful, tensed with deliberation. It was a version of him that was far too much like her, trying so hard to get it right, and she felt a wave of guilt and panic.

"Don't think so much," she whispered to him, and he paused, looking down at her. "Please, don't think, or I'll have to, and then…"

She trailed off. He froze for a second, looking a little lost, and she pushed him onto his back, straddling him with her hands on either side of his head.

"Just hold me," she said in his ear, and slowly, his arms came around her ribs.

For a moment, both of them were still, held together and breathing in concert and fully unwilling to part. But then, as his hands made their way delicately up her spine, she shifted against him gradually, the motion less any sort of thrusting and more an instinctual, rhythmic tide. Her hips moved against his reflexively as he slid his hands around her shoulders, hair now slicked against her neck.

This time, when she pulled back to look at him, she could see that he was lost, and she was, too. This time when his eyes met hers he was unfocused, almost drowsy with pleasure, and she traced her fingers over his nose, his cheeks, his perfect mouth. She kissed him slowly, felt his breath quicken, and felt herself come up to the edge of agonizing stupefaction, going tense with her lips to his neck until he pulled her head back to watch her face while she came, smiling slightly.

"If you could see what I see," he said, voice quiet, dizzying her completely.

She shuddered, wrung out and breathless, and picked up speed, brutally forcing his hands over his head. She watched his eyes fall shut, a welcome glimpse of pain on his features as he came, and knew in an instant she'd ruined everything. She'd done it all wrong. The moment she left this room she could already hear it, the jokes and the insistence they'd all known it all along, and who'd won the bet? They'd all be delighted, of course, their friends, until it didn't work out and she and Theo broke up because of course they would, because what else could possibly happen? They'd get married and live happily ever after and she had three sets of Theo twins and then what? Then what? No, more likely they'd fight, and the others would take sides, and eventually all of this, everything they had, it would all crumble to nothing and no, oh no, what had she done, what had she done?

"Hey," he said, taking her face with both hands. "At least wait until you've left to have a crisis, would you? As a favor to me? I don't think I can't take it while I'm still inside you," he joked, and she wanted to cry. She wanted terribly to sob. I've wrecked it, she wanted to say, but didn't, and to make him happy—or something close to happy, because it was his birthday, after all—she stayed there, naked in his arms, until he fell asleep.

Then she'd slipped out. Like a lie, like a broken promise, and the next day, she knocked on the door of Professor Davies' office and he looked up, catching sight of her in the threshold.

"Daphne," he said, frowning slightly. He was muscular, very blond. Not silvery like Draco, but blond enough to be Theo's opposite. He had artist's hands, but not like Theo's. Theo's fingers were long and delicate and marked up with scars and ink. Professor Davies' were pristine, save for some charcoal here and there. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," she said, shutting the door quietly behind her. "You shouldn't have kissed me."

He blinked. His eyes were blue. Theo's were green but looked darker. Looked dark until you looked closer. Like everything else about him, you couldn't see the truth unless you really, truly looked.

"I'm sorry," Professor Davies said. "It was wrong of me, Daphne, and I shouldn't have—"

"You shouldn't have kissed me," she clarified, "if you didn't plan to do it again."

He paused, caught off guard. He set his jaw, weighing his options.

Then he rose to his feet, meeting her on the other side of his desk.

"Daphne," he said, "I don't think it would be right to do this if you… if you think—"

"I don't love you," she assured him. "I don't, and I won't. I never will." She reached down to take his hand, carefully brushing her lips against his palm and then closing his fingers around it, one by one. "But every artist needs a muse," she murmured, "don't you think?"

His gaze flicked to the door, then back to her. She knew he wouldn't say no. She could already see evidence on his face of how badly he wanted her, and besides, nobody ever said no. It was one of her most destructive gifts, really, that nobody could ever say no to her.

"Take off your dress," he said, voice hushed.

She smiled.

"Yes, Professor," she agreed, and slid the zipper down her back.

That had been over two months ago.

But now, thanks to the Inquisitorial Squad, things were finally about to change.

"We'll just tell the administration it's serious between us. Right? I'm not your teacher this term, it's not technically against the rules, and if they knew it was a real relationship—"

Daphne rubbed her temple wearily, watching Professor Roger Davies pace the floor of his office while wondering how exactly to tell him he was a truly terrific lay but not particularly of any long-term interest to her. It's not you, it's me, she briefly toyed with saying before shaking her head, opting to rise to her feet.

"It's a totally unsubstantiated rumor," she reminded him, which was the same point she'd opened with nearly two hours ago. "They can't prove it's me in that photo, so it's just, I don't know. Idle student chatter."

"Yes, but—"

"Roger, please," Daphne sighed. "I really have to go. You've kept me here for hours already."

He faced her with displeasure. "This is serious, Daphne. My career's on the line, so I just want to be sure we have our story straight in case—"

"In case what?" she prompted, giving him a wearied glance. "Roger, in case it's managed to escape your attention, you're a man," she reminded him. "Nobody's going to blame you. It'll be me they come for, and besides." She spared him an impatient grimace. "If you didn't want your career to be on the line, you probably shouldn't have started this."

He balked, staring at her. "That's unfair, Daphne. I didn't do this alone."

"No, you didn't," she agreed, well beyond exasperated, "but if you're going to continue ranting, that bit you'll have to do by yourself. It appears you haven't noticed, but as a reminder, I also have people I need to explain myself to, so—"

She glanced down at her phone screen, which was filled margin to margin with Hermione's increasingly panicky sentiments, ranging from a casual, hey, where are you? to DAPHNE ARE YOU DEAD ANSWER ME IMMEDIATELY, and somewhere in there, Daphne knew, was a far more worrisome message from Pansy, which simply read: Daphne Greengrass. What have you done?

"Listen, the administration's already been told about this Inquisitorial Squad thing," Daphne continued to Roger, tucking her phone back into her bag. "I know because I filed several complaints myself on my friend's behalf and they explicitly told me they weren't taking any of the claims seriously. So just relax, would you?"

He didn't look particularly eased, but it would have to do. Daphne turned, reaching for the door of his office, and Roger stepped after her, pausing her briefly.

"Daphne," he said. "It isn't… this isn't just about the administration."

Oh no, she thought, withering.

She'd heard that tone of voice before.

"What does that mean, Roger?" she asked, turning sigh to face him and mentally giving herself five minutes. Five minutes and then you can find Hermione and sort it out. And then… She couldn't imagine what she was going to say to Theo. There was a reason she'd been avoiding him for the past few weeks, and now… No, not yet. Cross that bridge later. "What's it about, then?"

"I—" He scraped a hand through his thick golden hair, sighing in his tortured way. She was unlikely the only student who'd wanted to sleep with him, if even the only one who had; Roger Davies had an artful brood he could have bottled up and marketed to precisely their demographic. "What if I want more, Daphne?"

"What, from me? Roger, I'm twenty years old and a student," Daphne reminded him, though she'd be twenty-one in a matter of days. For purposes of the present conversation, though, she opted to round down. "I'm not capable of more than sex."

"But Daphne," he protested, stepping towards her. "It's fine if everyone else wants to believe this is some sort of lewd affair, but you must know how I feel—"

"Look, we'll talk about this later," she cut him off, aiming to be firm. "Okay? Just… not now. I can't right now."

"Daphne—" He reached out, catching her arm and spinning her into him, pausing to stroke a finger across her cheek. "You're not going to walk out of here and never speak to me again, are you?" he asked softly, and then in a moment of perfect incongruity he kissed her firmly, gruffly, and without interruption. "I'd hate it," he murmured between her lips.

She considered saying something, but ultimately thought better of it. Instead she rose up on her toes, kissing his cheek, and turned to the door, opening it and slipping out before they could say another word.

He was right. She had no intention of speaking to him again.

Daphne's phone rang in her bag and she sighed, eyeing the face of it and pulling it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Daph, hey!" Hermione was using her determined fix-everything voice, which was always stridently American in the most endearing way. "Where are you? Pansy and I were just, um. We were going to grab breakfast, if you wanted to come? To the Three Broomsticks?"

"Sounds good," Daphne said. "Be there in five. Oh, and Hermione?"

"Hm?"

"I know you saw the blog."

"I… what? No. I mean, maybe," Hermione demurred. "Actually, Pansy found it, and—"

"I ended it, okay? It's over." Daphne glanced over her shoulder, shaking her head, and then continued walking. "But we can still do breakfast if you want."

"Well, of course," Hermione said, scoffing lightly. "Breakfast is a totally separate need." She paused for a minute. "I mean, listen, I don't want to tell you want to do, but—"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "You can lecture me in five minutes, Hermione. Okay? I'm leaving now, and I'll see you soon."

"Right yes, fun, okay bye—"

Daphne hung up and paused, noticing one or two stares from people inside the castle. It was early for a weekend, but it certainly wasn't too early for straggling library-goers or the reverse, people wandering back from their respective nights out. I get it, Daphne thought, lifting her chin. I know what you think.

She shivered and shook her head, heading out of the castle to Hogsmeade. It was a brisk walk, but sort of refreshing. Occasionally her mind wandered to what she would say to Theo, but she shoved it easily out of her head. She was highly practiced at compartmentalizing.

"Hey," Daphne said when she entered, falling into the seat next to Hermione in their usual booth. "So, let's just get this out of the way, shall we? I know you were reading that stupid blog," she said, arching a brow at Pansy, "and I know what you saw, but everything's fine."

Pansy pursed her lips. "Is it?"

"Yes. Tea, please?" Daphne asked the waitress, signaling to her, and then returned to face Hermione, who was nervously chewing her lip. Better than her fingernails, Daphne thought, but in terms of anxious habits, that one would be the next to go. "It was stupid," she said, giving Hermione's knee a nudge, "but it's done now."

"I'm not sure it's quite that simple," Pansy said briskly, picking up her cup of coffee.

No, it isn't, but why do I have to admit that? "Pans, if this is about—"

"Oh good, you're here," said a spirited Draco, taking the seat next to Pansy. "I was so worried I'd have to have breakfast alone."

"Draco, being that we are not the Inquisitorial Squad, we know perfectly well where you woke up this morning," Daphne reminded him in a low voice, catching Hermione's furtive laugh at her side and managing a smile with relief. At least Hermione wasn't angry, though Pansy clearly remained unconvinced. "Do you plan to act like it's a total surprise to us?"

"I thought I told you to stay back?" Pansy growled at him, though she grudgingly passed him her coffee when she caught him eyeing it. "We hardly need you barging around everywhere as if you're some sort of prince of the realm—"

"It's fine. He's hardly barging in on anything important, is he?" Daphne said, flashing Pansy a pointed glare. They spoke in silence for a few seconds—IT'S NOT FINE, Pansy's haughty gaze snapped, to which Daphne responded with a tilt of her head that said, drop it right this minute or I'll tell everyone what I caught you doing at that party first year, which should have ended things, but didn't. Clearly, though, whatever the other two might know about Daphne's dalliance with Professor Davies, Draco was blissfully unaware. "So, what are you all having to eat?"

"Oh, I was thinking—ah, pause please," Draco said, holding up a finger to answer his phone. "Yes? Three Broomsticks." A pause as he listened, stirring a little sugar into Pansy's coffee. "Yes, of course. Okay. See you then." He tucked the phone back into his pocket. "That was Blaise. He's coming," he informed them, and Daphne stiffened uneasily.

"Is Theo with him?" she asked in as light a voice she could manage, and across the table, Pansy's glare evolved to some equivalent of, DID I NOT TELL YOU EVERYTHING WAS NOT FINE? YOU KNOW THAT AS WELL AS I DO! YOU'RE A LIAR, DAPHNE GREENGRASS, A TOTAL LIAR, AND FRANKLY, HOW DARE YOU SIT IDLY BY AND PRETEND THIS DOESN'T MATTER—

"I imagine so," Draco said, flashing a brief smile at Hermione, whom Daphne noted looked so pleased to be out and about with him she'd scarcely noticed Pansy's blistering rant from across the table. "You know, I always have the most terrible time deciding between sweet and savory when it comes to breakfast."

"Mm, so true," Daphne said, sparing Pansy a silencing glance, i.e., Do you think I wanted this to happen? Of course not! And you yelling at me is certainly not helping! Don't you think I'm humiliated, Pansy? THIS IS HARDLY MY FINEST HOUR. "A bit of each?" she suggested placidly to Draco. "Something sweet with some bacon on the side?"

"That's a thought," Draco agreed, and beside him, a twitch of Pansy's mouth said, under no uncertain terms, You have no idea what you've done, do you, Daphne Greengrass? You are FLAGRANTLY irresponsible and if I did not treasure you as a friend I would MURDER YOU, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT HERE ON THIS TABLE IN FRONT OF THE BLOODY PRINCE OF WALES HIMSELF—"Some sort of pastry sounds nice," Draco mused, "doesn't it?"

"Oh, absolutely," Daphne said, with an added, I ALREADY FEEL TERRIBLE AND YOU! ARE! NOT! HELPING! in Pansy's direction. "That does sound lovely."

"This is nice," Hermione said happily, glowing with pleasure; Daphne guessed Draco was playing with her foot under the table. Still, she managed to catch onto the lack of critical commentary and glanced over, remarking, "You're very quiet, Pans."

Pansy gave a lofty sniff. "It's early, Hermione. Please do not accost me with your colonial sensibilities before I've had any sort of nutrients."

"Oh good, you're all here," said Blaise, materializing beside the booth and nudging Hermione over. Daphne noticed he wasn't looking at her, and was therefore not surprised when Theo appeared behind him, his face drawn and grim (or was that her imagination?)

"Well, excellent," Blaise said, too-bright. "So, what are we all having?"

Theo fell into the seat across from Daphne. The others had left it vacant out of habit and she swallowed hard, waiting to meet his eye. He didn't look up, but the others continued chatting around them.

From Draco: "A pastry, I think. Did we agree on a pastry?"

From Hermione, amused: "Do you really require a team of people contribute to all your important decisions, Your Highness?"

From Blaise: "It's not because he's a prince. It's because he's chronically unimpressive with his breakfast choices. Always has been."

From Pansy: "True. Since he was a child he's always eaten mine."

Draco, suspiciously: "I feel as if I'm being ganged up on, but that simply can't be right."

If Theo had been speaking, Daphne thought silently, he'd have said some joke about Draco's father ultimately hearing about this. Instead, he fidgeted with his collarbone and propped his chin on his hand, eyeing the table.

Blaise, with a covert glance at Theo, said, "You're going to have to bring someone along on your Easter trip, Draco, if you plan on commandeering breakfast. You know Prince Lucifer only dines on the withered souls of his enemies."

From Pansy, curiously: "Easter trip?"

From Draco: "Ah, yes, sorry, I forgot I hadn't mentioned it yet. Just a couple of days in Paris. My father and I are meeting with the French president."

Hermione, very American-ly: "I like President Delacour. He's very progressive."

Draco: "True, he's not bad. Theo, you in?"

Theo, clearing his throat: "Hm?"

Draco, with a rapidly concealed glance of concern: "Paris? Next weekend?"

If Theo were in a better mood, he'd have made a joke about escaping the oppression of academia, or perhaps slung his own father a derogatory remark or two.

Instead, Theo said: "Sure."

Silence fell over the table.

"So," Hermione attempted brightly, reliably quick to try to salvage things, "what do you all usually do on these trips?"

Blaise: "Oh, you know, the usual. Accompany the prince to satanic rituals, state dinners, orgies, blood oaths, the occasional photo-op—"

Draco, daintily wiping his mouth: "All crown secrets, I'm afraid."

Pansy, briskly: "Don't encourage him, Draco. He'll start to believe it's true, and then what will we do with him?"

Blaise, frowning: "I'm not a child, Lady Parkinson. My personality's nearly fully formed."

It was around this time that Daphne noticed a couple of girls in her art history class eyeing her from a few tables away. They were glancing at their phone screens, which Daphne was uncomfortably certain meant they were trying to sort out whether it really was her hair in the pictures, which were mostly blurry shots of the back of her head while she sat in Professor Davies' chair. She and Roger hadn't actually been having sex in the pictures (she was in his lap, so it was probably heading there; she couldn't quite remember) but that wasn't exactly helpful.

Daphne glanced away, realizing she should put her hair up for a few days, or perhaps considering coloring it. It was nearly summer, anyway. A lighter balayage would be rather on trend.

"Do you have a bobbin?" she murmured to Hermione, who nearly always had one on her wrist. She nodded quickly, passing it to her as conversation continued around them, and Daphne tied her hair back in something of a passable low bun. Unfortunately, the girls at the other table had clearly confirmed it was her, so… too late. They were whispering to each other now and Daphne put some decent effort into looking as unconcerned as possible.

At least they weren't talking about Hermione, or about Draco. Daphne fidgeted for a second, then looked up, accidentally catching Theo's eye that time.

He paused for a second, then slid his phone out of his pocket, typing something. Her phone buzzed from her purse and she dug it out.

are you ok

She blinked, surprised, and then replied, of course. It's nothing. It'll blow over.

Then she paused, watching his face remain unchanged, and added a bit more.

to be honest, I thought you might be angry with me.

He frowned.

Her phone buzzed again: did you really think I didn't know?

She froze.

Stared at the screen.

No, she'd had no idea he knew. But she suspected, as she had many times before, that he'd always understood her better than she understood him.

His thumb shifted rapidly and another text came in.

Theo: this is why you've been avoiding me?

Daphne: I wasn't avoiding you

Theo: don't lie.

Her gaze flicked to his, and he gave her a warning head shake before gesturing back down to the screen.

Theo: please don't lie to me. I'm really not in the mood

Daphne: fine. It's just

She sighed internally, wondering what to say.

Daphne: it didn't mean anything

Theo: then why

Daphne: I don't know! it was stupid

Theo: yes, it was. so why'd you do it

Nobody else had noticed they were talking. Or texting. Or text-fighting. She glanced up and then back down.

Daphne: theo I don't know what you want from me

Theo: are you serious?

She grimaced.

Daphne: look I told you I was shitty okay

Theo: the thing is, daphne, you aren't

Theo: at least I don't think you are

Daphne: yes, and that's the problem! you think too highly of me, you always have, but the truth is you're so much better than me theo

Theo: oh, don't give me that. don't you dare

She frowned, abruptly realizing the waitress was waiting for her order.

"Oh, um. Nothing," she said, and then returned to her phone, ignoring Hermione's curious glance beside her.

Daphne: I just can't be what you want

Theo: you know that's not true

Her gaze flicked up to find he had a solemn look on his face.

Theo: greengrass, I can't wait around forever.

He was looking at her, scrutinizing her reaction. Part of her wanted to sob, but she hit send instead.

Daphne: I never asked you to wait

He hesitated, his thumb hovering over his keyboard.

Theo: so that's it?

"Daph, your birthday's coming up, isn't it?" Hermione asked her, reaching under the table to pat her knee. She was a master at comforting touches, Daphne thought gratefully, though slightly less adept at conversational timing. "We should have a party for you!"

"Hm? Oh, no, no parties please," Daphne said, hearing her own voice shake slightly and catching Pansy's worried glance. "Just, um. We can have a girls' dinner? Since these two will be in France."

"Oh, right," Hermione said with a frown. "Well, okay, we'll do that, then—"

"Minus ten points for forgetting me," Blaise said hotly.

"No, you're part of the girls' dinner," Pansy informed him.

"Oh, then statement retracted—"

Daphne: theo it would break my heart to lose you as a friend

She looked up at him, hopeful, and he stared down at his phone.

Then he tucked his phone away.

Daphne: theo, please. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry

This time, when his phone buzzed against his leg, he didn't answer. He didn't move. He didn't bother to glance at his screen.

Daphne guessed it would be days before she heard from him again, if she even did.

While Hermione knew plenty about President Delacour's politics, she didn't seem to know anything at all about the only thing Pansy and Daphne (and Blaise, for that matter) considered worth paying attention to: his daughters. When the pictures first started to circulate of Draco kissing Fleur Delacour's cheek while meeting with the Delacour family, it was rather startling to Hermione to discover precisely what the British press was dealing with.

"Oh my god, they love her," Hermione said, eyeing the magazine cover as they were buying pints of ice cream for the only relevant portion of Daphne's birthday dinner. "I don't remember them being so enamored with Astoria, were they?"

"Mm, well, not everybody's Fleur Delacour," Daphne said, shaking her head. "She's sort of my style icon, truth be told." An understatement, actually. She worshipped her, and envied every inch of her. Nobody wore Chanel quite as flawlessly as Fleur Delacour. Or wore anything, for that matter. She'd perfected the sort of breezy effortlessness and pinnacle of Parisian style Daphne would have easily sold her soul to possess—however much that was worth.

"I don't blame you," Hermione sighed wistfully. "Can you imagine having hair like that? It's perfect."

"I love your hair," Daphne said, nudging her. "You've got that wild goddess mane."

"DUMB," Hermione declared, drawing the attention of the others in line before giggling conspiratorially with Daphne. "Anyway, they do look good together," she said, giving the magazine another mournful glance. "Do you think she's the sort of person he'll marry one day?"

"Oh no," Daphne said, tutting firmly. "Don't do that to yourself."

"You're right," Hermione agreed, drawing herself up and smiling at Daphne. "Besides, it's your birthday, so there will be absolutely no obsessing over Fleur Delacour. Or Draco."

"Good girl," Daphne said approvingly, though ultimately, that was easier said than done.

"JESUS CHRIST, HER CHEEKBONES," Blaise was saying when they entered the room, eyeing the very same pictures as he and Pansy sipped at what looked to be a newly-made pitcher of sangria. "If I die and come back as a woman, let it be someone as fabulous as Fleur Delacour. A thousand reincarnation points to her."

From the doorway, Hermione and Daphne exchanged a glance, each shaking their heads.

"Oh, hush. Your cheekbones are just as good," Pansy noted to Blaise, leaning back to eye them. "Want to try some contouring?"

"Maybe when I'm drunk," Blaise permitted. "Or at least an entire glass in." He paused. "Or now."

"Excellent," Pansy said crisply, rising to her feet with a look of monstrous pleasure on her face.

"You," Daphne told Blaise as she flopped down next to him on the sofa, "are not helping."

"What? Oh, right," Blaise said, giving Hermione a guilty glance. "Sorry, I'm sure this is unpleasant for you."

"Oh, you mean the headlines about Draco's perfect French girlfriend he's allegedly proposed to already?" she mused, dropping dramatically at his feet. "Nah, I'm fine."

"Well, listen, you have nothing to worry about," Daphne assured her. "Draco's in love with you, and this is just…" She waved a hand. "Showmanship. You know how he is."

"He's probably doing you a favor, actually," Blaise agreed, as Pansy emerged with a disturbingly complex Dior palette of makeup tones Daphne couldn't imagine why she possessed (unless she and Blaise had done this before, which felt increasingly likely). "It'll ease some of the pressure on you."

"Well, that's nice," Hermione agreed. "Though I do sort of wish he'd picked someone slightly less devastatingly attractive."

"She really is," Pansy said. "Normally I'm loath to be unnecessarily free with compliments, but Fleur Delacour is another species. I long for her skin," she sighed, as Daphne kicked her, sparing her a little you're not helping grimace. "What? I'm not in the business of purveying falsehoods, Daphne."

"Well, listen, we should talk about our end-of-term holiday," Daphne suggested alternatively. "This year has been rough," she lamented. "Frankly, I want a tan."

"Greece then, perhaps?" Pansy suggested, lifting Blaise's chin and swatting his glass away as he tried to take a sip.

"Oh, I've always wanted to go to Greece," Hermione said, immediately forgetting about Fleur (as had been Daphne's intent) and brightening magnificently. "Yes, please, I vote yes."

"Well, the ayes have it, then," Daphne declared. "I'm just relieved you've decided to stay for the summer."

Hermione gave an innocent shrug. "I might as well," she said, which had clearly become an accepted half-truth. "Slughorn offered me a research fellowship that's about as prestigious as anything I'd get at home, so it's not totally irresponsible. Though, speaking of irresponsible—sangria?" she offered Daphne hopefully.

"Oh, yesterday," Daphne agreed, beckoning. "Fetch a glass, California, we're drinking."

Hermione grinned, looking relieved. Daphne suspected part of the reason Hermione had decided to stay through the summer was her perception of Daphne's need; before today she'd been rather fruitlessly pestering Daphne to have some fun and was only recently succeeding. Truth be told, finding out that Hermione was staying was responsible for Daphne waking up anything shy of bleak this morning, which was Day Seven Without Theo. She hadn't seen or heard from him since their little breakfast message conflict (though she'd been hearing plenty from Roger, who had launched from brooding well in the realms of pining) and had been finding the world without Theo Nott to be very dismal indeed. That it was her birthday was only marginally uplifting.

Their dinner was nothing particularly special. They pretended their way through a salad and had a bit of risotto before sighing with relief when the ice cream came out, no longer pretending to be functional adults and instead spilling secrets over several more pitchers of alcohol. Of course, inevitably, conversation came to the same place it always arrived.

"Be honest," Blaise slurred cheerfully, squinting at Daphne. "In fact, I'll give you five hundred points if you tell us the truth. Are you," he said, angling his spoon at her, "in love. With." A long, dramatic pause. "Theodore Nott."

"Oh, the earl, you mean?" Daphne asked, chewing her straw. "Not to my taste. A bit old."

"YOU HEARTLESS STRUMPET," Blaise said accusingly. "That's not what I meant and you know it! Minus twelve."

Daphne shrugged, winking at him. By then Pansy had put some false eyelashes on him, which they'd all agreed made him look quite unfairly beautiful. Not unlike Fleur Delacour, it was a crime that Blaise Zabini was so unreasonably well-proportioned.

"Oh come on, it's just us girls," Hermione said, which Blaise did not even bother to deny, instead nodding his eager agreement. "Tell us the truth. You do love him, don't you? Or at least miss him."

"I—" Daphne paused, feeling her cheeks heat; always such a giveaway, she lamented. "You're all ridiculous, I just—"

She glanced at Pansy, who gave a little twitch of her lips; a little expression of you don't have to, you know. They'll survive. Luckily, though, Daphne was saved by the sound of her phone ringing from her bedroom.

"Alas," she claimed falsely, as Hermione and Blaise let out a loud groan. "Probably my sister—"

"BUZZKILL," Blaise declared. "Minus twenty points!"

"Oh, shush," Daphne said, managing to drag herself less-than-soberly to her bedroom, unplugging her phone and lifting it to her ear as she slithered face-first onto her bed.

"Astoria?" she said.

"Not quite."

Daphne bolted upright, one hand pressed to her startled chest. "Theo."

"Better guess." A pause. "Blaise got you all drunk, then?"

"Yes." Daphne cleared her throat, trying to sort out where to start. "Theo," she managed, "I'm… I'm so glad you called."

"Yes, well." She heard him sigh. "I wasn't going to, but then I remembered something deeply unfortunate."

She clutched the phone, half-fearing the answer. "Oh? What's that?"

"That you're still my best friend, Greengrass."

She exhaled impossibly slowly.

"Hello?" Theo asked. "Still there?"

Her voice came out thin and quiet. "I really thought I'd mucked it up this time. Thought I'd lost you," she managed shakily, and Theo chuckled a little.

"Nah, you'll never be so lucky, poor thing." He paused, and then said, "You'll never lose me, Daphne. Never."

After a few moments of silence, her eyes felt discomfitingly damp. She tried not to sniffle into the phone.

On the other end, she heard Theo swallow. "I'm sorry I made you worry."

"No, no, don't be sorry." If she were Hermione, she'd be chewing her lip right about now. "It's my fault, Theo. I was awful. I deserved far worse than a week of silence."

"Was it only a week? Felt longer."

"Actually, it was seven days, ten hours, and… oh, fifteen or so minutes," she told him, glancing blearily at the clock.

She heard him inhale deeply.

Then silence.

"Well, listen. I called to say happy birthday, Greengrass," he said eventually. "I just wanted you to know someone cared about you. That I care about you, I mean." A pause. "Specifically me."

"Theo…"

If there was ever a time to say something, she thought, it was now.

But either fortunately or not, only one thing came to mind.

"I'm just so happy you called," she said, and was rewarded with what she suspected was the sound of him smiling.

"Of course. It's what we do for each other, isn't it?"

She breathed out a sigh of relief. "Yes. Definitely."

"Good." This time, she was confident he was smiling. "Well listen, I'd better go, Daph, it's pretty late, but have fun over there. Oh, and do me a favor?" She nodded, which of course he couldn't see or hear. "Don't let Pansy do Blaise's makeup, would you? He becomes totally unbearable when he remembers how pretty he is."

"Yeah, um," she said, shaking her head. "That ship sailed, Theo."

"Drat. Well, such is life. Night, Greengrass. See you soon?"

It was inconceivably marvelous to hear his voice saying her name. "Of course. Bye, Theo," she replied, and they hung up.

Then she flopped over onto her bed, letting the phone sit on her chest as she smiled upwards into nothing.

"Hey," Hermione said, ducking her head into the room. "Want to come back? They're scary when they're talking about my eyebrows."

"Hm? Oh yes, right," Daphne said. "Sorry, was just, um—"

"Theo?" Hermione said knowingly.

Daphne toyed with her phone, drumming her fingers against it, and then sat up.

"Yeah," she confirmed.

"And?" Hermione prompted.

I just wanted you to know someone cared about you.

"It's… I think we're good." Daphne managed half a smile. "I think maybe things are good now."

"Well, I knew they would be," Hermione said smartly, and held out a hand, looking pleased. "Come on, you," she beckoned. "Everything's going to be fine."

Daphne let the phone slide from her chest, a weight easing from somewhere inside it.

You'll never lose me, Daphne. Never.

"Yeah," Daphne said, full of relief and sangria as she took Hermione's proffered hand, letting herself be pulled back to the living room. "I think maybe it is."

Things were back to normal by the time term had ended. The gossip about Draco and Fleur persisted, of course (Is Fleur sneaking off to London to see Prince Draco? the papers screeched, citing some rumors about private planes and French security which Hermione gradually learned to ignore, minus some occasional teeth gritting) but aside from that and the horrendous new conspiracy blog (uncreatively dubbed DRAGONFLOWER and run by a pair of self-professed rubbish bins) they finished out the year with only marginal difficulty. Even the Inquisitorial Squad had mostly backed off, though Daphne suspected that had something to do with Pansy quietly threatening a particularly mousy-looking girl who'd been hovering in their orbit for some time. Since Theo's return, he and Daphne had picked up where they'd left off, back to being friends as if nothing had come between them.

Simply put? All was well.

By the time Daphne, Hermione, and Pansy were set for their trip to Mykonos, everyone was decently on track for a perfect summer. Draco and the Bad Lads were off to Mallorca and he kissed Hermione goodbye with the promise he'd be back in time for her to throw him a little birthday party (belated, though still earlier than his official celebration with the royal family due to their finals schedule) in their flat.

"Okay, bye," Hermione agreed, the two of them looking so dreamily infatuated that Daphne had to stifle a giggle into the palm of her hand.

A week away on an island was precisely what they'd all needed, especially when speculation started to circulate that Fleur had joined Draco on his holiday in Spain. The evidence for it was outrageous, of course—IS THIS MYSTERY BLONDE WOMAN POSSIBLY FLEUR? the papers pleaded with regard to some totally unrecognizable blur, positively yowling for an illicit romance—but even so, Daphne caught little hints of Hermione wilting until they finally made their way out of the country. Once there, Pansy insisted on barring Hermione's access to her phone and Daphne gladly followed suit, occupying her time with reading and sketching as they draped themselves alternately around the infinity pool of their rental house or down on the private beach.

"She's just so pretty," Hermione grumbled after hearing two tourists in a cafe that morning talk at length about Fleur's recent choice of evening gown. "I mean, it's not like I actually believe anything's happening between them—I trust Draco, of course—but I just feel like such a glorious idiot whenever I see her picture," she lamented, flopping back against the pool chair with a sigh.

"That makes sense," Pansy said sagely, and Daphne gave her a warning glare. "What? I'm not going to lie to her, Daphne—"

"Well, you're not helping," Daphne said. In truth, she didn't want to admit that she agreed; after all, Fleur Delacour was perhaps the only person in the world she'd ever felt insecure next to, looks-wise, which certainly wasn't useful information for any of their sakes. Privately, Daphne was relieved she wasn't the one having to compare herself to Fleur on a regular basis, as she'd almost certainly fall short every time. "But okay, so she's beautiful. So what? She's probably a terrible snob."

"You guys are beautiful non-snobs," Hermione reminded them, and then corrected herself. "Well, Daphne is, anyway—"

"And you're a beautiful fool," Pansy agreed, "when you aren't biting your nails or unnecessarily playing with your hair."

"Thanks," Hermione said, swapping eye rolls with Daphne.

"You're welcome," Pansy said, flipping a page in Vogue. "Oh, look," she said, holding it up with a sly grin. "It's Fleur."

"Oh my god," Hermione groaned. "What?!"

"Okay, let's talk about something else," Daphne suggested, kicking Pansy from her chair and giving her a can you not? look that was returned with a come on, it was funny shrug. "What else is new? Or, I don't know. Hermione, talk about one of your obscure books or something."

"Well, actually," Hermione began, until Pansy cut in firmly.

"Listen," Pansy said, turning to Daphne. "We need to talk about Theo."

"Pans, please—"

"No. Not today. I've had three drinks and I'm feeling fighty, so this is happening." To prove it, Pansy reached over, taking another sip of whatever beachy cocktail she'd conjured up to suit her current aesthetic. "Besides, Hermione wants to know."

"Yes, true," Hermione contributed, clearly happy not to be the subject of Pansy's scrutiny for once. "Spill it, sister."

"You two," Daphne sighed, "are thoroughly impossible."

"You're not seeing anyone," Pansy pointed out, ignoring her. "Haven't been since the whole art teacher thing. Right?"

"Right," Hermione confirmed on Daphne's behalf. "You also haven't looked at any of the boys on this island, and honestly? Even I looked a little at those Italians who chatted you up yesterday and I'm dating a damn prince."

"And," Pansy said, "you two do seem to be getting along recently."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, nodding firmly. "You actually seem to be on the same page for once."

"That's—"

Daphne broke off, considering it. They weren't totally off-base. Something had been different with Theo lately. Maybe the time they'd spent not speaking had reminded them how valuable they were to each other? Whatever it was, they were better than they'd ever been. The inside jokes were in full force. Their banter, always a point of pride, was quicker and snappier than ever. Sometimes, too, when Theo looked at her, she felt a heated reminder of his touch on her skin, and yes, she'd thought about him… intimately, recently.

She'd had a sex dream about him last night, actually. Not that she planned to admit it.

Daphne opened her mouth, then closed it.

Then barked, "FINE," which startled both Hermione and Pansy. "But only if it means we don't discuss Fleur Delacour for the rest of this trip. Got it?"

Hermione nodded eagerly. Pansy, meanwhile, smiled her most victorious smile, which was irksome, but not unsurprising.

"I…" Daphne hesitated. "Fine. I have… I have feelings for him."

Hermione let out something of an incoherent cheer, positively radiant with joy, and even Pansy smiled something shy of smug.

"But that doesn't mean anything," Daphne told them quickly. "I'm still not sure it's a good idea, and this," she said, waving a hand between them, "is exactly the sort of reaction I was trying to avoid—"

"Well, maybe it works out," Pansy said, shrugging. "Maybe it doesn't. Either way, I need some closure or I need to find a new programme. Yours is getting boring."

"Yes, well," Daphne sighed. "I'm so sorry my life is so dull, Pans."

"Apology accepted," Pansy said, and Daphne glanced at Hermione, who was covering her face with both hands.

"What's this?"

"I'm trying to contain myself," Hermione insisted, voice muffled. "That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes," Daphne sighed, "thank you, but—"

"When are you going to tell him?" Hermione demanded before letting her hands fall, delighted. "You know what? Get your phone, Daph, you should tell him now—"

"No, no, no," Daphne said, shaking her head. "No phones, remember? Pansy made that rule and it's a good one. I'll just… tell him at Draco's party," she suggested, and Pansy nodded her approval, idly flipping a page. "It'd be no good on the phone, anyway."

"Oh, I can't wait," Hermione said, falling backwards against her chair. "This made me feel much better, thank you."

"You're welcome," Daphne said with a laugh.

The truth was, she'd already resolved to tell him. She'd been imagining his face for days, possibly even weeks. Specifically, she'd been thinking about his mouth, the things it said, and the way it would change when she kissed him, or maybe when he kissed her. She'd been thinking about the shape of it when he was close to her, determined not to chicken out this time, so telling Hermione and Pansy had been the first step to easing her anxieties a little, helping her to crawl gradually out of The Theo Spiral.

Later, when Pansy was in the shower, Hermione accosted Daphne in the corridor, appearing so stealthily Daphne nearly let out a yelp at the sight of her.

"I'm excited," Hermione said without preamble. "I think this is going to be great."

Daphne, who'd barely recovered her breath, managed to groan. "Well, don't get your hopes up, would you?"

But Pansy, who'd obviously heard them talking, ventured out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel to brandish a serious glance at Daphne. "It's good you're finally being brave," she said. "I'm proud of you."

"Is that a vote of confidence, Pans?" Daphne asked doubtfully,

Pansy shrugged, giving Daphne a light smack on the nose. "If you tell anyone, I'll deny it," she said, and then sauntered back into the bathroom, leaving Daphne and Hermione to shake their heads after her with a smile.

The day of Draco's birthday party was a whirlwind of activity, most of which was consumed by cleaning. Hermione had done a lot of explaining about how exactly to do… most things, but Daphne was perfectly content to Hoover the floors and listen to Pansy inform Hermione which things she did or didn't consider 'beneath her' while thinking of what to wear. She changed her outfit four times, settling on a green dress Theo had once made a point to tell her he liked, and was putting the takeaway into cleverly disguised formal platters when her phone rang, Draco's name flashing on the screen.

"Hey, you coming?" she said, licking a bit of sauce from her fingers as she set down a plate of samosas.

"Yes, but Daph, there's something I need to tell you." Draco's voice sounded urgent. "Are you alone?"

"Hm? Yeah," she said, glancing over her shoulder to confirm. "Pansy's off fussing with Hermione's hair, I think. Why, what's up?"

"Listen." He swallowed. "So, Harry, Theo, and Blaise are on their way now, but I needed to talk to you about…" He trailed off, obviously apprehensive. "Daph, it's about Fleur."

"What?" Daphne froze, the dish clattering slightly against the counter. "Draco. No." Abruptly, her heart was pounding. "Draco, if you did something to hurt Hermione, I swear to god I will destroy your testicles with my bare h-"

"What? No, no," Draco cut in hurriedly. "No, it's nothing like that."

"Good," Daphne exhaled, blood rushing through her ears with relief, "because if you think I wouldn't brutally murder you, Prince Draco of Wales, you are hugely mistaken—"

"Daph, listen, I really…" He hesitated. "I really don't want to be the one to tell you this, but I figure someone should warn you—"

"Oh, hold on," Daphne said, catching the sound of a knock at the door. "Come in," she called, smiling as Blaise came in the door. "Oh good, open a bottle of something, would you?" she said, gesturing to the phone. "I just have t-"

She broke off, startled, as a glimpse of silvery-blonde hair flashed from the threshold, followed by the sound of a melodic laugh.

"Oh, but this is lovely," came a lightly-accented French voice. "Take this away, Blaise—it will have to chill first, don't you think?"

Daphne promptly swallowed her tongue as Fleur Delacour's famously beautiful lips brushed the cheek belonging to Theo Nott—her Theo Nott, Daphne's gut informed her with a wrench—and found herself briefly staring as the Vogue darling's arms came around his waist, the rest of her coming into view as she leaned over to pass Blaise the champagne.

"Daphne," Draco's voice said from the phone. "Daph, are you there?"

"Draco," she half-whispered, blinking. "Draco, what am I looking at?"

"Oh, you must be Daphne, yes?" Fleur said, bounding into the flat with her supermodel legs to give Daphne a kiss on each cheek. "So lovely to meet you, I've heard such wonderful things—"

"You're, um." Daphne stared at her. "You have?"

"Daph?" she heard in her ear. "Daphne, are you—okay, that's it, I'm running. I'll be there in… can you move, please, I'm in a bit of a hurry… yes, I know who I am!"

"Hey, Greengrass," Theo said in a low voice, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket as Pansy and Hermione appeared from the corridor, both of them now gifted the alarming opportunity to be swallowed up by Fleur's flawlessly floral-scented presence. "Can we talk?"

Daphne's senses blurred slightly, gaze traveling from Harry's look of concern from the doorway to Hermione's wide-eyed expression of pre-panic; the look she got when she sensed something was about to go horribly wrong.

"Just wait one minute, would you? Have to take this," Daphne managed to say to Theo, though Draco had long since hung up. She pivoted sharply, striding past Hermione's increasingly apprehensive expression before disappearing into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

About two minutes passed in total silence. Daphne tried to catch her breath, her vision swimming.

At the sound of a knock, she jolted back to life.

"Daphne." Pansy's voice.

Daphne took a deep breath. Then another. She blindly touched up the makeup around her eyes.

Then she painted her most perfect smile on and pulled the door open.

"Sorry," she said, holding up her phone. "Just had to take that."

Pansy did her the service of not making her lie, though in that precise moment, her phone really did buzz in her hand. Later, she would see the message from Roger Davies: I miss you. I can't sleep, I can't eat, everything I do or make or draw is utter shit. I need you. Later, she would finally return his calls.

But for now, Daphne looked exclusively at Pansy.

"Can you do it?" Pansy said flatly.

Daphne nodded, smoothing her dress down. "Of course."

"Daph," Hermione said, skidding into the corridor. "Are you—"

Pansy held up a hand, keeping her at bay. "Hermione," she called, "have Blaise chill the champagne. And finish setting out the starters, would you?"

She slid Hermione a gaze that said do not test me on this and Hermione nodded, slowly.

"She's fine," Pansy added bluntly, her voice just loud enough for Hermione to hear that time, and with that assurance, Hermione hurried to return to the kitchen. Pansy had known, as Hermione had obviously sorted out, that the two of them rushing to Daphne's aid would have made her look vulnerable. Weak.

Daphne faced Pansy again, grateful. "Makeup?"

"Good." Pansy touched up her hair, nodding. "Teeth?"

Daphne painfully forced a smile as Pansy checked her for lipstick.

"Fine. Ready?"

"Yes," Daphne said, and Pansy beckoned for her to go ahead.

"Tell them I'm just finishing getting ready," she said, though she looked as perfectly put-together as ever. "That way we don't have to—"

"Right," Daphne exhaled, nodding once, and pulled her shoulders back. She straightened her posture, dragging herself up from her state of complete and utter shambles and stepped out into the living room to stride directly up to Theo, who rose to his feet when he saw her.

"Hi," she said, and he approached her, blinking with something almost-sheepish, almost-guilty, mostly-searching, clearly looking for signs he'd done something wrong. "So. You and Fleur, is that it? Funny," she said, though it was perhaps the least funny thing she'd ever seen or done or heard. "And here we all thought she liked Draco."

Theo grimaced slightly. "We met in April," he explained in a low voice. "When Draco and I went to Paris. She's come out here a couple of times since then but I didn't want to tell you until it was…" He stopped. "I really didn't think anything would come of it. I mean, you know," he added, striving for what she imagined must have been humor. "People don't really care to date me, do they? Nobody knows that better than you."

No wonder things had been different between them since then. He'd felt so safe to her because for the first time, he wasn't fully hers.

She forced a smile. "I'm happy for you," she said, and was rewarded with his exhalation of relief, flooding his features.

"Really?"

"Truly," she said with a nod. "What kind of monster do you think I am, Nott?" she asked, and then reached out, taking his beer from his hand as he had so often done to her. She took a long sip, watching his lips curl up with surprise and humor and possibly, if she'd been looking correctly, reassurance, before handing it back to him.

"Keep it," he said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "My gift to you."

She nodded. Her fingers tightened around his bottle.

"I really think you'll like her," Theo added, looking hopeful. "I think you'll get on really well, actually. She's really funny."

I'm funny, Daphne thought fiercely, but she said nothing. She smiled. In fact, as she ventured into the party she smiled all night, however much it tore her apart and shattered her, and however often Hermione's or Draco's eyes darted to hers, checking that she was still standing.

Of course she was, she thought brusquely. She could hide all of it, good and bad, couldn't she? And hadn't that been half the problem?

You're the girl I'm going to marry.

You'll never lose me. Never.

Whatever you do, Daphne Greengrass, and wherever you go, I will always belong to you.

I hope you're right, idiot boy, she thought, watching Fleur kiss Theo's mouth and wishing more than ever to be her, to absorb her like a second skin and occupy the perfection which, until recently, she'd thought only Hermione had reason to be jealous of. I really hope you're right.

Strange looking back on this now, when so much has worked out in my favor. Now that I wake every morning in bed with the man whose every shape and form and feature is my very favorite thing, it's quite easy to believe love always prevails—no matter the difficulty, or what seems to be at times impossibility. It's easy to be a romantic when you know that your love story ends (as he's always known for you) with the two of you together. Though, not in an easy story, mind you. Not without some ups and downs. But really, it's the hard parts that make you. The ones that test you, shape you, scar you, and ultimately teach you how not to break.

Which is how I know Hermione and Draco will be getting married this afternoon. I have no doubt in my mind. Sure, she hasn't answered anyone's calls since she left the rehearsal dinner last night, but aside from my husband, I know my best friend better than anyone in the world. I know without a trace of doubt that after the story those two have had—which, for the record, is far more interesting than the Rita Skeeter version—nothing on earth could keep Hermione Granger from that church, or from Draco himself. When I left her yesterday she was more deeply in love with him than she ever was, even during those idyllic university days, so I know this is nothing to worry about.

Unless, of course, she's in some sort of grave danger?

Which, now that I think about it, probably means I should put down this book and go find her.

a/n: Firstly, I'm going to make a concerted effort to curb the word counts. Good. Lord. Secondly, next chapter will be a bit lighter fare as we (i.e. Hermione) meet Draco's family. Third? If you have any interest in what I'm reading/doing/thinking/crying about, a reminder that week 3 of Olivie Blake is Not Writing is available to you on youtube.

10. Omission

Chapter 10: Omission

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Mother's Love

The question of Princess Narcissa's retreat from the public eye has alternately puzzled and enraptured the country for close to two decades. While Narcissa was once an exceedingly popular public figure—serving as the face for a number of charitable causes and making a fortune for fashion houses overnight purely by stepping outside—in recent years, the Princess of Wales has become something of a recluse. While many suspect her disappearance was due to King Abraxas' insistence she step away from public life after news broke regarding marital conflicts between the Prince and Princess of Wales, there has never been any clear indication whether the choice originated with her or the Palace.

Narcissa's retreat from public life began after a brief hospitalization from a fall while attending a party hosted by King Abraxas in London. Prince Lucius released a statement citing his wife's wish for privacy during the family's difficult time, though no one could have predicted such an occasion would commence eighteen years of absence from the public eye. Most have speculated Narcissa suffers from some sort of chronic illness, though the royal family's doctors have never given any indication what her ailment might be.

At the time of the alleged injury, Prince Draco was a mere ten years of age, well before any suspicions of romance ever arose. As he grew into adolescence, however, speculation about his mother's thoughts on his romantic interests would soon become inevitable: Did Princess Narcissa approve? Would this girl, or this one, be the next to wear Narcissa's meticulously recorded jewels? While Narcissa herself has never made any public statement about her son's romances, it can be assumed Hermione received her future mother-in-law's approval quite early in the relationship. Of Narcissa's handful of reported appearances over the last decade, each one has been at an event where Hermione has also been in attendance.

I don't know where to begin with this, so I suppose I just won't. It's true, but it also isn't. So, with that unhelpful preamble, this is the story of how I met Draco's mother.

(Believe me, it's much worse than Rita Skeeter could ever know.)

July 22, 2011
Hogwarts University

Working for Professor Horace Slughorn was, in the twist of the century, not actually the worst. Slughorn was an incredibly lazy academician, but in a way that was extremely beneficial for Hermione, a very non-lazy upstart. She'd been a research assistant for professors in the past who had limited her involvement to menial tasks, but because Slughorn had a lot of ideas and not very many effective methods of implementation, he left quite a lot of the major decisions to her.

His encouragement of her initiative (rather than his own) meant Hermione was able to access some of the rarer texts she might not have been able to view without a professor's permission, and when she expressed some interest in the academic paper he was writing on behalf of the university, he asked her to draft part of the work. While most people might have considered Slughorn's unwillingness to do his own work to be something just shy of an outrage, Hermione Granger was not most people. When Slughorn offered to split writing credits with her, she was positively overjoyed. The unfurling of her fingers over the keyboard was like coming home, and for the first time since she'd ceased writing for The Stanford Daily, she felt invigorated by her work.

"Excuse me," came a voice behind her while she was plugged into her headphones, deep in concentration over a particular sentence with too many conjunctions and a concept she must have understood when she wrote it but certainly didn't now. "Do you know where I can find the most brilliant girl at this school? I understand it's time she abandon her noble pursuits of academia and commence slumming it with her more debaucherous associates."

Hermione turned over her shoulder to find Draco standing in the doorway of Slughorn's enormously roomy office, which he'd been kind enough (read: absent enough) to offer her as a workspace during most hours of the week.

"Your Royal Highness!" she remarked, batting her eyes. "Whatever brings you here?"

"Oh, the usual. Just on my way to a joust and then to war over Calais," he joked, and then grinned. "My goodness, you are lovely," he remarked, mimicking Harry's outrageously flirtatious grin as he approached. "I say, have you ever dated a prince?"

"You know, I haven't," Hermione replied very seriously. "Is there some sort of ritual involved? Some glass slipper of some sort? Possibly a coma?"

"All of the above, plus dwarves," Draco confirmed. "I'm told it's worth it, though. We do have the benefit of unlimited postage stamps."

"Hmm, I don't know," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I'm not in the habit of encouraging the advances of strange men. Just think, Your Highness," she exclaimed. "My virtue!"

"Oh no, not your virtue," Draco remarked gravely, tutting softly with feigned dismay. "Well, hold on. What's your dowry like?"

"Abysmal," Hermione said. "Almost no jewels."

"Almost no jewels?" Draco echoed. "So, one or two jewels?"

"Maybe one jewel—"

"Ah, Your Royal Highness!" erupted behind them, Slughorn materializing in one of his rare afternoon appearances to offer a supremely unsteady bow. "Whatever brings you to our little corner of the school?"

"Oh, my father asked me stop by the castle on my way to Edinburgh," Draco pseudo-lied, though true or not, Slughorn looked positively delighted. "Actually, Professor, maybe you can help me. I was looking for someone with deeply intimate knowledge of royal history—"

"I am that!" Slughorn assured him, having used that exact phrase at least a dozen times during the class Draco and Hermione had taken together. Hermione, meanwhile, was forced to stifle a laugh, abruptly piling things into her bag so as to look supremely busy. "What is it you need, Prince Draco?"

"Tell me, was Edward IV actually two metres tall?" Draco asked.

"Oh, my boy, Edward of York was two hundred and one centimetres on horseback—can you believe it? The people must have taken one look at him and decided yes, surely you must be king—not unlike yourself, of course, and your grandfather, God save him—"

"Professor," Hermione interrupted, coughing briefly into her hand as Slughorn turned distractedly towards her. "I just emailed you a draft of what I finished today. Will everything else be able to wait until Monday?"

"Ah, wonderful, wonderful, of course, cheerio," Slughorn replied in his usual string of sprightly nonsense. "Your Highness, do you know my assistant, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, no, haven't had the pleasure—Granger, was it?" Draco asked, extending a hand, which she accepted. "Lovely to meet you. Draco Wales, as it were."

"Wales? As in the Wales?" she asked. "Don't tell me you're the prince!"

"Oh, but he is, silly girl!" Slughorn interrupted before Draco could speak. "She's an American," he murmured to Draco, conspiratorially leaning in as Hermione briefly pretended to be deaf. "One of the good ones, though, quite bright."

"My goodness, America," Draco remarked. "That's that one just over that way, isn't it?"

"Erm, yes, approximately that way," Hermione confirmed, aiming a hand over her shoulder. "Do you know of it?"

"I hear the spice trade is a revelation," Draco said.

"You should see our state fairs," Hermione told him, and Slughorn, who looked simultaneously bewildered and overjoyed to be included, nodded eagerly. "Tell me, Your Highness, what are your thoughts on football?"

"Surely that's the one played with your feet, isn't it? Otherwise the name is just nonsensical, don't you th-"

"You should stay for dinner!" Slughorn trumpeted, unable to contain himself, and Hermione and Draco quickly leapt to dispel the joke, hurrying out of the office.

"—have to run, actually—so sorry, Professor, but as you surely know, the Crown's affairs wait for no man—"

"—see you Monday, Professor—oh, Prince Draco, are you heading out this way?"

"Why yes, Miss Granger, may I escort you out?"

"My, my, are all British men gentlemen, or just the princes?"

"Not even all the princes are, I'm afraid—"

They raced around the corner, Draco tugging her into an alcove just before the stairs and backing her against the wall as she struggled not to giggle too inanely, eventually losing ownership of a single peal of laughter that erupted between his lips.

"Aren't you worried Slughorn might tell people you're here?" Hermione whispered, snaking her arms around Draco's neck, and he shrugged, kissing her again.

"He tells people we're intimate friends, Miss Granger. I doubt anyone would believe him."

"Fair, fair—"

The kiss deepened when Draco abandoned conversation, opting instead to slip his hand with a glorious sense of possession around her jaw as his hips pinned her securely against the wall. Draco had five primary kisses, as Hermione was learning. One was a polite hello. The second was playful, quick, fleeting. The third was deep, thoughtful, as if he'd been considering it for a time before he did it; as though he might have traced the shape of her lips with his mind and then lowered his own down to hers. The fourth was an apology, either because he'd actually done something wrong or had merely gotten too gruff. The fifth was this one, which translated roughly to: I've been waiting for you all day.

"Is anyone home?" he asked, voice gravelly as his lips traveled to her neck.

"Unfortunately, yes," Hermione replied, certain they'd have to leave soon or the castle would get an eyeful of something firmly uncouth. "Come on," she sighed, taking his hand, and he paused her, shaking his head.

"One second—"

"Theo's dad's bollocks," Hermione suggested, and Draco grimaced.

"You officially know too much about me," he told her, and she grinned.

"What's his phrase? 'Bollocks on parade,' is it? I like that one—"

"Stop," Draco growled, and then frowned slightly. "How's Daphne?"

"Oh," Hermione said, withering a bit. "Well, according to her, she's perfectly fine."

That was, of course, the exact proper wording, as Daphne had said it several times. I'm fine, when Hermione had asked how she was dealing with Theo's new relationship. I'm fine, when Hermione hesitated to use Theo's name. Truly, Hermione, I'm perfectly fine, it's not like I really thought it would work out, when Hermione noticed Daphne had taken to wandering the flat like a ghost at night, the two of them eventually falling asleep together on the sofa after weeping through The Notebook.

Draco bit his lip. "I'd tell Theo, but—"

"No, you can't," Hermione reminded him, threatening him with a glance. "You absolutely cannot say anything, Draco. If she can't even admit it to me, then—"

"I know, I know," Draco sighed, giving Hermione a nudge into the corridor. "Besides, Theo seems happy. I really hate to think it's with someone who isn't Daphne, but—"

"I get it," Hermione said, and she did. Theo did look happier than he had in a long time, and she suspected that was a major (if not the only) reason Daphne was insisting she had no opinion on the matter. I'm happy for him was another constant refrain, which Hermione was fairly certain was both extremely noble and bitterly true. Daphne did have an extraordinary ability to wish happiness on others, even when it contradicted her own. "And it's not that I don't like Fleur—"

"Right, right," Draco agreed absently. "She's a lovely girl, she's just—"

"Not Daphne," they sighed in unison, and exchanged half-smiling glances.

"What stupid idiots we're friends with," Hermione remarked, and Draco laughed.

"Truly, the stupidest," he agreed, glancing over his shoulder before pulling her in to brush a quick kiss against her cheek. "Anyway, are you all set for Saturday next?"

Draco and Harry were having a joint birthday party, which was really more of a 'formal celebratory affair,' to hear Draco tell it. Apparently King Abraxas enjoyed hosting something for Draco's birthday every year, though it appeared to be his least favorite of Abraxas' annual events. Sharing it with Harry had been Draco's version of easing the unpleasantness.

"I'm ready, yes," Hermione said. "Are you?"

"Well—" Draco paused. "I suppose."

"It can't be that bad," Hermione said with a laugh, and Draco gave her a wearied shrug.

"It's not bad, really," he amended. "It's just… a lot of attention, which means constant observation. No slipping away, and certainly no having any fun, so—" Another shrug. "It's really more for my grandfather and my father than it is for me."

"What about your mother?" Hermione asked, and Draco grimaced.

"She… sometimes attends." He eyed his feet for a moment. "Depends."

Hermione arched a brow. "On?"

"Well, I don't know, exactly," Draco said, and then paused. "My father said she hasn't been doing especially well lately."

"Oh," Hermione said, though she often wondered how sincere Prince Lucifer was when it came to Narcissa. He seemed a little too intent on keeping mother and son apart, and while Draco was mostly willing to take his father's word for it, Hermione was slightly… less so. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well, in any case, it'll be fine," Draco said, exhaling it swiftly. "It always is. And you'll be there," he added, with a gratuitous smile in her direction. "So things could certainly be worse."

Not for the first time, Hermione wished she could have kissed him in full view of whoever happened to have nothing better to do on a July Friday than hang around the castle and observe a prince and his unsavory girlfriend. In place of something more palatable, she merely lifted her hand, touching the snake ring on her finger, and his lips instantly twitched up, translating her intent.

"You know, it's amazing you manage to keep track of so many codes," Hermione commented. "I think I've already lost count of how many you have with Theo."

"Well, why have royal blood if not to possess a genetic predisposition towards obscuring one's true feelings?" Draco remarked idly.

She wondered if he might have been referring to something in particular, but opted not to press him.

"I could use some of that," she said instead, and he laughed, the sound of it bounding out into open air as they made their way into Hogsmeade.

Draco spent the night with her but hadn't entirely been lying to Slughorn about needing to go to Edinburgh. He was off to make some sort of ceremonial appearance with his grandfather, kissing her apologetically around four in the morning before slipping out of the flat.

Hermione woke again a few hours later to Pansy standing next to her bed and glaring down, fingers tapping impatiently against her arm.

"Hermione," Pansy said, and Hermione's eyes snapped open. "It's nearly noon."

Hermione frowned, stifling a yawn and glancing at her clock. "Pansy, it's 9:45."

"I said nearly," Pansy informed her, and gradually, Hermione's ability to process information dawned sufficiently enough to recognize Pansy was fully dressed.

"Did you want to get breakfast?" Hermione guessed, and Pansy pivoted with a nod, exhibiting approval by exiting the room.

"Daphne said she's ready, which means you have ten minutes," Pansy called over her shoulder, disappearing as Hermione let out a growl, dragging herself out of bed and piling her hair into something resembling submission.

It turned out part of the reason for Pansy's insistence on them eating together was that Harry had come in sometime the night prior. He and Blaise were waiting for them at The Three Broomsticks, both lounging comfortably in the booth as Daphne and Hermione took the seats opposite them, Pansy perching at one end.

"Do you have even have a home?" Hermione asked Harry, who grinned.

"Nice to see you too," he said. "And no, I don't. Actually, I only appear when Blaise rubs a lamp and makes three wishes."

From Blaise, scoffing: "Don't be ridiculous. My three wishes would be mind-reading, a bottomless cocktail shaker, and some sort of talking pet, species to be determined. I'm open."

From Hermione: "You know, some birds talk. You don't even need a genie for that."

Blaise, loudly sipping his mimosa: "Who said anything about a genie?"

From Daphne, thoughtfully: "I think I'd wish for world peace. And more shoes."

From Pansy, loftily: "The world isn't meant to be peaceful, Daphne. If it were, we'd still be living in hunter-gatherer communities and wouldn't have discovered irrigation."

Hermione: "Irrigation, really? That's where you draw the line?"

Pansy, sniffing: "Overpopulation stems directly from sorting out how to make surplus food, Hermione, and everyone knows humanity is mostly idiots."

Blaise, to Pansy: "Out of curiosity, would one of your wishes be genocide? Blink once for yes—"

Hermione, hastily: "Personally, I think I'd wish for more books. Or—oh, I'd like to go to the library at Alexandria, I think."

Harry: "I suspect you and Theo have the same wish, though I think his wish would specifically involve robbing it."

Daphne, while eyeing her tea: "Where is Theo, by the way?"

Silence fell over the table.

"Okay, forget I asked," Daphne groaned, and Harry managed to regain his composure first. (Sort of.)

"Who really knows where Theo is, he lives in his own universe, really—"

"He's with Fleur," Daphne cut in plainly. "You can just say it, you know. I'm fine."

There it is again, Hermione thought, carefully clearing her throat. "Hey," she attempted, "listen, about this weekend—"

There was a collective release of breaths, the other occupants of the table exceedingly (and British-ly) relieved the new topic was moderately less disastrous.

"—is there anything I should know?" Hermione finished, and Pansy let out a noise Hermione could only call a scoff, though on a more normal person it might have been a sigh.

"If you're trying to find out about Narcissa again—"

"No, no, I'm not," Hermione said hurriedly, and paused. "Unless you might actually tell me, that is—"

"She won't be there," Pansy said firmly, and Harry cocked his head.

"Well, actually," he said, and Pansy's eyes widened. "That might not be true."

"No." Pansy straightened, leveling an expression Hermione had never seen on her before directly at Harry. "You're joking."

"Well, no guarantees," Harry said quickly, glancing at Blaise, who shrugged. "The Prince of Darkness certainly hasn't said anything specific, but the security details for the party seem to indicate she might have plans to attend."

"Well." Pansy blinked, little traces of a frown appearing in her brow. Hermione, who had never seen her express that degree of surprise before, found herself unable to look away. "That's quite interesting."

At that, Hermione and Daphne exchanged a glance.

"I take it there's no chance you might tell us why it's interesting," Daphne posed slowly, "is there, Pans?"

Pansy's mouth pursed in a way that indicated the answer was no.

"Well, fine," Daphne said, turning back to the others. "Remind me again where Theo is?"

"Okay, look," Harry said hurriedly, leaning forward. "There's really only one thing Hermione needs to know about Narcissa, right? It was public, Pans. If she really wanted to do the research, she could find out all sorts of lies about it. Isn't it better you tell her what actually happened?"

Daphne, who couldn't believe her plan had worked, reached out under the table, covertly smacking Hermione's thigh with excitement.

"Well," Pansy said, grimacing. "I suppose you're not wrong."

"I'll give you fifty points if you tell it," Blaise offered, and Hermione, who was so deliriously overjoyed at the possibility she might manage to crack the vault that was Pansy Parkinson, hurriedly shoved a piece of toast into her mouth to keep from any inadvisable smiling.

"Fine," Pansy exhaled. "Fine." She glared at Harry. "Don't interrupt."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Harry said gravely, nudging Hermione's knee under the table in a way that very clearly said, under no uncertain terms, you're welcome. "Floor's yours, Lady Parkinson."

"Well." Pansy cleared her throat. "First of all—"

"Princess Narcissa is your mother's best friend," the others droned.

"Yes," Pansy confirmed, unfazed. "So I won't allow a word against her. Am I understood?"

Hermione sighed. "I'm not trying to say anyth-"

"Don't interrupt," Pansy said, and took a preparatory sip of tea. "So. The year is 2000."

"Setting the scene!" Blaise crowed. "Ten points!"

"Good god, we'll be here all day," Harry muttered into his coffee, at which point Hermione kicked his foot.

"The year is 2000," Pansy continued, "and for the last year, the British press has been covering scandal after scandal. News breaks about Lucius taking a mistress, Narcissa is said to have torrid affairs in the countryside every time Lucius is away, people start clamoring for confirmation of Draco's paternity—"

"No," Hermione gasped, and Pansy fixed her with a very serious glance.

"Yes," Pansy said. "It was unpleasant."

Hermione quieted.

Pansy nodded her approval, continuing, "King Abraxas requested Narcissa remain behind on several public appearances until his annual birthday party for Draco, which he only permitted because Narcissa was intent on being present for her son." Pansy paused, clearing her throat. "At the party, somehow, Narcissa fell down the stairs. She broke several bones in the process and had to be rushed to the hospital."

It had not been what Hermione was expecting. "What?"

"Wait, I remember this," Daphne said, blinking. "Some tabloids claimed Prince Lucifer had pushed her, didn't they? I think Rita Skeeter was the one who said that, actually—"

"Yes," Pansy confirmed, but did not elaborate. "Anyway—"

"Wait. Did he?" Hermione squeaked, dismayed. On the one hand, it seemed impossible that anyone would do something so terrible to his wife. On the other, she'd met the Prince of Darkness before, and thus, couldn't be entirely sure.

"Of course not," Pansy said.

"…was the official palace line," Harry inserted, smirking, and Pansy glared at him.

"He didn't," Pansy insisted. "He isn't a monster."

"I don't know," Blaise said, shrugging. "King Abraxas had said no divorces, hadn't he? So if Prince Lucifer wanted to marry again—"

"ANYWAY," Pansy cut in loudly as Hermione felt her own eyes widen, "because of the speculation, Narcissa and Lucius agreed she would keep a low profile, away from public view. There were swarms of people outside the hospital, all of them fighting to get inside—the decision was for her own safety."

"Okay," Hermione said, frowning. "But why keep Draco away from his mother? And why keep your mother away, if they're best friends?"

Pansy paused.

Took a sip of tea.

Contemplated sugar.

Took a spoon.

Dropped a cube of sugar into her tea.

Stirred carefully.

Lifted the tea to her lips.

"I don't know," she said, and took a sip, making a face. "Too sweet," she grumbled, eyeing Blaise's cup of coffee until he shoved it over to her with a sigh.

"So, wait a minute, hold on," Hermione said bluntly. "You actually have no idea about any of this, do you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Pansy said. "I know precisely as much as I need to know, and the rest is relegated to matters of family privacy."

"Yes, but if Narcissa wasn't pushed, then how did she fall?" Hermione demanded. "People don't just fall, Pansy, there's such a thing as equilibrium—and she wasn't exactly a clumsy person, was she?"

"Some people thought she did it on purpose," Daphne said, sipping her tea. "For attention, I suppose. Not that I believe that," she added quickly, catching Hermione's curious glance. "I just thought I'd bring it up."

"Some people also think she was running away from Lucius at the time," Harry remarked, fiddling with his coffee mug. "Which is, frankly, a more believable story."

"Wait," Hermione said, blinking. "So he was there, then? She wasn't alone?"

"He was at the top of the stairs when it happened," Harry confirmed, "hence the rumors—"

"All of which are simply that," Pansy said flatly. "Rumors. So, none of that, please."

"But there's no facts," Hermione argued, "so all these ideas are really more like theories, aren't they?"

"You know who she should know about?" Pansy posed, glancing at Harry and pointedly ignoring Hermione altogether. "The French cousins."

"Oh my god, the cousins," Harry groaned, and Hermione sighed, exasperated.

"Don't change the subject!"

"Blaise," Pansy said, turning to him. "What are you wearing to the party?"

"Wait," Hermione said. "No, no, no—"

"I'M FURIOUSLY DISPLEASED YOU ASKED," Blaise erupted, as Hermione (and obviously Pansy) had known he would. "I can't decide. I'm between two waistcoats."

From Pansy: "Pick the less garishly purple one."

From Blaise: "You've no reason to think either of them are garishly purple!"

From Harry: "No reason, that is, aside from historical accuracy."

Blaise, suspiciously: "Henry, I do not care for your tone. Minus three."

Pansy: "Yes, and besides, Blaise has worn garish and unsavory clothing to parties approximately as many times as you've been accompanied by garish and unsavory women, Henry."

Blaise, delighted: "COLD-BLOODED. And valid. Plus ten."

Harry, sipping his coffee: "Yes, well, I was thinking about changing that particular streak."

He paused, glancing at Daphne.

"Daph," he said, and she looked up from where she'd been apparently trying to decide between two jam flavors. "Would you mind terribly being my date to my own birthday party?"

Hermione was surprised, as were Pansy and Blaise, but Daphne looked positively mute with uncertainty. She stared at Harry for a moment, and then blinked.

Frowned.

Blinked again.

"Oh," she said, coming to some sort of internal resolution. "This is about Theo again, isn't it?"

Ah, Hermione thought, silently in agreement. Of course Theo would be attending with Fleur, and Harry was certainly thoughtful enough to make sure Daphne wouldn't spend the day alone. The offer was deeply in character, put in those terms.

"I told you," Daphne continued irritably, "I'm fine—"

"What? No," Harry interrupted, hastily shaking his head. "Pansy's right, Daph. I always end up irresponsibly choosing some subpar disaster who drinks her body weight in gin, so consider this some sort of personal growth. I am turning twenty-one entire years of age," he added, taking another sip. "Perhaps it's time I showed King Abraxas I'm capable of evolution."

"It'd be rather false," Daphne remarked.

"Well, I said 'show,' not 'prove,'" Harry reminded her, and she rolled her eyes, but conceded.

"Fine," she said, shrugging. "But only because Hermione will probably be busy with Draco, and Blaise and Pansy will be bullying some poorly-dressed girl into loathing herself for eternity."

Blaise and Pansy, who apparently deemed this acceptably accurate, merely shrugged.

"I won't actually be busy with Draco," Hermione reminded Daphne. "He says he probably won't be able to get away much this time."

"Well, you say that now," Daphne said with a low chuckle, "but we'll see."

"I'm just saying I wouldn't abandon you," Hermione said quickly, and then, catching herself, added, "Even though you're fine, obviously."

Harry, who'd been grinning throughout the exchange, laughed into his coffee again.

"I'm perfectly fine," Daphne informed the table for the thousandth time, "and no one needs to be concerned with me. Certainly not when Prince Harry's such a divinely unfixable mess," she added, and he looked up, sparing her a wink that made something in Hermione's chest give a dull and objectionable lurch.

Privately, Hermione wasn't sure why she seemed to inexplicably oppose the idea of Daphne and Harry. Was it perhaps because she wondered if it might actually… work out? She frowned to herself, considering it. Daphne and Harry were both funny, clever, flirtatious, attractive. Harry could build Daphne up, and Daphne could certainly temper Harry's irresponsible nature. Hermione always wondered why Daphne had never attempted anything with any of the boys, ultimately assuming it was due to Theo being her primary focus. But now, if Theo was no longer an option, would Daphne consider one of the others? Theo and Daphne belonged together, Hermione's ill-mannered heart grumpily insisted, but with conditions being what they were…

She fought a grimace.

Maybe she was giving herself too much credit thinking this was unselfishly about Theo and Daphne. Was it also possible she didn't want to lose Harry's attention? As much as she loved Draco, Harry did have a gift for making anyone he was with feel special, and perhaps she'd gotten used to that particular energy being directed at her.

She shoved her suspicions aside, turning to Daphne.

"You're right," she said. "And anyway, it's about time you get some proper attention. Oh," she added, brightening as an idea struck. "You can wear one of those dresses you've altered."

Daphne blinked. "Oh, that's an idea," she agreed, and immediately, Hermione felt better. Now Daphne would have something to fixate on that wasn't Theo, and could potentially stop wandering aimlessly through the flat. Besides, even if she did happen to have a fling with Harry, that would at least keep her from her art professor, who was definitely still calling.

Hermione let out a breath, relieved.

Across the table, Harry was smiling at Daphne. Hermione tried not to notice, turning her attention instead to the coffee that had long since gone cold.

The party was at one of Prince Lucius' residences in the country, encompassing an intimate gathering of some three hundred or so close friends of the royal family. Draco had been away for the entirety of the week, which had actually been something of a blessing, as Hermione was both preoccupied with work and concerned she'd blurt out some inappropriate question about whether or not Draco's father should be prosecuted for the attempted murder of his mother. It seemed best that their communication was limited to nightly calls and texts while both were exhausted, leaving them to talk about very little before falling asleep on the phone.

This time, Daphne had convinced Hermione to buy a new dress, which her mother offered up as an early birthday present. This one was a pale pink (so pale it was hardly pink, which was Hermione's ideal shade) knee-length dress with a bateau neckline, which had garnered both Pansy and Daphne's approval. Aside from the snake ring, Hermione added a pair of teardrop diamond and pearl earrings borrowed from Pansy and strappy nude Valentino pumps from Daphne, feeling somewhat pleased with the ensemble she'd managed to put together.

"Flawless," Daphne declared, kissing her on both cheeks and sneakily spritzing her with a little Chloé, leaving her to cheerfully cough up roses. (Pansy's approval had amounted to a nod—Hermione had been ecstatic.)

Daphne, whom Hermione was certain was conscious of Fleur's presence even if she planned to deny it, had worn a rich, jewel-toned green that brought out her eyes, while Pansy had opted for a lavender Emilia Wickstead (perhaps as a nod to Blaise, Hermione thought, as Pansy had recently lost twenty points for suggesting Blaise wear taupe).

It was a summer garden party, largely taking place outdoors, and Harry had met them out front, kissing Pansy and Hermione's cheeks in greeting before offering an arm to Daphne. Hermione, who was standing close by, heard a little whispered exchange of, "Is he here yet?" which was met with a single nod.

Hermione found herself oddly warmed that Harry had thought to be there for Daphne. As the girl on a prince's arm, Daphne would have plenty to focus on that wasn't the upsettingly beautiful French girl in the ice-blue dress who could be seen and admired from well across the garden, instead gifted a reprieve for which Hermione was deeply grateful.

(For the record, newspapers would later print that Fleur's presence at the party and the brief moments she was by Draco's side were further proof of their furtive romance. The DRAGONFLOWER blog in particular had themselves a time.)

Hermione, meanwhile, stayed close to Pansy and Blaise until Theo came to find her, a little smirk on his face. "Hey, California," he said, giving her a warm hug. "Feels like I haven't seen you in ages."

"Well, you've been very busy," Hermione reminded him curtly. She'd planned to be somewhat cold for Daphne's sake, but it was difficult to accomplish, considering it was Theo. The moment he'd joined her side, she'd found herself immensely relaxed. "How've you been?"

"Oh, not bad," Theo said, sneaking a glance at Fleur, who was entertaining someone across the garden. He was a bit smitten, Hermione thought; she had to give him that. Briefly, Fleur looked up and winked at him, and he smiled. "Well, anyway," he said, clearing his throat guiltily and turning back to Hermione. "I noticed Daphne's here with Harry."

Hermione pointedly sipped her iced tea. "Did you?"

Theo rolled his eyes. "Come on, just tell me—"

"Harry needed a date," Hermione said, sticking firmly to the story. "It was his idea."

"Hm." Theo chewed his lip. "She's fine, isn't she? She said—"

"Yes," Hermione supplied quickly. "She's fine. She's happy for you."

"Right." Theo nodded absently. "That's what I thought. I think sometimes Draco disapproves," he added, looking a touch concerned. "He never says anything, of course, and I've told him countless times Daphne's never given any indication she wants anything to do with me. Romantically, I mean," he coughed up. "Not that we—or, that I, I guess—well, besides," he exhaled hastily, "it's not as if I planned to meet Fleur—"

"Theo," Hermione sighed, shaking her head and resigning herself to the fact that she was, however difficult it was at the moment, friends with both of them. "You're allowed to be happy. Daphne really is pleased for you."

That part was at least half-true. More importantly, Hermione thought, Daphne wouldn't want Theo (or anyone) to know how badly she was hurting. It seemed it was going to be a party full of secrets and lies.

"Okay. Okay." Theo nodded again. "Right, good. Well, I came over because Draco initiated the code," he said with a grin. "He says he can spare a few minutes in the blue room, if you're up for it. Just enough time for a private hello."

"Oh," Hermione said, brightening. So far, she'd only caught glimpses of him from afar. "Thanks, Theo, I'd love that. The blue room, you said?"

"The blue room," Theo confirmed with a nod. "It's up the stairs and to the left. You've got—" He glanced down at his watch. "About ten minutes."

"Okay," Hermione said, and Theo leaned forward, giving her another hug.

"Thank you," he said in her ear. "I know you're primarily Daphne's friend, but—"

"There's no sides," Hermione assured him. "Daphne loves you. I do, too. We'll all be back to normal soon, I'm sure."

Theo gratefully kissed her cheek. "Go on, then," he said, gesturing her off. "Tell the guard at the base of the stairs you're delivering a martini."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Great. So now I'm a cocktail waitress?"

Theo winked. "Actually, you're the cocktail," he said, and then strolled away, sparing her a final grin over his shoulder as she sighed, making her way to the house.

This house, like Theo's, was grandiose, although slightly less morbid. It had a tasteful elegance to it she wouldn't have associated with Lucius, and wondered briefly at the possibility a woman had had a hand in its decor. She was still wondering about it when she made her way to the stairs, eyeing the so-called guard.

"I'm delivering a martini?" she said tentatively, and the man stepped aside. "Just… second floor?" she asked, and the man nodded. "Any particular direction, or…"

She trailed off. The man appeared to have finished acknowledging her.

Blue room, she recalled. How hard could that be?

Unfortunately, rather difficult. She made her way through a long corridor, some of the rooms open for observation, some not, but certainly none of them blue. She paused beside a closed door at the end of the hallway, knocking once. No answer. She carefully opened it and exhaled with relief, noting the blue wallpaper and quietly shutting the door behind her, making her way inside.

"You," came a voice further in the room, and Hermione nearly jumped, alarmed by what she'd initially thought had been statue and could now clearly see was a live human woman. "You're the one my son's been staring at."

A blonde woman was standing at the window, facing down into the garden below. She'd glanced up at Hermione's entrance and then back down again.

"He's handsome, isn't he?" asked the woman who could have only been Princess Narcissa, and whom Hermione had been urgently concerned about speaking with for months only to now find herself delivered to utter silence. "He had these massive cheeks as a baby. I loved them. Lucius said if I spent all my time kissing his cheeks and smelling his hair he'd grow up entirely too soft. I told him that would be fine with me."

Narcissa turned, a glass of wine held close to her chest. "Does Lucius like you? I imagine he doesn't."

Hermione swallowed, clearing her throat. "No, actually," she managed, though it was still a bit hoarse. "He's not my biggest fan."

Narcissa's eyes widened, and then abruptly, she laughed. "My god, you're American," she said. "You poor bloody thing."

Hermione, who'd been told by Pansy at least one thousand times that 'bloody' was a swear word and therefore never to be used no matter how funny Hermione allegedly thought it was, started a little at the use of it.

"Oh, sorry," Narcissa said, pursing her lips. "I'm on a lot of drugs. Antidepressants, you know. Antipsychotics. All the anti-this-and-thats—the antagonists of my more dreadful nature, or so they surely hope. Can't always control the things I say, hence my immensely privileged position in the crow's nest. Come here," she added, beckoning for Hermione to come closer. "I want to look at you."

Hermione, unsure what else to do, crossed the room to stand in front of Narcissa, who was unbearably lovely, albeit a little vacant. Still, Hermione could see now why people loved the idea of Fleur and Draco together; Narcissa could have been Fleur's older sister, with equally silvery blonde hair and startling blue eyes. The Brits who still adored Princess Narcissa would have certainly seen Fleur as a more recent incarnation.

"Well," Narcissa remarked. "You're not what I expected."

"You aren't, either," Hermione said.

"Oh, why, did you expect someone chronically ill?" Narcissa asked, half-laughing. "Or just suicidal?"

"I—" Fuck, Hermione thought. "Neither?"

"Don't lie," Narcissa sniffed. "I'm surrounded by liars. Including my husband." She brought her wine to her lips, shaking her head. "Especially my husband."

Hermione cleared her throat. "I didn't know what to expect," she said honestly. "People don't, um." She glanced down. "People don't really talk about you."

"Figures." Narcissa swirled the wine in her glass, offering it to Hermione. "Bordeaux?"

"No, thanks," Hermione said, and Narcissa laughed grimly.

"Believe me, you'll need to pick up some sort of substance abuse if you plan to get much further," she said. "Good of you to try, though, at least until Lucius gets rid of you. What do you do?" she asked, and Hermione blinked. Narcissa was immensely destabilizing; her thoughts seemed to run together without any indication of shift. "You're young. Student, maybe?"

"Yes, I'm a student at Hogwarts," Hermione said slowly. "I met your son in September. He helped carry my suitcases," she added, hoping a personal detail might soften Narcissa towards her, and she was right.

"He's a good boy," Narcissa said, smiling fondly as she took another sip of wine. "He's the best thing I've ever done. Did you know that?"

Hermione shook her head, then faltered. "I mean, he is wonderful," she amended quickly, "I know that much—"

"He's better than me. Better than his father." Narcissa's hand tightened on her glass as she fixed another glance at Hermione. "What about you?"

"Me? I'm not great," Hermione said with a small bubble of nervous laughter, and Narcissa pursed her lips.

"Confidence," she said. "You'll need to be stronger than that, my dear, or they'll eat you alive. What are you good at?"

"Oh, um—"

"Don't be humble," Narcissa advised sharply. "Impress me, won't you? At least entertain me. And certainly don't lie."

"Oh, well, I—" Hermione had never been very good at describing her strengths. This felt like a job interview for something she was already vastly unqualified for. NASA, perhaps. "I'm smart."

"Mm," Narcissa permitted, with a hazy sense of I'll allow it. "What kind of smart?"

"Book smart," Hermione said honestly. "I like research. I like school, and I'm good at it. I actually have a research fellowship right now," she remembered, glad to be able to bring it up. "I'm getting writing credits on a scholarly paper, which usually doesn't happen to undergrads."

"What's the paper about?" Narcissa asked, and finally, Hermione managed to relax a little, pleased to be talking about something she solidly knew the answer to.

"Well, it's about literature and social commentary during the Victorian era," Hermione said. "So it's quite a bit of Dickens, as you might imagine. The professor I'm working with wants to focus on that era in history, but I've actually started doing a bit of comparative research about how not just literary fiction but all fiction is inherently political, which he seems to find intriguing, so I've been working on a study of how Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale is arguably within the same vein of social commentary as—"

"Ha," Narcissa cut in, and Hermione's mouth snapped shut, startled. "There's no way you can put your name on that, darling."

"I—I'm sorry," Hermione said, blinking. "What?"

"You can't put your name on that," Narcissa repeated, slower this time, as if the problem had been Hermione's cognitive deficiencies. "Certainly not if you plan to be connected to this family in any way. Can you imagine the way the press would react? You can't have an opinion," she said with a darkened laugh. "You can't have a voice, you foolish girl, and certainly not a critical one. You can only have the voice they give you, and believe me, silence would be just as good. Look at me," she added, the wine in her glass sloshing a little as she gestured to herself. "The best they could do with me was shove my heavily sedated bum into a room upstairs so I could watch my son from afar and thank my father-in-law for graciously permitting my attendance."

Narcissa's voice was sharp and mean.

"I, um. I didn't know—"

"Of course you didn't," Narcissa said coldly. "Nobody knows, do they? Nobody knows I nearly killed myself falling down the stairs because my husband decided the best thing to do was to drug me without my knowledge, do they? Oh sure, they think he pushed me, so at least there's that," she said with a bitter laugh. "This family, they thought they could control me, sweetheart. Lucius and his father both, they thought I'd be their little pet, just there to smile and wave and wear the right shoes but they forgot I was a person, didn't they? They forgot you can't just fuck your mistress in the bed you share with your wife and expect her to keep quiet—"

The door behind them abruptly opened and Narcissa's gaze hardened, falling on whoever stood behind them before she turned back to Hermione, her voice low.

"Listen to me," Narcissa whispered, taking hold of Hermione's shoulder. "Get out while you can. Trust me. My son is a good man but he isn't king, he can't save you. They'll break you, they'll take everything from you, they'll either turn you into something lifeless or they'll rob you of everything you are—"

"Miss Granger," came Prince Lucius' voice of displeasure. "Always with the most opportune timing."

Hermione turned hesitantly, Narcissa's hand still closed tightly around her shoulder.

"I see you've met my wife. Unfortunately she's rather ill," Lucius said to Hermione, reaching out to take Narcissa's arm, "and I imagine she'd like to rest. Quite a lot of excitement this afternoon—"

"Let go of me," Narcissa warned Lucius in a low voice, and Hermione, entirely unsure what to do, didn't move. "I'm not going anywhere."

To Lucius' credit, he looked no less conflicted than Hermione felt.

"Narcissa, please," he said, softening slightly to address her. "Please don't do this, Draco will want to see you, and—"

"There's no reason he shouldn't see me," Narcissa snapped. "I'm his mother, Lucius, I haven't seen him in months—"

"Yes, I know, and if you'd just come with me—"

"Let go," Narcissa said sharply, and as she jerked her arm away from her husband, the wine in her glass abruptly splattered across Hermione's dress, drenching the pale pink silk in an alarming crimson bath. "Oh, balls," Narcissa said, yanking free from Lucius' hold. "Hold on, her dress is ruined—"

"We'll get her another one," Lucius said, digging his nails into his palm from where Hermione could see he'd been loosely clenching a fist in frustration. "Come on, Narcissa, please, let's go—"

But Narcissa had already reached around, unzipping her dress and stepping out of it. "Here," she offered, and Hermione turned her face away, cheeks heating as the Princess of Wales stripped down to her undergarments. "Take this," Narcissa suggested, holding the dress out to her. "Nobody will be looking for me, anyway. After all, I won't be allowed to see them."

Hermione was about to protest but Lucius shook his head in warning, shoving the dress into her hands before removing his jacket and draping it over his wife's shoulders.

"Not a word," he breathed in an undertone to Hermione, and she nodded dumbly. "Not to Draco. Not to anyone."

"Yes, Your Highness," she offered, apprehensive. "Of course."

But that didn't seem enough.

"Give me a moment with Miss Granger," Lucius suggested to Narcissa, who spared Hermione a vacantly pitying glance as Lucius pulled her aside. "What were you even doing here?" Lucius hissed, and Hermione flinched.

"Theo said the blue room, and I didn't—I thought this was—"

"This is the green room," Lucius snapped.

"But the wallpaper—"

"The furniture," Lucius growled, gesturing to it, "is green."

Hermione blinked. "It was an honest mistake."

"Of course it was. It always is with you, isn't it?" Lucius said irritably, and as Hermione gritted her teeth in equal frustration, Narcissa cut in.

"Leave the girl alone," Narcissa said gruffly. "I want to change, Lucius."

"Yes, yes—I'm coming," Lucius told her, exhaling sharply as he gave Hermione another lingering look of distaste. "Say nothing. Do you understand?"

"I wouldn't," Hermione said quickly. "Honestly, I promise. I wouldn't."

Lucius nodded tightly. "You don't know the whole story. Whatever she told you—"

"Lucius." Narcissa's voice was strident and firm. "Leave. Her. Alone."

Lucius grimaced, but turned away. He led his wife out of the room and shut the door behind them, neither of them bothering to speak another word to Hermione.

Hermione, meanwhile, stared down at the dress Lucius had shoved in her hands. Her own was ruined, that much was obvious. Still, Narcissa was a little taller, a little more slender, and what was she supposed to do now?

She reached into her purse for her phone.

"Daphne?" she said, sighing. "Sorry to drag you away from Harry, but I think I need a favor."

"There," Daphne said, the needle between her teeth as she finished adjusting the dimensions of Narcissa's dress. As Hermione had known, Daphne kept a miniature sewing kit in her purse, though her ability to make adjustments on the fly was something of a rarer talent. She'd taken the silk dress (an emerald green silk with a 1940s-style cut) and adjusted the hem, adding a tasteful slit to suit Hermione's limited height and then adjusting the bodice for her smaller bust. "That should do it. You actually look really lovely in this," Daphne added approvingly. "I think it's vintage Dior, though the label's been removed, so who knows."

Hermione, who probably couldn't recognize a designer without having studied them for months, easily cast that bit of commentary aside in favor of praising Daphne's clever eye and quicker fingers.

"Daph, you're an absolute lifesaver," Hermione said, wheeling around to eye herself in the mirror on the green room's wall. "Seriously, I can't thank you enough. This looks perfect."

"Well, lucky it was a fairly close fit," Daphne said, half-smiling. "But try not to run into these sorts of problems too often."

"I will, I swear. How's Harry?" Hermione asked, aiming for innocence, though Daphne saw through that with relative ease and laughed.

"You're all being so careful with me," Daphne lamented wearily. "I'm not that fragile, you know. I really am—"

"Don't say you're fine," Hermione growled, and Daphne laughed again.

"Fine, I won't. I miss him," Daphne admitted, fussing with the straps of Hermione's dress, which Hermione suspected was so she wouldn't have to look her in the eye. "But I think I miss my friend Theo most, you know? It's fine if it doesn't work out between us. I really never thought it would. But I hate feeling like I can't be around him because everyone else is afraid of what I might react."

"That's fair," Hermione agreed, feeling a bit guilty now. "Well, I can certainly do a better job. We could invite him over?" she asked hopefully. "Get lunch, the three of us? We used to do that all the time."

"Yes, I'd like that," Daphne said, and seemed to mean it. "Really, I would. I can stand being around him with Fleur—seriously," she sighed, as Hermione arched a skeptical brow. "Really, I can! I'd just hate it if he and I couldn't be friends anymore. That's the one thing I'm afraid of, honestly."

"Well, as long as you're not too miserable," Hermione sighed, reaching for Daphne's hand. "You'd tell me if you were, wouldn't you?"

"No, likely not," Daphne said, and then laughed at the expression on Hermione's face, squeezing her fingers. "But I know you're there for me, and that's really all I need. Well—that," she amended, "and a full report on Princess Narcissa. I can't believe you met her—"

"I genuinely don't know what to say about it," Hermione admitted. "She was utterly terrifying in completely different ways from Prince Lucifer."

"Well, we'll have to discuss it later," Daphne said, peeking down into the garden. "Looks like lunch is about to start."

"Right, of course. Oh, wait, Daph," Hermione said, catching her arm as she turned to leave. "Don't, um. Don't mention this to anyone, would you? I…" She hesitated. "I haven't decided yet what I'm going to tell Draco, so—"

"Your secret's safe with me," Daphne assured her, looping an arm through hers and guiding her firmly out the door.

Lunch was… interesting.

For one thing, Hermione had forgotten that Daphne being Harry's date meant they'd be sitting together elsewhere, which left her in the precarious position of being wedged between a conspiratorially whispering Pansy and Blaise. Across the table were Theo and Fleur, who were making eyes at each other, and an additional set of incredibly strange people purporting to be Draco's cousins. Initially, they had little interest in Hermione, who, likewise, was otherwise occupied with Pansy's narrow-eyed questioning.

"What's this?" Pansy asked, scraping a glance over Hermione's dress. "This looks familiar."

"Oh, it's a long story," Hermione said weakly, not wanting to get into it. "What'd I miss?"

"Draco, apparently," Blaise murmured to her. "He came by looking for you. Wondered if you were dead, to which I said if that were the case, I would immediately and swiftly take ten thousand points."

"For dying?" Hermione asked.

"I would ask you to avoid it, if possible," Blaise sniffed. "I'm sure you can see how it would interrupt the flow of my day."

"Well, you can wear whatever you like to my funeral," Hermione told him. "No matter what Pansy says."

"Marvelous. Five points, and I'll hold you to it," he told her, though Pansy was still staring at what appeared to be Hermione's chest.

"I know this dress," Pansy said, frowning. "How'd you get it? It's much too chic to be your taste."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Pans—"

"Princess Narcissa wore one just like it in the late 1990s," Fleur remarked in her lightly accented French. Hermione, who hadn't realized Fleur was listening to their conversation, started a little at the knowledge that she'd recognized the gown. "It's Dior, isn't it?"

"Oh, um—"

"That is what it is, you're right," Pansy said, and Fleur gave a little shrug that said, Yes, I know, I usually am. "Well, good. Now that I've placed it, I feel much better, though I have no idea how you managed to get a replica in the single hour we've been here—"

"It's not a replica," sniffed a blond man opposite Hermione, who fixed her with a matter-of-fact look of certainty. "That's Narcissa's dress."

"Yes," agreed the blonde woman beside him, who could have very easily been his twin. "You can tell because all that weak-chinned aristocracy is visible in the stitching."

"That," the man said as Hermione balked, "and because it still has a faint sense of general mania clinging to the fabric."

"Hermione," Theo offered, stifling a laugh as he spotted her horrified face. "This is Thibaut and Hortense. They're somewhat distant cousins."

"Not distant enough," declared the man who was evidently called Thibaut. "This proximity is making my delicate skin itch."

"However did you wind up with Narcissa's dress?" Hortense asked Hermione. "Did you, by chance, happen to rob her? Oh, are you here to rob us?" she amended, looking positively aflame with possibility. "I do hope so. I was just telling Cousin Lucy this party needed a bit more spicing up if he ever intended to get back in my good graces."

"What did he do to fall out of them?" Blaise asked, and Hortense gave him a withering glance.

"Do I know you?" she asked him.

"Yes, of course you do," Thibaut said, nudging her. "This is Draco's ex-girlfriend, the pretty one he brought to that party where you accidentally set that small fire?"

"That fire was not an accident," Hortense declared.

"It was a candle? At a baptism," Blaise reminded them, frowning. "It really wasn't a fire. And also, I'm not Draco's ex-girlfriend."

"What? But it was you, wasn't it?" Thibaut said, squinting slightly as he struggled to recall. "I said, 'here young lady, have this small flame, I've named him Rupert,' and you said, 'well, ten points for unnecessary gendering'—"

"Yes, that was me," Blaise confirmed, "but I'm not Draco's ex-girlfriend. Largely because I'm not a girl, but also because we've never dated. He's just so very busy," Blaise added in explanation to Hermione. "I need much more attention than that."

"Wait, you're not a girl?" Hortense said, alarmed. "Then why do we call you the pretty one?"

"Well, I'm definitely the pretty one," Blaise said very seriously, "so twenty points for that."

From Theo, to Hortense: "What am I, then?"

Hortense, to Theo: "Have we met?"

Theo, sighing: "Yes. Several times."

From Thibaut: "Impossible. I'd remember someone with your totally inadvisable limb ratios. If this were Sparta, you'd be thrown to the wolves for inefficient anatomical structure."

From Theo, smartly: "Who says I wasn't?"

Hortense, to Hermione: "Remind me. Who are you at this party to steal from?"

From a bewildered Hermione: "I'm… not?"

Hortense, in hushed tones: "I won't tell anyone. In fact, I keep several knives in my purse."

Hermione, alarmed: "That you should definitely tell someone!"

Pansy, sighing: "They're very small knives, Hermione. Don't be tiresome."

Hortense, approvingly: "See? Snub-nose gets it."

Thibaut: "Hortense, don't insult snub-nose. Then she'll steal all our knives again."

Pansy, covertly: a silent smile, tucked carefully into her napkin.

Hortense: "True, true, but I'd just like to know what sort of con is happening if we're going to be considered accessories."

Hermione, grudgingly: "I don't know why I'm saying this, but I think given your consent to be involved in the crime, you'd be closer to accomplices."

Thibaut: "MY GOD. She's right."

Blaise, whispering to Hermione: "Five points for accuracy, though minus three because now I'm slightly frightened."

From Fleur, thoughtfully: "The most valuable thing in this house is a painting, if that helps. There's an original Renoir inside."

Theo, with surprise: "How did you know that?"

Fleur, shrugging: "I studied art at Beauxbatons."

Pansy and Hermione: a silently exchanged glance.

Thibaut, to Fleur: "Oh! I know you."

Fleur, unsurprised: "You might know my father, yes."

Hortense, firmly: "No, we know you. You helped us housetrain Basile."

Fleur, now very surprised: "I beg your pardon?"

Thibaut: "Your face. From the magazine? With the shoes."

From Pansy, bemused: "You housetrained your puppy using pages from Vogue?"

Hortense: "Who said anything about a puppy?"

Hermione, frowning: "That can't possibly have been effective."

Thibaut, smugly: "It wasn't."

Fleur, murmuring in thought: "Of course, if that really is Princess Narcissa's Dior, that dress would be the second most valuable thing in this house. Lucky it isn't, right?"

She fixed Hermione with a pointed glance, which then delivered Hermione to a moment of both muted relief and utter astonishment. Had she accidentally let Daphne cut a slit into a famous gown? And worse, had she just had a brief moment of camaraderie with Fleur, whom she was determined to hate for Daphne's sake?

Ultimately, it seemed more important to take the out she'd been given and deny any knowledge of either Narcissa's presence or her dress.

"Of course not," Hermione said. "How would that even happen?"

"Well, you have a point there," Pansy agreed, and luckily Hortense and Thibaut had distracted themselves with their butter knives and did not push the issue further.

Eventually, as lunch ended and mingling resumed among the guests (Harry, it seemed, was attempting to salsa with Daphne, who was admittedly a very good dancer) Fleur sidled up to Hermione, handing her a glass of champagne.

"There's only one dress like it," Fleur murmured, sipping quietly. "Originally it was strapless, but Narcissa personally requested straps be added before the first time she wore it. To a state dinner. In France." She took another careful sip, then smiled slightly. "It looks lovely on you."

Hermione chewed her lip. "I made some alterations."

"So?" Fleur said, shrugging. "That's what makes clothes such a wonderful form of art. We style them, adjust them, change them to suit the wearer's personality. A painting hangs in a museum but a dress this beautiful is meant to be worn, to move and to shift with light and contrast. This dress was meant to be curated by the human experience, not held captive in a glass case."

Fuck, she was eloquent, Hermione lamented.

"Daphne did the alterations," Hermione said. "She's very gifted with clothes. And art."

"I can tell," Fleur said, now eyeing Daphne where she was dancing with Harry. Like always, Daphne was luminous, stunning from every angle. "You need not consider me a threat, by the way,"Fleur commented softly. "I like Theo quite a bit. I also like Daphne." She turned to Hermione. "I like you as well, and all Theo's friends. I think you're all quite wonderful to be around. You're very lucky to have each other."

"Do you," Hermione began, and paused. "Are you—"

"Do I plan to stick around? Yes," Fleur said, with a faint sense she was willing to back her word with whatever necessary force it took to be convincing. "Can you stomach it?"

Hermione considered it. "Can you keep secrets?" she asked, gesturing to the dress, and Fleur smiled.

"I certainly can," Fleur said, turning to watch Daphne again as she took another sip of her champagne. "You know," she murmured, "I thought perhaps she might have had some feelings for Theo still."

Hermione, who had just taken a sip of champagne, coughed into her glass, which luckily Fleur didn't seem to notice.

"I think she looks good with Harry, though, doesn't she?" Fleur said. "Happy." She turned, eyeing a still-coughing Hermione. "Are you alright?"

Hermione swiped moisture from her eyes. "Yes, sorry, she's… yes." She swallowed hard, watching Harry spin Daphne as he'd spun Hermione once before. Truly, he loved to dance. He had a hard time staying still, Hermione suspected. He'd been well-trained, firstly, and was always in motion, so it seemed the best thing he could manage to do with his feet at any given time. He and Daphne also looked absurdly perfect together—though Hermione wondered if that wasn't simply because Harry made everyone he was with look brighter, happier, and Daphne made everyone she was with look more attractive, like she was reflecting them in the best possible light. "They are having fun, aren't they?"

Fleur slid Hermione a look. "It must be frustrating," she remarked. "Not being able to appear in public with Draco."

You don't know the half, Hermione thought. She was certain the internet would be swarming with pictures of Draco and Fleur, if it wasn't already.

"It is," Hermione said, "but it's worth it."

"Always?" Fleur asked, her voice kind. She was offering Hermione a chance to speak more intimately about it, it seemed. Fleur, who was a public figure herself, probably knew quite a bit about the importance of privacy.

Hermione thought briefly of Narcissa's warning, but a perfectly-timed exchange of glances with Draco was enough to shove it out of her head. He lifted a hand from across the garden, scraping it through his hair. Left hand, she noted. Signet ring. Secret code.

Hermione smiled.

"Always," she said, and Fleur nodded, pleasantly satisfied.

That night, Harry was the one to help Hermione sneak out to meet Draco. She and Daphne were staying in a hotel nearby, but evidently (and unsurprisingly) Harry was the most familiar with sneaking girls away from paparazzi.

"Much as I hate to be the one introducing you to this protocol of salacious skullduggery," he said, fitting her into the sunken backseat of a large SUV and then covering her head with a darkened sheet, "it is at least useful."

"Will you be okay without me?" Hermione asked Daphne, who smiled.

"I'll be fine," Daphne said, shrugging. "I have Harry, don't I?"

"That she does," Harry agreed, pausing to pat Hermione's head. "All set?"

"I'm not comfortable," Hermione informed him. "It's very hot under here."

"Right," Harry said. "That's just the flames of your godless lifestyle."

"Stop," Hermione said, and he grinned.

"Have fun," he said, and Daphne waved as he shut the door, leaving Hermione to be driven the few-odd miles to get back to Draco.

He was waiting for her in the cleverly concealed subterranean garage, rising to his feet the moment the driver opened the door and holding his hands out for hers.

"Come on," he said, eagerly taking her inside. "I've been waiting ages."

He gave her a brief tour of the rooms inside, including the one she'd missed earlier that day (the blue room was incredibly inaptly named; only four of the items inside were blue, and the walls were white) but was clearly in a hurry to be elsewhere. Eventually he tugged her up the stairs and into what was obviously his bedroom, shutting the door behind them and pulling her into his arms.

"Hi," he said between kisses. "How was the party?"

"Oh, um—" His teeth scraped against her bottom lip and she shivered a little, unsure whether it was the best time to discuss having run into his mother while his hands were slipping under his bra. "Well, it was—" He rolled her nipple lightly between his fingers and she gave up, throwing her arms around his neck. "We'll talk about it later," she said firmly, and he laughed, hands dropping to unbutton her jeans.

It was an uncontested delight to undress him here, in the place he'd obviously spent a great deal of time during his life. She imagined him first as a teenager, possibly discovering the excellent angst-ridden soundtracks of their adolescence (or alternatively, discovering masturbation) and then, upon recollection that other girls might have been here before, she permitted her motions to upgrade from fond to possessive, pulling him on top of her and kicking his trousers down his legs.

"My goodness," he mused against her lips. "In a hurry?"

"Maybe a little," she admitted, and he chuckled, switching places with her on the bed to pull her between his legs, settling her back against his chest.

"Well, slow down," he suggested, and reached down to tease a finger against her underwear, stroking her clit through the fabric. "I intend to make this last."

"Do you?" she echoed, breathing hard within seconds. He had a dreadful habit of being impossible to resist, and he made lovely, devastating work of alternating between slipping his fingers under the lace and then floating again on top. "I mean, is slower always better? We do have all night—"

"Yes, we do," Draco said, kissing her neck. His free hand was on her breast, and not one inch of her was unaffected by his proximity. She was acutely aware of every place they touched, from the way her legs rested on either side of his to the motion of his patiently roving fingers, his mouth finding hers every now and then to drive her further up the brink of madness.

"I love the way you fit against me," he murmured to her, guiding her hips to rise with the motions of his hand so she was grinding against his palm, her shoulder blades shifting against his chest. "It's so hard to concentrate when you're around. Requires a whole new level of prince-ing. I've had to develop a totally new version of my 'polite company' smile so it's less obvious I'm thinking about you."

"Oof, talk dirty to me," she mumbled, half-laughing, and he grinned against her neck.

"You have no idea, Miss Granger," he said, and slid his fingers inside her. It was genuinely worrisome how wet he made her, though she wasn't about to argue, and certainly had no opposition to him sliding her underwear down her legs, ridding her of the final obstacle between them. "And seeing you in that green dress, Hermione, I swear, I wanted to take it off with my teeth—"

Oh, hell no, that won't do—"That dress is your mother's," Hermione blurted out, her thighs abruptly snapping together around his hand like a goddamn Venus fly trap, and Draco froze, his chest going still for a second as he considered this new information.

"I," he began, and paused. "What?"

"It's," she attempted. "Well. Okay. So, um." His hand was still caught between her legs and she guiltily released him, turning to have what was apparently going to be a naked conversation. "Well, I went to the wrong room when you told me to meet you. And I, uh, I ran into your mother."

"My mother was here?" Draco asked, his voice oddly quiet, and Hermione, knowing what she'd seen from Narcissa, felt her heart twist and break for him.

"Yes, she… she told me… well, she told me a lot of things." Hermione swallowed hard, recalling the promise she'd made to Lucius and wondering how to get around it without bulldozing entirely through it. "She wasn't feeling well," she eventually determined, and Draco grimaced.

"That's what my father always says."

Hermione flinched. Wrong choice. "It's just—"

"You saw my father too, I'm guessing." Draco glanced at her. "He asked you not to tell me?"

Hermione, who could feel herself venturing into problematic territory, winced slightly. "Yes," she eventually said. "Yes, he asked me not to say anything, but really, Narcissa didn't seem well. I had to change dresses because she spilled on me, actually," Hermione explained, fidgeting. "She just seemed… a little off, that's all."

"I see." Draco grimaced. "Well, that explains why my father was especially ridiculous, then."

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"I—" Draco hesitated. "I asked him again if there was a chance you and I could, you know. Go public. He was adamantly opposed." He paused, glancing apologetically at her. "I guess my timing was a little disastrous."

"I didn't realize you were still trying to do that," Hermione said slowly, and Draco blinked.

"Still?" he echoed, stunned. "Hermione, I'll never stop. I love you. Don't you think that means something to me?" he asked, leaning towards her. "I don't want to love you temporarily. I don't want to love you until you leave or I have to get married, whatever comes first. I want to love you the way I want to, and that means getting my father on board. Though," he grumbled, "that may take even longer than I thought."

"But—" Hermione swallowed. Abruptly, she recalled Narcissa's warning again. At the time, it hadn't particularly concerned her, seeing as she wasn't about to be outed as Draco's girlfriend anytime soon. In Hermione's mind, whatever they were doing had some end date—some expiration she couldn't see and didn't want, but would eventually have to come to terms with. She never imagined she'd have to consider another option.

Oddly, she thought of her paper with Slughorn and Narcissa's opinion that Prince Lucius would never permit it, realizing Narcissa was probably right. If the rest of the world knew who Hermione was, her opinions would reflect on Draco, and in turn on his father and grandfather as well. But what was she supposed to do about that? She could ghostwrite the paper, of course, but did she really work this hard just to hide behind some old man's name when she'd done all the work? Were her choices really between being Draco's secret girlfriend or being a secret academician? Was she really never going to be entirely herself?

"I bet she liked you," Draco said softly, interrupting her ponderings with his own. He reached out to brush his thumb against her cheek, and at his touch, like usual, she melted. "My mum's nothing like my dad, you know. She's fun and funny, and so smart. I'm sure she loved you."

It hurt Hermione's heart to tell him otherwise, though in fairness, she couldn't really be sure.

"Did you tell her about your work?" Draco pressed, brightening. "I bet she'd love that. My mother loves books. She's incredibly well-read."

"I did," Hermione said, half-smiling. "She, um." She told me to run. She told me to get out. She told me your family would destroy me. "She told me she found it interesting."

"You know, come to think of it, you haven't really told me what you're working on," Draco said, and for a moment, at his excitement—at his obvious pride in her—Hermione wanted to tell him everything; to say Slughorn had given her a massive opportunity that was the first thing she'd done to really be proud of in ages. "Is it just research? Has he given you anything specific? He knows how smart you are, I'm sure, I imagine he'd give you loads of freedom—"

She could tell him. Maybe he'd be okay with it.

But then—

Maybe it was better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission. Besides, maybe it wouldn't even matter. It was just a scholarly article, and it wasn't as if their relationship was public yet, or that any signs existed to indicate it ever would be.

What was the worst that could happen?

"It's nothing," she said, forcing a smile. "Just boring stuff. You know," she added blithely, "the best of times, the worst of times—"

"Oh, so clever you are," Draco said, rolling his eyes and pulling her closer. "Well," he said. "That's enough talk about Dickens and my mother, don't you think?"

His hand slid between her legs again, and she sighed her agreement.

"Sounds perfect," she said, and while she'd planned to punish herself at least marginally with some remnants of guilt, her weak attempt at moral fortitude couldn't last. Certainly not when Draco traded his fingers for his mouth, gifting her several uninterrupted minutes of what, precisely, his royal tongue was capable of doing when it wasn't the one-day head of the Anglican Church. Definitely not when he made her legs shake with graceless satisfaction, an unrefined series of moans slipping from her lips. Was she really meant to focus on anything but him when he slid her onto his cock and whispered to her how wet she was, how tight, how hard she made him? Any of that would have been too much to ask from her poor overwrought brain. All of it taken together was positively hopeless.

She could run the scenarios tomorrow. For now, she was otherwise occupied.

"Slow down," she whispered when he threw her on her back. "Take your time," she murmured, sliding her fingers up his spine, and he smiled as he kissed her.

"Knew you'd see it my way," he said, the pace of his hips carefully measured. Gradually—with effortless command, his back arched just so for the perfect angle—he built up a merciless, unbearable knot of desperation somewhere inside her until it finally conceded to yield, and then it escaped her in shudders, in the perfect agony oh-so-patient sex as her entire body thrummed with satisfaction.

She came for what felt like hours, some little bitten-down-gasp-moan slipping from her lips, and in the absurd length of time before she went blissfully numb, she wondered if maybe time in general might be entirely relative. Maybe they had plenty of it. Maybe it would feel like they had plenty of it. Or maybe she should strap Draco to this bed and have a week-long orgasm instead of contemplating her life choices. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Still, she couldn't exactly think about that now. Not while she had a prince to satisfy.

"Your turn," she said, trading places with him, and he smiled.

"Your sense of fairness is so wonderfully democratic," he said approvingly, and she bent her lips to his ear.

"God bless America," she said, and bit down on the lobe, delivering him to a wholly blessed shiver.

I did write that paper, and I did use my name. Slughorn gave me equal writing credits and it was ultimately published in the Hogwarts scholarly journal, which is read by prominent academicians all over the world. It's one of my proudest achievements, and also one of my three most significant relationship obstacles. My lie of omission came back to bite me—as I probably knew, deep down, that it would—but as I wouldn't see the fallout from that for over a year, it was a pretty forking easy thing to forget.

My relationship with Lucius and Narcissa, however—the second and third biggest obstacles, respectively—was only just beginning.

a/n: A bit under the weather lately, but managing to scrape things together! I think. Thanks for being here! (Also, depressingly, this was me trying to curb the word count. I wrote all of this today and clearly cannot be trusted to have any control over anything.)

11. Arrangements

Chapter 11: Arrangements

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Between Friends

The world was first introduced to Hermione Granger (by face rather than by name) when it became known that Prince Draco would be sharing a flat with friends rather than continuing to live in the Hogwarts dorms, prompting a great number of shots taken of him entering and leaving the building during his final year at university. While the Prince shared a flat with two male friends, Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, across the corridor lived Hermione and two of their female friends, making her a frequent companion in Draco's daily activities.

First acknowledged as 'unknown brunette friend,' Hermione soon became a staple in Prince Draco's presence. When news later broke of their romantic relationship, many claimed the primary necessity for secrecy was because the move had triggered yet another disagreement between father and son. Prince Lucius reportedly advised Draco against the arrangement, suggesting King Abraxas would find it discomfiting that something so close to shared living quarters might prompt the public to lose faith in Draco's moral fortitude.

She says 'first acknowledged' as if she wasn't the person who initially reported my presence, but I suppose that's fair. After all, how many articles did Rita fail to sell because she didn't suspect quickly enough that Draco and I were together? I'd almost feel sorry for her, except I don't.

She's right about one thing, though. Lucius did not like the arrangement.

By now, I imagine that's not very surprising.

Hogwarts University
August 21, 2011

After a certain point, Hermione deciding to finish out her time at Hogwarts became an inevitability. The article she was writing with Slughorn had become interesting enough to actually hold his focus for multiple minutes of time, and it was obvious he'd been putting off enough of his own work for her to fill the rest of her academic year working on it for him. She'd be paid well, and for genuinely interesting research, which was a rare enough opportunity she figured she'd be stupid not to grab it and hold tight.

Her parents happily agreed with her decision, even offering to come visit for a week towards the end of the summer. Hermione, who was finding the flat surprisingly quiet without Pansy (who had gone to visit with her family for most of August) was overjoyed to see her parents, who were already enamored with Daphne and Harry and fit perfectly into the British version of her life.

"Tell us what she's like in America," Harry said, joining them for dinner at the Hog's Head. He'd become extremely (almost suspiciously) present since his and Draco's joint birthday party, though Hermione still wasn't sure whether anything romantic had happened between him and Daphne. It seemed as though the answer was no, but she couldn't be sure. "Personally, I always imagine Hermione as some sort of armed militant. You know, fighting wars and mining for gold."

"Yes," Helen said, sipping at her very crisp Riesling. "That's it precisely."

(Hermione smiled to herself. Her mother was already adapting some English patterns of speech from Daphne, and surely if she stayed any longer, an accent would inevitably ensue.)

"Hermione's always been more of a secret rebel," argued her father, David. "You know, hoisting her mighty pen and all that."

"Well, it is mightier than the sword," Daphne acknowledged sagely, and beside her, Theo scoffed.

"Exactly the attitude of a woman with insufficient swords," he remarked, and Daphne rolled her eyes, elbowing him. The two of them, at least, were relatively fine. Hermione had stuck to her promise to both of them and begun easing them into each other's company again. There were moments—like now, Theo's smile faltering just slightly as his gaze fell on Daphne's face and Daphne's chin dropping as she quickly looked away—when Hermione was sure their romantic reconciliation (could it be called that, if it had never really begun…?) was inevitable. But then—again, like now—Daphne would look up at Harry, and Theo's phone would light up with a text from Fleur, and Hermione would be entirely unsure about everything once again.

"In any case," Hermione said, arching a brow at Harry, "I really don't think I'm any different based on my geography."

"Oh honey, I wouldn't go that far," Helen said, shaking her head in disagreement. "I like you here. You're much more relaxed. You haven't even mentioned the missing apostrophe on the cocktail menu."

She'd noticed it, but had been pleasantly distracted from saying so out loud. "For the record, I'm only relaxed because Blaise isn't here," Hermione informed her mother. "If he were, I'd have to be much more careful about my point deficit."

"True, she's currently in fifth," Harry said, leaning over to conspire with David, who nodded as if this meant anything to him. "Embarrassing, really."

"Hey!" Hermione shot at him, and Harry grinned, drawing his Guinness up to his lips. "Can you not, please?"

From Theo: "Seems unlikely."

From Daphne: "For the record, I'm much more curious what they think about you, Harry."

Helen, while squinting at Harry: "I'm not sure there's an appropriate term for him in our diction. He seems something distinctly British, like something I might find in some sort of… I don't know, bodice-ripper?"

From Hermione, with a wail: "MOM!"

From Harry, entirely too pleased: a poorly stifled laugh.

Theo: "Oh, do you lot not have the word 'cad,' then?"

David, snapping his fingers: "We do, and that's the one."

Helen, lamentingly: "Oh, David! He's not a cad. He's a—"

Harry, helpfully: "Rogue? Knave? Winsome, surely."

Hermione: "Please stop."

Helen, sighing: "Well, honestly Hermione, I just don't know what you want me to do without the term bodice-ripper."

Hermione: "It's really not the term I take issue with so much as the entire concept. And besides, your husband is right there!"

Helen, with a fleeting glance at David: "Oh, he doesn't mind. Do you, honey?"

David, halfway to a sip: "Hm? Oh, yes, Hermione, listen to your mother."

Helen: "See, there you go. He's fine."

Daphne, with a laugh: "Can I be you when I grow up, Mrs Granger?"

Helen, sipping her wine: "I have high hopes for the same, Miss Greengrass."

Theo: "Just out of curiosity, what do you think of Draco?"

Helen: "Well, I certainly wouldn't mind having his—"

Hermione, aghast: "Mother, PLEASE!"

Helen: "—presence at family Christmas. Would finally shut up David's sister, frankly. One of Hermione's cousins is dating some sort of terribly vanilla stock broker and her mother won't stop hammering on about it. And then here I am, not allowed to bring up the Prince of England even though I know it's a winning hand—"

Hermione, relieved: "Okay, good. I really thought you were going to say something inappropriate."

Theo, disappointed: "I, meanwhile, had so hoped you were."

Helen, thoughtfully: "Well, in fairness to Draco, it's probably worth mentioning he is very attractive. Truly, if I were any younger—"

Hermione, with a clatter of silverware: "DAD, DO SOMETHING!"

David, deep in discussion with Harry about rescue planes: "Hm?"

Harry: "I think your wife is plotting to run off with a prince of some sort."

Helen, delicately: "Plotting is a strong word."

Theo: "And a good one."

Helen: "True, very true."

David: "Frankly, I think you should go for it, dear. You'd look lovely in a crown, and anyway, we've had a good run."

Helen, wistfully: "It has been good, hasn't it? A lovely end to a beloved chapter. Oh, but I don't know—all my stuff is there. Seems like a hassle."

David, to Harry: "This is how I know she won't leave me. The woman simply hates moving. And decorating."

Helen: "It's very true. I'd much rather give up a prince than pick out a new couch. Wait, what was the question?"

Hermione, exasperated: "My parents, ladies and gentlemen."

Daphne, chiming in with a smile: "Tell us, Mr and Mrs Granger, what's the secret to a happy marriage?"

David, without pause: "Foreplay."

Helen, nodding: "Yes, he's right, that's what I was going to say. And lubrication."

David: "Also, consideration and mutual respect."

Helen: "No, go back to the first thing."

Hermione, groaning: "I need to leave immediately."

Daphne, nudging her: "Aw, come on, don't be a spoilsport. I think it's sweet! I don't think my father's touched my mother since my sister was born. I've never personally witnessed it."

Theo: "I'm fairly certain nobody's touched my father at all, though that may be a different situation. I'm somewhat certain he'd spontaneously crumble to ash."

Harry, thoughtfully: "My godfather did a lot of touching. I wonder if I was unduly influenced."

Hermione, blanching: "Can we please stop using the word 'touching'?"

Theo: "What else are we supposed to call it? Copulating?"

Helen, gently: "Well, that's a separate thing, dear."

David, to Hermione's relief: "There's of course some other factors involved. Honesty, for one. That's important."

Helen, pouting: "Oh, are we being responsible now?"

David, with gentle sympathy: "Yes, unfortunately. I think we owe the children some wisdom."

Helen: "Oh, fine. Yes, honesty is a big piece of it. I stopped lying to David months ago."

Daphne, surprised: "You're honest with each other about… everything?"

Harry, laughing: "Seems highly American."

Theo, drily: "More importantly, seems like a lot of ways that could go horribly wrong."

Helen, thoughtfully: "Well, it's not a total open-door policy to the pitfalls of humanity, let's be clear about that."

David: "Yes, definitely not. I for example went through a period of intensive cycling, at which point I would sometimes got saddle sores on my—"

Helen, shuddering: "Don't you dare, David!"

David: "…but anyway, the important things, yes. I trust Helen. She's smarter than me, anyway, and we listen to each other. That's important."

Hermione, surprised: "That's… actually very sweet, Dad."

Helen, reaching out with a smile: "She's right. You're a nice boy, David."

David, arching a brow: "Am I?"

Hermione, sighing: "Annnnnd you ruined it."

But across the table, Theo, Harry, and Daphne all seemed to have taken the advice to heart. In fact, they all seemed so lost in their thoughts Hermione wondered if she shouldn't internalize that advice herself. After all, hadn't she just been somewhat dishonest with Draco about the article she was working on?

She supposed it was a different situation, considering it was fairly clear to her the option of marrying Draco was very much not on the table. Maybe this sort of relationship advice was reserved for people who actually belonged together, not people who were in a losing battle awaiting approval from the Prince of Wales.

"So," Harry said, picking up his beer and venturing forward as if he'd read her thoughts, "what would you two think about Hermione becoming royalty, then? Or at least royalty-resembling," he said with a wink in her direction.

"Well, it's difficult not to wonder about," Helen admitted, giving Hermione a fond smile. "I've always said she could be anything she wanted to be, though I suppose princess was the one thing I never particularly thought to bring to the table."

"She never really played princess, did she?" mused David, frowning in thought. "There were a few iterations of astronaut and president, but not too many tutus."

"Those are for ballerinas, Dad, not princesses," Hermione told him, and he shrugged.

"Either way," he said, picking up his own beer. "As long as she's happy, we're happy."

To that, which was something Hermione had counted a common and therefore unremarkable refrain for most of her life, Theo, Daphne, and Harry all gave her matching looks that spoke volumes: You have no idea how lucky you are.

Suddenly, it become clear to Hermione why the rest of them were all such good friends with each other. None of them were particularly close with their families, either because they had lost them (Harry) or because their families had ironclad expectations about how they should behave (Daphne) or who they should be (Theo). For a moment, Hermione's heart filled and overflowed and flooded with affection for who they'd all become, and it no longer mattered to her whether Harry was with Daphne, or if Theo should have been, or whatever was happening between any of them. They were each other's family (however occasionally incestuous that might have been from time to time) and for whatever reason, they'd let her in. They'd counted her one of them.

It probably shouldn't have taken Hermione so long to realize it, but once she had, there was no going back. This little tribe of weirdos was hers, and she felt a massive swelling of affection for them that was impossible to shake.

At the same time, though, she got a text from Draco, the vibration from her purse catching her attention.

Sorry to interrupt, I know you're with your parents—just a quick thing. My father is requesting lunch with you next week. Could I lure you down to London? I'll make the arrangements.

Abruptly, Hermione's stomach flipped, the previous sense of comfort giving way to an immense bubbling of fear until Daphne leaned over, resting a hand on Hermione's wrist.

"Everything alright?" Daphne murmured, and Hermione caught her mother's eye.

"Oh, it's fine," she said, waving a hand. After all, why ruin the evening when everyone was getting on so swimmingly? They'd all heard far more than they needed to about her drama, and besides, she wasn't sure she wanted to take her parents' probably-sound advice.

Sure, sounds great! she typed back quickly, with probably too many exclamation points. Just let me know!

Honesty, whatever that was actually worth, could certainly stand to wait.

Pansy, whom Helen and David met only long enough to begin referring to her in future conversations as the 'girl with perfect teeth,' ("You should smile more," David had said without thinking, to which Pansy had been about to make what Hermione hoped would be a feminist retort until David hastily amended, "No, no, sorry, I only meant because you have the most compellingly shaped incisors I've ever seen! I'm in the teeth business, has nothing at all to do with my patriarchally reflexive need to control your behavior, I promise, so sorry—") returned to the flat the same day Helen and David returned to California. Must as Hermione had loved seeing them, she was immensely relieved to have things return to their balance of normalcy. Her parents, supportive creatures who frustratingly believed Hermione had the ability to win over Prince Lucius if she merely set her mind to it, were being unhelpfully optimistic. She kissed them goodbye and promised to Skype every week before immediately running back up the stairs to a carefully unpacking Pansy, hoping for actual advice.

"Oh, this is a disaster waiting to happen," Pansy remarked the moment Hermione told her what Draco had said, repeating his exact wording twice. "It's a trap, surely."

"I knew it," Hermione wailed, collapsing onto the bed as Pansy sniffed her disapproval, shaking her head. "Daph," Hermione called, wanting some sympathy, and Daphne wandered in with a half-smile at Pansy before permitting herself to fall beside Hermione, both of them obviously disrupting Pansy's process of settling back in. "What do you think?"

"I think Pansy's being very dire," Daphne replied.

"It's a dire situation," Pansy replied. "A calamity, even. Nothing but catastrophe awaits."

"Okay, hush," Daphne said, rolling her eyes as Hermione made a face. "Okay, so maybe we already know how Prince Lucifer feels about you," she said gently to Hermione, "and yes, maybe we know that's unlikely to change. But then why would he want to see you, if not to give you a chance?"

"Are you hearing yourself, Greengrass?" Pansy asked her, leveling a velvet-lined hanger in her direction. "This is the Prince of Wales we're talking about, not some sort of benevolent uncle. More likely he's going to offer her money to go away."

"What? No," Hermione gasped, sitting up. "Would he?"

"Would he? Is that—are you joking? Is that some new clever American joke? Because the answer is absolutely yes," Pansy scoffed. "It's astounding he hasn't already tried."

"He hasn't tried because Draco would never forgive him," Daphne pointed out, which seemed to be at least worth acknowledging to Pansy.

"True," Pansy permitted. "But eventually he will tire of you enough to try something drastic. The timing certainly isn't promising," she remarked, shrugging. "I doubt he's happy about the news that Draco's moving."

Draco, Blaise, and Theo had rented multiples of the flats across the hall from them. One, evidently, was just to keep a radius of privacy for security's sake, effectively preserving the entirety of the top floor for the six of them, and also because Harry had insisted he'd grown tired of sleeping on the floor.

"Still, there's no need to worry about it now," Daphne said. "Just don't accept any bribes if he offers them, obviously. Unless you want to," she amended, apparently not wanting to limit Hermione's potential desires in even the most obvious of ways. "Though, to be clear, I don't know how Draco will take it—"

"I don't want money," Hermione said firmly, rolling her eyes. "I'm not actually a street urchin, despite Pansy's evidence to the contrary."

"I have a whole portfolio on the subject, which we can visit another time," Pansy confirmed stiffly. "At the moment, though, I have something I'd like to discuss with the both of you. Is now an acceptable time?"

Daphne and Hermione, who were clearly doing nothing other than taking up Pansy's personal space, exchanged a glance.

"No, we're very busy right now," Daphne said drily, to which Pansy shrugged.

"Fine. Please arrange approximately ten minutes to—"

"She's joking," Hermione cut in, who'd never known Pansy to be so literal. "What is it?"

"Hm? Yes, well, I need you two to meet my boyfriend," Pansy said, making some small adjustment to the button of a new blazer as she spoke. "Traditionally I struggle a bit to come off… warm, one might say. Affectionate." She made a face. "I find the prospect of having to do so on my own somewhat irksome."

"What do you mean your boyfriend?" Hermione demanded, staring at her.

"It's more of a boyfriend-prospect," Pansy amended, hanging up the blazer. "A prospective boyfriend. My parents made the introduction and now it falls on me to make myself appropriately appealing to his sensibilities. Obviously, I think he would prefer someone…" She trailed off. "Softer."

"Well, fuck him," Hermione said, to which Daphne gave a firm nod.

"Right, that's the idea," Pansy agreed, "after an appropriate time period, of course. A couple of months, presumably. How long did you wait bef- no, never mind," she sighed, glancing skeptically between Daphne and Hermione. "You're both far too sexually aggressive. I should have this conversation with someone else."

"Since when aren't you 'sexually aggressive'?" Daphne demanded. "Last term you told Michael Corner you were bored enough to let him go down on you and he did—"

"That's different," Pansy said, pursing her lips. "Sex is one thing. Relationships are another. This is a man I might eventually marry, thus there are a separate set of rules."

"But that's ridiculous!" Hermione argued, frowning. "Pans, you can't seriously be planning to marry someone who requires you to be—" She faltered, aghast. "I don't know, virginal, or something—"

"Hermione, not everything is cause for some sort of manic crusade," Pansy informed her, rolling her eyes. "I'm simply making the point that my parents like his family, and his almost certainly like mine. So, in order to make things easier for everyone involved, I'm simply doing my part to be more palatable."

"That's outrageous," said Daphne, who had personally referred to Pansy's personality as unpalatable at least a dozen times, and certainly not unrightfully. "You're absolutely wonderful, Pans, and if he can't see that—"

"Are you going to help me or not?" Pansy asked them, apparently tiring of being forced to endure their pedantic opinions. "He's coming tomorrow for a visit and I was hoping the two of you would join me. Blaise is coming, too," she added. "I thought he would be most helpful. Heaven knows Theo would be hugely unhelpful, so he's out—"

That was certainly true, Hermione thought. "We're obviously in if you need us, Pansy, but—"

"Good," Pansy said crisply. "Of course, don't mention Draco," she warned Hermione, arching a brow. "I don't know yet if I trust anyone with that sort of sensitive information. We'll have to plant something false to see if he turns it over to the press first before we reveal your doomed and sordid romance."

"What sort of false thing?" Hermione asked, skipping over the latter commentary.

"Well, with you, I told you Draco was allergic to almonds," Pansy replied thoughtfully.

"Why would you—wait a minute, he's not?" Hermione asked, aghast. "But I'm always so careful to keep them out of his food!"

"I know, and it's hilarious," Pansy said. "He loves them. Finds it totally bewildering that you don't."

Last week, Hermione suddenly recalled she'd hurried to remove the almonds from his salad, painstakingly picking them out one by one. No wonder he'd looked at her with complete bemusement. "Pansy—"

Daphne, who'd been unhelpfully laughing at Hermione's distress, straightened long enough to shake her head. "They lied to me, too, if it helps, Hermione."

"Yes," Pansy said. "We told her Draco was gay."

Hermione's eyes widened, and Daphne burst into a renewed fit of laughter. "What?"

"Well, we were a bit sloshed, weren't we?" Pansy admitted, eyeing her fingernails. "It was the first thing Harry came up with at the time, and then what were we supposed to do, reconvene until we'd come up with something better?"

"And you believed it?" Hermione asked Daphne, who shook her head.

"No, so they really got lucky I wasn't befriending them to sell papers," she said, grinning broadly. "But still, I believe it's a notorious Prince of Darkness tactic—plant a false rumor to see if the person involved can be trusted with more private information."

"How long did it take you to trust me?" Hermione asked Pansy.

"Who says I do?" Pansy replied, and Daphne sighed.

"Just tell him Draco's dating someone this time," she suggested to Pansy, giving Hermione a comforting hug as Hermione leaned sulkily against her shoulder. "Not Hermione. Oh, just say Fleur," she suggested, carelessly flapping a hand, "that's easy. Half the internet already believes it."

Hermione, who was leaning against her, noted an only marginal stiffening at the use of the name Fleur. "That's true. Though, how would you know it came from him if he told someone, then?"

"Mm, good idea," Pansy permitted, tutting her agreement. "It'd have to be a specific story about her, otherwise anyone could have said something."

"Tell him she and Draco had their first date in Versailles," Daphne suggested. "They cycled from Paris to Versailles and then accidentally got drunk on cheap wine in the gardens and had to wear disguises on the train back."

"That's…" Hermione glanced at Pansy, who blinked, but didn't alter her facial expression. "That's very specific, Daph."

"Well, it should be," Daphne said primly, "considering that was Fleur's most recent first date, just not with Draco."

Hermione turned slightly. "Why do you know that?"

She shrugged. "Theo told me."

"Oh." Hermione glanced uncertainly at Pansy, who looked equally perturbed. "Why?"

"Why? Because I asked," Daphne said with a humorless laugh. "We're friends, remember? We've always been friends. He tells me things, I tell him things. It's how friendship typically works, as you might be aware—"

"Yes, but—are you sure it doesn't, you know. Hurt to know those things?" Hermione asked gently, and Daphne shrugged again.

"I'd rather know it than not know it," she said, which made some sort of odd sense to Hermione, though she wasn't sure she could stand it quite as easily if she were in Daphne's place. After all, if she and Draco ever broke up, could she really stand only knowing his life from what Rita Skeeter decided to print about him?

She shuddered slightly at the thought. "Well, as long as you're happy."

"It's not about whether I'm happy," Daphne said primly. "He is, and I'm happy for him. And we're friends. And anyway, who's this boy?" she asked, changing the subject to direct the question at Pansy. "You said your parents know him?"

"He's a Longbottom," Pansy said, which sounded ridiculous to Hermione, but Daphne nodded with understanding. "Neville, the only son."

"Oof, I never like dating an only son," Daphne said, making a face. "Always doted on. No good."

"Theo's an only son," Hermione said, and frowned. "And Harry. And Draco—"

"Estranged from his father, orphaned, doted on for completely unrelated reasons," Pansy enumerated in response to each of Hermione's examples as Daphne nodded her agreement, "but Neville was raised by his grandmother. She's a rather tough old bird, and she's the one with all the money. They say she's quite a pill. I expect I'll like her quite a bit," she added dreamily, and Hermione stifled a laugh.

"Well, I look forward to meeting this Neville person, whoever he is," she said, leaning against Daphne's shoulder again. "Though, do you like him, Pans?"

She'd meant it to be a considerate question, but in response, Pansy merely fixed her with a hard glance. "What does that have to do with anything?"

To her immense dismay, Hermione found she couldn't come up with an answer. Not one Pansy would find sufficiently persuasive, anyway. Hermione was reminded again why Pansy found her so unsuitable for a relationship with Draco; of course Hermione was underqualified, because she couldn't understand the importance of blind, unwavering duty. Of unquestioned familial responsibility. Hermione's parents merely wanted her to be happy. Could Pansy say the same? Could Draco?

"Sorry," Hermione said, not entirely sure why she said it, but for once, Pansy seemed to take it well.

"It's alright," Pansy said, and turned back to her closet. "Do you think this dress, Daphne? Or would this color be too harsh?"

Daphne rose to her feet, quick to discuss the important things, like how Pansy's flaws might unfavorably be reflected in yards of expensive silk. Hermione, meanwhile, watched with a sense of lingering disappointment. If Pansy and Daphne—beautiful women with strong opinions and brilliant minds, one pretending to be soft when she was really fierce and fearless and the other pretending to be gracious when she was clearly in terrible pain—had to obscure pieces of what they were to exist within a set of rigidly confined behaviors, how much would Hermione have to be molded to fit?

What would Lucius want from her, and whatever it was, could she ever possibly be enough?

Neville Longbottom was pleasant enough, if a bit nervous. His little ticks of hesitation initially walked a thin line of endearing and irritating, in Hermione's view. She figured that might have been the result of being around Pansy, Daphne, and Blaise, though, who were about as intimidating as they were charming. Having been in his position most recently, she tried her best to be welcoming.

"So, Neville," she said, smiling something she hoped was comforting as he nearly knocked over his glass of water, "are you in school, then?"

"Me? Um, yes," he said. "Cambridge. Gran insisted I stay around. She's getting older, you see," he added, "so it wasn't going to be an easy thing, sending me all the way to Hogwarts, much as I might have wanted to go." He looked slightly mournful. "Pansy tells such wonderful stories about it."

"Does she?" Hermione asked, glancing at Pansy, who had worn a whimsical floral-patterned dress that made her look as if she were trying to camouflage with an afternoon tea set. "Well, you should have her show you around the castle before you go. How long are you visiting for?"

"Just a few days before term starts," Neville supplied with some degree of anxiety. "Gran's insisting I come back straightaway. Thought it might be nice to meet Pansy's friends, though. She says such nice things about you."

"Nice, really?" Daphne echoed, as Pansy shot her a quieting look.

"Oh yes, of course," Neville said, giving Pansy a shy smile. "She's sweet, isn't she?"

"Jesus Christ," Blaise muttered under his breath, choking abruptly as Pansy's elbow landed discreetly between his ribs. "I mean, Christ Almighty Lord and Savior, the sweetest who ever lived, I expect—"

"Oh, what's this?" came a voice behind them that made Pansy's brows shoot up in horror, which was something Hermione had previously only seen happen in response to her own choice of footwear. "Lady Parkinson, you little minx, you didn't say anything about having Longbottom out here!"

Harry, who ostensibly appeared out of nowhere, leaned over to smack a kiss against Pansy's temple in what could only have been a highly intentional move, sending a creeping flush over her cheeks. "Neville, a pleasure, as ever. Oh, Daph, are you going to finish that—?"

"You two know each other?" Pansy asked, clearing her throat as Harry pulled out the seat next to Daphne, picking up her fork and digging into her salad in a way that suggested this little interruption may have been preemptively arranged. Come to think of it, Hermione realized, a very bored Daphne had been discreetly typing something into her cell phone.

"Mm, of course, Neville's a friend of Ron—and Seamus, too, if I'm remembering correctly," Harry posed to Neville, in what felt like a string of names Hermione failed to recognize. She supposed she'd forgotten people existed outside of their little group, which was a somewhat alarming realization. "Ron's a good friend—in the army with me, same as Seamus. Part of my squad, if you will," he added with a grin. "Nev here went to boarding school with them, so we've met up a few times."

"And here I thought he was sanitary," Pansy murmured to herself, only loud enough for Hermione to hear and stifle a laugh.

"Yes," Neville said uncomfortably. "That's true. Ron and I've known each other a long time."

"Well, no need to feed him any Draco-related lies, Pans, he's safe," Harry said, giving Neville an approving grin. "He's certainly witnessed enough by this point to be trustworthy."

"Henry," Pansy sighed. "Don't you have somewhere better to be?"

"Nope," he assured her spiritedly. "So, what have we been discussing? You know, Pansy does a great Mamma Mia if she's got enough gin in her," he told Neville. "This girl loves her ABBA, but who doesn't, am I right?"

"Um," said Neville, as Pansy's hand tightened around her fork.

"Granted, she'll say she hates karaoke, but you have to learn to read between the lines with her. She's full of double-meanings, very complex. Was a very shy child," he said with a sideways glance at her, "not that you can tell now. Can't say no to a dare, though, this one," he added, winking. "I've personally led her on a wide variety of misbehaviors—"

"Harry," Pansy said sharply, and Blaise, who was obviously struggling to withhold laughter, abruptly faked a coughing fit, doubling over on his side of the table. "Surely you have somewhere else you need to be—"

"Nope," Harry said through a mouthful of Daphne's spinach salad. "Though, of course, there's really only one thing you need to know about Pansy—"

To this, Pansy's mouth tightened, and she glanced down at the table.

"—which is that I'll kill you if you hurt her," Harry finished cheerfully, swallowing and wiping his mouth with a napkin, clearing his throat. "Now of course you may be thinking, oh, Prince Harry could never get away with murder, could he? But the answer is yes, I most certainly could, I'm much cleverer than I look and frankly, I'm a fair hand at extortion. Also, I think the trick to murder is that not enough people really take the time to chop their victims into sufficiently small bits—"

"Harry," Pansy sighed again, though she'd softened slightly. "Please don't. We're eating."

"Right, my apologies," he said, flashing her a grin. "Sorry, what were we talking about?"

Neville, who looked positively sickened, drained of color. "Er—"

"Neville," Hermione said, struggling not to laugh as Blaise began scribbling down the point counts Pansy had forbade him from saying aloud, "would you want to join me at the bar? I think the table could use a round of drinks, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Neville said with a worried glance at Harry, rising so sharply to his feet he nearly upended part of the table. "Yes, um, Pansy, what would you like?"

"Something terribly strong," she said drily. "Perhaps something large enough to drown a Prince Harry-sized man."

"Right," Neville said, voice soft, and Hermione laughed, giving his arm a nudge to lead him to the bar.

"Don't worry, Pansy's easy," Hermione informed him. "If all else fails, just go with whatever wine matches her outfit."

"Thanks," he said with a glance over his shoulder. "Sorry, I wasn't quite expecting that."

"Nobody ever expects Harry," Hermione agreed. "He's… a character."

"No, not him," Neville said, brow furrowing. "I'm used to him. He wouldn't harm a fly, not really. It's, um." He paused, blinking. "Well, it's you, actually."

"What?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"Well, all of you," Neville admitted, glancing briefly at his feet. "Pansy's quite intimidating, isn't she? And I can tell she's trying not to be, but she is, and Blaise and Daphne are just impossible to keep up with, they have so many jokes and stories I can hardly keep track—and you," he finished, with a furrowed glance at Hermione. "You're the one I was most anxious to meet, actually."

Hermione blinked, stunned. "What? Why?"

"Well, Pansy speaks quite highly of you. She tells me you're the smartest person she knows," he clarified, prompting Hermione to dumbfounded silence, "which is quite something, isn't it, seeing as she's rather brilliant herself? I worry I won't keep up." He spared her half a smile. "I can do Harry's little jokes, sure, but what am I supposed to do if Pansy wants to talk about politics, or history, or art?"

"You go to Cambridge," Hermione reminded him, and he smiled sheepishly. "It's not exactly trade school."

"Yes, but school's never been my favorite," he said, a bit gloomy at the thought. "Pansy's interesting in a way I suspect I'll never be, and if all her friends are like you lot, then—"

"Wait. You actually like her, don't you?" Hermione registered abruptly. "This isn't just about your families approving?"

"Hm? Oh, do they approve?" Neville asked with a puzzled frown, looking surprised. "Gran's never said anything. I suppose now that you mention it she must have arranged the introduction, but no, it's not—I mean, it wasn't—"

There was no doubt about it. Somehow, the flustered boy in front of her definitely had a crippling, undeniable crush on Lady Pansy Parkinson-Six Names.

God help him, Hermione thought. She'd eat the poor bugger alive.

"She likes you," she assured him, and Neville exhaled sharply, relieved. "Don't be nervous. She wouldn't have invited you here if she didn't think highly of you."

"Well, that's quite good to hear," Neville said, swallowing and passing Hermione a timid smile. "Thanks for being so nice to me."

"Hey, I was you not so long ago," Hermione assured him. "It's nice not to be the new blood, actually. I just assumed I was the least scary of the bunch."

"Well, you should know, you're certainly not not-scary," Neville informed her. "I really don't know much about whatever it was you said you were working on, but it certainly sounded impressive."

"It was, wasn't it?" Hermione joked, though she realized as she said it, he wasn't wrong. She really wasn't unimpressive, was she? Maybe she'd forgotten a bit of her own worth in trying to measure up to Prince Lucius' expectations. "Thanks, Neville."

"Of course." Behind them, a loud collective of laughs resounded from the table, followed by a shout of "TWENTY POINTS FOR PURE NERVE, YOU BEAUTIFUL BASTARD," and Pansy giving Harry's shoulder a loud smack as Hermione watched Neville grimace again with uncertainty. "Maybe I do need a drink," he conceded wryly, and she smiled.

"Get Blaise a 'perfect martini.' It's equal parts sweet and dry vermouth, and if you can learn to make it properly, he'll love you forever," she advised. "You'll want Blaise on your side—he's Pansy's favorite, firstly," she clarified, "even if she'll never admit it, and also, he's got a very complex game going you don't know about yet, but you won't want to lose."

"Right," Neville exhaled, nodding. "Thanks for the tip. Got anything else?"

"Don't get Harry a drink," Hermione said. "Forgetting about him entirely is the best way to win him over. He'll think it's hysterical."

"Right," Neville said again. "And Daphne?"

"Daphne's easy, anything with bubbles, but try telling her you like something she's wearing. Like, um—her bracelet," Hermione said, discreetly pointing to it. "She made those little dangling charms from vintage typewriter keys."

"Oh, that's nice," Neville said, looking impressed, and then he slid her a glance. "And you?" he asked. "How do I win you over, then?"

"Oh, me? Um." She'd never considered the prospect of having to be won over, and it gifted her yet another brush of confidence. Why hadn't she ever considered that Prince Lucius might not be good enough for her approval? It was about time she remembered he wasn't so great, either, and for that matter, she knew plenty about him he wouldn't want her telling his son. She had her own game, if she wanted, and she was certainly adept enough to play.

"Just ask me what I want, and I'll tell you," Hermione eventually determined. "I like having a voice, you know what I mean?"

"Yes, actually," Neville said, looking pleased. "I do know what you mean."

"Good," she said approvingly. Maybe he wouldn't be too bad for Pansy. He seemed to possess some subtlety, at least, and maybe when he was more comfortable, he'd realize he was quicker than he thought he was. "Well then, welcome to the group, Neville Longbottom."

Daphne came with Hermione to London, offering up her parents' townhouse as a place for them to stay for the weekend. Harry had offered to accompany them both, but Hermione suspected Daphne had known it would be wiser to be as inconspicuous as possible, which meant no royal escorts.

"Thanks, though," Daphne said, giving Harry a smile that made Hermione wonder yet again whether it was only friendship between them.

"My pleasure," he said with a bow, which confirmed nothing, frustrating Hermione immensely as she continued to ponder the scope of her reality, successfully distracting her from her own impending disaster.

"You know, if you keep asking me about Harry or Theo, we're never going to pass the Bechdel test," Daphne told Hermione later, showing her into the guest room. Her parents and Astoria were in Italy on holiday, leaving them the entirety of the enormous house.

"The same is true if we talk about Draco," Hermione replied smartly, and Daphne sighed.

"You're right," she said. "We need new hobbies. Or school needs to start, at least."

"It's not like we typically talk about literature," Hermione pointed out.

"Well, we could try," Daphne suggested brightly. "What do you think about… I don't know. Great Expectations?"

"I think it's bullshit," Hermione said.

"Yeah, me too," Daphne sighed. "Why can't more of literature be about revenge? That should be its own genre, frankly."

Hermione paused, considering it. "You mean like the Count of Monte Cristo version of Great Expectations?"

"Sure," Daphne said. "Why can't Pip, you know, get rich and all that, but instead of being mostly a good person who still loves Estella, he just sort of… casually flips her off and hate-fucks Miss Havisham to prove a point?"

"What a uniquely horrifying thought. I'm beginning to suspect we actually shouldn't discuss literature," Hermione remarked, and Daphne shrugged.

"You're right. So, are you nervous about lunch with Prince Lucifer?"

Yes. No. Immensely. Not at all. It really varied from moment to moment, and by the time Hermione was being carefully concealed and transported to a restaurant (and from there, led discreetly into a private room) she still hadn't quite made up her mind. Daphne had dressed her, thankfully, which had taken one thing off her mind. The 'smart' jacket and skirt combination made her feel positively ancient, but it fit well and hadn't required much thought.

"Hi," Draco said, rising sharply to his feet when she entered. She'd hoped to see him beforehand, but outside of their usual phone conversations, he hadn't been able to get away. Now he was seated beside his father, and Hermione noted Draco, too, was dressed more formally than usual, wearing a full suit. It seemed only Lucius looked comfortable, which prompted Hermione to a grimace. It was like going through some sort of formal interview—except much, much worse, because she'd seen one of them naked and, per usual, couldn't deny wanting to do so again.

"So glad you could come," Draco said, kissing her cheek. His hand rested briefly on the small of her back and he leaned in. "I'll make it up to you tonight," he promised quietly in his ear, then turned her, quickly obscuring the motion as he led her over to his father. "Father, you know Hermione by now, I expect."

"Miss Granger," Lucius said, as she offered him something of a wobbly curtsy. "Please, have a seat."

She sat. Draco sat. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"How are you?" Lucius asked her.

"I'm very well, thank you," she replied, glancing at Draco, who gave her a comforting smile. He brushed his hand briefly over her knuckles, withdrawing it when Lucius cast a disapproving glance at the motion. "And you, Your Highness?"

"I've been better. It seems my son has decided to disregard the very detailed and expensive safety protocol his grandfather and I established for him at Hogwarts in favor of moving into an unprotected flat in Hogsmeade. I presume you know as much?"

All of it was said rapidly and without pause, and Hermione blinked.

"I, um—"

"He also tells me it is your wish to make your relationship public," Lucius said. "Is that true?"

She struggled to shift from question to question, gaping a little at him. "Sorry?"

"Father," Draco cut in with a grimace, "she just arrived, and it wasn't like she was—"

"I expect it must appeal to you, the prospect of being publicly in a relationship with a prince," Lucius said with a touch of mockery. "Tell me, what do your parents do again?"

Hermione had been prepared for this sort of unfavorable judgment, having been through it enough with the Inquisitorial Squad. She curled a hand into a fist beneath the table; the last thing she could do was lose her temper. Pansy had been right—this was a trap. Lucius wanted her to do something unforgivable, and he wanted her to do it in front of Draco.

She swallowed, forcing a smile. Prince Lucius regularly underestimated her.

He'd regret that someday.

"My parents own a dental practice," she said.

"How lucrative is that, exactly?" Lucius asked.

Draco flinched. "Father, please—"

"I don't need your money, if that's what you're suggesting," Hermione said carefully.

"I would never make such a preposterous suggestion," Lucius said, taking a sip of water. "You're privately educated, aren't you? Catholic school, I believe."

"Yes." Hermione deliberately took deep breaths, trying not to let her irritation show. "I went to Carondelet, which I imagine you already know."

"Why there?" Lucius asked neutrally. "Public schools in the area seem to be just fine. Are you religious?"

"It's a very good school. My mother went there, and my father went to the all boys' school, De La Salle." Hermione shook out her napkin, placing it delicately on her lap. At least it gave her something to fixate on that wasn't Lucius' unnerving eye contact. "If the question is am I Catholic, the answer is yes, though I wouldn't call myself particularly religious."

"You realize my father, Draco's grandfather, is the head of the Church of England," Lucius said.

"Yes," Hermione replied drily. "Even I've heard of King Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Your Highness."

Lucius gaze hardened. "You think this is funny?"

"If you're suggesting I might have somehow overlooked that Draco and I are two different religions, then no, it's not funny, but it is somewhat obvious," she said. She was toeing a line, she knew, but it wasn't as if Lucius was ever going to like her. Better that she not look weak. "I already know there's a few obstacles, in fact. My religion, my citizenship, my economic status, my lack of title. My tenuous relationship with his father." She brought her own water glass to her lips, sparing him a pointed glance. "None of that is news to me, and I doubt it's news to you."

"What do you hope to gain from this, then?" Lucius asked her, seeming quite serious. "You can't marry the future King of England. Are you perhaps hoping he'll abandon his throne for you?"

"Father," Draco sighed, exasperated. "I keep telling you, that's not an option—"

"I know Draco well enough to understand he's as devoted to his family and his future as you want him to be, if not more so," Hermione said. "If you fail to understand that, I'm afraid that's a you problem."

Blaise would have given her fifty points. Lucius, on the other hand, looked as if he wished to execute her for treason.

"What would be the purpose of dating publicly then, hm?" Lucius asked her, arching a brow. "It's a waste of time."

"Father, please don't speak to her like that—"

"Were your previous relationships a waste of your time, Your Highness?" Hermione asked him, stunning both Lucius and Draco to silence. "I believe your own romances were all quite public, Prince Lucius. Do you feel you'd be better without them?"

She'd put enough together by then to know it was a pressure point. Narcissa had said Lucius had a mistress, someone who'd made her furious, and Harry had made it clear Lucius had some sort of messy breakup with Narcissa's older sister. Hermione suspected Lucius had loved a woman who wasn't Lady Narcissa Black at one time, and probably deserved to suffer that reminder now.

"Is that an accusation?" Lucius asked in a low voice. "Is there something you'd like to accuse me of here, in front of my own son?"

"It's just a question," Hermione said, noting Draco looked uneasy. She immediately backed off, recognizing it would gain her no points to force him to contradict his father. "I just want to know if you really think there's no value in having the freedom to be with someone you love."

"You really think you love him?" Lucius asked, sparing her the edge of a grim laugh. "You think he loves you, and not just the novelty of you? You think any of this will last?"

She forced a swallow. "I think you'd be unwise to question it."

"Would I?" Lucius eyes had narrowed. "I'm sorry to tell you, Miss Granger, I've lived in this world a lot longer than you have, and have a bit more wisdom than you think. I understand this far better than you do, and believe me when I tell you that love—" He broke off, spitting it out with palpable spite. "Love is not enough. Love is nothing, certainly not in the real world. Not when there are entire nations at stake."

"The sun will still fail to set on the English empire if Draco's allowed to be seen with me in public," Hermione retorted, getting frustrated now by the scope of Lucius' absurd argument. "Astonishingly, I have no plans to destroy your entire government."

"Perhaps not, but how Draco is perceived certainly affects political stability in this country. The monarchy isn't nearly as strong as it once was," Lucius said. "Its continued existence is in a far more delicate state than you realize."

"Perhaps that may have something to do with its heir," Hermione shot back, unable to prevent it, and to her dismay, Lucius smiled.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, you're right."

She faltered, surprised, and he shrugged.

"Do you think I'm stupid, Miss Granger? That I'm not aware of my own mistakes? My marriage cost me my father's confidence in me, just as it cost me an entire kingdom's approval. A monarchy used to be able to have secrets, but that's simply no longer the case. You're trained in journalism, aren't you?" he asked her knowingly, and she didn't reply. He clearly already knew as much. "So, you must know the intersect of technology and media. Surely you've studied it, haven't you? It means we, our family, will never escape scrutiny. It means every move we make will be recorded, memorialized and parceled up, to be repeatedly discussed at length. In sum, there will be tomes and volumes of criticism, all of which will be published forever because our lives will always, always make money for someone else. Everything that has ever been observed about us and our family will be held against us in the court of public opinion—and inevitably," he finished with a hard glance at Draco, "we will lose."

Beside her, Draco said nothing. His chin dropped slightly, eyeing his empty plate.

"There is no room for error," Lucius said. "Neither Draco nor I can make any mistakes. We are two of the most closely watched public figures in the world, and whoever my son's future wife is, she'll need to meet the very same standards of behavior that we do. She is not you, Miss Granger, and you are not us, and you should count yourself lucky you will never have the burden and the privilege of carrying the expectations of a nation with every move you make."

"That's—" Hermione swallowed. "You're making Draco's life out to be some sort of doomsday prophecy. It doesn't have to be like that. And besides, he's not you, he's—"

"Stop." Draco lifted a hand wearily to his forehead. "Please, just stop."

He rose to his feet, offering his hand to Hermione while eyeing his father.

"You could have just said no," he told Lucius, and Hermione registered the sound in his voice as a dull, flat blade of disappointment. "You didn't have to humiliate both of us."

"Draco," Lucius sighed, "please. Don't be dramatic. I'm not trying to humiliate her—"

"Not Hermione. You, me. Mother. Us." Draco's expression was cold and steady, and he placed a tensed hand on her shoulder. "We're done here, Father."

Hermione glanced at him, finding that to be a little inadvisable, but his mind was clearly made up.

Lucius sighed. "Draco, please—"

"You and I can discuss this privately. Hermione?" he asked, no room for refusal in his voice, and she slid her chair out in silence, letting him guide her towards the corridor they'd used to enter.

"Draco," Lucius gritted out after him, but he kept his hand firm on her lower back, easing her towards the back of the restaurant.

"Take the car back to Daphne's," Draco said when they were alone. "I'll send for you as soon as I can. Maybe in a few hours."

"Draco," she said, reaching for him, and for a fleeting moment, he softened.

But only one.

"I need just a minute to myself," he said. "Please, I don't…" He cleared his throat. "I know you want to know everything I'm thinking, but—"

"Not yet. I get it." She swallowed heavily and there was a flash of gratitude in the look he gave her—though again, only one. "Okay. But Draco—"

He reached down, taking her hand in his and kissing it swiftly, pressing his lips to the little gold snake ring on her finger and then releasing her, shaking his head.

"I love you," he said, and turned without waiting for a reply, promptly disappearing from sight.

"Oh, no," Daphne said in a near-whisper, clutching a pillow against her chest as Hermione relayed what had happened. "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

"Well, at least he didn't try to bribe me," Hermione said grimly, shaking her head. She was glad to be out of the skirt suit, at least, and looking like herself in yoga pants and a tank top with lip balm on instead of lipstick. "Though, I think I would have enjoyed the opportunity to throw money at his face. Or, you know, a rock," she said thoughtfully. "Or a fist."

Daphne shook her head. "I never really thought he'd try to bribe you. Not with money, though," she said, grimacing as she toyed with Hermione's hair. "Anyone could see it wouldn't work on you, and the Prince of Darkness isn't exactly an idiot, much as that would probably be easier to deal with."

"It makes sense, actually, given everything Narcissa said," Hermione sighed. "He definitely isn't an idiot. I sometimes go so far as to suspect he means well and is just horribly uninformed about how that's supposed to look."

"I don't know about that. He's too deliberate to be an accidental villain," Daphne said doubtfully, and the doorbell sounded downstairs, followed by the footsteps belonging to Paul. "That's probably Draco. Did you pack a bag already?"

"Yeah, but who knows," Hermione said glumly. "Maybe it'll be a short conversation."

Daphne gave her a hopeful look. "What, like 'I love you desperately, let's run away together'?"

"More like 'my father's right, we should break up,' I think," Hermione admitted, and Daphne sighed, shaking her head.

"The Hermione Granger I know isn't a quitter," she advised, which was certainly true, though hard to remember at the moment. "Come on, then—"

She nudged Hermione out her bedroom door, though Hermione dragged her feet a little, not wanting to look too eager (as eager as anyone anticipating a romantic guillotine would, she supposed). By the time she reached the end of the corridor, though, she noticed Daphne had paused as she reached the top of the stairs.

"—sorry, Paul, who did you say?"

"His Royal Highness, Prince Lucius of Wales," Paul said uncomfortably, glancing over Daphne's shoulder at Hermione. "He is here to see Miss Granger."

"What, alone?" Hermione asked, alarmed, and Paul nodded.

"Yes, Miss," he said. "Shall I take you to him?"

Daphne and Hermione exchanged a glance.

"You want me to come with you?" Daphne murmured, but Hermione shook her head.

"I can handle him," she said, and Daphne sighed, grimacing her agreement.

"Don't leave her, Paul," she warned, and Paul gave a single nod, beckoning for Hermione to follow. He led her down to the formal sitting room Hermione hadn't really expected to have to enter (and certainly not for this).

"His Royal Highness, Prince Lucius of—"

"Yes, yes, thank you, I'm well aware of my name," Lucius said irritably, waving a hand dismissively. "Shut the door as you leave, please."

"Yes, Your Highness," said Paul, the traitor, closing the door in his hurried absence to leave Hermione and Lucius alone in what amounted to neutral ground, or what she supposed was close enough to neutral.

"Listen," Hermione ventured uncomfortably, "I really wasn't trying to—"

"You've seen what became of my wife," Lucius cut in, giving her a hardened glance. "They will slander you mercilessly. They will ruin you, break you. They'll hunt you down, and they will not hesitate before they take their shots. Are you ready for that?"

Hermione, already taken aback, held her breath for a moment, but stood firm.

"They didn't do that to her," she said staunchly. "You did."

Lucius' expression didn't change. "And what will you let Draco do to you?"

He wouldn't, she wanted to say, but it occurred to her with a disheartening crash that in all likelihood, she had no real way of knowing that. Had Narcissa ever believed Lucius would do the things he'd done to her? She doubted it. She doubted that very much, and having no answer, Hermione said nothing.

"I won't permit your relationship to become public," Lucius told her with unequivocal certainty. "I never will. To do so would be to sentence you to an infamy I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies."

"You honestly think you're doing this for me?" Hermione scoffed, disbelieving. "How generous of you."

"It is." Lucius was unbending. "Believe me, it is."

"Fine. Say that's true, then," Hermione told him, folding her arms over her chest. "Say being with Draco means some sort of media plague would rain down on my head. Say that Rita Skeeter woman would ruin me—say she'd pick me apart and find all my flaws and reveal every insignificant little detail about me. Say your little doomsday happens and I suffer for what I chose. Don't you think your son is worth that much?" she demanded, doing everything in her power not to cry as she spoke. Her nails bit into her palms as she summoned every ounce of restraint, knowing even a single show of weakness—or worse, emotion—would be enough to let the Prince of Darkness believe he'd won.

"Don't you think," she breathed out slowly, "that your son is worth it? Because I do." She took another shaky breath. "I do."

Lucius considered her for a moment.

Several moments.

For a second, she wondered in awe if perhaps she'd even won.

"Let him go," Lucius said eventually, "and I'll let him see his mother."

Hermione blinked.

Blinked again.

Daphne had said he wouldn't offer money, a darkened thought reminded her, because he was much, much smarter than that.

"Narcissa is a liability," Lucius explained. "She's a scandal, and so are you. Draco can't afford both. It'll have to be one or the other."

In response, Hermione was…

Even for her, who knew so many words, there really wasn't one for this.

"You," Hermione began, and swallowed. "You wouldn't do this. Tell me you wouldn't."

"I would. I am."

"You can't." Tears pricked at her eyes again. "You're hurting him. You're forcing me to hurt him. Don't you realize that?"

Lucius shrugged. "We all make difficult choices. My father made them, I made them, Draco will make them." He paused before adding, "Or you can make them for him. Which, by the way, is something Narcissa would never have done for me—but I suspect, if you love Draco as much as you say you do, you're rather different women."

"I—" It's unfair, it's wrong, it's monstrous. "You're manipulating me."

"Yes," Lucius agreed. "I have something to gain from you exiting his life, that's true. But that doesn't mean I'm not right. This," he told her, waving a hand. "This, whatever it is between you, it will cost you more than it will ever cost him, and believe me, it will cost him dearly. It would be better for both of you to end it now."

No, no, no. "But I—"

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

That was him, she realized. That was Draco, calling right at the precise moment she would have given anything to hear his voice.

She couldn't pick it up, not now. Not with his father right there. He was precisely what she needed, but she couldn't interrupt this conversation. Couldn't admit to Draco where she was, and who was here.

She couldn't answer him.

But…

But fuck Lucius, she thought fiercely, and dug her phone out of her pocket. "Hello?"

"Hermione." He exhaled it. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

Lucius was watching her, his mouth tight with fury.

"I don't know. For everything. I was sitting here alone trying to sort out my feelings on everything when I realized the last place I wanted to be was anywhere without you." Draco's voice was miserable, and she ached to comfort him. "Can I send for you? Is that okay?"

Her hand shook slightly as Lucius' eyes narrowed in warning.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, sure, Draco."

"Okay." He sounded relieved. "I'm sorry, sometimes it's my first instinct to just—to get some time alone, to think it over, but… that feels wrong, now. To be without you, it feels wrong."

"I know what you mean." Her own voice was small and quiet.

"Are you alright?" he asked her. "I miss you. I hate when you're gone."

"Yeah, I'm… I'm fine. I'll be there soon." She glanced up at Lucius, whose hands fisted tightly at his sides. "I love you."

"I love you." She heard the sound of him bringing the phone closer. Maybe he was turning towards it where he lay on his bed. "I love you," he repeated, and then, "I'll send the car for you now."

"Okay. Thank you."

"And Hermione—"

"Yes, Draco?"

"I know love isn't enough. My father's right about that. I know I have to fight for you, but I will. I swear, Hermione, I will. Okay?"

She covered her mouth, knowing she'd cry any second, and nodded, which of course he wouldn't hear, though she guessed he sorted it out from the muffled sound of her breathing.

"Okay. It'll be there soon."

"Bye," she managed to force out, and then hung up the phone, looking up at Lucius.

"You can leave now," she told him. She didn't bow, didn't use his title, and he had the dignity not to express in words the line she'd just drawn by defying him. He moved to the door, reaching to pull it open, but as she watched him go, she realized it wasn't enough.

"I won't tell him about this," Hermione called after him, and Lucius froze, every muscle in his back stiffening. "He doesn't need to know."

"Do you think that will endear me to you?" Lucius asked coldly, not looking at her. "It will not."

"No," she agreed. "But someday you'll know I had the choice to ruin your relationship with your son, and you'll remember the precise moment I didn't take it."

She paused.

He didn't move.

"Someday, Prince Lucius of Wales," she said, with as much strength to her voice as she could manage, "you'll realize how much you owe me."

For a moment, silence lingered in the air between them, and she wondered if he would say anything. If he would argue, or if he would give her the vitriol she figured he felt she deserved.

Instead, his hand tightened on the door and he threw it open, leaving her behind. He disappeared without another word, and Hermione sank back against the pristine white sofa, wanting to cry until her lungs gave out.

If she'd wanted to hear Draco's voice before, there was certainly no limit to how much she'd wanted to see his face now. She ran directly into his arms, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her nose in the smell of him as he kissed her hair, her cheek, her forehead, looping her ponytail around his hand and holding tightly to it, locking them in place.

"Hi," he said after a few silent minutes, and she laughed.

"Hi," she agreed. "So, I think lunch went well."

"Stop," he growled in her ear, shaking his head. He picked her up, arms around her ribs, and carried her inelegantly into the hallway, making his way throughout yet another overly large household to find a suitably private room. "It was a disaster, and you're free to admit that you hate me now, at least a little bit."

She bit lightly on his ear. "Impossible."

"Well, good," he said gruffly, opening a door with some difficulty as she adjusted her grip around his neck, letting him carry her to the bed inside. "Because personally, I'm thinking I'd like to do something extremely irresponsible."

"What, like a new irresponsible thing?" Hermione asked, already reaching to unbuckle his belt. "Or just the usual irresponsibility?"

"I want to force my father's hand," Draco said, permitting her to fumble with his buttons as he slid his hands under her shirt. "I want to be seen with you. Photographed with you. Let them speculate," he mused, kissing her neck, "until my father has no choice but to let us tell the truth."

Hermione froze, uncertain how this would ultimately play out given that Lucius had made it very clear to her he'd never approve, forced-hand or otherwise. "Are you sure?"

"Well, why not?" Draco said, shrugging. He dropped to his knees, disappearing from sight to undo the laces of her shoes, slipping them from her feet with painstaking deliberation. "It's going to happen anyway. We're going to live in the same building, so I expect people are going to notice something."

"Okay, true," she said, panicking a little, "but is that, I don't know… wise?"

"Of course not, hence the irresponsibility." He was tugging at her yoga pants, popping up from the side of the bed to prompt her to lift her hips. "Why, do you not want to?" he asked, pausing for a moment to register her concern. "Sorry, I just thought—"

"Well," she said, struggling with how to phrase the statement well, if we don't break up, I'm not sure your father will let you see your mother again, "no, of course I do, it's just… well, we don't want to upset your grandfather, do we? I mean, I've never met him, so it's not like I want him to think I'm the floozy who lives in your building—"

"That's true." Draco paused, his fingers looped in the lace of her underwear. "Well, maybe there's a middle ground. We can be seen together for a bit, just sort of… innocently. Introduce you to the press as… my friend." He kissed her hip. "My very good friend." A kiss to her inner thigh. "My best friend—"

"Theo would be devastated," she said with a shiver, thinking. Maybe this was a good plan. Was it a good plan? She'd already ruined things with Lucius. Maybe she could appeal to Abraxas?

"Tied for first, then," he said firmly, pulling her underwear down her legs, "though I've never done this with Theo, to be clear—"

"You think your grandfather would like me?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"Oh, definitely," Draco said. "He was fond of my mother."

"Was he?" Her head spun. Narcissa hadn't made that seem like much of a possibility. Exactly who was the villain in his family? She wasn't sure any of them were in agreement on the subject. "I didn't know that."

"Mm, always says he likes a girl with panache." He slid up against her, finding her lips. "It won't be easy," he murmured to her, "but I could try to arrange for you to meet. I should, anyway." He kissed her cheeks, the lids of her eyes. He paused with his lips to her forehead, saying, "I meant it, Hermione. I'll fight for you. I mean that."

A girlish sigh left her lips as he kissed her. "Why is that so sexy?" she asked him, groaning. "I can fight for myself."

"You certainly can." He hooked one arm under her thigh, pulling it over his hip. "Still, let me have this one. I don't mind if you fall for me a little harder." He nipped at her jaw. "Selfish of me, I imagine, but I like the idea I'm sweeping you off your feet, at least from time to time."

"Oh, you are." This kiss was deeper, dizzying. She realized he'd probably been lying right here when he'd called her to tell her he didn't want to be without her. In response to the image in her head, she hugged him close, letting her hands travel over the shape of him where they lay intertwined. This is where you and I belong, she thought, molding them in place. Here, with your hands there and mine here and not an inch of distance between us. "I'm running out of places to put all my feelings for you, Draco Wales."

"Oh?" He dropped a little lower, kissing her chest. The pale blond strands of his hair were soft where they brushed her chin, the molten pressure of his fingers on her ribs a welcome contrast. "You know, it's funny, I never tire of trying to win you over."

"Such excellent stamina you have," she managed, though it was punctuated with a moan, and he grinned, rolling her nipple lightly between his fingers to make her do it again. Then a hand between her legs. Again. He had her trained like one of Pavlov's dogs. A touch, a smile, a moan. He was so good with her, so devotedly attentive, and it struck her that her parents had one thing right: foreplay was hugely important.

Honesty, though. That little nugget of advisement was distinctly more of a challenge. She hoped Draco would never know the choice she'd almost had to make for him, and not exclusively because it might have been the wrong one. I'll fix it, she thought with her hands in his hair, grasping it tightly. I'll find a way, I promise.

I'll fix it, she realized again, the thought abruptly sparking this time. Pansy was always telling her she was trying to fix things, wasn't she? Maybe she couldn't fix Daphne and Theo. Maybe she couldn't make Pansy… un-Pansy. But maybe there was a way to put Narcissa back in Draco's life.

Maybe Draco would never have to know the painful secrets she was keeping from him if she could just… make them disappear.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked her, voice gruffly quiet. "I feel like I lost you for a second there."

"Hm? Nothing," she said, and gave him a shove, prompting him onto his back. "I was just thinking," she murmured, "maybe I haven't done enough winning you over recently. After all, you're defying your father for me." She kissed a slow trail down his stomach, pausing to run her tongue over the tensed planes of his abs. "That's pretty romantic."

"Is it?" His voice was dry, and she could see his teeth gritting as she slid her tongue over the tip of his cock and moved away, blithely pretending not to notice his anticipatory breath. "Well, I suppose it is forbidden—"

"So forbidden," Hermione agreed. Another lick, with a swirl of tongue. She tasted his dick like a delicacy, savoring it, and he shuddered. "You told him not to speak to me like that, which is a classically panty-dropping line."

"That's true," he managed. "He disrespected you, and I certainly laid down the law, didn't I?"

"Yes." She slid her lips over him, drawing them slowly back up to release him with a pop. "So brave," she whispered, and he let out something like a strangled laugh.

"Well, true, I'm very masculine and aggressive," he said with a groan. "I can see why you find me so irresist- shit," he exhaled in a whisper, looping his hand in her ponytail again as she busied herself elsewhere, sliding her tongue down the length of his shaft. "Hermione, I regret to inform you this sort of behavior is known to cause massive political upheaval. Kings have abdicated for less, not to mention the occasional overthrowing of the papacy—"

"Shut up," she advised, releasing him long enough to say so, and he met her eye with a look of unfiltered longing. "You can keep your throne, Draco."

"Better yet," he suggested as she slithered up against his chest. He locked her in place, then nudged her upwards to fit himself between her legs, "I can be yours."

"What are you—oh. Oh—"

He smiled up at her as he positioned her thighs on either side of his jaw, fingers pressing tightly into her hips. "How's this?" he asked, darting his tongue up to the slit of her cunt and then reaching up, one hand sliding over her breast.

Another conditioned moan. "Draco—"

"Thought so," he said smugly, and slid his tongue over her again, making her wonder if she wouldn't, in fact, belong rather rightfully on this particular seat of government.

Draco made good on his word. The day term started, he waited for Hermione just inside the front door of the building, his book bag slung over his shoulder. "Ready?" he asked her, and she shook her head, half-smiling.

"Ready to be your unknown female friend? Yes, I think so," she told him drily.

He smiled, adjusting his bag and fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. This, she realized, was his own big rebellion; this was his most disobedient stand. Before her, she doubted he would have ever considered it, and it was hard not to look at him all the more fondly for that. "When do you have class?" he asked her.

"Not for two hours," she said, and he laughed. They both knew she'd had to get up much, much earlier than necessary in order to arrange this little 'impromptu' exit. "Theo's meeting me in the library in a bit. He's in Slughorn's lecture with me again this term."

"At least there's that," Draco said thoughtfully. "Well, no point dragging it out, I suppose. Shall we?" he asked, gesturing to the door, and she shrugged.

"Let's do it," she said, and he shoved it open, beckoning for her to follow as a series of shutter clicks snapped. One, two—and just like that, she was immortalized forever.

Even this early, the sun was blinding. "Don't squint," Draco advised in a low voice, and she nodded, trying not to look as uncomfortable as she felt. This was easy, she reminded herself, hoping to regain control of her nerves. Abraxas and Narcissa would be hard. This, in comparison, was nothing.

"Nice day," she said to him, holding her books to her chest as photographers beckoned to her, trying to get her attention. "Weather's nice."

"It is, isn't it?" Draco agreed, and spared her a smile as they made their way to the castle, further down the path that had already changed the trajectory her life.

It was only in retrospect that people would realize what Draco and I were to each other, which created a very funny warp in my method of viewing time. Later—when public scrutiny was so intense I'd had to become far more adept at hiding—on days when the paparazzi couldn't find me, they'd simply dig up previously unremarkable photos from when Draco and I lived in Hogsmeade. I still see those shots from time to time, and I always either lament that I hadn't taken more care with my hair on a particular day or breathe a sigh in relief that past me hadn't been a slovenly mess.

I'd already made one major mistake by then. One thing, or two, depending how you look at it, that I couldn't undo—which would lead me to my next massive mistake, which would ultimately lead me here. Funny how time works, isn't it? That now I can so clearly follow the invisible path of error that would create my current situation, but I couldn't possibly have known any of it back then, even if I'd mapped out every scenario a hundred different ways. And that's without even touching on Neville, who would ultimately cause his own inalterable chain of events.

Time's a really funny thing, isn't it?

Consequences, on the other hand, are positively incomprehensible.

a/n: The playlist for this story should be up on spotify soon, so keep an eye out on my tumblr if that sort of thing interests you. Thank you as ever for reading! Find me on youtube for an erotic reading this week, and… Oh, a bit late, but some of your latest reviews have been absolute works of art. Tootsie Roll 101, that magnificent treatise on the nottgrass chapter is one of the finest things I've ever read.

12. Code

Chapter 12: Code

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Vault of Secrets

It's no secret that the royal family is, by necessity, guarded and incredibly given to social isolation. Much precedence exists even before the modern technological age for royals having their private details revealed in a number of harrowing ways, ultimately prompting a practice of curating close, trustworthy companions and friends. These gatekeepers, as some call them, linger in the background of the royal family's lives when it comes to matters of public exposure but are known within privileged circles for having the ear of the King and Princes.

One such branch of gatekeeper is the Nott family, which has been close to the royal house of Malfoy for multiple generations. It is often remarked that the elder Theodore Nott is considered a second pair of eyes and ears for His Majesty. Those who seek to gain King Abraxas' approval must first gain the approval of his childhood friend, who stood stoically by the monarch's side long before Abraxas' assumption of the throne in 1958.

Ah, Rita. You would know better than anyone about details being revealed in harrowing ways, but for the record, I do wish you'd mentioned this particular fun fact just a tad bit sooner.

Hogwarts University
September 29, 2011

For the first term of her final year, Hermione had opted to take Slughorn's Shakespeare class, figuring she owed it to The Bard Himself to take a course about his works in something adjacent to his own backyard. Theo had also chosen to take the class, though in his case, Hermione figured that was the equivalent of a native speaker deciding to take a course in his own language. Theo seemed to have already learned every line of every play, which meant he was twice as likely to be paying no attention whatsoever to anything going on in class.

That day, Hermione fell into her usual seat beside Theo with a groan, laden down with a multitude of books bewailing the existence of adverbs in various ways for her expository writing class.

"I thought you were a literature major?" Theo said, eyeing the writing books, and Hermione made a face.

"I am, but that's only because of where I've chosen to study," she explained, waving a hand to gesture around the room and, in a broader sense, the castle. "You know, when in Rome, as they say."

"Ah," Theo noted sagely. "Well, tragically this isn't a more interesting historical era for Scotland, or the answer to 'do as the Scots do' might be something more akin to fruitless rebellion and zealous warfare."

"That's a good point," Hermione said, frowning in thought. "For the record, I do want to take a course in military strategy. Did you know there's a department of Peace and Conflict Studies?" she asked, brightening. "There's a class called 'Defense Against the Dark Side,' though I'm fairly certain it's not actually about Star Wars—"

"Much as I deeply hope that it is," Theo countered, "you only have one term left, California, in case you've forgotten. I don't think you have time for all this academic exploration."

"I know, and I hate it," Hermione lamented. "I wish I could take all the classes this school offered. At the same time, even."

(As she said it, two of her books tumbled forward at her feet, launching themselves into Tracey Davis' personal space. Tracey, unamused, handed them over her shoulder without looking, flicking her blonde ponytail in irritation.)

"What, like with some sort of time machine?" Theo asked.

"Yes," Hermione said. "Sure, hypothetically speaking."

Theo arched a brow. "You want a time machine so you can do… more school?"

"Well, yeah," Hermione said. "Nothing else comes to mind at the moment."

"Outrageous," Theo sniffed. "Totally uninspired. I wish Blaise were here to detract points."

"What do you want me to do," she sighed, "kill Hitler?"

Theo shrugged. "There's all sorts of murders you could get up to with a time machine. Why pick such a narrow scope?"

"Do you think about this often?"

"Do other people not?"

"I hate to think you're the standard for other people's moral ponderings."

"It's just a regular pondering. Speaking of, what do you think about coming to my house Saturday next? Could make it an annual thing," Theo said, abruptly startling Hermione with the change in topic. "Fleur's visiting," he clarified, "and she insists on seeing, I don't know. Where I come from, I suppose."

He was fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat, clearly dreading the prospect. Hermione realized it was unlikely Fleur had any idea how much Theo hated to go home—though, really, how could she have known? He didn't discuss it openly, and Fleur didn't have the benefit Hermione and Daphne had of being around not only Theo himself, but his closest friends as well. It was impossible not to absorb Theo's discomfort with his father by the process of social osmosis, and likely Fleur had no idea what she was asking of him by making what was probably a well-intentioned request.

"Yeah, we'll go," Hermione said quickly, and Theo looked up, his smile a little crooked with gratitude. "I'm sure Draco will want to, he's been absurdly busy. And I think I can sell Pansy on inviting Neville." Pansy had been bemoaning just that morning that Neville constantly wanted to talk to her on the phone, which was an activity the rest of them already knew she loathed. "Don't worry," Hermione assured Theo quietly. "We'll be there."

Theo hesitated. "And… Daphne?" he ventured, pretending unsuccessfully at impassivity. "Would she come?"

"Do you want her to?" Hermione asked him.

To that, Theo looked surprised. "Of course. She's… of course I do."

"Well, then you'll have to invite Harry," Hermione said, calculating the relatively simple math in her head: Theo + Fleur, her + Draco, Pansy + Neville… and seeing that Blaise was a floating variable beloved by everyone and reliable for absolutely nothing, that meant Daphne would need the prospect of Harry's presence to even consider coming along. "Not that he wouldn't come, naturally. I'm not convinced he actually does anything when he's not with us."

"Oh." At the mention of Harry, Theo's expression had gone slightly grim. "Right, yes, of course. I'll invite him."

"Uh oh," Hermione said, noting Theo's avoidance. "What's wrong with Harry?"

"What? Nothing," Theo said in a flaming lie. "Nothing, he's one of my best fri-"

"Oh, do shut up," Hermione groaned. "What's this about? Daphne?"

"I—" Theo grimaced. "It's just, you know. Harry's quite… a lot, isn't he? He's…" He paused. "I suppose it's just difficult not to pale in comparison when Harry's around."

Hermione recalled Draco had once said something very similar. "You're not worried he'd steal Fleur, are you?" she remarked with a laugh. "I don't think that's a very Harry thing to do. I mean, I'm sure Rita Skeeter would disagree, but—"

"No, I just—" Theo broke off, obviously not wanting to confess to anything specific. "It's nothing."

"Oh, it's nothing, is it?" Hermione mused, dropping her voice as Slughorn meandered into the classroom to bark something at a centrally-located (unfortunately for him) Michael Corner about the latest gift from some soccer player he'd previously taught. "Because if you're bothered about how much time Daphne and Harry are spending together—"

"Of course not," Theo said, kicking gruffly at her foot and accidentally knocking into Tracey Davis' chair, which her ponytail indicated she did not appreciate. "Greengrass is free to do whatever she likes, and so is Harry. I mean really, why shouldn't they be together?" he posed brusquely. "Makes perfect sense. She's a delight, he's a delight, together they're just—"

"Delightful?" Hermione guessed.

"Shut up," Theo said loftily, his tone crisp. "Anyway, it's not as if I have any sort of… feeling on the matter, I'm just—surprised. Aren't you?" he demanded. "I suppose you've only ever seen a fairly tame version of Harry, but still—"

"Tame?" Hermione echoed wryly. "I don't know that that would have been my choice of words."

"Well, he started out showing off for you, didn't he? Trying to be his best self, I imagine, or at least the version he thought you'd like," Theo said with a slight hint of disapproval, and then grimaced, belatedly realizing what he'd said. "Sorry, I didn't mean for that to come out, I just—"

"You, um." Hermione swallowed. "You know about that?"

"I shouldn't have said anything," Theo said quickly. "Forget I said it. The point is—"

"Nope," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "You did this. Did you two talk about me?"

"I—" Theo growled his opposition. "Well it's not like he could tell Draco, could he? And anyway, you'd think he'd do me the fairly simple courtesy of telling me what's going on now, but no, instead it's, 'Theodore, if you have questions, I hardly think I'm the person to ask,' which is just—"

"Mr Nott," Slughorn interrupted, prompting both Hermione and Theo to notice that the class, including a perturbed Tracey Davis, were glancing expectantly at them. "Would you like to share your thoughts?"

"Oh, indubitably," Theo said drily. "Which of my thoughts, specifically?"

Luckily Slughorn, who was always happy to hear himself talk, didn't hesitate to repeat the question. "In Romeo and Juliet, Romeo's tragic flaw is—"

"Oh, okay, let me stop you there," Theo said, rising to his feet. "Let's talk about tragedy, shall we? Because as we've discussed, there's such an abysmally fine line between comedy and tragedy," he announced, beginning an oration Hermione felt certain would go off the rails with disturbing immediacy. "Let's be honest with ourselves here—Romeo and Juliet has plenty of dick jokes, doesn't it, so one small pivot and voilà! Comedy. Miscommunication is a classic comedy trope, hardly ever the main instrument of tragedy. A fake death! Classic trope fodder. Which means, literally speaking, Romeo and Juliet could have been a perfectly marvelous romp if timing had been even minutely different. Where's the tragic flaw? Impulsiveness, scholars say. Wonderful. Romeo's impulsive, he kills Tybalt, it's his downfall. Well, I disagree. First of all, that's not impulsive. Mercutio's just been murdered, hasn't he?" he scoffed. "To call this a romance is ludicrous. If their families hadn't hated each other maybe Romeo and Juliet would have simply broken up over some sort of argument about, I don't know, whether carrots have any place in desserts. Who knows, maybe they'd have spent a few lovely nights together and then she'd have run off with… Benvolio, why not," Theo ranted, and Hermione glanced down, wondering if life and fiction might have begun to blur slightly in his analysis. "Instead, it's just a simple, straightforward matter of throwing themselves to the abyss following a series of disastrously ill-timed events so as to die in blissful ignorance never realizing that actually, she'd have never lived up to her own expectations for herself and he'd have driven himself positively mad overthinking everything and yet never saying a word—and wouldn't that have been the real tragedy?"

He paused, a little winded, and Hermione gaped up at him, though she could see from the broad spectrum of shocked expressions she was far from the only one.

"Comedy goes from bad to good," Theo continued curtly. "A shipwreck to marriage. A frolic in the woods to… well, marriage again. Some traumatic event that inevitably leads, through some convoluted web, to a wedding. Tragedy goes from good to bad, but where is that here? If anything, Romeo and Juliet are tools for their parents to go from a truly pointless hatred to a lasting peace, so really, since Romeo and Juliet do get married, proceed to die young and in love, and their parents eventually manage to get over themselves, the story is positively hilarious. If irony were even marginally less cruel," Theo finished, "it'd be funny."

He fell back into his seat with a conclusive note of disinterest, leaving Slughorn to blink vacuously into nothing.

"Well," Slughorn said. "That was… interesting. Anyway, impulsiveness was in there somewhere, wasn't it?" he chuckled to himself, looking inanely pleased. "On that note, as we were saying—"

"Hey," Hermione said, leaning over to talk to Theo. "I take it you're totally over Daphne, then?"

He grimaced, not looking at her.

"I'm hereby removing myself from the conversation," was his eventual grumbled reply, which did not surprise Hermione in the slightest, considering he'd already said more than enough.

"I think Theo's coming unhinged," Hermione remarked over Saturday lunch with Pansy. "Have you noticed?"

"I already told you I'd go on your little weekend holiday, Hermione," Pansy sniffed, "you hardly need to sweeten the pot."

"That's not really what I meant," Hermione said, but Pansy wasn't listening, being instead distracted by her salad's unsatisfactory state of undress. "Did Neville agree to go?"

"Yes, which is somewhat unfortunate," Pansy said, gesturing to someone in the international language of food-related displeasure.

"Unfortunate?" Hermione echoed.

"Well, yes, seeing as we haven't been anywhere overnight," Pansy said, beckoning over her shoulder just before someone hurried over with a side of vinaigrette. "I'm not sure yet how much of his personality I'm going to be able to stand for so many uninterrupted hours."

"Pansy," Hermione admonished, laughing a little, and Pansy looked up, surprised.

"What?"

"I thought you liked him," Hermione said, amused, and Pansy rolled her eyes.

"He's perfectly fine," Pansy said, which fell somewhat shy of the most romantic thing Hermione had ever heard. "A bit nervous, I suppose."

"You make everyone around you nervous," Hermione reminded her, and Pansy made a face.

"I'd like to think the man I might marry wouldn't be so easily frightened," she grumbled. "What does he think I'm going to do, shout at him?"

"Your method of disapproval is way worse than that," Hermione assured her. "If anything, the prospect of your silent brand of dismissal seems like enough to keep him on his toes for a lifetime."

"That's ridiculous," Pansy said, sighing a little with what appeared to be dissatisfaction with her replacement vinaigrette. "Maybe a weekend away is what he needs to realize I'm not remotely the sort of person he thinks I am."

"You're not?" Hermione asked, amused again.

"Well, not for him, I'd hope," Pansy muttered, attempting to improve the situation with a lemon wedge. "Again, if I'm going to be spending the rest of my life with him, I'd hope he could adjust accordingly."

Hermione took a sip of water. "Does he know you're planning your future?"

"If he doesn't, he's an idiot," Pansy grumbled under her breath, then set her fork down, shaking her head. "I sometimes wish I could fast-forward a bit," she remarked, glancing briefly into nothing. "Just… not have to worry about dating and be married and settled, everything all sorted out."

"That sounds a little boring," Hermione said. "Doesn't it matter to you what happens along the way?"

"That's assuming one has choices, doesn't it?" Pansy asked her drily. "Being made to watch my life pass by is something of an undesirable activity. I'd rather be further along, particularly as I'm not going to have some sort of fling with a prince to amuse myself with until reality catches up with me," she said, gesturing vaguely and unflatteringly to Hermione. "Nor will I get to have some sort of career shouting into the void about social progress or whatever it is you're always going on about having when all of this is over."

"Why wouldn't you—wait," Hermione said, pausing. "Wait. What?"

"Well, whenever you and Draco break up you'll probably just go back to California and be a lawyer, won't you? Or whatever it is you want to do with yourself," Pansy said. "Meanwhile, my life's been planned out from the moment the doctors said 'it's a girl,' so until there's a ring on my finger I'm just going through the motions. At least when I'm married I'll be able to be a patron of some sort," she said, brightening optimistically, "or get to be active in society—"

"Hold on," Hermione said, blinking. "That's… there's a lot there, but are you—" She broke off, frowning. "Pansy, you do know you don't have to just do whatever you're told, don't you? There's plenty of opportunity for—"

"Hermione, please don't bore me with platitudes," Pansy said. "I think I might die from any further mundanity."

"But—"

"Neville's sort of handsome," she added abruptly, frowning to herself. "He's nice, isn't he? Sort of funny from time to time. Maybe he's got an entirely different personality I won't even see until he's revealing some horrifying kink in the bedroom," Pansy remarked, and not for the first time Hermione desperately hoped she was joking, but could never really be sure. "I don't love surprises, but I could stand to be caught off guard once, I think."

Hermione was beginning to think all of her friends were coming unglued.

"Would it help if I said it doesn't have to be like that?" she asked, probably too optimistically.

"Nope," said Pansy.

"Thought not," Hermione sighed, and paused. "Well, should we get some wine?"

"Finally, something useful out of you," Pansy agreed, gesturing over her shoulder to the waitress to signal for the check. "Let's pick up a bottle and take it home. A little champagne has never failed to loosen Daphne's recalcitrant tongue."

Hermione laughed. "If it helps, she hasn't told me anything about what's going on, either. Well, more accurately, I haven't asked," she amended, shrugging. "Maybe half the problem with Theo was that none of us could ever stop asking."

"Well, Harry won't tell me," Pansy said, "which I detest. So, bubbles it is."

Sage wisdom, Hermione thought, wondering for a half a second what had become of her priorities before brusquely setting the consideration aside.

"So, did Daphne say anything?" Draco asked Hermione when they were cooped up at their usual table in the library, having been bent over their respective papers for three hours before stopping for a much needed break. "Harry hasn't told me much of anything lately."

"She did not," Hermione said, giving him a playfully disapproving nudge. "And since when are you such a gossip?"

"It's a basic economic principle of scarcity," Draco informed her. "First of all, lack of transparency is enough to upend any industry, particularly one which trades on a platform of honesty and admission. Secondly, Harry and Daphne currently have a monopoly on information. As a future reigning monarch, I simply cannot condone such an irresponsible distribution of resources."

"You are such a nerd," Hermione groaned, and Draco smiled broadly.

"True," he permitted, glancing over his shoulder before leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. "Though you would certainly know, wouldn't you?"

"If you're suggesting I'm a swot, Your Highness—"

"Oh, don't," Draco said, tutting softly as he brushed her lips with his. "I love it when you misuse British colloquialisms."

"I'm not misusing it this time!" Hermione protested, kissing him back once, firmly, before pushing him safely away. "I'm a swot and I accept that."

"Well, you ruin all the fun in using it against you if you refuse to accept even a single iota of shame," Draco said, shaking his head. "Frankly, all your rampant colonialisms make you unhelpfully secure."

"Sorry to ruin your fun," she said, giving his shoulder a shove. "If you really want me to feel bad about something, try telling me my sentence structure is—" She paused, picking up one of the writing books she'd been consulting and reading it aloud. "'Unvaried, and lacking any conceivable evidence of style.'"

"Hermione, please. I'm simply trying to tease you, not shake you to your core," Draco said, feigning dismay, and she laughed. "Though, on the topic of devastation, I should warn you I may have to leave tomorrow to make some appearances with my father."

"Oh, no," Hermione groaned. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Draco said, patting her head. "But I'll be at Theo's on Saturday, I promise."

"Well, that's comforting. I suppose your little bro code would dictate your presence, anyway," she mused, and Draco spared her a wry smile.

"You know too many of my secrets," he told her. "You're becoming a threat to the crown."

"As I should be," she said, and nudged him. "How did you come by all your codes with Theo?"

"Time, mostly," he said. "I imagine you're aware by now any friends I wish to have go through a rigorous selection process. Feats of strength, the riddle of the sphinx," he joked, but Hermione, who recalled that Lucius had once done a fair bit of research about her, couldn't help being genuinely curious.

"Is the selection process determined by you," she asked, "or by your father?"

"Both, I suppose," Draco said, considering it. "I mostly got lucky, really, that Theo is who he is," he added after a moment. "My father doesn't have a Theo."

"He doesn't?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"Well, no. I suppose that's owing to my father being—"

"The Prince of Darkness?" Hermione guessed, and Draco laughed.

"That, and, also, he was Prince of Wales from birth, essentially," he said. "My father was born one year before my grandfather became king. He's been moments from the throne his entire life, and I suppose that… does something to a person." He shrugged. "I'm obviously going to be king myself one day, but there's a step in the immediacy that makes things a bit different. People aren't really trying to influence me yet, seeing as my grandfather's in perfect health and so is my father—minus the occasional act of American terrorism, that is," he amended, grinning at her as she made a face.

"Well, that's sort of sad for him," she noted, a bit surprised she still managed to dredge up some sympathy for a man who represented, for all intents and purposes, the devil. "The not having a close friend like you have, I mean."

"I'll be sure to relay that to him while he tortures me this week," Draco assured her, leaning back in his chair with an absent smile before glancing at her. "You're finished for the afternoon, right?"

"What? No," Hermione said, frowning. "I've got at least three hundred words left t-"

"You're finished," Draco cut in, leaning forward to tug subtly at her belt loop, "right?"

"Oh—oh. Yes, right," she agreed, and he smiled, gallantly tucking her laptop under his arm and forcing her to chase after him as he went.

In the end, Prince Lucifer kept Draco longer than anticipated, which wasn't an especially earth-shattering surprise. Draco sent Hermione a text as they were leaving early Saturday morning saying he'd join them later that evening, and she resigned herself to knowing it meant she'd be able to keep an eye on both Daphne and Pansy—the former mostly for curiosity's sake, and the latter because she still seemed to be splitting her personality into fragmented, asymmetrical pieces. Lately, Pansy was alternating between blistering saccharinity and an even more brusque version of her usual standoffishness, as if she was becoming increasingly irritated by her own pretenses.

Hermione figured it was best she contribute more to the platonic end of things, which Blaise already seemed to be a master at. "How come you never let us meet anyone you're dating?" she asked him, and he shrugged. "I just saw you with a girl last week. Why not invite her along?"

"Because," Blaise remarked impatiently, "that would lead her to believe I wanted something from her which I specifically hope to avoid."

Hermione, amused, arched a brow. "What, dating?"

"I don't date," Blaise said, making a face. "I find the entire thing burdensome."

"Which part—the affection? The comfort? Dare I say it," she joked, watching Blaise's expression contort with dismay, "the… intimacy?"

"Stop," Blaise said, looking intensely uncomfortable, and she laughed, pulling him along as they made their way into Theo's house.

They were something of a spectacle right from the start. From left to right, Hermione observed Neville setting down two of the bags he'd been uncomfortably holding for Pansy, Fleur placing the kind of kiss to Theo's lips which made the rest of them felt incredibly voyeuristic just for being within ten feet of it, and then, in a conclusive finale, Harry throwing Daphne over one shoulder and her bag over the other, carrying her up the stairs as she resigned herself unwillingly to the procession. Theo, whose gaze snagged slightly on their unceremonious exit, frowned momentarily before shaking himself, beckoning for the others to follow and leading them to their rooms for the weekend.

"Think this is going to be weird?" Hermione whispered to Blaise as they made their way up the stairs to the bedrooms.

"I certainly hope so," he replied spiritedly. "Things have been very quiet and odd."

"Do you know what's going on with Daphne and Harry?" she asked him, and he turned to slide his puzzled glance to hers.

"Of course. It's obvious, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Hermione asked, and Blaise shrugged, continuing up the stairs. "Wait, Blaise—Blaise," she hissed, "what's obvious, exactly?"

"If I told you," he said, displeased, "that would be doing you a disservice. It would be to enforce problematic behavior, which I simply could not condone."

"Blaise," she groaned again, chasing after him as he continued loping disinterestedly down the hall. "Don't you think I deserve to know? I am in the top three this week, points-wise."

"Well, when you put it that way, still no," he said, turning into a room at the end of the corridor as Hermione followed doggedly after him. "Though, if you figure it out by the end of the weekend, then I suppose I'll have to give you some points for that, won't I?"

"Points for what?" Theo asked, poking his head into the room.

"Nothing," Hermione and Blaise said in unison.

"And minus five for interrupting," Blaise added.

"Interrupting what?" Theo asked, disgruntled. "You come into my house—"

"By the way, I brought Ogden's," Blaise said.

"Oh, good, then we're fine," Theo ruled, turning to Hermione. "You can take Draco's usual room if you want. He says he'll be in by tonight."

"Oh, okay," Hermione said, glancing over her shoulder at Blaise as Theo beckoned for her to follow him. "But um, Blaise, about what we were saying—"

"Go," Blaise said, waving a hand. "Make sure Lady Six-Names hasn't eaten that nice young man of hers."

A valid concern, Hermione thought. "Fine, but we'll talk about this later," she called to him.

"No, shan't," was his musically unbothered reply, and Hermione turned to Theo with an eye roll.

"Secrets, hm?" Theo observed, taking a sharp turn and leading her to another corridor. "And in my house, too—"

"Blaise's secrets," Hermione lamented. "I'm not in on them."

"Oh, well that's fine, then. Blaise is an elusive specimen. I find it's best to let him be," Theo added with a shrug, "as I imagine he could destroy all of us in one fell swoop if he only got bored enough to try it."

For better or worse, Hermione felt that assertion was probably apt. "You're right," she reluctantly agreed, before abruptly remembering the reason they'd all come for the weekend. "So, how are you doing?" she asked Theo, who spared her a wry half-smile.

"You know, when we were small, Draco and I had a thing," Theo remarked tangentially, lifting a hand. "Knock twice for entry," he explained, mimicking the motion of knocking on a door. "If he said 'come in,' everything was fine. If he said 'come back later,' it meant things weren't fine, but he didn't want to talk about it."

"I don't see how that's—" Oh, Hermione registered, and then lifted her hand, feeling silly as she knocked twice into empty air.

Theo smiled thinly. "Come in," he said, and Hermione nodded, the initial sensation of ludicrousness giving way to relief.

"I like it," she admitted. "That's a good code."

Theo opened the door to Draco's room with a nod, gesturing her inside, and she paused in the frame.

"Just out of curiosity, what would Draco say," she asked Theo, "if everything wasn't fine, but he did want to talk about it?"

Theo's smile flickered, then broadened.

"One code at a time, California," was his only answer before he slipped away with a wink, his long strides echoing back down the hall.

The day's festivities were about as haphazardly planned as Hermione had expected, consisting largely of getting drunk in the afternoon while playing an extremely lackluster game of badminton that they quickly abandoned with spectacular disinterest. Things were mostly the same as they always were, minus the inclusion of Neville and Fleur, but they all seemed to be handling the slightly altered atmosphere (read: the situation of Theo and Daphne avoiding each other more than usual due to Fleur's presence, the two of them apologizing profusely any time they came into any sort of contact while the others pretended not to notice) with a mix of avoidance and alcohol. After glass number four, Hermione was well into the process of explaining baseball (had, in fact, been having a miniature home run derby with Daphne and Harry involving the use of badminton racquets and a series of poorly aimed pitches by Blaise for the benefit of an unimpressed Pansy) and Fleur and Theo were snuggled up on a blanket, serving as intermittently distracted cheerleaders who were more interested in each other than the game.

By the time Hermione admitted she didn't actually understand baseball at all and that perhaps, come to think of it, nobody really did, they'd all given up on the prospects of sports in favor of drinking straight from the bottle, the sun slowly making its way down as they piled around like tired puppies.

From Blaise, healthily inebriated and tucked securely between Hermione and Harry: "I say we play a game."

From Hermione, with a groan: "We just played all the games. What other games even are there?"

Blaise, kicking her: "Truth games, of course. Minus two points for doubt, which is a better deal, biblically-speaking, than you probably deserve, new Tracey."

From Harry, cheerfully sloshed: "Sure, there's no way a drinking game during which we spill all our secrets could possibly go wrong."

From Pansy, loftily: "I have no secrets. I win this game."

From Daphne, chiming in: "Oh really, is that so—"

Pansy, in reply: a swift and silencing jab.

Daphne: "Ouch!"

From Fleur, with her infuriating gift of mixing warmth and sophistication: "What sort of game did you have in mind, Blaise?"

Blaise, thinking: "Two truths and a lie."

Theo, snidely: "I hate this game, this game's the worst, you're a tyrant."

Harry, scoffing: "Where's the lie?"

Blaise: "MINUS TEN POINTS FOR EACH OF YOU."

Theo, accusingly to Harry: "Look what you did, Henry."

Harry, defensively: "I did no such thing, Theodore."

From Theo: a narrow-eyed grimace.

Hermione, with an anxious glance at Blaise: "Uh, so, should we start?"

Neville, apprehensively: "What's this game, then?"

Blaise: "You tell two truths and one lie, and everyone else guesses what's what."

Neville, looking as if he'd never heard anything worse in his life—which couldn't possibly be true, and yet there they were: "Oh."

Daphne, sitting upright and swaying slightly: "I have a better idea."

Pansy, grumbling: "Somehow, I doubt that."

Daphne, resolutely ignoring her: "That 'never have I' game. You know, 'I've never,' and then everyone who has takes a drink."

Harry, with a laugh: "That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen."

Blaise, delighted: "It absolutely does. Twenty points to Greengrass!"

Fleur, the very portrait of grace despite her slightly slurred words: "I'll start. Never have I ever gotten drunk in the garden of an English palace."

Daphne, innocently: "Didn't you get drunk at Versailles?"

Fleur: "That's a French palace, they're very distinct."

Blaise, glancing around with a grin: "Well? Drink up, Bad Lads."

From Harry, Theo, Blaise: a salute, a drink, and from Theo, a middle finger to Fleur, who smiled radiantly.

Hermione, flushed with the excitement of a brilliant idea: "Never have I ever been to boarding school."

From everyone: a groan.

Hermione, smugly: "Nailed it."

Pansy: "Just for that, never have I ever been to California."

Daphne, with a laugh: "Lady Parkinson, you vindictive swine."

From Hermione and Harry: a toast, and a drink.

Fleur: "Oh, balls. I've been there, too."

Theo: "Well, drink up, siren."

From Fleur: a long sip, and then a kiss to Theo's lips.

Hermione, who'd been distracted by Harry playing mindlessly with her hair and thus finding herself abruptly surprised to see Daphne raising her bottle: "Oh, Daph, have you been there, too? You never said anything."

Daphne, cheerfully not looking at Theo and Fleur: "Nope. I'm just drinking."

From Blaise, directed at Hermione: another silencing kick.

Neville, with a glance at Harry and Fleur: "Well, never have I ever lived in the Slytherin dorms. Seems fair to this lot, doesn't it?"

Blaise, Theo, Hermione, Daphne, Pansy: "BOOOOO."

Theo, raising a hand: "Oh, I've got one—never have I ever had a one-night stand with a stranger."

From Fleur, Blaise, Harry: a drink.

Pansy, with a sidelong glance at Daphne, who wasn't drinking: "Interesting."

Daphne, sharply: "What is?"

Pansy, a little tartly: "Nothing."

Blaise, after taking a gulp: "Ah, I've got one. Never have I ever kissed a French girl."

Theo, Harry, and to everyone's surprise, Fleur: a sip.

From Daphne, languidly: "Well, Pans?"

Pansy, stiffly: "Really?"

Hermione, who was realizing everyone was perhaps slightly drunker and more tense than she'd initially estimated and therefore determining her math was faulty: a swift glance at Blaise, who appeared to have made the same calculation.

Daphne, with a false hint of sweetness: "What, we're all friends here, aren't we?"

From Neville: a swift choking sound.

Pansy: "Oh, is that so, Daphne? Well, then never have I ever been with a teacher."

Hermione: another nervous glance at Blaise, who looked too tensed with concern to even consider appropriating points.

From Daphne: a hard look at Pansy, and a sip.

Harry, clearing his throat: "Well, um. Anyway—"

Neville, hurriedly: "I've never been this drunk this early in the day, I suspect."

Pansy, still glaring at Daphne: "You phrased it wrong, Neville. Here, listen closely: never have I ever had sex with Theo and then lied about it to everyone for months."

From everyone: a shocked wave of silence.

Daphne glanced apprehensively at Theo, then at Fleur beside him, then back at Pansy.

Then Daphne rose to her feet, heading back towards the house without a word, and Theo hurriedly clambered to his knees to follow until Harry stopped him, throwing an arm out to hold him back.

Only Hermione, who'd been wedged between Harry and Blaise, heard what Harry said in Theo's ear. "This isn't your job anymore, mate," Harry murmured to him, glancing briefly at a white-faced Pansy before rising to his feet to chase after Daphne.

Despite the wide variety of disasters requiring attention, Hermione couldn't help focusing her attention on Fleur, who'd gone tense the moment Pansy had spoken. It was fairly clear the fact that Theo and Daphne had slept together once in the past had not been disclosed to her—which Hermione couldn't help feeling guiltily terrible about, considering Fleur had subtly brought it up to her once before.

"I suppose I never thought to ask," Fleur remarked quietly to Theo, who winced.

"It's not—"

"Of course not," Fleur said, her frame markedly rigid despite her unbothered tone. "Of course not, I know."

"Pansy," Neville attempted, turning to face her. "You know it doesn't, um. It doesn't bother me, you know, if in the past you've, um—"

But Pansy had already risen to her feet, folding her arms over her chest and aiming herself into the house after Daphne and Harry. Neville looked torn and uncertain, and Blaise, exchanging a glance with Hermione, shrugged in a way that suggested they should probably begin some form of damage control.

"I'll take this one," Blaise said in a low voice, gesturing to a stricken Neville. "You go after the other two, and we'll leave these two—" He waved a hand at Theo and Fleur, whose body language remained stiff with displeasure, "to talk alone."

"Right, yes," Hermione agreed, grateful to be given a task, and Blaise gestured for Neville to follow him, indicating they should take a walk. Hermione rose to her feet, suddenly immensely cold, and headed dizzily for the house, wondering what on earth she'd have to say to either woman as she went. She knew Daphne had teased Pansy at least once or twice for some sort of indiscretion in the past, but Pansy had never reacted quite so volatilely before. Maybe hiding most of what she was from Neville was finally getting to her.

Hermione walked slowly, still uncertain how to approach it.

You're friends, was the only thing that came to mind. We're friends, Daphne just wants you to be honest, Pansy, and really, you're trying so hard, and aren't we friends? Best friends?

Her head ached a bit, and she swallowed, mouth dry.

She suspected the inevitable hangover was going to be the least of their collective problems.

She didn't actually find Daphne or Pansy upon re-entry to the house; it seemed her cosmic punishment didn't have the decency to wait until morning. "Miss Granger," came a voice as Hermione stepped into the house's main corridor, and she froze.

"Um. Yes?" she asked, turning to find an old man with silver hair standing near the threshold of the study, posed as stiffly as if he were one of the house's Romanesque statues. "Sorry, may I help you?"

"I'm relieved you found me, actually," the man said, stepping forward. "I do hate to venture unnecessarily into my son's bacchanalian rites."

The words my son echoed in Hermione's dully-thudding head as she took in the shape of the man's face, parsing out the details.

"Theo doesn't look like you at all," she commented without thinking, and he grimaced.

"No," he agreed, and then beckoned to the door behind him. "Would you come in?"

"I," Hermione began, clearing her throat. "I was supposed to, um—"

"Let me rephrase," said the elder Theodore Nott. "Please take a seat, Miss Granger."

The words "Am I supposed to curtsy?" escaped her before she could stop them, and Nott, Senior gave her a humorless smile in answer.

"Yes," he said, "but I prefer we not waste our time."

He gestured again to his study, which Hermione unhelpfully recalled had been the same place she'd nearly killed Prince Lucius once before. "Okay," she said lamely, and ventured inside, taking the chair across from his desk while Nott carefully lowered himself into his seat. "I didn't know you'd be here," she ventured, and he gave something of an apathetic nod.

"It's a favor," Nott said slowly, "for a friend." He paused, drawing his hand carefully to his mouth as he leaned back in his chair. "Do you know the friend I mean, Miss Granger?"

She swallowed heavily. Water would have been ideal. As would sobriety. "I'd rather you told me, um… sir?" she said, guessing at how to address him, and he nodded once.

"'Sir' is fine," he said, dismissing her concern and venturing forward. "I understand you're close with my son."

"Yes," Hermione said quickly. "Theo's one of my best friends."

Nott looked unimpressed by this information, and certainly unswayed. "Then I imagine Theodore's told you something of my relationship to His Majesty."

"Actually, um. Draco did, too. His Highness," she corrected herself, and frowned. "Sorry, I don't really know how to talk about him, but he—the Prince, I mean, he told me that you and his grandfath- er, King Abraxas, that you went to Eton with His Majes-"

"For the sake of efficiency, let's simply use their names," Nott cut in, lifting a silvery brow. Theo had none of his father's features, nor any of his gestures. The two men could not have been more different, and for as comfortable as Theo regularly made her with his presence, his father only made her fidget anxiously beneath his hardened glance. "Draco told you I went to Eton with Abraxas," he synthesized on her behalf, "so I presume you understand I've been quite close with His Majesty for quite some time."

Knock twice for entry, she thought abruptly, followed by Theo asking Draco, shaken or stirred?

"Do you two have codes?" she asked him neutrally. "Draco and Theo seem to know each other like the backs of their hands." She paused, then said, "They're as good as one person, aren't they? I take it your relationship with the king must be similar."

She'd been aiming for common ground, but Nott's expression confirmed nothing. "Lucius told me you were intelligent," he said instead. "'Frustratingly quick' is how he put it, actually, though he said it with some distaste. He also said you were crass, disrespectful, and had a tendency to speak without thinking."

"That's probably true," Hermione said warily. "Though Prince Lucius is not… my biggest fan."

"I find that what one's friends have to say is hardly ever useful," Nott said. "One's enemies, on the other hand, have a much more reliable tendency to hit upon the realities of who a person is."

Hermione felt herself stiffen; it was obvious she'd lost any chance at his approval before she'd ever walked in the room.

"What would your son say about you?" she asked him, and his mouth tightened.

"Ah, yes," he murmured with a warning softness. "Lucius also mentioned you lack a certain finesse."

"Why," she said defensively, "because I'm direct?"

"No." The elder Nott's expression was grim. "It's because, when given the option, you're very quick to take the low blows." At that, his mouth twitched slightly, indicating he was… tickled, it seemed. Certainly amused. "Not his exact words, naturally, but Lucius was always more academic. His father and I, we boxed a bit in our youth. We think slightly differently than Lucius does, but the point stands. As an opponent, Miss Granger," Nott clarified, "you never hesitate to take the cheap shots."

"It's not a cheap shot," Hermione said, bristling. "It's certainly not my fault you have no defense."

"It is, however, your fault that you presumed me an opponent." He eyed her for a moment. "Draco has asked his grandfather to meet you. It seems you're quite important to him, but naturally," Nott mused, languidly leaning his head back, "one doesn't simply waltz in and meet the King of England without someone screening them first. That would be rather a poor use of a monarch's time, don't you think, if anyone could be freely brought in his presence?"

Hermione swallowed again, part panic, part dehydration. She hadn't thought his opinion would count for anything; she'd assumed he was another bully sent by Lucius to interfere. "Oh."

Again, Nott only looked amused. "Nobody meets Abraxas without my approval, Miss Granger. At least not under these circumstances."

Fuck. "Oh."

"Yes. 'Oh' is quite right." On another man Nott's light-hearted humor might have seemed warm, but on him, Hermione could tell that it wasn't. "I suppose Draco might not have mentioned that, but as you said, Abraxas and I have our own… codes, did you call them?"

"Yes." She tried to keep her voice from shrinking; the last thing she wanted to be was small. "What exactly am I supposed to be proving, then?"

"Actually, you've already proved it," Nott said, and whatever form of humor was radiating from him now, Hermione suspected it contained a central ring of mockery. "The most important thing I'm meant to determine about you, Miss Granger, is whether or not you are a problem, and I'm pleased to inform you that a problem is most definitely what you are."

She said nothing.

"You obviously won't be going away, not easily. You might even be worse than Bellatrix." Abruptly, Hermione was reminded of a joke her father liked to reference; we're not laughing at you, we're laughing next to you. "Abraxas is going to love and loathe you, I assure you, and frankly, I look forward to seeing it happen."

Hermione stiffened. "I'm not here for your entertainment."

"No, true, you're here for Draco's entertainment," Nott agreed, chuckling to himself, and again, Hermione didn't bother with a reply. "You're quite the novelty for him, Miss Granger. You probably don't fully grasp that yet, do you? I rather doubt it," he answered himself, shrugging. "Nobody Draco knows would dare speak to me or Lucius the way you do, and for now I imagine he's probably foolish enough to find that interesting. Abraxas and I had our own stages of rebellion, as did Lucius, and we've all waited for Draco to have his. Good for him, that he at least chose someone worth the scandal. Once Draco grows up a bit," Nott noted, sliding his chair back to rise to his feet, "I suspect you'll make quite the fascinating footnote, Hermione Granger."

The words stung, but he'd clearly meant them to, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"You think I won't last," Hermione said, and glanced up. "But what if I do?"

"Well then I, for one, would be quite impressed." Nott slid her a smile full of doubt. "Also, to answer your previous question, I presume my son would say I'm distant. Difficult to please. Maybe even cruel," he said, seeming to find even that assertion worthy of a laugh, "and he'd be right. Certainly doesn't disprove my theory."

Hermione rose to her feet. "So, let me see if I have this right," she said, looking Theodore Nott, Senior in the eye. "You want me to meet King Abraxas because you think I'm a smart girl who's capable of being a problem for the royal family?"

"Yes," Nott said, nodding.

"But you don't think I'm smart enough to last," she determined, and he shrugged.

"We'll certainly see, won't we?" he permitted. "But yes, for now that's a lovely summation."

"Sounds a little like you admire me," Hermione said, before irritably adding, "Sir."

"The mark of a worthy opponent, don't you think?" Nott asked her drily.

In that moment, she decided she hated him more than she'd ever hated anyone, Prince Lucifer included.

"I have to go," she said, and Nott curtly waved a hand towards the exit.

"Then go," he suggested, and Hermione went, walking half-dazed out of his study.

She'd forgotten she was even looking for Daphne and Pansy by the time she stumbled on one out of two, making her way quietly through the Nott Manor's labyrinthine halls and then pausing as she heard voices.

"I shouldn't have baited her like that," Daphne was saying softly. "I feel awful."

"I'm sure Pansy does, too," replied a voice Hermione recognized as belonging to Harry, only it was a more solemn version, similar to the one he used when he was talking about his parents. "I think all this Neville business is getting to her."

"I don't think it's helping that I've been… well." Daphne's voice quieted. "I think I regularly forget she's secretly a romantic. It's bothering her more than she lets on that Theo and I aren't together."

"Makes sense," Harry agreed. "I think, for whatever reason, you two were her proof that love existed, and now it's—"

"Ruined, I know." A sigh. "She's a very complicated woman."

"She's very strong and highly fragile, yes."

"I should talk to her."

"One of us should."

"Fine, you do it."

A laugh. "She's just going to ask me about you."

"Well, then just tell her the sad truth. Why not? Maybe it'll lift her spirits."

Hermione frowned. Sad truth?

"Oh yes, perfect. 'Pansy, I'm sorry I neglected to mention it before, but Daphne and I are spending so much time together because we can't stand to be alone while we're both hopelessly in love with other people.' That will thrill her, I'm sure."

Hermione, tucked out of sight, blinked with surprise. Both?

"In fairness, I think Pansy misses you," Daphne said. "All this time you're spending with me takes you away from her."

"Well, she has Neville. What does she need me for?"

"You know her better than anyone, Harry. And anyway, you're nice. You're a nice person."

A laugh. Harry's laugh, which was rich and boundless. "There's no need to insult me, Daph."

"Oh, stop." A pause. "I could love you, I think," Daphne said thoughtfully. "You're very easy to love."

"As are you," Harry said, and paused. "Should we just do it, then? I mean, granted, my situation is positively hopeless. You and Theo, at least that was sort of real at some point. Hermione's only ever been for Draco and yet here I am, newly learning what it is to pine."

Hermione bit down hard on something that tasted a bit like guilt, though she wasn't actually sure whether or not she had any obligation to feel it.

"Well, it's high time you developed actual feelings for someone," Daphne said. "It can't be meaningless sex all the time, can it?"

"Isn't there a midpoint somewhere? You and I could have semi-meaningful sex," Harry offered. "I can't say I've never thought about it."

A pause, and then a groan. "Fine, I suppose I can't deny it either," Daphne said, and Harry laughed. "But I think I owe it to myself to, um. To suffer? Does that make sense? I can't just do something because it's easy. For once, anyway."

"You know, it'd be nice if we were brought into the world with some sort of warning," Harry said. "Like if my life had some sort of preview attached—like, say, tags that read, 'category romance, subcategory humor,' or some other helpful indication this would all definitely end well. Then I wouldn't have any cause for worry and could continue my life of debauchery in peace."

"Yeah." Daphne laughed, and then quieted for a moment. "I suppose we just have to trust it."

"My father did," Harry said, and Hermione could hear evidence of him smiling to himself. "When it came to my mother, he said he was sure enough for both of them."

He'd told her that once, Hermione remembered, deflating slightly at hearing it again in this context.

"I think I've been waiting for Theo," Daphne confessed, sounding pained. "I know that's probably stupid, but—"

"No. No, it's not." There was a low sound of shifting, as if Harry had taken her in his arms. "It's okay. Wait for him, then, if that's what you want. You don't have to do it alone."

"No, I think I should. It's… I'm ruining your relationship with Theo, Harry, and I can't—I can't do that. I don't want to be a pressure point in his life, I just… I want him to be happy. I want him to be happy," Daphne exhaled, "even if it's not with me. I have to move on, I think. Really move on. Or at least try to, and it can't be with you."

"Well, I suppose that makes some awful sort of sense."

"Yeah." A heavy sigh, and then another sound of motion. "And really, I should probably go find Pansy—"

Hermione leapt away from the door, heading the other way down the corridor as she hurried to distance herself from any evidence she'd overheard their conversation. She was blindly stumbling back toward the gardens when she collided with Blaise, who caught her by the shoulders.

"Everyone's already gone in," he said, pausing her, and then frowned, catching the look on her face. "What happened?"

"I—" Hermione paused, wondering whether it was worth it to say anything about Nott Sr, and swallowed heavily, confessing instead to her secondary concern. "I didn't know Harry still felt that way."

To her surprise, Blaise looked amused. "Ah, you figured it out. Good for you. Twenty points," he declared, and Hermione grimaced. "What? I promised."

"Yes, I know, but—"

"Oh, Hermione, I'm so sorry," came from behind her, and Hermione turned to find Draco striding towards her, a smile of relief melting its way across her lips the moment she'd heard his voice. "I took ages, I know, but I at least have good news—my grandfather's agreed to meet you, and—" He paused, looking around and registering the odd lack of banter. "Hang on," he interrupted himself, bemused. "Where is everybody?"

"Detoxifying," Blaise said.

"What? Why?" Draco asked, frowning. "What'd I miss?"

Blaise and Hermione exchanged a glance.

"Let's put your stuff away before dinner," Hermione suggested to Draco, who shrugged.

"Okay," he agreed, looking pleasantly confused as Hermione led him away.

Dinner that evening was surprisingly unproblematic, which was an enormous relief, seeing as Hermione hadn't been particularly interested in explaining the intricacies of what had taken place. Instead, she summarized the events of the afternoon to Draco with an ambiguous, "It was… a bit messy." By the time they all met up again, Daphne was chatting pleasantly with Pansy and Neville ("She wasn't even French," Hermione heard Pansy sniff, "she was Belgian, and it was one time, purely for purposes of scientific study"), Harry and Blaise were chatting away about sports or balls or something, and Fleur and Theo were basking in the aftermath of a productive argument, everyone mostly back their usual selves as Draco recounted his most recent adventures in royal prince-ing.

The next morning, Hermione woke up to find a Draco-shaped vacancy beside her, a note on his pillow indicating he'd already gone downstairs. She pulled on a pair of yoga pants and one of his crewneck sweaters, shoving her feet into a pair of neon coral Nike Frees that Pansy loathed and Daphne coveted before making her way downstairs.

To her surprise, Draco and Harry were stretching in the living room, both wearing athletic clothes and laughing about something.

"—please, you only beat me one time and I had a cold, it was hardly fair—"

"What, are you scared, Henry?"

"You wish, Wales—"

"You two aren't about to race or something, are you?" Hermione asked, wandering in with a smile, and both boys turned to her with identical looks of mischief, the one on Harry's face flickering slightly as he stepped in her direction and then stopped himself, curling a hand against his thigh.

Draco, who didn't appear to have noticed Harry's hesitation, leaned towards her, kissing her cheek. "Good morning," he said, grinning down at her. "We didn't wake you, did we?"

"What, from about eight hundred rooms away? No," she assured him drily, shaking her head. "Just came down to see what you were up to."

"Ah, we're just going for a run," Draco explained. "Harry's done me the marvelous favor of pointing out my being in a relationship's made me go a bit soft."

"Physically," Harry assured her. "Emotionally he's always been this way."

"Kindly shut up," Draco advised him, and Hermione, who felt it was probably unnecessary to assure Harry that Draco's physique remained as impressively toned as ever, merely permitted a laugh. "Want to come along?" he asked Hermione, who blinked.

"What, me?" she asked. "With… you?"

"Of course," Draco said, turning to Harry. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not in the least. Actually, you should just go," Harry told them quickly. "The two of you, I mean. I'd rather not have the Prince of Snails here slowing me down anyway," he added, smacking a hand into Draco's abdomen as the latter bent over, accommodating an undignified proclamation of 'oof.' "Might actually get a decent run in if I go by myself," Harry teased, though Hermione noticed he wasn't looking at her as he said it.

"You sure?" Draco asked, and Harry nodded.

"Don't worry, I wouldn't embarrass you in front of your girlfriend," Harry promised him, sparing a wink at Hermione before heading for the door. "Just make sure you push him, would you, Hermione? He needs it."

"Ah, Henry, you wound," Draco called after him, but Harry merely waved a hand over his shoulder, already jogging down the corridor. Much as Hermione tried not to notice, the motion looked extraordinarily good on him; Harry was a natural athlete, and he certainly looked the part.

"So," Draco said, jarring her momentary distraction and drawing her attention back to him, "shall we?"

"I'm not very fast," Hermione said, making a face, and Draco laughed.

"Neither am I," he assured her, which she didn't believe in the slightest, but didn't bother pressing. "I'm rather pleased I won't have Harry making me look bad. Don't tell anyone, but I'm relieved possession of the throne isn't based on some sort of foot race or I'd almost certainly lose my crown to that arrogant bastard. Come on," he coaxed her with a nudge, kissing the top of her head. "It'll be fun."

"I don't think that word means what you think it means," she groaned, but conceded to follow him out to the gardens, taking a deep breath of exceptionally crisp autumn air before slowly jogging beside him.

"Well," she determined after about two minutes of running, "this is boring."

Draco laughed, hip-checking her briefly and then dodging her return shove. "Oh, come on. It's nice," he said. "Nice to not be thinking about anything, anyway."

"Have you been trapped inside your head again?" she asked him. "You seemed to be in a fairly good mood last night."

He pointedly lifted a brow, and she felt her cheeks flush.

"I didn't mean that," she said, though in fairness, the sex had been exceptionally good. That they'd had enough alcohol and were far enough away from anyone else to be less concerned with volume than usual was enough to put anyone in a good mood. "I just meant, you know. In general."

"Well, I always like getting away from everything," Draco said, and paused, their respective breaths starting to come in pants as they jogged. "I'd hoped my mother would be coming to my grandfather's annual gala next month, but it seems my father's still resistant. Evidently she's too unwell to see anyone right now," he said, and added with a touch of bitterness, "me included."

Hermione, who felt certain that was actually her fault, wasn't sure what to say. She focused on her breathing instead, and on the steady pace of Draco's gait beside her.

"At least my grandfather's agreed to meet you," he continued, more to himself than to her. "He was a bit dodgy about it all week, but then last night I got the go-ahead from my father, so—"

"Draco, um." Hermione bit her lip. "I met Theo's father last night."

"Oh," Draco said, glancing at her. "Last night, and you didn't say anything? I didn't even know he was at home."

"Well, I—" She hesitated, eyeing her feet. "I hadn't wanted to ruin the evening, and I wasn't sure it was relevant, but—"

"How was it?" he asked, looking a little concerned. He was speeding up slightly, which Hermione wasn't sure he'd noticed. She was struggling to keep up. "Meeting him, I mean. He's a good friend of my grandfather's, but he's…" He glanced at her again. "How was it?"

"It was—" She was breathing hard, her chest a little tighter than she would have liked it to be. "Well, I was. He was—I wasn't—"

Abruptly, Draco stopped, turning to face her as she hurriedly bent over, trying to catch her breath.

"He was a dick to you," Draco guessed, his expression hardening, and Hermione looked up with a wince.

"Well, it's not like… I mean, I don't really know what I would have expected, but—"

"The man's a brute, Hermione. I've known Theo my whole life, so I have some idea what his father's capable of making you feel." He reached for her hand, tugging her into his arms and resting his chin on top of her head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry these things keep happening, that I'm doing such a terrible job of protecting you from them. Worse, that you feel you have to keep them from me—"

"I just didn't know what to say," Hermione told him honestly. "It wasn't great, but it also wasn't terrible, was it? He must have told your grandfather it was worth it to meet me."

"Yes, but that doesn't excuse how he makes you feel," Draco said with a frown, pulling back to look at her. "You don't have to be alone in this, Hermione. I can carry my share of the bad things too, you know."

She held him a little tighter. "I know. I'm just not used to it."

"What," Draco joked, "you mean you don't get unpleasantly dismissed and reprehensibly belittled by aging aristocrats all that often?"

With that, he'd somehow managed to put into words precisely what Nott Sr had made her feel without even asking for the details. She felt a pang of hurt for Theo again, realizing Draco was right—he must have seen it many times before.

"I just meant I'm not used to handling things… not alone," she clarified. "Usually, you know, it's just me. I guess I haven't really adapted yet."

"Well, in my experience, you're very flexible," Draco said, lips twitching up at the corners with little traces of a teasing smile. "I would know."

She rolled her eyes and he bent his head towards her, laughing a little as he kissed her. His hands were steady on her hips, always so perfectly formed to the shape of her. She felt the curved muscle of his chest rise up under her palms, another in a perfect sequence of moments where they fit themselves together, piece by piece.

"We could keep running," Draco suggested. "Harry did say I needed a workout."

"I think there's other forms of cardio, if it helps," Hermione said, and he laughed, kissing her again. He glanced over his shoulder, gesturing to some particularly view-obscuring roses in the garden.

"Race you?" he suggested, and in response, she immediately gave him a shove, taking off without waiting for his count. "Wait a minute, that's cheating—"

He caught up to her, throwing his arms around her waist just as she reached the roses, both of them falling unceremoniously to the ground as they made a poor attempt to regain their breaths.

"Are all Americans this unsportsmanlike," Draco demanded, "or is it only you who lacks any conceivable sense of honor—"

She silenced him with another kiss, her hair already frizzy with dew from the grass, and he kissed her back with willing urgency, one hand creeping under her shirt and pressing flat against her stomach. She slid her fingers around the back of his neck, shivering a little as he ventured and probed, finding all the hidden spots that made her weak. He puzzled her out so easily, so effortlessly, and she tightened her legs around his hips, anchoring him in place.

"Hey," he said, pausing to brush her hair out of her eyes. "You're not alone anymore, okay? You don't have to be."

She nodded, and he kissed her again. This time, unlike the night before, it would have to be quieter and quicker than usual, and she couldn't help a little whispered burst of laughter as he nudged her yoga pants down just past her hips, clearly intent on clumsy, artless, and probably fantastic morning sex. He shifted her underwear aside with a subtle motion from his thumb, sliding it over her clit in the same stroke and leaving her to inhale sharply.

"This is indecent," she told him, helpfully shoving down his running shorts. "You should be ashamed."

"I'll lament my moral failings later," he said, sliding inside her with a stifled laugh as they both let out sighs of relief, satisfied. She wriggled in the grass, one of her hands shoved over her head as he twined his fingers in hers, and stifled a groan as he filled her. "I," Draco said, thrusting into her with a kiss to the palm she slid over his cheek, "don't think I'll ever get over you, Hermione Granger."

You'll make a fascinating footnote, Nott Sr's voice whispered cruelly in her ear.

Her opponents all had one thing in common, it seemed.

They underestimated her.

"Don't get over me, then," she whispered to Draco, arching her back, and he groaned softly in her ear, digging his fingers into her waist until they both finally collapsed, breathless and sated and positively covered in grass.

In the end, she did take some of Draco's advice, though not entirely the way he'd meant it.

"I need to do something," Hermione said when they returned on Sunday evening, "and I can't do it alone. I need you," she said, turning to Daphne, "because you're my best friend and I love you, and also, I'm very nervous. And Pansy definitely wouldn't approve," she added with a preemptive shudder, "so here we are."

"Understandable," Daphne permitted. "Proceed."

"And I need you," Hermione said, turning to Theo, "because I know you'd stop me if I was doing something truly and gloriously stupid, but probably not if it's anything less than that."

"Noted," Theo agreed. "Also worth noting: I'm very excited. This feels highly secretive and candidly, I'm invigorated."

"I agree," Daphne said, glancing at him as he arched a brow at her. Now that it was just the three of them, some semblance of normalcy had returned, albeit under strange and possibly stressful circumstances. "There's a very reprehensible element to all of this. Are we murdering someone?"

"Burying a body?" Theo guessed.

"Solving a crime?"

"Framing someone?"

"Yes, actually," Hermione said to that, and then paused. "Well, sort of."

Daphne and Theo exchanged another glance, then looked at Hermione.

"You should probably just say it," Daphne advised, and Theo nodded his agreement.

"Yes, right, okay. So." Hermione took a deep breath. "Prince Lucifer isn't going to let Narcissa out of his sight, right? That's a given."

Daphne and Theo nodded, obviously in agreement.

"But," Hermione said slowly, "the only thing worse than the public thinking something might be wrong is… the public thinking there's nothing wrong."

Theo blinked, frowning. "Explain."

"Well, if the press were to print something about Lucius intentionally keeping Narcissa away from her son for no real reason, then surely she'd have to make an appearance in public," Hermione said. "Right? They'd want to prove nothing was wrong, that everything was normal, and that would require the three of them appearing somewhere for everyone to see. So…"

She trailed off, and Theo nodded sagely.

"Ah," he said. "So you want to do a stupid thing."

"What kind of stupid thing, exactly?" Daphne asked, and Hermione winced.

"IwannasendananonymoustiptoRitaSkeeter," she said.

"Come again?" Theo beckoned, and Hermione sighed.

"I want," she clarified slowly, "to send Rita Skeeter an anonymous tip. To pose as someone on the inside," she explained, "and plant the seed that all is not well with the Waleses, and the problem isn't Narcissa's health. If Rita Skeeter writes an article about it, Narcissa will have to come to Abraxas' gala, just to give the appearance that everything is fine. They'd have no choice, would they?"

Daphne looked at Theo, who looked back at Daphne. Then they each looked into empty space for a second, and then back at each other, and then, finally, at Hermione.

"If anyone found out it was you," Theo began, grimacing, and Hermione shook her head quickly.

"I'd find a way to make sure they didn't," she said. "But it barely even has to be substantiated, right? I'd just say Narcissa's perfectly fine, but she's being… well, held hostage, really. It's barely a secret, and it's not even a lie," she pointed out. "Prince Lucifer would be forced to prove otherwise, so—"

"It's brilliant and stupid," Theo said.

"Yes," Daphne said, nodding. "I agree."

"And you could never tell Draco you did it," Theo added seriously, "so you really shouldn't do it at all."

"Yes," Daphne said, nodding again. "I also agree."

"Oh," Hermione said, deflating slightly. "So… well, never mind, then—"

"Hang on. I said you shouldn't do it," Theo cut in, glancing briefly at Daphne. "But that doesn't mean we can't."

"What?" Hermione asked, taken aback.

"You're our best friends," Daphne reminded her, shrugging. "Do you really think there's anything we wouldn't do for you and Draco?"

"But—"

"You can never mention this again," Theo warned her. "Seriously, never. Put it out of your wild curly-headed thoughts this instant."

"Yes," Daphne curtly agreed. "None of this ever happened."

"You guys," Hermione exhaled, stunned. "Are you sure you—"

"Hermione, not now, please, we're very busy," Daphne said, rising to her feet and beckoning for Theo to follow her. "Nott, a word in private? I know perfectly well you've got nothing else going on."

He stood, loping after her. "Well, Greengrass, if you insist, though I don't appreciate the insinuation."

"Insinuation?" Daphne echoed, rolling her eyes and pulling open Hermione's bedroom door to exit. "Fact, Nott, fact—"

"Please," Theo scoffed, "I am rigorously scheduled—"

"Wait," Hermione said, breathlessly launching herself into their path. "I, um." She glanced between them, sighing it out. "I love you," she said, and they both made a face.

"Please don't," Daphne said. "We're English."

"Right," Hermione agreed, a bit sheepish. "Right, well, that's, um. That's—"

"And also, we love you, too," Theo said grandly, patting her head and beckoning for Daphne to follow as they disappeared, leaving Hermione to smile vacantly at the walls of her empty room.

Rumor is Theo's dad laughed when he found out Draco had proposed to me, and if I'm being honest, I can't say I blame him. I didn't have a lot of interactions with him, thankfully—but I did get to witness him being brutally told off by his future daughter-in-law, and she, true to form, did a better job of it than I could have ever dreamed.

I had other things to worry about at the time, but still, it's the small things. It's important to celebrate the successes, as my mother always says.

Particular when there were still so many forking obstacles to come.

a/n: Did you happen catch my EXTREMELY SUBTLE hints that this is very much a comedy which will ultimately end well? There is merely heightening tension, as of course any happy ending must always be earned. (Sidebar: I do not know how long the story will be; I never do, I do not outline, everything is a mystery, live dangerously, amen.) Anyway, thanks for reading! The playlist for this fic is now available on Spotify, and you can find a link to it on my tumblr.

13. Restraint

Chapter 13: Restraint

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Portrait of Grace

It is difficult not to admire the woman who will be the wife of Prince Draco, who is widely acknowledged for her impeccable polish and gracious demeanour. From the moment Hermione Granger was brought to the public's attention—despite the event's capture in the most spectacularly candid of ways—she has been an extraordinary beacon of warmth, a constant at her Prince's side, and an unerring symbol of duty.

While Hermione has certainly been known to have her colourful moments, occasionally breaking royal protocol in the most lively of ways, her general sense of integrity and deference has endeared her to the people, whose wary eye on the country's future was once rife with concern about the monarchy's relevance in the forward-leaning slope of modernity. However, there has been a renewed sense of adoration for the royal family since Hermione and Draco's relationship became public, which many believe will ultimately prove to be Hermione's legacy as part of the House of Malfoy. She is, without doubt or contradiction, a woman of silent courage, demure sophistication, and utterly beatific grace.

This pile of bollocks is brought to you by the woman who once called me 'as fundamentally wilted as her unconvincing American posture' (see also: 'did she wake up this morning besieged with a desire to turn us to stone like some sort of vibrantly jumpsuited Medusa?' and 'scientists have determined Hermione Granger is the final piece necessary to prove taste can neither be bought nor conquered, even with the treasury of an empire') so all of this is to be taken extremely fracking lightly.

Thank goodness for Pansy and Daphne, I have to say, though if I've appeared 'beatific' in any way, it might be purely the result of context. For example, if things had gone differently, I suspect that first meeting with King Abraxas would have been…

Hm.

Well, let's just say there's a reason I stayed a secret for so long, and shockingly, it's not because Draco and I are some sort of privacy masterminds (which I'm sure was everyone's first guess). The main reason, I suspect, is because it's easy to stay hidden in the background provided the sky is falling somewhere else.

October 31, 2011
Hogwarts University

Draco groaned as the timer on her phone went off again, his fingers digging into her hips in protest. "You can't be serious. Already?"

"Yes already, and hush," Hermione told him firmly, dismounting him with something she might have called the coordination of a newborn baby deer and leaning over the bed to fumble for the die she'd bought in Hogsmeade earlier that day. She gave it a roll as Draco propped himself up and leaned over, kissing her shoulder and sliding his hand over her hip. "Ah, rats," Hermione said, squinting at the die. "What did we say six was again?"

She felt Draco's smile against her skin. "I believe you specified 'reverse cowgirl,' Miss Granger."

"Yes, right, okay—get on your back," she instructed, elbowing him sharply in the ribs, and he laughed, arms lifted obligingly overhead as she clambered ungracefully onto his hips, facing his feet. This one, she had to admit, she hadn't been particularly thrilled about, though she warmed up to it once he let his hands fall, his fingers floating over her skin to trace the shape of her spine. She swallowed, feeling momentarily awkward with her back to him like this, and he shifted slightly beneath her to sit upright, pressing his lips to her spine in a way that made her think, okay. Okay, you've got this.

She started slow, adjusting to their new position. He moved his hands from her back, forming them around her ribs, and then he gently curled them over her waist before sliding them down to her thighs, his breath catching as she moved.

"Sorry if my hair's in your face," she muttered to him, closing her eyes to concentrate on her rhythm. He didn't answer. Instead, he merely took her hand and slid it from where she'd been unknowingly gripping his thigh to let it hover over her clit, stroking her there once with his thumb before shifting again to press another kiss to her back. She twisted around to look at him, catching the heavy-lidded look of satisfaction on his face.

"You were right," he offered, pairing the concession with one of those slow, brain-muddled, sex-infused grins. "This is much better than the Hog's Head party."

"I hate to inform you of this, Your Highness," she told him, "but as it turns out, I'm always right and never wrong."

"Ah, of course, my mistake." He reached out to pull her chin towards him, his free hand traveling down her stomach as he kissed her, and she obliged the helpful venture he'd initiated, pressing her fingers to the gradually mounting ache between her legs while she rode him. The muscle of his legs were carved out and stark with the effort of restraint, his heels digging into the twisted-up mess of her sheets, toes curled. She, meanwhile, could feel the sweat forming on the back of her neck, tension stiff between her shoulders. The teetering precipice between torment and relief was its usual artful lure as she heard him swear quietly, delicately—the way he only did when he was alone with her, phone off, flat empty, the rest of the world momentarily cast off from consideration so that he could give her that little glimpse, that sparing taste, of his perfect imperfections.

The timer went off again and Hermione let out a groan, caught just shy of what was sure to be a spectacular denouement. "Never mind, this was a terrible idea," she grumbled, and he laughed, leaning over the side of the bed and reaching blindly for the die. "You read it," he said with a kiss to her shoulder blades, tossing it, and she glanced down.

"Two," she said, and he gave her thigh a light smack.

"Get on your back, Miss Granger," he murmured to her back—a much more effective command when he gave it in his regal prince voice rather than her swottily determined one—and she gave a visceral shudder in reply, letting herself be thrown back on the mattress as he hurried to position himself between her legs. The motion of him filling her was torment raised anew, jostling the swollen lips of her cunt with a rough lack of precision, a hiss slipping sharply between her teeth.

"Close?" he asked her, his voice a dry rasp of effort, and she nodded—so very close—as he locked his eyes on hers, shoving a hand under her hips. He was helpful, that Prince of Wales. Always very respectful of her angles, Hermione thought, his cock buried deep while the friction against her clit continued, every motion arranging itself in such perfect alignment she guessed it'd be a matter of one or two withheld breaths before she went boneless (and probably useless) for at least one round. He'd learned her so well, and she'd been right—a few hard thrusts of Draco's hips and her body went rigid and then, haltingly, completely fluid, the shudder of sudden buoyancy washing over her in a wave.

"Jesus," she said, the incorporeal post-orgasm numbness floating over her limbs, and Draco chuckled, shifting to lower his mouth to her breasts. He slid his tongue around her nipple, scraping his teeth over the pert little bead of it and making his way down to her navel just before the timer went off again.

At the sound of it, he snapped upright—clearly now fully sold on the gamification of sex, which Hermione had initially suggested as a vaguely comical means of Doing Something Different—and rolled the die again. "Four." He paused. "Was that one—?"

She rolled onto her stomach, giving him the most salacious glance she could manage over her shoulder, and he grinned, leaning back on his haunches and guiding her thighs to either side of his. He leaned forward, sweeping her hair over her shoulder and kissing the back of her neck before pushing inside her again, fingers curled over the bones of her hips.

"This is fun," he said, voice gruff with effort as he moved, hand sliding up to curve around her breast. "Very fun." A kiss on her cheek. "You're fun." A kiss to the line of her neck, then the stroke of a finger down her spine.

"Stop telling me how much fun I am," she advised, panting a little as she shifted her hips to meet his thrusts, "before the timer goes off again."

His response was ground between his teeth, words that gifted her a little shiver: "This is the last round, Hermione."

His voice was strained, hips moving faster now, and she could feel that coiling pressure building up again, racing faster, faster, faster, yesyesyes right there possibly slipping from her lips in some sort of uneven, arrhythmic lack of cadence, along with fuck and holy god and a handful of other problematic references to a clearly vengeful deity as the timer went off and they ignored it, his fingers twisting up in the mass of her hair she really should have gotten cut about two months ago. He'd mostly been reduced to incoherence by then, to the masculine little groans Hermione had collected and savored and replayed for herself in the dark when she needed to remember the sound of him being lost, being hers, both of them dancing along that edge of too much too much too much—(timer beeping)—(clock ticking)—(pulse racing)—more more more—and, then, finally, oh.

Yes.

He came and she came and they were panting, slick with sweat, but he managed the incalculable effort of sliding the screen of her phone to finally deliver them to blissful silence. There was nothing but the sound of their breaths in the room as Draco pulled her into his chest, settling them both down to something marginally more acceptable for a normal resting pulse.

"That," he said hoarsely, "was a great Halloween party."

She elbowed him weakly, shaking her head. "Seriously, though," she told him after a moment, burrowing in his arms, "I'm sorry you couldn't go this year."

Prince Lucifer had been in a mood recently, stating unambiguously that if Draco could not promise a totally incident-free final year at Hogwarts then he shouldn't bother sitting for his exams. Apparently the Prince of Darkness wasn't taking Hermione's appearances very well, Draco had told her—which had been paraphrased, she guessed. Shocking, Hermione had thought in reply, give or take a few expletives she'd left lounging on her tongue.

"Nah, it's fine," Draco assured her, toying with her hair. "I took a risk even going last year. Worth it, though." He kissed her shoulder. "Certainly worth having you to myself tonight."

"You sure?"

"Oh, absolutely." He paused, tapping his fingers on her arm as he pondered something. "Though I should do something for Harry, I think, tomorrow."

It didn't really occur to her to stop herself from responding. "Because of his parents' deaths, you mean?"

Draco hesitated, then rested his chin in the dip of her shoulder.

"You know about them?" he asked carefully.

"Doesn't everyone?" she said.

There was a surprisingly long absence of a response. In the silence, she felt a strange, intangible distance work itself between them, His Royal Highness Prince Draco of Wales manifesting inch by inch to fill the place her Draco (the Draco who'd said yes, Hermione, god I love the way you feel, the way you taste, you make me so weak for you—that Draco) had just been.

"Harry rarely speaks about his parents," Draco eventually said. "About them, yes, but not about their deaths. He says telling other people about them makes the whole tragedy thing feel like part of an elaborate charade he has no claim to, which isn't necessarily true, but—" He paused, clearing his throat. "It's unusual he discusses them."

"Oh." She wasn't really sure what to say. "Are you…" She trailed off, lifting her chin to look at him. "Is everything alright?"

"Hm? Oh, of course," he said. It was his polite company voice, the same one he used to welcome people into the sort of room that featured his portrait on the wall. "I just didn't realize you'd had such a, well. An intimate conversation, I suppose."

"It was last year," she said, a little surprised by the word choice. Intimate. She hardly wanted to consider him being intimate with anyone but her, which seemed to be precisely the point. "I think I caught him at a vulnerable time, that's all."

"Right, yes, of course. You're probably right. It's good he talks about it, anyway," Draco said, sounding as if he were trying to reassure himself. "I try to, usually, because it's difficult for him, left to his own devices. I hate to think he's just punishing himself in silence."

She frowned. "Punishing himself?"

"Harry is very adept at hiding his pain, Hermione." Draco paused, and then added quietly, "And perhaps other things, too, I suspect."

She blinked. "Draco, are you…" Are you mad? seemed a stupid question, though unquestionably the one she wanted to ask. "Is this, um—"

"I suppose you must provide something similar to both of us," Draco said quickly. "It's very… freeing," he determined, "being with you. There are no expectations, no limits. I suppose it rather makes sense Harry and I would both find that quality appealing."

She could hear the undertone of disenchantment in his voice; like something special, something rare, had been tainted slightly now that he'd been forced to share it. "Well, it's not like Harry has much to live up to," Hermione ventured tentatively, "does he?"

"Harry wears a very clever mask. It's a coping strategy, really. He's lost so much." Abruptly, Hermione remembered what Harry had said to her: That's the only thing they can't take from you, you know. Your truth. "But however naturally it comes to him, it's not that easy," Draco said, sounding resigned. "I know it's not."

"You sound," Hermione began, and swallowed. "Upset."

"I'm not upset."

A categorical lie. He was, but she didn't know what kind.

"It's not like I was trying to… I don't know," she attempted, feeling guilty while also guiltily defensive. "I wasn't—"

"Oh, you didn't do anything wrong, Hermione." Draco softened slightly, brushing his lips against the top of her head. "It's nothing you did, or that he did, it's just," he ventured, letting it dance on the tip of his tongue, "he tells me everything, usually. There's no secrets between us, or there haven't been." She could almost hear his thoughts whirring, his arms feeling heavy around her now. "But this time, he didn't tell me."

She felt a knot of anguish swell up in her throat.

"My father is quite demanding," Draco said slowly, "unfairly so, and I suppose it often seems everything comes down to me. What I do, how I behave, it often gets treated like the most important thing in the world—so at times, it seems like everything revolves around what I do." He swallowed. "I suppose sometimes I forget it doesn't."

Hermione tilted her chin up, kissing his jaw, then his chin, then eventually, when he finally conceded to look at her, she pressed her lips to his.

"I love you," she said, "and Harry's my friend. I think I was just in the right place at the right time, that's all."

Draco nodded slowly, letting her kiss him again. "You're probably right," he said. Lie, she thought, catching the hints of avoidance in his unfocused grey gaze. "Maybe I'm overreacting." Lie. "Harry's older now. Maybe it doesn't bother him quite so much to talk about it anymore. That would be ideal." Lie, lie, lie. "And you are very easy to talk to." True, but still part of an overarching lie. "I suppose I can't really blame him." Definite lie.

Draco tilted her chin up, his palm smooth across her cheek.

"I love you," he said. Truth.

"I'm," she began, and stopped. "I'm not for him, Draco. He knows that. I'm yours."

It may not have been the right thing to say, but at least it was true.

Draco kissed her forehead in answer, reaching for the duvet that had bunched at the foot of the bed and dragging it up to cover them both with it.

"We should sleep," he said, and she nodded. Pressed to his chest, though, she could feel his breath quicken and falter, both of them still awake by the time the door to the flat opened and closed, signaling the end of another Hog's Head Halloween.

By morning, Hermione and Draco had mostly forgotten the weirdness that had kept them up the night before. That was probably partially due to having such excessive weirdness of a different variety to contend with the next day, but Hermione took what she could get, letting Draco kiss her sweetly out of bed, coffee mug ready in hand.

"Well, this is lovely," said Roger, Daphne's former professor and current sort-of boyfriend, glancing around the flat from where he sat at Daphne's left. "Certainly better than the squalor I lived in my last year at university. Which was not long ago," he hurried to assure a mussed and sleepy Neville, who looked far too hungover to care.

"All the better to serve our illustrious faculty," Pansy said drily, sipping her tea.

"Roger, you're making everything weird," Daphne informed him, rolling her eyes and giving Pansy's chair a hard nudge under the table. "You went to art school," she added, glancing up at him. He had his arm slung over her chair as if he were using her like a security blanket or a shield, which he probably was. "It's supposed to be squalor. It builds character."

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance, sharing a moment of total detest for Daphne's hopefully temporary distraction in Professor Roger Davies. They'd opted not to let Roger in on the secret of their relationship despite Daphne assuring them that if he blabbed to anyone she'd simply get him fired and/or fake a pregnancy scare for purposes of traumatizing him completely, but they didn't feel it worth informing someone who wouldn't be around long (they hoped).

Roger had of course not gone to the mostly-college-aged party the night before, which would have been filled with his students, but he had stuck around for breakfast after Hermione and Pansy (hoping to point out the obvious flaws in the arrangement by making them all sit down to breakfast) had suggested to Daphne he stay. They were, in a classic twist, regretting that decision now. Roger wasn't unpleasant, necessarily—the appeal was certainly obvious, as he was incredibly attractive—but while Fleur had been grudgingly accepted on the basis of her being genuinely good for Theo, they owed Roger Davies no such benefit of the doubt.

"Well, I suppose that's—"

Roger broke off as the door to the flat flew open, revealing a still-costumed Blaise. The party that year had been jungle-themed, which meant Blaise had taken firm advantage of his single opportunity to wear a skintight catsuit and likely wasn't going to put it to rest soon. Daphne, in her usual pursuit of loopholing the theme, had gone as some sort of AC/DC groupie, while Theo and Fleur had gone as, respectively, a gorilla and a Jane Goodall so posh Hermione had initially failed to notice it was a costume. Neville and Pansy (who typically loved an ostentatious look) hadn't made much of an effort for their first Halloween as a couple. Pansy had merely worn a black dress and a set of cat ears, having drawn whiskers on Neville's face.

Harry, who had since changed out of a fluffy lion's mane Hermione was certain had been intended for a small child or a dog, followed Blaise into the room, eyeing an apprehensive Roger and lifting a brow at Draco, as if to say, Can you believe this?

Draco returned with an expression Pansy had once described as his look of measured anguish, alternately referring to it as his 'disaster eyes' (because of the blankness in his grey gaze) or 'distress smile' (because of the distinctly… not okay shape of his mouth).

Uh oh, Hermione thought.

"You," Blaise said to Roger. "Out."

"I'm sorry?" Roger said, frowning. "Who are you?"

"Minus five hundred for not instinctively knowing," Blaise sniffed, "and also, please leave."

"Blaise," Daphne sighed, "that's no need t-"

"We have to discuss something of VITAL IMPORTANCE," Blaise said to her, "concerning matters of the crown."

"Ah, yes, okay, out," Daphne confirmed, elbowing Roger in the ribs and removing the piece of bacon from his hand just as he was raising it to his mouth. "So sorry, you understand."

"What?" Roger asked, half-heartedly letting Daphne guide him to the door with an ironclad grip on his elbow before she yanked the handle, depositing him on the other side of the threshold. "Wait, Daphne, what are you—"

"I'll call you," she said, placing him brusquely into the hallway and then closing the door before he could reply. "Yes, Blaise, what is it?"

Immediately, Draco's phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket, went slightly pale, and put it to his ear. "Father," he said, giving them a nod and making his way to Hermione's room, the low murmur of his voice fading into the echo of the corridor.

"Well," Hermione said. "That looks—"

"Related," Pansy confirmed, pursing her lips. "What is it, Blaise?"

"Rita Skeeter just printed an article about Lucius and Narcissa's marriage," Blaise explained, blindly handing Pansy his phone. She'd already had a hand up expecting it, the two of them as accustomed to each other's movements as Hermione guessed any two people could be. "She suggests Lucius is keeping Narcissa away from the public as something of a silencing tactic."

Hermione looked up at Daphne, whose mouth quirked only slightly.

"This," Pansy sniffed as she skimmed the article, "is disgusting. This is outrageous." Neville reached over, trying to view the screen, but she held the phone up and Blaise took it without looking, folding his arms firmly over his chest. "They're saying Lucius is some kind of… like he's her jailer—"

Draco burst from Hermione's room, the rest of them holding their breaths as he blew in, breathless, from whatever conversation he'd just been having.

"I have to go," he said, and then he hesitated a moment before clarifying, "home. Not to London."

"What?" Hermione asked, a touch surprised. 'Home' in Draco's vocabulary meant his family's country estate, which was where he'd spent the better part of his time as a child and where his mother now resided. "Why?"

"My grandfather wants my mother to come to the gala next week." Draco had a strange look on his face; half-anxious, half-excited, entirely irrepressible. "My father is executing some sort of media strategy for which I'm sure he won't give me any details, but in any case—he wants it to be known I'm visiting her."

"That's—" Hermione stopped, registering that the others (notably Harry, Blaise, and Pansy) did not look overly thrilled by the news. "That's… great, right?" she asked him, frowning. "That you get to see your mother?"

"Yes," Draco said, nodding distractedly. "Yes, it is, and—"

"Draco." Harry's voice was quiet. "Do you want me to come with you? I could spare a week, if you wanted."

"Hm? No, no, it's quite alright," Draco said, not quite looking at him. "Actually, I was thinking," he ventured, turning to Pansy. "Would you come with me, Pans?"

"Of course. Though, that being said, what on earth for?" Pansy asked him, and Hermione, who had expected the request about as much as Pansy had, struggled to withhold a bemused frown.

"Well, it's just been some time, and—" Draco fidgeted, turning to Hermione, who realized for the first time that perhaps his absence from his mother might have been more complicated than she'd initially thought. He looked apprehensive, and not in the way he usually did when he was discussing what his father or grandfather expected from him. This, she realized, was about Narcissa, and abruptly, Hermione registered for the first time that Draco hadn't seen his mother in any considerable capacity for… perhaps years. They might have been strangers to each other by then.

"I'm sorry," Draco told her, his voice carrying a distinct undertone of I know you won't like it, "but it's just that my mother already knows Pansy so well, they've always gotten on in the past, and I don't want to… overwhelm her—"

It also occurred to Hermione with alarmingly delayed recognition that maybe Draco really believed his mother was ill. They'd never spoken about whatever excuses his father might have given to keep him away, so she supposed Draco must generally believe whatever Lucius, or Abraxas, had told him.

"No, of course," Hermione said hurriedly. "Right, yes, I understand. I have to work, anyway," she added, which was true. She had a number of deadlines to meet and it would have been more than a little inconvenient to leave now, just when Slughorn had requested a massive overhaul to part of their paper after she'd suggested they include more non-European sources. It wasn't as if she had time to jet off with her boyfriend on a trip to see his mother.

Besides, she'd see him, of course. At the gala. As part of a situation she herself had manipulated, which certainly hadn't backfired in any way. "Makes perfect sense," she said firmly.

"Well, it doesn't, let's be quite clear about that," Pansy countered, pursing her lips. "Still, I suppose it has been some time since I've seen Narcissa myself." She paused for a moment, lost in thought. "I'm quite curious how she's doing."

"You don't see your mother much?" Neville asked Draco, who gave something of a wry half-smile confirming in answer. "Nor do I, my grandmother is really quite strict about—"

"When are you leaving?" Pansy said, to which Draco looked uneasy.

"Now." He shot a quick glance at Hermione. "I'm sorry, I know I said I'd be here all week, but—"

"Draco, it's fine," she said, rising to her feet. He slid an arm around her waist, instinctively tugging her into him. "I'll get someone else to teach me how low to curtsy to your grandfather. I'll just ask—" She bit her tongue on Harry, just barely stopping herself before amending, "Theo. Fleur's leaving in a couple of hours, he won't have anything else to do. He's already read Othello about eight times, I suspect," she added with an uneasy laugh.

If Harry heard the significance in her specifically not naming him, he said nothing. She figured there was nothing to say, but that didn't stop her from fidgeting a little in the silence. She tilted her head up and Draco kissed her quickly, one of his fleeting kisses. Something that indicated his mind was elsewhere.

"Thank you," he murmured, brushing his lips against her forehead before turning to Pansy. "Be ready to leave in ten minutes, Pans?"

"I keep a bag packed," Pansy assured him lazily. "My mother always advised being prepared to leave at a moment's notice. I believe her version of self care was the fanciful idea she might simply abandon her life and never return."

Neville laughed uneasily, which no one else did, and Hermione wondered briefly if there would be rumors about Draco and Pansy now, as they would inevitably be seen together. She wondered, too, if such a thing would bother her despite her knowing perfectly well it wasn't true.

She felt… sticky with unease. Icky. Swampy, almost, with the sorts of curdling feelings in her stomach she knew were based in something other than logic. Draco loved her, she loved him, Prince Harry was simply their friend, and furthermore, Lady Pansy Six-Names was precisely who Hermione would want in this situation if it were happening to her. All of this was perfectly true and reasonable, and yet—

Emotions were dreadful things, Hermione thought glumly.

"Have fun with your mother," she told a departing Draco, who gave her a lingering look in return, a thousand things caught on his tongue by the time his grey eyes met hers.

She tried to guess what was on his mind and couldn't. Whatever it was, perhaps he didn't quite want her to know. She fiddled with the snake ring on her finger, twisting it around and around, and in answer—his attention snagging on her hands—he subtly switched his signet ring, right hand to left.

She tried a smile, which sort of succeeded, and he gave her something similar in answer before slipping out the door. He mostly spoke in codes, she knew. That was where he was most comfortable, generally speaking; in not having to voice his feelings aloud.

Still, Hermione thought as Daphne's hand slipped comfortingly around hers, she really wished he would.

It turned out the correct way to curtsy to the King of England was relatively simple: very, very low. She rehearsed it with both Daphne and Theo, who, at Daphne's insistence, very credibly filled the role of noblewoman.

"Very good," Daphne-as-King Abraxas said approvingly, applauding both Hermione and Theo's shaky curtsies from the throne of Hermione's bed. "I daresay we'll make fine young ladies of you yet."

"I think Theo's is better," Hermione said, grimacing at him.

He, unsurprisingly, batted his lashes in reply. "I don't know why you're surprised, California. I'm the very portrait of elegance and grace."

"Yikes," Daphne said, which was something she had picked up from Hermione and done a positively faultless job of improving. "Overdoing it a bit, Theodore."

"Per usual, you're a tyrant," Theo retorted.

"I'm a tyrant what?" she prompted, one hand to her ear, and he groaned.

"You're a tyrant, Your Majesty—"

Hermione sighed, deciding she felt the rest of the etiquette lesson better ended with a slow, melting sprawl across the floor. She'd spent most of the day working on the same three paragraphs for Slughorn, trying to cut some unnecessary words and only making it longer each time instead. A combination of perfectionism towards her work and her bizarrely antiquated request to date her own boyfriend was draining her considerably, and Daphne dismounted the bed to perch cheerfully beside her, giving her forehead an affectionate pat.

Theo, similarly, took the opportunity to lie down on the floor at Hermione's side, the buzzing from his phone prompting her to turn to him. "You gonna get that?" she asked, jamming a finger into his ribs.

"Hm? Oh, it's just Fleur," he assured her. "She's at some sort of dinner with her father and she likes to transcribe the stupid things people say to her." He shrugged. "I'll read them later."

"Roger does something rather like that," Daphne said, rolling her eyes. "Only I imagine Fleur's commentary is much more clever."

"Oh, it is," Theo said, "though I'm never quite sure I have anything to say outside of—" He pulled out his phone, glancing at his responses. "Yes, here it is, 'haha' has been the last four of my responses—well, I suppose I could weld on additional 'ha' this round—"

"Well, at least there's that," Daphne said, deciding to begin arranging Hermione's hair in some sort of design on the floor. "Roger sometimes sends me poetry," she added, "but I'm really not sure what I'm supposed to say to his observations about the significance of the dawn."

"You should reply with some of your absurdist stuff," Theo suggested sagely, rolling towards her. "That sonnet you wrote about life as a blade of grass nearly gave me appendicitis."

"You mean it had you in stitches?" Hermione asked.

"That's what I said," replied Theo.

"I'm not sure Roger would recognize it as satire," Daphne said, shifting on the floor to begin the design on the other side of Hermione's head as Hermione, finding the floor surprisingly comfortable, contemplated a laugh. "I believe his precise commentary was that satire as an 'art' form is on its way out, being that it is a tool of intellectual snobbery."

Theo made a face. "Did he use the air quotes, or did you add them?"

"What do you think, Nott?"

"Oh, sweet merciful Christ."

"I know. It's heinous. I keep thinking about stealing his phone and throwing it into the lake, only then I remember he'd only buy another one and use it to ask me my thoughts on the subsequent painting. You know—'Daphne, do you think people will understand the use of darker tones within the lake represents the misery of the human experience?'—or something of the sort."

"Wild idea here, Greengrass," Theo said drily, "but you could simply… stop seeing him?"

"He's not all bad," Daphne said, not particularly convincingly. Hermione, who'd had her eyes closed, cracked one, curiously glancing between them. "But I suppose you're technically not wrong."

"Of course I'm not," Theo said. Hermione noted his phone buzzing again, which he didn't address. "If the best that can be said about him is 'he's not all bad,' I imagine there's some avenue more preferable."

"Well, there's always Michael Corner," Daphne said, grinning at him, and Theo groaned.

"That idiot again—no, no, stick to Roger, he's at least he's got some semblance of not being dropped on his head as a child—"

"You know, if Roger's not that great, maybe there's no need to settle," Hermione suggested, prompting both Daphne and Theo to suddenly recall her existence. "You could just, oh, I don't know." She tried to keep her voice light. "Wait for the right person?"

"This from the woman with a wobbly curtsy," Theo said with a Pansy-esque scoff, adding, "and speaking of, we should also discuss how to refer to people in private."

"Mm, yes," Daphne agreed. "Title first, then 'sir'—"

"This is giving me a headache," Hermione said, sitting up and disrupting whatever had been done to her hair, much to Daphne's dismay. "I'm just… meeting my boyfriend's grandfather, it should be so simple. The last time I met a boyfriend's grandpa it was over these miniature pickle wraps at a fourth of July barbeque, so—"

"There were so many Americanisms there I scarcely understood a word out of your mouth," Theo said, groaning. "I'm afraid you may be entirely a lost cause."

"Unhelpful," Daphne said, pulling a face at him before resuming her lecture to Hermione. "Also, try not speak to the King until he speaks to you," she began explaining, which was apparently an important enough point to merit being cut off with an outburst from Theo.

"Oh CHRIST, okay, yes," Theo said, scrambling to his knees to take hold of Hermione's shoulders. "Do not speak to Abraxas unless he speaks to you. He's going to do a very confusing thing where he presents himself as a perfectly friendly and perhaps even doddering old man. Do not be fooled," Theo advised, his tone so astoundingly severe and unlike his usual demeanor that Hermione half-considered asking him if he required an exorcism. "He's cutthroat, Abraxas, and in a very different way from Prince Lucifer."

"Draco talks about him as if he's… nice," Hermione said tentatively, and Theo made a loud, unhinged barking sound.

"His closest friend is my father," Theo reminded her, which was an extremely valid point, "and his preeminent issue is the Prince of Darkness. All of this should be very concerning to you," he said, flailing his hands slightly, and though it was being delivered with a sense of drama Hermione wasn't entirely sure what to do with, she figured some sort of point was being made. "Not to mention that just because he didn't steal his crown from some dead man's head hardly means the position doesn't require some degree of ruthlessness—"

"Yes, fine, I'll follow the rules. In fact, I'll say nothing," Hermione said, heartily meaning it. She had no plans to ruin this, and for once, she thought it better that King Abraxas find her uninteresting or easily pushed aside than to chance him ruling her out entirely. "Seriously, I won't."

"You really shouldn't," Theo firmly agreed. "And don't say anything to Draco about it if he does say something snide, either. Draco is Abraxas' favorite, he's the only person Abraxas dotes on, so believe me, I've tried, but he won't believe a word against his grandfath- ah, now she's calling," he said, cutting himself off to dig his phone out of his pocket. "Sorry, hold on—"

He got to his feet, slipping out of Hermione's bedroom, and Hermione caught the lingering look of disappointment on Daphne's face, her beautiful features taking on a hollow sort of loveliness in Theo's absence.

"Break up with Roger," Hermione said, and Daphne blinked, turning to her.

"What?"

"Break up with him," Hermione begged, and Daphne rolled her eyes. "Come on, Daph, we all know you don't really want to be with him and it's just getting hard to watch—"

"Well, hang on," Daphne said, shaking her head. "I know I'm not… I know what he isn't," she clarified, clearing her throat, "but what he is is a person who loves me, or says he does, and when he asked me to give him a chance—" She shrugged. "If I had just done that the first time someone had asked," she confessed quietly, "then maybe I wouldn't be in this position now. I'm just trying to learn from my mistakes, that's all."

"But—" Hermione made a low sound of frustration. "But he's not Theo," she eventually said, and Daphne chuckled a little.

"No, he's not, but still. He's sweet," she said. "He's thoughtful. And Theo is happy." She leaned back, glancing wistfully at the door. "Theo's very happy, and I…"

She shrugged.

"I want that," Daphne said honestly. "Even if I'm not ready for it yet, even Roger's not the one, I suppose I just want to—" She tilted her head. "To practice. So when it's the real thing, I'll know what it's like."

This sounded agonizing to Hermione. "But—"

"Okay, good news, Fleur's tits are a huge success," Theo said, bursting back into the room and falling back down beside Hermione with a laugh. "At least according to the Prime Minister of what she called 'one of those countries with all the potato-based dishes,' which, I'm really not even sure what that means—"

"You were saying Abraxas is some sort of demon," Daphne reminded him, and Theo snapped his fingers.

"Right, yes, so—" He paused. "No, that was it. That's the whole story."

"Okay, well, I've ruined everything so far," Hermione said grimly, "so I promise, I'm just going to keep my mouth shut. Daph's in charge of making me look good," she added, and Daphne nodded solemnly, "so all I have to do is follow your rules," she said to Theo, whose nod was far more urgent, "and then I'm set. I'm not going to give Abraxas or Lucius or anyone any reason to resent me any further, I promise."

She glanced down, toying with her ring again, and she felt Theo and Daphne exchange a glance over her head, having another of their muted conversations.

"Look," Theo said slowly, "if this is about Draco going home with Pansy—"

"No, it isn't. Well, it is," Hermione admitted, and Theo gave an I knew it sort of grimace, "but not like you think. I mean, it's only about that in that Pansy is exactly the kind of girl Draco's father would want him to be with, but—"

"You're the one he wants," Daphne told her firmly, and Theo nodded his agreement.

"You just have to understand, Draco is very…" He grimaced, clearly unsure how to put his thoughts into words. "He's limited, in a sense," he explained slowly. "His grand romantic gestures are so small you'll have to squint to see them, but believe me, it's you he likes, California, more than anyone. He doesn't want a different version of you, he certainly doesn't want a different kind of girl. Just… give him time," Theo said. "And also, don't turn your back on Abraxas."

"Disrespectful?" Hermione guessed.

"That," he said, "and he might have you stabbed."

Hermione blinked.

"Kidding," Theo said with half a laugh. "Well, not really. I mean, I wouldn't put it past him. But no, it's the first thing, the deference thing."

"Oh," Hermione said lamely, and Daphne firmly kicked Theo's foot.

"Don't worry," she said to Hermione, "he'll love you. And at the very least," she joked, "I'll make sure he'll love your dress."

That was a relief, Hermione supposed, gladly taking her wins when she found them.

"Don't be nervous," Draco said on the phone.

"I'm not nervous," Hermione said.

"Liar." He laughed. "You'd be inhuman not to be, but don't worry. My grandfather's much different from my father. He'll be tolerable, I swear."

"Right." She swallowed, recalling what Theo had said about Draco's stance on his grandfather's character and opting not to comment. "How are things with your mom?"

"She's been lovely, actually. My father's here, so I'm not really ever alone with her, but she seems… fine. Well, she seems mostly tired," Draco said. "She sleeps quite a lot, but outside of that she seems normal."

Hermione wondered what Lucius had done to make sure Narcissa behaved. She doubted he would have taken any chances.

"That's good," she said.

"She says she wants to see you again," Draco added. "You must have made quite an impression on her. I think she's fond of you."

Hermione blinked. "Really?"

"Oh, definitely. She seemed almost urgent about speaking with you," he said. "Said she thinks it's rather nice I've chosen someone so unspoiled."

"I'm certainly not spoiled," Hermione said with a laugh. "Not compared to the people you should be dating, I imagine."

"I think she meant unspoiled by the world. Not disillusioned, I think she meant," he clarified.

Hermione doubted that had been intended as a compliment. She suspected the word Narcissa meant had actually been naive, but at least she hadn't expressed outright disapproval to Draco. Perhaps Narcissa would be an ally in the end.

"Well, I'd love to see her again," Hermione said. "Are you thinking that's a possibility?"

"Oh, almost certainly. We'll meet my grandfather after the gala," Draco clarified, "so plan to stick around for a bit, okay? He leaves first," he explained. "Nobody can leave before he does, but then we'll slip out to speak to him. I'll have Theo tell you when."

"Sounds great," Hermione said, feeling another surge of anxiety. She paused, then ventured carefully, "Have you talked to Harry?"

Draco was quiet a moment.

"I wanted to apologize to you about that," he said. "I hope you understand, it's not really about you. It's just that I was so surprised—normally I know exactly what Harry's thinking. But it was unfair of me to react the way I did, as it isn't your fault." He paused again. "I'm glad he was able to confide in you."

"Oh, good." Her response felt underwhelming, but she wasn't sure what else to say. "As long as you're not, you know. Worried, I guess."

He didn't say anything for a second, and she waited, fingers tight around her phone.

"Do I have anything to be worried about?" Draco asked her.

"No," she told him hastily. "No, of course not. I promise."

She heard a rustle on the other end, as if he was switching the phone from one ear to the other. "I didn't think so, but I'm glad to hear it. Pansy says hello, by the way," he told her, which she doubted. Presumably that was a paraphrase of something else. "Well, she said to make sure you and Daphne hadn't burned the flat down, but I think that's something like hello."

Hermione laughed. "Yeah, that sounds right. Tell her everything's still standing."

"I will, don't worry. You'd better get to sleep if you're leaving early. Call me in the morning when you arrive?"

She nodded. "Of course."

"Excellent. I can't wait to see you."

Relief tugged a little at her heart. "Yeah?"

"Of course. I miss you terribly, I always do. There's no one to tell when my father says something outrageous, and nobody's on the other end of my conspiratorial 'can you believe Pansy just said that' glances. I've also been studying with absolutely no distractions," he lamented with a sigh. "It's horrible and I hate it."

Hermione smiled. "I miss you, too."

"Good. I love you, in case you'd forgotten."

It was always nice to be reminded. "I love you."

"See you tomorrow?"

"Yes." She nodded. "Sleep well, Your Highness."

"I will. Sweet dreams, Miss Granger."

When they hung up, Hermione glanced up at the gown, which was hanging from the door of her closet. This time, Daphne had reconstructed one of her own gowns, taking an initially strapless dress of floaty Cambridge blue silk and adding lace sleeves and a matching overlay. Altogether, it was appropriate, beautiful, classic and feminine and soft, and Hermione glanced down at her nails, which she'd miraculously managed not to touch for an entire week.

So far, things were generally in her favor.

All she had to do, she reminded herself grimly, was not make a single mistake.

The party was much like it had been the previous year, though with the addition of Neville. Fleur had been unable to get away (which would surely disappoint the DRAGONFLOWER blog) but it was nice to have the group together in its usual form. Hermione's updo that evening came courtesy of Pansy, who'd barged into Daphne's house sometime in the early afternoon and barked at both of them to stop everything they were doing, which she'd expressed with abject certainty was entirely all wrong. It had been, surprisingly, the ideal way to start the evening, and Hermione had to admit, for a girl who'd always been able to pay for her hair to be its perfect, shiniest self, Pansy certainly knew what she was doing.

Harry, who'd made himself fairly scarce since Halloween, looked his usual handsome self, greeting Hermione with a broad and comforting grin. She hated to admit it, but at the events which prescribed Draco's absence, she always felt more at ease when Harry was there.

"Hi," she said, breathlessly giving him a hug. "Have you actually been working, then?"

"Oh, you know, saving lives, eating canapés," he joked, kissing her cheek. "You look perfect, as ever," he said, taking her hand and giving her a little twirl to nod appreciatively at the dress. "Abraxas will love you," he determined triumphantly, and Hermione made a face.

"Don't remind me—"

"He's not scary," Harry said. "Don't let Theo scare you. He's never liked Theo, but honestly, who would?" he joked. "Seriously, don't worry. You have nothing to be afraid of."

Hermione felt a rush of relief, exhaling sharply. "Really? I wish you'd told me."

He half-smiled. "You didn't ask."

"What are you two talking about?" Blaise cut in before Hermione could react to Harry's potentially deeply-layered comment, arriving at their side with two glasses in hand.

From Harry, reaching out for one: "Oh, is this for me?"

From Blaise, irritably: "Don't be ridiculous, Henry, I'm a gentleman, not a butler. This is for the lady."

From Hermione, skeptically: "Is it, Blaise? Or is it just… also for you?"

Blaise, with a scoff: "Just take the drink, new Tracey."

From Daphne, appearing from elsewhere in the room with Theo at her heels: "You won't believe who's here."

Pansy, slightly winded from apparently chasing after Daphne: "Do not make a fuss about this, Daphne Greengrass you heathenous gossi-"

Blaise: "TELL US IMMEDIATELY OR I'LL TAKE POINTS FROM EVERYONE."

Harry, grinning: "Better not chance it, Daph."

Daphne, bursting with excitement: "Okay, it's—"

Blaise: "THE WAIT IS INGLORIOUSLY TORTUROUS."

Neville, offering Pansy a glass of champagne: "What's going on?"

Theo: "Oh, nothing, we're just slowly killing Blaise."

Blaise, groaning: "I've never in my life wanted to be murdered so much if it would mean I could haunt all of you relentlessly as punishment for your crimes."

Hortense, approvingly: "That's the most relatable thing you've ever said. Someone should allocate you some sort of imaginary point total."

Theo, jumping in place at the sight of Draco's French cousins: "Jesus, when did you get here?"

Thibaut: "Who are you?"

Theo: "What?"

Harry, to Hortense and Thibaut: "Can you two leave?"

Hortense, stiffly: "Metaphysically speaking? Yes."

Blaise: "That means no."

Thibaut, approvingly: "The pretty one gets it."

Harry: "I didn't think you two were even invited to this."

Hortense, with tinkling laugh: "We were not."

Theo, nudging Daphne: "Just tell them, Greengrass, or we'll all die of suspense—"

Neville, sipping his champagne with confusion: "Tell us what?"

Pansy, impatiently: "Honestly, Neville, we're talking."

Hortense, glancing over Hermione's shoulder: "Oh look, Bellatrix Lestrange is here. Didn't she recently kill her husband?"

Daphne, frustrated: "I was just going to say th-"

Hermione, confused: "Wait, that's who you're excited about? Who is she?"

Daphne, obviously barely repressing excitement: "Okay, so, the thing is—"

Thibaut, loudly: "Bellatrix Lestrange is an absolute bore."

Harry, doubtfully: "You're going to call the woman who slept with a married man twice her age, dated Prince Lucius, married the married man, had an affair with her sister's husband, and then wound up suddenly widowed a… bore?"

Hortense: "It's true. She almost never wears patterns."

Blaise, loftily: "Besides, who isn't widowed these days. Once? That's child's play."

Thibaut, nodding vigorously: "I agree, it's as if this is some sort of recreational dive into the sandbox for amateurs—"

Hermione: "Hold on—what did you say she did?"

Pansy, impatiently: "Don't listen to them, Hermione, it's nothing. Only I will say that I hope Narcissa doesn't run into her. Or if she does, then hopefully nobody from the press notices h-"

Hortense: "Oh look, it's Rita Skeeter."

Pansy: silence, save for a look Hermione had learned to translate as, loosely, "Oh, for bloody fuck's sake."

Neville, curiously: "Rita Skeeter?"

Pansy, sighing: "Neville, please. Not now."

Thibaut, gleefully: "This is a disaster."

Harry, frowning: "Actually, it sort of is."

Hermione, catching his sidelong glance: "Why?"

Harry, with marked hesitation: "Well… Pans, do you plan to stop me if I tell her?"

Pansy, stiffly: "I suppose in this one instance, you probably should. But stick to the facts, Henry."

Hortense: "I've never once enjoyed a fact and I don't plan to start now. Come on, Thibaut. We should steal some furniture."

Theo, with palpable confusion: "Aren't you two sort of… extremely wealthy?"

Thibaut: "One cannot buy thrill, Francis."

Theo: "My name's Theo."

Hortense: "I really don't see how that's relevant."

Daphne, helpfully: "I would imagine silverware might be easier to steal than furniture. Just in terms of logistics."

Thibaut, dismissively: "I imagine it is, if one is a coward. Good day."

Harry, waiting for Thibaut and Hortense's absence before turning to Hermione: "So anyway, Lady Bellatrix Lestrange is Princess Narcissa's eldest sister."

Hermione, surprised: "What, that woman over there? But she's so—"

Daphne: "Unhinged-looking?"

Hermione, hesitantly: "I was going to say brunette, but—"

Blaise, sipping champagne: "Genetics are a fickle business."

Harry: "Right, well, anyway, Lucius dated Bellatrix first, but she already had, um. Pans, what's the nice word for it?"

Pansy, lips pursed: "A reputation."

Harry: "Yes, that."

Hermione, hesitantly: "I don't understand."

Theo: "Well, it was… what year?"

Harry: "The early eighties, I think. Lucius was in his twenties then, and so was Bellatrix."

Daphne: "Yes, and the worst thing any woman can be is a person who enjoys sex."

Pansy, scoffing into her glass: "Which is still true."

Blaise: "Yes, very much so. Even mariticide seven times over is technically preferable."

Neville, hesitantly: "Is that something that actually happened, or…?"

Blaise: "What?"

Neville, venturing carefully: "Well, it's just… you've implied some sort of murder several times now, and I'm just growing a bit concerned—"

Daphne: "Anyway, the rumor is Abraxas shut things down immediately. Said the Princess of Wales couldn't possibly be someone like Bellatrix, who was already said to be having an affair with Rodolphus Lestrange—who was married at the time."

Theo, with a shudder: "And my father's age."

Daphne: "Yes, and that. And they say that for a time, Lady Bellatrix was sleeping with both Rodolphus and Prince Lucius."

Pansy, dismissively: "Rumor. Nothing more."

Hermione, slightly entranced by the story against her will: "Okay, so what happened?"

Daphne: "Lucius broke it off, but Bellatrix is how he met Narcissa. The Black sisters were high-ranking, from a good family, and Narcissa didn't have Bellatrix's… flaws."

Harry, drily: "Probably because she was only eighteen at the time."

Hermione, startled: "That's… wow. That's so young. And Prince Lucius was—?"

Daphne, thoughtfully: "Late twenties, I think. He's definitely much older."

Theo, with a nod: "They got engaged after a year of dating, married another year later."

Hermione, tentatively: "And I take it all was not quite well?"

Pansy: a stiff, throat-clearing expression of confirmation.

Hermione: "So what happened?"

Harry: "Well, Lucius and Narcissa got married, that's obvious. Rodolphus Lestrange left his first wife and married Bellatrix."

Hermione, somewhat uneasily: "And I take it the vows didn't quite stick?"

Theo: "That's a nice way to put it."

Pansy: "Again, all of this is hearsay, Hermione."

Hermione, waving a hand: "Mmhm yes of course but what do they hearsay?"

Harry, hesitantly: "Well, after Draco was born, Lucius sort of… fell back into it with Bellatrix."

Blaise: "With his penis."

Harry: "Right, that was implied."

Blaise: "Just slipped out."

Harry: "You're not helping."

Blaise: "I'm not trying to help."

Harry, sighing: "That's pretty obvious, yeah."

Hermione, impatiently: "And Narcissa?"

Blaise, shrugging: "Well, you know the general sense of it. People said she'd been carrying on with an array of people—Darian Mulciber, Caleb Avery, they even said—"

He broke off, glancing at Harry, who looked intensely uncomfortable.

"My father knew her when they were younger," Harry explained to Hermione. "But of course, it's entirely possible nothing was going on."

"I'd take 'entirely possible' and upgrade it to 'definitely true,'" Pansy assured him, giving him a steadying glance. "Everyone knows James loved his wife," she said fiercely, and Harry gave a small, grateful smile in reply. "It's merely that every noble who'd ever appeared within an inch of Princess Narcissa was accused of sleeping with her, no different from Draco and any woman he breathes in the presence of. Or Anne Boleyn, for that matter," she added as an afterthought, and Hermione blinked.

"Wait, but what about Narcissa and Bellatrix?" she asked, and to that, the others all seemed to collectively hesitate—minus Daphne, who glanced around with the same degree of curiosity.

"Narcissa hasn't spoken to Bellatrix in years," interrupted Hortense, who had apparently returned sans any stolen sofas. Hermione jumped, startled, but Hortense, who seemed to have that effect on everyone, looked relatively unfazed. "When Rodolphus Lestrange finally did us all a favor and died of chronic mundanity, Narcissa didn't go to the funeral. Rita Skeeter made a point to highlight Narcissa's absence," she added brightly, sipping at something bright green that Hermione was fairly certain was not being passed around. "I, for one, cannot wait to hear what she has to say about this event. Oh, look, the French ambassador. I wonder if he's done anything new with his penis," she mused to herself, wandering away and leaving the others to gape in her midst.

"Wait, why is Bellatrix even here?" Hermione asked Pansy, who shook her head, evidently without an answer. "That's—" She broke off. "Oh, no. That's bad, isn't it?"

"Abraxas will be furious," Theo said, grimly confirming Hermione's suspicions. "It's likely she received a ceremonial invitation, given her late husband's standing," he clarified, "but she usually knows better and declines." His expression soured, then grew sympathetic. "He won't be in a good mood. If he even still agrees to meet you, that is."

"If?" Hermione echoed, dismayed, and Theo shrugged, uncertain.

"That," Pansy contributed, "and Narcissa certainly wasn't expecting to see her." Her expression was surprisingly filled with human-resembling concern. "I can't imagine anyone in the royal family will be pleased, particularly now that Rita Skeeter's here to witness it."

"Draco," Hermione realized, her throat going dry. "Does he know about this? Does he know who she is?"

She glanced at Harry, who hesitated, then nodded.

"He knows," Harry said quietly, with Theo and Blaise both looking equally concerned. "He won't…" He stopped, contemplating it. "This will bother him," he explained at a murmur, which Hermione knew was something he'd said for her benefit. "I doubt he'll say anything, but believe me, it will."

Hermione, who could only imagine the discomfort of being within several feet of any woman while knowing her father had cheated on her mother with her, sought him out in the crowd, straining to see him. At this distance, she could identify only the pale blond of his hair, the shape of his shoulders. She had no way of reading the tension in his spine, the tightness of his hands around his glass. She had no way of comforting him, of checking in with him, of knowing at all what this was like for him. He was standing with his mother, who looked pale, but as far as Hermione knew, she always looked pale.

Narcissa was wearing a dark column gown, something that made her look unspeakably regal, but Hermione was distracted, noting less her outfit than her toneless look of poise. Hermione marveled that she and Draco could reveal so little, both draped in finery and wearing smiles that never shifted, painted carefully in place. They were like statues carved from ice, and so was Prince Lucius, whom Hermione guessed had made a point to stand with his wife and son for the benefit of their audience. He reached for Narcissa, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, and Hermione, who'd seen Narcissa shrink viscerally from him before, watched her now stand perfectly still, obviously aware what was expected of her.

Hermione wondered if it had been asking too much for Draco to be something emotive, something free, when clearly, he was not. How would he have even learned to be, given everything?

"Hey," Harry said, drawing her away. "Let's get another glass."

She nodded, realizing the others had continued talking about something else while she'd been staring hopefully for a glimpse at Draco. "Right, sorry. I don't want to drink too much, though," she said quickly, and Harry nodded.

"We'll get water, then, it doesn't matter." He paused, then said, "Are you alright?"

"Me? Of course," she said. "This isn't about me at all."

"Still." He gave her a small smile. "I'd feel better if you didn't look so distressed."

"Oh, I'm not—" Harry cut her off with a doubtful look, and she sighed. "Okay, fine. I guess if I'm being selfish—"

"Be selfish," Harry assured her. "Really. It's a necessity from time to time."

"Right." She sighed again. "I guess I'll just be frustrated if this means I don't get to meet Draco's grandfather. I mean, until I do meet him and I find out whether he might possibly approve of me, it does sort of feel like I'm… I don't know. Spinning my wheels? I mean if Draco and I will never get to openly date, then what are we doing? Am I supposed to be his secret forever? I just—" She broke off, realizing who, exactly, she was unloading all of this on. "Sorry," she said, suddenly horrified with herself. "I didn't… I wasn't thinking, I just—"

"I told you to be selfish," Harry said, shrugging. "It's something you may never get to be with Draco. I'm happy to help."

"But I—" She felt awful. "I don't want to do that to you."

"Do what to me, Hermione?" he asked, his expression schooled and neutral, and she recalled what Draco had said about him wearing a successful mask. "We're friends. You matter to me. Your happiness matters to me. It matters in general," he added pointedly, "even if you're sometimes asked to put it aside."

My father was sure enough for the both of them, she heard Harry say in her head, followed by Daphne's murmur of I want him to be happy, even if it's not with me.

Hermione swallowed heavily. "We should go back," she said, gesturing over her shoulder to where the others remained. "I'm fine, really. It's nice of you to worry about me, but I'm not the one who needs it. I should let you get back to your roguery," she added, hoping it sounded like a joke, and Harry fixed her with a too-long glance.

"It will be worse," Harry said plainly. "If and when you and Draco go public, it will be much worse."

"I know that, but—" She broke off. "What are you saying?"

His bright green eyes, always filled with humor, weren't laughing now. They were fixed on hers, and even in the stiffness of a tux, he smelled like jasmine and familiarity.

"If he won't fight for your happiness," Harry said, "then you should."

She felt the weight of his unspoken implications, landing around her shoulders like a heavy, invisible cloak. "Harry," she ventured, a little troubled, and he shook his head.

"Just some advice," he said, "one friend to another."

Then he looked up, letting his attention wander. "Speaking of, looks like Neville could use a friend," he said, gesturing to where the others were. "I should really have a chat with Pansy about what sorts of people she can successfully step on, don't you think?"

"I—yeah, I guess so. Yeah." Hermione nodded vacantly. "Should we go back, then?"

"Probably," Harry said, glancing down at her. "I don't suppose you feel any better, do you?"

No, not at all. Not even remotely. Hermione glanced up in time to see Narcissa's eyes drifting across the room to fall on her sister, her face expressionless and voiceless and… silent.

"Oh, I'm much better," Hermione assured him. "Yes. Much."

Theo guided Hermione through the palace halls, thankfully having learned from the last time he'd let her wander around an unfamiliar series of rooms. She was grateful to see Draco was waiting for her alone, standing outside a closed set of double doors and pacing the floor until he looked up to catch her arrival.

"Hermione," he said, relief flooding his features, and she strode directly into his arms, hearing Theo silently depart the room behind her with the quiet motion of the door. Draco pulled back, managing a thin smile, and brushed his lips against her forehead. "It's been… well, it's been much too long." He tugged her in close again, curling a hand around the back of her neck and resting his cheek against her hair. "How was the party?"

"Fine," she said, not wanting to get into it. "Your French cousins are bizarre, though. How are you?" she pressed, and he laughed, leaning back to take her face in his hands. "I know this must be a sore subject," she ventured, chewing her lip, "but—"

"Ah." He shook his head. "They told you about Bellatrix Lestrange, I take it?"

She grimaced. "Yeah." She slid a hand gently through his hair, his eyes closing gratefully at her touch. "Want to talk about it?"

"There isn't much to tell, is there?" he asked in a low voice, eyes floating open to land steadily on hers. "My grandfather's furious, my mother hasn't spoken more than two words in over four hours—and none of us can stand to look at my father, of course. They've been in there," he added, gesturing to the closed double doors, "since we left the party. I'm apparently not invited to participate in whatever this is, which is probably my father's doing."

Hermione wondered if it was. It was getting difficult to tell who in the family had more influence over the situation. "But what about you?" she asked him, touching his cheek. "It can't be easy for you."

"Well, who knows what Rita Skeeter is going to say to ruin things." His mouth tightened. "I thought I was finally making progress with my mother, but now this will get printed, and everything horrible about my parents printed in the last thirty years will get dragged up from the dead, and—"

He broke off, clearing his throat.

"It doesn't matter," he exhaled, glancing down at her. "It's nothing. Are you nervous?" he asked her, and she blinked.

"Draco," she said uncertainly, "if you want to talk ab-"

The doors opened, startling them both, and Prince Lucius slipped out with his head bent, closing the doors behind him.

"Miss Granger," he said grudgingly in greeting, more to the top of her head than to her, and she gave him her best curtsy in reply, determined not to do anything stupid. "Draco, you'll have to find another time," he said, mouth tight. "Your grandfather doesn't wish to be disturbed."

Hermione's heart sank, though she'd already been preparing herself for the possibility. She straightened as Lucius turned to re-enter the room, ready to leave, but to her surprise, Draco had set his jaw, his hand resting firmly on the small of her back and holding her in place.

"No," Draco said, and Lucius frowned, taken aback. "No, he'll see us now."

Lucius gave an impatient scowl. "Draco, listen to me, this isn't the best time t-"

"Father," Draco said firmly, "I understand Grandfather is very busy, but he will see us now."

"Draco," Lucius hissed, "please do not make a scene in front of—"

"In front of my girlfriend?" Draco demanded, and Hermione, as surprised at the outburst as Lucius had been, merely tried not to gape at him. "Because that's what she is, Father. You keep trying to treat her like some sort of outsider but she isn't," he shot accusingly. "Not to me, and therefore not to you. I want Grandfather to meet her," he said, resolute, "and you're not going to stop me."

"It's not—" Lucius grimaced, taking a few steps closer to drop his voice. "It's not as if I'm the one making the rules, Draco. Your grandfather has made it very clear that—"

"Come on," Draco said to Hermione, taking her hand. "Don't forget to curtsy," he said under his breath, and before she quite realized what was happening, he'd burst through the doors, leaving Lucius in his wake and tugging Hermione in after him.

"Grandfather," he said, and a man who leaned against the room's wooden desk—the man who was King Abraxas, Hermione registered absurdly, the fucking King of England—looked up, a slow wave of confusion passing over his face before resolving itself to something like amusement. In the corner, Hermione noted, Narcissa had been pacing near a window, fingers curled into fists as she stopped short, blue eyes hard at the sight of Hermione.

"Sorry to disturb you, Grandfather, but it's rather important. This is Miss Hermione Granger," Draco said, and Hermione quickly dropped into a curtsy, which she was grateful now she'd practiced so many times. "Hermione, this is my grandfather."

"Your Majesty," she said, lowering her chin, and Abraxas, who had removed his jacket and ceremonial medals and looked shockingly like a real person, glanced at her for a long moment.

"Miss Granger," he said, his voice surprisingly warm. "I've heard so much about you."

She bit back a reply, recalling Theo's advice: Don't speak unless he addresses you directly. Instead she smiled, waiting, and Abraxas shifted away from his casual lean against the desk to step towards her, glancing at something behind her.

"Lucius, the door please," he said to his son, and Hermione heard the door close behind her before she realized Abraxas was beckoning for her to rise. "No need to stay there all evening," he joked to her, and she slowly slid her gaze up, permitting herself what she hoped was demurely cooperative eye contact. "How are you, Miss Granger?"

It was hard to find her voice. "I'm very well, thank you, Sir. And you?"

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

She was toying with a response—Nice to meet you, too, would that be too informal?—when Narcissa gave a loud scoff, rounding on her father-in-law from where she stood.

"Oh really, is it, Abraxas?" she scoffed. "Is it a pleasure," she said, irony dripping from her voice, "or will it only be a pleasure if you get to hide her away for the rest of her life, because I think if it's the latter—"

"Narcissa," Lucius warned sharply, and Hermione held her breath, noting Draco's shock beside her. His entire frame had gone rigid, though he said nothing. "We'll discuss this later."

"Will we, Lucius?" she snapped, and whirled around to move towards Draco. "Your father keeps me locked up, you know," she told him harshly, and his face drained instantly of color. "He keeps me from you, Draco, but you should know it's his doing, not mine."

"Narcissa," Lucius said, his face a similarly ghastly shade, "I keep telling you, this is just paranoia. If you'd just listen to your doctors—"

"Yes, right, my doctors," Narcissa muttered. "As if they're not paid to keep me quiet by you—and as for you," she snarled at Abraxas, "don't think I don't know you're using me. I let it happen, I kept my mouth shut, but you will not take my son from me again—"

"No one is taking Draco from you, Narcissa," Abraxas said, his voice gentle, though it was less soothing than it was a bit patronizing, and almost excessively persuasive. It had a distinctly caramel sound to it, a sweetness that slid on either side of true or false and could have easily been either. "Lucius and I are merely trying to make sure you have the care you need without the added stress of royal duties."

Narcissa was increasingly agitated. "Look at him!" she half-shouted, waving a hand at Draco, who looked sickened. "He doesn't even recognize me! He doesn't even know me anymore, and it's you," she gasped, one hand flying to her face as she stared at Abraxas. "It's you, you did this—you turned my son against me!"

"Mother," Draco said, stricken, and Hermione, who could count at least eighteen levels of injustice she wanted desperately to address, did everything in her power not to speak. "Mother, that's not true, I promise you—"

"And you," Narcissa said, rounding furiously on Hermione. "I told you to leave. I told you to get out. Why aren't you listening?" she asked, and it occurred to Hermione that Princess Narcissa, one of the most beloved and envied women in the world, was begging. "Why aren't you listening to me? He'll only hurt you, you stupid girl, he'll break you, he'll leave you alone to fend for yourself while he leaves you," she half-sobbed, hysteria smeared across her face, "and I'm trying to save you, I'm trying to help you—"

"That's enough," Lucius said sharply, and Draco stepped between Hermione and his mother—guarding Hermione from her, Hermione suspected, though she wanted to tell him she was pretty certain Narcissa was the only one in the room who meant her no harm—as Narcissa's agitation heightened, spreading to everyone in the room. "Narcissa, you're just overexcited. You should rest."

"Draco," Narcissa sobbed, reaching for him, and he caught the hands she flung at him, white-faced with shock. "Draco, I'm—" She stopped; Hermione suspected she must have seen the horror on Draco's face at her outbursts and she quickly forced herself to soften, eyes still wild. "Draco, sweetheart," Narcissa whispered, stroking his cheeks as he stood frozen and uncertain. "Draco, my baby, my darling—please, listen to me. I'm not sick—I'm not," she told him, pleading with him to believe her. "Don't let them take me, please—"

"Mother," Draco said, holding tightly to her hands. "Mother, I won't, I would never—"

"Please." Narcissa was crying silently now, her beautiful face wretched with pain, and Hermione ached for her. "Please, Draco, please believe me—"

"I believe you, Mother. I believe you." He was holding her, trying to calm her, but even so, Hermione saw his eyes drift questioningly to his grandfather, as if asking for proof: You didn't really do this, she imagined him saying to Abraxas, did you?

"Narcissa," Abraxas said, and Hermione watched every single one of Narcissa's limbs stiffen in response. "A good night's sleep should do you some good, don't you think? It's been a rather exciting evening for all of us. We should all get some rest, and we can discuss this later. Privately."

Lucius stepped forward, reaching for Narcissa's arm. This time, Narcissa let him take it, permitting him to pull her against his chest while staring at her son, who released her numbly. Hermione suspected Narcissa could sense she'd done little more than shatter him, and it was obvious by the look on Draco's face he might not recover for some time.

"Draco," Abraxas said to his grandson, "perhaps you might escort Miss Granger out? I apologize we didn't have more time," he said to her, "as Draco does speak so highly of you, but I'm afraid we have some family matters to attend to."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and Draco took her hand, leading her out of the room without hesitation. It couldn't be clearer that he'd wanted to leave even more than they had wanted him to go, and he was walking so quickly, desperately fleeing the scene, that Hermione struggled to keep up.

"Draco," she said, out of breath by the time he'd led her through an indistinguishable series of rooms. She wasn't sure this was the way she'd come, but then again, she didn't trust herself with any sort of direction. "Draco, are you—"

He cut her off with a forceful pause and a kiss, too rough, all teeth and tightly-gripping hands, and she kissed him back, breathless. It escalated quickly, their control rapidly spinning out, and by the time he tugged her hair loose she had yanked at the roots of his, returning his anguish and fury pulse for pulse until he stopped, looking down at her.

"I want you," he said, his voice hoarse.

She swallowed, her lips already swollen.

"Have me, then," she said, and then his mouth was on hers again, hot and urgent and with barely a pulse escaping between them before he pressed her back against the mahogany console table behind her, the sound of their uneven breaths the only audible thing in the opulent, too-large room as he lifted her on top of it.

He bunched up the fabric of her dress—the silk and lace she'd hoped would give her the image of a good girl, the right girl, which seemed increasingly unlikely—shoving it up her thighs and yanking her legs around his hips as she fumbled with his belt, his trousers, pulling his cock free from the band of his Hugo Boss boxer-briefs and helping him slide himself inside her, both of them letting out a gasp. His lips were on her neck, her fingers digging into the blades of his shoulders, and he jerked her up with an arm around her rib cage, thrusting into her with all the tension she knew he must have felt.

"Go ahead," she said raggedly in his ear, holding him tightly. "Go as hard as you want, Draco, I don't care."

To her surprise, he stopped, his arm still tight around her waist. He was breathing hard, his posture stiff, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. She leaned back, looking at him with a questioning glance, and as he drew his gaze up to hers he blinked, suddenly remembering where he was. Who she was, who he was—what they were.

"I love you," he said to her, mumbling it in anguish. "I love you."

She nodded. "I know."

She kissed him hard, thinking he'd want to continue the same way he'd started, but it was different now. Just as urgent, just as pleading, but without the necessary violence of pain. Slowly, gently, Draco started to move again, easing one of her legs higher and pulling her close, his kisses sweeter now.

"I love you," he whispered to her lips, and she slid her hands under his jacket, stroking her fingers up his spine.

"I know," she said, "I know—"

"I love you." He rested his forehead against hers, shaking his head. Angry at himself, she guessed, and she touched the back of his neck, his cheek, running her thumb gently across his lips with reassurance. "I'll never—" He broke off. "What she said, Hermione," he attempted, voice strained, "what my mother said, I won't… I won't do that to you, I would never, I love you—"

"I know you do, Draco," she said, and now sex between them was reverent, his pace slow and deep, his pulse still racing but his touch pleading, desperate, devolved. "And I love you, I—" She swallowed. "I'm so sorry that happened, I love you, I'm—"

She broke off with a little mewl of urgency, the flurried building-twisting-coiling inside her rendering her incoherent, and she came with a whimpered cry as he finished with a gasp, the two of them gradually relaxing to clutch each other in silence.

She stroked his hair, not letting go; he held her close.

"I don't know what's happening," Draco said hoarsely, and Hermione nodded.

"I know," she said, and hesitated before adding wryly, "And I can't tell if this was terrible timing, or a convenient distraction that will serve to cast me in a more favorable light."

He gave a tentative laugh. "True, they certainly can't fault you for anything." He leaned away to tuck her hair behind her ear. "I ruined your hair," he admonished himself softly, shaking his head. "You looked so pretty. You still do, of course," he amended hastily, "but, you know—"

She shook her head, reassuring him. "I get it. And Draco, I—" She hesitated. "I'm… glad, actually. That you, um. That you wanted me to meet your grandfather." It was one of those tiny grand gestures, she'd realized, and she wanted him to know she had noticed. "It means a lot to me."

"I told you, Hermione. I want this," he reminded her, reaching for her hand and lacing his fingers through hers. "I want to do this," he said, pointedly kissing her knuckles, "where people can see. I want to be able to take you places, to stand at your side. I want you sitting next to me at every boring dinner party." He toyed with her ring, shaking his head. "And if that means I have to barge in on my grandfather from time to time, so be it."

"Bet he loved me," Hermione said drily, and Draco laughed.

"He will," he said, kissing her hand again. "Don't let what you heard in there… influence you. My grandfather isn't like my father," he assured her. "He wouldn't do… that. He's—you'll see. You'll like him," he said, tightening his fingers around hers. "Promise, you will, and he'll like you."

Hermione, who didn't quite know what to say to something she doubted very much was true, opted not to say anything at all. It didn't seem important. Instead, she pulled Draco close, feeling his tension melt away beneath her touch, and cast hers off along with it. There, in that beautiful palace, all of its occupants playing host to so much fear and anxiety and doubt, Hermione felt a stirring of something.

Of being happy, despite everything, to be here in his arms.

Well, I do like to give credit where credit is due (so maybe I'm the pinnacle of grace after all?) and I will say this: Rita Skeeter is, once again, right about exactly one thing.

After that night, I definitely learned the art of being silent.

a/n: Just another thank you while I hurry to post this and get some sleep. You little treasures are marvelous.

14. Patience

Chapter 14: Patience

19 May, 2018
Clarence House

An Enduring Heart

Owing to the unlikely betrothal between Hermione Granger and Prince Draco is perhaps the distinct fascination the public has with the couple, which has compounded to an interest so magnified the likes of which have never been seen before. While the marriage between King Abraxas and his Queen, Adelaide, a Danish princess in her own right, was cordially accepted as a match for political gain, there was little grand romanticising of a relationship between two political figures whose duties were to country first. In contrast, Princess Narcissa, as Prince Lucius' bride of choice, was beloved as one of this country's own, a young woman of twenty who was adored for her English blood and admired for her beauty and her warmth as a public figure.

Hermione, known for her temperance and intelligence, is said to be quietly discerning and poised in person, which is perhaps her saving grace given her unconventional background. Prince Lucius' prior relationships—including one with the eccentric Lady Bellatrix Lestrange—were, albeit passionate, rejected on the basis that his future wife must meet the royal family's standard of propriety. Lady Lestrange, who was then Lady Bellatrix Black, was notorious for her lascivious behavior among older men, which, along with clamoring suspicions of extramarital affairs, excluded her from consideration as a bride.

Hermione, while spirited, maintains an exceptional grace and painstaking care for her reputation, endearing her to King Abraxas. Despite patiently waiting several years for acknowledgment,

This is… difficult to stomach. I suppose it's better if I just stop. I've spent enough of my life being narrated by Rita Skeeter to know perfectly well that when she says 'enduring' and 'patience,' she isn't listing virtues.

People seem to think I'm not aware of this—or that I might not know the mockery the press applied to Hermione while I was being accused of fading interest or even cold feet—but of course they couldn't have known the full story. Sometimes I wonder whether Hermione herself knows the whole of it, though if she doesn't, that's entirely my fault. Among the many lessons in being so close to the throne is, first and foremostly, not to be too sparing with truths. Anyone who sees us, sees our vulnerability, can ultimately diminish us. It's important, or so I was taught, that no one ever understand who and what I really am. It makes me look cold, makes me look distant. It makes me look selfish, and perhaps I am. I've never seen the advantage in being honest, as it only seems cause others pain, and though I'm more than capable of suffering myself, I've never been permitted to let it show.

But I suppose, since I'm about to begin sharing my life with someone else, it's never too late to start.

23 November, 2011
London, England

Hermione: omg slughorn is telling us about some floral arrangement you allegedly sent him in your absence

Hermione: theo and I can't stop laughing

Hermione: omg I think… I think he actually bought himself flowers

Hermione: yep. wow. he even wrote himself a card this is tragic and hilarious

Hermione: update: he's weeping

Draco bit back a laugh.

"Draco," Lucius sighed, "are you listening?"

"Yes, of course I'm listening," Draco muttered in reply, tucking his phone back into his pocket and looking up at his father and grandfather. "I had a message, Father, and I worried it might be something urgent. After all, if this issue had any urgency, I imagine you might have found time to tell me over the past—oh, give or take twenty-one years," he remarked drily, to which Lucius replied with a narrow-eyed glare.

"If you're not going to take this seriously—"

"You've been skirting an answer for nearly an hour," Draco shot back. "I simply wanted to know what was wrong with Mother and you've done nothing but make excuses, as far as I can tell."

"It's not an excuse," Lucius said irritably. "I'm trying to explain that I have tried to get your mother the help she needs—"

"What exactly is wrong with her?" Draco demanded. "You said she's sick, fine, but this certainly doesn't seem like an illness. Not one that keeps her bedridden, anyway—"

"Draco, it's very complex and hardly requiring your involvement—"

"Lucius, please," Abraxas cut in, shaking his head and turning his attention exclusively to Draco. "Your mother has what's called histrionic personality disorder," Abraxas explained to him, and Draco shot a see? it's not hard glance at his father. "As far as we understand it, it's a condition which can only be treated with rigorous therapy—which of course your mother has refused several times over the last decade. I'm afraid it's gotten quite out of hand."

"That—" Draco frowned. "That doesn't sound right. Histrionic, that sounds like hysteria, doesn't it? Which isn't a thing." He stopped himself, amending the statement with a shake of his head. "No, never mind, it's definitely a thing, but a rather sexist one, isn't it?"

"It's her mother," Lucius said, and despite Draco's fervent disinterest in whatever his father had to say on the topic, he reluctantly turned to him. "I understand that when the mother is narcissistic and distant—difficult to please," he clarified, clearing his throat, "it's quite likely the offspring will then be prone to outbursts. Attention-seeking behaviors," he enumerated, "sexual provocation, some degree of paranoia—"

"You sound like a textbook," Draco said.

"I should," Lucius said drily, "as I've certainly read enough of them."

"She's a person," Draco reminded him, openly bristling, and Lucius scowled.

"Draco, do you think for some reason I'm not aware that my own wife—"

"Narcissa has repeatedly refused treatment," Abraxas cut in gently, easing the tension between them and stepping forward to place a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Believe me, Draco, I wish there was something more we could do, but this sort of illness is not readily treated without the patient's consent. I've tried reasoning with her myself, but it's something of a lost cause." He glanced pointedly up at Lucius. "I'm afraid she considers me the enemy."

"But that's ridiculous," Draco said, shooting a hard glare at his father. "It's not like you're the one who betrayed her, Grandfather."

Lucius was, by then, too accustomed to that particular accusation to flinch. "Draco, you really must move on from the past," Lucius told him stiffly. "Your mother blames me enough for the both of you, I assure you. For all three of you, I imagine," he added, and though he would never have scowled at his own father, there was an element like it; a sour twist of his lips. "And it's not as if she's entirely innocent."

"That," Draco scoffed, "is an immensely childish way to look at things—"

"Lucius," Abraxas cut in carefully, hand tightening on Draco's shoulder, "why don't you let me speak to Draco alone?"

This, Draco knew, was Lucius' least favorite thing. He loathed being cast out of the room, and unlike Draco, he had very little practice with it. Being the Prince of Wales meant there were very few privileges Lucius did not have, but in terms of vacancies, lacking his own father's favor was perhaps the most significant.

"Fine," Lucius said, curtly inclining his head. "Father, I'll speak to you this afternoon. As for you, Draco—"

"He'll join us this evening," Abraxas said firmly, and Draco blinked, unaware until then that he wasn't going to be able to return to Hogwarts within the hour. "The Royal Navy Children's Fund is having a benefit this evening and I will need both of you present. May I presume you can both manage to be in better spirits by then?" he asked, sparing a glance between them. "The effervescent Ms Skeeter is, predictably, said to be in attendance."

For once, Draco and Lucius agreed on something, which was a loathsome glance at the mention of Rita Skeeter's name.

"Fine," Lucius said again, bowing his head. "Thank you for your time, Father."

He left the room without another word, and Draco turned to his grandfather, who had fallen into one of the leather chairs and beckoned Draco into another.

Draco, who was a bit too agitated to sit, stared moodily at it.

"Come now, Draco," Abraxas said, tutting quietly. "You mustn't be so angry with your father. It's not his fault he's so… whatever he is." He gestured beside him again and this time, Draco fell into the chair with a sigh, leaning his head back against it. "The truth is your mother is unwell, Draco."

"Why can't I see her?" Draco asked. "Maybe I could help."

"Maybe you could," Abraxas agreed, "but she's had outbursts like this before, I'm afraid. She is," he began, and stopped himself. "Well, you know I think the world of her," he conceded carefully, reaching out for his glass of scotch. "She's a vivacious young woman, always has been—but she is a rather accomplished liar. And perhaps you wouldn't remember this," he added, taking a sip, "but when you were a child she tried to abduct you several times."

"What?" Draco asked, startled, and Abraxas grimaced in reply.

"I realize you probably think it's unfair, but it's really for your safety that we kept you apart," Abraxas said. "You were too young for us to explain what was happening with her, and now, I'm afraid it really is in her best interest to be removed from the spotlight." He shook his head. "She was always rather worse when she was required to be in public. I think it was too much pressure, expectations too high." Another sip. "She simply lost control."

"But," Draco said, unable to put his convoluted feelings into words. "But Grandfather—"

"Tell me about your Hermione," Abraxas beckoned tangentially, half-smiling at him. "I regret I wasn't able to speak to her much. She must be quite special." He paused again. "I certainly haven't seen you like this about a girl before."

Draco, who'd wanted to speak more about Narcissa, forced himself to hold his tongue. There was never any use in trying to persuade the King of England to stay on topic, particularly when the subject was something as apparently controversial as his mother. A troubled suppression of but she's clearly not okay! lodged momentarily in his throat, forcing him to swallow hard, but he knew there was no use in insisting.

"I haven't felt like this before," Draco eventually managed to admit. "Hermione is… unlike anyone I've ever known."

Abraxas' mouth twitched slightly, quietly amused. "You haven't known many people, Draco. Not closely, anyway—which is rather by design, unfortunately."

"Well—" He felt his face heat. "A poor choice of words, then. She's brilliant, Grandfather, she's funny and clever, she's kind and thoughtful. She does things not because they benefit her, but simply because—" He shrugged. "Simply because they are what's right. I admire her," he confessed. "I admire her drive, her ingenuity. Her persistence." He shook his head. "I could not speak more highly of her."

"She sounds wonderful." Abraxas took another sip, drawing out the silence. "I'm sure you do not need me to list the obstacles."

Draco stiffened. "Grandfather—"

"No, no, listen. It's not what you think," Abraxas said, leaning forward. "It's not out of the question that the laws which currently prohibit you from being together might change," he said slowly, which was, in fact, not at all what Draco had expected him to say. "There's no reason to continue as we have always done. But," he emphasized firmly, setting the glass down, "you must be very, very certain this relationship is what you want."

"It is," Draco said firmly, leaning forward in his chair. "I love her, Grandfather, truly—"

"I know you love her, Draco, that much is clear. But you are still very young." On this, Abraxas' voice was firm. "You're twenty-one, and were you anyone else, you would have a long time yet before you were required to think of marriage or commitment. You are only twenty-one, and as with any love at this age, perhaps she is the one, or perhaps she isn't."

He paused. Draco waited, feeling the weight of a shoe that hadn't yet dropped.

"But if she isn't," Abraxas continued, as Draco had known he would, "you must understand, Draco: You are not like other people. You are a magnifying glass. If your relationship were to go public, she would be connected with you for the rest of her life. There would be nowhere she could go without being photographed. No place she could go without being recognized. Her privacy would be stripped from her, and if your relationship did end, believe me, her connection to you would follow her around, whatever she did." He rubbed wearily at his eyes. "You do not have the privilege of error, or even simply experience, and it pains me to tell you, Draco, the rest of the world will not consider this what it is: two young people falling in love and perhaps, if the two of you are not especially lucky, then drifting apart, as young people often do. They will blame one of you, perhaps both of you. Certainly she will be blamed," Abraxas pointed out. "She's an American, a commoner, and do you know what they will call her the moment her identity is known?"

Draco didn't answer. He knew well enough.

His other girlfriends were members of aristocracy; they were public faces to begin with. They'd been recognizable well before he'd entered their lives, and yet still, there would be annotations about them for the rest of their lifetimes: Once connected with Prince Draco of Wales. Once seen with His Royal Highness here. Once accompanied him there. Once held the attention of the Prince for one single summer only to have the pictures from a single, unimportant garden party posted with a reference to his name every time she's seen stepping outside her house.

No matter what his girlfriends accomplished after him, Draco knew with a sinking feeling he would always be the asterisk next to their names. His presence in their lives would always diminish them, and for something as utterly ridiculous as their alleged failure to share the crown he'd been unwittingly born to.

"The doctors say your mother's illness is based in trauma," Abraxas said, interrupting Draco's (admittedly spiraling) thoughts. "The result of too much public criticism while she was too young. She was far more fragile than any of us realized."

"Hermione's strong," Draco said, alarmed to discover his voice quite difficult to find. "She's confident, she's brave, she's independent—"

"So was Narcissa. Or so we thought."

"But I would help her," Draco argued. "I'd take care of her. You heard my mother, Father left her alone, he wasn't—" He broke off, stumbling in his frustration. "It was different with them, he didn't—"

"Didn't love her?" Abraxas asked, arching a brow. "Is that what you think? Draco, I may not understand my son very well, but I do not believe he is completely unfeeling. He is, however, the Prince of Wales," Abraxas said firmly, "and he owes a duty to me and this country which must occasionally overshadow his other interests. You will have that same duty someday," he added, "as you already know. You have it now, in fact, and I regret that I have such great need of you while you are still so young—but it is what it is, I'm afraid."

"But I could do less," Draco suggested. "For a time, at least. Ease her in? There's no reason Father and I both have to be there tonight, is there?" he asked hopefully, and Abraxas shook his head.

"Unfortunately, Draco," he sighed, "there rather is."

Abraxas steepled his fingers at his mouth, contemplating something.

"In Ms Skeeter's latest achievement as this country's paragon of truth," Abraxas attempted wryly, "she once again called for a very familiar opinion poll."

Draco's stomach twisted. He'd seen it before, or versions of it: Prince Lucius' history of misbehaviours are emblematic of a dynasty which is unjustly celebrated. Does the monarchy have a place in modern government, or is it the mark of an antiquated time? Is it, perhaps, little more than a reminder of our failures as a nation?

"The end of the monarchy again, I take it?" Draco asked wearily, and Abraxas nodded.

"Odd, seeing as your parents' marriage alone must account for her mortgage," he remarked, "but this time, the results were different." He sat up stiffly, sparing Draco a firm glance. "You are of age now, Draco. Young still, but old enough for people to see how you might be as a man."

A pause, and then, slowly, "As a king, in fact."

Draco blinked. "People have always looked at me that way, Grandfather. It's not as if I haven't known my entire life what people expect me to be—"

"Yes, but now they see in you a future which appeals to them. Perhaps more so, even," Abraxas added slowly, "than the alternative."

Draco paused for a moment, disbelieving.

"Are you saying—" He shook his head. "No, they wouldn't want me to replace Father, would they? That's ridiculous, he's far more experienced. He has relationships with all of our allies, and I would only—"

"I didn't say I would do it," Abraxas assured him. "Lucius is my son, and much as I might prefer a… different heir," he said, with a slow sidelong glance at Draco, "I would never put him aside. However, I need you, Draco. Your father needs you. And the more beloved you become, the more widely publicized your appearances, the more you will be open yourself up to be criticized—as will your eventual partner," Abraxas finished, and Draco grimaced, making the connection between the subjects his grandfather had clearly planned to bring up.

"Tell me the truth," Draco said bluntly, and to that Abraxas leaned back in something of an invitation, apparently agreeable. "Did you intentionally keep my from my mother, like she says you did?"

"Yes," Abraxas said simply. "Initially because we were concerned you would become part of a publicity stunt. We thought perhaps if she got the treatment she needed, then we could gradually increase your visits. That, as you can see, did not happen."

"I'm an adult," Draco said, suddenly irritable again. "She can't very well kidnap me now, can she?"

"No," Abraxas conceded, "but people had finally tired of discussing her absences. If you were to start visiting her again, speculation would resurge—or so we feared." He shook his head. "Now that that has happened," he said carefully, "I'm sure you can see why we'd hoped to avoid it."

He could. PRINCESS NARCISSA'S TRAGIC HEARTACHE had been the cover of the tabloids following the gala, featuring an old picture of his mother in the midst of some sort of decade-old tearful rage next to a picture of his father, cold and unfeeling, and her sister, who was laughing. It was unflattering at bestw, if not entirely humiliating.

"But you must have known having her out in public would result in something like this," Draco began, and Abraxas nodded.

"I did know, yes. Your father disagreed with me. I think he still has hope they will reconcile, that he will be forgiven his misdeeds." Abraxas looked doubtful. "It did not surprise me what happened."

Draco was quiet for a moment, his phone buzzing in his pocket. "What about Hermione?" he asked, and for a moment, Abraxas didn't reply. "Tell me the truth, Grandfather," Draco urged him. "If you have no intent to permit my relationship with her, then just—"

"I'm not a monster, Draco. I trust you." His grey eyes landed with their usual subtle fondness on Draco, no different from any of their less-fraught conversations. "If you say she means something to you, I believe you. I am King of England," he added with a low murmured laugh, "and I do have some sway with Parliament, I think, to update some of our more archaic laws to suit the times. But I'm afraid everything I said earlier still stands."

Another pause.

"Do you love her?" Abraxas asked.

For once, there was no need for hesitation. "Yes. I do."

Abraxas nodded. "Then I'm afraid it comes down to the question of what sort of life you want for her. Perhaps, also, what life she wants for herself. Will she be content to sit quietly beside you?" Abraxas asked plainly, and Draco hesitated. "You tell me she's accomplished, intelligent. Her role would require her to put many of her own interests aside."

Draco wasn't entirely sure what to say to that. "Surely her attributes would reflect well on us, wouldn't they?"

"Maybe. But will she want to be used that way?" Abraxas asked, picking up his glass again. "I simply ask, Draco, because I want you to be very, very sure. It's not out of the question," he said again, "but I must ask you to consider this decision carefully. There will be no going back. You must be very certain."

"I am," Draco said firmly. "My feelings about her will not fade, Grandfather."

"I don't mean certain of your feelings," Abraxas said. "I mean certain of hers. Of her desires for her life, for her future. Otherwise," he began, and faded off, glancing momentarily into nothing. "Otherwise you will cause a great deal of pain for a very good woman."

Draco felt a dull blow of disappointment, realizing his grandfather was probably right.

"And what happens," he asked quietly, "if I decide the only life I could possibly give her would not be the one to make her happy?"

"Then you love her," Abraxas said simply, shrugging. "You support her. You admire her. You give her every advantage you can. You make concessions for her happiness."

Draco braced himself.

"But you do it from afar," Abraxas finished, and Draco flinched.

So much for being the most eligible man in Britain.

He sat in silence for a moment until he could no longer stand the lack of motion, leaning forward in his chair and suddenly feeling an intense need to sprawl face-first across the floor.

Which he resisted. As always.

"Right," Draco said, swallowing hard. "May I be excused, Grandfather?" he asked, and Abraxas nodded, clearly sympathetic. "Thank you."

"I'll see you this evening," Abraxas said, and added, as he always did, "Please do try to be on time."

Draco forced a smile. "I'm punctual, Grandfather. If nothing else."

"You are many other things," Abraxas assured him, and beckoned to the door.

The moment Draco had left, pulling the door shut behind him, he pulled out his phone, checking the new message and hoping it would bring him some relief.

Hermione: slughorn may be a complete buffoon but the lecture today was so interesting, I can't wait to talk to you about it

Hermione: you know how theo can't sit still long enough, he's got the attention span of a fruit fly

It worked, as it always did. Draco smiled down at his phone, dialing her number.

"Oh my god," Hermione said the moment she picked up, "can I just emphasize they were roses you allegedly sent him?"

Draco let out a laughing groan. "They were not."

"They were, and okay, so, I've been itching to talk to someone about this—do you have a minute?"

"I definitely have at least five," he said, glancing down at his watch, "which is probably enough for you to get through your preliminary thesis statement, isn't it?"

She gave a little hiccup of laughter. One of her tells, when she was too excited to manage the whole sound. "Just about, yeah. You didn't have anything pressing to discuss, did you?" she joked.

He settled himself on a bench in the corridor. "Nope," he assured her, glancing at the guard across from him and angling himself away. "Just go ahead and tell me everything. I've got plenty of time."

Theo: sorry I couldn't come tonight, fleur's being her most militant self. harry's there, isn't he?

Draco: yes

Theo: …

Theo: uh oh

Theo: knock knock

Draco: come back later

Theo: UH OH

Theo: just talk to him

Draco: says you

Theo: I was irrationally cross, it happens

Theo: I HAVE FLAWS draco

Draco: I'm aware

Theo: don't be a child. anyway I have to go fleur wants to play some sort of board game

Draco: he says, maturely

Theo: I strongly suspect there's stripping involved

Draco: statement retracted

Theo: you're a gentleman and a scholar

Draco: I know. it's a curse

Theo: ok bye talk to harry xx

Draco: don't kiss me

Theo: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Theo: one more for luck

Theo: x

Draco: i hate you

Theo: we established that code when we were five draco

Theo: I know what it means

Draco: please leave

Theo: you're so sentimental. such a soft summer prince

Draco: i'm going to have you beheaded

Theo: please. you'd cry for days

Draco: will neither confirm nor deny. goodbye

Theo: bye your royal softness

Hermione: DO NOT TELL PANSY THIS VIDEO EXISTS

"What are you looking at now?" Lucius sniffed to Draco, who hurriedly put his phone back in his pocket.

"Nothing," he said. He'd have to sneak away to look at it later. "Article I was reading earlier."

"It can wait," Lucius said stiffly.

Draco tried very, very hard not to roll his eyes.

"How's school?" Lucius asked.

"It'd be better if I had more time to study," Draco said. "I already had to ask for an extension on two of my term papers."

Lucius smiled uncomfortably for the benefit of a camera somewhere near the east side of the ballroom. That was one of the Prince of Darkness' particular superpowers; he always knew when he was being photographed.

"Did you enjoy your visit with your mother?" Lucius asked, and Draco shot a glance at him before quickly softening it, transforming it to something that might look like a laugh.

"You can't be serious," Draco slid through carefully gritted teeth. "Is this really your idea of small talk?"

"I'm simply curious." Lucius nodded politely to someone across the room, not looking at Draco. "I thought you'd be pleased. You pestered me about seeing her, did you not?"

"Children these days are so unreasonable," Draco remarked under his breath, and Lucius turned to him, giving him a warning glance.

Draco exhaled, recalling his grandfather's request to be helpful to his father.

"It was… fine," he said. "She's just very different."

He'd spent the better part of his week with her trying to talk to her and getting very little out of it. In retrospect, he figured perhaps she'd been warned not to make any sort of misstep, though he couldn't imagine what the threatened consequences might have been. He'd spent most of his visit excusing himself for no real reason, skirting Pansy's disapproving glance from across the table and disappearing into the corridor to pace aimlessly in silence.

His mother wasn't the woman he remembered, though what memories did he even have a right to claim? So much of his life seemed different now, viewed through the lens of the secrets that had been kept from him. Draco remembered Narcissa being fun, exciting, adventurous—but perhaps things he'd thought were adventures as a child were actually quite dangerous. Narcissa had often slipped (or tried to slip) her guards, taking him places they were recognized without securing any sort of protection; often she'd fed them both dessert for dinner, and though that was hardly the most terrible offense, it was suddenly all he could think about. Now that he considered it, too, Draco couldn't quite remember her without some sort of glass in her hand.

He wasn't sure at all what to make of his altered memories.

"Your mother is… worse lately, I'm afraid." For a moment, Lucius seemed to let his guard down, glancing at his hands. "She hates me more than usual."

"She's unhappy," Draco said, and then, with a sigh, "but I'm sure she doesn't hate you."

For a second, Lucius looked stunned, and then intensely grateful. Before he could speak, though, they were interrupted.

"Your Royal Highness," came the voice of the Prime Minister, a recently re-elected Cornelius Fudge. He bowed to Lucius, first, then to Draco. "Ah, both Your Highnesses, what a surprise. I thought you were in school, Prince Draco?"

"I am," Draco assured him, "but I couldn't have missed being here, of course. This is one of my grandfather's favorite events of the year. Congratulations, by the way, on the results of the special election," he added smoothly, trying to keep the Prime Minister's attention on him. His father didn't care for Fudge, and likely would be less apt at pretending. "I was very pleased to see such overwhelming support for your latest policy reforms, particularly from such a young demographic."

"Ah, yes, the highest turnout this century from the 18 to 35 age bracket!" Fudge proclaimed, which Draco very politely did not point out was hardly much at all, considering they were only eleven years into said century. "I daresay I have a bit of youth left in me."

"Prime Minister, I'd wager you have more than just a bit," Draco assured him, and Fudge laughed, plainly tickled. A camera flashed; Draco registered that as a good sign. Fudge's party had won by a landslide, so perhaps the Princes and the Prime Minister being on good terms would be a bright spot in dreary royal news.

"Well, you're quite right, aren't you?" Fudge said with a chuckle, nodding again to Lucius. "I won't monopolize your time, of course—"

"Of course," Lucius said steadily. "Though it is a pleasure, as ever."

"Quite right, quite right. Do enjoy, then," Fudge said, inclining his head and making his way towards one of the naval officers, waving somewhat maniacally across the room.

In his absence, Lucius spared Draco a glance. "That was neatly done."

Draco shrugged. "It's actual small talk, Father. Not too terribly difficult."

Lucius gave a grim smile in return.

"You can go check your phone now, if you'd like," he said, turning away. "You've already said hello to most of the guests here."

Draco didn't hesitate. He nodded, slipping away and aiming himself for the toilets, figuring that was as easy an excuse as any. Harry caught his eye across the room; Draco hurriedly picked up his pace, nodding to one of his security team with their signal for the bathroom befores slipping into the corridor.

He dug his phone out of his pocket, hitting play on the video Hermione had sent. It was initially of Daphne and Pansy in the kitchen; there was a raucous noise as he pressed play and Draco hurried to turn the volume down, holding it to his ear.

Yep. Dancing Queen, Pansy's favorite, and all three girls were singing along.

He smiled down at the video, watching it shake slightly as Hermione set the phone down and joined them, singing into what appeared to be a whisk while Daphne opted for a half-empty wine bottle as a microphone, Pansy dramatically posing beside them. Blaise emerged onto the scene wearing perfectly applied lipstick and Draco smothered a laugh into his palm, the video suddenly cutting out as someone knocked into the phone.

He played it again.

And again.

First he felt joy, fondness, nostalgia. He felt a rush of affection, especially when Hermione gave the camera a mischievous smile from across the kitchen, which he caught on the third time through.

By the fourth watch, though, he felt a stab of something else. Desperation, or envy, or longing, or—

"You're avoiding me," Harry noted, and Draco spun, quickly tucking the phone back into his pocket.

"I'm not—"

"You are." Harry leaned impassively against the wall. "What is it?"

Draco shook his head, gesturing back to the ballroom. "It's nothing, Harry. Look, I just have to—"

"You found out," Harry guessed, grimacing. "Did Theo tell you?"

Draco made a mental note to murder Theo at his earliest convenience.

"No," he said slowly, and felt his mouth tighten. "Hermione did."

Harry blinked. "She knows?"

"I don't know." Draco was agitated again. Irritable, as he'd been all day. "But she mentioned you'd told her about your parents and astoundingly, Harry, I can put two and two together."

"Draco, I wouldn't do anything," Harry assured him quickly, straightening. "You know that. If you want me to keep my distance—"

"Actually," Draco cut in, the agitation suddenly increasing to an expulsion of fury he'd been holding onto for weeks and hadn't yet permitted to escape. "Do you know what I want? I want to be you instead of me," he growled, clenching a fist. "I want to run around doing whatever I feel like doing, I want to be charming and nonchalant without worrying I'll appear irresponsible and distracted, I want to disappear whenever I damn well feel like disappearing. I want to be beholden to nobody, but that will never be the case for me, will it?" he snapped, and in response, Harry said nothing.

"I want," Draco continued, feeling his cheeks heat with anger, "to not know you'd be better for her, Harry. I want to not be aware you could probably give her what she wants, to make her happy. I want to be the right person for her, but then there's you, isn't there? You're the better option," he said bitterly. "You can give her everything I'll never be able to give."

He broke off. Harry said nothing, and how could he? Draco was right. Harry was titled and wealthy but he wasn't the heir to the throne. He could drop everything for Hermione, he could choose to put her first; his appearances, official or not, were almost never strictly necessary. Harry could decline to be a working royal. He could decline his birthright to little ill consequence. He could have declined this very invitation and instead danced with her, barefoot on the kitchen floor, drinking too much wine and laughing too loudly—but that would never be true for Draco.

Draco would always have to be here, or some other version of it. Draco would always be called away, somewhere else, watching from a distance. Draco would always be faking smiles in a ballroom and sneaking away for the privilege of watching her from afar.

But still.

But still.

"I won't give up," Draco told Harry fiercely. "If she chooses you then she chooses you, fine, I understand, but I'm not stepping back, I'm not just walking away. I'm not giving her up, Harry, not even for you. Not until she asks me to, I swear, I—"

"Draco, stop." Harry stepped forward, closing a hand around Draco's shoulder just when Draco felt ready to double over and be sick from holding things back for so long. "Just… stop."

Draco shut his eyes.

"You should have told me," he said, voice rough. Harry's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"You can see why I didn't," Harry pointed out, and Draco nodded stiffly.

"But still. Everyone lies to me." He looked up. "You don't get to lie to me, Harry. Not you." He shook his head. "Not you."

Harry grimaced. "I get it."

"Do you?" Draco demanded. "Do you understand what it's like, everything being different once you find out the truth? I trusted you," he said, feeling a rush of anguish he only half understood. "I trusted you, I believed you, and—and—"

It occurred to him this wasn't strictly about Harry.

He exhaled sharply, and Harry nodded.

"Keep going," Harry suggested wryly, and Draco swallowed.

"They lied to me," Draco said. "About my mother."

"Mm. Yeah," Harry said, considering it with a nod. "That checks out."

"I just—" Draco dragged in a breath. "I'm going to have to make all the same appearances my father does now," he said hoarsely. "My grandfather wants me around more, so I'm going to have to work more. I'm going to be gone more often. I won't be able to—to be there, and—"

"I'll do them with you, then," Harry offered, and Draco looked up, startled. "I can take an extended leave. I've already been active for three years and let's be honest, I can do whatever I want." He gave Draco a crooked half-smile. "If you want me to be here, I'll be here."

Draco shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous. No one in their right mind would want to waste time on this."

"It's not a waste if it means I can give you a chance to breathe," Harry told him. "Do you really doubt that?"

"I—" He hesitated. "No."

"Good." Harry clapped him on the back, nodding. "You're right, I should have told you. I'm telling you now, I like her, but she doesn't want me. She never did," he reminded Draco. "I had a shot with her first and she didn't pick me. She thinks the same thing everyone does about me," he added under his breath, and Draco shook his head.

"She doesn't, don't be silly—"

"She does," Harry said, shrugging. "And she's not wrong, I suppose. It's not like much has changed since meeting her. My bed's not exactly cold." He paused, and then added, "Maybe I just wanted her to think I was capable of… depth. She's, you know. Academic, smart." He smiled his brightest Prince Harry smile. "I think the idea of her falling for me would have lent me the legitimacy I so selfishly want, that's all. The idea I could be taken seriously, anyway."

Draco shook his head. "You're mad if you think what people say about you is all you are. It's a persona you invented for them, Harry, that's all. Don't let it confuse you."

"Well, perhaps while you've envied me, I've envied you," Harry informed him spiritedly. "Ever think of that, Your Royal Genius? People call you thoughtful and level-headed, and to think," he said with a grin, "if they actually knew you—"

"Ah yes, there he is," Draco sighed, and Harry laughed.

"You're my only family," Harry reminded him, shaking his head. "There's not a person on earth I'd throw that away for, it's that simple."

Draco shook his head. "It's not like I thought you would, really. It's just," he began, hesitating, and Harry nodded.

"It won't be easy, the two of you," Harry said, which wasn't precisely an answer, though in fairness, a question had not been successfully asked.

"Am I," Draco began again, still tentative. "Am I doing her a disservice?" he asked, and before Harry could protest, Draco shook his head warningly. "Don't lie to me," he said. "As someone who cares about both of us, just… tell me the truth. Tell me if I'm—if I'll ruin her. Like my father did," he finished quietly, and to that, Harry let out a contemplative sigh.

"Look, if the question is are you and Prince Lucifer the same, the answer is no," Harry said. "You're not your father, that much is clear. But as for whether you're doing her a disservice…"

He trailed off, thinking.

"I guess there's no softening it," Harry said slowly. "You might make her life very difficult. You know as well as I do what will happen if you go public." He shrugged. "Apparently Astoria Greengrass was listed as your ex-girlfriend at London Fashion Week this year," he added with half a laugh.

Draco grimaced. "Since when do you keep track of Astoria?"

"I don't," Harry said smoothly, "but the Burberry model I had dinner with last week brought it up."

Draco arched a brow. "Just dinner?"

"And dessert," Harry conceded blithely, "but the point stands. You'll have to be very sure, I think," he said carefully, echoing Abraxas' advice, "before you try to move forward."

It wasn't what Draco wanted to hear, but it wasn't a surprise. He nodded, and in return, Harry gestured back to the ballroom.

"Shall we?" Harry asked, and Draco considered it.

"Just a minute," he said, gesturing over his shoulder. "Bathroom."

Harry nodded. "See you inside," he said, and then added, "I mean it, you know. If you need me—"

"I know," Draco said, and Harry returned to the ballroom with a slightly softened expression; a smile meant for reassurance rather than roguery, which was a welcome rarity.

Draco, needing a bit more than that to lift his spirits, pulled his phone back out of his pocket, hitting play on the video again.

And then one more time.

Draco: pansy is going to murder you

Hermione: I know but I had a nice life it was worth it

He smiled.

Hermione: how is the um

Hermione: the thing

Draco: not bad. harry says hi

He hoped he could imagine her smile. It felt like a long time since he'd seen it, so he hit play on the video one more time, watching it light up his screen.

Hermione: i've had some wine i won't lie but like just so you know

Hermione: you're the best prince i've ever met

Draco: miss granger you must be intensely sloshed

Hermione: am not

Hermione: 9472g87frbb^#676

Hermione: oops

Draco: i love you

Hermione: that's good i love you too

Hermione: oh i have to go blaise is detracting points

Hermione: i told him i was texting you and then he took five for backtalk

Draco: better go, then. have a good night

Hermione: THIS IS BLAISE I HAVE COMMANDEERED NEW TRACEY'S PHONE FOR THE GOOD OF MANKIND IT'S A NEW REGIME

Hermione: ROYAL DICK PICS WILL STILL BE ACCEPTED CURRENCY

Draco: hi blaise

Hermione: HELLO YOUR HIGHNESS AS IT TURNS OUT THIS NEW REGIME IS VERY SIMILAR TO THE OLD ONE

Draco shook his head with a laugh, tucking his phone back into his pocket and heading back into the ballroom.

Pansy: I haven't heard from you in two days, Draco. Are you dead?

Draco: I don't think so

Pansy: Good. I would drag you from the Underworld myself.

Draco: was there something in particular you needed?

Pansy: You say that like I worry about you.

Draco: you're right my mistake

Pansy: So, how are you? Tell me immediately and without delay.

Draco: seems redundant

Pansy: Oh, my apologies, I didn't realize you were in the mood to be difficult. Please do not contact me ever again.

Draco: pans

Pansy: I've lost my contacts, who is this?

Draco: I'm fine. miss you though

Pansy: If this is HRH Prince Draco Wales, please tell him I need five hours to recover from his thoughtless slight.

Draco: okay talk to you later

Pansy: We'll see.

Pansy: And I miss you too.

Draco: thanks pans

Pansy: You're welcome. Goodbye.

The next few days were occupied with a state visit, a dinner with several Polynesian officials, a quick trip to Edinburgh, and a morning service complete with Sunday best. Draco noticed his grandfather was making a point to keep him as close as possible without breaking royal protocol (i.e. putting him before Lucius), which left him with a sense of unease.

That, and another tabloid came out with new evidence for the rumor he was dating Fleur, whose private plane had been in Edinburgh the same day Draco arrived.

"She'd be an excellent option," Lucius remarked unhelpfully. "People love her."

"She's currently dating my best friend," Draco pointed out, and Lucius shrugged.

"I'm sure she could be persuaded," he said, sipping his tea, and Draco fought not to roll his eyes.

His presence was perfunctory, intended for an invisible group of people (a camera lens) rather than anyone in particular. He itched to go back to Hogwarts, desperate to be back in his own bed (or Hermione's), but the Bellatrix rumors were out in full force. Were they seeing each other again? the papers screeched, noting Lucius' appearances at events Lady Lestrange seemed to find some sadistic pleasure in attending. As if even his father would be so stupid. Narcissa is nowhere to be seen! Rita Skeeter contributed giddily, which was unpleasant, to say the least.

Draco sighed, glancing down at his signet ring on his right hand and feeling especially powerless.

After a moment of contemplation, though, he signaled to Dobby, who conveniently hovered within earshot so as to most devotedly handle his father's personal affairs.

"Can you get Harry, please?" Draco requested in a low voice. "He's here somewhere," he said, gesturing into the crowd, and Dobby nodded.

"Yes, Your Highness," he said, disappearing and returning after a few minutes with Harry at his heels.

"Hey," Harry said, pulling up the chair Draco's security team had subtly provided. "Need something, I presume?"

"I'm not dragging you from a lady's attentions, am I?" Draco asked.

"No, only Viktor Krum," Harry said, "though that might be worse, honestly."

"What, the rugby player?" Draco asked, abruptly scanning the crowd. "What on earth is he doing here—"

"Focus," Harry said, laughing. "What is it?"

"What do you think," Draco said slowly, "about our usual clever escape?"

"I suppose I could be made available," Harry said with a shrug. "Where are you thinking of going?"

Draco slid him a glance, and Harry laughed.

"Ah," he said. "Prince Lucifer's going to kill you."

Draco shrugged. "He can't," he said, gesturing to the cameras. "Haven't you heard I'm beloved?"

Harry spared him a grin. "It has been a bit since the Bad Lads assembled," he said. "Suppose we could all use a reunion."

"That," Draco said, picking up his cup of tea, "is precisely what I was thinking."

Harry: edinburgh. usual spot, usual time

Blaise: THIS IS MY MOMENT

Blaise: THIS IS MY TIME TO SHINE

Blaise: THIS AND ALL MOMENTS

Theo: what's the occasion?

Blaise: THEODORE ARE YOU TRYING TO RUIN THIS FOR EVERYONE

Theo: i'm not trying

Theo: it just comes naturally

Harry: is that a yes?

Theo: it's obviously not a no

Blaise: I WAS SO WORRIED WE'D GROWN UP

Blaise: LIKE IDIOTS

Harry: seems unlikely to happen

Theo: we'll head down there now. blaise put on pants

Blaise: DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO

Blaise: but yes fine

Harry: how do you know he needs to put on pants

Theo: it's called an educated guess henry

Theo: also he's sitting next to me

Theo: draco, need us to bring anything?

Draco: no

Draco: thank you for coming

Blaise: IS THIS YOUR FIRST DAY

Blaise: MINUS TWENTY FOR DOUBTING US

Draco: don't wear the silk trousers blaise

Blaise: …

Blaise: PLUS TWENTY FOR ROYAL CLAIRVOYANCE

Theo: alright let me wrangle blaise we'll see you this evening

Blaise: I DO NOT NEED WRANGLING

Blaise: AM BEING WRANGLED SEND HELP

Harry: see you soon

Blaise: FB3II*G08)*G)U)

"I, for one, am rather pleased you've talked us into this again," Theo said, sitting down and signaling to the waitress for a pint. "We were getting so reprehensibly responsible."

"True, you're very nearly domesticated," Harry agreed, pulling out the chair next to him. "Besides, I do love a good sneak-away."

Draco, who had rather a lot on his mind, wordlessly pulled out the chair between Theo and Blaise, who smacked him lightly across the shoulder.

"It doesn't work if you don't look like you're having a good time," Blaise reminded him. "People want debauchery and will settle for nothing less."

"True," Draco said, managing a nod. "I'll have a whisky, then," he said, signaling to a waitress who blinked with surprise, cataloguing the faces at the table and then going slightly pale, rushing indiscreetly to someone across the room. "This place is so predictable," Draco said, shaking his head. "Do you think they'll ever manage not to fall for it?"

"We could at least choose a place of culinary excellence," Blaise said, sniffing disapprovingly at the menu. "Drum up business for someone actually worthy, for once."

"Worthy people don't call the tabloids," Harry reminded them, checking his watch. "What do you think, ten minutes?"

"What, on a night like this, with Abraxas in residence? Four," Theo said, starting a timer. "Over or under, Blaise?"

"I'm going six minutes, thirty-five seconds," Blaise said firmly.

Blaise, who had clearly been some sort of minor deity in a past life, was always especially good at guessing. Draco half-wondered if it was more the universe bending to his wishes than anything else, but per usual, the photographers arrived precisely at the moment he'd said they would, the first of the cameras flashing obtrusively through the windows of the pub just as the timer struck six minutes and thirty-five seconds.

"Well, that's our cue," Theo said, setting down his drink and beckoning to a waitress, this one slightly less shameless than the first one had been. "Apologies, it seems we're going to need to make a rather stealthy escape," he said to her, and beside him, Harry flashed her a wink.

"I don't suppose you might be able to help us?" Harry asked, and she smiled nervously, obviously flustered.

"You could—well, I could help you gents out the back way, if… if you wanted—"

"That," Harry said, rising to his feet, "would be perfect. I don't suppose you're done with your shift anytime soon, are you?" he murmured in her ear, and her cheeks went a violent shade of crimson.

"Er, well I—um—it's this way," she said, leading them back through the kitchen. Blaise, ever the showman, blew a kiss at the photographers before bowing deeply to the rest of the tavern's occupants, following quickly in their wake.

The process was the same every time; photographers came around to the back, and one car left with the others inside it while Draco bided his time, waiting for them to disappear so he could safely take a different car. This time, though, Theo paused beside him, Harry, Blaise, and one of Draco's security (in a blond wig) climbing into the car while Draco hung back.

Draco frowned at him, surprised. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not letting you go alone," Theo said, shrugging. "They won't wonder what happened to me. I'm the most forgettable."

"I hate when you say that," Draco said disapprovingly, and Theo laughed.

"It's true though, isn't it? I know my strengths." He glanced out into the alley, watching the photographers take off after the car Harry and Blaise had just left in. "Come on," he said, beckoning to the less conspicuous vehicle which pulled up behind it. "Let's go."

They'd gone nearly sixty kilometers before Draco finally asked the obvious.

"How'd you know?"

"What, that you were going to see your mother? Just a guess," Theo said. "Either that or predicting your movements your entire life. Take your pick."

Draco rolled his eyes. "You make me sound so terribly obvious."

"Yes, well, good intentions are quite easy to follow." Theo turned to him, considering something before saying, "It's terrible, you know, the things they've printed about her since the gala. And considering how you left things," he added carefully, "I figured it was only a matter of time."

"I'm not sure what I'm going to say to her," Draco admitted. "I just know I didn't say anything to her last time, and—" He grimaced. "I suppose I just want to know. I need to know, I think. The truth," he clarified, "or at least her version of it."

"Do you not believe your grandfather?" Theo asked, and Draco shook his head.

"It's not that I don't believe him, it's just… I want to ask her myself. That," he exhaled, "and I don't want her to feel alone." He tapped his fingers on the leather of the seat beside him. "And I have to ask her something else, too."

"Which is?" Theo prompted.

Draco glanced at him.

Theo knocked twice in the air, and Draco sighed.

"If she'd do it over," he conceded. "I just… I need to ask her if it was worth it. Or if it would have been worth it, if things hadn't gone so badly."

"Ah," Theo said.

They were quiet a moment.

"You know," Theo ventured, clearing his throat, "you would never have done something like this if you hadn't met Hermione."

"I know," Draco said, and he did.

Theo nodded. "Just thought that might help," he said, and because he was Draco's best friend, he said nothing else for the rest of the drive. Or perhaps it was because he was so good at silence that he had always been Draco's best friend, but either way, Draco was more than satisfied.

"Draco," Narcissa said with confusion, glancing over his shoulder from where she sat in her regal four-poster bed. The canopy overhead was a perfect replica of the blue of her eyes, and she looked tiny against the expansive size of it. "Is your father here?"

"No, it's just me. I'm sorry it's so late," Draco added, and she softened, beckoning for him to come in from where he was hovering apprehensively in the threshold.

"Nonsense. Come here," she said, beckoning for him to sit beside her. She'd been reading, he noted. She had a pile of books beside the bed, most of them fantasies or romances or ghost stories. He remembered she'd loved ghosts and vampires; had delighted in telling him horror stories before bed. She also had a copy of his favorite book as a child sitting on top of the pile—a simplistic translation of The Odyssey, which he'd developed an interest in after learning about mythology from his classes. She'd read it with him, both of them equally enjoying Circe's vengeful transformation of Odysseus' crew to pigs and lamenting the prideful shaming of the cyclops. If you ever blind a cyclops, Narcissa had told him sternly, for god's sake, Draco, be clever enough not to tell him your name.

An important lesson, all things considered. Draco guessed he'd learned most of his diplomacy skills from her.

"What are you reading?" he asked her, easing himself on top of the duvet next to her, and she set it aside.

"Oh, nothing. Just about a woman trapped in her house as a ghost," she said with a hollow laugh, turning to him. "What brings you here so late, sweetheart?"

"Well," he said, "it's been… bothering me, a bit. What you said."

She wasn't wearing her signature full face of makeup, so it was less difficult than usual to see her expression falter. "I'm sorry, darling. I shouldn't have said those things, I was only—"

"No, I just—sorry," he added hastily, dismayed at having interrupted her. "Sorry, I just wanted to be clear, I don't blame you for saying them, I just… wanted to know if they were true. Especially about, um." He eyed his hands. "Well, you told Hermione to run."

He felt her stiffen beside him. "Oh. Yes."

"And, um." He fidgeted. "Well, I just—I wondered if you meant that. That it would be better for her if she ran, because—" He inhaled, lifting his chin. "Because, well, I trust you, Mother. If you think I'm just going to… to ruin her life, then I think I should probably just, um. Well, not." He laughed hesitantly. "I just wondered if you might… tell me what it's like. To not be born to the crown, but to… choose it. To choose it, but then to be—" He swallowed heavily. "Disappointed."

"Oh, Draco." She shifted against her pillows, turning to look at him. "This has been bothering you for quite a while, hasn't it?"

"Not too long," he lied. "But I thought, you know. If anyone would know—"

"Well, darling, to be perfectly honest with you, I don't know that I can give you an answer that will help." She gave him a slightly wistful look. "I think," she said slowly, "the fact that you're wondering about this is quite promising for her, though." Her expression stiffened slightly. "I don't think your father ever thought to do the same."

She looked lost for a moment, and Draco cleared his throat.

"Grandfather tells me you have some sort of illness," he said, and Narcissa scowled.

"Well, he would, wouldn't he? I'm sure he thinks it's a crime, having feelings. My mother was the same way—she demanded silence, hardly looking my way unless it was to tell me my hair wasn't quite right, or that I was looking sour. My job was to be beautiful, to marry well. Not to have curiosities or to wonder about things, or to have a single thought in my head. My sister Andromeda, she was the clever one," she sighed, shaking her head. "For Christmas she got books, trips, tickets to galleries and museums. Me, I got… clothes. Jewelry. Skin care products." Her lips twisted in a darkened, humorless smile. "My mother gave me an expensive anti-aging serum when I was eighteen and was furious I didn't thank her."

"Oh," Draco said dully, unsure what to say, and Narcissa shook her head.

"My mother cried at my wedding," she said. "I thought at last she was proud of me—but then, when no one was listening, she told me I'd have to get pregnant quickly or Lucius would tire of me and go back to Bellatrix. She was right, of course." She paused. "She said as much herself. Even laughed at me when I told her." She chewed her lip for a moment, then straightened, shaking herself quickly. "Which is not for you to hear, of course. I tried to love you better than my own mother did, sweetheart, but I'm afraid I didn't quite know how."

"I—" Draco wondered if his mother had ever told anyone that story before. It didn't sound like she had. "Do you ever feel sad, Mother?" he asked her, and in answer, she went slightly rigid. "I only ask because I'd hate to think you keep that to yourself," he assured her quickly. "I don't think you're ill, but, well—" He hesitated. "Would it be so terrible, speaking to someone?"

Her face looked pale and drawn.

"If I admit there's something wrong with me," she told him slowly, "Abraxas and your father will use it against me. They'll keep you from me."

"They didn't keep me from you tonight, did they?" Draco asked, keeping his voice gentle, and she turned to look at him again, doubtful. "You're a person, Mother, and you're allowed to… need help. If you want it." He fidgeted again, scraping his fingers through his hair. "I don't know. I suppose it's not really my place. I only came to see how you were—and to ask if you had any regrets, I suppose."

"Regrets? Oh darling, no," Narcissa said, softening instantly at that. "Well, yes," she amended, "I have many regrets, and I should hope your father does, too. But whatever his reasons were for choosing me, and whatever my reasons were for agreeing, it was worth it to have you, wasn't it?" she said, taking his face gently in her hands. "You're my very favorite thing, sweetheart. I wouldn't trade any of it. Not if it meant you would not exist precisely as you are."

He hazarded a smile at her, and she smiled back, a little like her old self again.

He let them stay like that for a few moments before sighing, leaning into the palm of his mother's hand.

"Mother," he said, the sound of it muffled slightly, "I don't want to hurt her."

"You won't," Narcissa said.

He waited, once again sensing something about to drop.

"But," she continued, "that doesn't mean she won't be hurt. It's no easy life being the woman in the background. Some women aren't meant to be shadows, just as some men are not meant to be husbands." She shook her head. "Impossible to tell what the outcome will be, sweetheart, until you've already made your choice."

"So what do I do, then?" he asked, and she leaned his head against her shoulder, settling him comfortably beside her.

"I suppose you may have to wait until you know," she said.

He inhaled. Exhaled.

They sat there for a few minutes in silence.

"Want to see something?" he asked her, clearing his throat, and she nodded. "She had to do a debate in class and Theo snuck a video, you know. Because he's creepy like that." He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "This," he said, finding it in his messages and holding it up for his mother to see, "is Hermione talking about King Lear. She's making the argument that if Cordelia had simply lied to Lear and flattered him knowing he planned to give the throne to her, she might have ultimately done more goo-"

"Hush, sweetheart, I'm listening," Narcissa said, her eyes glued to the screen.

Draco, who'd already watched it several times, closed his eyes, listening to Hermione's voice. It was always in a slightly different register when she was trying to make a point, which she hated. When men get angry, that means they're passionate, she insisted, but when women get angry, they're emotional. It's RIDICULOUS, she shouted at him before kissing him in an unnecessary apology for shouting.

"Well," Narcissa said when the video cut off with Theo accidentally dropping his phone on Tracey Davis' head, "she's very well spoken. Unfortunate," she sighed, "as she certainly has a voice people should hear."

He didn't have to ask her why that was unfortunate.

He merely nodded, sliding his phone back into his pocket and looking up at the canopy of his mother's bed.

"I should probably go soon," he remarked to the ceiling. "It's a long drive and I don't want to do it when someone might see."

"True," she said. "Your father will be furious."

"Yeah," he said.

She paused.

"You know, we could always run away," she suggested. "Just disappear. Go to Bali? Or Morocco. No one would find us. I could pack a bag," she assured him. "I still have jewels, we could sell them. We wouldn't need your father's help, we could just go."

Draco swallowed hard, knowing that was perhaps the one option he would never have.

"Yeah," he said, turning to kiss his mother's forehead. "Sure, maybe next time. Theo's downstairs," he added in explanation, and she shook her head.

"Of course he is," she agreed, sighing.

They sat still for a few more minutes, the clock on the wall ticking quietly as they sat in silence.

"Five more minutes?" Draco said.

"Sure, darling," Narcissa said. "Five minutes would be lovely."

Daphne: theo was positively falling over this morning

Daphne: he looks like he was out all night

Daphne: draco wales, were you two being debaucherous without us?!

Draco: something like that

Daphne: well, I suppose I'll forgive you… IF you come back

Daphne: is that a possibility anytime soon? we miss you

Daphne: not just hermione, you know

Draco: I miss you too daph

Draco: I just have to get through this service and then I'll be heading back

Draco: promise

Daphne: well, good. lady six-names is out of control

Daphne: without you to fuss over she redirects all that mad controlling energy at us

Daphne: she rearranged my closet

Daphne: she's bullying hermione into eating raw vegetables

Daphne: I thought making her watch steel magnolias would help because you know how she loves stories about how useless men are but no

Daphne: she didn't even cry she just started drafting an emergency protocol in case she's ever in a coma

Daphne: I think neville is in fear for his life

Daphne: though that's pretty normal as far as I can tell

Draco: yes this all sounds about right

Draco: put on abba's greatest hits that usually soothes her

Daphne: we're so far past abba at this point

Daphne: she barely even did the 'a-has' in voulez-vous

Draco: try fernando

Daphne: oh I didn't even think about fernando hang on

Daphne: okay she's

Daphne: she just kind of froze

Daphne: is she

Daphne: I think she's

Draco: yeah she's going to cry

Daphne: oh my GOD

Daphne: you're the pansy whisperer

Daphne: she's totally crying

Draco: yeah I know

Daphne: wow

Daphne: WOW

Draco: all good now?

Daphne: YES

Daphne: I can't

Daphne: I can't believe what I'm seeing

Daphne: does this happen every time?

Draco: pretty much

Daphne: wow

Draco: don't overuse it or she'll catch on

Daphne: noted

Draco: should probably go find her blanket too

Draco: she'll want to nap

Draco: it's the green one with the flowers

Draco: she tucks it into her pillowcase

Daphne: she has a BLANKET?!

Daphne: omg I'm

Daphne: I'm going to have to lie down

Daphne: I've seen too much

Draco: you are sworn to secrecy daphne greengrass

Draco: she'll kill both of us if you tell anyone

Daphne: I… might have to

Daphne: it might be worth it

Draco: that's fair

Draco: okay see you tonight

Daphne: if we're still alive by then

Draco: valid point

Draco's little sleight of hand succeeded in tricking his father and grandfather as well as the photographers, all of whom assumed he'd gone out for a rowdy night with the boys rather than a jaunt to see his estranged mother. Abraxas had laughed it off, reminding Lucius nothing had come of it. "These pictures show nothing," his grandfather said, holding up the tiny, blurry square on the tabloid cover. "If they even knew for certain it was him, they'd have blown it up entirely."

Per usual, King of England and family patriarch Abraxas won that round.

"Fine," Lucius said, gritting his teeth. "But stay out of trouble until the end of term, and then I'll need you to come to New Zealand with me. Your grandfather," he added, with a slicing glance at Abraxas, "insisted."

"Fine," Draco agreed, anxious to leave. "But I can go back to Hogwarts now? I have papers due," he added hurriedly, and Abraxas waved a hand.

"Go, go," he said. "We'll see you in London in… what is it, two weeks?"

"Yes," Draco said, breathlessly backstepping towards the door. "See you then, Grandfather—"

The moment he was out of the room, he turned and ran, lifting his phone to his ear and checking his voicemails.

"Hey, got your text but just thought it'd be quicker to call—I can't wait to see you! Oh my laird, it's been ages. I say laird now because of the play which will not be named. Theo thinks he invented it, but like—nobody buys that, Theo, read the room. Anyway, I've been cloistered in Slughorn's office all day, I think I might be blending into the scenery at this point. He knocked into me yesterday like I was a house plant. Anyway, I'm exhausted so no sex olympics this time, I'm afraid I have to be very firm about th- oh god, Professor, yes hi, sorry, one second, let me just—okay," she said in an unsuccessful whisper, "so sorry, I love you, I will see you tonight I love you byeeeee—"

It was one of those distances where a plane would have been unreasonable but a car ride was uncomfortably long. Draco didn't want to bother her, instead mindlessly playing Words With Friends with Blaise (who was unfairly good, and also opted to play under the username 'WHATSAPRINCETOAGOD' which was a very nice reality check, in Draco's view) and then rushing into their building the moment he arrived.

"Hi Daph, hi Pans," he said, barging into their flat (they'd stopped locking it much since Blaise had illegally made several copies of their keys) and pausing at the sight of Roger Davies, who was sitting on the floor and massaging Daphne's feet. "What's this?" he asked, careening to a halt, and Pansy looked up with pursed disinterest.

"I'm not allowed to say," Pansy drawled, "but it rhymes with 'inadvisable nonsense.'"

"Weren't you supposed to make it rhyme?" Roger asked, twisting around to look at her.

"Oh, do shut up, Roger," she said, flipping the page of her magazine and looking up at Draco. "How was your trip, then?"

"Fine," Draco said, a little breathless. "I just have to, um. I left something in Hermione's room, so, uh—"

"Just go," Daphne said, waving a hand. "I already have all of Roger's internet passwords. He's been neutralized as a threat."

"I could always use my phone," Roger reminded her.

"2-1-0-8," Daphne replied lazily, apparently correctly guessing his password, "which is coincidentally also your bank code, and just so you know, your birthday isn't exactly the wisest choice."

"This is all very troubling, love," Roger told her fondly, and Draco turned into the corridor without waiting for Daphne's response, knocking twice on Hermione's door.

"Come in," she called, and he slipped into her room, shutting the door behind him. "One second," she said without looking up, holding a finger in the air for pause. "Does this sound right to you? 'The story laments the psychological effects of political ambition when power is sought for the sake of possessing'—no, wait—"

"The story details," Draco suggested, "the traumatic psychological effects of ambition when seeking power for power's sake?"

"Ooh, traumatic, yes," Hermione said, still staring at her screen. "How about, 'the story follows the traumatic psychological effects of ambition when power is sought for its own sake'?"

"Yes, that sounds great," Draco said, and she typed something in, nodding to herself in confirmation before turning to face him, a smile spreading across her lips.

She looked beautiful and perfect, and perfectly interrupted, caught in a moment of perfect candidness. Her hair was piled on top of her head in one of those horrific claw clips she only used while studying and pieces of it were spilling out beside her cheeks, flashing golden in the low light of her desk lamp. She was barefoot, her feet pulled up to rest on her chair so that he could see her toes were painted purple (Blaise's choice) and she was wearing a pair of yoga pants with one of his jumpers, the fabric slipping down from one shoulder. Her favorite lip balm, the holiday-flavored peppermint Chapstick she'd asked her mother to send her from California, sat out on her desk, and Draco realized with a beatific lurch in his chest that if he kissed her now, she would taste precisely like a candy cane.

"Hi," she said, and then paused. "You look weird."

"Do I?" he asked distractedly, scraping a hand through his hair. "I suppose I should have showered before I arrived—"

"No, no," she said with a laugh, rising to her feet and coming towards him. "I mean… you look like you're thinking about something," she said, snaking her arms around her neck. He leaned towards her, catching a hint of lip balm before he kissed her, and yes—candy. He pressed his forehead to hers, inhaling the reassuring scent of it mixing with the vanilla-floral concoction of her lotion, and touched his lips to hers.

"I missed you," he said softly, "so very much."

She laughed, wrapping her arms tighter around him and pulling him backwards onto her unmade bed. "I missed you, too," she said, kissing him more firmly that time. His lips tingled from the peppermint, and his fingers wandered under her jumper to find the pebbled skin of her stomach before sliding up to the (magnificently braless) curves of her breasts. "Ah, you're distracting me," she said, shoving his hand away and kissing him again. "Later. Did you bring your laptop?"

"Oh, it's around here somewhere," he said vacantly, blood having rushed to somewhere entirely not his brain by then. "Five more minutes," he said, kissing her neck, and she caught the back of his head by the roots of his hair, pulling it up for a warning glance.

"Draco Wales," she said sternly, "if you think you're going to distract me—"

She broke off, frowning a little at him.

"Something's wrong," she said, tracing her fingers carefully over his cheeks. "Everything okay?"

For the first time in weeks, he couldn't think of one thing wrong.

"I just missed you," he said, shrugging. "It's hard being away from you for so long and it's…" He hesitated, giving her something of a lopsided smile. "I suppose it's hard to put that into words without it getting tiresome, that's all."

She smiled at him, taking his face in both hands.

"How about this," she said. "We need some sort of code."

"For?" he asked.

"For when we're apart," she said. "You know, like something that means 'I love you,' but also 'I miss you,' and 'I have that sad feeling I have when you're away for too long,' but 'it's not your fault,' and 'just come home soon'?"

"Oh," he said. He tilted his head, considering it, and then blinked, something suddenly leaping to mind. "Super Trouper."

"What?" Hermione asked, startled, and he leapt back, taking her hands to pull her none-too-gently to her feet.

"Hold on," he said, reaching for his phone and finding the ABBA Greatest Hits album he kept there for purposes of Pansy-whispering. He hit play, holding out the phone for her, and she let out a peal of laughter, sitting back down and beckoning for him to sing along.

"Super trouper, lights are gonna find me—No, wait, this isn't the part, hang on—ready?" he asked, egregiously too excited, and she nodded eagerly, leaning back. "Okay, here we go—facing twenty thousand of your friends, how can anyone be so lonely," he sang, probably extremely terribly, though Hermione looked positively enthralled. "Part of a success that never ends, still I'm thinking about you only—"

"This," she proclaimed, pumping a fist in the air, "is fucking incredible."

"There are moments when I think I'm going crazy, but it's gonna be alright," he sang as she reached forward with delight, greedily gripping his hips. "Everything will be so different when I'm on the stage tonight—"

"Oh my god, you're a horrifying singer," she said, "and I love you so much—"

"Shush," he told her, "I'm not finished."

"You're right," she said firmly, unable to keep from smiling at him. "Sorry, continue."

"Yes, thank you, where was I—mm, so I'll be there when you arrive, the sight of you will prove to me I'm still alive and when you take me in your arms and hold me tight, I know it's gonna mean so much toni-"

He broke off as she kissed him, tugging him down to her and, to his entire disbelief, pulling her shirt over her head and placing his palms on top of her bare breasts.

"Okay, stop," she said, leaning forward to kiss his neck. "Turn it off, we're having sex now."

"Are we?" he asked hazily, fumbling to identify buttons on his phone. "Just because I sang for you?"

"Yes, just because you sang for me," she agreed, slipping down to tug ungracefully at the zipper of his trousers.

"But I'm not even good," he protested weakly. "You're rewarding deeply flawed behavior. This is—" He sucked in a breath as she kissed her candy-cane flavored way down his torso, her wild curls falling forward to tickle his stomach. "This is wildly counterintuitive—"

"Shut up," she said, breathless, as she slipped his cock out from beneath the band of his underwear. She slid her lips over him, the tingling mint of her chapstick sending a shiver up his spine, and glanced up to look at him. The gold snake on her finger glinted from where her hand was wrapped around his dick, the metal winking suggestively in the light, but he shook his head, pulling her up and rolling her over in the midst of the messy disarray of sheets.

"I've been waiting too long to touch you," he said, lifting her hips to pull the yoga pants down over her bum and discarding them on the floor. "Better I start things off."

"Cunnilingus and a serenade? Your Highness, you're far too generous," she said, groaning a little as he slid his tongue along her clit, saturating it through the fabric before yanking her knickers down. "Try not to overuse it," she added, "or it won't mean anything."

"What, oral sex?" he asked, glancing up at her. "I'm not sure it can be overused. At least not if your mother is to be believed."

"What? God, no—Super Trouper," she corrected him. "It's only for desperate situations, okay? Only when one of us—" She cut off with a moan, Draco by then having returned to his ministrations between her legs. "Only when we—oh my god—"

He nodded his assent, mouth still placed against her, and she let out a gasp, her thighs tightening around his head before he nudged them wider, deepening the pulse of his tongue. He still tasted a mix of mint and of her, all of it entirely sweet; her legs started to shake around him as her breath quickened, faster and faster, and she held every muscle in her body tensed, fingers balled up in the sheets.

She came with a bitten-back cry, her arm rising to drape across her forehead as she settled back limply, legs sliding weakly to rest flat against the bed. He drew himself carefully against her, listening for the telling intake of breath from the brush of his hips against the still-sensitive lips of her cunt, and paused before sliding inside her, kissing the tips of the fingers she'd set lightly against his lips.

"Okay," he said, "I promise, we'll only use it when it's strictly necessary."

"Yes," she said, tugging him closer. "Yes, fine."

When he filled her, they both let out matching breaths of satisfaction, of withheld longing, and for as many times as he'd been told to wait until he was certain, he was more certain of now than anything. He was certain of her, of the way she fit into his arms and into his life, and perhaps that wasn't enough certainty for his grandfather, or for his mother, or for Rita Skeeter, or for the country—but for Draco, he knew one thing well enough.

It was her. It would always be her.

She gasped in his ear and he leaned back to watch her face go radiantly blank, all comprehension and restraint fading away. Her lips were parted, teeth gritted and eyes dizzily locked on his, and in the moment, he imagined a life with her. A future, ten futures, an eternity of mornings with his nose buried in her hair; he thought of all the promises he would have made to her if he could have; if he'd trusted fate even one iota more. He thought of all the things he'd be willing give her—everything he'd ever have, or could ever have—and the things he'd be willing to give up if only it meant she'd be as free—as blissful, as complete and as utterly filled with perfection—as she was right then, wrapped in his arms.

"What are you looking at?" she whispered, stroking a line down his cheek, and Draco felt himself smile well before he'd given himself permission.

"You," he said, and kissed her, content enough with now to wait for what would come.

I only used Super Trouper one time after that, and as I promise her it would be, it was in a moment when I was desperate. She has only used it once as well, as of approximately an hour ago, when she sent me a text that simply said: Odysseus—I'll be there when you arrive.

People think because I don't show very much of what I'm thinking or feeling that I'm not capable of understanding what's going on around me. The truth is, though, I know more than they think.

And for the record, I think I know exactly where Hermione is right now.

a/n: FYI, it's World Ballet Day and I wrote (/ruined) ballet via the latest one shot in Amortentia: Primo, chapter 103. Thank you for being here today!

15. Bloom

Chapter 15: Bloom

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

An Idyllic State of Courtship

The early years of Draco and Hermione's relationship were intensely clandestine, which the royal family has since stated on multiple occasions was a decision made to reflect the Prince's concerns about possible invasions of Hermione's privacy. Around the same time, rumours had begun to surface that His Majesty was requesting Prince Draco's attendance at nearly the same frequency as his father's, despite tradition only dictating the presence of one Prince of Wales. This increase in compulsory royal duties combined with the couple's emergence from the sheltering walls of Hogwarts Castle meant that for a time, the two were able to keep to a state of blissful uninterruption, adjusting to life after university without the pressures of public appearances. Both Prince Draco and Hermione have since described the first years of their relationship as quiet, unremarkable, and marked by the intimacy and support of family and friends—though, if one is reading between the lines, there is some indication the years of secrecy can most aptly be described as the calm before the proverbial storm.

Well, one thing Rita Skeeter is not is an idiot, unfortunately. If she were even the slightest bit more stupid, I think that'd be an improvement, but as things are, I definitely get the sense she's lying through her teeth. This chapter in particular—which is the shortest one in the book (owing to our excellent—until they weren't—attempts at secrecy)—contains a definite sense of her typing away with glee, posturing from whatever dark chasm she lives in about what might have been going on with us behind the scenes. I have to guess she suspects perfectly well the secrecy was not particularly idyllic, nor was it especially blissful. If one is reading between the lines, I'd say she considered this the fracking dark ages.

Joke's on her, though. Our final year at Hogwarts and transition into quote-unquote Adult Life was relatively blissful. In fact, it was such a wonderful time I hardly noticed any cracks that may or may not have been festering beneath the surface.

December 31, 2011
Hogwarts University

"Hello?" Hermione half-shouted at her phone screen, Blaise's elbow nearly colliding with her nose as he and Harry continued their violent attempts at something she supposed might have been dancing, though at present it looked a bit more like a collective seizure. "Draco, can you see me?"

"See you? Yes," his voice replied, his furrowed brow frozen temporarily on the screen. "Hear you? Less so, I'm afraid."

"Sorry, sorry, hang on—Blaise," she said, grabbing at one of his flailing arms, "I'll be right back, I'm just going out into the hallw-"

"WHAT?" Blaise asked.

Hermione pointed to her phone screen, holding it up for him to see, and Draco gave a somewhat stilted wave. Blaise, as anticipated, waved maniacally back.

"IF YOU SEE PANSY, TELL HER TO RETURN IMMEDIATELY," Blaise told Hermione, who gave him a relatively uncourteous nod of acknowledgement before darting between Theo and Fleur, stumbling into the corridor and holding the phone up, squinting at it.

"How about now?" she asked, breathless.

"Better," Draco said, his pixelated face freezing temporarily before reappearing in rapid motion. "Sorry, I suppose I could have just called, but—"

"No, no, I wanted to see you," she assured him, sliding down to sit on the floor outside the door of the boys' flat. Inside, the music was still a touch too loud, though she doubted anyone would complain. New Year's Eve wasn't exactly the time to go to bed early, and she doubted many people were even home. "So, how's Nairobi?"

"Well, I'm afraid I haven't seen much outside of state dinners," Draco lamented wryly, "but I suppose I've enjoyed myself as much as can be expected, given the circumstances. My grandfather's asked me to give a speech condemning illegal wildlife trade at an event tomorrow evening," he explained, "so I've been a bit preoccupied."

"You'll be great," Hermione assured him. "You're great at public speaking. Need my help with anything?"

"Yes, actually, if you don't mind," Draco said, looking relieved, or so she suspected, though it was difficult to tell with the way the video kept freezing. "Could I send the speech to you for a last minute preposition massacre? Someone else will read it, I'm sure, but I'd feel better if it had the approval of someone actually qualified," he joked, "unlike these talentless hacks who work for me."

"Ah yes, me and my numerous qualifications," Hermione facetiously agreed, though she was quietly very pleased he had asked. "Send it to me. Want to practice?"

"Maybe later," Draco said, his smile temporarily filling her screen before abruptly flickering out and back in. "For now, though, I just want to see you. Wish I could be there."

"Me, too," Hermione sighed, resting the back of her head against the door. "Christmas was hard enough. It's about time you came home."

Facetime was nice from time to time, but physical presence was fairly irreplaceable. She hadn't seen him in about three weeks, having been at home for the holidays and returning just after he was called away to Kenya with his father, and while it had been nice to spend time with her family, she was missing Draco terribly. He seemed to feel the same way, if the hazy image of him on her phone was any indication (that, or the volume of dirty text messages she'd gotten recently, though his particular version of filth was usually nothing racier than a wink emoticon every now and then).

He smiled again. "I'll be home in a couple of days. Tuesday, I promise."

"Tuesday," she exhaled. She could wait until Tuesday. "Not a moment later, okay?"

"You have my word, Miss Granger. I won't keep you from the party," he assured her, "as I wouldn't want Blaise to take too many points, but I just wanted to tell you I love you, and that I can't wait to spend this year with you."

She bit down on a smile, opting to admonish him first. "I haven't promised anything yet, Draco. I don't know if I'll be able to find a job here, remember?"

"Right, right," he permitted, half-laughing. "It'd be far easier if you'd simply let me help you, you know. I'm something of a useful connection," he offered. "My grandfather knows a guy."

She launched into a familiar refrain of, "I don't need—"

"—my help, I know, I know." His smile broadened. "Still. We'll make it work somehow, won't we? If you do go back to California, I'll simply… I don't know. Perhaps start a war of some sort?" he mused thoughtfully. "Do we suspect that would require some visits to the consulate?"

"Yes, that would do it," she agreed. "You could try to annex California?"

"I do regret never having owned it," Draco sighed, and Hermione laughed just as the door opened behind her, sending her careening backwards.

"NEW TRACEY," came Blaise's voice from somewhere above her head. "DID YOU FETCH THE ICE?"

"Blaise," she said, lifting a hand. "I'm down here."

He glanced down, unimpressed.

"Do you not have any ice?" he barked. "Minus five!"

"I wasn't sent to get any ice," she informed him, sitting upright.

"Oh," he said, puzzled. "THEN WHY AM I HERE?" he demanded of the empty air, disappearing again as the door shut behind her and she struggled to rise, one-handed, to her feet.

"Well, you heard him," Hermione told the still-fuzzy image of Draco. "I'm off to fetch some ice."

"He'll forget, I'm sure," Draco said, shrugging. "He probably went back inside and immediately decided to teach Theo to rumba again. He tries every year, but Theo's about as coordinated as he is, I don't know. Stocky."

That sounded about right. They shared a conspiratorial nod of agreement.

"Will you be up at midnight?" she asked him hopefully. "I could text you. Seems strange not to. What's the time difference between here and there?"

"Doesn't matter," he assured her. "I'll stay up."

"You don't have t-"

"What?" he asked, frowning at the screen. "You're cutting out."

Technology, Hermione inwardly sighed. They'd been to the moon, hadn't they? Seemed like in comparison, inventing a better way for her to tell her boyfriend she missed him should be child's play.

"I love you," she said. "Did you hear that?"

"What?" he asked.

"I said I love y-"

"Hermione? Can you still see me?"

"I LOVE YOU," she shouted at her screen, frustrated, and he laughed.

"I know," he said smugly. "Just wanted to hear you say it again."

"You're the worst," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Come home soon."

"Yes, dear," he told her. "Straight away, right after this speech. Which, by the way, I will send you in the morning, should you have the time or will or requisite sobriety to cast a glance."

She doubted it would require much editing. He was typically fastidious about his grammar, and besides, he knew she'd look it over as equally as she knew he'd stay up for her text.

"I look forward to it," she assured him. "Love you. Happy New Year, Your Highness."

"Happy New Year, Miss Granger," he replied, a smile tugging at his lips again. "I love you. Say hello to everyone."

She nodded, blew him an air kiss, and then let the video cut out, her battery drained to pretty much nothing by the spectacularly shoddy 3G performance. She grimaced and crossed the hall to her own flat, about to temporarily plug her phone back in before pausing at the sound of voices coming from the other room.

"—just saying, if you have feelings for him, Daphne—"

"He's my friend, Roger, and he's in a relationship with someone else. Frankly, I'm getting very tired of having the same argument."

"Daphne, you can't honestly think I believe—"

"What? Me? You don't believe me? Fine, then leave, Roger. Nobody's forcing you to stay."

Hermione winced, a little trapped between coming and going as the argument continued.

"I keep telling you, I love you, I want this to work, but—"

"Oh, spare me. You love me? Then believe me. There's nothing going on with me and Theo, and you can either come with me to the party with my friends or you can go home. Up to you."

There was a moment of tensed silence, and then Roger's voice had softened slightly. "Can't you just be with me tonight, for once? Is that really asking too much?"

Hermione, who had opted to simply freeze in the middle of the living room, was a bit torn. On the one hand, as someone separated from her boyfriend, she could certainly understand his request to spend the evening alone together. But then again, as a person who had never exactly warmed to Roger, she found herself immediately discounting the previous hand.

"They're my friends. And it's Blaise's party."

"It's in Theo's flat."

Daphne groaned. "They share it, Roger—"

"Why is it so important to you that you always be there?"

"I can't do this again, honestly, it's exhausting—"

"Daphne, wait—"

Hermione, who was very quickly about to be discovered, very cleverly (and with enormous panic) darted back to the front door and slammed it shut, announcing her presence just as Daphne marched into the living room with Roger at her heels.

"Oh, hello, Hermione," Daphne said coolly, smiling at her as Roger stumbled to a halt at her back. "I'm just going back across the hall. Are you coming?" she asked over her shoulder, and Roger blinked for a moment, obviously quite torn.

"Yes," he said uncertainly.

"Good," Daphne said, voice clipped as she turned back to Hermione. "See you there?"

"Yes, of course," Hermione said hastily. "Just, um. Plugging my phone in and grabbing some… ice."

"Oh yes, Blaise sent me to get ice," Daphne said. "Naturally I assumed what he meant was more alcohol."

In retrospect, that was probably precisely what he meant.

"Good thinking," Hermione agreed, and then, feeling awkward, she added, "Well, see you in a couple of minutes!" with an absurd amount of enthusiasm and hurried into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her only to find Pansy sprawled across her bed. "Jesus Christ, what the—"

"It's just me, Hermione," Pansy sniffed, sitting majestically upright. "There's no need for blasphemy."

"What are you doing in here?" Hermione demanded. "Were you trying to get rid of my yoga pants again? Because I keep telling you, one hole is perfectly fine if I wear them in my own house—"

"I'm escaping my boyfriend," Pansy said.

"—and furtherm- wait, what?" Hermione said, stumbling to a flustered halt. "But… this is my room, and also," she said, glancing around with confusion, "what?"

"Well, I was going to my own room, naturally, but then Romeo and Juliet over there were having a row, so I wandered in here," Pansy summarized with a fleeting wave of her hand, "and now you've arrived, so that should catch you up." She rose to her feet, dusting invisible specks of Hermione-infested lint from her dress. "Anyway, if that's all—"

"Why are you avoiding Neville?" Hermione demanded.

"I'm not," Pansy said neutrally. "I'm escaping him, Hermione, honestly, you really must learn to listen more closely—"

"But why are you—"

"Well, he's just so very…" Pansy trailed off, making an evasive face which lacked any conceivable translation. "Isn't he?"

"Uh," Hermione said.

"Yes," Pansy said, "I agree. Anyway, I'll see you shortly."

"Pans," Hermione sighed. "If you want to talk about i-"

But Pansy had already gone, sashaying out of the room without a second glance, and Hermione, realizing she was talking to herself, merely plugged her phone in and paused to check a notification in her inbox.

HERMIONE,

PAPER WAS ACCEPTED! EXCELLENT NEWS ALTHOUGH PERSONALLY WAS MORE THAN CONFIDENT THIS WOULD BE THE CASE. WILL PUBLISH LATE AUTUMN, WHICH MY CLOSE FRIEND AND INTERNATIONALLY ACCLAIMED AUTHOR GILDEROY LOCKHART (HAVE YOU HEARD OF HIM? SURELY YOU HAVE AS HE IS A BESTSELLER THRICE OVER. YOU SHOULD REALLY CONSIDER HIS BOOKS IF YOU HAVE NOT, THOUGH CANDIDLY BETWEEN US IT MAY BE WORTH NOTING HIS PRIMARY SOURCE OF INSPIRATION IS HIMSELF) HAS ASSURED ME IS A PRIME PERIOD FOR PUBLICATION.

AM TREMENDOUSLY PLEASED OUR FINE WORK HAS AT LONG LAST BEEN ACKNOWLEDGED. HEARTY SALUTATIONS! PS HOW DO I ADD THIS TO MY LIST OF HONOURS ON THE INTERNET WEBSITE? ON SECOND THOUGHT YOU ARE WELCOME TO CHANGE IT YOURSELF ON MONDAY, I AM QUITE CERTAIN YOU PREFER TO TAKE CARE OF THINGS YOURSELF. CHEERS!

Hermione shook her head, setting her phone down. That could wait. Instead, she hurried over to the boys' flat just in time for the Ignition remix, everyone appearing perfectly normal (or what was normal for them, wild dance moves included) by the time she made her way back.

Draco's return to school (precisely when promised) and the start of term at Hogwarts meant that for a time, Hermione's primary form of entertainment was their usual Friday night study periods, which remained relatively uninterrupted until Theo's birthday. Fleur had planned a surprise party, much to their dismay, which nobody was quite willing to inform her would almost certainly make Theo's very bones attempt to escape from his limbs. Draco had been unanimously nominated by the others to warn her, at least, that she should not invite anyone outside of their usual group (she had almost invited Michael Corner, which they all shuddered to consider, and Tracey Davis, whom Fleur had not quite sorted out was merely a name Blaise continued to call Hermione and not an invisible person in their group) and while they were all quietly certain Theo would be immensely displeased she had even discovered the date of his birthday (she had apparently glimpsed and/or temporarily stolen his passport for purposes of uncovering it), they dutifully gathered at her request and hid cordially behind the sofa.

"He's going to kill us," Blaise whisper-shouted from behind one of the decorative chairs Pansy had insisted they needed to improve the habitability of their living room. "We're all going to die."

"Why are we doing this, then?" Neville asked, frowning. "Surely Fleur would have underst-"

"Hush," Pansy said in a tone that was slightly firmer than suggestion, opting to punctuate the statement with a careless pat of his knee.

"She just doesn't quite grasp yet that he doesn't enjoy things like this," Daphne remarked in a noticeably colorless tone to Neville. Roger, it seemed, had not received an invitation to this particular event; Hermione suspected he had not been informed it was happening. "Understandable, I think. I imagine it's quite foreign to her that someone wouldn't wish to be the center of attention," Daphne added innocently, straightening her party hat and taking a sip of wine.

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance, communicating their various reads on what, exactly, had just been said, only to be interrupted by the sound of the door opening. They leapt to their feet, shouting, "SURPRISE," and immediately regretting it upon discovering it was merely Harry stood in the doorway, shaking his head in apparent startlement.

"Just me," he said, and then added, "Theo's going to kill us, you know."

"We know," Blaise assured him cheerfully. His party hat was intentionally crooked, Hermione suspected. "Ten points gone for lack of punctuality, Henry."

"Eight?" Harry suggested.

"Twelve," Blaise said.

"Mm. Five," Harry said.

"Ballsy," Blaise proclaimed. "Five it is, for pure cheek."

"Sit down," Pansy sighed, tugging Blaise's sleeve back down behind the chair and giving Harry an impatient look. "Just come inside, would you?"

"You know, I'm surprised you're going along with this, Pans," Harry pointed out, wandering into the room without any particular sense of haste. "I should think you of all people would be opposed to this sort of spectac-"

"Henry, be seated immediately," Pansy said.

"As you wish, my queen," Harry replied, swooping by to kiss her artlessly on the forehead and nodding to Neville before ducking behind the sofa, positioning himself in the cramped space presently occupied by Hermione, Daphne, and Draco. In place of his usual hint of jasmine, Hermione caught the wafting scent of something far more floral, though she couldn't quite place it.

"You smell like perfume," Daphne noted, successfully reading Hermione's mind and sniffing the air around Harry.

"Do I?" Harry said innocently. "Seems unlikely."

"Does it?" Daphne countered, skeptical.

"I suppose it's a mystery," Harry replied, reaching for her glass as she generously conceded to hand it to him, rolling her eyes.

"Okay, I hear footsteps," Blaise announced. "EVERYONE BE SILENT IMMEDIATELY."

"Excellent work, Blaise," Draco said.

"Thank you, Your Highness," Blaise sniffed, all of them falling to actual silence just as muffled voices came from the other side of the door.

"—was just a comment, Fleur, I wasn't fixating—"

"Let's not talk about it, okay? I shouldn't have said anything. It was just an observation, that's all."

"Yes, but you did say something, and now I'm simply defending it. It's not that I don't like him—well, that's not true, I loathe him, what's not to loathe—but I was simply suggesting he doesn't seem to know her at all, which is hardly anything to be upset about—"

"Theo, we can continue this later, can't we?"

Again, Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance.

"Here," Harry whispered to Daphne, handing her the drink back.

"Thank you," she managed, clearing her throat delicately and taking something more akin to a gulp than a sip.

"Theo," Fleur's voice sighed, "has it perhaps never occurred to you that people who are not privileged enough to occupy a place in your little friend group may not know every intimate detail of your lives? They're getting to know each other, that's all."

"Still, it seems somewhat fundamental, doesn't it? It's been months, anyway, and he should know by now doting on her isn't the same as understanding her. It's the opposite, in fact, given how she is, and—what?" he asked, sounding concerned. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Fleur's voice was agitated. "I just don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Why? I didn't mean to upset you, it's just—"

"It's nothing, Theo, truly. Can we just go inside?"

"Why," Theo's voice laughed. "You haven't planned me some sort of heinous surprise party, have you?"

Silence.

"Oh," said Theo.

"You hate it," Fleur noted dully.

"You should have told her," Hermione whispered fretfully to Draco, who grimaced in reply. She assumed the idea of doing so had gone against his entire princely code of ethics.

"Of course not," Theo lied quickly, his voice a too-bright falsetto. "It's so thoughtful, Fleur, thank you—"

"Let's just go inside," Fleur said. "I'm sorry."

"Fleur, no, stop, I'm sorry—"

"What if we just stay here?" Harry suggested. "I mean, we're all very comfortably hidden."

"Always an option," said a muffled Neville, whose too-long legs were folded awkwardly against his chest.

From the other side of the door there was a pause and a flicker of shadows which suggested Fleur and Theo had kissed or embraced.

"It's fine," Theo said soothingly to Fleur, and beside Hermione, Daphne drained her glass. "This is just a story to that will be funny at some unidentifiable time in the future. You know, like… hey, remember that time Fleur threw a surprise party and everyone listened to our conversation through the door?"

"What?" Fleur said, alarmed.

"They're definitely listening through the door," Theo assured her. "They're nosy little monsters and they're beyond help."

"Ten points to Nott for accuracy," Blaise noted sagely.

"Five," Harry suggested.

"Twenty," Blaise argued.

"Four," Harry said, unfazed.

"Mm, compelling option," Blaise mused. "Four it is."

Harry winked at Hermione, who rolled her eyes precisely as the front door opened. They all struggled to their feet, not quite managing to say anything coherent this time except for Neville, who boomed out a "SURPRISE!" so violent it must have come from a place of pure and unfiltered discomfort.

"You're all terrible," Theo said, wandering inside with his arm around a weakly smiling Fleur. "Thank you," he said to her, brushing a kiss against her cheek. "This was very thoughtful, and also, all of my friends are going to die tonight."

"It was fun while it lasted," Pansy remarked, wandering to the kitchen to refill her glass as Fleur followed her, leaving Theo to turn towards Daphne.

"Oh look, canapés," Hermione said loudly, hurriedly angling a confused Draco away as Daphne took a step in Theo's direction.

"Greengrass," Theo ventured tentatively. "I don't suppose you, um—"

"Heard absolutely everything? Only a little," Daphne replied. "It's fine, I get it. Everyone hates Roger. It'd almost be a joke by now, I suspect," she added wryly, "if it were a little more funny."

Theo forced a laugh, which quickly died to nothing. Blaise had stolen Pansy's party hat and was in the process of coaxing his way into thieving Neville's, which Hermione was glad to see kept them all distracted enough from the opposite side of the room.

"He's not good enough for you," Theo said softly.

Hermione blinked, uncertain whether to let things continue.

"I had good," Daphne replied. "I broke it."

At that point, Hermione—who knew Daphne well enough to know she desperately needed to be cut off—nudged Draco sharply in the ribs. "SHOULD WE PLAY A GAME?" she asked too loudly, and to her relief, he caught on quickly, glancing momentarily at where Theo and Daphne were talking before rushing to put his faultless political instincts to use.

"Yes, a game, what a marvelous idea—we had a schedule of some sort, didn't we?" he called to Fleur, who shrugged, apparently having lost interest. He hurried to pull out his phone, muttering to himself, "Right, um… oh." His face paled, and then he forced one of his polite company smiles. "Well, let's see who knows the birthday boy the best, shall we?" Draco said, obscuring the tension in his hands with a familiar look of everything's fine, nothing to see here. "Blaise can moderate."

"Yes," Blaise said firmly. He wore two hats on his head by then, and a third was fastened to his chin in something of a conical beard. "Sustained."

"Will the game at least be in English so the rest of us have a chance?" Harry drawled to Draco, handing him a drink, "or will it be in whatever twin language you two speak?"

From Draco, loftily: "It could be in Portuguese, Henry, and I'd still win."

From Harry: "That's because you speak conversational Portuguese."

Draco, after a beat: "In my defense, I did not know you were aware of that."

Harry, with smug satisfaction: "Well, I for one can't wait for your birthday."

From Hermione, hopefully: "For the record, I was thinking more like Twister, or—?"

From Blaise, boisterously: "One hundred points to whoever wins!"

Hermione, hastily: "Yes, okay, this game sounds perfectly fine—"

From Pansy, coolly: "You forget, Draco, I've witnessed quite a lot of Theo's life. I was going to take all the secrets I've kept to the grave, but a lighthearted party game sounds like a perfectly fine alternative."

Draco, with a grin: "I'll take that bet. Hermione, you in?"

Hermione, sighing in concession as Draco pulled her into his lap: "Sure, why not. I do happen to know a lot of his views on Shakespeare."

From Blaise, approvingly: "That's an entire round. You have a definite advantage."

Harry, with a scoff: "Please. As if we haven't all discussed him at length with Theodore."

Theo, beckoning Fleur towards him: "I simply think he's misunderstood. The man was an expert at dick jokes and yet that's only ever a footnote in discussion. Do you think he enjoys his puns being overlooked in favor of a simple reflexive 'to be or not to be?' I have my doubts."

Fleur, slipping an arm around Theo's waist: "On second thought, perhaps I should sit this one out. Better I learn from the historians, I suspect."

Pansy: "We're really more like unwilling participants."

Harry: "I'd say a captive audience, actually."

Pansy, taking a disinterested sip: "We're very much trapped against our will, yes, is the point."

Neville: "Well, I'm obviously very much out, so that's… what, just Daphne left?"

They all swiveled expectantly to her, minus Pansy, whom Hermione would have sworn muttered something unintelligible (but almost certainly derisive) about Neville under her breath.

"Me?" Daphne replied with a delicate laugh. "I've only just met him, comparatively speaking. You've all known him far longer. Minus you," she said with a glance at Hermione, "but you have a massive point deficit, so you should really take every opportunity you get."

From Hermione, with palpable relief: "I hate you and I accept."

From Draco: "Doesn't matter. I'm going to win."

Hermione, feigning dismay: "What about me?"

Draco, pointedly removing her from his lap and setting her down on the table beside him: "I love you, Hermione, but there are points on the line. This is not a team sport."

From Theo, with a chuckle: "Ever the chivalrous prince."

In the end, Draco beat Pansy in a sudden death round, the final question being, "What is Theo's opinion on global warming?" with the answer—in a surprising outburst from Draco—"HUMANITY IS A FEVER AND SHE'S SWEATING US OUT," which was then followed by a raucous shout from Pansy that the entire game had been rigged.

By then, everyone was back to normal, Fleur once again laughing beside Theo, and Pansy softening enough to pass Neville a few nearly-fond glances. Blaise had accumulated party hats from everyone in the room, and though Daphne had spent some time distracted with her phone (texting an absent Roger, as Hermione initially assumed), as far as Hermione could tell all was perfectly well.

It was only later that Hermione noticed Daphne had been compulsively texting her the correct answers to every question, including an answer that had nearly tripped Draco up: What is Theo's favorite dessert?

"Trick question," Draco had said instantly. "He doesn't like desserts."

"I like some desserts," Theo demurred before pursing his lips in warning at Harry, who had no doubt been about to imply something inelegantly Shakespearean (in that it would have been, as Theo preferred it be known, made in accordance with the Bard's great tendency for bawdiness).

"Well, he doesn't like chocolate," Draco said in rapid calculation, ever the serious competitor. "So, I don't know. Maybe carrot cake?"

"Correct," said Blaise, though no one had been very quick to move on from that unbelievably unlikely answer.

"You don't like chocolate?" Fleur said, turning to Theo with mild horror. "Seriously?"

"Carrot cake is fine, but still," Hermione said with a shudder. "That can't honestly be your favorite—"

"I had a chocolate cupcake once I rather liked," Theo contributed neutrally, which had been precisely Daphne's answer: He doesn't like desserts, but he prefers carrot cake to chocolate. Minus one specific chocolate cupcake.

"These two," Hermione sighed later, letting the phone fall against her chest as Draco settled into bed beside her. "They're positively killing me."

"Well, not everyone can have a straightforward relationship like ours," Draco joked. "You know, boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, girl is technically ineligible to be boy's official consort and refuses to let boy help her find a job… It's a tale as old as time."

Hermione rolled over to face him, shaking her head.

"I'll find something," she promised him, brushing her fingers over his mouth as he kissed the tips of her fingers. "It's just hard, you know. I know I have to get a visa, but I don't really know what I want to do, and…" She shrugged, tapering off. He'd heard enough of her I Don't Currently Have A Dream speech by then. "But I'll look, I promise. I'll find something. I want to stay here." At his mutedly arched brow, she sighed. "Really, I do! But I want to do it on my own," she said firmly. "Without your help."

"You do realize everyone takes advantage of their connections," he reminded her. "And it's not like I'd bribe someone, Hermione. I'd simply make a few call, see if there's anything interest-"

"Just let me do this," Hermione cut in gently. "Okay? Let me… make a choice. For my own life."

He heard the underlying request and nodded.

"I promise," he agreed, "I will not lift a finger to help you."

She smiled, more than pleased.

"Good," she said, and kissed him. "That's all I needed to hear."

"Alright," Pansy said firmly, "it's been two months. We need to talk about your future."

February had passed without much ado. Draco was gone a few times, but nothing was terribly out of the ordinary. The only possible distinction was that in his absences, he seemed to be even more present in media than he was before; she didn't quite know how to explain it, but coverage about his appearances seemed… different.

"Mom, I'm fine," Hermione replied, shaking her head. "And also, in case it escaped your attention, we're at a party."

Harry had brought along two of the people he knew from Army service, which was interesting, particularly as they both knew (and were apparently quite good friends with) Neville, who miraculously managed to relax to a less neurotic version of himself in their presence. One was Seamus, an extremely Irish person who spoke rapidly and without much coherence, and who also had the kind of superficially muscled look suggesting his primary skills were arson and shirtlessness. The other was Ron, a flamingly red-headed person who made a lot of snappy quips, which Hermione appreciated. It was Ron's birthday, and for whatever reason, Harry had convinced him what he desperately needed was a trip to the Hog's Head, which continued to be the best and worst bar Hermione had ever been to. Somewhere overhead, the old speakers seemed to be alternating between Cher Lloyd and One Direction, neither of which was particularly welcome for anyone who wasn't Seamus, who seemed to know all the words, or Blaise, who always scraped together an enviable rhythm for any given song like it was part of some sort of Bacchanalian revel.

"Hilarious," Pansy drawled, unfazed. "Listen, we both know you're going to stay, so you need to start looking for something." She took a sip from her glass of wine, watching Neville and Ron do a similar head-bobbing dance move across the room. "Neville's grandmother is highly connected. He was just telling me her friend is looking for someone to work at an arts non-profit she's starting."

"I'm not especially into art," Hermione reminded her. "I'd rather write, or, I don't know. Just—something," she sighed, though she had no actual concept of what that 'something' would be. The problem with being good at school, she reasoned internally, was that things which were not school seemed positively daunting. She still had the option of law school, but had lost interest in the idea after spending so much time knee-deep in literature. Perhaps she'd never really been married to it; back home, everyone always told a smart girl to be a lawyer whether she possessed the requisite skills or not, but here, Hermione was surrounded by smart girls who considered the prospect of lawyering to be positively banal.

"Anyway," Hermione continued, "until I decide what I actually want to do, I don't want to just pick anything. I'd take a gap year, but of course I wouldn't be able to afford it," she said with a sigh, "and I certainly wouldn't be able to stay in the country, so—"

"Chances are, Hermione, you won't be able to do anything you choose for yourself," Pansy told her, adding a shrewdly discerning glance. "Whatever job you take, it will have to be something approved—the arts are uncontroversial, for the most part. Charities. Anything with children, actually. People seem to unanimously support those, don't they? Society is rather unnaturally fond of children," she mused very seriously to herself, which made it immensely difficult for Hermione not to gawk at her.

"Why?" fell out of Hermione's mouth with something slightly too-squeaky, and Pansy passed her another impatient look.

"I don't know," she said, shrugging. "I've never personally seen the appeal of motherhood, but that certainly doesn't make it invalid—"

"No, not why do people like children," Hermione cut in, exasperated. "Why does my job matter?"

"You know why," Pansy said simply. "Whatever it is you end up doing, it will reflect on the royal family."

"But nobody knows about me," Hermione argued, and Pansy rolled her eyes.

"Just because I've forbidden you from reading that dreadful Inquisitorial Squad heap of rubbish doesn't mean it doesn't still exist," Pansy reminded her. "You never do anything interesting—obviously," she added, casting a slow, disapproving gaze over Hermione's apparently criminally boring outfit, "so naturally they've grown tired of you, but once you're out in the world, that will no longer be the case."

"But—"

"They caught on quickly once," Pansy pointed out. "Just how long do you think you can date a prince before people begin to notice?"

Hermione hesitated. "Okay, say you're right. Even though you're not," she added quickly.

"I am, but continue," Pansy replied.

"Even if you're right—"

"Which I am."

"—I don't want my job to just," Hermione began, and grimaced. "You know. Be handed to me."

"Of course not," Pansy agreed. "You'll need to put in some effort. Like, for example, contacting Neville's grandmother's friend," she repeated firmly, "who is a connection of mine, not Draco's, which you should consider a distinction, should you ever decide to possess any sense. Neville's quite useful, you know, if not a bit…" She pursed her lips, glancing over at him. "Well, you know. Soft, I suppose."

"Pans," Hermione said, aghast, and she sighed impatiently.

"He's fine," Pansy told Hermione. "He's perfectly bearable."

"Are you kidding me? 'He's fine,' that's it?" Hermione demanded, dismayed. "I thought things were getting serious between you."

"Mm, yes, they are," Pansy agreed, sipping from her glass. "He told me he loved me last night, in fact."

"But—" Hermione stopped, losing track of her argument and faltering. "What did you say?"

"I told him to put his head back between my legs," Pansy said without any change in tone, "and put that mouth of his to use."

Hermione gaped at her, and in response, Pansy fixed her with a half-mocking, half-laughing glance. "I'm joking," Pansy sighed, bristling. "I said it back, of course. No point in doing otherwise, is there? Though I will say he waited a rather long time to say it."

It struck Hermione as completely incomprehensible that Pansy could be saying the words she was saying in the tone of voice she was saying them. Despite having known each other nearly two years by then, Hermione still couldn't quite imagine how Lady Pansy Parkinson Six-Names could possibly be a real human person.

"Pansy," Hermione said, her voice carefully strained. "Would you appreciate it if I were to try being honest with you?"

Pansy considered it a moment, drumming her nails against the table. "No."

Hermione bit back a groan of frustration. "Okay, but—"

"Hermione, you're a very romantic person," Pansy said, "which is perfectly tiresome, but also incredibly inconvenient. In the real world, people can't simply run around chasing whatever it is you seem to think is necessary for a relationship."

"What," Hermione scoffed, "like actually liking the person you're dating? Is that where the bar's been set too high?"

"I like Neville just fine," Pansy said. "He's completely tolerable."

"Pans, that's—"

"What are you two talking about?" Daphne said, falling into the seat beside Hermione. She'd been out to dinner with Roger, which was apparently a thing that was still happening. Across the room, Harry waved to her, and she waved back, settling into her chair. "Who are these boys with our Prince Harry?" she asked, leaning in to murmur to Hermione, who was immediately cut off (naturally) by Pansy.

"Available," Pansy said firmly, "and either one of them would be an improvement upon your current love interest. Except for the Irish one," she amended, and then frowned. "Actually, I'm not overly impressed with the weasel one, either. Nevermind," she announced, shaking her head, "statement entirely retracted, carry on."

"Thanks, Pans," Daphne said drily. "I said who are they, not what, and for the record, Roger could certainly be worse."

"Oh good," Hermione said, throwing her hands in the air. "So your boyfriend is perfectly fine," she said to Pansy, "and yours could be worse," she concluded to Daphne, giving them both disapproving glances.

Daphne and Pansy exchanged a look, then turned back to Hermione.

"Yes, and…?" Pansy prompted expectantly.

"Precisely what I was going to say," Daphne agreed. "Some of us have to settle for 'fine' and 'could be worse,' Hermione, since we can't all have devoted royal princes."

"It's hardly that simple. I've got stuff, too," Hermione insisted, though the other two looked doubtful. "You know, like how I'm a secret and all that? And apparently I can't have a controversial job, either," she added with a pointed glance at Pansy, who shrugged to Daphne, who looked fully unsurprised.

"Well, fine," Daphne managed, reassuringly patting Hermione's shoulder. "You certainly have… stuff."

"Thank you," Hermione said graciously, "but my point is relationships certainly aren't easy, but you can't just give up. Why exactly are you still with Roger?"

"Because he's absolutely spectacular in bed," Daphne said, to which Pansy offered a solemn toast.

"Is it that," Hermione attempted gently, "or is it, I don't know—that you're afraid to be alone?"

"It's his penis, Hermione," Daphne said. "Really, there's very little beyond that."

"Well—" Hermione groaned, turning to Pansy. "What about you? Is it just that Neville is the right sort of person?"

"He has other talents," Pansy said evasively.

"Ah," Daphne said. "That big?"

"I would never reveal something so blatantly uncouth," Pansy said.

"So… yes?" Daphne asked her.

"I certainly didn't say no," Pansy replied, scoffing into her now-empty glass and then signaling across the room to Neville, who hastily scurried over to the bar. "In any case, Hermione, you must desist with your nonsensical concepts about what's necessary in a relationship. What exactly do you expect us to have? Me, not you," she corrected in an aside to Daphne, who rolled her eyes. "Your choices may be characteristically terrible, but mine are, as ever, perfectly fine."

"I want you to be in love," Hermione wailed to them both, resting her elbows on the table mid-lament. "Is that so much to ask?"

"Love is hugely impractical, so yes, definitely too much," Pansy sniffed. "Do you know how many marriages fail?"

"Yes, and besides that, it's fragile, too," Daphne agreed. "There's always that fear of…" She waved a hand carelessly. "You know."

"Pain?" Hermione guessed.

"Sure," Daphne permitted, making a face of total disapproval. "That."

"What are you lot talking about?" Harry asked them, bounding over to set a glass down in front of Daphne. "Our dance moves, I imagine."

From Daphne, who coolly picked up her drink: "Actually, we're discussing love and sex. What would you rather have, Harry?"

From Harry, wisely: "Ah, come back to me. I sense an incorrect answer embedded in this highly loaded question and I don't know yet which one it is."

From Pansy, pursing her lips: "It's not loaded. It's simply a question. If you can only have one or the other, which do you choose?"

From Hermione, surprising no one: "I say love, of course."

Harry, with a laugh: "Well, you would, wouldn't you?"

Hermione, frowning: "What's that supposed to mean?"

Pansy: "That it's easy to choose love when love is good, isn't it? But how often is love actually good?"

Harry, shrugging: "Can't honestly think of any examples."

Daphne: "Nor can I."

Hermione, with a groan: "You're all depressing me. Someone get me another drink."

Harry, shouting to Ron: "OI, A DRINK."

Ron, shouting back to Harry: "What kind?"

Harry, still shouting: "SOMETHING IMBUED WITH OPTIMISM."

Ron, with potent bemusement: "What, like a Cosmopolitan?"

Blaise, appearing directly behind Hermione and startling her: "Don't be ridiculous. If any form of alcohol is optimistic, it is clearly tequila."

Neville, setting a new glass of wine in front of Pansy: "True. Nothing says 'I've forgotten all the pain you've caused me in the past and I surely will again' like tequila."

Hermione, with sly opportunism: "What about you, Neville? If you could only choose one, would it be love or sex?"

Neville, with a tentative glance at Pansy: "This seems like a trick question."

Blaise, with his usual boisterousness: "I say love."

Daphne, Pansy, and Harry, all with palpable surprise: "Do you?"

Ron, from across the room: "Did we settle on a drink order?"

Harry, shouting back: "RON, PLEASE. WE'RE ABOUT TO HAVE A REVELATION."

Blaise, draping himself across Pansy's lap: "Of course I say love. Love is a wonderful thing. Companionship is highly underrated."

Pansy, drily: "I find this very surprising for someone who regularly chooses sex."

Blaise, sagely: "Well, sex is rather easy, isn't it? Whereas a proper connection with another human person is vastly more difficult to find."

Hermione, slightly in awe: "Blaise, that's… that's perfect, yes, I completely agr-"

Blaise: "That's assuming love is real, of course, which I highly doubt."

Hermione, with a sigh: "—ah, rats. So close."

Harry, with a chuckle: "Oh, I think it's real. It's simply uninterested in us."

Neville, thoughtfully: "I don't think so. It's just rather hard to find, isn't it? But it's there, I imagine."

Pansy: a silently furrowed brow, as if she wasn't quite sure what to make of this.

Daphne, sipping her drink: "Oh, love is real, definitely. It's just mostly a cosmic joke told by a vengeful deity, isn't it? Or misplaced hormones. Biology or something, to encourage us to procreate."

Hermione, with a mournful sigh: "You're all terribly depressing."

Ron, calling out to them: "Hello? Alcohol?"

Harry, shouting back: "YES, PLEASE, WE NEED SOME."

Neville, after a long pause: "Well, for the record, I also think I would choose love. I think love is quite important, isn't it? The sensation of sex can be… well, replicated—"

Harry: "Technically not to the same degree of satisfaction, but I will submit to some suspension of disbelief. Carry on."

Neville, rightfully carrying on: "—whereas love can only be approximated quite poorly. Thus, I imagine love would have to be the choice."

He paused, glancing down at Pansy. "Don't you think?" he asked her quietly, and for a moment, Pansy stared at him, seeing him in a slightly different light for what appeared to be the first time (owing perhaps in part to her view being obstructed by a still-perching Blaise).

"Yes," she said uncertainly. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

She carefully stretched the hand out towards him which was not already obscured by Blaise and Neville took her fingers lightly, twining his with hers.

"Oh, by the way," Neville recalled with an unsubtle lack of transition, turning pointedly to Hermione, "would you have any interest in meeting a friend of my gran's? She's looking for someone to start working on a new passion project of hers and I thought perhaps you might like it."

"Did you?" Hermione prompted drily. "Or did Pansy put you up to it?"

Neville hesitated, glancing at an apathetic Pansy. "Do I have to answer that?"

"You are, in general, never required to acknowledge Hermione in any way," Pansy assured him loftily. "If you find her tiresome, we can always have her deported."

"Oh," Neville said uncertainly, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Sure," she said to Neville. "I'll meet her. Can't hurt, right?"

"Certainly not," Pansy agreed, just as Ron arrived with a pint of beer in each hand.

"Here," he said, slamming them down on the table. "Is this optimistic enough?"

"You certainly are if you thought this would be in any way satisfactory," Pansy told him, and he glared at her.

"I think it's nice everybody gets along so well," Harry declared, patting the top of Pansy's head in a way that suggested the contact was not entirely gentle. "Positively heartwarming. We've already got plenty of love here, haven't we?"

"It's either that or some sort of symbiotic relationship," Daphne said.

"Eh, potato, potato," Harry said, and then they all glanced up to watch Seamus (predictably) remove his shirt, collectively languishing in the follies of their mildly parasitic youths.

"I'm on my way," Hermione said breathlessly to Daphne. "Is Draco there yet?"

"Was His Royal Highness punctual? Yes, Hermione," Daphne replied with an audible roll of her eyes. "One of the few incontrovertible truths in life."

"Oh, good," Hermione replied, hurrying through the bustling crowd of Diagon Alley. "I'll be right there, I just have to, um…" She removed the phone from her ear to glance down at the map on her screen, attempting to zoom in closer. "I think it's… a left?"

"Get a taxi," Daphne told her. "We're all dying to hear how it went."

A little mutter of "Is that Hermione?" was audible in the background, and then there was a brief rustle as the phone was passed from hand to hand.

"How was it?" Draco asked, and before Hermione answered, she paused, having not quite processed it entirely.

"It was… good," she said, which was not at all an accurate statement, though not entirely false.

In reality, her meeting with Neville's grandmother's friend—a stunningly poised woman called Minerva who, once a profitable CEO, was now investing in an arts initiative encouraging community participation in public spaces of London—had been interesting in ways Hermione had found entirely expected. Minerva McGonagall was a no-nonsense, not particularly warm person with a fascinating mind, and while Hermione was uncertain whether Minerva had liked or disliked her (or perhaps felt nothing, as seemed to be a very British way to go about things), she had come away knowing only that she was deeply invested in one day finding out.

"I think the project is interesting," Hermione admitted slowly. "The job may not be, but all entry level jobs are mostly administrative, I suppose."

"That's true," Draco said spiritedly. She suspected he was grateful she'd entertained the thought of an interview at all. While Daphne and Pansy were not required (and were, in fact, not particularly encouraged) to seek post-university employment, Hermione would need a job if she intended to stay in the country—short any sort of royal dispensation, which she intended to continue refusing. "Well, I'm sure you can tell us all about it when you get here."

It was a lunch to celebrate Daphne's birthday, which coincidentally took place the day of Hermione's interview. Per usual, the moment Hermione discovered she'd need to come to London, Daphne had offered up her family's residence and expressed some level of excitement at being able to see her sister, though Hermione was (in part) dreading Astoria's resurgence.

Luckily, Astoria had clearly recovered from her experience as Draco's erstwhile girlfriend, opting instead to chat about this society person or another. Ultimately, lunch with Draco, Theo, and Daphne could not have been more pleasant, even with Astoria's presence. Spring had begun in London, rewarding them with a bit of atmospheric pleasantry, and the warmth of the sun outside bled through to their private table, which had been the result of Draco's usual sleight of hand.

"So," Draco said, his hand resting covertly on Hermione's knee, "are you thinking of accepting the offer, then?"

"She'll have to offer, first," Hermione reminded him with a laugh. "I imagine there are multiple qualified candidates."

His smile quirked. "None as qualified as you."

"Still," Hermione warned. "Don't get your hopes up."

"Well, mine are certainly up," Daphne said. "I, for one, am very much hoping not to have to return home after we sit for our exams." She shuddered, glancing at her sister. "I don't know how you do it, Astoria."

"I'm rarely home," Astoria assured her, shrugging. She was wearing the most astoundingly crisp silk blouse Hermione had ever seen, the light hitting her hair in a way that caused her to glow like the coiled lemon peel in any given Dutch still life. "It isn't the worst thing, and besides, I don't envy you the lecture you're going to get from Mother if you refuse."

"Wait, but we'd be able to live together?" Hermione registered, excitedly putting two and two together as Daphne gave a dry little laugh, clearly having already planned on it. "Oh, and would Pansy join us?"

"Ah, that would be a no," Theo remarked with a grin, exchanging a head shake with Draco from across the table. "Pansy's freedom ends when she finishes her exams. She'll be living respectably with her family," he said in a stuffy aristocrat's voice, "until she inevitably marries Neville and becomes Lady Seven-Names."

"Oh," Hermione said, frowning, before turning back to Daphne. "But you're not…?"

"Not quite the exemplary daughter Pansy is, no," Daphne confirmed, half-smiling. "To be honest, I look forward to the inevitable scolding. I think staying at home would be the more miserable option."

"You could just date a rugby player," Astoria suggested. "I know plenty by now."

"Strangely, I rather think I'll pass," Daphne said drily, and across the table, Theo entertained a mindless sort of smile as he toyed with the handle on his cup of tea.

"Greengrass is the brave type," he said, appearing to direct the comment at Hermione despite his eyeline flicking up to meet Daphne's. "She's precisely the flatmate you need, California, if you're going to survive the mean streets of London."

"Oh, stop," Daphne told him, though she looked as if she might have been fighting a smile. "You're being ridiculous as usual, Nott. What help would I be on the streets? I hardly have any knife expertise."

"I keep offering to change that," Theo reminded her, "and yet you continue to insist these are not Dickensian times, which I refuse to believe is true. What else has all this artful dodging been practice for? Fun?" he prompted with a scoff. "I for one fully expect to die set ablaze in my wedding gown, surrounded by regrets and a molding cake."

Daphne's lips quirked again. "Hush."

Theo's smile curled up and warmed, his gaze dropping back to his tea.

"For the record, I'm more than happy to share a flat with you," Hermione said to Daphne, who was marginally able to tear her attention away from Theo to reply with a glance of enthusiasm. "Provided I get the job, of course. And provided it's something I can afford."

"Well, that's just absurd," Astoria said with a prim sort of laugh—something very ah ha ha, which Hermione assumed could not have been a sound typically found in nature. "This job is in the arts, isn't it?" Astoria asked, in something of a derisive tone. "Mother and Father would never permit Daphne to live somewh-"

Draco cleared his throat quietly, his hand tightening around Hermione's knee.

"It's fine," Daphne assured Astoria firmly, issuing her a warning glance. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, won't we?"

"Burn it, actually," Theo suggested. "If we're using Blaise-isms."

"Which, to be clear, we shouldn't," Draco said thoughtfully, "though inevitably, we will."

"The man is a cultural icon," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Do you think he has any idea?"

The others (minus Astoria, who was eyeing what appeared to be a picture of herself from a website on her phone) all exchanged a glance.

"Yes," they said in unison. "He definitely knows."

Spring had always had a tendency to move very quickly in Hermione's experience, and the last few months at Hogwarts were no exception. Slughorn, who had somehow managed not to notice Hermione was in her final year, was devastated to learn he was going to lose her as an assistant, opting to frantically offer her another summer of paid research. Hermione, who had already accepted the job with Minerva's arts initiative—called The Transfiguration Project, it was supposed to reference the transformation from underused community space to interactive works of public art—was happy to refuse, focusing instead on studying for her last batch of finals and spending long hours cloistered in the library with Draco.

There was no mistaking that Draco's absences had become more pronounced, and the press surrounding his public appearances had changed somewhat. Speculation about his romantic entanglements continued—DRAGONFLOWER remained convinced of their romantic conspiracy, despite an uptick in Theo's appearances at Fleur's side—but there was something else now, too. People seemed to refer to him less by his name and more by his official capacity, as if he had risen somehow in esteem. Hermione was immensely proud of him, though she remained happiest when he was close by.

As their final term drew to a close, it was becoming more and more pressing to find a place to live. Nothing was within Hermione's budget, of course, but she couldn't quite stomach the idea of Daphne paying most of their rent. It made her feel a bit small, in fact—though that was admittedly not Daphne's doing. Hermione had simply forgotten for a time that she was not born into Daphne's money, and this was the first moment of actually realizing what Draco had meant when he called Daphne 'the good kind of posh' all those months ago.

"I know it's getting to you, but try to think of money the way Daphne does," Draco said one day while they were studying; he for a geography exam she joked was mostly amateur cartography and she for her advanced expository writing class. "When it's inherited, it's rather rewarding to put it to use for people she cares about. It's hardly charity."

"I know, but still," Hermione grumbled, distracted yet again. "I'll have trouble affording rent in London even with help from my parents, and there's the cost of living there, too, so—" She shook her head, sighing. "I suppose I'm just worried."

"Well, think of it this way," Draco suggested, hooking his foot around the leg of her chair and pulling her closer, setting his hand on her waist as they sat obscured from view in the corner of the library. "It'll need to be somewhere with quality security," he murmured in her ear, "considering it will sometimes play host to a rather compelling political figure."

"Oh?" Hermione replied innocently, batting her lashes as he chuckled, his grip tightening on her waist. "Whoever do you mean?"

"It will have to be somewhere private," Draco said in lieu of answering, opting to brush his lips against her ear, "so it would have to be quite a good neighborhood."

"Mm," Hermione agreed, the heat of his breath sending the usual thrill up her spine as he slid his cheek alongside hers. "Anything else, Your Highness?"

"Well, you'll need a proper bed," he said with a kiss to her neck. "Supportive mattress." A kiss to her clavicle. "Comfortable sheets." A kiss to her cheek, then her nose, then her lips. "A duvet," he murmured, "which speaks to your personal aesthetic."

"Is that all?" she asked faintly, his hands traveling under the oversized sweater she'd long since commandeered from him and grazing over her breasts, peeling back the fabric of her bra to brush reverently over her nipple. "I'd hate to think I've left any stone unturned."

"I do so thoroughly agree," he said, which was a statement that ended in half a muted groan as she slid her palm up his thigh. "So, really, perhaps you might let Daphne win this one?"

"Daphne?" Hermione asked, dazed into forgetting what they'd been talking about, and he promptly slammed his book shut, rising firmly to his feet and pulling her after him to the single stall bathroom at the back of the library, proceeding to fuck her senseless on the lip of the porcelain sink while discussing between panting breaths the benefits of Egyptian cotton.

Despite their obvious distraction, Hermione decided Draco had raised some good points (sheets aside, that is, since she'd never met a jersey cotton she didn't like) that perhaps shouldn't be ignored. Pansy, of course, was quick to cement these in Hermione's head in a far less flattering way.

"The moment you go public, you'll need a veritable fortress," Pansy said flatly. "I still discourage you from this," she added as her usual caveat, "as you remain not at all cut out for it—but if the world does indeed collectively go mad, you'll need to live somewhere in Daphne's price range, not yours," she scolded, delivering Hermione to a childish sulk. "You underestimate what people will do once they discover your relationship, as ever. If you thought privacy was difficult to come by now, just wait—"

"I still think you're getting ahead of yourself," Hermione said, scrolling down the website she'd been searching for available flats. Daphne was off with Roger again, which she still did from time to time, much to Hermione's disapproval. In this particular instance, though, Hermione suspected Daphne's absence was intended for Pansy to give precisely the stern talking-to she was currently in the throes of. "And anyway, I really can't find anything that works. This one is great," she said, angling the screen towards Pansy. "It's private and secure and all that, but the only available unit is three bedrooms, which I certainly can't afford—"

"Oh, this is lovely," Pansy said approvingly. "Yes, this is very much the sort of place you should be living in. I accept."

"Yes, but it has too much space," Hermione argued. "I hardly need all this excess. And see? This place is much more affordable, so—"

"No," Pansy said flatly. "That one's in Knockturn. Don't be ridiculous. You'll wake up with one of your kidneys gone."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest that of course not, and besides, hadn't Pansy heard of gentrification—but she was interrupted by Fleur, whom they'd both forgotten had been in the room waiting for Theo to return from a meeting with his advisor (the primary surprise there being that Theo had ever listened to anyone's advice, which they all still reserved doubts about).

"If I may," Fleur offered, coltishly untucking her long legs from beneath her and joining them at the kitchen bar, "I anticipate spending quite a lot of time in London this coming year. Perhaps, if you wouldn't mind another flatmate, I might convince you to include me in your living arrangement?"

Hermione paused, glancing at Pansy, who looked equally uncertain.

"Well," Pansy said slowly, "it is one solution."

What neither Hermione nor Pansy wanted to say, however, was that they weren't entirely sure the prospect of having Fleur in the apartment Hermione shared with Daphne was such a good idea. What if Theo regularly slept over? What if Daphne and Fleur didn't get along? What if something happened, and—

"Ah, let me be clear," Fleur said, successfully catching telltale signs (not that they'd ever been subtle) of Hermione's distress. "I would be present quite rarely. Still, I prefer to have a place of my own which is not a hotel," she told them in a reasonably factual tone, bending slightly to eye the screen. "And it is quite a lovely flat."

Hermione couldn't help feeling this was the most difficult of her final exams.

"Suuuuuure," she eventually managed to say slowly, hoping something would come to her if she merely attempted any form of speech, which to her dismay was not an effective strategy. "I'd have to talk to Daphne first," she demurred, "but—"

"By all means," Fleur said, shrugging. "Talk away."

To Hermione's surprise, Daphne seemed perfectly unfazed.

"I like Fleur," Daphne said. "I think it's an extremely reasonable arrangement. The flat is perfect," she added, clicking through the pictures again with a nod, "and if this soothes even your overwrought mind, then I say yes. Let's do it."

"But," Hermione began. "In terms of, um. Potential conflicts of interests—"

"There's no conflicts and certainly no interests," Daphne assured her, and then softened. "It's been nearly a year, Hermione," she said. "I should probably learn to get used to her at this point, don't you think?"

"I—" Hermione hesitated. "Well, I don't know. That seems—"

"What?" Daphne asked, sighing. "Realistic? Well-adjusted?"

"Defeated," Hermione confessed, and Daphne gave a grim little laugh.

"It's not as if Fleur won," Daphne said, shrugging. "I simply lost. There's a difference."

Hermione winced. "But Daphne—"

"Let's do it," Daphne said firmly. "Okay? There's no reason not to. In fact," she said, "if I were to refuse, I don't know that I could face her again. She'd surely know why, and then what would happen to my friendship with Theo?"

That, Hermione reasoned, probably made sense in some very twisted game theory she rather wished they didn't have to entertain. She ended up telling her mother about the flat with some degree of unease, though she couldn't imagine how of the three of them, she was the most concerned.

"Well, I like the apartment," Helen reasoned over Skype, "and you like Fleur, don't you?"

"Yes, Mother," Hermione sighed, loath to confess to her grudging admiration yet again. "That's not the issue. I just worry, you know. If we let her into the group, she might be…" She grimaced. "Permanent."

"You're a newcomer yourself," Helen reminded her. "What if they'd shut you out, hm? I didn't raise you to reject beautiful French women on the basis that they are beautiful and French. If anything," Helen said brightly, "you should steal her secrets."

"So you're saying you raised a thief?" Hermione asked doubtfully.

"If all went according to plan, then a subtle one, yes," Helen said. "Either way, you shouldn't worry yourself. Whatever's meant to be will happen, I'm sure of it. Look at you and Draco," she said, and Hermione gave a sigh of nostalgia mixed with resignation, unwillingly determining someone who'd happened to run into the prince of England should likely have a touch more confidence in fate. "I have to think things happen for a reason, sweetheart. And anyway, I'll feel better if you're living your posh transatlantic life somewhere safe."

"I know," Hermione grumbled. "Still, everything's going to feel so wrong if Theo's with Fleur and Daphne's with Roger. Doesn't anyone care what I think?" she demanded, suddenly very frustrated the answer appeared to be a resounding no.

"I do, if it helps," Helen assured her kindly, before adding, "By the way, there was a lovely cover in the grocery store claiming Draco's replacing his father in succession to the crown. It's hot garbage, but I can't help it," she lamented with a shake of her head, "I read all the silly little articles about royalty now—I tell David it's for education but obviously all of it is trash—"

"Replacing his father?" Hermione said with a scoff. "I can't imagine what Prince Lucifer would do. Probably swell up like a balloon in a fit of rage and then float away to be punctured in space."

She was pleased not to have run into him too often over the past few months. If there was one aspect of her relationship she was happy to forget about from time to time, it was most certainly Prince Lucius of Wales. The unexpected reminder that he existed prompted her to a sullen grip of dislike.

"Well, still, it's a nice thought," Helen said warmly. "It must be nice to hear Draco's so well-liked, isn't it?"

"Am I?" asked Draco's voice, and Hermione jumped, noting him in the threshold of her bedroom and smiling what she hoped wasn't a terribly guilty smile. "I hope I'm polling well in the Granger household, at least."

"Oh, always," Helen proclaimed with delight, every pixel of her face lighting up at the sight of him. "How is England's best set of teeth?"

"Pansy's fine," Draco said cheerfully. "I heard her scolding Neville on the phone, so I have to imagine she's living her best life."

"Excellent," Helen said. "And the second best set?"

"Oh, Blaise is fine, too," Draco assured her, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Just tell her how you're doing so we can go," she said firmly. "I have at least another page to write, and you should certainly be studying before you leave—"

"Well, that all sounds terrible," Helen said. "Consider me dismissed. Talk again when finals are over?"

"Yes," Draco and Hermione said in unison, and Helen chuckled, eventually hanging up with a flurry of goodbyes and I love yous as Hermione tossed Draco his textbook, putting him to work.

"Daphne and I decided to take the flat with Fleur," she told him, abruptly remembering after a moment that she hadn't mentioned their final decision on the topic yet, and he looked up, pleased.

"Oh good, I'm glad to hear i-"

"You couldn't actually replace your father for the throne, right?" Hermione cut in, apparently not done entertaining her arbitrary thoughts, and to her surprise, Draco hesitated. "Like… that's not an actual possibility, is it? Legally speaking?"

"Where'd you hear that from?" he asked neutrally, and Hermione blinked.

"Just some stupid tabloid my mother saw," she said, and frowned. "Why, is there truth to it?"

"Of course not," he assured her, which seemed to be genuine. "I just wondered where you'd come across that particular rumor."

"You've heard it before, I take it," Hermione guessed, and Draco gave her one of his alas, you're much too clever shrugs.

"It's nothing to worry about," he promised her. "Certainly not as pressing as your tragic overuse of adverbs, anyway."

She rolled her eyes, giving him an affectionate shove. "Still," she said. "You'd tell me if you were, you know. Becoming king, right?"

"I'll make a note in my diary to tell you," he offered solemnly. "You'll be the first to know, right after Rita Skeeter."

"You do know you can talk to me about, whatever. Stupid stuff," she said. "Things that bother you, et cetera, et cetera."

"I know," Draco said. "There's just not much to say. My grandfather is…" He trailed off, running his fingers through his hair in concentration, parsing out his words. "He thinks my presence offers some small margin of popularity, I suppose you might say."

"You are a crowd-pleaser," Hermione noted in agreement, and at that, Draco laughed.

"It's not the crowd I aim to please," he said.

She heard the undertone of let's take a study break, shall we? that lingered in his voice. He may not have been especially committed to sexting, owing to his general sense of opposition to anything written out, but he had other ways of telling her what was on his mind. Namely, the deepened timbre to his tone, combined with the lavish way he was mentally undressing her.

"Focus," she told him.

"I am," he said, taking the book from her hand and marking it carefully. She loved that about him; the way he was so meticulous, the brush of his fingers across the page a thoughtful promise of how he would touch her, the way he would inevitably make her melt. "You look distressed, Miss Granger. You need a reward for all your fine work."

"The reward," Hermione said drily, "will be graduating, don't you think?"

"Mm, perhaps," Draco permitted, setting the book aside and snaking an arm around her waist, tugging her down on the bed and positioning her beneath him. "Though," he murmured, "why limit oneself to one reward, when multiple will do?"

"Multiple?" Hermione echoed. "I'm not sure we have time for that."

He slid down the zipper of her hoodie, pressing his lips to the braless curves underneath.

"You underestimate me," he said, and in response, Hermione gratefully closed her eyes, his meticulous hands proceeding to find their vocations in precisely the right places.

The end of their time at Hogwarts was bittersweet, to say the least. It seemed everything would be changing, and Hermione found herself both saddened and uplifted as she and her friends piled in for a picture outside the Slytherin dorm and its recalcitrant lock. When the camera went off much too early—Hermione's father being not entirely the greatest photographer in the world, for which she was grateful in this single, isolated instance—Blaise, who had initially sprawled languidly across the floor, was being yanked up by Pansy as Theo had Daphne in something of an artless headlock, and Draco and Hermione were looking at each other, goofily adoring smiles slapped across their faces as Helen shouted at David to take the picture horizontally, not vertically, and for heaven's sake, was it recording?

It wasn't, and it was, in fact, the best picture Hermione had ever taken.

They'd all be moving to London in various capacities. Theo and Blaise had found a flat not too far from Daphne, Fleur, and Hermione, while Pansy and Draco were returning to their respective families' residences. Still, it wasn't as if they'd have what they'd had before, living across the hall and constantly barging into each other's space. They'd have various duties now, with considerably fewer opportunities for dance parties on the kitchen floor, and certainly no spontaneous talks at three in the morning with Blaise about the meaning of life when Hermione couldn't sleep ("Establishing an infallible legacy," he said firmly, and then, "no, wait—does cheese count? Surely cheese counts"). There were going to be no further episodes discovering Pansy rearranging her things; probably fewer knocks at the door followed by Theo bursting in regardless, announcing "…AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE?" about a conversation from three days before.

The apartment had been well-loved, as they'd all been during the time they'd spent inside it, and when it was finally empty—Daphne and Pansy pausing beside her to look around at how much bigger the space seemed when it wasn't filled with the various trinkets of their lives—Hermione couldn't help feeling like everything was about to change. She leaned her head against Daphne's shoulder, sighing in wistful lamentation, and even Pansy was uncharacteristically sentimental, appearing to obscure what Hermione thought might have been a tear up until she complained, sniffing, about the flat's incurable dust mites.

After about five minutes without speaking, Daphne disrupted the silence first.

"I broke up with Roger," she said.

"Finally," Pansy scoffed.

A smile pulled at Hermione's lips at that, relief mixing with the hilarity of Pansy's completely typical response, and eventually, Daphne giggled, then let the sound evolve to a laugh, Pansy's mouth wrenching up with what appeared to be faltering opposition until the three of them were practically hysterical, piling over each other on the floor in complete and total exhaustion.

Maybe it wasn't a wistful end, Hermione decided, determining it wasn't at all the place that made them. It wasn't this flat, or this school. If it wasn't this particular floor they'd collapse to in a fit of laughter, it would surely be another. It was about them, not about Hogwarts, and yes, everything would change, but for once, she was ready for it. There was something waiting for her on the other side, and for the first time, she felt prepared to face it.

So it wasn't an end. Not at all.

It was a beautiful new beginning.

Our Hogwarts years were idyllic in a way, yes. Rita Skeeter is definitely right about that. But it was the years to come which would bring us our most terrible mistakes, which would in turn earn us our happily-ever-afters. Sure, mine's still in progress, but isn't that the fun part? Isn't the adventure in not knowing what will come?

I certainly couldn't have known what was coming at the time, and in retrospect, maybe I wouldn't have wanted to. There's something to be said for not knowing how a thing turns out making the outcome even sweeter—which is something I certainly hold on to now, knowing that the end of this day remains, as my life has always promised to be, entirely unpredictable.

a/n: So sorry this was late, I was traveling this weekend and wasn't quite done last night at my usual update time! Additional apology: I will be finishing Paradox next week, which for me usually means a tear of 3-4 updates all at once, so I'm taking one (1) week away from this story to wrap up that one and then we will return to our regularly scheduled programming. Thank you for your patience!

If you haven't heard, I have a new book coming out on Halloween called Lovely Tangled Vices, which is mostly about rival witch sisters, a couple of inadvisable love affairs, and a coven masquerading as a sorority. The pre-order for it is now available (or will be shortly after this posts) on all my social media. I'm also doing a giveaway for the book, so be sure to check that out if you have any interest! Thank you endlessly for reading. I am immensely grateful to have you.

16. Underused

Chapter 16: Underused

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Selfless Contributions

Following their years at Hogwarts University, Prince Draco and Hermione both adjusted to life in London full-time, though the Prince's obligations as a working royal kept him frequently abroad. As the demands for Draco's position began to increase at his grandfather's behest, Hermione began working for the small public arts non-profit known as The Transfiguration Project. While some considered the venture by former Phoenix Financials CEO Minerva McGonagall merely an exercise in vanity,

Hm, Rita. I wonder who thought that.

it has since been credited for welcome improvements to many of London's public spaces, many of which were previously blighted and unsightly. It is said by those close to the couple that Hermione's tendencies towards altruism which drew her to such a noble causes, however insignificant they may have initially seemed,

TELL US WHAT YOU REALLY THINK, RITA.

made her an ideal partner for Prince Draco; particularly at this point in their still-private relationship, when His Highness' ventures into official royal duties were just beginning.

Honestly, why am I here? You'd think I'd know better by now. Though, funnily enough, at this point in my life I was far less concerned with Rita than I was with other forms of media. That, of course, is something of a long story—so, to tell it right, I think I'll have to back up just a bit.

July 5, 2012
Diagon Alley, London

FLEUR MOVED INTO A NEW FLAT IN LONDON! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! FLEUR AND DRACO ARE NOW LIVING IN THE SAME CITY!

"Honestly," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes and nudging the DRAGONFLOWER post on her computer screen towards Daphne. "Haven't they given this up yet? Fleur's been seen with Theo about a thousand times by now."

"Well, I assume everyone's very frustrated by Draco's lack of love life," Daphne said, shrugging as Hermione scrolled through the comments, most of which simply read 'ahhhhh,' or similar sentiments which were otherwise onomatopoeic. "The more he makes appearances alone with Lucius or Abraxas, the more people will speculate, I imagine."

"Still," Hermione said, making a face. "Look, they're photoshopping Draco's head onto Theo."

"Huh, look at that," Daphne said, tilting her head to eye the screen. "It kind of works, doesn't it?"

Hermione grabbed the screen back, kicking Daphne's thigh. "You're the worst."

"Well, you know how I love to support the arts," Daphne said with a laugh, curling her legs under her on the sofa and glancing around the apartment—which, Hermione had to admit, had been flawlessly decorated. If there was one thing Daphne Greengrass possessed in spades, it was certainly taste. The aesthetic was generally minimalistic, mostly grey and navy with some occasional pops of color to stand in contrast to the white crown molding. Had their fridge contained anything other than a single lemon and three bottles of wine, Hermione might have mistaken herself for living in an adult woman's flat.

"Why are you reading this, anyway?" Daphne asked. "I assumed Pansy would have blocked it from your browser by now."

"No, she lets me read this one because she reads it, too. They're surprisingly the quickest at posting high res pictures of the ceremonial shenanigans Draco does when he's abroad," she admitted when Daphne arched a brow. "What?" she said, shrugging. "I'm sentimental, Daph. I like to see what he's up to when he's gone. And anyway," she concluded, "I obviously know better than to believe anything they say."

"Still, it's—"

"Oh, is that the Dragonflower blog?" Fleur said, emerging from her room like a ray of crisp summer sunshine.

Despite the heat, Fleur looked blemishless, frizzless, and free of perspiration, catalogue-model perfect in a white linen pencil dress Hermione suspected would have made her look like she'd recently broken free from a canvas sack. Fleur perched delicately on the arm of the sofa beside Hermione, smiling down at a candid picture of herself shot from afar (which was, of course, also perfect, unlike every picture taken of Hermione when she wasn't looking).

"Oh good," Fleur noted, "they did get the right shoes. I was worried, the Prada pair is so very similar to the Jimmy Choos—"

"You read this?" Hermione asked, glancing up at her, and Fleur laughed.

"Only because they track my wardrobe. See?" she said, gesturing to a post Hermione had scrolled past. "I've noticed I need to vary my pieces a bit, you know. Can't be all designer all the time. My father says it's not particularly good for the polls for us to be too terribly out of reach."

"True," Daphne said, nodding from where she sat. "Though that can be fun, don't you think?"

Daphne, of course, could say things like that because she had an excellent eye and a semi-eclectic aesthetic. She was an artist above all else; from what Hermione could see, there was no particular enjoyment for her in only buying things as they appeared on the runway.

"Could you help me?" Fleur asked, surprising both Daphne and Hermione with the question. "You seem to have an eye for that sort of thing, Daphne. I'd love to incorporate more British designers," she added, smiling warmly, "given my presence here. Perhaps some smaller fashion houses?"

"I—" Hermione watched Daphne struggle for a moment.

"Yes, of course," Daphne conceded eventually, "I'd love to."

Internally, Hermione sighed. It was so very, very difficult to dislike Fleur, despite both hers and Daphne's best efforts. One of these days, perhaps Fleur would do something terrible to lessen the burden on both of them; eat Daphne's hummus, for example, Hermione mused. Borrow her shoes. Something. Least of all ask for Daphne's opinion as if she were some sort of equal, despite Fleur being the sometimes-face of Chanel on top of being dreadfully unerring with her fashion choices.

"Wonderful," Fleur said, beaming. "Maybe we could all go to Paris for a weekend sometime? I'm sure my sister would love to meet the both of you. And Pansy, of course."

Ah, fuck, Hermione thought, forgetting Fleur had a blissfully perfect relationship with her sister, too. Daphne and her younger sister, meanwhile, had a slightly more tumultuous one, or at least one with a bit less in common. They seemed to talk considerably less now that Astoria had stepped fully into her role as a socialite, openly embracing the public scrutiny Daphne was so keen to avoid.

In other unhelpful recollections, Hermione thought of the vintage Dior hanging in her closet and the circumstances under which it had arrived there, grimacing internally at the reminder of what she'd known since their introduction: that Fleur was an uncontested delight. It was terribly unfortunate, Hermione lamented, as hating Fleur would be such a more satisfying use of her time, but it seemed she would have to settle for heavily restrained admiration.

"I suppose I haven't been to Paris in quite some time," Daphne said coolly, which Hermione knew meant she was positively dying to accept. "Though it certainly won't help you with British designers, of course. We'll have to do that here."

"Yes, we will, won't we?" Fleur said happily, swirling away on a bourbon-hinted aromatic breeze. Despite having a fragrance named for her, Fleur typically wore men's cologne, which of course managed to somehow smell perfectly feminine and enigmatic on her. Pansy, the other perfume enthusiast in the group, was generally given to floral scents that gave her a noticeable air of wealth and prestige, but Fleur alternated between smelling like 1) the world's most sensual Gatsby-era jazz club or 2) a day spent sailing on the open sea.

"Well, I'd better be off," Fleur said, picking up a tote bag Hermione's mother had threatened to steal during her brief visit for graduation and sliding a pair of sunglasses into her hair. "See you later, then!"

She was off in a whirl of perfection, leaving Daphne to lean back with a groan.

"I absolutely hate," Daphne said, "how much I bloody love her."

"She's like a walking vision board," Hermione lamented, and Daphne laughed, shaking her head in unwilling agreement. "I can't wait to exist next to her in my boxy work cardigans," she added sulkily.

"They're not boxy, they're classic," Daphne reminded her. "Smart is always in fashion, Hermione, and besides, it's not as if you're some sort of tasteless circus of buffoonery."

"Pansy said that about me, didn't she?" Hermione demanded, kicking Daphne again as she unsuccessfully tried to mask a laugh. "Honestly—"

"Did that McGonagall woman give you a start date yet?" Daphne cut in. "Next week, you said, didn't you?"

"Yes, next Monday," Hermione sighed. "Thanks for reminding me."

"Oh, it's not all bad, I'm sure," Daphne said. "Certainly not last year's Grecian hols, but still. On the bright side, your prince of a boyfriend does continue to spoil you," she remarked, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"There is that," she admitted. "And I suppose I don't much enjoy being aimlessly spoiled, either, so work is a perfectly fine alternative."

"Well, if I know you, you're just a bit apprehensive about starting something new, that's all," Daphne assured her. "The Hermione Granger we know and love would be restless by day two of a holiday without some sort of crusade for humanity to keep her hands busy."

"Very true," Hermione agreed. "I suppose it just feels… very limited," she said tentatively. "I thought I'd be doing something different with my life. No idea what," she admitted with a grimace, "but, you know. There was always that pipe dream of writing for the New York Times, or I don't know, being some sort of high-powered attorney—"

"It's only limited if you make it limited," Daphne remarked sagely. "You like the woman who hired you, don't you? And the project?"

Hermione hesitated. "Yes, but—"

"But nothing," Daphne said, shrugging. "Use the job to make connections for something else, if you like. Just give it a proper chance—seeing as some of us don't have quite the same opportunity," she reminded Hermione, who grimaced.

"Yes, you're right, I know," Hermione sighed, shutting her laptop and setting it beside her on the coffee table. "Well, what should we do, then? Until I begin putting my efforts into my extremely worthwhile job," she clarified, "for which I possess veritable buckets of enthusiasm."

"Hm," Daphne said, considering it. "What was it your roommate did to you at Stanford, again?"

"Ate my hummus," Hermione said.

"No, the other thing."

"Thieved my knickers?"

"Yes, that's the one," Daphne said, nodding. "Shall we thieve Fleur's knickers?"

"I mean, I'd be all for it," Hermione said, "but I'm not sure she was wearing any."

The dress was white and fitted, after all, and Hermione certainly hadn't seen any conspicuous lines. Not to say she'd been looking, but… really, it was difficult not to.

"Damn," Daphne sighed, "she's my actual hero."

"I hate her," Hermione said with immensely palpable falsity.

"Same," Daphne lied, both of them shaking their heads.

Minerva McGonagall was anything but matronly, despite being somewhere in her sixties and evidently long widowed. She had a highly retro sense about her, her hair always slicked back in a silver french twist to pair with her sensibly colored shift dresses, and from the start, Hermione could see she was vehemently opposed to nonsense, frivolity, and drivel. Upon meeting, in fact, Minerva had sized Hermione up with something of a lengthy glance, proceeding past salutation directly to, "What are your aspirations, young lady?" which Hermione's lack of filter had left her with no choice but to say, "I don't know, exactly, but I know I want it to be something I believe in."

Under other circumstances Hermione would have thought the snap response a mistake, but it seemed to have been the right answer in this single instance. Minerva had awarded her a sharp nod before proceeding to grill her about her academic history, her hobbies, and whether or not she possessed any thoughts ('unlike the many silly girls who've been directed my way for a career in the arts,' according to her).

"I want someone who can think," Minerva had said flatly. "Running a campaign of this magnitude will necessitate an intimately trusted staff, and I'd like to hire someone I can rely upon not to make careless mistakes. That," she added, "and someone whom my patrons will take seriously."

Hermione wasn't technically sure whether or not she could be taken seriously, but something about Minerva's general demeanor made her want to insist she was. She lifted her chin, finding a certainty she hadn't known existed, and said, "You should choose me."

"Well," said Minerva, "there it is, then."

Hermione's first day, as she'd known since her very strange interview, was going to require living up to a version of herself she suspected she'd invented specifically for Minerva. It was her first job that had not been in an environment she felt comfortable (i.e., for her parents in their private dental practice or for Slughorn at Hogwarts) and she was exceedingly nervous to begin, particularly once she walked into Minerva's office to find a petite older woman sitting in the chair opposite Minerva's desk.

"Hello," said Neville's grandmother, nodding to Hermione as she arrived.

"Miss Granger, you know my friend Lady Augusta Longbottom, do you not?" Minerva asked, gesturing to Augusta, who smiled politely. She, like Minerva, was not given to simpering, but that appeared to be a quality which manifested in a variety of ways.

"Yes, of course," Hermione replied, taking the seat beside her. They'd met briefly, of course, and she'd been with Pansy and Neville at the time, stopping only long enough to sip once or twice from her wine at the cocktail party Neville had thrown in his grandmother's honor. Most of what Hermione knew about her came from Neville himself, who seemed either quite frightened of his grandmother or extremely devoted to her ("Oh, my gran wouldn't be happy about that," seemed to be one of his favorite things to say, along with, "Ah, I wouldn't, but my gran insisted") or it was intimated by virtue of Pansy, who had recently begun a practice of Sunday brunches with Augusta.

"Of course I enjoy them, Hermione," Pansy had said immediately after bemoaning the necessity of going. "She's impossible to please, of course, and generally very difficult to talk to—"

"No," Daphne mock-gasped. "Can you imagine knowing someone like that?"

"—but more importantly, she's connected," Pansy went on, resolutely ignoring Daphne's commentary. "My mother tells me in her day Lady Longbottom was the most prominent heiress in Britain. They say King Abraxas considered her for marriage," she added, "and if she hadn't had a son, he surely would have married her daughter off to Lucius."

"So, you're… trying to get her to like you, then?" Hermione guessed optimistically.

"Don't be silly, Hermione, I haven't a single care for whether I am liked," Pansy sniffed. "I simply require her to consider me an equal one day, which for now means being a bit of a protegée, I imagine."

"Ah, yes, Pansy is apprenticing at the School of Advanced Ladyship," Theo noted sagely. He had taken to coming over from time to time whether Fleur was around or not, as had Blaise, though they rarely came together. In fact, on that particular occasion, both had arrived within minutes of each other without having told the other where they were going when they left their own flat. "I imagine courses include Civilized Conversation, Spicy Hats, The Art of Bearing Sons—"

"We discuss a wide variety of topics," Pansy interrupted.

"You mean Neville," Daphne guessed, earning herself a scolding glare.

"Yes, a variety of topics about Neville," Theo clarified, to which Daphne had laughed.

"Well, obviously I wouldn't expect any of you to understand," Pansy scoffed, thus gaining an additional chuckle from Blaise, who had otherwise been preparing some sort of cheese plate he appeared to have brought along with him. "It will be my job one day to consider what's best for him, you know. He can hardly be relied upon to correctly determine it for himself, seeing as what man ever does—"

"That's a yes," Blaise said, "and rightly so, I imagine. Ten points to the patriarchy, which of course trickles down to minus twenty for each of us—"

"Minus me, I presume?" Theo asked.

"Yes, you lose forty," Blaise said crisply, as Hermione turned back to an eye-rolling Pansy.

"Has Neville explained what the deal is with his parents?" Hermione asked. "He doesn't discuss them much, but they're not dead, are they?"

Pansy shook her head. "Augusta is very tight-lipped on the subject."

"And… Neville?" Theo asked.

"Oh, Neville doesn't know anything," Pansy replied, waving a hand dismissively. "In any case, my friendship with Augusta is quite mutually beneficial. She needs to know she's leaving her beloved grandson in capable hands, doesn't she? And I need to be assured I'll inherit the family tiara, so—"

"Is she nice?" Hermione asked.

"Nice?" Pansy echoed, apparently bemused.

"California, please. You'll have to explain the concept," Theo told Hermione before turning back to Pansy. "You see," he explained to her with pained deliberation, "'nice' is when a person is not defiantly objectionable. Have you heard of it? It requires a series of implausible tactics which include genuine interest in the well-being of others, offerings of warmth, one or two comments on the weather—"

"Mathematically speaking, it requires withholding approximately eight out of every ten thoughts which occur to you," Blaise contributed, and Pansy shot him a venomous glance of dismissal. "You're right," he amended gleefully. "In your case, perhaps ten out of every ten—"

"Lady Augusta Longbottom is not nice, nor do I have to be," Pansy told them both, looking as if she might have smacked them each on the noses with a rolled-up newspaper or perhaps a velvet slipper. "There are far more important things a woman can be outside of nice, you know. And what man has ever been congratulated on his niceness?"

"Neville," Daphne guessed wryly.

"Precisely," Pansy confirmed, "which is why there's so very much to fix."

This, Hermione had eventually guessed, meant that Augusta Longbottom was probably calculating, shrewd, and in possession of faultless manipulation techniques, as those were qualities Hermione knew to be Pansy's primary weapons . Most of what Pansy seemed to take from her meetings with Augusta were regarding how to mold Neville into the sort of husband she would one day want him to be—though, how Neville felt about these changes remained uncertain. Last Hermione had seen from him, Neville had increased what Theo had begun calling his Acts of Devotion, including but not limited to: carrying Pansy's purse, fetching things when told to fetch, and nodding when she gave him a specific glance indicating she required his agreement.

All of which had inevitably led Hermione to gain some fear-adjacent anxieties about Lady Longbottom, seeing as she doubted any woman could manage to make Pansy's already domineering ways somehow even more effective without being extremely terrifying herself.

"Oh, lovely to see you again, dear," said Augusta, who was rather unlike Minerva, at least with regard to appearances. Where Minerva had obviously permitted her hair to go grey and wore very little makeup (along with favoring colors Hermione's mother would call "an autumn palette" and Daphne would call "drab") Augusta had continued to dye her hair a silvery sort of blonde, dressed in something Hermione was pretty sure was Chanel and carrying a purse very similar to the one Fleur had used before departing back to Paris a few days prior. ("That's tiny," Hermione had commented with surprise. In response, Fleur had delicately laughed, "Well, what does a lady really need besides lipstick and a sense of adventure?" and then, at Hermione's palpable disbelief, "I'm just kidding. I need many things, Hermione, I'm highly materialistic. The rest is in my four suitcases.")

"It's so nice to see you again," Hermione returned hastily, opting to mimic Daphne's musical greetings over Pansy's scathing glances. "Thank you again for connecting me with Minerva."

"Yes, quite," Minerva said, in a way that indicated she very much wished to move on. "Are you taking notes, Hermione?"

Hermione, who hadn't known she was in the sort of situation which required formal minutes, quickly reached into her bag for the composition book she kept handy in all situations. "Yes, of course, but may I ask—"

"Why?" Minerva guessed, sparing her a glance above the line of her spectacles (these, too, were entirely practical and not at all for fashion, which Hermione appreciated—or would hopefully appreciate the moment she managed to be less jittery and/or nervous) and waiting until Hermione had fumbled for a pen. "Yes, you may. Augusta has very graciously offered to host a reception for some of our donors next month in advance of our first installation. A luncheon, was it?" she asked Augusta, who nodded. "Yes, a luncheon, sometime late August. I presume you do not need any further instruction?"

Hermione waited, then blinked, realizing she was again being addressed.

"Sorry," she said, looking up. "What day would this be?"

"An excellent question," Minerva said without expression, "which I do expect you to tell me once you have made the necessary arrangements with Augusta and the caterers. And, of course, checked to make sure it does not conflict with any predetermined events. We'll need as many prominent public figures to attend as possible," she said, glancing down at… something, "so do make sure to check their private calendars."

Hermione, who genuinely wondered if that meant Minerva wished her to somehow hack into their personal computers and/or steal their diaries, paused for a moment, uncertain how to tell her new employer she didn't even know if she had a desk yet, much less which caterers to contact or who was considered a 'prominent public figure.'

"Well," Hermione said tentatively, "I'm… sure I could figure this all out—"

"Good," Minerva said with a nod, turning to Augusta. "I have to take a call in about five minutes, so I'm afraid you'll have to discuss the remaining details with Miss Granger. Will I see you tonight?"

"Yes, of course," Augusta said, rising to her feet and turning to leave as Hermione hurried after her, hastily re-packing her bag and nearly knocking over Minerva's desktop monitor before emerging into The Transfiguration Project's main office. "Where should we continue the conversation?" Augusta asked Hermione, who blinked, noticing the two desks immediately outside Minerva's office and realizing she hadn't the slightest idea which (if either of them) were hers.

"Um, well—"

"My dear, in this life one must claim one's own space," Augusta advised, not unkindly. "Better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission."

"Oh, um, of course," Hermione said, taking the desk on the left and then scampering off (as Pansy would have put it) to pull up a vacant chair, gesturing for Augusta to sit. "I'm so sorry, it's my first day, and—"

"Ah, yes, I wondered," Augusta said with a chuckle, delicately lowering herself to perch at the edge of the chair. "I suppose it's never too early to learn Minerva isn't quite accustomed to explaining herself. Happens, I imagine, when one becomes successful despite so many obstacles; her time is twice as valuable as anyone else's, or so she believes. Perhaps not incorrectly."

Hermione exhaled, grateful for even the smallest margin of sympathy. "I just… I hate to disappoint her, I suppose."

"Well, it's rather impossible not to disappoint Minerva," Augusta said matter-of-factly, "but luckily she has quite a kind heart to pair with her lofty expectations. If I were you, I'd expect to make a number of mistakes," she said, to which Hermione fought a grimace, "but provided you do not repeat them, I expect you and Minerva will learn to coexist just fine. May I help you with anything?"

This, Hermione thought, was not remotely what she'd expected from the woman Pansy looked to for advice on being somehow more impossible than she already was. She wondered now how Neville and Pansy had managed to make her seem so terrifying.

"Well," Hermione said slowly, "this… luncheon."

"Ah, yes," Augusta said. "The last week in August would be best. As for the caterers, I can email you a list of people I've previously worked with? Perhaps that would make the search easier," she offered, "and you can choose which company suits your availability."

"Oh, that would be—" literally fucking fantastic, especially since I didn't think you even owned a computer? Personally, I thought you stepped out of an old film, or possibly a museum, "great, actually, if you wouldn't mind. But as for the, um. Choosing the date—"

"Your friend Pansy would be a great help to you, I'm sure," Augusta said. "The younger girls will be shopping around, I imagine, for the events this summer. Surely she'll have heard what they're planning to attend, won't she?"

"Oh, right, of course," Hermione said, scribbling down ASK PANSY ABOUT SNOB BRIGADE, which was what Theo and Blaise liked to call Pansy's London 'friends,' most of which even Pansy agreed were somewhere on the spectrum of relatively to extremely loathsome. "Thank you so much, I'm not sure why my brain isn't quite working yet this morning—"

"Well, to hear Neville tell it, you're quite brilliant," Augusta said approvingly. "This, my dear, is hardly requiring intellect. It's simply practice, that's all, and you're quite new to all of this, aren't you?" she asked, and Hermione nodded hesitantly. "But Minerva wouldn't have picked you if you were not precisely what she was looking for," Augusta assured her, "so I trust you'll find your footing rather quickly."

Hermione looked up from her notes, momentarily setting down her pen with surprise. "Thank you, that's… you're very kind to say that."

Augusta gave her a warm smile. "Kindness has nothing to do with it, my dear. Minerva's an excellent judge of character, and I trust her. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Miss Granger," called Minerva's voice.

"Ah, never mind, then," Augusta said. "Off you go!"

"I… what?" Hermione said, startled. "Does she, um—"

Augusta arched a brow, referencing Minerva's office.

"Right, okay, yes," Hermione said, hurrying to her feet and aiming at the office before recalling she probably needed to say something to the previous focus of her attention. "Well, I will—I'll email you, then—"

"You'll need my email address, I expect," Augusta noted.

"RIGHT," Hermione said too-loudly, bounding back. "And it is, um—"

"Miss Granger?" Minerva called, her voice more impatient that time, and Hermione faltered, abruptly forgetting what she'd walked back to the desk for.

"Pen?" Augusta said.

Hermione blinked, snatching it up from the desk. "Right, yes, and—"

"I'll leave a card," Augusta assured her with a smile. "Best get in to see what Minerva wants, dear."

"Yes, of course," Hermione exhaled, relieved. "Thank you so much f-"

"Miss Granger, I imagine a sense of urgency would properly aid the situation," noted Minerva's voice.

"Off you go," Augusta repeated cheerfully, and as Hermione rushed into Minerva's office, she happened to glance at the clock on the wall, noting it had only been fifteen minutes into her first day.

"My goodness, there you are. I wondered if you'd gotten lost," Minerva said, glancing up. "Do you have the binder?"

"The, um. Which binder, exactly?" Hermione asked hopefully.

Minerva frowned, sitting back in her chair, and slowly removed her glasses, squinting at Hermione from where she sat at her desk.

"The binder," Minerva said. "The one containing all the files on my previous industry contacts?"

"That sounds incredibly important," Hermione said with a hesitant laugh.

"It is," Minerva agreed.

There was a slight pause.

"I'll go look for it?" Hermione guessed.

"Yes, very good," Minerva confirmed, glancing at her desktop. "Do be quick about it, please. I have another call in five minutes."

It was a miracle to have made it to the weekend. Hermione had always been a quick study, regularly praised for her cleverness, but she was rapidly learning that her extremely advanced reading comprehension was not precisely the same sort of talent as predicting the needs of enormously bewildering individuals. By Friday, she could hardly claim to be much better at her job, though she could at least locate Minerva's binder of contacts and had managed to properly move into her desk.

"Isn't there someone who could help you?" Draco asked, looking concerned. Hermione, who imagined there were few situations in his life in which someone had not been available to come to his aid, laughed a little at his palpable dismay.

"Minerva has some sort of silent partner, I think, but I never see him. And there will be someone else, but he's on vacation this week," she said, grimacing. "I honestly thought she wanted me to buy kindling or start a fire or something until I realized 'Wood' was actually a person."

"Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out soon," Draco said, leaning over to kiss her forehead. He'd snuck her into his London home (technically Prince Lucifer's house, though thankfully the Prince of Darkness was not presently in residence) for the weekend, the two of them curled up on a fairly uncomfortable and egregiously expensive sofa belonging to one of his ancestors as they watched a dvd of The Royal Tenenbaums on her laptop. "She wouldn't have hired you if she didn't know perfectly well how brilliant you are."

"Brilliance does not a good assistant make," Hermione grumbled, setting the laptop aside as the credits rolled and turning to face him. "I'm learning it's quite possible my mom and dad had somewhat softer leadership styles than Minerva McGonagall. Though, Slughorn is obviously an outlier," she added drily, "seeing as I'm pretty sure he mistakenly thought I was his boss at least once."

"This Minerva person can't possibly be worse than Pansy," Draco said with a chuckle, to which Hermione had to spare a grimace of agreement.

"True, she isn't quite that. She's not mean or anything, she's just…" Hermione trailed off, considering it. "Stern? She isn't especially sparing with praise."

"So it's an adjustment period, then," Draco determined. "That's always difficult."

"Quite," Hermione sighed, though she wasn't sure it required much more conversation. She'd already had one with Daphne, who'd proceeded to volunteer Astoria as an event planning source; that email, Hermione reasoned with internal withering, could definitely wait until Monday. "How's your boss?"

"Oh, you know, it's all so very low stakes with international politics," Draco said, shrugging. "Luckily for me, the big ticket item for Skeeter coverage this summer continues to be my father."

It was impossible not to notice the attention Prince Lucius had been getting, none of it favorable. Much of it continued to revolve around some imagined love triangle between him, Princess Narcissa, and Lady Bellatrix Lestrange, which Draco allegedly had no insight about, though Hermione suspected that was because he had no interest in pressing his father on the topic. She understood his reticence, for the most part; as far as she could tell, it was a lose-lose situation for him. On the one hand, there was always the lingering possibility he'd have to learn his father had always loved a woman who was not his mother, and on the other, both options required talking to his father—which he (understandably) did not care to do.

The remaining topics of media conversation revolved around the increase in speculation that the rift between father and son had worsened in the wake of Draco's entry to full-time public service. Most of the rivalry appeared to be generated by the press, but as it had been several months since Hermione had happened upon Prince Lucifer, she wasn't entirely sure.

"You've been traveling quite a lot," Hermione noted, and Draco grimaced.

"I know, I'm sorry. I wish I could be here more. Maybe we should go on holiday," he suggested, grey eyes widening with excitement at the revolutionary concept of a vacation. "We could have a whole week to ourselves; no interruption, no press. Maybe in August?"

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione said, chewing her lip. "I have this stupid luncheon to plan, but maybe after, if it's not too busy then? You could come to that reception," she added, brightening. "Neville's grandmother is hosting, and Minerva did say the initiative could use some big names."

"Ah, I… I'm not sure," Draco said, plainly hesitant. "I'd have to see what my grandfather says. You know if it were up to me, I'd be more than happy to, of course," he added hurriedly, "but as everything I appear to support reflects on him—"

"No—you're right, I'm sorry," she said, immediately remorseful. "It's a bit small, anyway. You'll just have to come when we have some sort of suitably-sized gala, or else people might suspect you're sleeping with someone at The Transfiguration Project. Minerva, I presume," she joked, and he chuckled.

"On a serious note, you might consider inviting Harry if you need some press," he suggested. "He's always out and about and his parents were friends with the Longbottom family, so I'm sure no one would think much of it. If he takes off his shirt the caption would certainly include the name of the initiative, wouldn't it?"

(Harry, needless to say, had recently been shirtless on the cover of a tabloid alongside a bikini-clad redheaded girl Rita Skeeter had flatteringly called a 'sporting queen.')

"That's a thought," Hermione said. "I wonder how much money he requires for his services?"

"What, attendance? Or shirtlessness?"

"The latter, naturally. Surely those abs come with a price."

"Oh, certainly. Though I'm sure Blaise could compel him with points."

"Or Pansy, with a disapproving glance."

Draco's hands drifted, the tips of his fingers toying with the hem of her t-shirt.

"Don't tell me the idea of Pansy's disapproval got you all hot and bothered," Hermione said with mock opposition, and he laughed, kissing the base of her neck before shifting lower, brushing his lips across the draping line of her v-neck.

"Blaise's points, actually," he said, and she tried to laugh, but couldn't quite manage it that time, focused instead on the outbreak of pebbled skin beneath his touch. She slid a hand down, delicately forming her palm to the shape of the unmistakable hardness between his legs, and won herself a quiet groan, the sound slipping out from his lips to the curved surface of her breasts.

"Well, that makes sense," she told him, feeling his tongue slide out against the lace of her bra. He always had spectacular timing; she had a tendency to rush, to lose any conceivable sense of seduction in favor of the act at hand, but he somehow always managed to be meticulous with the way he ventured into foreplay. If there was a way to be a stop-and-smell-the-flowers type of person but in a sexual context, he was certainly that; he slid lower, nudging her shirt up, and traced a pattern of light, floating kisses across her stomach, smiling into her skin as she impatiently pulled his mouth up towards hers.

She'd always liked kissing him. Kissing was an art she thought generally undervalued, too often considering it a throwaway act on the way to sex, but Draco always tasted exquisite. He tasted expensive and rare, like this horrible couch she was about to fuck him on, and she luxuriated in being the thing on his lips, on his tongue, even after nearly two years. Though—it wasn't just kissing, of course. It was particularly juvenile that day, with her grinding against the tented material of his pants and him pulling her closer until she'd snaked one leg over his hips, the inconsequential obstacles of their clothing becoming a tangled mess between them.

He paused to remove her bra, working his hands under the cups, and she struggled to pull his shirt off, nearly strangling him in the process only long enough to reveal his mouth. She kissed him again—and again, and again, dismissing the shirt entirely until he grabbed at it with hurried impatience, delivering it to the floor and flipping her onto her back to position himself between her legs—and he paused her again, taking a second's pause.

"Come on holiday with me," he said softly, a rasp of a request as he traced a finger over her clavicle, sliding it down between her breasts. He must have seen the opposition on her face—something in the realm of I just started a new job, I can't, it would be so irresponsible, I can't just wander off on vacation—and doubled down on his request, compellingly adding, "Let me have you on a beach somewhere, Hermione. I want to see you naked for me in the sand."

"Sounds hugely uncomfortable," Hermione said, dragging his lips back down to hers. "Even with a royal dispensation," she murmured playfully, "I imagine sand still feels entitled enough to get everywhere."

He busied himself with the button of her jean shorts. "Well, I could arrange some similar experience, then? Could have you by some sort of swimming pool, if you prefer. In the pool, even. I'm not choosy."

"Think of the headlines, though—Rita Skeeter reports: English Prince Drowns While Orally Servicing Commoner," Hermione said, gasping a little as his hands found their way to her underwear.

"American Citizen Incapable of Revolution, Cites 'Too Sore' as Perfectly Understandable Defense," Draco suggested, and she shoved him away long enough to shimmy out of her shorts before tugging at his zipper, aimlessly helping him kick his trousers and underwear to the side.

"We could go anywhere," he told her, gruffly settling her legs on either side of his hips, fingers digging tightly into the span of her waist. "Anywhere you like. There might be drawbacks to being with a prince, Hermione," he remarked with a solemn laugh, "but in this, at least, I do plan to spoil you rotten."

The idea of a suntan on Draco did feel indulgent and promising. She imagined his mouth on her breasts somewhere warm; somewhere hot, his tongue sliding over the contrast between creamy skin and the inevitable bronzed freckling of her shoulders. She pictured his blond head between her sunburned thighs and groaned out something that might have been a yes, his lips quirking up slightly to draw her back to the scene at present.

Draco. Half-naked; her second favorite kind of Draco. The muscle of his arms was stark with patience as he waited, the hard lines of his stomach appealingly tensed. Real or imagined, he was difficult to refuse. She thought about the flavor of something fruity and tropical on his lips; considered the possibility of fucking him under the stars and melted, picturing the silver glow of the moon as it refracted from the blades of his shoulders.

"After August," she said, clearing her throat, "but yes, okay. Let's go somewhere, then."

He grinned, satisfied.

"Funny," he said, yanking her hips down, "I didn't think it'd be such a difficult request. Wouldn't most girls consider it the primary perk of princely courting?"

"I'm here for your disastrous singing," Hermione assured him, "and because you're mostly just an incurable nerd who happens to have a crown and a six-pack."

"Anything else?" he asked, pointedly bracing himself above her.

She arched her hips towards him, impatient.

"Use your words," he chided softly.

She sighed. "I'd like a serving of your royal penis, please."

"Not those words," he said, making a face.

"You want me to pick different words?"

"Absolutely yes, I do—"

"My goodness, royals these days are so entitled—"

"I can do this all day, Hermione," he warned, settling himself into something of a plank on his forearms. "And we both know you'll cave first."

"That," she said, "is as rude as it is true."

"Hermione," Draco sighed, nudging her chin up to kiss her neck, and she relented, letting her fingertips dance up his spine to the base of his scalp, teasing their way through the soft pale strands of his hair.

"Please, Your Royal Highness," she murmured to him, "despite the fact that we are not on a beach or in a pool, or on a boat—"

"A boat," he said, brightening. "That's an idea."

"—would you please," she groaned, tightening her fingers in his hair, "do me the honor of making sweet, impassioned love to me?"

He sighed. "Are you trying to kill me, or is it just—"

"Draco," she growled, working one hand down over the bare skin of his stomach to grasp the full length of his cock, "just fuck me. Please," she added, biting lightly on the lobe of his ear.

He chuckled in answer, turning his head to let her kiss him into silence.

"Much better," he said to her lips, sliding inside her as she sighed.

"I'd be happy to go to your work thing," Harry said the next time she saw him, which happened to be a film premiere he'd invited her and Daphne to for purposes of buffering. Evidently he'd recently slept with his friend Ron's sister and was now figuring he'd make an effort to behave, despite 'it hardly being serious,' and also, 'truth be told, she's almost certainly sleeping with other people as well, but Ron is hopelessly optimistic.' "I've been waiting for you all to get jobs for years," he added, "so I can finally attend your proper work things instead of my own."

"What do you actually do in the army?" Hermione asked him.

"Mostly restart computers," Harry joked, sparing her a wink as Daphne returned from the bar.

"What are you two talking about?" she asked, handing Hermione a glass of pinot grigio and sipping at her own. "Something interesting, I hope," she grumbled. "I've been utterly bored to tears, what with you all being gone and without even something stupid to study for at school. I nearly called Roger the other day just to amuse myself with an argument."

"Just work," Hermione said, and Daphne made a face. "Yes, I know, I know—"

"Do you not like your job?" Harry asked her, and Hermione sighed.

It wasn't that she didn't like it. She'd actually grown a bit more accustomed to the pace of the job after the last couple of weeks, especially once the desk opposite hers became occupied by a mostly-likable person called Oliver Wood. It seemed that Oliver shared quite a lot in common with Minerva, having been her assistant at Phoenix Financials until she'd opted to step down that spring. Oliver had studied finance and accounting at university, but once Minerva had offered him a position directing her new initiative, he'd cheerfully accepted, citing as his reasoning: "It seemed more fun than maths, really, so I thought—why not?"

It turned out that, like Oliver, Minerva was Scottish and a massive soccer fan, something Hermione only learned courtesy of Oliver's insuppressible enthusiasm for the sport. Hermione barely understood more than 'football' and 'Rangers' and possibly 'eyeballs out' when he described the team both he and Minerva favored, but that hadn't stopped him from going on for at least twenty minutes about something she assumed was a ball. When Hermione casually mentioned she hadn't known Minerva was from Scotland (Minerva lacked any traces of Oliver's faint but certainly present Glasgow brogue, which Hermione guessed had faded away after a long career spent entirely in London) he'd replied, "Yes, that's why she hired me. Told me if I ever lost mine I'd be SACKED"—which was both highly amusing to Hermione and wildly indicative of the relationship he and Minerva shared. Hermione noticed that while she had to struggle to interpret Minerva's wishes, Oliver was extremely likely to know what Minerva was going to say even before she said it, leading to some instances of impossible note-taking wherein meetings between the three of them amounted to full pages of unfinished sentences.

"I like the job," Hermione said slowly, "but it's been… an adjustment." After all, she'd known Minerva a matter of weeks; Oliver had worked as her assistant for nearly four years, which meant she was playing catch-up most of the time. "That, and it's difficult to find a lot of significance in event planning, I suppose," she admitted with a grimace, exchanging a knowing glance with Daphne. "It just seems like something Astoria or even Pansy would be good at, but I suppose I thought I'd be doing something… I don't know. More meaningful, I suppose."

"The cause is meaningful though, isn't it?" Harry said, and Hermione nodded grudgingly. "Jobs rarely are. Fundraising is important, I've heard it told. Something about money making the world go 'round?"

"Yes, we've already had this chat," Daphne agreed, nudging Hermione's ribs. "Haven't we? That even lofty, significant careers require some degree of menial work."

"Yes, yes, I know," Hermione grumbled, glancing with disapproval at a quietly laughing Harry. "What's new with you, then? Minus your forbidden love, that is," she amended, nudging his foot with hers.

"It's not forbidden in the slightest, which is what's so unfortunate," Harry replied, making a face. "Ron's fussing, that's all. It's nothing."

They waited, but Harry didn't elaborate.

"What's he fussing about?" Daphne demanded, and Harry sighed.

"Fine," he said, relenting. "Since you two insist on prying—"

"Yes," Hermione said, blithely sipping her wine, "we do."

"—I'll just tell you the whole story, then. I didn't know she was his sister at first," he said, and then, catching Hermione and Daphne's exchange of skeptical glances, he groaned, "What, I'm supposed to ask every redheaded person I meet if their surname happens to be Weasley?"

"Knowing their surname at all is probably an excellent start, yes," Daphne advised.

"Well, call it a logistical error, then," Harry said, shrugging. "In any case, once the pictures got out, Ron made me promise to take it seriously—though, that directly undermines the reason I liked her to begin with. She's…" He shrugged again. "Well, she's not looking for a ring, let's say that much, which is precisely what I wanted. I imagine we'll have to date for a few months until we inevitably get caught arguing in public," he concluded, "by which time I would hope Ron's knickers won't be quite so tied in knots."

"Who's looking for a ring at this age?" Hermione scoffed, and in response, Daphne and Harry both spared her arched looks of doubt. "Wait, seriously?"

"Oh, absolutely," Daphne said firmly. "What do you think Astoria's out shopping for? Certainly not a new friend for book club."

"Well, I assumed it was a Pansy-type situation," Hermione said, frowning. "You know, grooming for inevitable marriage."

"Nope," Harry corrected spiritedly. "Other girls are not quite the long-term plotter Pansy is. She's like a beautiful little spider," he said fondly, and Daphne rolled her eyes.

"It was one thing when we were in school," Daphne explained to Hermione, "but now, of course, all the eligible men who don't have girlfriends from university are going to be snatched up by socialites. It's blood in the water, really."

"I imagine your mother's been on your case," Harry said to Daphne, who made a face.

"Yes, quite. I was hoping you'd date me for a bit, in fact," she sighed, and Harry gave her an apologetic grimace, "but of course you've gone and ruined it."

"Ruined what?" asked Blaise, materializing at Daphne's side.

From Daphne: "Oh, just my hopes and dreams. What are you doing here?"

From Blaise, brusquely: "MINUS FIVE, HENRY. And Hortense invited me."

From Hermione, with notable panic: "Oh god, is she here?"

From Hortense, nearly startling Hermione into dropping her wine: "WHO IS?"

Hermione, fumbling with her glass: "Holy mother of—"

Daphne, to Blaise: "Just to clarify, Harry only loses five points for ruining my life?"

Blaise to Daphne, stiffly: "Have you met him? He's very charming, Daphne. I simply don't know what you want me to do about it."

Hortense to Hermione: "Oh. I'm realizing you meant me, didn't you?"

Hermione to Hortense: "Very much so, yes."

Hortense, scathingly: "PITY."

From Harry, to a recently manifested Thibaut: "What are you two doing here?"

Thibaut, stiffly: "Well, if you must know, we are patrons of this art museum."

Hermione, with a frown: "This isn't an art museum."

Thibaut: "Then what are all these statues doing out here?"

Daphne: "You mean the… guests?"

Thibaut, scoffing: "Don't be ridiculous, little girl.

Hortense, dismayed: "If we aren't the patrons of this event, why are we here?"

Harry, sighing: "That's exactly what I asked you, isn't it?"

Thibaut, thoughtfully cupping a goblet: "I'm now uncertain whether we are, in fact, patrons of anything."

Hortense: "Don't be silly, Thibaut. We are preeminent in our field."

Hermione, doubtfully: "Which is?"

Thibaut, with a single articulated huff: "You're very tiresome, you know."

Blaise, glancing down at his tuxedo: "Well, in other news, I'm entirely overdressed."

Harry: "Hortense is wearing feathers."

Hortense, with palpable flattery: "Thank you, Harold."

Harry: "It's Henry."

Hortense: "Who is?"

Harry: "Me."

Hortense, aghast: "When did you get here?"

Hermione, turning to Blaise: "I really thought this was just your standard party-going outfit."

Blaise, apparently finding this acceptable: "Well, you're not wrong. Ten points to New Tracey!"

Harry, to Thibaut: "Since when do you two invite Blaise to things?"

Thibaut, bewildered: "Who's Blaise?"

Daphne: "The pretty one."

Harry: "Draco's ex-girlfriend."

Thibaut, apparently suffering a forceful epiphany: "Oh, yes. Why did we invite the pretty one, Hortense?"

Hortense: "I believe it came up organically over coffee."

Daphne, bemused: "You all have coffee together?"

Blaise: "Only once a full moon."

Hermione, optimistically: "Once in a blue moon, you mean?"

Blaise: "Rather not, unfortunately. It has something to do with… lycanthropy? Or is it lupus?"

Harry: "Only one of those has anything to do with the full moon."

Blaise, frowning: "Hmm, I don't know. I prefer not to ask questions."

Daphne, sagely: "Understandable."

Thibaut: "For the record, we'd invite the rest of you, only we don't care for you."

Harry, nodding: "That checks out."

Hortense: "Well, if this isn't the Met Gala, I suppose we've gotten our wires crossed."

Hermione: "You thought this was the Met Gala?"

Hortense: "No, but the statement stands."

Thibaut, turning away: "Yes. Goodbye, children."

Blaise, calling after them: "I'm going to stay, actually, if the two of you don't mind."

Thibaut, with lofty impassivity: "I don't even know your name, you little minx."

With that, they were off, leaving Hermione, Daphne, Blaise, and Harry alone.

"Since when do you spend time with the mad cousins?" Harry asked Blaise, who shrugged.

"I don't, really. I've been very bored, though, what with Theo always off with Fleur," he lamented. "And besides, Thibaut and Hortense do this whole bit where they call me from an unregistered phone number and demand a ransom for my son. It's all very exciting. Last time they even hired a small child," he added brightly.

"Hired?" Hermione echoed, doubtful.

"Again, I really find it's best not to ask questions," Blaise repeated, and beside him, Daphne seemed to have something of a revelation.

"If you're bored, would you perhaps be interested in dating me?" Daphne asked Blaise, who frowned in thought. "Your upbringing's on the upper edge of scandalous for my mother's liking, but you'll do."

"Depends," he said. "Do you cook?"

"Not at all," Daphne replied.

"How are you at maths?"

"Abysmal."

"Would there be any elements of disguise?"

"Probably not."

Blaise hummed in thought. "Well, I'll have to think about it. I'm seeing someone at the moment, I think," he clarified, with a notable lack of clarity. "It's unclear."

"Who?" Hermione asked, startled. "And since when?"

"Tracey Davis," Blaise said, "and since she conveniently moved into the flat below mine."

"You don't call her Old Tracey, do you?" Harry asked him.

"Not in bed, no," Blaise said.

"How did that even happen?" Hermione demanded.

"The same way most things happen," Blaise informed her. "She came upstairs to demand I desist my 'unrepentant stomping' and then, upon discovering I was, in fact, me, she flung a lengthy stream of vitriol at me about how I and my friends had done a bang-up job of inconveniencing her life, and clearly, that didn't look to be stopping anytime soon."

Hermione waited for more, but evidently that had been explanation enough.

"Oh, yes," she said faintly, as Harry muffled a chuckle into his hand. "Such a romantic start."

"In any case, it might work out for a while," Blaise said to Daphne. "Or I might be free next week. Totally uncertain."

"Well, I suppose I'll just maturely put up with my mother and my boredom, then," Daphne grumbled. "At least until I inevitably become the spinster aunt to one of your illegitimate children, that is."

"Thank you," acknowledged Harry and Blaise in unison.

"You have me," Hermione reminded her, slipping an arm around Daphne's waist. "That counts for something, right?"

"Oh, yes—lesbianism, that's an option," Daphne said brightly. "Thank you, Hermione. I'll just tell my mother I love women the next time she asks me if I'm dating."

"Not what I meant," Hermione sighed, "but sure. My pleasure, I guess."

"How's Sweden?" Hermione asked as she made her way home from work. She'd made a habit of taking the long way home and calling Draco as she walked, which was a rather comforting activity after a long day at Transfiguration. That day in particular had been extremely busy with tedium, most of which had involved fielding emails about color schemes and trying to coordinate with Augusta Longbottom's house manager for their luncheon.

"Oh, you know, the usual. Speaking, listening. More speaking, more listening. Questions about the weather. How are you?" he asked her, his voice a bit gruff. He was working out in his hotel suite's private gym, which was, of course, a highly distracting fact for Hermione given she was supposed to be indulging in outward conversation, not internal fantasy about shirtlessness and/or sweat.

"Any thoughts on that holiday?" he asked, panting a little into the receiver.

Truth be told, she hadn't had one single thought about it. She'd been rather occupied with a multitude of other thoughts, most of which involved the cost of having napkins pressed prior to the opening reception.

"Uh… France?"

"France would be nice," Draco said with a chuckle, sounding as if he'd paused his workout, "if you actually wanted to go there, and hadn't simply plucked an arbitrary location out of that brilliant brain of yours."

Hermione sighed out a laugh. "Sorry," she said, making a face he couldn't see. "I suppose I haven't thought much about it, no—not for lack of wanting to," she assured him, "I've just had so much else to worry about."

"Well, that's certainly understandable. I'm afraid I can't stop thinking about it, unfortunately. The other day I looked so longingly into the distance while pondering the prospect of being out of the country with you that Rita Skeeter dubbed me 'The Pensive Prince.'"

"Oh god, even my mom told me about that," Hermione said, and Draco's responding laugh muffled resoundingly into the receiver. "Honestly," she exhaled, "I'll just be happy when you're home. I miss you, like always. I hardly need any sort of lavish vacation—just you."

"Well, who said anything about lavish? I'm happy to starve you, if you like," he said cheerfully. "I simply want uninterrupted time with you."

"Now that would definitely be luxurious," Hermione agreed, digging her keys out from her bag and finding the door to her flat unlocked. "Oh, I think Daphne's—" She broke off, stumbling over a sniffling Daphne, who was lying on the kitchen floor curled around a bottle of wine. "Home," Hermione finished, before immediately informing him, "I'm going to have to call you back. In like…"

Ten minutes? she mouthed to Daphne.

In answer, Daphne merely shoved her phone screen into Hermione's hand.

FLEUR SPOTTED WALKING OUT OF BOUCHERON WITH A CLOSE FRIEND OF PRINCE DRACO! IS IT POSSIBLE AN ENGAGEMENT IS ON THE WAY?!

"Hermione?"

Draco's voice woke her from a sudden wave of nausea.

"Oh god, no, I have to go," Hermione said, hastily shoving Daphne's phone back into her hand. "Sorry Draco, I just—I have to get drunk right now with Daph, okay? Love you."

"What? Hermione, is everything ok-"

She hung up, tossing the phone aside and sitting on the floor with a softly moaning Daphne.

"Are you okay?" she asked, picking up the wine bottle. "You've only had…" A quarter of a bottle, she estimated. "It was just this one, right?"

"I just saw it," Daphne said miserably, forcing herself upright. "I just—"

Hermione softened impossibly at the sight of her; Daphne's eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks swollen, her unfailing loveliness utterly blemished with pain.

"I know it's just rumors," Daphne said, sniffing as she pawed inelegantly at her nose, "but I just realized… he might marry her. I mean," she said, swallowing heavily, "she's older than we are, maybe she wants to get married sooner—"

"He wouldn't propose to Fleur without telling us," Hermione said firmly. "Certainly not without telling Draco, and of course I'd tell you."

"I know, but—" Poor Daphne was as slumped over and helpless-looking as Hermione had ever seen her. "He's going to marry her, Hermione. He's going to marry her, and I'm going to have to go to the wedding, aren't I? Someday, I'm going to have to stand there and watch while he just… while he—"

She burst into tears again and Hermione quickly pulled her into a hug, smoothing a hand over her hair and feeling totally, completely helpless.

For several minutes, neither of them moved.

"You could tell him how you feel," Hermione suggested eventually.

"And then what?" Daphne mumbled into her shirt, sniffling again. "I can't be the person who comes between them. It could destroy our friendship—because he loves her, Hermione," she choked out. "I missed my chance."

Hermione struggled to believe that was possible, though she found it equally difficult to disagree with Daphne's point. Somewhere in Hermione's logical brain she knew that Daphne being the one to come between Fleur and Theo would surely break a variety of relationship rules—but still, it was hard to care.

Wasn't everything supposed to be fair in love and war?

Maybe not, it seemed.

Hermione sighed, raising the bottle to her lips and taking a long sip.

"Should I call Pansy?" she asked gently.

"No." Daphne gave a violent shake of her head. "She'll only try to talk sense into me, and I don't want to see any sense right now."

Hermione sighed in agreement. "Fair. Well," she managed, handing the bottle back to Daphne, "I suppose we could, um. Drink?"

"That sounds right," Daphne said miserably.

Two bottles later, things were… not much better. Though, in Daphne's defense, she had progressed quickly through the stages of grief, moving past denial to catapult herself directly into anger.

"You know what? She may have Theo, but I have a much more interesting sense of fashion," Daphne vented to the DRAGONFLOWER page, admonishing it from where she and Hermione were sprawled on the sofa. "Why doesn't anyone track my clothes?"

"That's true," Hermione said, or possibly slurred. "It's… it's totally ridicrilous. Ridic-" She paused. "Ridikkulus."

"It's not style if you just buy things straight off the runway," Daphne argued, glaring at a post featuring the dress Fleur had worn to a state dinner with her family. "Anyone can style a gown! What is this, playtime in the amateur sandbox?"

"Yeah!" Hermione said.

"Money isn't the same thing as taste," Daphne continued ranting, "and besides, nobody who reads this blog can possibly learn anything from this! Who's going to be able to replicate these outfits, hm, Hermione? WHO?"

"No one!" Hermione said.

"PRECISELY," Daphne said firmly, jolting upright. "Besides, why are English women even following her as some sort of fashion icon? She's FRENCH!"

"Probably because Narcissa doesn't leave the house anymore," Hermione said.

"OR," Daphne thundered, "IS IT BECAUSE THEY AREN'T EMPOWERED TO FOLLOW THEIR OWN INSTINCTS?"

"THAT ONE! I think," Hermione said, squinting at Daphne. "I'm guessing. Right?"

"RIGHT," Daphne said vehemently. "If I had a blog, it'd be far more useful to the average British woman than this worthless drivel," she said, making a face at the laptop screen. "Honestly, celebrity gossip? Is this the best we can do as women? AS WOMEN?" she demanded, and in response, Hermione struggled to sit up.

"Certainly not," she said, or thought she said. "We should be worrying about… about climate change!"

"Yes!" Daphne said. "And issues!"

"Yes, and issues," Hermione crooned. "All of them!"

"Well, all of them might be overwhelming," Daphne cautioned, catching herself from falling just before she slid from the sofa.

"Right," Hermione said. "Some of the issues!"

"SOME OF THE ISSUES!" Daphne confirmed, pounding a fist into the arm of the couch for emphasis. "Women should be doing more than just… just getting married, right? Women should be… astronauts!"

"Presidents!" Hermione agreed. "CEOs!"

"C-E-Os!" Daphne agreed, trumpeting it back to Hermione with a rhythmic smack of her hand against the cushions. "You know what? We should—"

She gasped.

Hermione blinked.

"What is it?" Hermione said.

"Mleh," Daphne mumbled incoherently, followed by the equally incomprehensible, "We should start a blog."

"Who?" Hermione asked.

"US," Daphne shouted.

"What?"

"US. YOU AND ME," Daphne insisted, grabbing her laptop and forcefully giving Hermione's foot a nudge. "We could start a… what's it—one of those, you know. Like Goop."

"Goop?" Hermione echoed.

"Yes, Gwyneth Paltrow's… thing. Her THING," Daphne belted. "You know, with the… the advice, and the thoughts—"

"What?" Hermione managed to say, or thought she said.

"I'll do fashion," Daphne said. "And, you know. Skincare, makeup, fragrance… and you can do politics!"

"I… what?"

"Politics, women's issues, what have you. You're the writer," Daphne reminded her, brandishing a finger in Hermione's face. "You said you wanted to do something meaningful, didn't you?"

"But," Hermione began, blinking. "But… Draco? Or no, worse, Pansy—"

"We don't have to put our names on it," Daphne said excitedly. "Look at this Dragonflower nonsense! Nobody knows who they are! We can run it anatomic- no, anemically—"

"Anonymously?"

"That's the one!" Daphne said, palpably delighted. "What should we call it?"

"Uh," Hermione said, frowning into nothing. "The… thing."

"The thing?" Daphne echoed.

"The women thing," Hermione said.

"The society," Daphne attempted, squinting, "of women's things."

"Is that vague?" Hermione asked her.

"Well, it's not specific."

"Right, but what specifically—"

"We need to address a specific group of women," Daphne said. "Don't we?"

"What, like… society for the things belonging to English-specific women?"

"Oh yes, we're so close, I can feel it—"

"Society for the Promotion of English Women," Hermione erupted suddenly, overcome with a thunderbolt of vision, and Daphne turned to her, eyes wide.

"That's bloody genius," she said. "That's… Hermione, you've done it."

"It spells S.P.E.W.," Hermione pointed out.

"What, Spew?"

"No, aren't you listening? It's S-P-E-W—"

"You know, I like Spew. At first I thought—ew?" Daphne mused thoughtfully. "But it's growing on me. It's like Goop."

"Okay, only Goop is Goop, not G-O-O-P—"

"It's PERFECT," Daphne said firmly. "It's so obviously what we should be doing I can't believe I never thought of it before!"

"I—are you sure," Hermione said, wavering slightly in both corporeal and mental form, "because—"

"You need a passion project," Daphne said, and Hermione blinked, registering that was not entirely untrue, "and I need something to do. You know, to distract me from my empty chasm of a life," she exclaimed, launching up from the sofa. "This could be the solution for us both—two birds!"

"I've never actually been clear why killing birds was any sort of aim," Hermione remarked. "And especially not with stones, that just seems unnecessary. Besides, what about that 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush' idiom? Shouldn't we just wait until the bird is in hand? That's certainly not going to happen if we're throwing stones; then we'll have to settle exclusively for bushes. Not to mention why do we have stones? For throwing them at glass houses, I suppose," she answered herself, "though really, who has glass houses anymore—"

"Perfect, write that down," Daphne said, snapping her fingers. "It'll be our second post, right after I talk about how navy and black can be successfully paired for excellent results if one is not A TOTAL COWARD—"

"This is amazing," Hermione said, blinking. "I can't believe we never thought to do S.P.E.W. before."

"What?"

"Spew then, whatever—"

"Oh, Spew, yes, it's GENIUS—"

"We're incredible. Someone should make a film."

"I can code, you know," Daphne told her, surprising Hermione with the information. "I took some art classes in graphic design. I could very much do this, and with your writing help—"

Hermione scoffed. "We'll win a fucking Pulitzer."

"—right, exactly! So, are we doing this?" Daphne asked.

Hermione paused to look at one of Daphne's three heads (the center one), noting that now, unlike before, Daphne's cheeks were flushed with excitement rather than utter woe. She was not ill-wishing Fleur. She wasn't bemoaning the loss of Theo. She hadn't even been crying for at least twenty entire minutes.

And wasn't she right that Hermione needed one thing in her life that was about her?

Just… hers?

"I'm in," Hermione said flatly. "Fuck it. I'm in."

They just wouldn't tell Pansy. Or Draco. Everything would be fine.

"Everything's fine," Hermione said, in the event Daphne had not overheard her internal monologue, which she didn't appear to have done.

So they'd have a blog, Hermione thought. So what? Everyone had blogs these days. If things got weird, they'd simply take it down. What was the harm in that?

"This," exhaled Daphne smugly, "is the smartest thing we've ever done."

"Yes," Hermione said, throwing her arms around Daphne with palpable, wine-flavored bliss. "I totally, completely agree."

Well, I have this to say for myself:

It was not, in fact, the smartest thing I've ever done.

But in my defense, it was also not the dumbest.

a/n: Aaaaaaand we're back! Paradox is now complete. I am here. All is well. Reminder that the Lovely Tangled Vices preorder remains open; the paperback copies and a new Amortentia one shot will post on Halloween. In the meantime, hope you are enjoying the story!

17. Humanity

Chapter 17: Humanity

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Modern Princess

It is perhaps impossible to deny that Hermione Granger is the product of a more modern time, from her unlikely rise to prominence to her blips of outspokenness with regard to social commentary. I myself can attest that on the occasions I have spoken intimately with Hermione, she has been more than outspoken; openly defiant of tradition, in fact, would be the more accurate descriptor of the woman who will marry into one of the most conservative iterations of our nation's royal families.

Since the announcement of her engagement to Prince Draco, however, Hermione has made very few missteps, if any. She has been the very portrait of duty and poise, and while some suspected she would prove a tumultuous addition to the royal family, she has surprised critics and admirers alike by maintaining a notable distance from politics and social issues. As the wife of a future king, the expectations for Hermione are markedly different from other positions of prominence—for example, Prince Harry's wife, who in recent times has become surprisingly outspoken without any notable opposition from His Majesty.

It seems that for the next Princess of Wales and, eventually, the mother of a future king herself, Hermione's position will vary little from her predecessors, despite the role modernity played in depositing her near the throne.

You can practically taste Rita's boredom with me, can't you? She absolutely resents that I haven't set a toe out of line since Draco put this enormous ring on my finger over a year ago. As happy as it makes me to think of her stewing in disappointment, I can't help feeling she has a valid point (until now, anyway, but that's… we're getting there, slowly but surely).

She also brings up another interesting subject, which is that she and I have spoken before, though 'intimate' isn't precisely the word I'd use to describe our encounters so much as 'stalkery' or 'creepy' or 'too much, Rita, have some chill.' Still, if she's not going to have anything rude to say about me (for the moment, at least) then I might as well throw her a bone and explain precisely how it happened.

September 22, 2012
Nott Manor

For Hermione's twenty-third birthday, they decided to commence their (until that year, mostly unplanned) annual trip to Theo's estate for the weekend, rejoicing in the luxury of a mini-break. This time, they were joined by Neville, Fleur, and Harry's new girlfriend Ginny, who despite being in the midst of her final year at Oxford, still found time to gallivant publicly with Harry, earning them both an elevated stance as tabloid darlings. It seemed the relationship was either for show or for sex, though after a while it became difficult to distinguish between the two. Ginny was a rising soccer star who was likely to play for one of England's football clubs, so Hermione reasoned it was probably (and not unreasonably) a combination of both.

It was a welcome break from work, Hermione had to admit—which at the moment was neither good nor bad, but rather a middle-place between extensively draining projects. The luncheon had gone well, but to her complete unsurprise, Minerva was hardly one to bask in a job well done. Instead, Minerva was militaristically moving them forward to their next project, which would be funding. When Hermione had left the office on Friday, she and Oliver had been busy contemplating 'accidental' meetings they could arrange with nobles who were typically patrons of the arts. Needless to say, Minerva was not particularly considering a grassroots campaign.

The episode of peace that was Hermione's escape to Theo's house was a blissful one, for the most part. At the moment, Draco and Harry were playing aggressively shirtless badminton on the lawn. It seemed the tabloid cover featuring Harry's abs, which were already predicted to be that year's most popular Halloween costume, had nudged Draco into a flurry of sporting activities. That day, the 'sport' of choice happened to be either a game or a war as the birdie volleyed violently back and forth over the net.

(For the record, it wasn't as if Draco was losing any battles for acknowledgement of his physique, though Hermione had been forbidden to discuss the fact that someone had commented on the DRAGONFLOWER blog noting what appeared to be the outline of Draco's penis in his trousers. Pansy, ever the dutiful friend, had immediately bought him underwear boasting improved compression technology. Hermione, however, smugly attested that the commenter, username lavenderB, had estimated correctly, which made Daphne positively howl with approval. "We know," Theo sniffed, "we've all seen it," to which Blaise nodded solemnly.)

Unfortunately, Hermione was presently unable to enjoy the episode of gratuitous male torsos due to the summit Daphne had called with Blaise on the topic of Spew ("No one is ever going to call it S.P.E.W., Hermione"), which was… conflicting, to say the least. Hermione had woken up the morning after her drunken night with Daphne to be gifted a headache, cottonmouth, and a distinct sense that whatever they'd discussed the night prior probably belonged in a vault of secrets with a locked door and a swallowed key. For about a week, in fact, she'd forgotten it entirely, until Daphne had stormed into her room, excitedly informing her the web design was finished and the site was ready to go.

Hermione had put off discussion until the luncheon (and then for a few weeks afterwards), but Daphne was growing impatient with the wait, having already sent Hermione a list of article ideas. They'd agreed they'd float the idea of the blog to Blaise, who, despite being 87% chaotic on a good day, was usually neutral enough to provide something resembling sanity.

(He had not brought Tracey Davis, whom he was still dating, or something adjacent to dating. When asked why she hadn't been invited, Blaise had simply shrugged, citing that Old Tracey wasn't particularly overjoyed he'd failed to bring her along either, and had in fact broken it off with him for the eleventh time that week before proceeding to commence their misdeeds again the following day.)

"A lifestyle blog," Blaise echoed thoughtfully, considering it. Fleur and Theo had spiritedly opted not to take sides regarding the badminton match and were equally harassing both players; Pansy was reading Vogue and enjoying the last bit of unseasonably effective sun while Neville rubbed sunscreen into her shoulders. Ginny, meanwhile, was shouting performance tips to Harry from the sidelines, which didn't seem to help even remotely. Hermione shuddered to think what their sex was like, and then proceeded to shudder that she'd been thinking about their sexual relationship at all.

"Well, you'd both be marvelous at it. Provided Greengrass did most of the aesthetic lifestyling, that is, and New Tracey focused on the—" Blaise waved a hand. "Intellectual stimulation."

"Intellectual stimulation?" Hermione echoed. "Are you suggesting erotica?"

"I'm not not suggesting it," Blaise said, "but if you have material, then minus five for not bringing it to my attention until now."

"I used to write a bit of Pride and Prejudice fanfiction," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Granted, I was nine, so it was mostly amorous hand touches."

Blaise nodded sagely. "Hand-kissing is a sacred art. Plus five. Though minus ten for the overused source material."

"Please," Hermione scoffed. "What would you have chosen?"

"A Knight's Tale," said Blaise, without hesitation.

"The Heath Ledger film?" Daphne asked, frowning.

"The Paul Bettany film," Blaise corrected, "and yes. I revere anachronism in all forms."

"Hold on, back to the topic at hand," Hermione said doubtfully. "You really think we should do this blog? I mean, Pansy would never appr-"

"No, wait, I'm not ready to move on yet," Daphne said, still frowning in bemusement at Blaise. "Which pairing? Shannyn Sossamon and Heath Ledger?"

"Hm? Sure," he said. "And if Prince Edward wants to join them, who am I to stop him?"

"Listen, I just want t- wait, what?" Hermione said, belatedly registering Blaise's remark. "You want to write threesome porn for the film A Knight's Tale," she repeated slowly, "involving… the Black Prince? He's in the film for like, five seconds."

"First of all, this is a hypothetical thought exercise," Blaise informed her. "Secondly, had I written it, I would point out to you that those alleged 'five seconds' include no less than thirteen longing glances between Edward and William."

"Thirteen seems like probably too many," Hermione said.

"You're right. Minus thirteen points," Blaise said.

"What? That's not fair, I was just—"

"The blog," Daphne cut in, glancing pointedly between them. "It's a yes? Albeit a no on anachronistic medieval threesome porn, I imagine."

"Well, if you don't want to be popular," Blaise sniffed, "which is probably wise. I suppose there's a rather low probability your blog will somehow fall into the hands of the King of England, isn't there? And if you both remain anonymous, then I don't see the harm."

"See?" Daphne said to Hermione, brightening at Blaise's approval, though in Hermione's view, he was rapidly losing credentials the more he spoke. "It's perfect, or at least perfectly fine."

"I honestly can't get past the threesome porn," Hermione said. "I'm… I'm trying to sort out the logistics of it? Like, at what point in the film would this happen?"

"I imagine the scene would naturally fall at some point after William is knighted," Blaise said matter-of-factly, "but it's really rather freeform."

"Like, before the joust, or—"

"How well do you know this film?" Daphne asked Hermione.

"Not as well as Blaise, obviously, since I don't remember any longing glances, much less thirteen of them—"

"You should really improve your awareness of your surroundings," Blaise informed her. "I've been meaning to bring that up to you, but there hasn't been a proper time."

"What?" Hermione asked.

"Your spatial awareness in particular is appalling," Blaise said, patting her comfortingly on the shoulder. "But there's no reason you can't make drastic changes in the very near future if you really set your mind to it."

"Well, I for one have gotten the answer I came for," Daphne said happily, turning to Hermione. "If you don't want to do it, that's fine, but I just think—"

"No, I—" That wasn't the problem at all, though Hermione was struggling to come back from Blaise's commentary. In reality, she very much did want to write the blog, but she was becoming concerned with the logistics of keeping it a secret. "I just worry, you know, since we'll have to keep the whole thing under wraps—"

"What, that it's wrong or something?" Daphne said, shrugging. "Most blogs don't get more than a small following. Anyway, perhaps we simply try it for a month or so and see how it goes, hm?"

"Well, I suppose," Hermione said, frowning. "Yes, I guess that's a fair point."

"Wonderful," Daphne ruled cheerily, only to be interrupted by Theo shouting to her.

"Greengrass, help me, would you?" he barked, beckoning her over to the makeshift badminton court. "Delacour here's got no rhythm."

"It's true, unfortunately," said Fleur, who probably still had better spatial awareness than Hermione. "That," she said, flouncing gracefully down on the grass, "and I'm afraid I simply cannot summon the interest."

It seemed Harry and Draco were now teaming up against Theo and what was shortly to be Daphne. The prospect of it was enough to garner Pansy's attention from where she looked up, glancing between them with what Hermione was certain was joyous approval (or her version of it, anyway).

"Oh, I don't know," Daphne demurred, though she'd already risen to her feet. "Against a prince of the realm, Nott? Am I expected to fall from my horse to grant him the win?"

"Ah, but aren't you a lady who tilts when she should withdraw?" Draco called to her, prompting Hermione to arch a brow in Blaise's direction.

"We watch A Knight's Tale at least biannually," Blaise confirmed, nodding, and she laughed, leaning back as Daphne picked up a racquet and swung it into Theo's abdomen, prompting him to gift her an ungentlemanly shove.

"So," Blaise murmured to Hermione as, the badminton match got off to a heinously bad start, Theo's racquet flying out of his hand immediately after Draco's serve. "Are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or should I just guess?"

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. "Guess?"

"Ebola," Blaise said. "The Greek economy. Temporal dissatisfaction."

"Well, all of the above, of course," she assured him, "along with medieval threesome porn."

"Please," Blaise scoffed. "If it existed, you'd beg for more."

"If it existed?" Hermione echoed.

"If it existed," Blaise confirmed, "but as it does not, perhaps you might enlighten me. This blog thing sounds precisely like something you'd want to do," he noted, surveying her expression, "and forgive my boldness, New Tracey, but I'm afraid your hesitation is entirely out of character and thus it remains atrociously unexplained."

"That's," she began, and grimaced. "That's unreasonably observant of you, Blaise."

"Thirteen longing glances," he reminded her, and she groaned.

"Alright, fine." She dug out her phone, opening the internet tab and shoving it into his hands. "My article I wrote for Slughorn was published at the beginning of the month."

"Ah, brava!" Blaise said, scrolling delightedly. "Plus fifty for accomplishments of note, New Tracey—"

"Fifty?" Hermione echoed, suppressing the need to squeal in delight. "Really?"

"Really," Blaise informed her, transitioning to grave solemnity. "I would never lie to you about points. Or footwear. Or knitted accessories. Which reminds me, on the topic of your scarves—no, no, I won't," he sighed to himself, shaking his head. "Another time. In any case, why so glum?" he asked, handing her phone back. "Seems unusual, even for you."

"Well—" She took the phone from him, sighing. "It's just… I don't think Draco would approve."

"Seems unlikely," Blaise countered. "I'm given to understand your accomplishments are a very compelling factor in his attraction."

"Oh?" Hermione asked innocently, wondering if Draco had said anything specific, though she wasn't surprised when Blaise loftily skirted an answer.

"Well, presumably that, since I doubt very much that his fondness for you has any relevance to your incurable tendency to steal chips uninvited," Blaise said as Hermione rolled her eyes, "but I suppose I do know what your concerns are. Prince Lucifer would almost certainly not approve." He paused, and then added, "Though, His Darkness does not approve of much. In that, I can assure you you are not alone."

Hermione softened, watching Blaise take a rare self-conscious moment while adjusting his sunglasses. "He doesn't like you?"

"Like me, dislike me, it's irrelevant. He's never bothered to know me at all," Blaise said, shrugging. "Beyond knowing I'm the son of a tawdry widow there's not much to know, is there? So I suppose I see the point of concealing it, but still."

He leaned back onto his elbows, watching Pansy, who had apparently joined Team Harry and Draco by way of mercilessly slandering their opposition. This, of course, left Neville to heartily shout, "Good try, Theo!" to an utterly woeful serve that subsequently earned him a smack in the abdomen.

"Well," Hermione sighed, "I just… I suppose I don't want to put Draco in the position of having to tell me his father and grandfather disapprove."

"Or," Blaise corrected, "you don't want to be in the position of being disapproved of, do you? But you will be." He crossed one leg over another, looking up into the afternoon sky. "I think, all things considered, it may be better to keep some things to yourself rather than simply neglect them altogether. After all, what Draco doesn't know won't hurt him."

"Won't it, though?" Hermione asked, and Blaise turned his laughing gaze on her.

"Well, it will if he finds out," he said, "but this life, in these sorts of circles…" He waved a hand, referencing the princes and the nobles who were presently delighting in leisure. "It does not particularly get easier. Some things will count against you no matter what you do, and then the question becomes: Is it better to have something quietly reserved for yourself with a chance of repercussions, or to openly bare everything for inevitable rejection?"

An interesting question, and certainly highly topical, but she pushed it aside temporarily, focusing instead on the oddly serious nature of Blaise's remark.

"Blaise," Hermione ventured cautiously, "is everything alright?"

Just as she spoke, though, a slim shadow paired with the silhouette of a vaulted chin fell over them.

"Blaise, come help me vanquish these simpering idiots," Pansy sniffed, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder. "It's as if they've gotten together to pretend we didn't best them all thoroughly and without mercy in the Shuttlecock Massacre of 2006."

"UNACCEPTABLE," Blaise said at once, rising to his feet and taking the racquet Pansy thrusted into his hand. "Are we aiming for tears, My Lady, or is it enough to win by virtue of expediency?"

"What do you think?" Pansy scoffed.

"Excess or death," Blaise replied with reverence, and Pansy nodded her approval, the two of them wandering over to the makeshift court and leaving Hermione to wonder what Blaise had meant as Theo fell down beside her on the grass.

"Well, I have little to say for myself," Theo said, "but I suppose my single defense is that I've never been good at any sort of physical activity and, despite my best efforts, have not managed to sprout even an ounce of talent overnight." He glanced at her, grinning. "Do you want to play?"

"What, with Pansy and Blaise? No thank you," Hermione said, shading her eyes to look at them and shuddering at the thought. "Are they… are they stretching?"

"Intimidation tactic," Theo said, rolling his eyes. "Stupid, but effective."

She shifted a look at the game, watching Draco pick up his shirt from the ground to wipe the sheen of sweat from his chest. He looked happy, perfectly at ease, and for a moment, she recalled that it had been quite a while since she'd last seen him that way. He always looked relieved to see her, as if he'd been transitioning from stress to contentment, but it had been some time since she'd seen him move between two phases of equal enjoyment. He caught her eye as she looked at him, winking at her, and she smiled back, watching him jog back towards Harry for the start of a new game.

"Why do you play badminton if you're so bad at it?" Hermione asked, turning to Theo. "Surely you don't enjoy it."

He shrugged. "Eh," he said, gesturing to Draco, who served the birdie directly into Pansy's perfect swing. "He needed a win."

"Well, Pansy's clearly going to win," Hermione noted, and Theo laughed in agreement as Daphne joined them, falling back with exhaustion on Theo's other side.

Theo nudged Daphne, who nudged him back. He smiled down at her, and she up at him, and then she quickly remembered herself, forcefully sitting upright and angling herself away from him.

"Well, what do you say, Hermione?" Daphne called to her. "Want to team up?"

It didn't seem to be exclusively about badminton.

Hermione considered it, then stifled a sigh.

Draco wasn't the only one who needed a win. Or at least a friend who was willing to take a loss.

"Yes," she said firmly, and Daphne's smile broadened. "Count me in."

"Are you ready for your birthday gift?" Draco asked her that night.

"I thought I just had it," Hermione said, having still not caught her breath.

(Draco had very thoughtfully decorated the room with what seemed to be innumerable battery-operated tea lights, as she'd once expressed some degree of concern for open flames being too close to Theo's ancient aristocratic drapes. In the end, she'd walked into the room partway through Draco's neurotic preparations, which had involved arranging rose petals in a lopsided heart on the duvet. At the sight of her meticulous prince muttering to himself about how he should have drafted the shape out first, she found herself quite unwilling to disturb his good work and had instead dragged him down to the floor, opting to blaspheme in his honor with her head against the floorboards instead.)

He laughed and rose to his feet, picking something up from the nightstand along with a blanket and rejoining her, holding out a small envelope.

"It's not much," he said apologetically. "Unfortunately, your ten pound limit was a bit restraining. I really had to think for quite some time about what might be appropriate. At first I thought, perhaps some coffee?" he mused, shrugging, as he clearly had very little concept how money was technically used. "But then I had a better idea."

Her fingers tightened slightly on the envelope, wondering what could be inside. He'd stopped asking her about going on vacation, probably sensing her reluctance, but she wasn't entirely certain whether she'd be pleased or not with finding plane tickets or some other sort of travel arrangement inside.

Though, what could he have possibly managed to do within the realm of ten pounds?

"Oh," she said, carefully unsealing it. "Well, I—"

She stopped, unfolding a single blank page.

"What's this?" she asked, looking up at him with a frown.

He was clearly struggling to contain his excitement. "I've been asked to give closing remarks at my grandfather's annual gala," he said, "and I want you to write my speech."

"I," Hermione began, and frowned again. "Well, that's—" She paused, unsure how to react. "Is it just closing remarks?"

"Well, that's the thing," Draco said spiritedly, "it is, but I'm also giving you free reign to bring up one potentially controversial topic of your choosing. Feminism," he suggested, and she blinked. "Suffrage. Renewable energy, refugees, social stratification—what have you. I'd hate to call for the end of the monarchy, but if you want me to give it a try, so be it." He shrugged, nudging her hand that was holding the blank page. "You get a blank check, Miss Granger, for me to pair my princely name and my royal face to any agenda you like."

She stared at him. "But your grandfather—"

"Oh, he'll disapprove," Draco said, shrugging again, "but provided you write it well enough, which I'm sure you will, then I can't imagine he'll be too upset for long. Besides, what will he do, tell me to stop traveling so much?" he joked. "Force me to stay in London? That being the case, I suspect I could manage to bear the consequences."

"Draco, this is—" She swallowed, the single blank page suddenly the grandest gesture she'd ever witnessed. "I don't even—"

"If you don't want to, you don't have to, of course," he told her quickly, looking rapidly uncertain. "If you'd prefer jewelry, I assure you, I can have Dobby at Cartier in less than an hour—"

"What? It's midnight," she said.

"Yes, and I'm a prince," he reminded her shamelessly, "so if I've done this wrong, I can certainly make it up to you, but—"

"No." She shook her head. "No, Draco, you did it exactly right."

She set the page aside and pulled him close, rewarding him with proximity. He wrapped the blanket around them both, sliding her leg between his to gratefully kiss her forehead.

"I know it must be difficult for you," he murmured to her. "I'm heartily aware I'm not around as much as I'd like, and that you have to make choices for me that perhaps you'd rather not make—"

She tilted her head up, brushing her lips against his. "It's worth it," she promised him. To hold him, to be held by him, to be so thoroughly trusted by him he could hand her his reputation on a single page and ask her to write it as she wished.

Still, it was only one thing, and look what a sacrifice it would be for him. He saw it as accepting a consequence, and not even a welcome one. Better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission, Lady Augusta Longbottom reminded her unhelpfully, and Hermione bit her tongue on confession; the article, the blog… She hated to keep things from him, but why bring it all up now when it might only be nothing? The article had already gone unnoticed. The blog would surely be nothing at all. She was certain she'd only add conflict to his already conflicted life.

She slid a hand down his torso, tracing her fingertips over him. She touched the crevices of his ribs, stroking over the lines of them down to the hard slope of his waist. Just when she thought she knew every inch of him by heart, there was something else, some new reminder that there were parts of him left to discover. She could have sworn that even his skin felt more indulgent the more she touched him. She trailed her fingers down to his thighs, dancing along the muscle of them, and then curving her way back up, passing the resumed hardness between his legs.

"Is that all?" she asked, and was rewarded by his stuttered inhale.

"Well, I suppose I have ten pounds' worth of gift left," he said.

"Cheapskate," she murmured, feigning disapproval, and he wrenched her leg up, fingers passing the still-swollen silk of her clit to earn the sound of her gasp, arching into his touch.

"I'll have to make up for it, then," he said, and kissed her firmly, rolling her onto her back.

Returning to work was difficult, and as she often did, Hermione longed for their university days. As stressful as studying had been, it was still a relatively simple matter when the alternative was employment by Minerva McGonagall. Minerva seemed to have warmed to Hermione, though, going so far as to painstakingly insert small pauses after she spoke so that Hermione could ask up to three entire questions, and Hermione was adjusting to working with Oliver, whose general demeanor regularly hovered somewhere around severely overcaffeinated.

"Listen, okay, so I know you're American," Oliver said, pacing small circles around his desk (he didn't care for sitting, found it to be 'unproductive' and 'stagnant') and brandishing a pen in Hermione's direction, "but you should know that every year, King Abraxas has this massive gala celebrating the anniversary of his reign. He's like two hundred years old now so this is very much an established tradition and a proper to-do—"

"Yes, I know, I'm going to be there," Hermione said without thinking, and Oliver stopped, colliding with an open desk drawer and staring at her.

"What do you mean you're going to be there?" he asked her, plainly without comprehension. "Have you started some sort of side catering business, Granger? Or have you simply confused 'royal gala' with, I don't know, a BAFTA viewing party—"

"No, I—" She hesitated, unsure how to avoid mentioning her actual proximity to the royal family. "Well, I went to Hogwarts, remember?"

"Granger, everyone went to Hogwarts," Oliver scoffed, resuming his pacing. "I don't see what that has to do with positively anything—"

"Yes, but I went to Hogwarts with Prince Draco," she clarified, and he paused again, this time jamming his knee into part of the desk frame. "Well, and his friends, I should say," she added, before clearing her throat and resignedly sighing out, "The point is, I know him. You know, sort of," she clarified hastily. "We're friends."

"You're friends," Oliver said slowly, "with Prince Draco."

"Yes," Hermione confirmed with a nod, "though not just him. I mean, you did notice that Prince Harry joined us for the luncheon last month, didn't you?"

"I assumed that was Augusta's doing," Oliver said, frowning. "I mostly just assume everything is either Augusta or Minerva's doing," he admitted, and Hermione shrugged.

"Well, my roommate is Daphne Greengrass," she added before suddenly recalling, "Oh, and Fleur Delac-"

"SHUT UP YOUR FACE ENTIRELY," Oliver said, just as Minerva stuck her head out of her office.

"What's going on out here?" she asked them, narrowing her eyes. "I can't get a thing done with all this incessant shrieking."

"It's nothing," Hermione assured her. "Just Oliver."

"Ah, yes, I see," Minerva acknowledged, about to exit when Oliver let out another squawk of distress.

"She lives with Lady Daphne Greengrass," Oliver said, flailing his arms in Hermione's direction, "and the daughter of the French president!"

Minerva, who had in fact noticed Hermione's part in cementing Harry's presence at the luncheon—even going so far as to comment, "A well-executed effort, Miss Granger" to Hermione with a hint of approval so faint Hermione was only half convinced she hadn't imagined it—seemed either unsurprised or unimpressed by this information.

"I admire Miss Delacour," Minerva remarked to no one in particular. "She has a prevailing sense of timelessness I find extremely compelling for someone so young."

"I like her with Prince Draco," Oliver said, prompting Hermione to stifle a loud sigh as Minerva's lips pursed (her version of a languid shrug).

"Wood," she said stiffly, "that goes without saying," and the two of them nodded their solemn appreciation.

"I was just telling Oliver I'm going to the gala," Hermione explained in lieu of informing them she knew of a terrible blog they'd both thoroughly enjoy, "and—"

"I believe Augusta is attending this year as well," Minerva said, nodding briskly. "Excellent. You can both mingle a bit on behalf of The Transfiguration Project. Wood, I'd like some talking points drawn up—"

"Emailed them to Augusta last week," he said, now juggling three items that looked like stress balls.

"Good, yes. Hermione, the charts?" Minerva asked.

"Astrological charts?" Hermione joked reflexively.

"No," Minerva said.

"Nope, right, I—yes, I have them," Hermione said, gesturing to the pile of 'charts' (actually a compilation of traffic counts and demographic data to help them identify which public places to commence with) on her desk. "I'll, um. Analyze them and have them on your desk by the end of the week."

Minerva nodded, disappearing into her office again as Oliver suddenly halted his juggling, tossing one of the balls at Hermione's keyboard.

"You realize you have connections we should use," he said, and she frowned. "If any one of Draco's friends—or hell, even Draco himself," he said, moving to bite into the stress ball until he abruptly recalled it wasn't an apple, "were to lend support for this project, we'd be—bloody fuck it all, we'd be rolling in donations and patronage—"

"It's not like I could conceivably ask any of them to endorse us," she began, but then her stomach abruptly sank, thinking of the blank page she'd taken to carrying around in her bag on the off-chance something occurred to her. She could very much choose this project as an issue, if it were really something she cared about.

She sighed. Choosing one thing was so very difficult, and at the moment, it was highly impossible to invest in the one she was being pressed to make a priority.

"Well, just a thought—though, that reminds me, I happened upon a friend of a friend who knows a City player who might be convinced to make a public donation," Oliver said, drop-kicking the stress ball into the corner and then coming around to his computer, drafting an email standing up. "Besides, if Minerva's serious about eventually having an auction—"

"What city?" Hermione asked, but she could see she'd already lost him, instead turning her attention to the text she'd just received on her phone.

Just finished the first post, Daphne said. A bit frivolous, admittedly, but that's what you're here for, aren't you?

Hermione clicked the link Daphne had included. The article was succinct, well-written (after all, Daphne was hardly an idiot), and was largely about dress shapes, complete with images Daphne herself had drawn. It appeared she'd sketched out a few designs regarding what to look for when choosing a fit while shopping for dresses, broken up by categories of cocktail and occasion, office wear, and casual.

It was impressive. Even on a phone, the layout of the blog was clean, elegant, intuitive. Hermione shook her head for a moment, considering how much she'd have appreciated this blog if she'd come upon it herself. The Inquisitorial Squad had been a mess of headlines and message boards but was still widely read; DRAGONFLOWER was addictive even while being difficult to navigate.

I don't know what I'd write about, Hermione said to Daphne, whose bubble of type responded rapidly.

Anything you want. And anyway, if you don't like your first one, you can simply write another, she said, and Hermione considered it, staring into space for a moment before waking her computer screen.

"I'm off for lunch," Oliver announced in the same tone he might have said 'later, nerds' and skateboarded away, and Hermione waved a hand in blind acknowledgement as he went, opening an empty Word document.

The hardest thing about finishing university is realizing you have to grow up, Hermione wrote, mindlessly tapping away at her keys. They teach you all sorts of things about literature and economics and the ills of humanity along with how to ineffectively stress over finals, but then they deposit you into a world assuming you already have the knowledge to cope. But the reality is they teach you to dream, but not how to do. They teach you to do as they wish, but not how to decide for yourself. If experience is the greatest teacher, then why do we wait so long to invite her in?

"What are you doing?" Minerva asked from behind her, and Hermione jumped slightly.

"Oh, um. Writing," she said, and then added guiltily, "It's my lunch hour, but if you want me to work on something specific—"

"You know," Minerva cut in idly, reaching for her coat, "I used to be a painter."

Hermione blinked. "You… really?"

"Yes, really." Minerva tugged her leather gloves on one finger at a time, not looking at Hermione. "When I first started working at Phoenix I tried to fit it into my spare time, painting in the evenings and managing investment accounts during the day. Eventually I drifted away from it." She paused, looking up into nothing. "I find I miss it a great deal."

"Oh," Hermione said, and then added, "You could always start up again, couldn't you?"

Slowly, Minerva's gaze fell on hers.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I could. But I often wish I hadn't waited so long to remember what was important to me."

She moved to exit, her trusty camel trench now securely fastened, before turning over her shoulder to look at Hermione.

"Enjoy your lunch, Miss Granger," she said, and Hermione smiled slightly with surprise, nodding back.

"Thanks, Minerva," she said, and Minerva walked out without a second glance, disappearing from view.

By the time King Abraxas' gala had rolled around, Hermione and Daphne were well into their joint efforts on Spew, which had earned a small following of fifty or so regular readers. Hermione found it was easy to keep the entries fairly impersonal, specifically devoting them to topics of culture, politics, or social issues, while Daphne continued to use her own designs and drawings, contentedly busying herself with sketches on her newly-purchased iPad.

"What are you two always up to?" Fleur asked one of the weekends she was staying with them, noting Hermione and Daphne both on their laptops while happily (albeit silently, save for clicking keys) consuming a bottle of rosé.

"Oh, nothing really," Daphne said. "Picking out a gown."

"Writing Draco's speech," Hermione added, though in truth, she still hadn't come up with anything. Draco had drafted a decoy speech to submit for approval (delightedly claiming he'd never lied so shamelessly to Dobby before, and was positively thrilled to start) and assured her he didn't need the real one until the night of the gala. ("I won't even read it," he promised her. "I'll deliver the words exactly as you write them.")

"Well, that sounds marvelous," Fleur said, swirling out on a breeze of sweetened bourbon-tobacco perfumery and leaving Daphne and Hermione to their work.

Pansy, of course, had resumed her constant lurking when it came closer to Halloween. It seemed she'd recovered from her attempts at tricking Neville into thinking she was a normal sort of person (an intensely failed effort, in Hermione's view) and had thrown herself into the holiday as their first occasion for celebration as alleged adults. They all lamented the loss of the beloved Hog's Head Halloween party, instead piling into Theo and Blaise's flat to submit themselves to the prompt of Blaise's choosing.

The theme that year was astrological puns, much to Hermione's complete incomprehension. Daphne had had no trouble, dressing as Aries/Ares, a goddess of war with a set of curling ram horns, and Pansy had dressed as combined halves of identical twins, employing the use of rhinestones to make herself Gem-ini. Theo came in a massive fur bodysuit while holding two enormous clay jugs ("I'm a water bear-er," he informed Hermione), Harry was dressed as Leonardo DiCaprio from Titanic only with a lion's mane (Ginny, who joined him, wore a skintight black dress and remarked unabashedly "I'm Mercury in retrograde"), Blaise wore a series of metallic lizard scales on an iridescent skinsuit and carried around a gold set of Libra scales, and Neville was mostly happy to be there.

Draco and Fleur were both absent, owing to their familial duties elsewhere, but Tracey Davis was there, much to Hermione's surprise. She'd opted for a Grecian dress with a celestial silver filigree drawn around her eyes, shrugging as she saw Hermione. "What are you?" she asked, glancing over Hermione's costume with confusion as Hermione struggled not to point out Tracey surely wouldn't get any points for her lack of punwork.

"Oh, I'm Capricorn," Hermione said, gesturing to her makeshift dress of corn husks (read: Hawaiian skirts combined to near-disastrous results) and the goat hooves she'd attempted very poorly to recreate. "I was going to be Cancer, but then Dr- I mean, then someone told me that was too bleak," she said hurriedly, and Tracey rolled her eyes.

"Please, it's not like I don't already know you're dating Prince Draco," she said. "Everyone in the Slytherin dorms knew that."

"Well, um, you know how rumors can be, uh—so how are things with Blaise?" Hermione said with a nervous laugh, and Tracey shrugged.

"I'll probably break up with him tonight," she said, but even Hermione could see that was unlikely. The two of them didn't speak, but they did make extremely lascivious glances at each other all night.

Pansy, meanwhile, seemed to have grown tired of her London life, retreating to Daphne and Hermione's flat at intervals of increased frequency. She'd also gone shopping with them, voluntarily offering her services with the clarification "we all know you'll indulge Hermione's tiresome fit-and-flare proclivities until kingdom come, Daphne" and not even complaining once about Hermione's posture or Daphne's choice of colors.

By the time Pansy had told Hermione she 'looked rather lovely' in the dark green off-the-shoulder gown she'd picked out for herself, both Daphne and Hermione determined they'd had enough.

"What's wrong with you?" demanded Daphne, and Pansy pursed her lips (in her case, less Minerva's shrug than it was purely disbelief at their audacity).

"Nothing," Pansy said. "I'm simply commenting her figure is suitably benefitted by the lines of that gown."

"If you're trying to say I look thin, it's only because groceries are expensive and dresses cost money," Hermione grumbled. "I haven't had time to exercise in about a hundred years."

"Well, poverty suits you," Pansy replied succinctly, directing her attention to Daphne. "Why should that mean anything's wrong with me?"

"You're moping," Daphne said. "And you've hardly mocked anyone all morning."

"Is it so impossible to believe the world has been satisfactory enough not to disappoint me for the duration of a single hour?" Pansy countered.

"Yes," Hermione and Daphne said in unison, and Pansy gave them each a viscerally threatening stare.

By the time the gala came around—Hermione in the green dress that Daphne had altered slightly to keep it from slipping down, Daphne in bordeaux-colored velvet, and Pansy in a structured magenta so saturated it photographed red from certain angles—they were both fairly certain something was plaguing Lady Six-Names considerably.

"Do you think it's her parents?" Hermione whispered to Daphne when Pansy disappeared to greet a family friend. "I can't imagine it's fun living with them, especially not with how Pansy talks about her mother."

Even her own mother would be difficult to live with, Hermione thought, though seeing that Helen was being extremely patient with Hermione's lack of free time, she felt guilty for considering the prospect with such repulsion.

From Daphne, shrugging: "Well, her mother's far worse than mine from what I can tell, but even without knowing for sure, I can't imagine it's easy."

From Harry, who'd opted to come alone: "Believe me, the real Lady Parkinson makes Pansy look breezy and easy-going. A proper barrel of laughs."

From Theo: "She once told me she'd seen a croquet mallet that reminded her of me, only with more charisma."

Harry: "She regularly asks me about my children, and when I remind her I don't have any, she says 'that you know of,' so—"

Theo: "She once looked directly at my hairline, offered her condolences, and then left."

From Blaise: "She told me not to listen to the people discussing how the only thing more boorish than my mother's marital scandals was her singing career."

From Fleur, with a bemused frown: "That's sort of supportive, isn't it?"

Blaise: "Well, she'd brought it up."

Daphne, shaking her head: "That solves that mystery, I'd say."

From Pansy, who reappeared with Neville at her heels: "What are you lot talking about?"

Blaise, casually: "How the only thing more boorish than my mother's marital scandals was her singing career."

Pansy, tutting: "Oh, Blaise, don't diminish yourself like that. But yes, that's very true."

Neville, brightly: "Hermione, I heard you wrote Draco's closing remarks."

Hermione, groaning: "Oh god, don't remind me—"

Theo: "Oh yes, what did you choose?"

Blaise, instantly: "Bees."

Harry: "Bees?"

Blaise, shrugging: "Someone's got to."

Hermione, sighing: "No, not bees—"

Blaise, visibly distressed: "THEIR ECOSYSTEM IS IN CHAOS! COLONY COLLAPSE IS A WIDE-SCALE AGRICULTURAL HINDRANCE!"

Pansy, casting a disapproving glance at Hermione: "It's true, it really is."

Theo, scoffing: "You might have put some thought into it, California."

Hermione: "I… I don't know what to do with this."

Harry, thoughtfully: "I for one am going to guess… feminism? No, vampirism."

Hermione, hesitantly: "Well, initially you were close, but then—"

Theo, loftily: "Hello everyone, I'm Prince Draco, thank you for coming, hopefully you've had enough champagne for us to now discuss the harrowing realities of what to expect during the coming zombie apocalypse."

Neville, optimistically: "Literacy?"

Hermione, surprised: "Oh, well that's a nice th-"

Pansy, groaning: "I hope you haven't gone too wildly left-wing, Hermione. Taxes are all well and good, but I hardly think broadscale socialism is the answer."

Theo, stuffily: "Yes, it's largely impractical outside of agrarian communities. Have you done absolutely no research?"

Fleur, nodding: "Also more effective in a homogenous ethnic landscape."

Blaise: "Yes. Like bees!"

Daphne, elbowing him with an eye roll: "Just tell them, Hermione."

Hermione, sighing: "It's… well, it's civic engagement. You know, participating in elections. Making your voice heard. I thought that would encompass most other things, don't you think?"

Pansy, exhaling: "Oh good, that's reasonable. What a relief, I was confident you'd make a mess."

Hermione: "Thanks? At least you were confident in something, I guess."

Pansy, disapproving: "Mm. You really need to listen more carefully to what's being said, Hermione."

Blaise: "Personally, I see no option but to detract twenty points."

Hermione, aghast: "What for?"

Blaise: "You're lucky it wasn't a more crippling loss after you forced me to worry about bees for nearly FIVE ENTIRE MINUTES! But ultimately, a fine choice."

Harry gave her a nudge, sparing a grin as he raised his glass to his lips. "A very reasonable selection," he said, the remark softened privately for her. "I know you could have gone for something more extreme, but I'm sure Draco will appreciate what you chose."

"You think?" she murmured, relieved. "I mean, I was… sort of trying to restrain myself, yeah. Not that I don't think it's important," she added hurriedly.

Harry shook his head. "It's a good choice. I'm sure it's a great speech."

She exhaled slowly. "Thanks, Harry," she said, and was rewarded with another of his smiles. "Where's Ginny, by the way?"

He shrugged. "I'm rather not looking for someone to attend public events with me," he told her. "Besides," he added wryly, "once tabloids see me with the same girl too many times, I lose all credibility. They start to confuse me for the responsible prince."

She opened her mouth to argue—she was pretty sure he was lying, and not even very skillfully—but by then Theo had already taken her arm, drawing her away.

"Ready?" he said, gesturing to his watch. "By my calculations, I have a martini to deliver right about now."

She rolled her eyes at the reference but conceded to follow him, bidding Harry and the others farewell to let Theo lead her towards the now-familiar corridor from the ballroom.

"By the way," Theo said, painting an innocent expression on his face as they walked, "is it just me, or does Greengrass seem in a perpetually fine mood lately?"

"She called you a dickhead twice on our way here alone," Hermione pointed out.

"Yes, but fondly," Theo reminded her, and Hermione laughed. "Is she," he began, and paused, pitching his voice unnaturally high. "Is she, ah, seeing someone?"

Ah, there it was. The Actual Question.

"No," Hermione said. "She's just… happy, I think."

"Oh." Theo looked somewhere between confused and pleased. "Well, I'm glad."

"You could ask her about it," Hermione suggested, and he shook his head distractedly.

"No, no, I just…" He cleared his throat. "I'm pleased she's happy." He paused, toying with a thought, and then added, "Very pleased. That's all. I was worried about her, for a bit. A normal amount of worried," he rushed to assure her. "Just, you know. I thought there was a bit of a low point for a few months, but now—"

"You could have asked her," Hermione said again, and he grimaced.

"I'm never quite sure she wants to hear from me," he said slowly, and Hermione, who half wanted to stab her stiletto heel into his shin and call him an idiot, managed to reservedly shake her head instead.

"Just try it," she said, and he slid her a cheerful glance.

"Well, I suppose I've tried worse," he said, chivalrously opening one of the concealed corridor entry doors and ushering her inside.

To her dismay, upon entry to Draco's study she found not only Theo's father but also King Abraxas waiting, both men chatting in murmured tones and sipping from their respective drinks as she felt Theo stiffen beside her, his attention falling with rigid displeasure on his father.

"Ah, Theodore," said Nott, rising to his feet. "Why don't you and I head back to the party?"

"Help," Theo whispered to Hermione, bowing low to Abraxas.

"I have my own problems," she hissed back, dropping into a curtsy beside him until Abraxas set his drink down, waving them away.

"Nott, I'll see you inside. Miss Granger," he said warmly, beckoning for her to rise. "I'd hoped to have a moment in private with you, if you don't mind? Draco will be here shortly," he assured her, and behind her, the door closed, Theo and his father gone with the sound of the latch. "But the last time we spoke was something of a disaster, I'm afraid, and I'd hoped to improve the state of things."

"Disaster is a strong word," Hermione ventured.

"True, perhaps 'traumatic' would be the better choice," he said, chuckling to himself. "In any case, I wondered if you might wish to tell me something about yourself."

"Something?" Hermione echoed, somewhat doubtfully. "Do you mean something in particular, Your Majesty?"

"Yes, in fact." Abraxas folded his arms over his chest, shifting his stance where he leaned against the desk. "My dear," he said slowly, "are you sure this is what you want?"

She blinked. "I," she began, and cleared her throat. "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?"

"A few months ago," Abraxas clarified anecdotally, "Draco mentioned to me he wished a brief reprieve from his duties to travel for a short time with you. He'd hoped I would lend my approval, despite his father expressly forbidding it—you understand, I'm sure," he said tangentially, "that it does not cast a favorable image on our family to dwell too openly in luxury." Hermione nodded stiffly, and Abraxas continued, "I discouraged him from pursuing the idea, though I found it surprising he didn't bring it up again."

He paused for a moment. A master of pauses, the King of England. It was only one facet in the many, many ways he took up space in the room, diminishing her to unutterable smallness.

"Draco has changed since meeting you," Abraxas went on, reaching up to curve a hand around the outline of his chin. "He has always been well-spoken, obviously poised and comfortable to lead, but he has a very different sort of confidence now. Something admirable and persistent. Since meeting you, in fact, he has grown more comfortable challenging me," he said slowly, "which is why I suspect his sudden silence on the matter is less because of my disapproval, but rather because of your… disinterest, I imagine."

Hermione blinked, startled. "You think I don't love him?"

"Oh, it's not a question of love, Miss Granger," Abraxas said, shaking his head. "You must understand, I am in a difficult situation, as you present separate and unique challenges to me both as a monarch and as a grandfather. On the one hand, you're obviously clever enough to recognize your lack of preparation for the role required of you as Draco's consort," he pointed out. "That, however, is an issue easily reconciled. More difficult," he said firmly, "is the fact that my grandson requires someone who is willing to stand by his side."

Hermione stared at him. "Your Majesty, all due respect, but how exactly am I expected to be a secret and also stand by him?"

"Well, that is where we find ourselves at an impasse, isn't it?" Abraxas asked her. "Truth be told, I would not choose you for Draco." His voice was factual, neither kind nor unkind. "However, I'm the first to admit that I've been wrong before. I approved of Narcissa for Lucius, and I missed all the signs of her fragility. I blame myself for the difficulties they faced," he said gravely, "and this time, I will not stand between Draco and his bride of choice unless absolutely necessary. But neither will I aid in your relationship," he clarified, "until I see reason to believe you will be a better partner to him than someone else."

"That's…" Hermione trailed off, swallowing a harsher remark. "Honest."

"I value candor," Abraxas said, and then added warningly, "within reason."

She looked up at him, trying not to be too defiant, but certainly unwilling to bend.

"So you wouldn't have let him go on holiday anyway, is that what you're saying?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I would have advised against it. It would have been an unfortunate argument, and perhaps he might have resented my choice or been forced to defy me outright. But I didn't have to," he pointed out. "You spared me that."

She felt a curdling sense of fury that she suppressed, swallowing it down.

"Narcissa isn't fragile," she said instead, not wanting to get into the fact that she had a right to not drop everything simply because Draco had asked, and furthermore, she had quite intentionally chosen a boyfriend who was thoughtful enough to understand that. "Narcissa was treated badly." Draco had made that much quite clear to her by then. "By her family, and by the press—"

"Narcissa is mentally ill," Abraxas said, "and she refuses treatment."

"But—" Hermione caught herself, quickly suppressing her temper. "I understand," she amended carefully, "that you want someone suited for your grandson. But didn't you just say I'd already helped change him for the better?" she prompted knowingly, and Abraxas' mouth quirked slightly.

"Yes," he said, apparently not above admitting as much. "You have awoken qualities in him that will make him a very fine king someday. But when that day comes," he cautioned, unfolding his arms and leaving himself unguarded for her observation, "he will need a certain kind of woman by his side. One who will put his interests first, without question. And one who puts duty and loyalty above her personal desires."

In answer, Hermione said nothing.

"I do not ask if you are that woman," he clarified, "because I cannot possibly know you well enough to know, but rather—do you wish to be that woman?"

She blinked.

Blinked again.

And before she could answer, the door had opened behind her, Draco stepping in through the frame.

"Oh, Grandfather," Draco said, sparing Abraxas a bow before standing beside Hermione, brushing his lips against her cheek. "Apologies," he said with some degree of confusion, "did you need me, or—?"

"No, no," Abraxas said with an affectionately lopsided smile, shaking his head and rising to his feet. "I was merely having a chat with Miss Granger. She is everything you say she is, Draco," he said, glancing at Hermione. "Intelligent, poised, compassionate. I see why you care for her." He placed a hand on Draco's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "Don't stay too long," he warned, and Draco nodded.

"Only a few minutes," Draco said. "I just wanted to speak with Hermione privately."

Abraxas nodded, and Draco bowed, placing his hand lightly on the small of Hermione's back as she numbly offered a curtsy and rose.

"A pleasure," Abraxas said to Hermione, who inclined her head as he went, disappearing through the door and leaving her to turn, slightly winded from the experience, to Draco. He was as handsome as ever in his black tuxedo, embellished with all the trimmings of his grandfather's royal insignia.

"Hi," he said, taking her face gently in his hands. His hair was smoothly swept back, glinting in the low light of his study. "How was that?"

He was tentative, hesitant, obviously ready to comfort her if she required it, and she felt her heart pound slightly.

"Draco," she said, swallowing. "How about… Majorca?"

He blinked, then permitted a slow smile.

"Perfect," he said, kissing her forehead, and then her lips, slowly, his hands still penitently set around the bones of her cheeks. "Anywhere with you would be perfect."

She closed her eyes, responding to his kiss; letting him part her lips, his tongue slipping delicately along hers. His hands were first to wander, dipping under the fabric of her bodice; she slid her palms under his jacket, finding the planes of his hips beneath. She tugged him closer, pulling him in by the lapel of his tuxedo, and then, as escalation became inevitable, with half a whisper she said, "Lock the door."

He stumbled back, hurriedly obliging, and returned to draw the hem of her dress up from her ankle, dropping to kiss her calf and tracing his lips up to the inside of her knee. He lifted the gown as he went, rising slowly to his feet laughing breathlessly as she fumbled with the zipper of his trousers, and then he slid his thumb across her clit, drawing the thin material of her thong aside.

"Do you have the speech?" he muttered hazily, rising to his feet and yanking her down further on the desk, hiking her thighs over his hips. He kissed her jaw, her neck, and then the lobe of her ear, curling his tongue around the diamond stud.

"Yes," she managed, "but I have to rewrite it slightly, so hurry up."

He gave her hair a tug—she'd worn it loose this time, relaxing her curls into waves and praying the product Fleur had given her wouldn't make them frizz out too wildly—and dropped his mouth to the curves of her breasts as he set the tip of his cock against her slit.

"Won't take long," he assured her, voice dry, and filled her in a single thrust.

She exhaled her agreement, leaning back on the desk, and watched the pale blond of his hair slip forward onto his forehead, all his concentration fixed on her.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you so much for coming here this evening to honor my grandfather, King Abraxas. His Majesty wanted me to say a few words in closing, but I won't keep you long—if all has gone according to plan, I'm sure you're all quite ready to take your shoes off in the car, swearing off banquets and formalwear for at least another month."

He looked up, grinning, and the crowd laughed; he'd delivered the little glimmer of humor seamlessly, as she'd known he would.

"All jokes aside, the meal has been delicious, and the evening perfectly sublime, rightfully befitting its honoree. I'd like to thank—"

"Excuse me," came a voice beside Hermione, belonging to an approximately middle-aged English woman with platinum blonde hair twisted high on her head, extremely red lipstick on her very thin mouth, and a vibrantly sapphire gown on her surprisingly well-cut figure. "You're Hermione Granger, aren't you?"

"Hm? Yes," Hermione said, distractedly trying to watch Draco, who had earned another laugh from the crowd.

"This isn't your first time attending this event, is it?" the woman asked. "But you're American, are you not? Certainly not nobility, and aside from attending university with the Prince—you did attend Hogwarts, didn't you?"

Hermione spared her a glance of confusion. "I… yes but sorry, I'm just trying to listen—"

"It's very interesting how frequently you appear at royal functions," the woman said, just as Draco transitioned into the most significant portion of his speech.

"It is my belief that people in positions of power should show solidarity with those less able to speak on matters of great personal importance," Draco said, reading aloud the changes Hermione had made just minutes before. "I hope you'll indulge me, ladies and gentlemen, while I take a moment to remind you the importance of awareness—and more importantly, compassion—with regard to issues of mental health."

He stopped for a moment; half a beat, privately registering surprise, and then continued.

"It is sometimes very difficult for us to speak about the reality of our lives. So often our reputations can feel crucially important, and for that, they are immensely fragile. Too often we lose loved ones for our attempts at censure; too often we sacrifice our relationships for how we fear they'll be perceived. But I would ask that when you leave here, you will join me in showing support and understanding to those who are struggling. I would ask—not as a prince," he said, looking up into the crowd, "but as a person who has witnessed the damaging stigmatization of mental illness myself—to try to help when you are asked, to attempt sympathy when it's required, and above all, to offer humanity at all costs."

Do you worry about your mother? Hermione had asked him softly, holding him close once the heat of sex had ended and the warmth of intimacy remained.

Constantly, he said, shaking his head. I wish there was more I could do for her. I never feel more helpless than I do when it comes to her.

"I only ask that we treat each other kindly," Draco continued, and behind him, Hermione felt certain she could see Prince Lucius' expression shift from dismay to distress to placid understanding, eventually settling somewhere unnamable from afar. "We are all fighting our own battles; some more obvious than others. But as we celebrate this night, and as we honor this great nation and its King, let us not only celebrate how far we've come, but how far we have yet to go. I believe that as a country, we can find it in our hearts to help each other; to understand each other, and to heal each other. To stand for each other, and to show the world not only what it is to be citizens of the United Kingdom, but to be citizens of humanity. To stand together," he finished, looking up from what had been a blank piece of paper, a gift to her, and what had become her gift to him, "so that no one will be forced to stand alone."

When he concluded his remarks, bidding the crowd goodnight, she saw Draco touch his finger to the ring he'd placed on his left hand. Like always, he'd told her he loved her in one furtive motion, and though she wasn't particularly close enough for him to see, she hoped he could feel her smiling back at him.

"Sorry," she said, eventually turning to the woman beside her. "I was just… well, anyway, sorry," she repeated, hastily brushing her reaction to Draco's speech aside. "What did you say your name was?"

Hermione caught Theo waving his hands furiously at her, swiping a slashing motion across his throat, but it was already too late.

The woman smiled broadly.

"Rita Skeeter," she said, offering her hand. "And I feel quite certain we'll see each other again, Miss Granger, much sooner than you think."

Well, fuck me entirely, thought Hermione, taking Rita Skeeter's hand with a grimace she tried very hard to fight.

Luckily, what might have seemed like a disaster at first resolved itself beautifully. Rita Skeeter stayed out of my life and mostly kept her distance, permitting me the privacy and decency owed from one person to another, and I didn't hear from her again for many years.

… JUST KIDDING. She wasted no forking time at all invading my life, and believe me, it wasn't long at all before we had our next encounter.

a/n: Happy Halloween, my loves! Lovely Tangled Vices (my latest book, featuring rival witch sisters, a coven masquerading as a sorority, and my staple: inadvisable romance) is now available on Amazon, and shortly after this is posted, you will be able to find links to it on olivieblake dot com. Thanks as ever for being here, and look out for my Halloween three-shot Rebel North, which will post for the rest of the week in my Amortentia story collection.

18. Chill

Chapter 18: Chill

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Prince Who Will Be King

There can be no discussion about Prince Draco and Hermione without acknowledgement of His Highness' position as the second in line for the English throne. Where Prince Lucius has established himself as a conservative and emotionally reserved public figure, often leaning on his tendency towards stoicism, Prince Draco has grown increasingly vocal about his stance on various social issues. In recent years, Draco has embraced his position as a mouthpiece for a younger, more empathetic generation, and while some consider this to be evidence of inadvisable political softness, opinion polls over the last five years indicate the majority of the country approves of Draco's position on pet issues of civic engagement, equality, and mental health. His Highness' rousing closing remarks during the celebration of His Majesty's reign in 2012 continue to be used as evidence for not only Draco's nature, but his eloquence and diplomacy as well, and are often used to exemplify his unique ability to position a polarizing subject with an uncontroversial call for decency rather than a means by which to alienate his audience. Where King Abraxas and Prince Lucius have often opted for silence in the face of divisive political issues, Prince Draco's willingness to meet a conflict head-on has led many to believe he is uniquely positioned to excel as a monarch in a way his predecessors were not.

Interesting, isn't it, how Draco's 'willingness to meet a conflict' and my 'tendency towards volatile outbursts' describe almost identical behavior? Understood, of course, that Draco was born to his role while some (read: Rita Skeeter) feel I've unjustly stolen mine, but part of me has to wonder whether the standard opinion that princesses should be seen and not heard applies less to the role of royal consort than it does to ovary possession in general. If Draco had been a girl… Well, I suppose there's no point going down that particular line of hypothetical quandary, but it does occur to me from time to time; particularly when the British press is mocking me for my underwhelming career, or for inelegantly pining, or when they are simply belittling me to the insignificance of my fashion choices.

Which, by the way, they would begin doing.

Very, very soon.

December 19, 2012
London, England

"Miss Granger?"

"That's you," Oliver said, rolling his desk chair out towards her and giving her desk a firm kick.

"I know it's me," Hermione muttered, rubbing her temple as she glanced over the list of possible donors; Minerva's timing couldn't be worse. "If I'm going to get these done before I leave—"

"I'll handle whatever you don't finish," Oliver offered, which was kind, but also an inconvenient reminder that he was capable of flying through his workload much more efficiently than she was. "Best get in there, though. She isn't overly fond of being kept waiting."

"Oh, is she not, Wood?" Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes as she dragged herself unwillingly to her feet. "Thank goodness you mentioned it, really, I had simply no idea—"

"Don't sass me, Granger," Oliver said, rolling himself back into his desk with a clatter. "One of these days I will simply have to devastate you with the full force of my indomitable wit."

"Believe me, I look forward to seeing any traces of it," Hermione replied, pushing open the door to Minerva's office and pausing just on the other side of the threshold. "Yes, Minerva?"

"I just had the most loathsome phone call," Minerva remarked with a violent shudder, glancing up at Hermione. "Can you explain to me why Rita Skeeter of the Daily Prophet wishes to interview you?"

Hermione blinked, alarmed.

Uh oh, Theo had said, hurrying over to her the moment Rita Skeeter had gone. She's caught your scent, California. She'll be on your tail now.

Theodore, you don't even hunt, Pansy cut in, irritated. You have absolutely zero credentials for anything related to the subject.

I've never possessed a credential in my life and that certainly hasn't stopped Rita Skeeter from interviewing my childhood nannies, Theo informed her tartly before turning back to Hermione with palpable concern. Just be careful, that's all I'm saying.

True, Pansy said, grimacing. Loath as I am to say it, Nott has a point. She'll come for you soon enough.

It seemed they'd both been right.

"No," Hermione exhaled to Minerva, shaking her head. "I really can't explain that."

She could, of course, but she preferred not to, all things considered.

"I detest that woman," Minerva said, bristling. "She's an insipid gossip and a tiresome leech."

"Oh," Hermione said, a bit relieved. That likely meant Minerva had declined the interview, at least. "Well, if you'd rather I not, then—"

"And you're going to have to impress her somehow," Minerva cut in stiffly, "or else we're all going to suffer. I expect you can be trusted to deliver an update for our projects heading into the new year?"

"I—what?" Hermione said, startled. "But tomorrow I have to finish the last of these calls before I leave for the Christmas holid-"

"Oh yes, I'm aware," Minerva said, impatiently cutting her off. "Not to worry, she's on her way right now."

"Right now?" Hermione squeaked, glancing helplessly over her shoulder. "But—but I have at least a dozen more on my list, and—"

Minerva waved a hand. "Wood will take care of them. For now, I'd like you to put it aside and prepare for your interview. She's full of wiles, that woman," she muttered. "A total waste of cleverness, in my opinion."

"I… Minerva," Hermione attempted beseechingly, "I really would prefer not to. Couldn't you or Wood handle this one? I just have so much to do, really, and—"

"I'd be happy to, only she asked for you specifically," Minerva said, looking irritated all over again. She paused, taking a sip from her afternoon Earl Grey, and then gave Hermione a sharp glance. "Is there any reason you might know of to explain her sudden fervent wish to speak with you?"

Oh, surely not any clandestine relationships with princes, Hermione thought, wincing.

"None, really. Maybe she finds my Americanness interesting?" she attempted.

Minerva quite clearly didn't believe her, which was nearly a relief. It was always nice to know the woman whose errands she ran and whose will she seemed to be endlessly carrying out was at least worthy of the role.

"If there is something I should know," Minerva said slowly, "that will affect your performance here in any way, I would like to be informed. Purely to the extent necessary for the operations of this organization," she added. "I have no interest in anything related to any sordid details regarding your personal life."

Hermione doubted her relationship with Draco would have any impact on The Transfiguration Project. She was pretty sure her private life had no bearing whatsoever on her ability to do her job.

"No, nothing," she said, and Minerva gave her another wary glance, but nodded slowly.

"Well, she'll be here in approximately fifteen minutes," Minerva said. "You may use the conference room down the hall."

"Fifteen minutes?" Hermione said, a little panicked. She'd spilled coffee on her skirt earlier that day, and while it wasn't immediately visible, she was suddenly intensely aware of it. "Minerva, are you sure you wouldn't—"

"Please do not name our donors," Minerva said placidly. "I'm sure you're aware of this by now, but many would prefer to remain anonymous until the project has proven successful."

"Right, of course, but Minerv-"

"OI, GRANGER, SOMEONE HERE TO SEE YOU," shouted Oliver, poking his head into the office. "Oi," he said again, as if she could have possibly managed not to hear him. "Someone's here."

"Well, she's early," Minerva said, her voice dripping with contemptuous disapproval. "Marvelous."

"Minerva," Hermione attempted desperately, "I really don't know if—"

"Minerva McGonagall," came a falsely pleasant voice, followed by the distinct shoving of Oliver to the side and the materialization of a woman in a bright red skirt suit. "How wonderful to see you again. How long has it been since we last spoke," asked Rita Skeeter, "ten years? Twenty?"

"Eleven months," Minerva muttered.

"My goodness, you look exhausted! Ah, and Miss Granger," Rita said, turning to her with a chillingly bright smile. "I'm so pleased you'll be able to spare a few minutes. Will we be holding the interview here?" she asked, falling into the seat opposite Minerva, who hurriedly rose to her feet.

"Yes, yes, fine," Minerva said, clearly bent on running out as she gestured Hermione into her chair. "Come along Wood," she added firmly, "I need you to fetch the… literature."

"The literature?" Oliver echoed, filling Hermione's usual role as the person in the room least attuned to the prospect of reading it.

"Yes, the literature," Minerva repeated. "The… escapist literature. It's for an installation," she added hastily to Rita, who gave her a simpering smile.

"Yes, well, who can possibly understand contemporary art?" Rita said, permitting a high, ringing laugh, and Oliver blinked, finally piecing it together.

"AH, YES," he said, "the literature, I must go and fetch it—"

"Yes, yes, come along, I'll help you fetch it," Minerva briskly agreed.

"Good, good, yes, two of us will fetch that much more efficiently—"

Traitors, Hermione thought, watching them hurry out the door as she proceeded to sink grudgingly into Minerva's chair.

"Well," Hermione exhaled, attempting (unsuccessfully) to get comfortable. "I'm not entirely sure what I could tell you ab-"

"You've known Prince Draco since your arrival at Hogwarts, correct?" Rita asked, and Hermione blinked, startled to see that in the spare seconds between Minerva's departure and that unbelievably unprompted question, Rita had set up a recording device, donned her spectacles, and opened a portfolio pad that was lined margin to margin with notes. "Rather a long time, isn't it? Would you consider yourselves close?"

"Uh," Hermione said, momentarily uncertain, and then shook herself hastily. "Apologies, but I rather doubt this has anything to do with The Transfiguration Proj-"

"There's no need to pretend, Miss Granger," Rita said sweetly. "You've been photographed several times in the Prince's presence, have you not? Enough times for your fellow students to presume the two of you in a relationship, in fact," she said with a laugh. "Terribly coincidental, I imagine."

"Ms Skeeter," Hermione attempted, "I do have quite a lot of work to do before the holid-"

"Ah yes, the holidays—I understand you're leaving Friday?" Rita said, glancing knowingly at Hermione through her spectacles. "Funny thing, really, but the press has been informed that the royal family will be off to Sandringham House for their usual holidays in Norfolk as of Friday afternoon, but Prince Draco's press secretary has been unusually hushed on the matter of the week following. Now, in my experience," Rita said, leaning forward with a slow, conspiratorial smile, "that means a private holiday. Of course, it's no secret the royal family prefers the Alps this time of year, and after checking with Klosters and Lech, I discovered Courchevel has closed off most of its resort—something they exclusively do for very high profile guests."

Hermione's head spun, equal parts dismayed and unwillingly impressed by Rita Skeeter's ability to discover not only her holiday plans with Draco's family, but also the precise ski resort Prince Lucius had unhappily designated an acceptable place for them to vacation privately until the new year.

"Is there a question?" Hermione asked, and Rita's smile broadened, delighted.

"Yes," she said, and then, much to Hermione's palpable distress, "What are your feelings going into your first Christmas spent with the royal family, Miss Granger?"

On the one hand, Hermione thought, she could probably punch Rita Skeeter in the face. It wouldn't solve anything, but it'd be a fun midday activity.

On the other hand—on the sphere of actual plausibility, that is—Hermione was fairly certain all she had were incredibly unsatisfactory choices. She wasn't a particularly good liar, so outright denial was unlikely to work. She certainly couldn't confirm the truth (for even more obvious reasons) so, in sum, this was a disaster waiting to happen. She understood now what Minerva had meant about Rita Skeeter's cleverness being put to better use—but still, she reminded herself after a breath, she certainly wasn't unclever herself.

After a moment of consideration, Hermione straightened carefully, clearing her throat.

"I'm so happy you asked about our work," Hermione said, catching the slight furrow in Rita's brow at her newly expressionless demeanor. "We do have several installations planned for next year, including a silent auction—"

"Surely you can't think you can keep this secret for long," Rita said, the smile all but vanishing from her face. "You cannot expect to remain invisible. For however long you remain, I can paint you favorably," she offered. "I can make this relationship fruitful for both of us. I've done as much for others in the past."

"I'm not sure yet whether there will be press at the auction," Hermione said, trying very hard not to waver into the relevant question of and what exactly will you do to me if I fail to make it fruitful for you? and instead focusing on her current task, which was an optimistic, near-demented oblivion. "I'm sure, though, that we can make sure you and the Daily Prophet receive an invitation."

Rita Skeeter reached over, pointedly turning the tape recorder off.

"You and I both know I have no interest in Minerva McGonagall's latest jaunt from obscurity," she said flatly. "What's more, we both know you won't last. You're a commoner, an American—and as fascinating a story as you'll make," Rita said with a trace of ominous warning, "we both know that's all you are."

Hermione (who was doing quite well, thank you) didn't budge. "You know," she said brightly, "an interesting fact about The Transfiguration Project is that when Minerva first had the idea, she was actually standing in the middle of Covent Gard-"

"You know who else dismissed me, Miss Granger?" Rita interrupted, her garish red lips pressed thin. "Lady Narcissa Black." She paused, waiting to see that Hermione had pieced together the requisite threat before adding, "You can play nice, my dear, or I can own you—your choice."

It took all Hermione possessed not to retort. Luckily, she'd been warned often enough by the others (most recently, Pansy and Theo) to know that just because Rita Skeeter's machine wasn't recording, that certainly didn't mean she was in the clear.

"I'm just so glad the Daily Prophet has taken such a keen interest in our little non-profit," Hermione said flatly, and in response, Rita promptly removed her glasses, placing them deliberately into her case and permitting it to loudly snap shut.

"Let me know if you change your mind," Rita said, coolly sliding the tape recorder back into her bag and removing a business card, sliding it across the desk to her. "I think you'll find, Miss Granger, that I'm very good at what I do."

"Oh, I have the utmost faith in your abilities," Hermione said, "and I look forward to your coverage of the auction."

Rita Skeeter shot her a scowl, then exited the room, swinging the door wide enough for Hermione to see Oliver hurrying back to the pretense of work and then letting it slam shut behind her, the sound of her footfall rapidly fading from earshot.

Hermione sighed, rising to her feet, and slid the card from Minerva's desk, walking out to her own computer and digging her phone out of the top drawer.

"How'd it go?" Oliver asked, looking as if he might have guessed the answer was, oh, not especially well. "I offered Minnie your desk, but she said she worried she might contaminate her lungs if she remained in such close proximity to 'that abominable bin of toxic waste,' so she just stepped out to—oh yes, hello," he said, apparently having been on some sort of bluetooth earpiece the entire time. "Yes, Lady Goyle? Wonderful, this is Oliver Wood with The Transfiguration Project, and—"

Hermione glanced down, snapping a picture of the business card, and sent it to Pansy.

Immediately, a message popped up in her inbox: WHAT. HAVE. YOU. DONE.

Then, much to Hermione's relief: Never mind, don't tell me, I don't want to know while there's still so much productivity left in the day. We'll clean up your mess over drinks promptly at five. Everything will be fine, unless of course it isn't, in which case I told you this was always a terrible idea.

Then, as an apparent afterthought: You may dress casually for the occasion.

I'm going to wear what I wore to work, Hermione said, because I'm currently at work.

Well, I shudder to think, Pansy replied, and then, with a sniff of disdain Hermione could feel through the phone, Regardless, I will see you this evening. Goodbye.

"You know, I'd admire Rita Skeeter if I weren't so busy loathing her with my entire being," Pansy said, sipping delicately at her glass of wine as Hermione sighed into hers. They'd opted to meet at a quaint little place in Diagon just outside Hermione and Daphne's flat, though Daphne was presently out with Astoria. "You handled it as well as could be expected, I suppose," Pansy continued, "though she'll almost certainly destroy you at her earliest convenience. You're already… Well, you know," she said, flicking a rapid gaze over Hermione's general existence. "So it's not as if she doesn't have plenty to work with."

"So helpful, thank you," Hermione said drily, and Pansy shrugged. "So, what do I do now?"

"Wait for it to blow over, I suppose," Pansy said. "You'll be fine while you're in Norfolk—Abraxas is notoriously private, so there won't be any press. The only thing you'll have to worry about is whether someone might leak it to them, but that's highly doubtful." She shrugged again. "It'll be mostly family and close friends."

"You?" Hermione asked hopefully, and Pansy shook her head.

"Not to something this intimate. But Theo, surely," she said thoughtfully, "and Harry, too. And you'll have Draco, of course."

Hermione nodded, exhaling her qualms about the trip. "I know. I'm just a little nervous, you know, seeing as Rita Skeeter herself just came barging into my office."

"Of course you're nervous, and with good reason," Pansy said, taking another sip. "Had the public not reacted so favorably to that little stunt you and Draco pulled, I imagine he'd have had a much more difficult time convincing Abraxas to let you join them for the holiday."

"True," Hermione grumbled. "Draco had a hard enough time convincing him to agree to Courchevel."

Their holiday plans had been relatively hard-fought, as Abraxas had hinted they would be. There were so many delays it seemed inevitable they'd have to pick a winter destination, and while Hermione wasn't overly thrilled about the bougie nature of holidaying at a private ski resort in the Alps, she admitted she could see how it was easier for Draco's security team. In the end, her concession had been part of a compromise in order to gain Prince Lucius' concession.

"Ah, yes, and about that," Pansy said briskly. "That's another matter entirely. I'll be very surprised if nobody speaks to the press about you and Draco being in France alone together," she warned. "You may have to stay out of sight, particularly as you're already on Rita's radar."

"Well, what else is new," Hermione groaned, taking a long gulp of wine. "This whole hiding thing is extremely irritating. The whole point of taking a vacation was to be alone together, and now—"

"I told you this was bound to happen," Pansy reminded her. "You should take some additional precautions now, you know. If this keeps up, you'll need to be far more careful with your private life."

"How," Hermione demanded irritably, "could I possibly be more private?"

"Well, it's possible people will begin going through your bins looking for any personal detail they can find," Pansy said matter-of-factly. "You should probably change your phone number, your email addresses, check to see what can be discovered about you on the internet—"

Hermione swallowed any mention of Spew. It wasn't like she'd ever written anything suspicious; nobody would have any reason to know it was her. Besides, all of this seemed like a bit of an overreaction.

"I guess," Hermione said slowly, "but do I really need to worry about this right now? I mean, it's only Rita Skeeter sniffing around, right?"

"Rita Skeeter isn't the only reporter in the world," Pansy informed her, pursing her lips. "She's just the best at sensationalizing everything she writes. She's also probably not the only one looking into you, though she's at least going to look for something marginally rooted in fact. Others may not bother," Pansy cautioned, "in which case you may have people watching you much sooner than you suspect."

"But I—" It didn't seem worth arguing. "Okay. Alright, fine," Hermione sighed in resignation, glancing up at Pansy's suddenly listless expression. "I'll do all of that then, if I must—but what's new with you?" she asked, watching Pansy's dark eyes slide meanderingly to hers. "You seem a bit restless."

"Oh, nothing really," Pansy said, sniffing. "My mother would like to know why I'm not yet engaged, of course, but that's hardly worth discussion. Certainly not with Neville." She drained the rest of her glass, setting it down on the table and fidgeting with the stem. "I can't decide whether it would be worse if he's proposing, and then I'll have to say yes," she mumbled, "or if he's not proposing, and then I'll have to figure out how to make him."

"What?" Hermione asked, startled.

"Oh, he's being very secretive lately," Pansy said, waving a hand. "I've dropped hints, you know, but his mind is regularly elsewhere. I've started to set reminders from time to time—you know, don't forget to have this done, and that. Wear the green tie, not the red." She rolled her eyes. "But then, of course, he simply misplaces his phone."

"Pans," Hermione sighed. "You basically just said you don't want to marry him."

"Well, of course I don't," Pansy replied. "If we get married, then I'll have to have children, which of course I have no interest in doing. But," she countered herself crisply, "it's still a preferable alternative to living with my parents."

"Children?" Hermione echoed, making a face, but to her dismay, that only seemed to provide Pansy a darkly satisfied amusement.

"Better get used to the idea," Pansy advised, "as you're going to have to have them, too. If, that is, something goes terribly wrong and you actually end up married to Draco." She paused, shuddering. "Truly, an apocalyptic outcome for the whole of this kingdom."

"Oh god, I would, wouldn't I?" Hermione said, suddenly tightening her grip on her glass of wine. "I'd have to like… bear princes, wouldn't I?"

"You would have to bear them, yes, not 'like' bear them," Pansy said. "It would be your primary occupation as Draco's wife, in case that managed to escape your attention."

"Terrible," Hermione judged, making a face. "I can't imagine how you can stomach the thought. I feel like we're still children ourselves."

"Well, I stomach it the same way I stomach everything, Hermione," Pansy told her unambiguously. "And if my mother, the least maternal person I've ever known, could successfully raise me," she added with a grim look of contemplation, "then I imagine I can scrape together something of a reasonable attempt. Maybe." She eyed her empty glass, looking as if she were willing it full. "Possibly."

It occurred to Hermione that now was surely not the time to tease Pansy about her inhospitality as either person or womb; instead, she reached out, placing a hand delicately on Pansy's forearm.

"I think you'll be a wonderful mother," Hermione said, and for a moment, Pansy looked grateful, or at least not entirely miserable at the thought. "Really, I mean it."

"Well, I hardly require your reassurance," Pansy said, "and also, I'd prefer you not touch me unbidden." She disentangled herself from Hermione, then reached over, removing the glass from Hermione's hand and taking a slow, thoughtful sip. "But I suppose it's nice to hear," she conceded, "even if it does mean very little coming from you."

"Thanks," Hermione said drily.

"You're welcome," Pansy replied without inflection, though half a smile had flitted across the corners of her perfectly mauve-tinted lips.

"Are you sure about this?" Hermione asked apprehensively, permitting herself to be tucked against Draco's side as she slipped under his arm. That evening, their first for the Norfolk trip, was going to be spent at some sort of dinner party, which Hermione had been foolish enough to agree to in what could only have been an intensely weak moment. She'd already spent over two years dreading any time spent with Prince Lucifer, after all, and at the moment, she couldn't imagine why she'd voluntarily permitted herself to be signed up for more.

"It'll be fine," her mother had assured her while she was packing, Daphne lingering helpfully to choose which dress suited which particular occasion and ultimately forking over half her wrap dresses to aid the lost cause that was Hermione's wardrobe. "How bad could it be? He's just a normal person, you know, underneath all that practically irrelevant Prince of England stuff."

"Easy for you to say," Hermione grumbled. "You didn't convince his son to lie about a speech—and besides, weren't you terrified of Grandpa when you met him?"

"I thought you said Prince Lucifer liked the speech?" Helen said, and shuddered. "And leave your grandfather out of it."

"He did, sort of, but still. Anyway, Dad said Grandpa made you so nervous you dropped the cranberry sauce all over the kitchen," Hermione said.

"What? You're cutting out," Helen shouted in reply, by which point Daphne, too, had moved onto forcefully strapping shoes to Hermione's feet, bemoaning the state of her footwear and stomping back to her closet.

"Of course I'm sure," Draco said, kissing the top of her head and dragging her back to the point. "This is what couples typically do, isn't it? Spend Christmas with each other's families? So I'm told, anyway," he added with a laugh, and Hermione grimaced, relieved at least that they were joined by Theo and Harry.

"This should be fun," Harry said, giving Hermione a nod in greeting as Theo made a face, shuddering his fervent disagreement. "Or, you know. Mildly traumatizing. Potato, potato."

"Trauma, in this case, is inevitable," Theo said. "Did you see who's sitting near us?"

"No, why?" Hermione said, and blanched. "Oh no, is i-"

"What I'd like to know," came the very loud voice of Hortense Malfoy, "is when we're going to outgrow all this Yuletide nonsense and return Santa Claus to his proper roots: retribution and chaos."

"Whose roots are those, exactly?" Harry asked, as she and Thibaut nudged Theo brusquely aside, Thibaut betraying some surprise that Theo was a human person and not, as he appeared to have assumed, some sort of wax figurine.

"The Norse god Odin, of course," Thibaut said, having recovered from his fright at Theo's lifelike motions. "You know, vengeful and all that. Hunting in the skies, dealing punishment to unworthy children, eight-legged horses, et cetera."

"Festive," Theo remarked.

"I'm Hortense," said Hortense, grandly offering him her hand.

"I know who you are," Theo informed her, exasperated.

"Are you an oracle?" she asked him, before proceeding to inanely demand, "How did I die?"

"Don't you mean how do you die?" Harry asked her.

"Don't be silly," Hortense said stiffly. "I have no plans to do it again."

"She's departed this world before," Thibaut informed them gravely, "and believe me, she isn't thrilled about being back."

"Hermione, do you know Thibaut and Hortense?" Draco asked her.

"Yes, unfortunately we've met," Hermione assured him, and Hortense glanced narrowly at her.

"So this is why you're always around, is it?" Hortense asked, scrutinizing where Draco's arm had been slung around her. "I assumed you were some sort of hired entertainment."

"What, like a court jester?" Hermione asked.

"Nonsense, you haven't nearly the presence," Thibaut said, disapproving. "More like a stablehand."

"I have the presence of a stablehand?" Hermione echoed doubtfully.

"Very sturdy," Hortense said. "Like a solid end table."

From Harry: "I see you two decided to join us this year."

From Hortense, with a sigh: "We'd have preferred not to, but Basile's having a seance. Something about Christmas being a family holiday."

From Thibaut: "We try not to ask too many questions… privacy and all that. Basile's very touchy this time of year. Presumably his inability to fly south ails him."

From Theo, bemused: "You thought your bird needed privacy for a seance?"

Hortense: "What bird?"

From Draco, with a low laugh: "I see not much has changed with you two, then."

Thibaut: "Nonsense, Draco, everything is different about our current stage of evolution. For example, we have only just recently put the finishing touches on a spectacular musical about a tribe of mystical cats who long irrepressibly for the afterlife."

Hortense, excitedly: "Yes, there's a speed train, a master criminal, a brutal row, an abduction, and a local magician-cat who performs feats of witchcraft never before witnessed on the stage!"

Theo, blinking: "That… sounds…"

Harry, confused: "Sorry, did you just describe the musical Cats?"

Draco, to Harry, equally confused: "Did you just admit to knowing the plot of the musical Cats?"

Thibaut, patently distressed: "Drat, has it been done? Well, consider those thousand pages scrapped, then."

Hortense, optimistically: "We could always go with our second choice concept, Thibaut. You know, the one about the life of a desert carpenter who gets grievously tortured after he claims to be some sort of demigod?"

Draco, to Hermione, who was about to open her mouth: "Just let it go—it's really best nobody tells them."

At that precise moment, Hermione felt Draco's arm stiffen, his gaze falling on someone who had entered the room from the opposite side.

"Oh," he said faintly, as Hermione recognized Princess Narcissa's unmistakable form manifesting in the threshold on the arm of Prince Lucius. "That's… I didn't think she was going to—"

"Go," Hermione urged him, giving him a nudge, and he gave her a grateful nod, kissing her temple and then striding forward quickly to reach his mother, whose eyes lit up at the sight of him. "Well," she exhaled, watching him go, "that's a surprise." She turned to Theo, who looked equally taken aback. "Does she not normally come?"

"She does occasionally," Theo said slowly, "but lately it's gotten more difficult to predict."

"Particularly with the year it's been," Harry agreed, and to their surprise, Thibaut gave a quiet scoff.

"Well, it's going to be the worst kind of unbearable tross, as that bore Bellatrix is here," Thibaut said, and Hermione blinked, incapable of preventing a rapid scour around the room.

"What? Bellatrix is here?"

"Yes, I saw her name as well," Hortense sniffed. "I'd so hoped I'd imagined it, or at least been having some sort of frightfully dull hallucination."

"Remind us again why the surprise presence of Prince Lucius' alleged mistress is so unforgivably banal to you?" Harry asked them.

"Oh, so she seduced a married man, slept with the crown prince, and then allegedly murdered her husband? Please," Thibaut scoffed. "I could think of a more imaginative plot while half-dead in a coma. For example," he added, glancing experimentally at Hermione, who was alarmed to have made inadvisable eye contact, "would you or would you not watch a musical about a heavily disfigured man haunting an opera house, running some sort of financial bribery scheme, and giving singing lessons while pretending to be the incorporeal manifestation of a young girl's dead father?"

"I really, genuinely think there's a place for it on Broadway," Hermione said, obviously pleasing Thibaut immensely, "but why is Bellatrix even here?" she pressed. "I thought this was for family."

"Well, she is technically family," Theo reminded her. "More so than these two," he added with a gesture to Hortense and Thibaut, "and yet here they are, so—"

"Rumor has it the Lestrange vault is empty," Hortense said, obviously disapproving. "And that's just the worst of it, really. Oh, so her motive is money?" She gave a loud, contemptuous scoff. "How positively tired. How properly benumbed of subtlety."

"Money," Hermione echoed, suddenly remembering what Rita Skeeter had said: I can make this relationship fruitful for both of us; I've done as much for others in the past. "Is that why she keeps making appearances at all these events, then? The press is paying her to do it?"

Theo looked uneasy at the thought. "Maybe you and Draco shouldn't sit together for this particular dinner," he said slowly. "If she's there, that is."

"Nott and I can keep you company," Harry offered, agreeing. "And you do have your own room, don't you?"

Yes, she did, but not one she'd actually intended to occupy alone.

Inwardly, Hermione suppressed a grimace. So far, the holiday was not going particularly to her liking, and she fought an exasperated groan.

"Well, I suppose as long as you two are here," Hermione grumbled, glad to have at least that much.

"You're very kind to offer, but no, thank you," Hortense told her, grievously misinterpreting which 'two' Hermione had meant. "We have no need for decorative furniture or birds of your particular plumage, but we will contact you should any vacancies arise."

"Please do wait for our call," Thibaut added disingenuously, offering Hortense his arm as they glided away.

Across the room, Bellatrix Lestrange swept in through the same door Narcissa had entered, the entire room falling to a hush. She smiled broadly at Lucius, lips twisted up with something of a telling glance, and he quickly turned away, focusing his attention on his wife and son.

"Well, I always love a little family drama around the holidays," Theo remarked. "Makes me feel much more normal, you know what I mean?"

Hermione sighed. "Well, that's certainly true," she mumbled, and Harry laughed, he and Theo both throwing their arms around her shoulders and guiding her over to the bar.

Avoiding Bellatrix turned out to be surprisingly easy. Whatever she was there for, it certainly wasn't to observe Draco, who successfully snuck into Hermione's room precisely as they'd planned.

"I don't know why she's here," he told her honestly, "aside from being technically my aunt, I suppose."

This was a detail Hermione regularly overlooked. Evidently there were three Black sisters in total, of which Narcissa was the youngest, though Draco admitted to not being particularly close to anyone on that side of the family. Hard enough to see his mother, he explained, though he seemed considerably relieved that she was there.

"She actually seems quite well," Draco said, cheerfully taking Hermione's hand and tugging her into bed. "She and my father aren't fighting, even with Bellatrix here, so it's not a problem. We'll just have to be a bit careful the next few days while we're here," he murmured, kissing her reservations to silence, "and then it'll be just the two of us, as promised."

"You really think it'll be the two of us, even with the possibility of Rita Skeeter hovering?" Hermione asked fretfully, and Draco smoothed her hair from her face, smiling a little.

"So what if she catches us, hm?" he asked her. "I'm tired of hiding, Hermione. If Rita Skeeter forces my father's hand by virtue of being an unavoidable pest, so be it. Courchevel was his choice, wasn't it?" he reminded her. "His insistence, in fact, so that's certainly no fault of ours."

Hermione chewed her lip. "But that doesn't mean—"

"No, it doesn't mean I'm going to be reckless," he assured her, chuckling a little, and she nodded slowly. "I'm just saying I don't want you to worry."

It was a nice change of pace, them being (sort of) together (for the most part). Hermione, unable to contain herself, had given Draco his Christmas present on the first day of their trip, awarding him one of those adult coloring books designed for stress relief and amusement (or so she hoped) whilst traveling. He exclaimed over it with delight, but insisted she wait for hers—typical, she'd lamented with a sigh, given their dynamic.

As good as things were between them privately, there remained some distinction between the possibility of being observed by someone unrelated to them and the chance that Lady Bellatrix Lestrange was there to sell the royal family's private details to the press. As a result, Hermione spent her time with Theo and Harry during meals and larger gatherings.

"How do we know Hortense and Thibaut wouldn't sell information to Rita Skeeter?" she asked once, observing Hortense as she floated over to offer Lucius her congratulations about the wreaths—"They just seem so deliciously morbid, Lucy, as if we should all put our heads through them and suspend lifelessly from the stairwells; it's simply decadent, and so seasonally reminiscent of our fleeting mortality, too"—and wondering why nobody had seen fit to be concerned.

"Hortense and Thibaut have almost no credibility with the press for obvious reasons," Theo said, shrugging. "They could probably submit a memoir full of secrets and everyone would assume they were lying."

"That, and what Hortense and Thibaut consider noteworthy is somewhat suspect," Harry added, and Theo made a face.

"Can you imagine? Nevermind affairs or feuds," Theo said, waving a hand. "Thibaut would be revealing the Prince of Darkness' treasonous proclivity for raspberry preserves over strawberry, or the naughty truth about Abraxas' sleep apnea—"

"Though, I don't believe Abraxas has ever had a problem with them," Harry said thoughtfully, and as if to prove it, across the room Abraxas roared with laughter at something Thibaut was saying to him, which Hermione suspected was the plot of the musical Rent. "I think he finds them somewhat amusing, actually."

"Prince Lucifer is, of course, another story," Theo said, gesturing to where Lucius had snatched an unsuspecting Draco's arm and led him into another room, apparently eager to escape Hortense's continued praise. "Though he obviously can't avoid it, which is therefore greatly amusing to me. And it's not as if they can be left out."

"We're British," Harry reminded a skeptical Hermione. "It's not in our nature to be anything other than painfully polite, and there's certainly no telling anyone not to bother coming when they happen to be family-adjacent."

"Even when your wife's sister and erstwhile lover is floating around potentially spying on you?" Hermione asked, watching Bellatrix swan around the room.

"Especially then," Theo said, nudging her with a wink.

Hermione found the whole thing incredibly confusing, though her concern about Bellatrix meant she'd quite forgotten about someone else she might run into while occupying a royal residence.

"Looking for someone?" came a voice while she was, in fact, looking for Draco, and Hermione jumped, realizing Narcissa had been lingering in the corner of a room that had initially looked empty. "He's in there," she said, gesturing to a door further down the corridor. "He and Lucius are discussing something." She slid a glance at Hermione, sipping at something that might have been juice, or perhaps not. "I imagine they're talking about you."

Hermione swallowed uncomfortably, managing a curtsy. "Princess Narcissa," she said, trying not to linger, but Narcissa shifted towards her, clearly intent on having some sort of discussion.

"I must apologize for ruining your holiday," she said, surprising Hermione. "It wasn't my intention, but I'm afraid it was a necessity for personal reasons."

"What?" Hermione asked, confused. "But you didn't—"

"My sister," Narcissa clarified, taking another sip of her drink. "I invited her. She needs money, you know," she said with a look of triumph, something darkly similar to humor twitching at her lips. "When Lestrange died, he left her with practically nothing. It's why she's resurfacing at all these public events, causing yet another strain on me—so, isn't it just wonderful," Narcissa said with a little laugh, "to be able to remind her she is only where she is at my mercy? Poor thing," she lamented mockingly. "She must despise having to curtsy to me."

Hermione blinked, uncertain how to respond. "But… that's—"

"Petty, perhaps." Narcissa shrugged, glancing sideways at her. "But she fucked my husband, so here we are."

Hermione, who felt immensely uncomfortable, cleared her throat, contemplating an escape while Narcissa continued on, unfazed.

"Of course, the whole thing is making Lucius terribly apologetic," Narcissa murmured softly, "which has been quite the additional benefit to me, as you might guess. And in turn, I've done you some favors, haven't I? Or tried to." She took another sip, adding, "Courchevel was always my favorite."

Hermione, determining it better that she say nothing, merely looked up at Narcissa.

"Lucius also tells me you continue to be a thorn in his side," Narcissa remarked, smiling into her glass, and at Hermione's look of surprise, she gave a crisp, sparkling laugh. "Oh yes, Lucius and I speak. Exclusively about Draco, but that's a topic which includes you, doesn't it?"

Hermione swallowed. "I suppose."

"Don't worry," Narcissa assured her. "I'm not an idiot. I can piece two and two together, can't I? That since you've been seeing Draco, he's been a different man. His father has less control over him now." Another sip, more solemn this time. "Because of you," she murmured quietly, "I have my son back, and therefore I have no interest in seeing you go."

It didn't exactly sound like an offer. "So you approve of me now?"

Narcissa shrugged. "If I were your mother, I'd warn you to stay far away," she said matter-of-factly. "Nothing I've said to you before has become any less true, Miss Granger. But seeing as I'm his mother, I find you to be a very beneficial influence in serving my particular interests." Another sip. "So long as you're with him," she clarified, "he has a reason defy his father and grandfather. You do me a very great service, and for that I'm grateful, if a bit selfishly so."

Hermione said nothing, finding the whole conversation a bit overwhelming.

"You have an ally in me," Narcissa mused, "albeit not much of a friend."

Then, startlingly, she laughed, the sound beautiful and delicate and yet about as spun from sugar as the Princess of Wales herself.

"Welcome to the den of snakes, darling," Narcissa said eventually, closing a small hand around Hermione's shoulder, and then she waltzed away, chuckling into her glass of 'juice' and leaving Hermione to make her way forward with a shudder, seeking out Draco's voice from further down the corridor.

"—must be mistaken, Father. She wouldn't… I'd have known—"

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, recognizing strain in Draco's tone.

"—be a fool, Draco, I'm showing you right now, am I not? Unless you really think so little of me as to accuse me of compiling a false academic journal merely to suit my own imperial whims."

"I'm not…" Draco broke off. "I just don't see why she wouldn't have mentioned it."

Hermione winced, remaining out of sight.

There was a brief lull of silence, followed by the sound of a low cleared throat.

"You know I can't condone this," Lucius said, and Hermione heard Draco scoff lightly in reply. "I'm not your enemy, Draco, but this… this is unacceptable. If you plan to continue your relationship—"

"Plan to continue?" At that, Draco's voice was angry. "After all this time, Father, you still think I'm just playing around, is that it?"

"I'm not saying that, Draco, I'm simply—"

"She's my girlfriend. I love her. There's nothing further to be said on the matter, Father, and if you can't simply accept that—"

"Don't tell me you're so blinded by your opposition to me that you can't see she lied to you, Draco," Lucius snapped, and Hermione held her breath. "You said yourself she never mentioned it to you, and if she would keep something like this from you—"

"That's irrelevant," Draco retorted, but even Hermione could hear in his voice he'd been successfully stung by his father's remark. "The truth is, Father, you've been against Hermione from the beginning. Even Grandfather and Mother have accepted her presence in my life, but for some reason, you stubbornly refuse to listen—"

"Because only I know what it's like, Draco." Lucius' voice was hard, crisp, and hurtful. "Who else can understand your position better than I can? And who else could possibly care more?"

"Father, I only—"

"It is even more imperative that your relationship remain a secret," Lucius warned him. "If this got out, Draco, don't you see how they would paint her? This article is full of controversial and even problematic commentary, all of which would reflect poorly on not only you, but your grandfather, as well. Some of it even goes so far as to criticize policies established by your grandfather, in fact, and—"

Draco cut in, irritated. "You've read it?"

"Yes, of course I've read it, I wouldn't just—"

"So you know, then." Draco's voice was firm. "You know how intelligent she is, how thoughtful. You know what a benefit she would be to me, and to this family. She wrote that speech, as you might recall," Draco reminded his father bitterly, "the one they're all congratulating me for, and you won't even let me give her credit—"

Lucius reply was bolstered with urgency. "She is an accomplished young woman, that much is clear—but no one will be looking at her accomplishments, Draco! They will be looking at her pedigree, her motives, her… I don't know," he scoffed, "I'm not a practiced gossip, but I find it difficult to imagine they will discuss much other than her shoes, or the fact that she remains in this country despite her citizenship elsewhere—"

"Let them say what they want, then, Father! After all, isn't that what you insist when it comes to your own indiscreti-"

"For heaven's sake, Draco, wake up," snapped Lucius, startling even Hermione from where she stood. "She lied to you. She lied, and you've not even been through any real challenge together yet. Your relationship is untested, and believe me—now is not the time to disregard your father's advice. Crown or not, Draco, I know what it is to be with a woman who lies to you, upon whom you cannot rely, and believe me when I tell you I wish only to spare you that pain—because it is excruciating."

Lucius was breathing hard, strained and aggravated, and Draco was silent. In the corridor, Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth, suffocating slightly beneath her guilt.

"There are so many who will feed you falsities because of your position," Lucius said, followed by the sound of him sinking slowly into a chair, the old furniture creaking just enough to echo tiredly through the halls. "You cannot imagine the loneliness you will feel, Draco, because no one will ever be capable of understanding the pressure that never eases from your shoulders. Everyone will require something from you, and if you do not choose someone who will willingly take on that burden—"

"But I love her, Father."

By then, Draco's voice had softened to a rasp.

"I know, and I pity you that above all," Lucius said. "Because in the end, can you ask her to change for you? Can you even think it? Because you cannot ask that of someone you love, Draco—and yet, somehow, you must."

But Hermione, who'd heard more than enough, didn't wait for Draco's answer.

She merely turned and fled down the corridor, Lucius' words ringing inescapably in her ears.

It didn't get much better from there.

"I think," Draco said quietly, "it might be best if we ask the others to join us in Courchevel."

She didn't need to ask what others he meant.

She hadn't actually expected him to come to her room that night, truth be told, and couldn't decide if she was relieved to see him. Draco had walked in solemnly, evidence of struggle creased into his brow, and sat on the edge of her bed, not even bringing up the article or the conversation with his father.

Draco cleared his throat, venturing further, "I think, all things considered, it would be best if it appeared to be a group holiday. That way, you and I wouldn't have to worry so much about whether or not we might be photographed alone together."

Hermione gave a tiny, forced nod.

"It's not as if I don't," Draco began uncomfortably, and stopped. "It's… I just think—"

"You know, don't you?" she said, and he looked up. "About the article." She paused, and then exhaled, "Did you read it?"

For a moment, he didn't say anything. He merely looked at her, searching, and then permitted his gaze to cut away.

"You know, I would have been so very, very proud of you," he said, "if you had simply given me a chance to be."

She sighed raggedly. "I didn't want you to… to have to stand against your father," she said. "I didn't want to give you yet another reason to face his disapproval, and—"

"I thought we were a team, you and I," he said flatly. "I thought all this time you and I were in this together. That I could take risks because you were by my side, but now—"

"How could you have possibly thought we were doing this together?" Hermione countered, a flare of defensiveness and guilt rising up to mix with two years of stifled longing. "You're literally forbidden from acknowledging me, Draco. I'm not on your team," she accused him, watching him recoil with frustration. "I'm just here in the background until someone decides I'm worth the trouble of acknowledging."

Draco looked up at her, pained, but said nothing.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked her, gesturing to the door. "Whatever you want, Hermione, I'll do it. If you want to cancel the trip, fine. I know you never really wanted it, and if it's an issue of—"

"You still doubt me, don't you?" she said, and he stopped, flinching. "That's what this is about. You think I'm not really in this."

For a moment, he didn't answer.

He shook his head, spreading his hands wide, and looked imploringly at her.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked again, and she wanted desperately to cry, only it felt like the tears were getting caught in her throat, the unbearable ache of everything sticking to the backs of her teeth.

"No," she said. "No, I don't."

He slid a hand through the pale blond of his hair. "Do you want to talk?"

She couldn't imagine that helping. What more was there to say? She shook her head, curling up on her side, and after a moment's beat of pause, Draco shifted to his feet, kicking off his shoes, and crawled onto her other side, curling himself around her.

"Your Christmas present," he said in her ear. "I'd rather give it to you when we're… not like this."

Awfully optimistic of you to assume we can fix it, she thought, but didn't say anything.

Instead she pulled his arm around her and closed her eyes, hoping things would feel different in the morning.

Spoiler alert: They didn't.

Luckily, Pansy and Daphne had been quick to agree to come, dropping their respective holidays with their families and meeting Draco and Hermione in France. Pansy had brought Neville, but she and Daphne were waiting together alone as Hermione entered the resort lobby with a sigh, rushing directly towards them as they looked up from solemn conversation with a matching pair of concerned glances.

"Hermione," Daphne exhaled, giving her a warm hug as she set down her bag, gripping with relief at the familiar frame of Daphne's shoulders. "How are you?"

"Foolish," Pansy supplied, sparing Hermione a knowing glance as she gave her a brisk, Chanel-scented embrace. "You should have known that article would be a problem," she scolded unhelpfully. "I can't imagine what possessed you to keep it from us."

"Thanks," Hermione muttered, exchanging a reticent glance with Daphne, and Pansy sighed.

"That being said, you look dreadful," she conceded,"so I suppose I don't need to remind you the many ways you've erred."

"Thoughtful of you," Hermione said drily, looking up to see Blaise and Fleur. "Wow," she said, blinking. "You guys all came, didn't you?"

"Of course," Daphne said, wrapping an arm around her waist. "You missed all the tabloid coverage, of course," she whispered. "All sorts of nonsense about Bellatrix and Prince Lucifer's continued affair, not to mention whether or not Fleur is or is not secretly engaged to Draco—"

"It's a good thing that continues to be laughable," Hermione muttered, "or I really think I might scream."

"It's a good place for that," Pansy advised. "Mountains, wintry isolation—skiing," she added offhandedly, "which is essentially careening to your death at top speed and barely skirting it somewhere near the end. Altogether," she judged without expression, "this an ideal place to address the void of life's existence at top volume, so scream away. I certainly would like to."

"No engagement ring, I take it?" Hermione asked in a low voice.

"An Hermès scarf and perfume," Pansy said flatly, and Daphne winced.

"Yikes," she whispered to Hermione, who—despite everything—felt immensely better to have them at her side, even if they all appeared to be varying degrees of unsatisfied.

Even with the continued tension with Draco, it was easy to salvage the holiday by virtue of having everyone else there. It had been a while since they'd all been together, and it was easy to fall back into their usual rhythms. Fleur, of course, was an excellent skier, as were Draco, Harry, Ginny, and Pansy, while Theo continued to be his usual inept disaster. Daphne, who could not stop laughing at Theo, managed very little actual skiing, which was perfectly fine with Hermione. Eventually most of them quit trying, instead opting for an open-air lunch together that involved quite a lot of booze and very little productivity.

From Theo, who had given up skiing by then: "Okay, how about this: worst Christmas gifts ever received."

From Neville: "A tie rack. No ties, just the rack."

Theo: "That's the worst, really?"

From Blaise: "My god, you've led a privileged life. Minus ten."

Neville, delighted: "Oh, am I playing the game now?"

Blaise, firmly: "Yes, and you're losing."

Neville, with a cheerful shrug: "I'll take it."

From Daphne, thoughtfully: "My mother has bought me wrinkle cream every year since I turned fifteen."

Theo, with an air of one-upmanship: "My father once bought me golf clubs. Which is fine, except then we had to go golfing, and as you might guess, he disowned me four separate times before we even got to the fifth hole at Saint Andrews."

From Hermione: "My grandmother used to buy me these very creepy Victorian dolls. Sometimes my dad hides them in places for my mom to stumble onto—I think he wants her to think his mom is haunting her."

Blaise, pleased: "Ooh, excellent, a haunting. Ten points to David!"

Hermione, alarmed: "You don't actually speak to my dad, do you?"

Blaise: "No, but he's still doing better than you are, points-wise."

Neville, eagerly: "What about me?"

Blaise, unimpressed: "Are you actively trying to lose points?"

Neville, happily: "I really have no preference either way."

Daphne, nudging Theo: "Nott, I'm surprised your father even acknowledges Christmas in any way. You know, outside of stealing it."

Theo, shrugging: "Every now and then he indulges in a wassail and goes a bit wild. He has his more sprightly demonic moments every third blood moon."

Hermione: "What did he get you this year?"

Theo: "I think he decided the unstable neuroticisms he's given me over the years were probably sufficient, which is fine. I was running out of places to put them, anyway."

Daphne: "Oh, don't sell yourself short, Nott. You got some of those all by yourself."

Theo, with a slow grin: "I love it when you're impressed by me, Greengrass."

Daphne, with a heavy sigh: "Please do give me the gift of shutting up."

Theo, sniffing: "They're all sold out of that at John Lewis, I'm afraid."

Blaise, with a sudden recollection: "I once received a beautiful tropical fish. I named it Herbie, with the intention to call it Herb when it grew old, which of course it did not."

Neville: "What happened to it?"

Blaise: "It died, Longbottom. As fish do."

Neville, crestfallen: "Oh. Sad."

Blaise, shrugging: "I never really got attached. Sea creatures are notoriously unemotive—with the exception of finfolk, who are whimsically vengeful and not suitable for any sort of gift."

Hermione, frowning: "Finfolk? You mean mermaids?"

Blaise, with a lofty scowl: "New Tracey, when I mean mermaids, I will alert you. Minus five."

Neville: "How old were you when you got Herbie?"

Blaise: "Twenty."

Neville, frowning: "Not what I was expecting, but okay."

Daphne: "Who was it from?"

Blaise: "The girl I was dating at the time."

Theo, with a wary sense of premonition: "Uh oh."

Blaise, sighing: "Yes, she was also Herbie's assassin. Either her or improper water filtration; though who can tell, really."

Hermione, nodding sagely: "A classic suspect lineup."

Theo: "Personally, this has been one of my better Christmases. Almost no one mistook me for a house plant."

Daphne: "Even with your gregarious foliage?"

Theo, feigning exuberance: "Again with the compliments, Greengrass! You must be in a very fine mood."

Daphne, who did not mention to the group what she'd excitedly told Hermione earlier, which was that they'd recently hit two hundred blog followers: "Yes, I'm perfectly fine, Nott, thank you for noticing."

Blaise: "Speaking of a wassail, we should inject some in Pansy. All we need is a karaoke machine and some red wine and we'll have all the materials necessary to recommence the Lady Six-Names Sloshed Caroling Extravaganza of 1997."

Neville, surprised: "What, really? Pansy?"

Blaise, airily: "Let me put it to you this way: put enough claret in the yuletide imbibements and Good King Wenceslas looks out on more than just the feast of Stephen."

Daphne, alarmed: "You don't mean to suggest Pansy would strip, do you?"

Blaise, taken aback: "What? No, of course not. She puts on a crown and makes everyone else strip."

Hermione laughed, the bit of peppermint schnapps in her hot cocoa having long settled into her bloodstream by then, and looked up to see Pansy, Fleur, and Draco making their way out onto the terrace, Draco stopping short as he caught her eye from afar.

"What are you all squawking about?" Pansy asked, falling into the vacant seat beside Blaise and picking up his cup of coffee, promptly sputtering upon sampling it. "Blaise, how much alcohol is in this?"

"Almost enough," he said cheerily, and Draco made a small motion with his chin, beckoning Hermione towards him before turning.

Hermione sighed, rising to her feet, and Daphne gave her arm a squeeze.

"Good luck," Daphne murmured, and Hermione shrugged.

"Can't imagine he'll be anything but perfectly civil," she said, which sounded like the worst possible outcome. After all, was it possible that after everything they'd been through they'd simply… drift apart into nothing?

Daphne, catching the look on her face, smiled wistfully.

"Like I said," she murmured. "Good luck."

Draco was waiting for her in the suite they were sharing, though up to that point, they'd done little but politely avoid each other while inside it. That day, they'd spoken about two words to each other, and as far as Hermione could remember, that began and ended with the "excuse me" she'd offered when she'd accidentally walked in to find him brushing his teeth.

"Okay," Draco said without preamble or greeting, throwing his jacket off and turning to face her as she entered the room. "Let's fight."

Hermione stopped short, surprised. "You hate to fight."

"I know that," he said, unperturbed, "but if I'm going to prove to you that you're worth fighting for, I have to prove you're worth fighting with, don't I? So let's fight."

He tossed his goggles aside, his cheeks slightly red with a mix of cold and sun exposure, and she paused uncertainly, waiting.

"You kept that article from me," he announced. "I don't appreciate finding out from my father, of all people, that you essentially lied to me. How many times did I ask you what you were doing for Slughorn?" he demanded. Obviously he'd been thinking about it while skiing; the words had an air of rehearsal to them, which felt slightly unfair. "You could have told me at any point," he accused her, "and you didn't."

She blinked, and then—

"Oh, and you're perfectly honest with me?" she shot back, surprised how quickly her temper bubbled up and came flying out of her mouth. She'd initially expected to demur, but evidently the schnapps settling into her digestive tract vehemently disagreed. "There's plenty you keep from me, Draco, and you know it!"

"If it took me a while to tell you about my mother, that's hardly the same thing," Draco said, obviously agitated. "I didn't know how I felt about it, much less how to explain it to you—"

"Well, I didn't know how I felt about this, either," Hermione snapped. "And besides, can't I have something that's just for me without having to worry about how it affects you? Can't one thing in my life just be mine without it having to involve your father?"

"This isn't how relationships are supposed to work," Draco hurled at her, and she stared at him.

"How would you know?" she said nastily.

He stared at her, swallowing.

Then he raked a hand through his hair, stepping closer.

"That's not fair," he said flatly. "You can't hold my parents' marriage against me."

"I'm not," she said, stubbornly folding her arms over her chest. "I'm holding the fact that you've never had a real relationship with anyone against you, because in case you've forgotten, you're a fucking prince. You're nobody's equal, because you've never had to be!"

"And that's my fault?" he countered. "It's not like you've got some long tenure to fall back on for experience!"

"I didn't say I did," she retorted hotly, "but you can't go around saying things like you're the end-all font of knowledge for how things should be. How am I supposed to rely on you when I know that you're… that you're not just you," she spat accusingly. "I'm not just in a relationship with you, I'm in a relationship with the fucking King of England, too—"

"I can't help what I was born to," Draco cut in sharply, bristling.

"Neither can I," Hermione half-shouted back, "and still, your family will always hold it against me, won't they? So why should I be any different?"

She had been impossibly angry, fury turning brittle in her bones, but at that, all the rage in her extinguished like a candle flame. She stopped just as she said it, all the wind knocked out of her at once.

"Because I love you," she exhaled, answering herself as Draco's expression of frustration suddenly vanished, disrupted with a look of conflict. "I love you," she repeated, "and that's why I should be more understanding than they are, but I don't know how… to love you and still love me. I don't know how," she sighed, helplessly letting her hands fall at her side, "to remind myself I matter too, and that I'm not just… just becoming some extra piece of you," she muttered, "like one of your arms or legs—or even just the person standing in your shadow."

"Of course you don't, because that's my job," Draco said, stepping painfully towards her. "I'm supposed to remind you of that. I'm supposed to make you feel like you matter, and clearly, I've let you down. I just—" He grimaced. "I don't know how to do this either, Hermione, but I want to, I swear—"

"I'm scared that the more serious this gets, the less I'll matter," Hermione told him, shaking her head. "I don't dream of being a wife, Draco! Or a mother," she added, feeling herself grow frustrated again, "and I know we've always acted like those are future things that don't have to matter yet, but they do, don't they? Because—"

She broke off, trying to figure out how to put her thoughts on the matter into words.

"Say we could look at our lives. Say… say we could look into a mirror," she said slowly, "or, you know, something—and see how everything was going to go. Say we could see everything we wanted. What would you see?" she asked him, hoping he'd indulge her temporary lunacy. "Because… Draco, I look in that mirror and I see you, but it's not… it's not just you," she said quietly. "I see a career, too. I see work that's meaningful to me, and I see a life, a full one, and one with choices I made for myself."

He swallowed carefully, closing his eyes.

"I see you," he said, indulging her after a moment. "Everything else is… blurred. Out of focus. It's hotel rooms," he said with a grimace, shaking his head, "and private planes, and fancy galas. It's all thrones and crowns and meetings, all of it meaningless and in a fog—but always, you're with me. You're there, clear as day."

Hermione inhaled carefully; exhaled.

"Am I beside you, Draco," she murmured softly, "or am I behind you?"

His eyes snapped open, the grey settling firmly on hers.

"How many times can I tell you?" he said, imploring her. "How many times can I say the same words before you believe me?"

"I don't know," she told him honestly, shaking her head. "All of this just seems… temporary. Everyone treats it like it's going to be over someday, and I'm just not sure." She gave him a mournful look. "If it were just you, I'd choose you in a heartbeat, Draco. I'd tell you right now you're it for me, you're the one. You're the love of my life. But—" She swallowed hard. "But it's not just you. It'll never be just you, and for me to pretend otherwise is—"

"Is what?" Draco asked, bristling again. "Stupid? Pointless? Not worth it, Hermione? Because if it's not, then just spare me the pain and tell me so."

Anguish mixed with fury, inciting its way up her spine.

"Are you saying you want this to be over?" she snapped at him, gesturing at the space between them. "End it yourself, then! I'm not going to be the one to walk away and let you hold that against me—"

"Aren't you listening?" he growled. "I don't want this to be over. I'm willing to fight for us, Hermione," he said bitterly, "whether you are or not—"

The idea that he could have possibly wanted it more than she did drove her to a bit of insanity, propelling her forward until she was digging an accusatory finger into his chest.

"You asked me to stay and I stayed," she reminded him, feeling him stiffen beneath her touch. "You asked me to take this job and I did. You asked me to stay the holidays with you and your family instead of going home to mine, and I did. You changed your mind and wanted me to hide, and I did—"

"Unfair." His chest rose and fell with violence. "If I could have made those choices instead of you, I would have."

"Everything we ask from each other is unfair. It always has been." She set her hands on his chest, watching the motion of it as it shifted below her palms. She could feel his eyes on her, staring down, as she kept her own gaze fixed on the evidence of him breathing beneath her touch. "We're mismatched, Draco. We were born in completely different places. We were meant to have totally different lives. We're only here," she said, grimacing, "because we're both so fucking stubborn, and that's entirely the problem."

"You want stubborn? I'm not quitting on us," he told her. "You'll have to make me go. You'll have to force me out the door, Hermione Granger, because nothing less than you refusing me will ever take me from you."

"You're an idiot," she said impatiently, glancing up to find the grey of his eyes there, waiting to settle on hers. "You're an idiot, Draco, and so am I."

"Is it just that you want to have secrets?" His voice was rough, his hands tight at his sides. "Is that it? Is that what I can give you? Fine, have a secret. Have two, three, however many. Make something for yourself, if that's what you need to remember who you are. I'll tell you who you are every night if you need it. I'll tell you," he said, dropping his head to speak in her ear, "exactly who and what you are, Hermione Granger."

He took hold of her arms without warning, shifting her to the side and maneuvering her onto the bed.

"You're a writer," he told her gruffly, yanking down the zipper of the hoodie she was wearing and tearing it gracelessly from her shoulders, tossing it onto the floor. "You're a person of extremely unyielding opinions, and you have one for every. Single. Thing." He gave her elbows a nudge and she lifted her arms dazedly overhead, letting him slide her extremely unsexy thermal shirt up over them before depositing it to the side. "You're a woman who refuses to be helped. You're fiercely, resolutely, shamelessly independent, and believe me, it is as inconvenient as it is admirable."

He yanked at her sports bra, throwing it aside and shoving her backwards onto the bed, dropping to pull at her shoes and her extremely unattractive thermal socks. He tugged at the button of her pants and then, with a sudden regaining of her senses, she rushed to help him, letting him slide them down her legs and then hurrying to take off her own underwear as he tore his shirt over his head and dropped to fall against her.

"You," he said, tongue slipping out over her breast before he bit down lightly, a whimper falling from her lips, "are my father's biggest fear, because he knows a woman like you could ruin me. Because he knows I want you more than anything I could ever inherit from him."

She pulled at his pants and he twisted to remove them, flipping onto his back to kick them off. She straddled him, agonizingly desperate to put her mouth on his, but he rolled over her, positioning himself on top of her as she panted her surprise.

"You're not just a part of me," he said gruffly. "You're the best parts of me, Hermione. You're the only part that matters."

He slid his thigh between her legs and kissed her, letting her roll her hips furiously against him as his fingers worked their way into her hair, tangling in webs of desperation. She made a low sound of anguish, her tongue darting out against his, and he yanked her hips down to pry her legs wider, the length of him pressed firmly against her thigh.

"Make me go," he said, breath coming short, and she tightened her fingers in the hair at the back of his head, prompting him to growl slightly with pain.

"No," she said, and his teeth nipped at his lip, half-laughing.

"Stubborn," he exhaled, his cock sliding against her clit. "Tell me you've had enough, Hermione. Tell me you're done with me."

She yanked his head back, pressing her lips to his neck as he choked out a groan.

"No," she said, forcing him onto his back and taking his shaft in one hand, instantly vindicated by his full-bodied shudder. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands gripped tightly at her waist, shaking his head.

"This is the trip we were supposed to have," he told her hoarsely, lips falling open as she stroked along the length of him, biding her time. "You were supposed to be naked. I was supposed to refuse to let you leave the room, much less the bed, and you were supposed to tell me you loved me," he gritted out, reaching up to tangle his fingers in a handful of her hair, "so that I could say it back—"

"I love you," she said, and carefully, with every ounce of deliberation she possessed, slid onto his cock, both of them shivering with satisfaction. "I love you," she said, working into a slow, measured rhythm the way she knew he would want her to, "and it's not too late to have that, Draco, because I'm not—" She broke off as he sat up, lips and tongue finding the bead of her nipple to position her upright on his lap. "I'm not going anywhere."

He looked up at her, wrapping his arms around her ribs, and for a moment, his gaze went hazy, lost to the wildness of being pressed against her while the snow fell impassively outside.

"We should fight more often," he murmured, pulling her lips down to hers.

Privately, she thought he might have had a point, though she conceded to stop talking, letting the conversation naturally transition elsewhere.

They stayed until New Year's Day. The DRAGONFLOWER blog was thrilled to report that Draco and Fleur had likely indulged in a furtive New Year's kiss, which no one was in a hurry to contradict (Draco and Fleur even posed together from the balcony of the resort, laughing together in full view of the paparazzi). In reality, Draco and Hermione were able to finish the last few days of their trip in something of a broad, euphoric bliss, opting to stay in bed rather than ski, which meant they successfully skirted any and all cameras. Rita Skeeter, it seemed, would not win, at least where Alpine holidays were concerned.

By the time Hermione and Daphne made it back to their flat, they were both exhausted, barely speaking to each other as they made their way from the car. Daphne instantly went to run a hot bath, muttering something about some final edits to a new blog post, and Hermione got ready to curl up in bed with a book, crawling under her covers and lamenting the lack of Draco's warmth beside her.

She let out a sigh, missing him already. It was unfortunate they'd wasted so many days, and she kicked herself for not saying something sooner, wishing she could rewind and do everything again, only better.

Just as she thought it, her phone rang, Draco's name popping up on the screen.

"You're psychic," she said, hurrying to answer. "I was just thinking about you."

"Oh?" he said, chuckling. "Well, same." He paused, and then, "I'm sorry we lost so much time. I should really learn we're actually quite good at communication when we give it a real try."

She rolled her eyes. "You mean sex?"

"Sex, fighting, whatever. We're multitalented."

She exhaled slowly, laughing under her breath. "Well, for the record, now's one of those times I wish you weren't a prince." She paused, wistfully staring at the picture of them from their Hogwarts graduation where it sat on her nightstand. "I hate that I can't just show up throwing rocks at your window, you know?"

"Ah," he said. "Well, it's my job to do that, isn't it? Only your window is a bit out of reach from the street—at least from where I'm parked."

She sat upright, blinking. "What?"

"I'm outside," he clarified, sounding amused. "No rocks, but—"

"I'll be right there," she said breathlessly, pulling on her Patagonia fleece and racing down the stairs, spotting his usual black car with the tinted windows and hurrying towards it. She yanked the car door open, ducking her head to find his expectant smile, and barreled into him, kissing him with as close to an apology as she could form her lips to make.

"I realized," he said with a laugh, disentangling slightly from where she'd shoved him against the passenger-side door, "I didn't actually give you your Christmas present. That," he added, gesturing for the chauffeur to drive around the block, "and I missed you, and seeing as I'm leaving tomorrow for Geneva—"

She held out a hand, expectant. "Give it."

He chuckled. "So charming, you are," he murmured, tucking her beneath his left arm and kissing her forehead before pulling something free from his coat pocket. "Here," he said, "these are arrangements for your parents to take a trip here later this month—Dobby will handle the details. They can change the dates, of course, if these don't suit, but I thought they might like a visit in the near future."

"Oh, thank you," she exhaled, turning to kiss his cheek. "My mother will be so happy. She was evidently very upset she had to listen to my cousin brag about something or other—I don't know," she admitted, shrugging, "she'd had a bit of champagne so the whole thing was very hard to follow—"

"Ah, I'm not quite done." Draco dug something else out of his pocket, hesitating slightly as they slowly rounded her block. "I know you didn't want me to get anything extravagant," he said, dodgily preempting the gift with a caveat, "but seeing as it's technically an heirloom, hopefully you don't oppose it."

He pulled out a small square jewelry box, and Hermione's eyes promptly widened.

"Oh no, oh god—no, sorry," he told her hurriedly, catching the look on her face, and she exhaled sharply, relieved. "It's… well, it's my mother's, but she gave it to me to give to, well." He cleared his throat. "Let's just say I want you to have it."

Hermione opened the box, finding a pair of earrings inside. They were oval emeralds, surrounded by solitaire diamonds, and they glinted dramatically even in the minimal light that slid in through the car windows.

"Oh, Draco," she exhaled, a little afraid to even touch them. "This is… this is too much, really—"

"My grandfather gave them as a gift to my grandmother," Draco explained. "She then gave them to my mother, who changed them from oversized studs to this drop design—she said it was important I add that, but anyway—I was going to buy you something," he admitted, "but she thought maybe you might appreciate something more if it were handed down. I might be wrong," he added hastily, "in which case, again, easily remedied—"

"Draco." She placed a hand on his knee, shaking her head. "I love them."

She did, and Narcissa had been right. The seal of approval embedded in the gift was a mixed blessing, particularly knowing what she already knew about Narcissa's feelings on her, but a blessing nonetheless. She certainly wasn't one for fancy jewelry, but this, she thought, shifting to try them on, was a welcome exception.

"How do I look?" she asked, and Draco smiled, stroking her cheek just as the car pulled back around to the front of her flat.

"Perfect," he said, and kissed her, and she marveled that he could taste so unpretentiously like the man she'd fallen in love with even while being the prince who'd just lavished her with royally inherited jewelry. "Well," he murmured, hand still cupped around her cheek, "I suppose that's that, then. I'll see you in a week or so?"

She lightly fingered the emerald at her ear, nodding wistfully.

"I'll miss you," she said, which was true enough. She missed him already.

He nodded, releasing her with a murmur of a goodnight, and she opened the door to step out of the car with a sigh, glancing around at the empty street before sliding out from the backseat.

"Okay," she exhaled. "Well, call me, I suppose, or I'll call you. I mean, whatever, we'll work it out." The prospect of returning to phone calls after so much time actually with him was maddening, but she supposed it could be worse. At least they were no longer fighting. "Have a nice trip, and—"

"Wait—"

Draco's arm shot out from inside the car, pulling her back just enough to take her face in his hands again as he brought his lips to hers.

"I love you," he whispered to her. "You, Hermione. Not the man you make me. You."

She reveled in it, exhaling with a sigh, and kissed him one last time, preparing to let him go.

"I love you," she said quietly, and just as she pulled away, contentedly satisfied, something strange occurred to her; a thought, like the sensation of déjà vu, or like a sudden bolt of lightning.

No, not like a bolt. An actual bolt.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught it again, her breath faltering this time as she knew it for certain.

"What is it?" Draco asked, and Hermione winced, shaking her head.

"Trouble," she said, and it was.

It was the unmistakable brilliance of a camera flash.

It's not as if I'd led an uncomplicated existence by any means up to that point, but I do tend to think of my life as the time before that moment and then the time that followed after. I think it goes without saying that this was the precise moment my entire life changed, but still, seeing as we've already gotten this far—why not just say it?

This was the precise moment my entire life changed, and from then on, nothing would ever be particularly simple again.

a/n: There is a new jily in Amortentia, Lovely Tangled Vices is available, annnnnnd… I'm happy you're here! Endless thanks to those of you still reading.

19. Pursuit

Chapter 19: Pursuit

19 May, 2018
Diagon Alley

A Study in Emerald

The world first became aware of Hermione Granger when she was photographed exiting a State car while wearing a pair of now-iconic emerald earrings, heirlooms of the royal family that were previously made famous by Princess Narcissa and Queen Adelaide. While Prince Draco chose not to release a public statement on his relationship with Hermione at the time, the candid photographs were then believed (and later confirmed) to reflect a relationship that had been developing over quite some time.

Many believe the gifting of the earrings to Hermione—the first substantial hint at a serious affection between the two, as it appeared to indicate the reclusive Princess Narcissa's blessing—represented a considerable turning point in their relationship. With the exception of a brief period of upheaval, Hermione has worn the earrings for numerous public appearances throughout their relationship, including her official engagement portraits with Prince Draco.

I initially bought this book for everyone as a laugh, suggesting perhaps we were all desperately in need of new paperweights (not entirely thoughtless, as the aristocracy starter pack includes: mahogany desks, reasonably-sized stacks of paper for said mahogany desks—which, naturally, require weighted protection from coastal garden breezes—and, of course, a primer detailing the intricacies of polite but devastating dismissal). This part of the story, I have to admit, brings up something of a new era in difficulty; not solely because of the trials which subsequently befell our good friend New Tracey—which we'd all known was coming, really—but also because of something none of us had foreseen, and which some of us (one in particular) would not grasp in its entirety until years after the impact.

The 'one in particular' I mention is none other than our resident beautiful idiot, as you might have guessed.

(By which, of course, I do mean me.)

3 January, 2013
London, England

"You taste different," remarked Tracey, turning her head from where she'd been eyeing the ceiling to furrow her brow at Blaise, who lay in bed next to her.

"Do I?" Blaise asked. "Perhaps I've evolved in flavor."

She rolled over, pursing her lips. "We've got to stop doing this, you know. I loathe you and your friends," she said, tracing her fingers over his chest. "And aside from that, you're obnoxious and impossible to get close to."

He considered giving her points for noticing, but was keenly aware she didn't care what he thought about her or anything else. It was rewarding, actually, to be with someone who didn't seem to lend any credence to his opinions. It made it that much easier to keep her at the appropriate distance, particularly while he was snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her into him.

"We can stop anytime you like," he reminded her, lightly drawing circles around the shapes of her vertebrae and tracing his hands up her spine. "I'm not counting, obviously—I'm hardly a person given to quantification," he mused falsely, shifting her chin to kiss her neck, "but still, I'm quite sure I've given you a reason to leave."

"Just one reason?" she scoffed, though by the arch of her back, she was already giving in. "You never invite me to anything, Zabini, and we hardly ever leave your bed. I'm just your dirty little secret, aren't I?"

No, actually, she wasn't. He had plenty of secrets, of course, but she wasn't even remotely one.

Coincidentally, it had been only three days since his most recent foray into idiocy, though Tracey wouldn't know anything about that, and certainly couldn't. Blaise hardly knew what to do with it himself. For all that he'd always been upfront about his eccentricities, he kept his truths impossibly close. The only person who had known him even remotely to his core was Pansy, which was why his secret was so impossibly, incomprehensibly filthy.

He hadn't meant for it to happen. In fact, Blaise hardly ever meant for anything to happen, and was generally the product of luck and charm far more than premeditated circumstance. He may have counted among Prince Draco's intimate circle, one of the wealthy and privileged Bad Lads, but in truth, Blaise was the least of them. For as rich as he was, money still couldn't buy titles, couldn't buy approval, couldn't buy acceptance; he certainly couldn't pay any sum of money to excise the little curl of distaste spared to him every time he encountered Pansy's mother. Harry, for all his amiable flaws, was still in line for the throne. Theo, for all his father disapproved of him, was still born with a crest of nobility engraved into his silver spoon. For all that he loved them and they loved him, Blaise had never really been one of them, and would never be.

Which was why, among many reasons, he'd also kept his distance from Neville Longbottom, who had a pedigree to rival all of theirs.

"You don't like me," Neville had noted to Blaise on New Year's Eve, the two of them the only ones remaining around the fire after the others had disappeared.

"I have no opinion on you," Blaise replied, taking a sip of champagne. He was pleasantly tipsy, but drowsily so, which accounted for approximately 40% of his reasoning for not running off with Daphne and Pansy on their miscreant adventures. The remaining majority was that he'd spent plenty of nights curled around Pansy—an incurable snuggler who'd made him promise to take that knowledge to the grave—and now considered it best not to partake in the silent war she was presently waging against her unwitting boyfriend.

Pansy was and had always been entranced by the prospect of her little vengeances, and Blaise felt certain that her falling into bed with him (never unclothed, of course, because that sort of revenge was unsubtle to the point of being loathsome) was precisely what she had in mind for Neville's punishment on that particular night. Forcing the people who loved her to do so from afar was one of her most elegant flaws, and Blaise would know.

"Well, having no opinion is even worse. The opposite of love isn't hate," Neville quoted, "it's indifference."

Blaise glanced at him. "Does it matter whether I like you or not?"

"Of course it matters. You're Pansy's best friend, and aside from that, you're unquestionably beloved." Neville took a sip of his champagne, shaking his head. "I envy you, though," he confessed, "and I suppose that's not liking someone so much as coveting them, so really, I'm no better."

"Coveting their position, you mean," Blaise said, considering subtracting points for inaccuracy, but ultimately opting not to. Neville wanted it too badly, and while Hermione was not dissimilar, she had a passion to her earnestness that Blaise wasn't concerned about breaking. He knew by then that she wasn't fragile, but Neville was as yet unknown.

"Sure, yes," Neville said. He stared into the fire for a moment, leaning back against the cushions of the sofa. "What's it like," he mused, "being adored?"

"You'll have to ask Harry," Blaise replied. "I imagine it does wonderful things for one's complexion, if he's any indication."

Neville dragged himself upright, shaking his head. "You're being difficult."

Ten points to me, Blaise thought. "Yes, I am. It's my way, I'm afraid. A Pavlovian response to pinpricks of decency."

Neville chuckled a little, staring into the fire. "My gran always says my father was that way," he said after a beat of silence. "'Give him an inch, he'd take a mile,' she always said, and I reckon he was charming enough to get away with it." His smile faded slightly, replaced with a wistful lamentation. "I wish I'd learned that from him."

"It's really not as marvelous a quality as it sounds," Blaise said, rising to his feet and reaching for the champagne where it sat nestled in a pool of slowly melting ice. "Charm rarely ages well."

"Ah. I wouldn't know," Neville murmured to himself, and Blaise paused for a moment, the champagne faltering mid-pour. He took a testing sip, biding his time—still champagne, he ruled approvingly—before wandering back over to Neville, holding out the bottle.

Neville looked up, startled slightly out of his reverie by Blaise's presence beside him. After a moment's tick of hesitation he held out his glass, permitting Blaise to top him off. "Sorry," he said, looking sheepish. "I suppose I have a fairly predictable tendency for melancholy when I've been drinking champagne. The more expensive the bottle, the more gloomy the conversation," he joked, shaking his head and taking a sip.

"Well, that's very Gatsby of you," Blaise congratulated him, setting the bottle down on the table and resuming his seat next to Neville. "But I suppose as there's nothing much else to do, you might as well permit me to bask in despondency with you."

"I'd hate to do that to you," Neville said wryly, and Blaise shrugged.

"I'm perfectly comfortable being adjacent to sadness," he said, which was true. He considered it something of an aesthetic draping; however poor empathy may have looked on others, it always seemed to cast him in a favorable light. "It's feeling it myself that I firmly detest."

"Ah," Neville acknowledged, chuckling again. "Well, I suppose it's not a very exciting story." He fiddled with the stem of his glass. "My father is schizophrenic. He was," he began, and faltered before concluding, "committed, I suppose, though my gran likes to simply say he retired to the country. You know, like an old hunting dog," he explained with a bitterly false brightness, and Blaise held his glass to the light, eyeing the golden color in lieu of a response. "You know," Neville added, straightening abruptly, "I rather liked Hermione's speech she wrote for Draco. I wanted to mention to her how much I appreciated it, but Pansy prefers I don't discuss my parents."

That jarred Blaise slightly from his pretense. "Pansy knows?"

"Of course." Neville took a careful sip. "I have no issue with discussing it myself, personally, but I believe my gran specifically asked her not to mention it." He swallowed, adding, "She holds my grandmother in notably high esteem."

"You seem to do the same," Blaise pointed out, and Neville turned his head, glancing at him.

"She raised me," he said simply. "My father was unable and my mother was… unfit, in her words." He paused, and then, "Naturally, I find it somewhat difficult to set aside my grandmother's opinions on things."

Blaise gave a small scoff of doubt. "And yet you do, obviously."

"Well, she arranged for my parents' divorce once he was diagnosed," Neville said. "She also arranged to take custody of me."

The question lingered on Blaise's tongue for only a second before unwisely slipping his defenses. "And your mother?"

"Gone," Neville said flatly. "I used to think she was simply overwhelmed by the prospect of child-rearing when my father's mind went, but lately, I think perhaps someone convinced her to go."

"You think your grandmother paid her to leave?" Blaise asked, frowning.

Neville's silence was answer enough, his eyes fixed on the small pops of carbonation in his glass.

"Does Pansy know?" Blaise asked, torn between curiosity and sympathy, and Neville's gaze cut slowly to his. Neville's eyes were a soft brown, nearly hazel, which typically gave his face a warm, almost doe-eyed look of innocence. Presently, though, he seemed to have fixed Blaise with a look of disbelief so out of place on his features it was like looking at an entirely different man.

"Pansy is extremely clever," Neville said simply. "If there is one thing I believe about her, it is that very little escapes her notice." He grimaced. "She is very like my grandmother that way."

Something tugged its opposition in Blaise's chest at the comparison. "Pansy cares more than you think she does. Certainly more than she lets on."

"Oh, I hope so," Neville agreed, shaking his head. "I know she wants me to propose," he added, "but I'm afraid I'm just not sure what kind of person she is, and I can't make that sort of commitment until she's capable of showing me more glimpses of the woman I love. I see traces every now and then, but at times—"

"Do you think this is a game?" Blaise cut in stiffly. "She's a person, not an experiment. You can't simply set traps to see if she'll fall into them," he said impatiently, "and you certainly can't force her into some sort of mold."

"Really?" Neville said, turning to him and abandoning any trace of the geniality he usually wore. "You're going to sit there—you," he accused, "with your penchant for truth and your complete and total knowledge of her secrets—you'll sit there and tell me Pansy isn't doing precisely that for me?"

Penchant for truth. A laughable misconception.

"Honesty is a luxury," Blaise said. "Truth is positively unaffordable."

"Love isn't a currency," Neville said, and it wasn't until they were facing each other that Blaise realized they were arguing. "Just because her title fits comfortably with mine doesn't make us compatible pieces. It means very little, in fact."

"How marvelously privileged you are to think that means little," Blaise said flatly. Perhaps under other circumstances he'd have laughed it off, but at the moment, for whatever reason—blame the champagne, he thought, or perhaps the combativeness refracting in flickers and sparks from Neville—he found himself quite unable to summon the necessary humor. "You want to envy my charm? How positively tragic for you, the man who has everything else."

"Is that what you think?" Neville asked, looking consummately insulted. "I tell you my father's locked up in a madhouse and my grandmother and my girlfriend both think I'm an idiot, and your takeaway from that is that I have everything—?"

"My father," Blaise informed him, "is a drunken naval officer that I mourned for dead as a child until he showed up on my doorstep asking for money. The only reason I am even here," he spat, waving a hand at his bottle of champagne and his expensive suite and his unlikely circumstances, "is because my fourth stepfather wanted me out of my mother's house and decided to send me to Eton, where the Prince of England happened to step in before I got myself thrashed for the audacity of bearing a nobody's name. Is that enough nothing for you?" he gritted out, one hand balled to a fist at his side. "Am I enough of a novelty for you now, Neville Longbottom, or should I go on?"

Neville stared at him, plainly empty-handed.

"Charm," Blaise said, spitting out the bitter repugnance of it. "That's what you want? Because you aspire to entertain, Neville, is that it? You're right that it's my particular talent," he remarked with a darkened laugh, "because I am either the man making jokes or I am the joke, and if you wish to take that from me, than by all means, take i-"

He broke off as Neville leaned forward, grasping Blaise's lapel and yanking him in for something that could not have possibly been a kiss, because in Blaise's experience, kisses did not feel like that. The touch of his lips to someone else's was always part of a mechanized dance, conjured from strictly rehearsed choreography. It was always some inevitable follow-up to curiosity or interest or want—always the sequence after flirtation and gamified rhythm—and never once had it been a consequence of need. Never once had it been full of anger and pain and spite and then settled so quickly to anguish, to a choked out gasp for air, for the meagerness of survival. His head spun, dizzied by the impact, and the taste of Neville on his lips was as inviting as it was searing-hot and burning through the expanse of his lungs.

"Stop," he muttered, shoving Neville back and stumbling to his feet, catching himself on the arm of the sofa. "Stop, you're—you can't—"

"I wasn't," Neville said, looking stricken and dazed. "I didn't… I hadn't planned to—"

Blaise shook his head, forcing himself backwards. "You shouldn't have done that," he said, one hand rising to the ghostly thrill of it, the heat of Neville's mouth still buzzing on his lips. "You shouldn't have—" Thoughts of Pansy swirled in his head, her dark eyes narrowed with confusion. "It was a mistake," Blaise said flatly, brandishing a finger at Neville. "It was a mistake, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Neville said, face pale. "Yes, it was. It should never have happened. I got carried away, but it wasn't—I didn't mean to—"

"It didn't happen," Blaise said firmly. He was mostly a liar by trade, after all, and this seemed the perfect time to employ his most finely crafted skill set. Hadn't he told Hermione to do the same? Perhaps she'd come to the wrong person for advice, all things considered. "You should go," Blaise added. "Pansy will be expecting you."

Neville's mouth tightened. "Just tell me one truth," he said, and Blaise stepped back, rigid.

"I already told you, this was a mistake—"

"Not about this," Neville said, waving a hand and staring at him. "Just tell me one thing and I swear, I'll forget it ever happened."

Blaise, seeing no reasonable alternative, stood stock-still in concession, not conceding the weakness of a word.

"Does she really love me?" Neville asked him.

I think I'll always love you most out of everyone, Pansy murmured to Blaise in his subconscious, her hair spread out in its usual luxurious raven wing across his pillow during one of her grand escapes from the torment of her mother's constant observation. Everyone else is so thoroughly, reprehensibly breakable—except for you.

And you, he reminded her, and she turned her head to look at him, unsmiling.

Blaise Zabini, I am the most fragile person who's ever lived, she said, and whatever any of the others are stupid enough to think, it's detestable idiocy of you to pretend otherwise.

He'd settled himself beside her on the bed. And what about Neville?

I need him, she said, closing her eyes. He's an exit strategy. He's my way out.

"Yes," Blaise had chosen to say, because Pansy had always mattered most. "She loves you."

If Neville had believed him, he'd done them both the favor of saying nothing else. He'd simply gone to bed, and the next day things had been normal—and now Blaise was here, in bed with Tracey Davis, who cared even less about the things going through his head than he did about whatever existed in hers.

She kissed him in her usual way, all bites and moans that thrilled up his spine in something of a brilliant but foreseeable routine. "Well," she exhaled into his mouth, "I don't know what it is, but something's different."

"I've said hardly anything stupid today," he said, probably only a consequence of having spoken to almost no one but her. "Maybe you're simply benefitting from my mouth's latest vacancy."

"Well, I'll take it," she said, rolling on top of him. "I'm surprised you're even here, actually," she mused, dropping to nip at the lobe of his ear. "I thought for sure you'd be off running to your friends over that new Hermione Granger crisis."

He gripped her waist tightly, frowning up at her. "What Granger crisis?"

"Didn't you hear?" Tracey asked, frowning down at him. In dimly lit rooms, he thought, she and Neville glowed precisely the same shade of honey-blonde. "A bunch of pictures just went viral of her wearing Princess Narcissa's emerald earrings—"

"AND YOU JUST NOW THOUGHT TO MENTION IT?" Blaise demanded, lifting her firmly from where she'd straddled his hips and placing her none-too-gently on the opposite side of the bed, scrambling for the phone in his discarded trousers. As anticipated, his screen was filled margin to margin with texts and calls, including one that said—

"Oh, Christ almighty," Blaise said. "Pansy's coming."

"Wrong," came a voice, just before his door burst open, Tracey leaping under his duvet with an undignified squeak of opposition. "Is this what you've been doing, Blaise? Honestly," Pansy sighed, picking up Tracey's jeans from the floor and tossing them to her. "Come on, we've got to go. Obviously Hermione will have thought of positively nothing," she muttered to herself, "and seeing as Draco's already left for Switzerland—"

"Has he?" Blaise asked, scrolling down through his texts before deciding it would be far simpler to let Pansy fill him in. "Well, this is an entire mess, isn't it? Excellent, ten points to everyone involved," he said, refreshed by the prospect. "It's been so long since I last encountered a crisis."

Only seventy-two hours, give or take, but in his experience, one calamity was easily replaced with another.

"Here," Pansy said, shoving his boxer briefs into his hand. "Put some pants on, would you? Wear the black ones," she suggested, gesturing to his closet, "with that cashmere turtleneck I like."

"Tweed blazer?" he asked, wandering to his closet as Tracey stared at him, shaking her head with something like disbelief, or possibly contempt.

"Yes," Pansy confirmed, "and try to look stern, as we're going to do a lecture. Is this yours?" she asked Tracey, picking up a bra from the floor between two fingers. "You should really get a new one," she advised with a shake of her head, gesturing to a small rip in the fabric and tossing it to her. "Ask for Jane at Myla, she'll get you a better fit."

"You two are insane," Tracey informed them snippily, but Blaise, whose attention had been lost to sock choices, opted not to reply, instead holding up a pair for Pansy's perusal and proceeding wordlessly to shoes.

"Let me make sure I have this straight," Pansy said, arms folded as she addressed Hermione in all her disapproving glory. "You asked us all to join you in France so that you wouldn't get caught," she began grandly, employing her most dramatic duration of pause, "and then, immediately upon arriving back from holiday, you thought to yourself, 'well, surely they won't find me here, where I live'—"

"No, no," Hermione said hurriedly, her hair its most unruly self as she paced the floor of the flat she shared with Daphne. "I was… I checked," she said, flustered, "but I didn't see anything—and anyway, it's not like Draco's even in the picture!"

"Ah, yes," Pansy said drily. "Because it's very difficult to puzzle out who you're consorting with while you're getting out of a Bentley, wearing a pair of royal jewels."

"Well, you never know," Blaise offered cheerfully, noting Hermione's look of frazzled distress. "There's always the possibility she's with Princess Narcissa herself, isn't it? So disappointing that nobody's jumping to that conclusion," he lamented, shaking his head as Pansy rolled her eyes. "This is why Hortense is such a valuable source of commentary."

"Well," Daphne sighed, looking up from her computer, "the entire staff at the Daily Prophet must have been on detective duty all night. They have pictures of you in Princess Narcissa's gown," she said, turning the laptop screen around as Hermione let out a small, stifled wail, "and once the palace confirms it—"

"You say that like it can be safely assumed," Pansy sniffed, and Hermione pivoted sharply, gaping at her. "What? There's no guarantee," she said, rather hurtfully blithe on the subject. "I doubt Lucius or Abraxas wish for you and Draco to go public without ascertaining you have the necessary capacity for comportment—which I can confirm with requisite authority right now: you do not," she concluded flatly.

"What?" Hermione squawked. "But… but it's—" She waved a hand at Daphne's computer screen, flailing slightly. "How could this possibly be any more public than it already is?"

"There's a stark and inconceivable distinction between the public being aware you're dating Draco and the royal family making a public statement confirming it," Pansy informed her. "Typically, you wouldn't be acknowledged in any official capacity until you're engaged, which is a further impossibility. More likely," she concluded, "the press now knows you exist, but that's the extent of it."

"But—" Hermione stopped, her phone ringing impossibly loudly in her hand and prompting her to jump from surprise. "Sorry," she said, hurrying away to reach the privacy of her bedroom. "Draco, did you—? Yes," she sighed, "I know. Did he say anything?"

"Well," Pansy said, turning to Daphne as Hermione's voice faded down the corridor, "I hope you're pleased with yourself."

"Me?" Daphne demanded crossly. "What do I have to do with this?"

"You're supposed to make sure she doesn't do anything stupid," Pansy said, and Daphne sighed loudly, rising to her feet and trying (unsuccessfully) to avoid the continued admonishment as Pansy followed her into the kitchen. "Draco's a lost cause, he's fully invested in the delusion of this abominable romance, but you—"

"First of all, Hermione doesn't listen to anyone," Daphne sniffed, "and secondly, so what? You're overreacting."

"Oh, I'm overreacting?" Pansy scoffed doubtfully, in much the same way a person might overreact, were they to do so. "Blaise," she snapped, rounding on him. "What do you think?"

Blaise, who had witnessed enough media circuses to know all they needed now was an elephant, exchanged a genial glance with Daphne, who clearly understood what was required of his loyalty.

"Well," he attempted, before being interrupted by Hermione's reappearance in the living room, her phone held limply in her hand.

"Hermione?" Daphne said, immediately concerned, and Hermione looked up, slightly dazed.

"He said Prince Lucifer declined to comment," she said dully, falling onto the sofa. "They're just… not going to say anything at all," she said with a softened sense of failure, and Pansy glanced tight-lipped at Blaise, her anger diminishing so rapidly he was certain he'd heard the snap of her jaw clamping shut.

"Well," she said, and stiffened to silence.

Hermione's eyes fell shut, wincing, and after a brief non-verbal exchange of glances with Daphne, Pansy sighed, crossing the room to sit beside Hermione as she tucked one ankle neatly behind the other.

"We're going to have to do everything I told you before," Pansy said, her voice now unnaturally calm. "Do you remember?"

Hermione nodded, one hand held to her mouth, and Pansy sighed again, reaching out to brush some of her hair from her face. "It's early still," Pansy said briskly. "He'll come around."

"Sounds contemptibly optimistic," Hermione said in a near-perfect imitation of Pansy, who exchanged a glance with Blaise, shaking her head.

"Well, we all have our flaws," she said, stiffly permitting Hermione to lean her head against her shoulder.

Pansy left Daphne and Hermione with strict instructions not to leave their flat for at least the remainder of the weekend, which was apparently easy enough. The crowd of photographers outside their building wasn't exactly a compelling reason to go outside.

Pansy and Blaise, who had been photographed from afar while entering the building, surfaced as key pieces of evidence for the veracity behind the picture. Everyone, it seemed, had become a romantic scholar overnight. If Hermione Granger were not dating Prince Draco, the papers and blogs cried in anguish, then why would two of his best known companions visit her in the middle of the night right after their tryst was mistakenly revealed?

"Oops," Blaise said, scrolling down a web page as he sat down to coffee with Pansy.

"Well, it was always going to be positively hopeless," Pansy said, clearly not needing to ask what he'd been looking at. "It was either that or leave Hermione to her own insufficient devices, which is certainly never an option. Leave her alone for five minutes and look what happens, honestly," she sighed.

"Plus five for accuracy," Blaise confirmed in agreement, and Pansy shrugged, unsurprised. "Though there's hardly any reason to pretend you're not loving this. It's not as if anyone's watching," he pointed out with an unapologetic look of smuggery. "Might as well confess, Your Ladyship."

Pansy looked up sharply. "Have you lost your entire mind, Zabini, or has only part of it been hidden away for safekeeping?"

"Mm, you play coy with the others, but you can't hide from me, Lady Parkinson," Blaise reminded her, delighting in her unimpeachable scowl. "You've been restless for weeks. Months, probably," he amended, "had I any proper concept of time. Certainly since we left Hogwarts, if not before that."

"And how should this in any way affect your alleged observations?" Pansy sniffed. "I neither gain nor lose anything from my proximity to two mooning idiots failing to prepare for the inevitable. Just another day among hapless goons," she muttered into her coffee cup, and Blaise gave her arm a nudge.

"Minus five for blatant untruths," he said, her scowl deepening. "You're needed now, which is something you positively adore," he reminded her with a laugh, opting to dismiss her opposition; her blatant relish of being considered necessary was one of the most unequivocal things about her personality. "New Tracey surely needs you," he pointed out. "And don't tell me Draco didn't call you? Perhaps even before he called her."

"That," Pansy said stiffly, "is beside the point."

She sipped patiently at her coffee, playing her usual game of choreographing silence.

"It's the entire point, you lovely minx," Blaise said, playing his usual game of interrupting her right at the moment she opted to disrupt her own dramatic pause. "You're all restless in that house of yours, and you've been needing a project."

"That's what Neville's for," Pansy countered, and Blaise stiffened slightly at the mention of him but forged ahead, giving her a dubious look.

"Neville was a project," he corrected her. "A project which is currently stalled."

"Still keeps my hands busy," Pansy murmured, and again, Blaise's mind went in several impossible directions. One of them fervently shoved away the image of Neville and Pansy with an equal and opposite force to the memory of Neville grabbing hold of him, fitting Blaise's collar into the culpability of his grip.

"Well, you're a cerebral sort of creature," Blaise reminded her, shaking it off and resuming the point. "The penis, as you know, is notoriously uncomplex. Hardly sufficient cause for extended entertainment."

"True," Pansy sighed, "but still, it's not as if I take pleasure in any of this." She sipped her coffee, marinating both of them in an indulgent wave of lies. "I suppose," she said carefully, "if I were to acknowledge your point—"

"Which you are," Blaise said.

"—which I'm not," she informed him, "I might say that yes, it does feel somewhat validating that everyone around me is so hopefully inept. Minus you," she said with another sip, and he shrugged.

"I have my own lack of aptitude," he said, before adding, "Though, as for this business with Neville—"

"It's not as if I care, per se," she said, continuing on with her ardent denial, "because obviously it's their own fault for being so careless, but it occurs to me that Hermione will now be existing in the worst case scenario: Laid bare for public scrutiny, but without the royal family's protection." She grimaced. "Frankly, I shudder to think who would come crawling out of my past, were I to exist in a similar dastardly place between infamy and secrecy."

"You hardly have any skeletons," countered Blaise, who had numerous.

"Still. Some things are meant to stay private," she said, which struck Blaise as rather uncomfortably on the nose.

"Hypothetical thought exercise," he ventured, and Pansy looked up, always game for a philosophical meandering. "Do you think it's ever necessary to know everything about a person?"

"No," she replied without hesitation.

"It's a thought exercise," Blaise told her with a sigh, "not a reflex test."

"Well, I hate to think anyone knows everything about anyone," she said, idly toying with the handle of her cup. "Do you think you know everything about me?"

He'd often wondered what exactly went on inside her head. He imagined it to be a precarious place, full of perilous drops and impossibly labyrinthine pathways. From Blaise's perspective, Pansy's mind was somewhere very easy to get lost in, like an enchanted wood, where some turns led to quicksand and others to fanciful groves of secret aspirations. He doubted she enjoyed exploring it much, foregoing the possibility of splendor in order to circumvent the likelihood of risk. He suspected that she preferred to float somewhere above the shadows of the canopy.

"No," he said, and her mouth twitched up with a smile.

"See? And you love me best of all," she told him, "so there you have it."

He paused, taking a sip of his coffee, and then drummed his fingers on the table. "Neville," he attempted a second time, and Pansy groaned.

"Not you, too," she muttered, displeased. "Hermione won't leave it alone, but of course she doesn't understand." She glanced up at him. "You do, don't you?"

It wasn't very complicated. Pansy had expectations to meet, things to climb to. Neville was the appropriate height for a requisite boost.

"Did you know about his parents?" he asked her, and in response, Pansy's mouth immediately stiffened.

"Augusta's made it quite clear that Neville clings to some delusion about them," she said, "but that's no surprise. All children mythologize their parents. I'm certainly no exception, and neither are you," she added pointedly, and Blaise shrugged.

"Ten for wisdom, Lady Parkinson, but still. I'm afraid you've chosen someone very soft," he pointed out, "which is perhaps an unwise foundation for your particular needs, cerebral or otherwise."

"He just needs proper guidance, that's all." She sipped her coffee again. "A lifetime is very long, Blaise."

"Or very short," he challenged, "and perhaps immensely wasted on invaluable pursuits."

She half-smiled, glancing up. "You loathe him," she said, delighted.

"I don't," Blaise said. "The opposite of love is indifference, or so I'm told, which I've recently been led to believe is worse."

"You loathe him," she chuckled to herself, "and it's adorable. Is it because of me?" she asked, looking smugly pleased by the prospect. "Surely you've always known you couldn't be the primary man in my life forever."

"I never have been," he reminded her. "You have Draco and Henry, and perhaps even Theo, when you're in the mood for a more difficult task."

"Theodore is a lost cause," she said fondly, "and the other two are like brothers to me. Whereas you and I," she countered, "have wandered countless versions of ourselves before, I suspect—and regrettably for both of us," she said with a disingenuous sigh, "always managed to wind up together."

"Plus twenty for such a rare glimpse of whimsy," Blaise said, imagining it drawn from one of the glittering fairy pools inside her head. "Reincarnation, Lady Parkinson? How positively quaint."

She shrugged, feigning indifference as she finished the last of her coffee. "I'm winning the points competition, aren't I?"

"Of course you are," Blaise said. "Who else would possibly win?"

"True," she said, pleased. "Well, are you off to continue your fleeting charade with Tracey Davis?" she asked tangentially. "I'm afraid I can't do you the favor of indifference, Blaise. She falls somewhere south of repugnant but north of odious."

"I like her," Blaise offered noncommittally.

"I'm aware," Pansy acknowledged, "but stop."

"Not quite yet," he said, and she made a face, "but soon, I'm sure. You do realize they're usually the ones who tire of me, don't you?" he posed neutrally. "I can't even remember the last time I've had to formally put an end to any type of charade, farce, or spectacle."

"That's because people are idiots," Pansy said, affectionately giving his hand a tap across the knuckles. "Come on," she sighed, effortlessly resuming her demeanor of disinterest, "I need a better mask than this pratfall sham of Umbrian clay. My pores are positively gaping."

Monday morning brought a slew of articles posturing about Hermione's relationship with Draco. There were countless versions of the same pictures of her as she struggled to make her way to her office from her flat, the majority of her face covered by a thick, knitted scarf as she walked with her gaze resolutely fixed on the ground.

"Greengrass tells me California's asked her parents to hold off on a visit," Theo remarked to Blaise, stirring a bit of lemon into his tea. "I'd advise her on the subject, but of course I have no helpful advice. Probably better left in Fleur's hands."

Privately, Blaise was unsure Fleur Delacour was any good source of advice. Experience she may have possessed in spades, but even Fleur's candids looked like Anna Wintour had personally posed them and then sent them off to be blessed by the pope. Fleur was perhaps the least relatable person Blaise had ever met, and considering he was very close friends with Prince Draco, that was a monumentally telling statement.

"You've spoken to Daphne?" Blaise asked, not looking up from where he was pretending to choose between two paisley pocket squares.

"Of course," Theo said innocently. "Haven't you?"

"Minus ten for uncreative denial," Blaise said, and Theo groaned.

"I thought I was finally winning," he muttered, and Blaise shrugged.

"Of course you were," he said, "but still, the point stands."

"She just seems," Theo began, and paused. "Better now. Happy." He stirred mindlessly at his tea. "It's just much easier to be friends with her now, I suppose. Less weight to carry around."

"Theodore, you're practically a sentient weed," Blaise informed him. "You hardly know a thing about weightiness."

Theo rolled his eyes. "Baggage, then," he said to himself, and glanced at Blaise. "Speaking of which, you've been odd lately. Keeping secrets, Zabini?"

"I like to have two or three within reach at any given time," Blaise said. "You know, for company. I tend to them like little pets."

"Well, it's important to have passion projects," Theo said approvingly. "Anything you'd like me to know about?"

Blaise considered it.

Among his talents had always been compartmentalization. If the inside of Pansy's head was an enchanted forest, the inside of Theo's head was a palace of rooms, most of them locked. Blaise's head, on the other hand, was a very neatly organized filing system. He considered pulling out the file marked Neville Longbottom, New Year's Eve, but decided that if he opened it now, it would likely fill with more materials, and then he would struggle to replace it in its appropriate box.

"Nothing," he ruled, and Theo shrugged, taking a sip of his tea.

"Sounds right," he mused, wandering elsewhere as Blaise proceeded to choose houndstooth over paisley.

By midweek, Hermione's press coverage had worsened considerably. The comment threads beneath articles posted on the website for the Daily Prophet were now filled with speculation about what lurid things she might have done to capture Prince Draco's attention, and every day seemed to bring a new insider source with intimate knowledge on the subject ("Hermione Granger's first kiss speaks out about saucy Yank's playground romance," for example, or "Former roommate reveals shady side of Prince Draco's American girlfriend").

"It's all so frightfully dull," remarked Hortense, who had spontaneously appeared while Blaise was choosing a selection of whisky to replenish what had been lost to Pansy's continuing malcontent, Harry's occasional imbibements, and Tracey's evening visits. He suspected Hortense and Thibaut had somehow begun tracking him, but was considerably loath to wonder how they might have done it, shuddering helplessly at the possibilities.

"Really," Hortense sighed, "you'd think Rita Skeeter would come up with something better than Draco's relationship rumors. Have there been no recent severed heads?"

"None worth remarking, it appears," Blaise replied, glancing over a selection of Odgen's finest. "Though, I should mention I had no idea you concerned yourself with the news."

"She doesn't," Thibaut contributed listlessly, appearing on Blaise's other side, "but there's just so little arson to celebrate in the early months of the year. Flammability is at such a despicable low during times of excessive snowfall."

"Yes," Hortense agreed, turning back to Blaise, "and besides, Basile is insistent on staying informed. He won't leave the stables without some sort of morning announcement. He requires Rita Skeeter and a salt lick," she said, shaking her head. "One of which is for boredom, and the other for iron deficiency."

"Well, horses can be very particular," Blaise said. "Though I don't see how Rita Skeeter could possibly provide any important minerals."

"Who said anything about a horse?" demanded Thibaut, who was languidly eating from a jar of Maraschino cherries. "You seem odd, by the way," he added to Blaise, narrowing his eyes at him. "You have a distinct sense of disturbance about you."

"Is it, perhaps, because you've accosted me while going about my personal business?" Blaise asked, not looking up from the bottle in his hand.

"Nonsense," Hortense said, fanning herself. "We've only been here a matter of minutes. You've looked waist-deep in malaise for nearly a week."

"I haven't seen you for at least three weeks," Blaise pointed out.

"Of course you haven't seen us," Hortense said. "We're very good at what we do."

"Besides, I really don't see how that's relevant," Thibaut sniffed, before turning to give Hortense a nudge. "Come on, let's go. I need a nice scented candle."

"That's a good idea," Hortense said, brightening. "I'm sure the sturdy American will enjoy that."

"That's nice of you," Blaise said, pleasantly surprised. "I'm sure New Tracey would appreciate being gifted a candle of any sort."

"Well, we certainly wouldn't use it simply to influence her mood via any sort of voodoo doll," Thibaut assured him. "There are rules, you know."

"I don't think I asked," replied Blaise, who certainly knew better than to do so, but Hortense and Thibaut only waved carelessly over their shoulders, proceeding to exit through a door marked Employees.

"I'm worried about Hermione," Harry said later that evening, falling back against the sofa cushions and opening Blaise's new bottle of Ogden's.

Blaise, saving them both the tiresome process of questioning, opted to simply arch a brow in response.

"Not because of that," Harry assured him, hastily shaking his head. "Not, you know, feelings or anything, it's just…" He grimaced. "Well, you remember how bad it was for her the first time things got out at Hogwarts, and now—"

"She has practice now," Blaise pointed out. "And she's obviously going to have to get used to it, Henry, as the country is unlikely to lose interest in her so long as she remains Draco's girlfriend."

Harry sighed. "Yes, I know, but—"

"She seems relatively fine," Blaise said. "Besides, even if she weren't," he added knowingly, "what exactly would you do about it?"

"I—" Harry withered, relenting. "Yes, fine." He tightened his hand around his glass, frowning. "You're being especially logical," he noted with suspicion. "What's gotten into you?"

Unfortunately, one to two more things had been deposited into the New Year's file. Guilt, mostly, though there was a bit of yearning smeared across it. A little marmalade of longing, spread thinly over a slice of regret.

"Nothing," said Blaise, who was firmly not in the mood for any Neville Longbottom-shaped toast. "What about you? You have a girlfriend this week, don't you?"

"Not this week," Harry said with a shake of his head. "Probably next."

"I think they call this sort of relationship 'dysfunctional,' but points for self-awareness," Blaise said, considering it. "Five?"

"Ten," Harry suggested, and added, "By the way, I'm winning, right?"

"Of course," Blaise said. "Who else?"

"I figured," Harry said, kicking his feet out aimlessly and pondering something in silence before turning his attention back to Blaise. "I suppose I haven't actually asked—do you like Ginny?"

"Doesn't matter what I like," Blaise said. "Do you?"

"I like parts of her," Harry said with his usual Prince Harry grin, and then, in a defensive reflex that was clearly the result of some prior disapproval by Pansy, "By which I mean her personality, of course. She's fun, adventurous. Cool, for the most part, unless she's angry, in which case I'm fairly confident she's concentrating on trying to shoot bats out of my nose."

"Lady Parkinson is absent," Blaise pointed out. "You may confess your baser urges if you wish, Henry."

"Fine," he muttered, still taking a moment to glance around for certainty. "Then yes, there are other parts of her I enjoy," Harry confessed in a considerably less virtuous tone, "but still." He took a sip of his whisky. "Is it just me," he added tangentially, "or does Ginny look a bit like my mum?"

Blaise made a face. "You know, put together you and Nott become the perfect Oedipal complex," he noted. "It's equal parts disturbing and remarkable."

"Points?" Harry said hopefully.

"For that bit of Freudian drivel? Dream on, Your Highness," Blaise said, and Harry chuckled, the sound of it disappearing once more into his glass.

By Friday, the question of whether or not Draco would appear in Hermione's presence upon his return from Geneva was floating across every conceivable corner of the internet. Daphne, probably sensing Hermione would require something to take her mind off of things, had planned an evening at Blaise and Theo's flat for purposes of pre-emptive strike. To Blaise's surprise, though, he received a phone call earlier in the day that disrupted his preparatory plans.

"Blaise," Draco said, sounding agitated. "Can you get me out of here?"

Draco's mind was a series of hurdles, some of which were on fire, but his primary skill was befriending people who had no trouble venturing the necessary leaps. No further questioning was required for Blaise to know that 1) Draco had arrived back in London, 2) Prince Lucifer was being difficult, 3) the ever-dutiful son of Wales now needed to exit the walls of his father's home to avoid smashing them in, and 4) Blaise was going to need to locate his helmet.

"Ten minutes," Blaise said, promptly hanging up the phone and turning to Tracey. "I have to go," he said, taking in the sight of her draped across his duvet and filing it away for later. "Sorry, something's come up."

She glanced at his trousers. "It certainly has."

"Don't listen to him," Blaise said impatiently. "He's ill-informed."

"Fine," Tracey said, rising to her feet and glaring at him. "I was going to break things off with you, anyway. This is becoming vastly unhealthy."

"I agree," Blaise said. "You should probably find someone you feel slightly less contempt for."

She scowled at him, folding her arms over her chest. "You do realize I mean it this time, don't you?"

"So do I," he said, tossing her shirt back to her. "So, goodbye forever?"

Her scowl deepened as she hesitated, twisting her fingers in the fabric of her shirt. "How late will your idiot friends be here?"

"Until midnight," he estimated, "though either way, you know where to find me."

She gave him a scathing look, as if she were hoping he'd find a way to drown on his way home.

"Fine," she said eventually, shoving her shirt over her head and glaring at him. "If I'm available, I'll stop by."

"Wonderful," he said, tossing her a salute and grabbing his keys. "See you tonight," he called over his shoulder, and headed out for Clarence House, already late for his appointment with the Prince.

"Thanks for this," Draco said, removing his helmet once they were safely away from photographers. "It's been ages."

"Only one or two," Blaise agreed, swiping at his forehead as he set the helmet against the handlebars of his Ducati. "I take it the Prince of Darkness is being his most charming self?"

Draco grimaced, running a hand through the sweat-soaked strands of his hair. "I just needed some air." He kicked one leg over the bike, rising to both feet and throwing his arms overhead, stretching. "He insists on making me jump through hoops and frankly, it's exhausting."

"Abraxas deferring to Lucifer's judgment, then?" Blaise guessed, and Draco nodded moodily.

"I don't know what I'm going to tell Hermione," he admitted, and pressed his hand to his forehead. "I haven't told her I'm back yet," he added, and glanced imploringly at Blaise. "You won't say anything, will you?"

"About your affinity for motorbikes? Of course not," Blaise said, and Draco cracked a smile. "And we both know Theo won't say anything, given how much loud engines frighten him."

"I just needed to gather my thoughts first. I don't know," Draco began, and withered again. "I don't know how I'm going to explain this to her. Or, alternatively, to my father. It seems impossible to make this make sense to anyone, and now—"

"She's not exactly fragile," Blaise said, which seemed to be something he was repeatedly pointing out. He was beginning to worry he was becoming the sensible one in the group, which was much too troubling to fathom. "I'm not always a proponent of truth," he added, "but in this case, I'm not sure you have another option."

Draco smiled grimly at him. "I'm simply procrastinating, aren't I?"

"Well, even princes are permitted their moments of imperfection," Blaise said with a shrug, "or so I'm told, anyway."

"Ah." Draco rolled out his neck, shaking his head before turning back to Blaise. "Well, what's new with you?" he asked. "Surely something. You seem contemplative enough."

The ride, intended for Draco's thoughts, hadn't exactly been devoid of similar effects for Blaise. Some of the files had sprung loose, one or two things slipping out and floating unclaimed through his head.

"It's nothing," Blaise said, and Draco's mouth quirked.

"Ah," he said, delighted to have made an observation. "So it's an it, is it?"

"Poetic, Your Highness," Blaise said, approving. "Tattoo that on my heart. Engrave it on my tomb."

"Come on," Draco groaned imploringly, leaning against his bike. "I know I'm not Theo or Harry, but I'm good for some things, aren't I?"

"You're compromised," Blaise said. "You'll tell your girlfriend. Or your father."

"I—" Draco looked distressed. "Well, certainly not my father," he scoffed, "and possibly not Hermione, either. Not if you expressly forbade me," he insisted, "and you and I both know you love a good forbidding from time to time."

"It does aid my digestion," Blaise conceded thoughtfully. Worse, he was beginning to think if he didn't tell someone, it might simply fall out of his ears, seeing that all the files were presently unsecured and in danger of traumatic collapse.

"Look, I get that I'm not the person of choice," Draco said, "but we've been through things, haven't we?" He gestured to the road behind them, which was both a poignant metaphor and a very literal reference. "And besides, it would really make me feel better to think of something that isn't my father's inability to accept my girlfriend. So really," he determined, brightening, "it would be a service to the crown."

Blaise considered it. "Would I be knighted?"

"Definitely," Draco said. "Would you like some jewels? I'm sure I could dig up one or two."

"I'd like a dukedom," Blaise said.

"Consider the paperwork filed," Draco declared, and Blaise leaned back on his bike, testing the words out before they left his tongue.

Neville kissed me. Not a great start.

I kissed him back. Rapidly worsening.

I don't know who I hate more for it, him or me. True, and hugely problematic.

"You can't tell anyone," Blaise said after a moment, clearing his throat. "Especially not Pansy."

Draco blinked with surprise, then nodded, waiting. It was an oddly symmetrical image to when they'd met a decade earlier, Draco waiting in patient silence as Blaise held ice to the swelling bruise over his eye and tried not to say things like find someone better, Your Highness; surely someone else is more worthy of your time.

"Something happened," Blaise said slowly. "On New Year's Eve, in Courchevel. I did something."

"Blaise, I know it can't be this bad," Draco said, shaking his head. "Out with it."

"I got into a bit of a row with Neville," Blaise said, and added, with as much brightness as he could muster, "and then he kissed me."

Draco, a consummate politician, careened through a spectrum of surprise for only a moment before steadying his constitution. "Did you want him to?"

"No, of course not," Blaise said quickly. "And I told him we couldn't tell Pansy about it, either. You know how she is," he added, and Draco nodded with a slow, resigned suspicion. "She'd prefer to ignore the things that don't fit perfectly with the way she wants them to be."

"But did you," Draco began, and frowned. "I mean, are you—"

"There have been… others," Blaise admitted, and Draco nodded. "A few, here and there over the years. My concern, initially, was Pansy," he said firmly. "For her sake, I told him to forget it ever happened."

"But you haven't forgotten," Draco noted, and Blaise shook his head, the contents of the file dumping out at his feet and flying out on a gust of resignation.

Helpfully, Draco didn't ask him to explain. Instead he merely sorted through his thoughts in silence, looking somewhere between apprehensive and unsettled.

"Do you want it to happen again?" Draco asked, and Blaise hurried to shake his head.

"No," he said, inescapably firm on that. "I had no feelings on Neville whatsoever before, and now I'm certainly going to have to keep my distance. Best case, Pansy finds some other aristocrat and ends things shortly," he said, implausibly optimistic for something that seemed increasingly unlikely, "and then none of us ever have to see him again."

Draco winced. "I don't mind him," he said, ever the diplomat. "He's… unobtrusive."

"About the same compliment I'd give a sponge," Blaise noted, and Draco sighed loudly.

"Frankly, I'm astonished he managed something like this," Draco said, abruptly impressed, as if the concept astounded him more the longer he thought about it. "Kissing his girlfriend's best friend, that's… that sounds like the plot of Thibaut and Hortense's next musical." He swiveled his gaze to Blaise. "But if I'm going to keep this secret for you, you'll have to promise never to let it happen again. Once, fine, I understand your logic," Draco exhaled uneasily, "but if there's a second time—"

"There won't be," Blaise assured him. "But Pansy needs him—" or thinks she does, he thought, "and I don't want to get in the way of that."

"But is that fair to her?" Draco asked neutrally. "If Neville tells her and you don't—"

"He won't." Blaise was certain of that much. "He definitely keeps more from her than he lets on, and believe me—"

He broke off, thinking of the look on Neville's face, which had been replaying in his mind on repeat for the entirety of the last week. In all likelihood, Neville's upbringing was not much different from Pansy's, and if Blaise was unfit for Lady Parkinson's consideration, then surely he didn't even register on the spectrum of appropriate for Lady Augusta Longbottom.

"Trust me," Blaise concluded with a shake of his head, "he's not going to say a word."

That seemed to trouble Draco more than anything. "This is Pansy we're talking about," he said worriedly. "She's more vulnerable than she thinks."

"Yes, but she's worked too hard for this to let it slip through her fingers," Blaise pointed out, and Draco grimaced his grudging agreement. "She certainly won't break it off with him over something this inconsequential—so isn't it better she doesn't have to know?" he ventured, posing the same question he'd been asking himself for days. "Ignorance is bliss, or at least marginally less paralyzing. She's said as much herself."

"Well," Draco said, conceding unhappily, "that's certainly true." He shook his head, dismayed with himself. "I really didn't think that was what you were going to say."

"Well, I have to permit some reprieves from worrying about global climate change," Blaise said. "From time to time I like to let a few other cataclysms pass through to diversify the contents of my inner monologue."

"Certainly relatable. I'm pretty sure that's the longest I've gone without thinking about my own problems recently," Draco said, straightening with a look of repulsion with himself, "so thank you for your service to your kingdom." He eyed his watch, shaking his head. "And now, I suppose, I'll have to return for a lecture about risking my safety and the entire future of the free world. A familiar song and dance," he lamented, "for which I desperately hope my father has developed a few new verses—"

"You're already out," Blaise cut in, gesturing around. "Will it really be that much worse if you simply come over to ours tonight? Better to tell New Tracey what your father said in person," he pointed out, and Draco cocked his head, contemplating it. "I can't imagine she'd take the news well over a phone call."

"No, probably not," Draco sighed, reaching for his mobile and glancing at the screen. "Well," he murmured, typing something in quickly that was met with an instant response, and then another. And then another. And then three more, before he finally shut his phone off and put it back in his pocket, glancing up at Blaise. "Yours, you said?"

"Oh, yes," Blaise informed him. "We're having a party to celebrate New Tracey being made a public spectacle."

"Sounds like something worth toasting," Draco agreed, throwing a leg over his bike and picking up his helmet. "By the way," he added, "I'm still winning the points game, aren't I?"

"Oh, of course," Blaise assured him, securing his helmet and starting the ignition of his bike. "Who else would it be?"

"Oh good," Draco said, royally pleased. "Just checking."

Much to Blaise's discomfort, Neville joined them that evening at Pansy's behest. It was the first time Blaise had seen him since New Year's Eve—aside from an exchange of nods, maybe, as they departed France—and he was extremely displeased to note that opening the Neville Longbottom file to reveal its contents to Draco had accomplished very little towards re-securing it among his other thoughts.

Unfortunately, it wasn't simply guilt eating away at him. Memories of firelight and the taste of expensive champagne had mixed together to flash bubbly and golden at the back of his mind, hovering unhelpfully beneath his senses' duller observations.

Pansy, of course, was the first to comment. "You're being unreasonably quiet, Blaise. It's leaving Theodore to provide all the evening's absurdity, and he has positively no finesse."

From Theo, lamentingly: "It's true, I don't. Not even one single finesse."

From Daphne: "Besides, Nott's absurdity has more of a gloomy fog to it. A tasteful heaping of self-loathing, one might say, versus Blaise, who's really more of a charming observer."

From Draco, who had his arm around Hermione: "An important distinction, I agree."

From Harry, indignant: "Hold on—what about me?"

From Pansy, with an airy scoff: "You're not absurd, Henry, you're roguish. Puckish on an off day, and knavish when you're up to it."

Theo, aghast: "What? His sounds better."

Harry, smirking: "Because it is, Nott."

From Hermione, twisting to look at Draco: "What are you, then, if your crew of Bad Lads are such wonderful renditions of bad?"

Draco, with a sigh: "Average, I expect."

Daphne, chiming in with a laugh: "Isn't it obvious? Draco's the nerd."

Draco, airily: "I prefer the term scholarly. Unrelated, I hear the Tower's plenty warm this time of year, Daph."

Blaise, shaking his head with a laugh, rose to his feet to refill his drink, wandering into the kitchen. He caught the telling motions of Hermione rising from Draco's lap to follow after him as he pretended at ignorance, occupying himself with a fruitless search for a liqueur he knew perfectly well he did not have.

"Blaise," Hermione said. "Pansy's right, you know. You're being very quiet."

"Am I?" Blaise said, feigning surprise. "Only because I've been meditating on something I read this week. Did you know," he mused, "that Prince Draco is dating some sort of colonial floozy who once kissed a boy on the swingset when she was six entire years of age?"

"God, I'm going to murder Anthony Goldstein," Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes before admonishing him, "Don't change the subject, Blaise. I want to hear about you," she insisted. "You're being very un-Blaise, and frankly, I do not care for it."

"Well, what you want is all well and good, New Tracey, but minus five for selfishness, because I'd like to hear about you," he replied, as she let out a low huff in protest. "How go your blogging endeavors?" he asked, dropping his voice and successfully distracting her as she glanced over her shoulder, ascertaining the others remained at a distance.

"Good, actually," she said, and in truth, he agreed. He liked to enjoy the latest posts over his morning libation, and learned a great deal that day about female expectations in the workplace. "It's been a useful distraction this week in particular," Hermione admitted, and then grimaced, adding, "Thanks for hosting this, by the way. I haven't been anywhere but my flat and my office all week. It's," she began, and hesitated. "Hard to get around these days."

"I suspect this isn't the sort of pursuit you imagined as a young, feverishly ambitious commoner," Blaise said, and she smiled thinly.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised, given how many times I've been warned." She glanced over her shoulder at Draco, then looked back at Blaise. "What about you?"

"Oh, Rita Skeeter loves me," Blaise assured her, and she groaned.

"Of course she does. Everyone does." She gave him a wistful smile. "Rightfully, I suspect."

"Well, plus ten for flattery, minus five for inaccuracy," Blaise said, and Hermione made a squeak of opposition.

"Blaise, am I losing this game?" she demanded.

"Of course you are," he offered comfortingly. "You're terrible at it. But don't take it personally," he added. "It speaks very little to your qualities as a human being, and far more to your relationship with a capricious yet infallible referee."

"Isn't the game entirely about who we are as people?" she asked, sighing.

"Only if you're playing it wrong," he assured her spiritedly, giving her a wink and a smacking kiss to her forehead before reentering the living room, faltering the moment Neville looked up to catch his eye.

Nobody had noticed Neville's unusual silence, which was probably best. Still, Blaise found the palpable awkwardness momentarily unbearable, opting to disappear into the corridor and making his way to his room for a moment to steady himself.

He heard footsteps following and glimpsed a pair of loafers before internally withering, watching them come into view. Blaise, who possessed no furniture aside from his bed and nightstand, watched Neville lean against the bare wall, sipping idly at his drink.

"I guess we should talk," Neville said.

"Nothing to talk about," Blaise reminded him in a low voice, glancing at the open door. The others were a fair distance away, but still.

Neville cleared his throat, tapping his fingers on his glass.

"If you need me to keep my distance—"

"Yes," Blaise said, glancing up at him, "I fucking do."

"I suppose it's not worth it to apologize, then," Neville said, and Blaise curled a fist, suddenly flaring with opposition.

No, that would make it worse. If Neville was sorry, then Blaise had been building the whole thing up in his head for an entire week, and who knew what two weeks would do? Or three? Or three months, or three years? Would he have a lifetime of existing parallel to Neville?

Could sorry fix that?

"You old money purebloods," Blaise muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "You're all just a bunch of garden-variety tragedies, aren't you?"

Neville stared at him for a moment, silent, and then turned slowly, walking to the door.

Blaise exhaled as he went, feeling his entire frame go limp, but Neville only took hold of the knob. Shut the door quietly. Walked back, and then stood still, facing Blaise.

"You sad little rich boy," Neville said, his voice low and shockingly venomous. "Self-pity may not look flattering on me, but it looks absolutely ridiculous on you."

Blaise looked up sharply, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Neville reached forward, setting his drink on Blaise's nightstand. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?" he asked, a hint of mockery coloring his tone. "Because you're insecure, is that it?"

Motherfucker. Blaise's knuckles tightened at his sides. "What are you trying to do? Impress me?"

"Not anymore, no. Turns out I misjudged you," Neville said, folding his arms over his chest. "The others just stumble over themselves for your approval, and I thought it was because you were the one they loved the most—but they don't really love you, do they?" he accused. "You certainly don't think they do. You couldn't live up to what they were, so you made yourself judge and jury over all of them."

Very little was keeping Blaise from losing his temper. There was close to nothing, in fact, aside from knowing that he would most likely be attending Neville and Pansy's wedding, and that Pansy, foolishly thinking Blaise to be reasonable and non-violent, would eventually want him to make a speech. Which would be full of lies, of course, and which would burn his throat to say aloud, and which would haunt him for days, months, years, lifetimes. Probably until he ran into her again in his next life.

"Is it a reaction you want?" Blaise asked, looking up. "Is that it? You want me to lose my temper, want me to snap? What is it?"

"I want to see what you really are," Neville said flatly, in something that felt like a taunt. "None of you are real, do you realize that?" he demanded, suddenly flaring with temper. "Pansy certainly isn't, not with me—and you, you're the worst out of all of them. They never really get close to you because you wouldn't dare let them," he said with a shake of his head. "You're just a snake, aren't you? All you are is secrets and lies—"

"Oh, is that what I am?" Blaise hissed, launching to his feet and shoving Neville backwards. "Well then congratulations, you've sorted me, Longbottom, good job—"

"Tell me I'm wrong," Neville beckoned, his tongue slipping out between his lips. "Go on, tell me."

"What for?" Blaise snapped. "One sob story over too much champagne and you think that changes something between us? You're expendable," he gritted out, "and you're forgettable, and—"

Neville grabbed his face with both hands, pulling him closer, and to Blaise's despondent dismay, he felt himself give in even before their lips touched. It seemed inevitable, pointless to refuse and wastefully undeniable, and instead of champagne and a flickering hearth this time it was gin and hushed gasps and malice, and it was Blaise's hand rising to make its way between the blades of Neville's scapulae, digging with contempt into the gaps of his spine. He closed his eyes and shuddered, limbs flooded with heat. He would regret this later, he knew, and when he did he would burn in it, singed by all the edges of his memory.

"Forgettable," Neville said to Blaise's mouth. "Did you forget me?"

No.

Not for a moment.

Blaise shoved him away, dragging a hand to his lips as Neville stumbled backwards, steadying himself with a hand on Blaise's headboard.

"Stop it," Blaise said. "Stop."

He intended for more words, but for once, nothing came to mind. He reached for the door and flung it open, feeling Neville's gaze following him as he made his way into the corridor and stopped, barreling into Tracey.

"Hey," she said, sounding bored. "Your friends are doing their unbearable little banter thing in the living room."

"Oh," Blaise said, blinking, and she frowned.

"You okay?" Tracey asked. "You seem weird."

He heard Neville walk out of his bedroom behind him, catching the furrow of Tracey's brow as she noticed him materializing in the corridor.

"Oh, hi," Neville said genially, holding up a phone charger. "Was just getting this for Pansy."

Motherfucker, Blaise thought again, sliding him a corrosive glance.

If anyone was pretending, it was clearly Neville Longbottom.

"Cool," Tracey said disinterestedly, taking Blaise's hand and tugging him back to his bedroom. "You won't be interrupted this time, will you?" she asked, shutting the door behind her and whipping her shirt over her head, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra.

Blaise numbly shook his head, unzipping his trousers. He knew he'd be replaying Neville's kiss over and over until the files in his brain were lit aflame and scattered over every layer of his cognizance, dusting his subconscious in ash and settling like rubble into his thoughts.

"No," he said, and let her shove him onto his back, Neville's hair flashing gold behind his eyelids as Pansy's voice echoed down the corridor, flooding him anew.

If Draco and Hermione taught the rest of us anything, it was that some things can't be denied, which is why it became very obvious to me very quickly that I'd have to take drastic measures about keeping my distance from Neville.

The only problem is… I didn't. Or, at least, they didn't work.

But seeing as today's not about me, I suppose it's not really worth getting into that right now.

a/n: Okay, so sometimes it comes out a romantic dramedy... I'm really not in control here. I'm just glad you've decided to come along.

20. Hounds

Chapter 20: Hounds

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Hermione Effect

By now a common term, the 'Hermione effect' refers to the ways in which Hermione Granger has made an impact on fashion, boosting sales of U.K. designers (and then some) purely by virtue of being seen wearing one of their pieces. As the colourful saying goes, everything Hermione touches 'turns to sold'—which, while somewhat crass, has proven undeniably true in recent times. Despite a few initial stumbles by the American (now armed with a tasteful battalion of British labels and a mix of accessible pieces and haute couture), Hermione's most noticeable impact as a royal hopeful has been the curation of her image.

It's quite easy to call this advancement in personal style a rousing success, as Hermione's early years in the spotlight amounted to quite another story altogether. At the inception of her popularity in 2013, Hermione's tastes were symptomatic of a young, untested woman hoping to be taken seriously, perhaps to the point of appearing drab or uninspired. After finding her footing as one of the most influential women in Britain, however, Hermione has blossomed into an impactful force in U.K. fashion markets. By now, it has become quite easy to see the future consort Prince Draco adores for her timelessness and effortless elegance.

Ah yes, my 'initial stumbles,' otherwise known as the clothes I was able to afford and haphazardly piece together while being hounded by the press and working an entry-level job at a non-profit. What a charming euphemism, Rita. You should be a writer!

Anyway, there's not much to say here that isn't true on some objective level. I'm hardly without an eye (I clean up nicely on my own—or so I like to tell myself, despite what I'm sure is Pansy's vehement disagreement) but Daphne's influence certainly helped me make more thoughtful choices once I recovered from the misconception that attention paid to my appearance would eventually pass. I didn't really understand, at first, that while I was being being scrutinized, I was also being… observed, if that makes sense. I was being noticed, firstly, and then grudgingly admired, and then, to my surprise, I woke up one day to find I was broadly emulated.

At the beginning, though, it definitely just felt like I was being watched.

January 13, 2013
London, England

"I didn't even know you had a motorcycle," Hermione remarked with dazed approval, clambering off the back of Draco's bike and managing to stand while whispering into the darkness of her street.

"Sure," Draco said cheerfully, dismounting with considerably more grace and pulling her against him, "I have one motorcycle."

Both of them having helmets on (hers borrowed from Blaise) and the fact that it was probably close to three in the morning had combined to make Draco shamelessly handsy. She tugged his hand away from where it was slipping down over her backside to drag him up the stairs into her flat, shushing him firmly along the way. He followed semi-obediently—which is to say, not without some wandering; his hands on her waist drifted repeatedly to her hips, stroking at her spine, resting on her lower back. It was unhelpful, to say the least, and she yanked him inside only after fumbling twice with the latch, indulging his touch once she was certain no prying eyes could see.

"You're hopeless," she whispered to him, not bothering with lights. His fingers traced over the slopes of her lightly, parting her coat and then floating delicately to the hem of her shirt. She shivered as he ran his touch above the lip of her jeans, stroking the line of her hip. "Being on a motorbike makes you positively reckless."

"Well," he said, removing her helmet with a chuckle, "I'd hate to bespoil my good name without mitigating my lewd behavior." He took his helmet off, setting it beside hers on the kitchen counter, and picked her up (ignoring her squeal of opposition-turned-resignation) in a brusque, unfluid motion, carrying her into her bedroom. "What can I do, hm?" he mused, kicking the door shut behind him and setting her atop her dresser. "Shall I recite my lineage?" he hummed softly against her throat, wresting her coat back from her shoulders to let it bunch around her waist, his hips secured between her thighs.

"Some poetry," she suggested, leaning her head back as he kissed his way across the neckline of her shirt. "Just to even things out, you know—"

"When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see," he whispered, dropping lower to slide her shirt up against her torso, "for all the day they view things unrespected, but when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, and, darkly bright, are bright in dark directed."

"Oh wow, you're really going for it, okay," she murmured, closing her eyes as he slid her shirt over her head, depositing carelessly it on the floor.

It occurred to her, briefly, that they should probably discuss… something. He'd been very forthright with her earlier that evening, leaving her with little in the way of questions (What was there to say, after all, to any version of 'my father refuses to acknowledge you'? Certainly nothing helpful, aside from the frustrated sputtering she'd wanted to oblige and managed, miraculously, not to) but nothing was particularly resolved. Draco had made a very strong point, after all, when he'd inadvertently silenced her with a single question.

Do you want to marry me someday?

It wasn't a proposal. It wasn't even romantic, really; at least, not in any conventional way. It was a very obvious and yet entirely implausible consideration. Did she or did she not have any desire to one day be his… god, what even was a Queen Consort? What did that actually mean? She only knew the term within the context of her A.P. European History class, which was unhelpful. The idea that it could be her actual life was out of focus, blurred and nonsensical, but Draco was right. Unless she wanted to one day be his wife, there was little he could do in the way of convincing his father to publicly support their relationship.

Hermione had spent the previous week earning a very small taste of what it was to constantly have people following her every move. It was more than a little enlightening as to why Draco had a habit of reflexively looking over his shoulder, scanning whatever room he was in to identify what might be lurking in all of its vacancies and corners. Her newfound sympathy for the pressures of his constant observation seemed to have endeared her more to him—hence the uncharacteristically roving hands, or so she imagined—but it was clarifying very little for her. Prince Lucius' approval, were he to grant it, meant royal protocol would extend to her in good ways as well as bad; in behavioral expectation, of course, which was where she was clearly suspected to fall short, but also in security, in some degree of privacy, and in the privilege of forcing speculation out from time to time. Her walk to work, never particularly lengthy, had become one of the greatest obstacles of her day.

Her answer to Draco's question, in the end? Same as it always was.

I don't know.

Draco, it seemed, had expected as much. The conversation had been relatively brief, the two of them rejoining the rest of their friends (minus Blaise, who was quick to disappear for reasons that remained a mystery, provided the mystery's name was Tracey Davis) until they'd opted to return to her flat.

At times—like this one—it wasn't too difficult for Draco and Hermione to put aside the struggles of their relationship in favor of being two foolishly touch-starved people who hadn't seen each other in over a week.

"—all days are nights to see till I see thee," he continued between his teeth, having successfully divested them of most of their clothing by then. He paused to press her bare torso against him, a thin sheen of perspiration clinging coolly to his heated skin, before finishing the sonnet with, "and nights bright days when dreams do show thee me."

"Shakespeare?" Hermione mumbled, having sacrificed listening in favor of baser instincts. Draco bit lightly at her inner arm where it wrapped around his neck, his oral fixation in full force as she clung to him. One of her legs was wrenched up, her heel dug in against the wooden edge of her dresser, and the rest of her limbs were twined somehow within; around; between his.

He filled her with a choked-out gasp of, "Sonnet forty-three, yes," for which she assumed the latter confirmation served a dual-purposed expression of approval. The dresser beneath her, probably not designed for its current purpose (although who could tell), gave a loud creak to match her stifled moan.

It was a conversation they'd had many times, their respective messages expressed a thousand different ways. Sometimes it was Draco saying I need you, Hermione replying with I'm here, I'm yours; sometimes it was insecurity from her, fingers toying with the hair at the back of his neck to whisper can this last? so he could answer with the enduring assurance of yes, I promise, yes, relentlessly driving the point home. Tonight they were both playing with ignorance, racing into oblivion. This was a rapid, heart-pounding full-sprint, a cliff-dive into carelessness. Somewhere on the spectrum between little chats and magnanimous speeches was body language at its most compulsive; the mindlessness of her muscles aching—let's ignore everything—was answered with the half-contorted sheltering of his arms around her—what else could possibly matter?

Tomorrow would be another day. Tonight, she was falling with a prince into her bed, and within hours, the dull sheen of old snowfall would glisten to the light of a dawn she'd never see while Draco slept soundly beside her.

Hermione woke to Daphne stumbling into her room, blearily holding out the clutch she'd left somewhere in the common area the night before.

"Your purse is ringing," Daphne said hoarsely, tossing it at Hermione's feet and then turning to collide with the doorframe, holding one hand to her temple. "Remind me never to let Pansy make the drinks again," Daphne muttered to herself, and then half-turned as Hermione fished around in the clutch for her phone. "Hi, Draco."

"Hi, Daph," he yawned into the pillow, stretching his arms overhead, and then he blinked, noticing what Hermione was doing and launching immediately upright. "Oh, no, don't answer th-"

"Hello?" Hermione croaked into the phone, catching the panicked look on Draco's face moments too late.

"Miss Granger," said an equally panicked voice. "I'm very sorry to bother you, but I'm afraid I must inquire: Is His Highness with you, by chance?"

Draco shot with astounding speed to his feet, seeking his trousers amid the piles of forsaken clothing and digging out his cell phone, hastily turning it on.

"Oh, yes," Hermione said faintly, "he's, um—"

"Buggering Christ almighty," Draco growled, his phone dropping from his hand as several messages arrived, prompting it to vibrate ceaselessly against her floorboards. "Tell Dobby I'll take the motorbike back, he needn't send someone—"

"He'll take his bike back," Hermione repeated dutifully. "It'll, um. Be more covert that way?" she guessed, and Draco nodded firmly.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Miss," said Dobby, his voice mildly tainted with desperation. "Have you looked outside this morning, by any chance?"

"Oi," Daphne said, poking her head back in. "Is there any reason the cameras are here early?"

"Besides this one?" Hermione hissed, gesturing to a half-clothed Draco, who gave Daphne a sheepish grimace.

"Oh, right," Daphne said, shrugging and removing herself to the living room.

"Miss Granger," Dobby continued, "I regret to tell you it has become necessary for a private car to collect His Highness from your residence. Would it be possible to for you to pass the message along to His Highness Prince Draco that his father the Prince of Wales is sending a car shortly? He expects as discreet an exit as possible."

"Well, um," Hermione said, glancing at Draco. "He could just stay here, couldn't he? Until the photographers leave, that is."

"I'm afraid they will not be leaving any time soon, Miss," Dobby said as Draco grimaced, mouthing something to her that seemed to indicate a similar concern. "Also, His Majesty has requested His Highness' presence this evening, and time constraints being what they are—"

"Right, okay," Hermione said. "Well, I think he knows, so—"

"One last thing, Miss Granger," Dobby said quickly. "Forgive me, but I must ask that the Prince's discretion extend to… well, yourself, Miss."

"Sorry, what?" Hermione asked. Across from her, Draco, who had been getting dressed, paused to frown. "What does that mean?"

"His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales requests that you refrain from joining His Highness whilst Prince Draco exits the premises," Dobby clarified, clearing his throat. "To give the public the impression that His Highness was partaking in any sort of… it would be, ah." Another cough. "Well, it would be best, Miss Granger, if we did not draw any unnecessary attention to this… event."

Hermione tore her attention from Draco to focus on the absurdity of the situation. "You don't want people to think Draco spent the night with me? Sorry," she said with a dry, disbelieving half-laugh, "but I think they're probably going to piece that mystery together fairly easily, don't you?"

Draco shook his head rapidly, reaching out to take the phone from her, but she held him at arm's length, refusing.

"Be that as it may," Dobby said tentatively, "given the circumstances of your…"

"Relationship," Hermione supplied for him. "It's a relationship, and quite a long one, at that—or has Prince Lucius forgotten it's been over two years?"

"Miss," Dobby said, heighteningly distressed, "I simply—"

"Give me the phone, Dobby," came a voice on the other end, and Hermione winced, glancing up at an unsurprised (and by the looks of it, displeased) Draco. "Miss Granger," said Prince Lucius, "surely you have better things to do this morning than to argue with my personal staff. Must I impress the obvious upon you yet again, or can we simply agree you'll do as I ask this morning?"

She swallowed. Draco had secured his most impassive, expressionless mask, which was never a good sign.

"Yes," she said. "I'll stay out of the way."

"Excellent," Lucius said drily. "Painless, isn't it? Now, if you'll do me a personal favor and continue this highly uncharacteristic sequence of acquiescence, I would ask that you put my son on the line."

Hermione held out the phone, offering it wordlessly to Draco, who accepted in silence.

"Father," he said, and the voice on the other end grew louder, incomprehensible but certainly not inaudible from where Hermione sat. "Yes, I know. You're free to admonish me later. Yes, I'm aware I've been careless. No, I won't be late." A pause, and a quick glance at Hermione. "I'll explain it to Grandfather myself this evening, if you're so concerned." His mouth tightened. "Very well."

He hung up the phone, handing it back to Hermione.

"I have to go," he said, pulling on his jacket and raking a hand through his hair.

She nodded, fiddling with the cover on her phone. "Sorry," she mumbled, and to that, Draco paused his motions, carefully lowering himself beside her with a sigh.

"This is my fault," he told her steadily. "It was a new motorbike, I didn't think it would be recognized, but I was mistaken. You didn't do anything wrong."

Aside from making it worse, she thought. She was fairly sure losing her temper with someone who merely worked for his family hadn't been helpful.

Draco slid a hand over her cheek, drawing her gaze up to his.

"I do wish you wouldn't antagonize my father," he said, carefully diplomatic. "Difficult as he is, he is also rather instrumental in us being able to move forward. He may not often be fair to you," he conceded slowly, "but that's an injustice for me to resolve on your behalf. It doesn't particularly help to validate his opposition, however unreasonable it may be."

She flinched. Draco rarely lost his temper, but that was close enough. She'd been right; his reassurance of her was only partially genuine.

He was, at least partially, cross with her.

"I'm sorry," she said again, letting her chin drop for a contrite brush of her lips to his palm, and this time, he sighed with a bit more affection, reconciling some of his frustration.

"We'll fix this," he said. "I'll discuss it with my father again—and again, Hermione," he assured her, sweeping his thumb comfortingly across her jaw, "and again, and again—for however long it takes."

Maybe it was just her imagination, but Hermione felt certain an unspoken 'if' seemed to hang in the air between them. She wasn't sure if it was an if you're sure (or, similarly, if you still want this) or something worse.

Moderately worse? If you can manage to contain yourself.

Much worse: If you can stand to learn your place.

She thought, for the first time in a long time, of Narcissa's bitten nails, her wide-eyed look of panic, and her desperate insistence that Hermione turn and run.

"See you soon?" she asked hopefully, and Draco took her face in both hands, kissing her softly.

"Very soon," he promised, and was gone on a slowly fading breeze of cedar and sage.

About an hour after he'd left, the first articles surfaced on the internet. Prince Draco slinks back to Clarence House after a sordid night with rumoured American flame Hermione Granger, wrote Rita Skeeter. It seems our thoughtful Prince retains some of his father's nature for secrecy, or at least for secret liaisons! The royal family continues to evade any official mention of the romance, which leads this reporter to wonder whether this coupling is in any way serious, or merely a symptom of our Prince's youthful virility. Either way, it seems this American will have her moment! she exclaimed, following it up with an old picture of Hermione laughing at something Draco had said while walking to class at Hogwarts.

The headlines trickled in afterwards in a similar fashion. At times, Hermione was merely the mysterious American; sometimes she was camera-shy; sometimes outright spoiled; sometimes, speculations that she was demanding and shrill (unhelpfully 'confirmed' by 'intimate sources' she doubted had known her past childhood) were provided as scandalous cause for secrecy. Draco's descriptions, by contrast, went anywhere from defiant to randy (though the DRAGONFLOWER blog was quick to point out that particular apartment had been known to house Fleur Delacour as well).

Silence from the royal family says it all! was the general mood for gleeful takeaways on the situation, followed by the usual itemized list of reasons Hermione was, at best, a fling: American, Catholic, and a commoner, even by subpar colonial standards.

"Well, if it helps, it's been a relief to level up from total silence to snooty denial," was Helen's helpful reassurance over Skype. "Aunt Karen and that pathetic schmuck of a future son-in-law she's got were getting out of hand. Though, we've had quite a few more patients showing up asking for cleanings recently," she added thoughtfully, "and I doubt this has much to do with their sudden need to reunite with their long-lost cousin, floss."

"So long as it's not a total loss, then," Hermione grumbled, leaning back on the sofa and scowling moodily around the room. The shades were drawn, as they had been since Draco had been photographed leaving the flat, and it was unpleasantly dark, even at two in the afternoon. "I haven't been able to leave my apartment in two days but fine, so long as people are going to the dentist—"

"I'm sure it'll be an adjustment," Helen said sagely, with all the wisdom of a mother who had boatloads of sympathy and no idea what else to say. "Still, you had to know it was coming, didn't you?"

"Well—" Yes, theoretically she'd known, but how was she to really grasp the scope of it? She'd thought photographers were human beings who required sleep and food and perhaps shelter from snow, but current experience was proving otherwise. If she looked out her window right now, she was positive there would be some sort of article about it within minutes. "I mean yes, I did, but—"

She broke off, hearing a key jostling the latch, and looked up, frowning. "Daph?"

"Oh, good!" Helen said, brightening. "She's helping me choose a dress for yet another disastrous party your father's forcing me to go to—"

"Unfortunately, no," came Theo's voice, his slender form slipping like a shadow into the flat before he turned to grin at Hermione, raking a hand through his hair and shaking away flaky drops of snow. "Just me."

"Fleur's not here," Hermione informed with a frown. "And neither is Daphne."

"Well, my goodness, California," Theo drawled, "do you think they're the only reasons I might visit, or have you forgotten we were once friends? That," he added, holding up a bag of Indian take-out and loping over to her side, "and I needed somewhere to eat this that wasn't my empty flat. Blaise is being extra mysterious these days, and I can hear far too many of my own thoughts, which—Oh, hello, Lady Granger," Theo said, leaning over Hermione to wave at the computer screen. "You're looking wonderfully fetching this afternoon."

"You're a magnificent liar, Theo," said Helen, who was wearing a bathrobe. It was approximately six in the morning her time, and though she and Hermione's father were early risers (often on account of David's continued obsession with Sunday morning bike rides) the only thing Helen was fetching was more coffee.

"Yes, I agree," Theo said firmly, "it's one of my ample charms. Tikka masala?" he offered, holding up the bag, and Helen chuckled.

"I'll let you two go. My daughter's being a grump, anyway," she said with an admonishing glance at Hermione, who groaned her disagreement. "Date one prince, I tell you, and all semblance of optimism just goes out the window."

"I can't promise never to date a prince," Theo offered with regal solemnity, "but I can assure you I will continue to be my sunshine-iest self, should the opportunity to do so arise."

"Best of luck, Theo dear. You'd look positively stunning in a tiara."

"Helen, you celestial angel, you're not still with that silly husband of yours, are you?"

"Please stop flirting with my mother," Hermione growled at Theo, shoving him aside as he winked unapologetically at the screen. "Alright, Mom—I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Yes, my darling girl, you will," Helen confirmed cheerfully. "Do let us know when you feel up for visitors again, would you?"

"I miss you," Theo lamented to the screen as Helen blew him a kiss and Hermione hastily said her farewells, shutting the laptop and reaching for the bag she was certain contained some samosas as Theo settled himself at her side on the sofa. "So," he said, reaching for his food and pouting as she slapped his hand away, "you're still not letting your parents come here, I take it?"

"Just until some of this blows over," Hermione confirmed, identifying the tellingly-sized container and handing the rest of the bag back to him. "It's just… a lot to deal with right now. I think, anyway."

"Well, sure," Theo agreed, neatly setting up a spread on her coffee table, "but personally, I don't think hiding up here is going to help."

"How'd you even get in here?" Hermione asked, frowning, before abruptly pressing him, "And more importantly, how have you not been harassed since dating Fleur?"

"I'm very good at being invisible, Cali," Theo said. "Perks of being too thin and also largely unremarkable."

"Well—" Hermione took a bite of a samosa, soothed a little by the luxury of fried food and spiced potatoes she hadn't had to purchase for herself. "Thanks for coming over," she determined after a moment, burrowing her toes under Theo's leg, and he turned to give her one of his dancing half-smiles.

"See? We're friends," he said, giving her knee a brisk smack. "Which means I can ask you what you're being gloomy about, can't I?"

"Oh, just the usual," Hermione said with a grimace. "Draco's mad at me. I'm trapped inside my flat. I'm terrible at my job. Overall, living the dream, as they say."

"Draco's not mad at you," Theo corrected, and she arched a brow doubtfully. "What? He isn't. He's got his father on his back and, per usual, he doesn't know how to employ his princely frustration. He lacks the privilege of obstacles," he commented, waving his fork around illustratively before digging into his basmati rice. "He's unrehearsed when it comes to sensations of malcontent, but he certainly doesn't blame you."

"Well, maybe, maybe not," Hermione grumbled, pursing her lips in disagreement. "I mean, he has a point. Me constantly fighting with his father is hardly any help to him, but I just don't really know how to exist like… this," she finished uncomfortably, waving a hand around the darkened flat.

Theo took a hefty bite, considering her point through a forkful of tikka masala, and then swallowed carefully. "Well," he said slowly, "have you ever considered asking Draco for help?"

"What?" Hermione asked, which was probably answer enough.

"Relationships are somewhat two-sided, as I understand it," Theo informed her, looking smug. "He takes your advice, doesn't he? Accepts your help." He shrugged. "Why shouldn't you do the same?"

"Well, I—" Hermione frowned. She supposed she hadn't technically asked Draco for anything; in fact, she made a habit of forcefully shoving him away, insisting she could handle it all on her own. She'd always been enamored with the concept of independence, detesting the idea she required someone's assistance, but she supposed it did seem rather silly when put in perspective. "He's, you know. Gone a lot, and he's got his own problems—"

"That's an excuse, California, and you know it," Theo said. "He may be a prince or whatever silly thing he calls himself, but you're doing him a disservice by not trusting him to be for you precisely what you are for him. A partner," he clarified, brandishing his fork at her. "He sees you as on his side. Do you see him on yours?"

She smarted a little from the unlikely wisdom, the bite of samosa going slightly ashy in her mouth.

"I guess not," she admitted, swallowing, and Theo shrugged again.

"There's give and take, you know. Not just give. It's healthy to take what you need from time to time, or so I hear." He took another overlarge bite, chewing happily—with all the confidence, Hermione thought with a sigh, of someone in a contented relationship with an intelligent, charismatic, and beautiful woman. No wonder Fleur and Daphne both loved him; he was unapologetic about all things, including himself.

Eventually Theo swallowed, adding, "Draco may not be very good at knowing what to do with any of his less convenient emotions, but he's uniquely talented at being a friend. Comes naturally," he explained, "which must be innate, seeing as he can't have inherited from his father."

Hermione sighed.

"Do you think Prince Lucifer will always hate me?" she asked wistfully, and Theo barked out a laugh that startled them both.

"That blond demon doesn't like anybody or anything," Theo said succinctly. "If anything, you should be pleased he considers you an adversary. Everyone else is mostly, I don't know. The mud on his shoes," he estimated. "An unseasonable breeze. Some other repulsion." He gave her a conspiratorial glance. "But believe me, nothing outside of his son and his father are enough to turn the Prince of Darkness' head. Maybe his crown," Theo added as an afterthought, shrugging, "but those aren't unrelated."

Hermione took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Would you want a crown?" she asked after a moment, and Theo fixed her with a look of utter reproach.

"Absolutely not," he said, "and any one of us would surely tell you the same."

"Pansy's certainly mentioned it a few times," Hermione agreed, making early headway in the competition for understatement of the year. "She told me the first time I met her that Draco's a job I'm unqualified to hold."

"Ah, well, that's where she's wrong," Theo said, shaking his head. "Draco's not a job—not for the right person, anyway. But don't tell her I said that," he hurried to add, and Hermione laughed.

And then she thought about it.

And thought about it.

And was still thinking about it in bed that night when she leaned over to find a text from Draco.

Saw a little curly-haired girl this afternoon in Yorkshire who informed me it was extremely inconsiderate to cause traffic just so I could get by. Her mother was horrified—I, meanwhile, had to stop myself from telling her I knew just the person to appreciate her keen sense of injustice

Hermione half-smiled. Dobby? she replied.

Too clever, you are. Off to bed?

Yes, she replied, and her phone promptly rang.

"Sleep well," Draco said when she answered.

She smiled into the receiver. "Is that all?"

"For now, yes, unfortunately. Wish I could be with you."

She glanced at the place he would normally be; pale blond strands against her sheets, sleeping on his stomach, his expression its most unembellished arrangement of those narrow, linear features. Divine right (or so Hermione assumed) meant Draco didn't snore, but he breathed deeply and slept fitfully, and she always wondered what danced in his head when his princely eyes were closed.

"Draco?" she said. "I love you."

She could hear evidence of him smiling. "I love you. I'll see you soon."

"Soon?"

"Yes, Hermione," he promised her. "Soon."

"HERMIONE! Give us a smile, would you?"

"Hermione, have you seen Draco recently?"

"Don't be shy, Hermione! Where's that American charm?"

The usual. Or the new usual, anyway, seeing as it was the same as it had been last week.

Hermione kept her head down, hurrying towards her office from the opposite sidewalk. She'd been doing her best to arrive before Minerva got there, knowing that the disruption outside would be less than pleasing to her frills-opposed employer. Planning for the coming benefit auction had been requiring the small Transfiguration team's full attention, and Hermione doubted Minerva would thank her for the distraction.

She stepped into the street, about to cross, when a car pulled up from her periphery; too close—or certainly close enough to feel too close—and she jumped back in alarm, hearing the sound of what felt like dozens of camera shutters as she bit her tongue on a number of different profanities. She bristled and kept walking, voices carrying after her as she went.

"HERMIONE, LOOK OVER HERE!"

"Hermione, what do you think about following in Princess Narcissa's footsteps?"

Jesus. Those damn earrings; it seemed everyone (but Hermione, of course, who knew better) was considering them some sort of pre-engagement gift. She hurried around the car and into her office, dodging photographers. There had been attention while at Hogwarts, but that had been something entirely different. Now, she felt the eyes on her like tiny ants crawling over her skin; she shuddered again at the sensation, making her way to her desk.

"Miss Granger," came Minerva's voice, and she halted beside her computer, wincing. Her timing had been off today, it seemed. "Would you come in here, please?"

Hermione set her bag down with a sigh, turning her computer on before heading sheepishly into Minerva's office. "Yes, Minerva?"

Today, like usual, it was sensible tweed. Minerva looked up, glancing quizzically at Hermione through her spectacles.

"Perhaps we should discuss the reason I had an unusual amount of difficulty arriving to work this morning," Minerva invited, leaning back in her chair and gesturing for Hermione to sit. She complied, albeit somewhat unwillingly, and Minerva went on, "I can't pretend I don't have some idea, I suppose. Augusta keeps me somewhat informed on relevant topics of social inquiry, but still, I imagine you have something to say."

Hermione swallowed, considering whether or not she should attempt to evade the question. Ultimately, she remembered the word discretion, fighting a grimace. "Well, I," she began, and faltered. "It's… well, the press seems quite certain I'm… in a relationship," she exhaled rapidly. "With Prince Draco. Which is—" A cough. "Silly."

Minerva arched a brow, somewhere between equal parts unsurprised and disappointed by her denial. "May I presume," she asked drily, "this is why we had the pleasure of Rita Skeeter's visit?"

"Er, yes. But it's all conjecture, of course," Hermione said hastily. "I'm sure it will, um. Pass."

Minerva eyed her for a moment.

"That's all?" she asked, voice ringing with doubt.

It seemed to Hermione that without Prince Lucius' approval, this particular tree (by which she meant the reality of her relationship, or possibly any reality whatsoever) could fall in the forest and no one would hear.

"That's all," Hermione said. "Just… baseless assumptions, that's it."

"Ah." Minerva glanced down, adjusting her spectacles, and Hermione moved to return to her desk but was stopped by the sound of a low cleared throat. "About this auction," Minerva said. "I wanted to have a brief discussion with you."

Fuck. "Yes?"

"Well, it seems you're rather unenthused," Minerva remarked, glancing up again. "It appears the potential donors that Wood speaks to are perfectly willing to offer something for the event, but I notice you're not having quite the same results."

Ah, yes. Donor calls, most of which began and ended with 'I'm not interested' shortly after the conversation was begun.

"Oliver does have a better way with people over the phone," Hermione conceded, trying not to look as shameful as she felt. "I suppose I just have some difficulty being persuasive."

"Well, Miss Granger, I'm perfectly aware you're intelligent," Minerva said, "but cleverness only goes so far. In the not-for-profit world, we sink or swim on the charity of others."

It was as close to an outright scolding as she was going to get, and Hermione felt her eyes sting with frustration as the office door behind them burst open.

"Busy morning, isn't it?" Oliver said, poking his head in. "Any reason for all the cameras?"

Minerva glanced pointedly at Hermione, who looked down at her hands in her lap.

"Wood," Minerva called after a moment, and Oliver, who'd already lost interest and begun setting up what appeared to be a yoga ball for his desk, bounded back into the threshold. "Could you perhaps take a few minutes this morning to share with Miss Granger the script you use for your donation calls?"

"Oh, I don't use a script," Oliver replied jovially. "Come on, Minnie, you know this is all just a fortuitous mix of natural charm, passionate speeches, and unbridled enthus-"

"Wood," Minerva cut in. "Would you please share your script with Miss Granger?"

A beat of silence.

"Oh, yes, yep, very cool," Oliver said after a moment, hurrying forward to give Hermione a fraternal smack on the shoulder. "Yes, of course, can do, Minnie, you've got it—"

"I'll do better," Hermione said quietly, and Minerva transferred her glance from Oliver's retreating form to Hermione's reticent one.

"Miss Granger, I'm afraid finesse is something of a learned skill," Minerva said. "But one needn't lament the lack of it. The only thing one cannot do," she clarified, "is ignore that which will not possibly recede. After all, we only get what we want with some degree of vigor."

Hermione doubted the remark was exclusively about her work, though it didn't seem worth disputing. She simply nodded, heading back to her desk, and paused to watch Oliver bounce several times on the yoga ball.

"Oi, Granger, is this you?" Oliver asked, turning his computer screen towards her to showcase the image of her stumbling in the street from scarcely minutes earlier. "I mean, she's wearing your same clothes and happens to have your exact name, but it just seems so unlikely."

"I'm sure it's just coincidence," Hermione said, sorting through her emails. One in particular ("How goes the auction planning? Just checking in! Augusta") felt mildly reassuring, but outside of that, she glanced at her list of calls with the sort of enthusiasm she typically reserved for pap smears.

It had been Daphne's turn to update the blog; she must have thought herself hilarious that morning, as she'd gone with an article titled, How to get Hermione Granger's seasonally-appropriate 'librarian chic'!

"Huh," Oliver said, bouncing a few more times on the yoga ball and determining her half-hearted denial a perfectly acceptable conclusion. "Well, fair enough," he said, and then leaned back on the ball, transitioning his attention to an unsurprising set of sit-ups.

The week didn't get much better. No amount of coaching from Oliver was particularly helpful to Hermione's fundraising endeavors, it seemed. Worse, people were now beginning to show some recognition at hearing her name that had little to do with The Transfiguration Project. Getting to work continued to be difficult, and returning home more so; she'd stopped leaving the office for lunch, too, opting instead to sit at her desk and face down an empty page.

"Still having trouble?" Draco asked over the phone when she called him Wednesday afternoon. "I don't see why, you're plenty persuasive. Here, ask for my kidney. Try it out, see what I'll say—"

"Stop," she said, shaking her head and stifling a groaning laugh. "I'm just not sure how to speak stuffy British aristocracy, that's all. Or even British business owner, or British anything, really. I swear, they hear the American accent and the high-pitched voice and they just—"

"It's hardly high-pitched," Draco offered comfortingly. "You've got a lovely honeyed timbre."

"—it's just game over," Hermione finished, rubbing at her temple. "I suppose it's best I figured this out before I became a lawyer," she muttered, "or who knows what the jury would have had to say about me."

"Oh, you just need a confidence boost," Draco said. "Something to remind you that you're Hermione Granger, unstoppable force of nature, who very much deserves their donation of fine Himalayan candle holders for your upcoming benefit."

"Well, your faith in me is misplaced, but reassuring," Hermione said. "Sort of. Maybe." She paused. "Well, it was for about a second, but my inability to get people on board with things seems to have overruled your confidence boost, so we've all moved on."

"Okay, so maybe there's one thing you're not naturally good at," Draco said, and she sighed. "Plenty of commoners have flaws," he joked, "or so I hear, anyway."

She made a face. "You're in a good mood, aren't you?"

"Ah, caught me. I'm coming home late tomorrow," he said. "Briefly, but still. I'm hoping to make use of the time, and you tend to make that a guarantee."

"Do I really just—" She chewed the inside of her cheek, pensive. "Fix everything for you?"

"Everything? No, but most things." She heard him pause, hesitating. "By the way," he said slowly, "I noticed some of your pictures have you looking a bit hassled. Is everything alright?"

She guessed he was referring to the one from earlier that day, which was somewhat (very much) less than (intensely not) flattering. The camera had been shoved in her face unexpectedly, and she couldn't keep herself from expressing some mild form of rage—though, she'd thankfully managed not to say anything aloud.

"Sorry," she said, wincing.

"No, I didn't—" He broke off, stopping himself. "I don't need you to be sorry, I'm—"

She waited, and he sighed.

"I'm supposed to protect you," he said; weightily, as if everything he wished to say could be encapsulated by that one sentence.

"I don't need protecting, Draco," she reminded him. "I'm perfectly capable of handling it."

"Yes, I know, but—"

"Anyway, I should get back to work," she said, glancing at the clock. "I'll see you Friday?" she asked hopefully. "That's soon."

He hesitated, then seemed to think better of it.

"Yes," he promised her. "Soon, I promise."

"Well," Oliver said on Friday afternoon, shoving himself away from his computer and nearly toppling from his yoga ball, "Lady Goyle's changed her mind about that marble phallus she was donating to the auction."

"God, really?" Hermione asked in disbelief, throwing her head back with a groan. "That was one of the top five items expected to sell!"

"Yes, I'm aware," Oliver said, promptly stabbing his yoga ball with a pair of scissors and kicking its remains into the corner behind his desk. "Any movement on your end, Granger?"

She glanced down at her list, shaking her head. "Nothing, really. I could maybe try calling one of these smaller galleries, I mean—even if it's an unknown artist, it could at least look expensive, right?" she asked fretfully, wondering now if Daphne still had Roger Davies' phone number. (God, she hoped not.)

"Certainly could be more impressive than whatever this dick statue was supposed to be," Oliver glumly agreed, hurling a pen into the makeshift dartboard he'd fashioned at the opposite end of the office. "What is it, some sort of aristocratic dildo?"

"Sounds right," Hermione said glumly.

"Miss Granger," came Minerva's voice, and Oliver turned, pointing at her. Hermione gathered her things with a sigh, dragging herself into the office.

"Yes, Minerv-"

She broke off, surprised to find Minerva was standing at her window, staring down at the street. It was rare to find Minerva daydreaming—which was what she appeared to be doing, though Hermione had her doubts. "Minerva?" she asked tentatively, stepping forward.

"Why," Minerva said slowly, "is there a state car outside our office?"

"Um," Hermione said, rushing forward and abandoning any sense of decorum altogether to stand beside her employer, catching sight of a pale blond head exiting a black Bentley. "Oh god, is that—?"

"OI, MINNIE," came Oliver's voice, followed by the rest of Oliver's body, which was attached to a coiled telephone cord. "That was some sort of shrieky elf from the Palace, apparently we're supposed to have an unscheduled visit from—"

"Prince Draco," Hermione confirmed breathlessly from the window, spinning to face Minerva. "I'm… did you? I didn't, I'm just—"

"Collect yourself, Miss Granger, please," Minerva sniffed, still glancing down as Draco walked over to one of the younger looking photographers, beckoning him closer as the young man struggled not to topple over while feverishly bowing. "Do you have a mock-up prepared for the auction's guest list?"

"I, um—yes, actually," Hermione squeaked. Whatever else she might have lacked in employment, she remained perfectly timely with her assignments. "But, um—"

"How do I look?" Oliver demanded, poking his head in and straightening the tie he kept in one of his desk drawers, which appeared to be covered in an illustrated rendition of the solar system.

"You look ridiculous, Wood, but it's far too late to change that now," Minerva said, shoo-ing Hermione away from the window. "Get to work, you two. I won't have this looking like some sort of juvenile operation run by hapless fools."

"Yes, Minerva," Hermione and Oliver said in unison, hurrying back to their respective desks—Hermione applying her peppermint chapstick, Oliver struggling to remember where he had put his chair—by the time the door opened.

"Excuse me," came Hermione's favorite voice, followed by her favorite smile. "Is this The Transfiguration Project, by any chance?"

"Your Highness," Oliver half-shouted, rising to his feet with a bow as Hermione hurried to curtsy, nearly forgetting how in her excitement. "To what do we owe the privilege of your fine company?"

"Ah, you must be Oliver Wood," Draco said, striding forward and holding out a hand. "Colin, would you mind?" he asked the sheepish photographer behind him, and Colin, whoever he was, hurried to raise his camera, snapping at least three dozen photos of Draco shaking hands with Oliver. "Wonderful to meet you," Draco said warmly. "I hope you don't mind my interruption. Miss Granger," he said, turning to Hermione and offering a hand, which she took with a shiver of delight. "A pleasure, as always."

"Your Highness," she returned, made a little giddy by the play-acting. "How have you been?"

"Oh, very well," he assured her, scraping his left hand through his hair to let his signet ring flash pointedly in the light. "Ah, and you must be Minerva McGonagall," he said, turning to meet an unaltered version of Minerva's usual expression, minus the precisely deferential curtsy Hermione felt certain even Pansy couldn't fault. "I'm very excited about the work your organization is doing to improve public spaces in London. You're familiar, I'm sure, with my grandfather's devotion to the arts?"

And so it went, with Draco charming the trousers off both Minerva and Oliver while Hermione observed, chiming in whenever she was addressed but otherwise happy to pretend at total innocence. The photographer, Colin Creevey, seemed utterly bewildered at having been brought in for this task, but Hermione could see it was a tactical play by Draco. He'd managed, somehow, to magically transform an unorchestrated visit to a beneficial state appearance, and she doubted anyone would question it later—not even Lucius.

"Tell me, do you have any vacancies for auction items?" Draco asked her. "I'm sure you must have to draw the line somewhere, what with the popularity of this event," he assured her, pointing to Colin to write that down in his scribbled notes, "but in the event you can make room, I imagine we have one or two heirlooms for the cause."

You're saving my life, she mouthed to him, and he, professional that he was, merely gave her a genial smile.

"Well," he said eventually, turning to Minerva once he'd received a full tour, an hour-long interview with the organization's founder, and possibly one million pictures. "I don't suppose you'll be keeping Miss Granger much longer this afternoon? She's an old friend, and I'd love to catch up," he said, and Hermione blinked, turning as covertly as possible to face him as Minerva gave a stunningly impassive indication of agreement.

"What are you d-"

"Certainly nothing untoward," he murmured to her, beckoning subtly for her to join him as he made his way out of the office. "Do you have your things?" he asked, waiting, and she blinked, staring at him for several seconds before Oliver firmly shoved her purse into her hands.

"Oh," she said, glancing down at it and stumbling as Oliver nudged her forward. "Yes, um—"

"Thanks again," Draco said to Oliver, waving over his shoulder and walking briskly as Hermione hurried to follow.

"Draco, what the—"

"Be sure to smile when we get outside," he told her in an undertone, not glancing askance as Colin followed in their wake. "In my experience, posing briefly is enough to get them to leave you alone for a while. Understood?"

"Yes, but—"

She paused, falling to a halt beside Draco as he stopped to spare the cameras a moment of posed acknowledgement, then beckoned for his car door to be opened.

"In you go," he said to her, as if that were not somehow the most ludicrous statement he'd ever uttered, but rather than cause a scene, Hermione numbly made her way inside, ignoring the fact that the crowd had doubled—if not more—from its usual size.

Draco entered on the opposite side of the car, nodding to his security team, and gestured for the driver. "People are watching," he warned as they pulled away from her office, "so unfortunately I can't greet you quite the way I'd like to." He glanced at her, half-smiling. "Which, by the way," he murmured softly, "you'd be scandalized to hear in detail."

"What are you doing?" she asked him, not bothering to soften her bewilderment before confronting him with it. "It's one thing to make a visit to my office, but this—"

"I told you," he said firmly. "It's my job to protect you, to keep you safe. If my father prefers to deny your existence rather than provide you the necessary defense of royal protection, then you'll have mine," he said, gesturing around to the full security detail he'd brought with him. "If that means taking you to work and back whenever I'm in London, so be it. He can deal with that however he likes."

She pushed aside the usual argument; that she didn't need protecting, that she could take care of herself, that everything was fine. She didn't feel up for admitting it had only been two weeks and already she found the attention thoroughly exhausting, but neither did she plan to deny it.

Besides, this wasn't someone who'd take advantage of her weaknesses. Hadn't he proven that often enough? Instead, she shared a bit of rawer truth, reminding him quietly, "You can't always be here, Draco."

At that, he turned to look at her. "I know," he said, equally solemn. "But for as long as I am, believe me, I'm not abandoning you."

She blinked at him, a little ache of gratitude filling her chest.

Then she blinked again.

And a third time.

"Just out of curiosity," she said tentatively, "what would happen if I—um." She swallowed. "If I… married you? What would it be like, I mean," she hurried to clarify, though she doubted that helped.

In answer, she caught the smallest trace of surprise on his face.

"Well," he said slowly, "you would join me for most of my royal duties." He leaned his head back, considering it with a half-smile. "We'd travel the world together. Attend state functions together. You'd have your own patronage, of course," he assured her, "whatever you wished to focus your attention on. You'd have your signature causes, and I'd have mine. But," he murmured, sliding his hand across the seat between them to let his pinky linger comfortingly beside hers, "we'd do our separate things together. If you wanted." He glanced down, stroking the tips of his fingers over her knuckles. "And that's just the beginning, of course. Which is to say nothing of what could follow."

She remembered his comment about a little girl with curly hair and faltered a moment, lost in a hazy glimpse of his future.

Theo was right, she realized. Prince Draco of Wales wasn't a job.

He was a lifetime.

They pulled up to her building and he glanced around through the car window, scrutinizing the scene. "Better," he said, more to himself than to her, then turned his attention back to their conversation. "I'm quite positive I'll be expected back home shortly," he said, the expression on his face still hesitant. "I don't think I'll make it to Theo's birthday dinner, but if the lecture lasts as long as I suspect it will," he playfully lamented, "promise you won't forget me, will you?"

She wished they were somewhere other than inside a car that was being watched by photographers. Short of disrobing him to show her appreciation in some preferable (albeit moderately profane) way, she touched the snake ring on her finger.

"I know," he said, mouth quirking warmly. "Me too."

And when she smiled for the photographers, she knew—for once—it was genuine.

"Well, you look atrocious," Pansy said, tossing the newspaper at Hermione as they gathered that evening for Fleur's celebration for Theo, a dinner (much more appropriate than a surprise party) which had them imbibing casually in the back room of a Diagon pub. "Would it kill you to try something less drab than olive?"

From Theo, sniffing his agreement: "Yes, I thought we agreed you'd bring back aubergine. You know how it suits my autumn complexion."

From Blaise, outraged: "MINUS FIVE. Theodore, you're a winter and you know it."

From Daphne, with a scoff: "Clearly you've never seen Nott in a lovely marigold—and Pansy, olive is not drab, it's chic."

Pansy, lips pursed: "Not the way Hermione's wearing it."

Daphne: "Well, fine, but still. Don't make absurd generalizations."

From Hermione, drily: "So comforting, thank you both."

From Fleur, with a cooing sympathy: "I like your taste, Hermione, it's very practical. You're a woman in the workplace, like so many others. It's very accessible."

Pansy: "Yes. Also accessible? Mediocrity."

Hermione, sighing: "Again, thank you."

Pansy, sniffing: "You're welcome."

Fleur, with furiously endearing warmth: "I think Hermione's doing a wonderful job handling this. It can be very difficult, you know, all the attention. I frequently made unwise choices when my father was elected."

From Neville, hesitantly skeptical: "I know we don't know each other well, but I find that difficult to believe."

Theo, with a sly grin: "What Longbottom means is you're a filthy liar, Delacour."

Hermione, with a shake of her head: "I'm with Theo on this one. I've never seen any evidence of a misstep."

Fleur, stoically: "I was not always responsible with my shoe choices. At times, my ankles looked… too delicate."

Daphne, sipping her beer with a shake of her head: "Has anyone ever tried to assassinate you? Just curious."

Fleur, shrugging: "Well, as my father always says, no one's anyone until someone wants you dead. Though, for the record, it sounds much more violent in French."

Blaise, with boisterous approval followed by bemusement: "Twenty points! You don't even need them, but have them anyway."

Fleur: "I have simply no place for them, Blaise, but thank you. I'll cherish the sentiment."

Pansy, visibly impressed: "Did you just try to return the points? Incredible."

Hermione, mockingly aghast: "That sounds suspiciously like approval, doesn't it?"

Pansy, blithely returning her attention to the newspaper: "And if the olive wasn't bad enough, let's discuss the issue of these pleats—"

Neville, attempting something Hermione estimated to be support: "It's retro, isn't it? Or vintage? One of those."

Pansy, making a face: "Please don't."

Blaise, disinterestedly: "Yes, don't, Longbottom, we're already floundering in a sea of ineptitude. No need to worsen the situation."

Daphne, leaning towards Hermione: "Actually, I like the pleated skirt. I thought the overall effect was quite darling, really. Very Oxbridge mod."

Hermione, with a frown: "Why are you whispering?"

Daphne, with a hiss: "Because I don't want to die, Hermione!"

Pansy, loudly: "I can hear you, Daphne."

Daphne, groaning: "BALLS."

Theo: "I personally don't care what California wears—"

Hermione: "Thank you, Theo."

Theo: "—so much as I'm deeply concerned about the state of her hair."

Pansy, remembering: "OH, THE HAIR—"

Hermione, with a growl: "Gratitude firmly retracted."

Theo: a shameless smile, which he doused with a sip of Daphne's beer.

Daphne: "Excuse me?"

Theo: "No need to beg, Greengrass."

Daphne, arching a brow: "...I didn't say I begged your pardon, Nott."

Theo, smugly: "We all knew what you meant."

Blaise, thoughtfully: "I personally think New Tracey has excellent hair."

Hermione, surprised: "Blaise, that's—"

Blaise: "It's imposing, like a distinguished mustache."

Hermione, rapidly wilting: "—never mind."

Theo, lifting Daphne's glass for a toast: "Well, overall I like California as a fashion icon. Perhaps she'll bring about incurable bookishness as a trend, eh?"

Blaise, complying with a clink between his glass and Theo's: "True! Think of all the young bespectacled girls who will come of age during the dawn of a new swotty idol—"

Hermione, frowning: "I don't wear glasses, Blaise."

Blaise, dismayed: "What? Minus ten, as you should clearly start—"

Abruptly, they all broke off as their phones went off in unison, with the exception of Hermione's, Fleur's, and Neville's.

"Oh," Daphne said, chewing her lip.

"Oh," Pansy said with a scowl.

"Oof," said Blaise, grimacing.

"WHAT?" demanded Hermione, and the others looked up.

"Slughorn," Theo supplied, and as he said it, Hermione's phone buzzed with a text from Draco.

Can't talk right now, but just so you know, it said, followed by a link to the terrible combination of the title HERMIONE GRANGER'S HOGWARTS PROFESSOR TELLS ALL and the unfortunate name Hermione had so quickly learned to dread: Rita Skeeter.

Briefly, there was a low hum of silence, followed by Neville awkwardly clearing his throat.

"We should drink more," Theo suggested, and Hermione nodded firmly, reaching forward for her glass.

"Yes," she agreed, putting her phone away as Daphne gave her a sympathetic glance across the table, snatching her glass back from Theo.

It seemed they were in complete agreement: Bad news could wait until later.

"This," Hermione said, "is future Hermione's problem."

"Hear, hear," they offered in unison, all raising their glasses and toasting the collective misfortunes of the morning.

Funny, isn't it, that the 'Hermione Effect' refers to fashion and not, as it probably should, to accidentally inciting discourse about the destruction of the monarchy? I suppose I have Luna Lovegood to thank for that.

But that, of course, is what comes next, and personally, I make it my business never to cross bridges until I get to them.

a/n: Sorry this was late! Stomach bug causing me problems, plus I dismantled this chapter twice (pain face). For future reference, if you're ever wondering where an update is and there's no warning about it in the previous author's note, chances are I've posted about it on my tumblr. Lastly, Amortentia now contains the dramione I wrote for Little Chmura's birthday, and if you're in the States, have a happy Thanksgiving!

21. Favor

Chapter 21: Favor

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Tentative Missteps

While Hermione has certainly come to fit quite comfortably into her role as Prince Draco's consort, her initial ascendance as a public figure was plagued by unfortunate timing and controversial missteps. Perhaps the most telling blemish on Hermione's record of indecencies to date has been the publishing of an academic paper in the autumn of 2012, a minor but encapsulating misstep that includes the entire spectrum of difficulties facing her role as an entrant to the British Royal Family. Considered by some to be a scathing call to arms against classism—and indeed, monarchism—in Britain, the paper, entitled, "The Chambermaid's Tale: Social Commentary in Literature by England's Lower Class," was and continues to be the most broadly reviewed piece ever published in the Hogwarts University scholarly journal.

Hermione's relationship with Prince Draco suffered a brief but excoriating blow when she faced criticism for her leftist commentary, which coincidentally arose during a period of mounting scrutiny for the royal family. At the time, nearly a quarter of the United Kingdom expressed the belief that the monarchy no longer had a place in modern politics. The lowest support for the monarchy ever recorded, Hermione's article seemed to kindle (to near-disastrous effect) the argument that citizens of Britain would be better served by a Republic. However, the publishing of a brief but surprisingly impactful editorial by the little-known and, until then, scarcely credible e-magazine The Quibbler prompted a surprising tide in Hermione's favour. A young upstart journalist who'd been unknown up to that point* praised the American for her activism, successfully shifting the conversation from classism on a political scale to the more broadly-accepted topic of feminism in literature.

*Misattributed as Loony Lovegood, later retracted and edited.

Luna Lovegood may have only been given a footnote in Rita's coverage, but she was an integral piece of my story. Here's a little tidbit from her article that Rita didn't feel up for sharing (understandably, given that it's much more sane and neglects to mention either my hair or my posture):

Over the past few weeks, it has come to the world's attention that Hermione Granger, the American known most recently for owning a lovely pair of emerald earrings, published an academic article in the Hogwarts Review. "For shame," writes Rita Skeeter, a very loud member of the Daily Prophet who appears to wish shame upon many, "That a woman who hopes to endear herself to the people of this proud kingdom would have the audacity to vilify the very institution which permits her unparalleled privilege. First galas and jewels, then holidays in France; how does the woman sleep at night?"

I have not personally spoken to Hermione Granger, but I imagine she sleeps rather well; particularly if she is reading the articles written by Rita Skeeter, which are suitably monotonous for an excellent night's rest. I also find it quite interesting that so many people oppose Miss Granger's fairly undisputed position that English literature reflects a timeless frustration with classism and social power. Is it because she's American writing about the English? Or is it simply because she's a woman writing about women? Perhaps this is a paradox, a circle that has no end and no beginning, but as a woman in journalism myself, I suspect it is rather uncomplicated.

Say what you will about Luna Lovegood—whose other work, outside of the articles she wrote about me, mostly include sightings of mythological creatures and a few conspiracy theories about the Prime Minister secretly having his opponents baked in pies and dropped off buildings (which, frankly, sounds unlikely, though I've heard crazier things)—but she has quite a forking magnificent way of getting right to the point.

February 2, 2013
London, England

"Obviously," Lucius said tersely, "the time for preventative action is long passed. The timing between your respective bouts of irresponsibility is disastrous," he said, shooting a glance at Draco, first, and then Hermione, "but clearly, something must be done in mitigation of this… newest abhorrence."

"Oh, come now, Lucius, abhorrence? A bit dramatic," said the unfortunate (and unexplained) presence of Theo's father Nott Sr, who seemed unnaturally high-spirited. It was unclear whether that was solely because he was admonishing Draco and Hermione or because he took some additional gratification in making Lucius exceedingly uncomfortable. Either way, he was a natural antagonist, and Hermione was relieved she was no longer facing him alone.

"Fine," Lucius said tightly, "this… unsavory sequence of events."

"Better," said Nott, and Hermione sighed, leaning forward.

"I understand that this isn't ideal," she said, "but I think everyone's really blowing this out of proportion. It's a scholarly article," she reminded Lucius, who pursed his lips, indifferent to the distinction. "It's hardly some editorial about my personal feelings on the monarchy. Everything contained in that paper is supported by evidence. It's entirely neutral, and it certainly has hardly any bearing on my personal relation to your family—"

"'Hardly any'?" Lucius echoed, scoffing. "The entire resolution of the paper's argument was to position literary commentary against a monarch who is very much alive, Miss Granger—and who was gracious enough to permit your presence over the holidays, might I add."

A ludicrous argument, though she suspected Draco wouldn't particularly want her to put it in those terms. "Sir," she attempted, the words slightly gnashed between her teeth, "I hardly think that as a literary scholar, I could somehow preclude works of literature that criticize politics. There's no such thing as uncontroversial art," she insisted. "My feelings on His Majesty as Draco's grandfather have absolutely nothing to do with my thoughts on him as a political figure, but you can't expect me to ignore them! He can declare war, sign bills into law, remove elected officials," she rattled off in something of an uncontained ramble, "and for heaven's sake, aren't those political tasks? The commander-in-chief of your armed forces can hardly be above scrutiny!"

Lucius and Nott Sr exchanged disconcerting glances in the same moment that Draco's hand slid out, resting lightly on her knee; Too much, the contact provided with his specific brand of diplomatic ease, and she grimaced, rapidly backstepping.

"I just meant," she said with painstaking slowness, "that it shouldn't be a scandal merely to have thoughts. I never stated any personal opinions," she added. "I simply provided evidence of social commentary, but I didn't claim any of them as my own."

"It doesn't matter what you said," Nott said, cutting Lucius off before he could speak. "The fact that it was you who said it is damning enough, Miss Granger. Did it not occur to you to submit it to the Palace for approval before it was published?"

"Surely you cannot expect me to permit you to speak publicly on your relationship now," Lucius added, tiring of lecturing Hermione for the brief reprieve of turning to Draco. "The press is calling her some sort of anti-monarchist, left-wing sympathizer, and at this point, for the two of you to be linked—"

"We are linked," Draco said impatiently, his hand tightening on Hermione's leg. "She's being hounded by the press every day, Father! You should have seen the crowds outside her office—"

"Speaking of which," Lucius interrupted, "under no circumstances are you to repeat another episode of yesterday's outrageous display of impudence. Your grandfather and I had never even heard of… whatever this Transfiguration nonsense is," he sputtered, waving a hand at Hermione. "Can you imagine, then, the grievance of being forced to publicly support it, uninformed, purely to spare you any indignity?"

"Be that as it may, I'm going to keep doing it, Father, until you allow me to formally acknowledge Hermione." On that, Draco was firm. "At the very least," he urged Lucius, "let me make a statement to the press. I can't simply leave her to fend for herself," he insisted. "After what happened to Mother, you can't expect me t-"

"That," Lucius cut in sharply, "is a private matter."

"Well, I'm sorry to tell you, Father, but Nott almost certainly knows anything Grandfather does," Draco said impatiently, waving a hand as the elder Theodore eyed his fingernails with a self-satisfied look of impassivity, "and I certainly don't make a habit of keeping things from Hermione, so—"

"Your mother is not presently at issue," Lucius said, dismissing him. "In fact—"

"Well, she's not not at issue," Nott remarked, glancing imperiously up from his nail beds. "After all, this is so very reminiscent of your past, isn't it, Lucius?"

Draco's hand tightened so sharply on Hermione's knee she nearly had to bite down on a yelp.

"Nott," Lucius said through his teeth, "I'm trying to talk to my son."

"Yes, and it's a very valiant effort, Lucius," Nott replied, sounding bored, "but the fact of the matter is that I wouldn't be here if Abraxas considered this issue in any way handled. That," he added, "and you hardly have a leg to stand on. I suppose I haven't asked you recently," he said with a laugh, "how is Bellatrix?"

At that, Draco's grip on Hermione's leg was ironclad.

"Draco," Hermione squeaked softly, and he blinked, abruptly releasing her as Lucius' mouth stiffened, his own knuckles equally tight with tension.

"This," Lucius said, "is hardly relevant. The point stands, and I expect compliance on this matter," he said, addressing Hermione directly; the only person in the room he could hope to control, or so he seemed to think. "I have considerable sympathy for your position, Miss Granger, whether you believe so or not, but until this subsides, I must ask you to remain discreet."

Discreet. The word struck at her posture with another unpleasant blow, which to his credit, Draco seemed to feel.

"Father," Draco said, lifting his chin, "if that's the case, then—"

"You," Lucius said, fixing his son with a poorly-restrained glance of frustration, "will be joining me in India. When we return, your grandfather expects to have a conversation about whether you've reconsidered your stance on military service."

That, unlike the tiresome refrain of discretion, was uncomfortably new. "Reconsidered?" she echoed under her breath, and Draco glanced apologetically at her, opening his mouth to reassure her only to be interrupted.

"You said it yourself, Miss Granger," Nott said, looking more than a little pleased at being able to say so. "His Royal Highness will one day be commander-in-chief of the armed forces. You don't expect him to avoid it forever, do you?"

"But I thought—" Abruptly, she recalled what the others had always said about Harry being in the Royal Army; that sending the spare was a perfectly fine gamble, but the heir could hardly be put in harm's way. She hadn't expected Draco to serve, and was caught by a mix of unwelcome mental images of his various limbs being blown to bits in addition to the (very occasional, but still) stretches of time during which Harry was unreachable.

"It's unlikely I'd see combat," Draco assured her in an undertone, reaching out to place a hand on her knee again. "I'd wanted to enlist before attending Hogwarts, but of course school was necessary, and then my grandfather assigned me so many public appearances I thought it wiser to put it off so I could focus on diplomatic tasks."

Even Hermione could hear the lie. He'd clearly put it off for her, and she'd never even known it was an option. Now, though, it seemed abundantly clear his father considered it one way to keep them apart.

"Right," she said faintly, "of course."

Nott, Sr looked entirely too delighted, rising languidly to his feet.

"Well," he said, "I for one think it's a fine idea, as I've told Theodore many times. He's a lost cause, naturally," he lamented, conspiring for a moment with an unwilling Hermione. "No coordination and certainly no conception of authority, but Abraxas and I both served in the Royal Navy. Besides, now that Draco's associated with a republican abolitionist," he mused, giving Hermione a laughing gesture, "perhaps a show of patriotism will be necessary. Food for thought," he concluded spiritedly, wandering out of the room and leaving Hermione with a sullen Draco and a glowering Lucius.

"Well," Hermione ventured after a moment, finding that father and son were clearly not on speaking terms at the moment. "Always a pleasure to see him," she murmured, and Lucius' mouth tightened in perhaps the only show of acknowledgement he'd ever really given her.

"Yes," he said, voice dry and toneless. "Quite."

"Now Rita's digging into the annals of The Inquisitorial Squad? Ridiculous," Pansy sniffed, joining them for breakfast in Hermione's flat/prison cell the following day and scrolling through the latest slew of articles. "As if this Slaghorn fellow wasn't bad enough."

"How bad is the article, exactly?" Daphne called from the kitchen, glancing over at them. "Theo read it aloud, but it was difficult to follow. His impression of that professor the two of you had is really atrocious."

Oh, I oversaw her work, of course, the final product being very much the fruit of my steadfast guidance—not to boast, obviously, but of course it is my name headlining the article, so must claim some credit for its subsequent popularity!—but I must say, Hermione's tireless enthusiasm did come as some surprise. I had no idea the extent of her politicism, naturally, but who am I to deny the passion of a rising academician? A star pupil, Miss Granger, along with our Prince! Quite a set of young paramours, they were, Slughorn had gushed unhelpfully, which Theo had done an alarmingly apt recreation of aloud. It was, much to Hermione's dismay, almost identical to having the jolly professor himself in the room, and she was certain it would give her nightmares for weeks.

"It's really accurate, unfortunately," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Theodore is a gifted imitator."

"True," Daphne said. "Nott's like a very gangly, flightless parrot."

"What does Draco have to say about it?" Pansy asked, glancing up from the screen. "About any of it, I suppose."

"Oh, you mean aside from 'I promise not to die in battle'?" she asked, and Pansy pursed her lips, equally disapproving. "I think he hoped this whole thing might convince his father that the truth would be better than Rita Skeeter's fiction," Hermione sighed, "but unfortunately, Prince Lucifer disagrees."

"Well, he would, wouldn't he?" Daphne contributed, plunking down next to them with a mimosa in each hand and denying Pansy one in favor of offering it to Hermione. "His life story's been so twisted up and mangled I doubt he has any faith in truth anymore."

A valid point, albeit an unusual one. "That's surprisingly sympathetic," Hermione said, taking a sip of her mimosa as Pansy reached up, expectantly holding her hand out for the glass.

Hermione sighed, conceding, and Daphne gave her a disapproving look, ostensibly admonishing her for her deficiencies in drink ownership.

"I suppose I neglected to mention he brought it on himself," Daphne amended, and then paused, considering the contents of her glass. "Just curious, though—has Draco ever mentioned what exactly happened with the Prince of Darkness and his two Black sisters?"

"That," Pansy said with a shudder, sampling the mimosa and grimacing her opposition, "sounds like a terrible young adult fantasy series. Also, Daphne, this is entirely champagne."

"The whole concept just seems so unlikely," Daphne continued, ignoring Pansy's commentary in favor of taking another long sip. "I mean, I suppose Prince Lucifer might be considered handsome, if you're into that stuffy, unpleasant sort of thing—"

"Draco looks a lot like him if you squint," Hermione admitted, "but it's difficult to identify the similarities at first glance, or maybe that's just me." She shrugged. "I suppose Prince Lucifer's intolerable inner workings somehow manifest visibly," she suggested, and Daphne nodded, pairing her agreement with a visible shudder.

"Neville looks like his mother," Pansy remarked tangentially, staring into space for a moment before shaking the thought away. "I suppose that's why he and Augusta have so little in common. I'm told his mother was," she began, and then promptly discarded her attempt at consideration. "Weak."

"You know, I have the hardest time reconciling Neville's grandmother with the Augusta I know," Hermione said, recalling how helpful and warm she'd been as they'd worked on the luncheon. "She seems really quite… sweet," she determined, to which both Pansy and Daphne spared a scoff.

"Women of Lady Augusta Longbottom's stature are bred to have two faces," Daphne said, taking a sip and shaking her head. "Either it's breeding or it's genetic, but either way, it'd have to be passed down for generations. Why else would the upper class even exist?"

"Remember, my mother is Princess Narcissa's best friend," Pansy pointed out to Hermione, reminding her for the first time that actually felt relevant. "It's inconceivable on any level that my mother has any friends, much less a best one."

"Well, Narcissa's not exactly clawless," Hermione said, grimacing a little as she recalled their most recent conversation about the 'den of snakes' that was the royal family. "I wonder what Bellatrix is like," she added vacantly, pondering it, and in response, Pansy shoved the champagne flute back into her hand.

"You need this," she said firmly. "Your train of thought is positively collapsing into nonsense."

"Yes, I think Pansy's right about that," Daphne agreed. "By all accounts, Bellatrix is some sort of maniacal banshee you should take no particular interest in."

"According to who," Hermione began, sagely taking a sip, "...men?"

Both Pansy and Daphne seemed to acknowledge the point, but remained mostly unswayed. "The system for judgment is certainly flawed," Daphne permitted, "but seeing as Lady Bellatrix seduced her own sister's husband, she's hardly any sort of moral champion. Even if she does turn out to be a lovely moonbeam of a person," she added, sipping tartly from her glass.

"She's certainly not a proper model for behavior," Pansy said, making a face, "though I suppose I couldn't say who would be best for cultivating your public image."

"What about you two?" Hermione asked, and Daphne and Pansy exchanged a glance.

"We aren't particularly good socialites," Daphne answered Hermione as Pansy shrugged her agreement. "We're the opposite of the Bad Lads, really. Neither of us have any history of pursuing Draco, which makes us thoroughly uninteresting—"

"Nor are we aiming to be actresses, models, or lowbrow artists' muses. Despite Daphne's best efforts," Pansy murmured drily, earning herself an artless smack to the shoulder.

"And we don't particularly make any effort to be publicly recognizable," Daphne finished, as Pansy nodded firmly. "Reporters who do their research might spot us when we're out, but that's about it. You, on the other hand," she said with a studious glance at Hermione, "are about to become one of the most recognizable faces in London, if not the entire U.K."

"The world," Pansy corrected. "Soon enough, anyway. Provided this lunacy continues."

Hermione could always count on Pansy to indicate in some less than covert way that the world as she knew it could end at any moment. By that point, it was nearly comforting to hear.

"Well, I hate to say it," Daphne said with a sigh, "but my sister does have a history of winning these public battles. Actually, I'll be quite surprised if you don't hear from her soon."

"Me?" Hermione said, surprised. "Why?"

Another furtively exchanged glance.

"Think of being a socialite as a career, since you're so keen on those," Pansy remarked on their collective behalf. "Astoria's job is to remain an element of public conversation. You know, Harry also tells me Ginny's mentioned you," she added as an unsavory afterthought, shaking her head. "She, of course, only benefits from being connected to you. It keeps her relevant."

"But Ginny's an athlete," Hermione said, frowning. "She's already got a career, doesn't she? She's a soccer player."

"Ah yes," Pansy sniffed, "and those have such enduring shelf lives."

Per usual, Pansy managed to be mildly prophetic, though her service as an oracle seemed less helpful than most. The following week, while attempting to step out in Diagon, Hermione ran into none other than Ginny Weasley herself.

"Oh, Hermione," came the sound of Ginny's voice, interrupting her procession towards what would hopefully result in groceries (every now and then, the empty fridge necessitated action). Hermione, who had been looking down to avoid the cameras, glanced up with surprise, permitting Ginny to take her arm. She paused somewhat awkwardly, registering the photo-op for what it was, and then Ginny leaned forward. "Want to get dinner? Also, sorry," she said, gesturing apologetically to the cameras outside the restaurant, "but I find it's better to just acknowledge them and move along."

Draco had already expressed the same theory. "Oh, sure, I could do dinner," Hermione said brightly, headlines of UPPITY HERMIONE SNUBS BELOVED ENGLISH SPORTING QUEEN! and DOES RUBBISH AMERICAN HATE ALL THINGS BRITISH?! flashing briefly in her mind.

"Wonderful," Ginny said, smiling broadly. "I'm sure Harry would love you to join us. My brother's coming, too, but they're both notoriously prone to being late."

"Harry's joining you?" Hermione asked, though that made a bit more sense than Ginny choosing such an oddly public place to eat alone. "Good, actually. I was hoping to talk to him about something."

"Oh?" Ginny asked, taking her seat as Hermione settled herself across from her.

"Just about what it's like being in the army," Hermione explained. "I guess I never really thought to question what he did when he wasn't around." She had, actually, but he'd never technically answered. Now that Draco was involved in the conversation, though, she figured he could be more easily compelled to share.

"Ah," Ginny acknowledged, considering it for a moment. Either it was Hermione's imagination, or a brief shadow had fallen across her face, but all she said was, "Yes, I suppose it would be interesting to hear."

She settled her napkin in her lap, clearly not planning to elaborate, but while Hermione was stretching the limits of her imagination to come up with a topic of conversation, someone had already paused beside their table. "My god, Ginevra, is that you?"

Ginny looked up, delighted. "Cormac!" she exclaimed, rising to her feet, and Hermione watched (and then very hastily tried not to watch) as the man kissed Ginny full on the lips, greeting her with a small growl and a light smack to what Hermione's astonished brain could only think to call her derriére. "Stop," Ginny said, rolling her eyes and giving him a shove. "I told you, none of that."

"Next week, then?" the man called Cormac asked with a gleeful purse of his lips, and then he glanced at Hermione, somehow managing to notice her amid his whirlwind greeting. "Oh, hello."

"Hi," Hermione attempted, surely sounding somewhat strained, but Cormac had already turned his attention back to Ginny.

"Let me know when you're back, then," he said, and Ginny nudged him away, demurring with something about how he was so very bad and a nod, falling briskly into her seat. "It's been too long!" Cormac finally declared, sparing her a rousing air kiss, and then he bounded away after his friends, exiting the restaurant and leaving Hermione to stare at her glass, hoping nothing read on her face.

No such luck. "I know what you're thinking," Ginny said neutrally, "but it's really nothing. And anyway, it's not as if I don't know what Harry's like," she added, brushing some invisible speck of dust away from her sweater.

Hermione looked up, frowning. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, come on, Hermione," Ginny sighed, shaking her head. "You think I don't know how Harry is? He blows hot, he blows cold." She shrugged. "I date other people from time to time, and so does he. Besides," she added, sitting back against her chair, "he's always much more attentive when he knows I'm not simply waiting around for him."

"I—" Hermione wasn't entirely sure what to say. "I don't think he's like that."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?" Ginny asked, glancing up at her with her guileless look of neutrality.

That, Hermione thought, felt like a trap. "Harry and I are friends."

"Oh, of course you are," Ginny agreed, somewhat disingenuously. "But if you and Dr-" She broke off, catching herself and leaning forward, dropping her voice. "If you and Draco ever split up," she said in an undertone, "do you really think Harry would settle for being your friend, Hermione?"

Hermione blinked, taken aback. "I don't," she began, and cleared her throat. "It's really not like that between us."

That, too, was met with a shrug. "In any case," Ginny said, "I wouldn't worry about Draco's absences, if that was your concern. You don't worry about them now, do you?" she asked with a knowing glance, and in answer, Hermione struggled to hide a grimace. She didn't, but that didn't feel like something to boast about at the moment.

"Harry's really not, you know… the scoundrel that everyone makes him out to be," Hermione said firmly. "It's all part of an act, really."

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence. Overhead, the song Rumour Has It by Adele was playing softly and ironically.

"Well," Ginny said tightly, "you must be very lucky, then, to see the real thing."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue—with what ammunition, she wasn't entirely sure—but just as quickly, Harry and Ginny's brother Ron had arrived, bounding into the restaurant with a gleam from the flashing cameras behind them.

"Ah, Hermione," Harry said, brightening with surprise at the sight of her and bending to kiss her cheek. "I wasn't expecting you to join us. You remember Ron, don't you?"

"Of course," Hermione said, nodding to the lanky redhead who spared her a nod in return, taking the seat on her right. "It was sort of a spur of the moment thing," Hermione added in explanation, trying not to follow the motion of Harry slinging an arm around Ginny's chair.

"Well, hope we're not too late," Harry said, glancing at Ginny. "What were you two talking about?"

"Oh, nothing much. How to escape all this constant scrutiny," Ginny said, waving a hand in reference to the photographers outside and shrugging. "I was telling Hermione I often find that some time away does me some good."

"That's true," Harry said, looking up at Hermione with his broad, roguish smile. "Very refreshing, distance," he said with a wink, lips curling up at the corners in reference to something Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to consider after having such an unnerving chat with Ginny.

"You know, not all of us can just run off whenever we feel like it," Ron said, rolling his eyes at both his sister and her sort-of princely, kind-of boyfriend. "Some of us have, what's it… jobs?" he joked drily. "Obligations? Responsibility ringing a bell, perhaps?"

"Never heard of her," Harry said with a grin, "but give her my number. You know," he said, transitioning with ease to face Hermione, "maybe you should take Fleur up on that trip to Paris she's always offering. Nott mentioned he was thinking of going to visit her, wasn't he? You could join him."

That, unlike everything else that had been said thus far, was actually a welcome suggestion. "That's an idea," Hermione said, considering it. It wasn't an impossibility, and Fleur had certainly mentioned it more than once. She made a note to herself to discuss it with Daphne when she returned home (sans groceries, unfortunately) and returned her attention to the prospect of dinner conversation.

Much to her relief, Ron and Harry were happy to spend the majority of the time detailing their various harrowing misadventures, nearly all of which involved Harry narrowly escaping something while Ron got grievously injured. (One in particular involved a 'flying' car from Surrey, though she wasn't sure how literal they were being.) Hermione gradually relaxed, forgetting entirely about her conversation with Ginny until Harry paused her, gingerly taking her arm to hold her back before they exited the restaurant.

"I can take you home," Harry said in a low voice, "if you want. It's no trouble."

"Oh, Harry, um." She glanced ahead to where Ginny was waiting with her brother, then felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. "You know, that's probably Draco," she said, conjuring something like a smile, "so I'll just chat with him on my way home."

Harry nodded, amiable as always. "Alright, then, if you're sure." He leaned forward to brush his lips against her cheek, that faint scent of jasmine tickling the reaches of her memory. "See you soon," he assured her, stepping out into the cold after Ron and Ginny, and she nodded, watching him go, before digging her phone out of her pocket.

"Hello?"

"What've you got under that coat, Miss Granger? If the answer is nothing, you'll make a certain prince of the realm very, very happy."

She laughed. "Are you drunk?"

"Only a little. Been ages, I'm all out of practice, and more importantly, you look positively ravishing in whatever that monstrosity is you've got on."

"Oh, good lord," she sighed, shaking her head. "Have pictures gone up already?"

"Yes. Look at you, you look positively freezing. All pink-cheeked and glorious—"

"You," she said with a laugh, "sound ridiculous."

"—sumptuous, even—"

"Are you talking about me, or a cake?"

"Hard to tell in this coat, but I think it's you. I'm about ninety-percent positive, but then again, I have had two entire glasses of wine."

"Oh, ha ha, very funny. Make fun of the girl from California, why don't you? It's all polka dot bikinis until the snow falls."

He laughed, hiccuping softly. "Buggering—" Another hiccup. "Balls."

She hid a laugh in her gloved hand. "What?"

"I don't know." He sighed heavily, letting out a groan that ended with, "I miss you. It's total, bollocky rubbish how much I miss you."

She smiled into the receiver, pausing on the sidewalk to listen to the sounds of him getting into bed. "It's the most rubbish, I agree. Put it in the bins."

"Put it in the bins!" he agreed.

"Take it into the lift—"

"The lift," he said approvingly.

"—grab some petrol, head to the loo with some blokes—"

"You're so good at this. I'm so proud."

"—and put all the rubbish in the bins," she finished, before adding with a smile, "Oh, and by the way, I miss you, too."

"Good." His voice was muffled into the pillow now. "Tell me about your day."

"Why, to put you to sleep?"

"If I wanted that, Miss Granger, I'd ask you about the death of the monarchy."

She groaned. "Oh, come on, you can't be serious—"

He gave a delighted, hiccupy laugh. "Sorry, sorry. Start from the beginning."

"Okay. I woke up," she said, and he made a brisk sound of approval. "Brushed my teeth, starting with my molars and working my way forward—"

"Perfect," he informed her, sounding rousingly content. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Talking Daphne into a trip to Paris was never going to be a problem, which was a relief, both because Pansy declined ("Escapism is for fools and children, and besides, I'm very busy trying to seduce Neville into expensive jewelry and/or lifelong commitment") and because Hermione's article seemed to have had the astonishing effect of prompting not only continued criticism against her, but also extended conversations about the function of the monarchy. Most of these articles were paired with images of Draco and Lucius standing together, and Hermione found it quite alarming how easily public opinion could be swayed. The initial buzz of approval following Draco's speech at his grandfather's gala had been swept away, leaving behind ashy headlines that questioned how different he really was from his father.

"Don't even think about any of it," Fleur said firmly, having invited them all to stay at her Paris residence. "While you're here, you're simply my guests, and I cannot permit anything less than total enjoyment."

Fleur was, unsurprisingly, a wonderful hostess. The itinerary for their forty-eight hours in Paris involved activities seemingly intended for the perfect girls' weekend; a broad variety of food, fashion, and culture, all of which was attended cheerfully and without complaint by Theo. He had no opposition to shopping (and more importantly, did not oppose numerous 'meals' consisting entirely of cheese and pastries) and was perfectly comfortable attending the opening for one of Fleur's artist friends (a name Hermione had never heard but which had made Daphne gasp with excitement). Hermione supposed she regularly forgot how refined Theo's education was, but there must have been a reason he gravitated towards women with interests in the arts.

He and Daphne were arguing about some question of symbolism when Fleur sidled up to Hermione, chuckling into her champagne. "You know," she remarked, "all men have a taste for beauty, but only Theo tries to understand it." She took a sip, shaking her head affectionately as she watched Theo's arms flail in his insistence, then transferred her glance to Daphne, something burrowing very subtly into her brow. "She seems different."

"Daphne?" Hermione asked, and Fleur nodded.

"She seems… happy, does she not? Though, I suppose when I first met her she was very noticeably not." Fleur took another sip, contemplating both of them from afar. "Has something changed?"

"Well, um. Yes," Hermione said, "I think." She cleared her throat, fidgeting with her glass, before launching into, "By the way, this is all really wonderful, and thank you so much for—"

"Hermione," Fleur said with a laugh, "you can tell me, you know. Whatever it is." She turned to Hermione, looking at her with a subtle half-smile. "Though, I suppose you all have so many secrets. It's charming, really."

She sounded a little wistful, and Hermione felt a pang of guilt.

"Well, she's working on something now," Hermione explained. "So I think she's, you know. Busy. She was always happiest at school when she was working on something," she added. "I think it's important for her to do something creative."

"What's she working on?" Fleur asked, which Hermione supposed she should have known would be the inevitable follow-up.

"Well—" Hermione chewed her lip lightly. "Don't tell anyone," she said, and Fleur turned to her with a grateful smile. "She's working on a blog."

She'd been pretty sure Fleur was a safe audience for a vague revelation, and was pleased to see her instincts had been right.

"Is she?" Fleur asked, nodding with approval. "That's quite perfect."

"Yeah, she's enjoying it," Hermione said. "She's always been such a good artist, and then with her interests in fashion, it's just—" She shrugged. "It's perfect, you're right. That's exactly what it is."

"She has so much potential," Fleur said, managing—in her effortless way—to be supportive rather than patronizing. "The way she redesigned that Dior of yours? Flawless." She tapped her glass, considering something. "I wonder if I could get her to design me something original."

Hermione stifled a laugh at the idea that Daphne would refuse. "Well, she'd never say so, but it would mean everything to her, I'm sure," she said. "It's funny, she's always caught halfway between rebellion. If someone like you asked, I think she'd finally put both feet in the water, you know what I mean?"

"I do," Fleur said thoughtfully, murmuring it to herself.

They ended their first night in Paris with a nightcap back at Fleur's surprisingly whimsical flat (a mostly airy space which looked, much to Hermione's terrible envy, like the inside of an Anthropologie, only with a Ralph Lauren-esque devotion to nautical palettes amid a collection of strange and fascinating hanging terrariums) and were discussing whether or not Theo had any discernible taste when Hermione's phone buzzed with a phone call.

"Hello?"

"I do hope you've been taking it easy on the carbs."

Hermione glanced down at her plate of brie. "Hi, Pans."

"You haven't, have you? Just as well. I thought you might like to know that as it turns out, Henry is fully literate. A surprise to us all, of course, knowing how dearly he prefers his more rigorous recreational hobbies—"

"Who is it?" Daphne asked, just as someone took the phone from Pansy.

"Pans, give me that—Hermione?" asked Harry's voice.

"Hi, Harry," Hermione said, glancing at Daphne, who waved. "Congratulations, I think? Daphne says hi."

"Don't tell him I say hello," Theo advised. "Everyone knows Henry loves the chase."

"Well, what Lady Parkinson so unhelpfully didn't tell you—no, come on, Pans, please don't—"

"Hermione," said Pansy's voice firmly, having resumed authority of the phone, "have you ever heard of The Quibbler?"

"The Quibbler?" Hermione echoed blankly, and across from her, Theo scoffed.

"Isn't that the website full of conspiracy theories?" Theo said.

"Theo says it's full of conspiracy theories," Hermione replied dutifully into the receiver, and heard a loud groan as Harry must have taken the phone back from Pansy.

"—told you, you have to preface it—look, okay, yes, it's this outrageous magazine full of nonsense," said Harry, "which I happen to enjoy reading ever since they published an article about how my godfather was secretly some sort of Irish folk guitarist—"

"Oh yes, Stubby Boardman," Theo suddenly recalled. "I'd forgotten, Harry loves The Quibbler. We thought it was like The Onion at first," he explained to Daphne and Fleur. "You know, satirical? But it's entirely genuine, which suits his particular brand of absurdism quite nicely. He positively lusts after candor."

"I can hear Nott talking," Harry said, "and like usual, just ignore him."

"Okay," Hermione said, stifling a laugh. "So what's the deal with The Quibbler?"

"Well, my favorite articles are the ones by Luna Lovegood—who I assumed was completely mad, seeing as her last three articles were about things that definitely don't exist—"

"What, like the Loch Ness Monster?"

"No, weirder, like whatever a crumple-horned snorkack is—but anyway, the point is, she just wrote an article about you."

There it was again, Hermione sighed internally. Just when she'd so successfully avoided it an entire day. "Oh?"

"Yes, but before you go off making that moon-eyed sad face—"

"I don't have one of those!"

"Yes, actually, you do—"

"Harry," Pansy's voice sighed, "would you kindly drag yourself to a point? This is outrageously dull."

"Where's Neville?" Hermione said, frowning. "I thought that's why Pansy stayed behind."

Harry groaned. "Don't ask," he muttered, followed by a grunt of indignation and then the sound of Pansy's voice.

"Let me just say," she announced, "one cannot simply abandon plans without warning. Is it so unreasonable that I might have some expectation to be informed of circumstantial changes in advance before being flung into the wild oscillations of his whims?"

"No," Hermione said, fighting a laugh. "Sounds perfectly reasonable, Pans."

"I detest tardiness. And changes of plan. And when people are difficult to reach. And I'm not overly thrilled about what this weather is doing to my skin. And after Neville had whatever silly reason he had to cancel, Blaise decided to waltz directly into one of his incurable bouts of mystery—"

"Pardon me, Lady Sunshine," Harry's voice growled, returning to the vicinity of the receiver just briefly enough for Hermione to hear them arguing.

"Henry, please contain yourself," Pansy's voice said, followed by a yelp Hermione had never heard her make. "Have you lost your mind? We're not children anymore, no one has the energy for this, and besides that, I always win—"

"Oh please, you've never won in your- OUCH—"

"Hello?" Hermione asked, amused, and Pansy (of course) won out.

"The point is you should read the article," she said flatly. "We have to go, Harry's got an open wound. Try not to overindulge while you're there, and tell Daphne not to do anything stupid."

"Wait a minute, what's going on with Harry?"

"Oh, it's only a scratch, don't be hysterical—"

"You stabbed me!"

"Hello?" Hermione said again, and the line went dead, leaving her to eye the phone with a shake of her head. "Well, that was… enlightening, I suppose—"

"I assume they were talking about this article?" Fleur said, handing Hermione her laptop. "It's actually quite good. Certainly makes you look reasonable and, dare I say, rather less interested in the destruction of the empire than Rita Skeeter seems to think."

"What? I want to see," Daphne said, crawling over to Hermione's left as Theo hovered on her right, the two of them resting their chins on her shoulder as all three read quietly.

After about five minutes, all of them suitably well-informed, Daphne and Theo leaned away.

"Well," Theo said, "whoever this lunatic is, she's much smarter than Rita Skeeter. Or at least much less willing to lie."

"It's too bad this isn't the article everyone's talking about," Daphne said, frowning. "It really paints you quite favorably, doesn't it?"

It did. Not even favorably, actually, because it was largely impersonal and made almost no reference to Hermione herself, but the editorial had handled her research with a respectful, impartial ambivalence. It was, unlike all other coverage about Hermione's possible motives, a purely intellectual breakdown of the argument made by the article, disregarding Hermione's personal connection to the British royal family and instead praising the effort paid to bolstering marginalized voices in literature—which was, after all, precisely what Hermione had always intended the article to signify. Lovegood did end by suggesting that if Draco was actually involved with Hermione, that was probably a good thing (as Hermione 'seemed to be quite clever and certainly attentive to citations'), but outside of that, she'd spared little consideration for who Hermione was.

Hermione got a buzz from her phone; this time an approving text message from Draco saying Harry had told him to read it. It was followed by a screenshot of Harry sending a picture of his 'stab wound,' which did in fact appear to be a scratch (though the circumstances under which he got it remained understandably worrisome).

"Draco seems to like it, too," Hermione said, looking up from the text. "He said it's too bad it's from such an unreliable source, or he'd suggest it to his father."

"Well," Fleur said thoughtfully, "even if it were reputable, telling people to read something is never very effective, is it?"

"True," Hermione said with a little huff of a laugh. "Telling people not to would be much more effective, though I hardly know how that would work."

Briefly—so briefly she thought she imagined it—Daphne and Theo exchanged a glance.

"What a silly idea," Daphne said, and Theo scoffed.

"For once, Greengrass, we agree," he said, reaching over to steal a bite of brie from her plate.

In retrospect, it was no surprise to Hermione when she woke, dehydrated from overconsumption of Fleur's excellent selection of wine, to find Daphne and Theo whispering together on the floor of the living room. They were both wearing their versions of pajamas (Theo in an Eton t-shirt and boxers, Daphne in an oversized cashmere sweater and leggings) and glanced up at Hermione's entrance with abruptly guilt-stricken expressions before Daphne hastily hid her laptop behind her back.

"What," Hermione sighed, "are you two doing?"

"Nothing," they said in unison, and Hermione rolled her eyes, holding out her hand for the laptop.

"No," Daphne said stubbornly. "You're not our mum."

"Yeah," Theo fiercely agreed, and Hermione groaned.

"Just tell me," she informed them, plopping down on the floor and abandoning her search for a glass of water in favor of whatever mystery was at hand. "I already know you're up to something. You know," she added, "on account of my not being an idiot."

They exchanged glances, communicating with a wordless bout of bickering, and then, after a quick game of rock, paper, scissors (Daphne's paper covering Theo's rock) Theo turned to Hermione, raking a hand through hair so tousled he nearly resembled Harry.

"Okay, well, remember that thing we told you to forget about?" Theo asked tentatively. "When we, ah. Supplied Rita Skeeter with an anonymous tip?"

Ah, yes. Spreading the rumor about Narcissa's illness so that Lucius would be forced to invite her in public.

"I have no idea what you mean," Hermione confirmed with a nod.

"Right, well… we stayed in contact with her," Theo said, unable to prevent a grin. "We feed her tips every now and then. She thinks we're a high-ranking official on the Palace staff," he explained, to which Daphne was obviously fighting a laugh. "I've invented a character that's part Slughorn, part Batman, part Bono from U2. We've bonded over our shared love of Adele."

"Everyone likes Adele," Hermione said reflexively, followed by, "Wait a minute, seriously?" as Daphne slipped and let out a giggle.

"Oh, relax," Theo scolded unnecessarily, artfully ruffled. "Draco doesn't know about the first one, obviously, but he knows about it now. Thinks it's brilliant, actually."

Hermione gaped at him. "Draco knows?"

"Well, it is brilliant," Daphne insisted. "The more Rita Skeeter trusts Paul, the better off you and Draco both are."

"Paul?" Hermione echoed doubtfully. "Isn't that your butler's name?"

"It's a very non-threatening name in general," Theo said, and Daphne nodded her agreement. "Call us fools if you must, but never call us unresearched."

"I—" She broke off. "Wait a minute. What are you sending her now?"

"What do you think?" Daphne sniffed, folding her arms over her chest. "Obviously that there's discord in the Palace over this article from The Quibbler."

"The entire Palace staff is positively astonished and dismayed by the indecency of this Luna Lovegood person," Theo recited in one of his caricature voices. "His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales has always intended for the royal family's privacy to remain ironclad, but this article is the lowest form of atrocity. Lovegood may as well have aired the entire family's dirty laundry in one overindulgent presumption of intimacy!"

"This can't possibly work," Hermione said, frowning, as Daphne once again muffled a laugh into her palm. "That article is obviously impersonal. Even skimming it would make it clear it doesn't contain any secrets, wouldn't it?"

"Well, if it doesn't work, it doesn't work," Theo sniffed, though he looked as if he firmly disagreed. "But still, it seems a waste not to try, doesn't it?"

Daphne managed a reprieve from her laughter to swipe at her eyes, glancing up at Hermione. "You said it yourself, you know," she reminded her, sobering just enough to deliver a snotty bit of wisdom. "What better way to make everyone read something than by telling them Prince Lucifer doesn't want them to read it?"

Hermione, whose head had started to hurt (either a consequence of wine or the intensifying pressures of morality) let out a sigh, shaking her head and rising to her feet.

"I'm going back to sleep," she said, ambling down the hall. "Just… try not to break anything."

"Like the monarchy?" Theo called after her, grinning.

"Shut up," Hermione grumbled, throwing it over her shoulder, "but yes."

The rest of the trip was a success, complete with a tired but cheerfully bantering Theo and Daphne, and by the time they returned to London, Hermione did feel successfully refreshed. Things, it seemed, were looking up, or at least elsewhere—particularly by Monday, when Rita Skeeter publicly denounced Luna Lovegood's article.

By Tuesday, snippets from the The Quibbler began appearing on the internet; some of it was clickbait—Ten things you never knew about Prince Draco's American girlfriend (including pricelessly private information, such as, "her parents are dentists," "she went to Hogwarts," and "she's from California")—but some of it was, like Luna's editorial, contributing to the argument that Hermione's focus on socially impactful literature written by marginalized sources was conducive to public conversation.

By Wednesday, even Oliver—whom Hermione had not known could sit still long enough for the length of any article, much less two—had finagled his phone into reading, in its robotic voice (which Hermione could hear through his not-very-noise-canceling headphones while he paced mindlessly around the room) both Luna's editorial and Hermione's article. "You really know your shit, eh?" he shouted at her as she feigned disinterest, fighting a smile at her Excel spreadsheet while he skateboarded into the corridor and narrowly avoided colliding with Minerva.

By Thursday, Minerva herself had read the article, pausing on her way out the door beside Hermione's desk. "You know," Minerva said, "you really are a very thoughtful young woman." Before Hermione could respond with gratitude, however, Minerva had already requested a list of artists be delivered to her desk by the following morning, ending the exchange with a dry toss of, "It's too bad you're not dating Prince Draco," over her shoulder and letting the door shut behind her, a giddy sort of smile plastering itself on Hermione's face.

By Friday, Rita was back at it with another so-called complaint from the Palace about Luna Lovegood (Daphne and Theo really knew how to position things for maximum distress); though, regrettably, she was also back to discussing whether Hermione was or wasn't Draco's very serious girlfriend. Having had an extraordinarily successful week, Hermione finally permitted herself a glance at the DRAGONFLOWER blog, which despite recent events, hadn't given up hope. The latest topic was a quote from Rita's article, this time detailing the 'evidence' that the Commonwealth nations were bringing forth some sort of political bill that would ease previous religious and social restrictions on marriages in the royal line of succession. It was rumored that the 'bill,' which even had a title that sounded fake, would permit Hermione's marriage to Draco—or Fleur's marriage, if the blog was to be believed.

Alright, that's a little much, Hermione texted Theo with a laugh, sending him a screenshot of the article. Repealing the Marriage Act of 1772? Is that even a thing? Seriously, Paul didn't have to go THAT far.

She watched the little speech bubble pulse for a few seconds before his reply came in.

He didn't

She blinked. What?

Cali, came Theo's reply, that wasn't us

She stared at the screen for a moment, totally flummoxed.

But

She couldn't seem to think of more words. Theoretically, the words she wanted could have easily been something like, "but then, that means there's nothing stopping Draco from marrying me"—though, even if her religion or her birth were no longer a problem (still a bit difficult to believe, considering how long those had been unavoidable issues), she supposed there was still his father's approval to contend with.

But, then again, if Abraxas really did approve the existence of such a bill, wasn't Lucius' approval either totally irrelevant or perfectly within reach?

Her pulse quickened, Draco's name flashing on her screen before she'd thought of what to say.

"Hello?"

"I'm home." His voice was crystalline with excitement. "Can I send for you?"

"Is there…" She broke off, clearing her throat. "Is there something you'd like to tell me? About any, oh, I don't know." She swallowed, suddenly apprehensive. Had she imagined it? Was this, like everything else, entirely false? How ironic it would be if even she had been dumb enough to fall prey to a rumor about herself. "Has there been any recent political news?"

He let a little laugh slip; she managed to choke out something similar. "You saw, then? It still has to pass through both Houses of Parliament," he informed her. "Then it can receive royal approval."

"Yeah… no, I know." She felt her breath catch. "But does this mean—?"

"Nothing's been done quite yet. Not yet." She was fairly sure he was trying to restrain himself. "Nothing official, but it's… it's good news, for once. It's quite promising." He seemed a little breathless. "We can talk about it later, but—" She could see him wearing that faltering expression he had when he was feeling victorious, fingers tapping at his thighs. "Can I just see you, please?"

"Yes." The word left her on a sweeping exhale. "Yes, definitely. Now, please."

He gave a low chuckle. "You've got an hour left of work, Miss Granger."

"Fine. Fine, in an hour, then. No, wait, no," she interrupted herself, "I should go home first and shower—"

"You can do that here," he said quickly. "Just be here, please. I love you." He let out a laugh. "I love you, I can't wait to see you—"

"Neither can I," she said, catching herself smiling into nothing. "Okay, let me get back to work for one more hour. I love you," she said before hurrying him to hang up, putting her phone away and refocusing (not particularly well) on her spreadsheet.

He pulled her into the bedroom the moment she set foot in his proximity, his mouth finding hers as she promptly let out a laugh, pulling away to look at him. "Someone's impatient," she noted, running the tips of her fingers over his lips, and he smiled, maneuvering her back against the post of his bed and shifting the panels of her coat.

"Oh, a bit," he murmured, dropping to brush a kiss to her neckline as he slid the coat from her shoulders, inching the hem of her shirt up to let his fingers drift over the spare inch of skin above her jeans. "It's been," he said, dropping to run his tongue lightly over the place his fingertips had been, "too long."

His hands were on her zipper, tugging it down, and she sighed, glancing down at him. "Draco," she said. "I'd like some answers first, please."

He shook his head, lips pressed to the lace of her underwear, and she caught his meandering fingers, holding them still.

"Draco," she said, more firmly this time, and he sighed, remorseful but not particularly enthused. "I have questions, you know."

"Three questions, then," he said, glancing up with a longing glance and a too-clever smirk, "and no asking for more questions. Everyone knows that's cheating."

She considered it, running her fingers through his hair as he slid her jeans over her hips and down her legs, his thumb stroking down the side of her thigh. "Your grandfather approves now, just like what? No, wait," she hurried to amend, "no, I know better, that's not how this works. You must have had to offer him something," she guessed, and he glanced guiltily up at her. "What's the deal, Draco?" she said, nudging him. "Spill it."

"The deal, my suspicious little flower, is really quite in our favor." His fingers were drifting under the lace band of her thong, dancing over her skin. "I was always going to have to do the military thing, you know. I'd always planned on it." She stiffened apprehensively at the reminder, and he dragged himself up to his feet, hands rising slowly up her waist. "I'll serve now," he said softly, lifting her chin, "so that I can be with you in the future."

She hesitated, not quite able to identify what about it was making her feel uneasy. He clearly considered it a bargain, but she wasn't so sure. "Will anything change?"

He shook his head. "Likely not. I'll still be away from time to time, but that won't be any different." His lips brushed her temple, softening to drift to her cheek. "Nothing will change, I promise." His touch, always prone to wandering, slid between her thighs. "This doesn't have to be futile anymore, Hermione, and isn't that worth it? It's a small price to pay, really."

He was right, though it remained difficult to resolve it in her head. "And your father?"

"He can think whatever he likes. I don't need his approval." He was using his princely voice, lifting his chin as she slid her hands under his shirt; he sometimes possessed an unshakable certainty that could only belong to a man who'd been born to be king. "It'll be a year, maybe two, but then—" He let her pull the shirt over his head, lacing his fingers with hers. "All the years after that will be yours."

Tempting. Very tempting. A little whine of a moan slipped from her parted lips when his tongue ventured over her breasts, the two of them having finally done away with the obstacles between them. Physically, of course. Metaphorically some remained, but it was a clearer view now that those could be stripped away, one by one.

It was a very clear view, in fact. Pale blond hair, that mouth, those eyes; a familiar set of arms that circled around her ribs to deposit her on the mattress behind her, his chest pressed breathlessly to hers.

"All out of questions?" Draco asked her.

"Of course," she said. "You only gave me three, and I do follow the rules." She stroked a line down his spine, conceding, "Occasionally."

He gave a beatific little shiver, hiking one of her legs over her hips. "So everything else can wait, then?"

"Yes," she said, breathing in the luxury of it as he moved to fill her. "Everything else can most certainly wait."

Well, I don't need to tell you that things always change, do I? Often for the better. In my case, unquestionably for the better—albeit eventually, and certainly not in any sort of smooth, uninterrupted trajectory. There were highs and lows, as with everything, and not just for Draco and me. Even then, things were simmering beneath the surface with our friends, to both marvelous and disastrous results.

One thing you can always safely assume in life? That nothing ever truly remains the same. But then again… they never say fortune favors the stagnant, do they?

a/n: The Olivie Advent is coming soon! Look out for Felicitous Tidings from the Nouveau Riche, starting Saturday in Amortentia. Here's the summary: When an aimless Harry Potter is asked to retrieve Draco Malfoy from the sinful clutches of American high society, he gets unwillingly dragged into the opulent wizarding party scene of Prohibition-era New York City. Meanwhile, a string of grand thefts draws an investigative auror from the British Ministry to MACUSA, recruiting her for the protection of an American heiress who recently came into a vast inheritance. Ensemble pairings, Roaring Twenties AU, Olivie Advent 3.0.

22. Tame

Chapter 22: Tame

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

For King and Country

Like his grandfather, King Abraxas, and his father, Prince Lucius, Prince Draco served his country as an officer in the Royal Navy, Royal Air Force, and the British Army. After an exemplary performance in training at the Royal Military Academy throughout the spring and summer of 2013, His Royal Highness was commissioned as Lieutenant Wales, a tribute to his father's title as he followed his cousin Prince Harry into the British Army.

While Prince Draco expressed great enthusiasm for his military service, a lifetime career (as well as any possibility for active service) was judged to be impossible for the heir to the English throne. However, his long absences meant that Hermione was often seen alone in London as she continued her work for The Transfiguration Project, leading many to praise her enduring patience throughout her future husband's tireless service on behalf of his nation.

Ah yes, 'patience,' the most loaded of Rita's euphemisms and perhaps my least favorite description of myself. It's certainly one of a handful of triggering phrases (along with 'soon, I promise,' 'just like his father,' and 'Hortense is here') that I've come to detest, as it implies I spent all that time pining quietly—patiently—for Draco to ride in on his noble steed, ready to place a crown on my waiting head.

In reality, of course, I was doing no such thing—but in this case, Rita's coverage of it is less bothersome than the collective opinion she was voicing. The fracking injustice of a fairy tale romance isn't the lie contained within it, but the little bud of truth: that nobody likes a princess who isn't first a damsel in distress.

September 1, 2013
London, England

"Hermione, hi," said a coolly pleasant Astoria Greengrass, rising upon her entry and leaning to kiss her cheek, catching sight of Daphne over Hermione's shoulder. "Oh good, Daph," she added, "you're here."

"Yes, hello sister," Daphne said, rolling her eyes. "You're in a formal mood, aren't you?"

"It's called being polite," Astoria mused in reply. "Or should I have Mother call you to refresh your memory?"

"You witch," Daphne said fondly. "You're positively dreadful."

"Thank you," Astoria said with perfect solemnity, taking a seat and tucking one ankle delicately behind the other. "So," she said, turning to Hermione, "how was your summer, then?"

Hermione and Daphne exchanged a glance, not sure where to start.

"Oh, you know. Fine," Hermione managed eventually, which was, as it always was, a massive understatement.

"Fine?" Astoria echoed, rightfully doubtful. "I've been pestering the both of you about meeting for lunch for weeks. What have you been so busy with, if everything is so very 'fine'?"

Hermione looked at Daphne, who looked back at Hermione, and then at her sister.

"Nothing, really," Daphne managed, which was, somehow, even worse.

In reality, Daphne in particular had been extraordinarily busy, beginning with Fleur's request for a custom gown for a state dinner accompanying her father. Daphne had begun the dress in April and only barely managed to finish by the requested event in June, having created and discarded at least six designs before Fleur's final fitting.

The final gown—which Hermione had fondly named Estelle, and which Blaise had overruled in favor of Jocelyn—was a blush-colored lace in a modified Victorian style, the skirt an elegant pillar with layers of material designed to accentuate Fleur's slender height. The collar in particular was masterful; Daphne had crafted something that somehow managed to be fashion-forward, demure, and highly feminine in a way that was signature Fleur Delacour, employing a sheer high-neck of French lace that created the illusion of an off-the-shoulder gown once it reached the décolletage of an ivory silk lining. Later identified as the work of 'a small unknown British designer with faint hints of vintage Alexander McQueen' (it had reminded Hermione, who knew nothing about historical fashion, of a less-floofy version of the dress Audrey Hepburn had worn at the end of My Fair Lady), the dress was ruled a success by those who religiously followed Fleur's style. Ironically, it was particularly beloved by the DRAGONFLOWER blog, who would ultimately place it in their top ten favorite Fleur Delacour outfits for 2013.

Daphne had requested Fleur not make a fuss about her work, but shortly afterwards, the younger Delacour sister, Gabrielle, had also requested a custom gown. This one (a brocade, A-line cocktail dress cinched with a leather belt that Daphne had forgone sleep for weeks in order to craft by hand) had been splashed across fashion blogs in August, listed as a gift from a personal friend and prompting an immediate flood of copycat designs. By that point, Hermione had advised that Daphne start a company, which Daphne had been reluctant to do. ("People are going to ask," Hermione told her, and Daphne sighed. "People like who?" "People like me!" Hermione informed her, and Helen, who'd been Skyping with them, nodded her fervent agreement, leading to Daphne's third and fourth bespoke requests for the year, respectively.)

Precisely at the moment Hermione had convinced Daphne to try making a go of it with her designs, however, a very strange thing had happened to derail their progress: Fleur Delacour was photographed at a cafe in Paris with her laptop open, a thing she had never previously done. She had been 'innocently' (read: either Daphne or Hermione had clearly been less than covert with their web browsing around their flat) scrolling through a blog called, much to the internet's delight, Spew. Within minutes, every other blog—DRAGONFLOWER included—had snapped up the paparazzi photos, setting in motion a rampant launch of traffic towards what had once been a comfortable two hundred or so followers.

Hermione and Daphne, who at the time had been impassively downing wine and listening to Pansy bemoan her constant state of displeasure with Neville, were informed of this by virtue of the several thousand emails which landed in Daphne's inbox.

"What is possibly happening?" Pansy had sniffed, noting that the vibration of Daphne's phone had become so insistent it had launched itself off the coffee table, diving to the floorboards below. "My goodness, Daphne, has Roger started angsting again?"

"That was one time, and—oh," Daphne said, frowning down at her screen before glancing at Hermione. "It's, um. Nothing."

"I know I'm beautiful, Daphne, but I'm not an idiot," Pansy said impatiently, rolling her eyes. "What is it?"

Hermione, never a particularly good liar even when she did know what was happening, was obviously no help at all, and Daphne opened her mouth to fling, "THEO HAS A RASH," in Pansy's general direction without a moment's breath of forethought. Pansy, rightfully, had retched quietly to herself and promptly abandoned the subject, leading Hermione to spare Daphne a slightly less than impressed head shake of admonishment.

But they hadn't really known what had taken place until many days later, and even when they did begin to theorize that the exponential jump in internet microfame had to have come from somewhere, it hadn't been Daphne or Hermione to discover the source of their newfound following.

Though that, of course, was another matter altogether.

"Nothing?" Astoria said, glancing between Hermione and Daphne with palpable skepticism.

"Nothing," Daphne confirmed, giving Hermione's ankle a sharp nudge with her Louboutins. She seemed reluctant to let her parents know what she was up to, which meant any conversation about her life was almost entirely out of the question. "For me, anyway," she clarified, tossing the baton to an unwilling Hermione, who grimaced.

"I've been… working," Hermione said, and Astoria took a sip of tea, nodding.

"You work with Lady Augusta Longbottom, don't you?" she asked. "I hear she's a patron, anyway, for that charming little art thing of yours."

"Yes, she is," Hermione said, graciously declining to expound upon the many ways her 'charming little art thing' had swamped her in laborious details, haunting her nightmares with Excel formulas. "She plays hostess for our events quite a bit."

"Hm, yes, and that's… what's her name," Astoria said with a frown, musing to herself. "Your friend Lady Pansy's dating her son, isn't she?"

"Grandson," Daphne confirmed. "Yes, Neville Longbottom."

"They're not engaged yet, are they?" Astoria noted, and Daphne and Hermione exchanged yet another glance. "So surprising, isn't it?"

"Yeeeeees," Daphne and Hermione said in unison, adding twin coughs of discomfort in an effort to conceal that this was not, in fact, a surprise.

Pansy, who had upgraded her weekend brunches with Augusta to formal appearances at the latter's social events, was slowly and steadily losing her mind. It was an intriguing devolution, to say the least, as the more Pansy seemed to resent Neville for what was either his passivity or his unreliability (difficult to tell), the more desperately she required his commitment. The more he canceled plans or put off talks of the future, the more Pansy compulsively launched into a hyperactive, almost manic surge of energy, embedding herself more deeply at his grandmother's side.

Hermione and Daphne had, of course, done everything in their power to combat this disturbing metamorphosis (particularly Hermione, though that was better left for a separate conversation), but to their surprise, it was Blaise who was the least reasonable. He, like all the Bad Lads, had always permitted Pansy a certain amount of behavioral leeway, opting to go along with her whims with a good-natured smile and a congratulatory offering of affection for her unique brand of lunacy rather than contradicting her outright. When it came to Neville, however, he was adamantly and diametrically opposed.

"Just end it," Blaise had said with an uncharacteristic aggravation, which all of them had overheard through the thin walls of his and Theo's apartment during a lull in Harry's little birthday soiree. "You're not happy, Pansy! You're simply being stubborn—"

"Find me a woman of my circumstance who's happy," Pansy had hissed, "and I'll reconsider my position. Until then, you can take your tantrums elsewhere—"

"Your circumstance? Do you hear yourself? You sound just like—"

"DON'T YOU DARE SAY MY MOTHER!"

"—your mother—"

"HOW ABOUT COFFEE?" shouted a frantic Theo, hastening them out the door just as Harry threw a handful of ice into a blender and turned it on high, forgetting the lid and showering the kitchen floor in ice chips.

Out of all of them, only Blaise had been willing to express the obvious—and the rest of them had all learned from his mistakes, opting not even to broach the subject at the risk of upending either Pansy's fragile mental state or their own corporeal well-being.

"I'm sure it'll be soon," Daphne told Astoria, forcing a smile. "They're very serious."

(They were, which was the strangest part. The question of marriage aside, Neville appeared to cater to Pansy's every whim, but then… Hermione didn't claim to understand them. She had other things to worry about, anyway.)

"Mm," Astoria said, indifferent. "And how's Draco?"

"Oh, um," Hermione said, glancing at Daphne. "Well, he's… good, actually."

And he was, as aside from their distance and his frequent time constraints, he was enjoying his officer training at the Academy. It suited him, and Hermione found she was inclined to agree that his skills were being put effectively to use. True, Hermione wished she could see him more often, but it wasn't terribly unusual by then for him to be gone. Their relationship was as stable as it had been, and missing him, either for weeks or for months, was simply a matter of adaptation. More concerning, however, had been that once he'd learned he'd be in training through the summer, he'd asked a particularly weighty favor of Hermione.

"We'll talk every day," he'd promised her, "but I'm worried about my mother."

As it turned out, Draco had been taking secret trips to see Narcissa at least once a month, and he confided in Hermione that he worried she was getting worse without company.

"It's difficult," he said tentatively, "because my father and grandfather aren't wrong, per se, but she's always so herself when I'm there, and I just hoped if there was someone there—someone understanding, and, perhaps, someone who was quite close to family…"

He'd trailed off, clearly hoping Hermione would intuitively meander to his point, which she very distressingly had.

"I could visit her," she'd offered with more reluctance than enthusiasm, and Draco's face had gone beatific with relief.

"It would really ease my mind," he'd said, "and besides, maybe you'll enjoy her company. She'll certainly enjoy yours."

But Hermione, who'd been less sure, had taken it as an opportunity to distract Pansy, bringing her along for what became their monthly trips to the country estate and ancestral home of Malfoy Manor.

"Interesting," Narcissa had judged upon their arrival, pursing her lips slightly at the sight of Hermione and sparing Pansy something of a furrowed glance of resignation. "And you're here because…?"

"Well," Hermione had begun, only to be cut off by Pansy.

"London is dreadful," Pansy supplied, "and men are total rubbish."

"Ah," Narcissa said with a sour look of agreement, clearing the threshold for their entry. "Come inside, then."

By their third visit, Hermione had gleaned very little about what purpose they were serving in Narcissa's life. She seemed, at least, to appreciate that Hermione's presence was at Draco's request (a thought which appeared to soften her demeanor from time to time) but she also seemed to reserve a great deal of herself, mistrusting Hermione's motives. She was consistently a certain degree of paranoid, regularly asserting that she was being watched or judged, and while the visits themselves were nice enough—often consisting of endless silent tea-drinking in the garden, or, from time to time, a film or two—Hermione found she understood Draco's reticence when it came to his mother. Narcissa slid between moods, sometimes sleeping in until late afternoon, sometimes rising well before the sun and insisting on extravagant breakfasts. By the time any given weekend was over, Hermione was intensely drained of energy, though she passed Draco the same message every time: "Your mother is wonderful, and she adores you."

(The latter, of course, was unquestionably true. The one bonding experience they'd had was Hermione noting the presence of several different copies of The Odyssey, which Narcissa informed her had been Draco's favorite book as a child.)

"Was my father there?" Draco would sometimes ask, which was a far more difficult question to navigate.

"Not that day, no," Hermione would usually say, delicately changing the subject and opting not to mention that if he wasn't, he surely had been. Narcissa was her foulest self when there was an extra place setting at the table, and though Hermione knew better than to ask, she certainly had a gift for pattern recognition.

"He's enjoying his training," she finally managed to say to Astoria, employing the same pleasantly evasive tone she typically used to discuss Prince Lucius. "He'll be home soon, though. We'll be seeing him in a couple of weeks."

"Well, that's nice," Astoria said disinterestedly, glancing up at her sister. "How's your boy, then? The skinny one."

"He's not mine," Daphne said, sounding more factual than argumentative.

Beside her, like usual, Hermione forcefully bit her tongue.

"I know this is you," she'd heard Theo say to Daphne, shortly after the DRAGONFLOWER post revealing Fleur's fondness for Spew. Hermione's room and Daphne's shared a wall; not a particularly thin wall, but some things, Hermione reasoned, were worth straining to hear. "Is this what you've been doing, then?"

Daphne replied with her falsest tone of innocence, which Theo would surely recognize; Hermione certainly did. "What?"

"This… blog," Theo said, followed by the sound of some motion. "This Spew thing—it's you, I'm sure of it, at least some of it. I'd know your voice anywhere, Greengrass, and I have some guesses about the rest of it, but this I know for sure—"

Daphne, of course, persisted in denial. "How'd you find that?"

"It's—Fleur was," Theo began, flustered, "and then, you know, that Draco blog, but—look, the point is, it's you," he accused, "isn't it?"

Hermione held her breath.

"Nott, if you're planning to scold me—"

"You didn't tell me," he cut in sharply, which clearly surprised Daphne.

"Why would I?"

"Because. I don't know. Just because."

"Because what?"

"Because… because it's me. Because it's you."

"Those aren't reasons, Nott."

"Because it's us, then."

"We aren't an us. We've never been an us."

"We're an us, Greengrass, don't be stubborn. We're friends, aren't we?"

Hermione grimaced, shaking her head from the other side of the wall.

"Of course we're friends. But Pansy's my friend and I didn't tell her, did I?"

"Of course you didn't, she'd think it was vile. But me, I'm—"

"You're what?"

"I'm… I support you, Greengrass. Don't I?"

"I'm plenty supported."

"Yes, but—"

"What are we really arguing about?" Daphne asked, and to Hermione's relief, she didn't sound angry. She was simply asking, and Hermione hoped it was a sign of growth, or at least something like it. "This isn't about the blog. It had to be private, for what I hope are obvious reasons."

"You tell me everything, Daphne. Why not this?"

"I don't tell you everything. Do you tell me everything?"

"Of course I d-"

"Then you're doing it wrong."

Hermione, unable to resolve her innumerable feelings on the conversation, bit lightly on the side of her finger, holding herself back from interruption.

"We can be friends, Theo. We can be friends for our entire lives, I promise. But you already have someone to tell everything to, and it isn't me. It can't be me."

Hermione waited, but if something further was said between them, it was done too softly for her to hear. After a few minutes, she'd heard footsteps, and then Daphne's bedroom door, and then the door to their flat.

There had been no marked change in behavior after that. To the rest of their friends, Theo and Daphne seemed relatively unchanged. Daphne herself had never mentioned it, not even to Hermione, and to her sister, she merely said, "Theo's fine, but we're not involved."

"Well, that's probably best," Astoria said, glancing impassively over the menu. "Anything noteworthy at all, then, or do you both simply do nothing all day?"

"We do nothing all day," Daphne and Hermione lied in chorus, and Astoria sighed, leaning back against her chair and, with an air of at least I can bring some culture to the conversation, proceeded to tell them all about her latest trip to Ibiza with some Irish football player Hermione made a mental note to inform Oliver first thing in the morning.

"I'm really not sure what you saw in her," Hermione said later that night, and Draco laughed.

"She's funny, actually, though I don't know if she means to be." He sounded tired, Hermione thought with wistful longing, but in a good way. Cheerfully drained. "But in fairness, I wasn't exactly looking to marry anyone at the time. I think I might have agreed to date whoever my father nudged my way if it meant he'd leave me alone for five minutes."

"And to think," Hermione lamented with a dramatic sigh, "I came along and ruined it."

"You did," he confirmed. "I could have been some sort of unrepentant lothario by now if you hadn't rudely intervened."

"A terrible loss."

"The world is worse off, certainly. I think I'd wear it well, don't you?"

She gave a little laugh, unable to dissociate Draco's seduction techniques from his atrocious performance of ABBA, then sobered slightly. "You don't actually think you missed out on anything, do you?" she asked him. "I mean, we were fairly young. Are," she corrected herself. "We are still young. Not that I have doubts," she added quickly. "Just, you know. I wondered if you were… missing something. Missing out."

"You sound like my father," Draco groaned, his voice muffled into his pillow. "Is it so impossible I might not have any interest in sowing oats of any sort, wild or otherwise? It's you I want."

"I know. I know." She exhaled softly, leaning back against her pillows and eyeing the vacancy beside her. "I guess I can't help but wonder."

She heard him roll over, probably staring at the ceiling. "Do you think you missed out on anything?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I was just wondering, that's all."

"Well, that's certainly fair enough." He yawned, breathing quietly into the phone for a minute and almost falling into a steady rhythm before he suddenly asked, "So what does your week look like?"

She rolled her eyes at the telling sounds of him fading. "Draco, if you're tired—"

"I'm fine," he said, yawning again. "I'm fine, I'm here, I'm awake. What are you working on tomorrow?"

"It's just work, the usual. Seriously," she said with a laugh. "Go to sleep. Only a couple more weeks until I see you."

"I know." His mouth was close to the receiver; probably pressed to his ear. "Can't wait," he murmured, and she, too, felt a rush of relief. Their annual weekend at Nott Manor had become a symbol of relief for them; this year, it would be the first time she'd seen him since the beginning of the summer.

Hermione, lost in thought, toyed with her duvet in silence, listening to the sound of him breathing until she registered it had gotten slower, deeper, and uninterrupted.

"Draco?" she attempted after a minute or so.

Nothing.

She smiled, shaking her head. He was like a puppy that way, always drifting to sleep in seconds. She, by contrast, was usually contemplating something until the moment she closed her eyes.

"I love you," she said to the phone. "Sleep well, you soft summer prince."

Hermione put her phone down with a sigh, leaning back against her pillows again, and glanced over at her calendar, counting the days. Eighteen until her birthday. Twenty until she saw Draco. She could handle that.

She closed her eyes, and then her phone buzzed again.

Pansy: I'm thinking of taking up knitting. Or cats.

Hermione: why not both?

Hermione: plus you could always take up serial murders as a fun weekly hobby once the cats are properly trained

Pansy: Don't be ridiculous, Hermione. Murder is for necessity, not fun. Goodnight.

Hermione rolled her eyes, putting her phone away, and set her alarm for the morning, finally letting herself drift to sleep.

There were twelve days until Hermione's twenty-fourth birthday and fourteen until she next saw Draco when she and Pansy made their way to Malfoy Manor for their monthly summit with Narcissa, a weekend prior to the usual jaunt to Theo's father's estate (which, they'd been hastily assured, would not contain Nott Sr in any way). It wouldn't have been a particularly memorable day, but ultimately became something of an instant classic in Hermione's mind—at least, in terms of unpleasant surprises.

"Good, you're here," Narcissa had said without preamble when Pansy and Hermione had arrived, ushering them inside. "Is that what you're wearing?"

The question was, naturally, directed at Hermione, who was wearing yoga pants and a loose cardigan. Pansy was wearing a structured sundress, a blazer, and a set of nude pumps, and she spared Hermione a look of I told you so, didn't I? from beneath her Burberry sunglasses.

"I could change," Hermione said weakly, and Narcissa nodded.

"Better do it quickly," she said. "Bellatrix will be here in an hour. Pansy, can you do something with this?"

This, too, was directed to the general area of Hermione's existence.

"Yes," Pansy confirmed with a nod, and Narcissa swept away, not even bothering to note the fact that Hermione was numbly mouthing 'Bellatrix' in disbelief as she went. "Well," Pansy said, turning to look at Hermione, "I'm not sure I can completely reroute your skincare routine in a single hour, but I suppose this bun situation could conceivably be improved—"

"Did you hear her?" Hermione demanded, swatting Pansy's hand away. "Did she just say Bellatrix, or did I just have some sort of tiny psychotic break—"

"I was wondering when this would happen," Pansy sniffed, tugging Hermione into one of the many guest rooms and holding a hand out for her bag before abruptly changing her mind. "Never mind," Pansy muttered briskly to herself, opening her own bag and forcefully sitting Hermione on the bed. "I always bring extras, although I have no idea what we're going to do about fitting you into my blouses. Stuff your bra, I suppose—"

"Pans," Hermione squeaked. "What do you mean you were wondering when this would happen?"

"Well, keep your friends close," Pansy said, and at Hermione's blank expression, she gave a weighty sigh. "And your enemies closer? You've heard it, haven't you? It's an idiomatic staple, Hermione, honestly—"

"I know the phrase," Hermione said impatiently. "What I don't know is how it makes any sort of sense. Why today?"

"Because she's got reinforcements today," Pansy said, sorting through her bag and holding up a sheer ivory blouse before tossing it aside with a shake of her head. "Do you have anything more suitable?"

"Than what I'm wearing now?" Hermione asked, and Pansy scoffed.

"Of course not, I don't know why I'm asking—"

"Pans," Hermione groaned, "I still don't understand—"

"Listen," Pansy said briskly, identifying a navy silk blouse and holding it up with slightly more approval, "it's really very simple, Hermione. If the rumors are true, then Bellatrix hasn't a single dime of her own money—but it doesn't matter, does it, seeing as she's sitting on a wealth of information. All she has to do is talk about Prince Lucius or reveal the truth about Narcissa's absence, and there you go. She can profit from her sister's misery," Pansy concluded with positively no change in tone, producing a thin measuring tape from nowhere and prompting Hermione to her feet, wrapping it around her waist. "Mm," she said to herself, "the Chloe skirt might work—"

"But—"

"There's been rumors for months now that Bellatrix might be writing a memoir," Pansy said, withdrawing said Chloe skirt from her bag and tilting her head, considering it, before pressing it into Hermione's hands and digging around for shoes. "What size are you? Don't answer, we'll make it work—"

Hermione shimmied out of her yoga pants, not bothering to look at what she was donning. Her opinion on the outfit was, as always, irrelevant. "What rumors?"

"Well, my mother said something about how Rita Skeeter was digging into their old school records," Pansy said, waving a hand. "Of course, she took it as an opportunity to remind me that she's a Roedean girl who married well, as if I could possibly forget—"

Hermione sighed. "And?"

"Must I spell everything out for you? Narcissa has two choices," Pansy said, holding out a hand for Hermione's shirt and swapping it for her navy blouse. "She can either talk her sister out of it—offer her something. Money, or privilege," she guessed, waving a hand, "whatever would appeal to her."

The blouse slid on without issue, though Pansy had been right; she did fill the bust out much more appealingly. The skirt was also a little snug around Hermione's hips, but she figured she wasn't going to be playing rugby in it. "Or?"

"Or she's hoping to discredit her," Pansy said flatly, sitting Hermione down and pulling out a bag of gleaming cosmetic jars, "which is probably a less demanding exercise."

"Discredit her?" Hermione echoed as Pansy instructed her to look up, turning her attention to her under-eye shadows. "By… inviting her to her house? That makes no sense."

"Well, obviously you've never been in a war with your sister," Pansy said, roughly dabbing color onto Hermione's cheeks and lips.

"You don't have any sisters either, Pans—"

"That's not relevant. The point is, any account of Bellatrix's life is going to villainize her sister," Pansy said, "which means Narcissa has to look accommodating. Doting, even. She didn't go to Bellatrix's husband's funeral, so that's certainly a strike against her—"

"Is it? I wouldn't have gone either, by the sounds of it—"

"—but given all of Bellatrix's shameless gallivanting around," Pansy continued, releasing Hermione's hair from its elastic and making a face, "people will be quick enough to forgive Narcissa for that. Nobody likes the mistress," she sniffed, wagging a finger at Hermione's face. "Remember that."

"Why on earth would I need to remember that?" Hermione demanded.

"It's just general advice," Pansy said, twirling some of Hermione's curls around her finger and then beginning to pull it into a low chignon. "Nobody likes a mistress, if the egg floats in water it's gone bad, my enemy's enemy is my friend, don't eat food from the Underworld—" She shrugged, giving Hermione's hair an uncomfortable tug. "It's all within the same genre of important life knowledge."

"Ready?" Narcissa asked, sweeping into the room. Like usual, she looked elegant and youthful, and while Hermione wondered if she'd get through the afternoon without any sort of hitch, she reluctantly admitted to herself only commoners had that problem. Narcissa, like Pansy and Daphne, would save her inevitable meltdown for when her rival was out of sight.

"Shouldn't I, um." Hermione frowned. "Shouldn't I have some sort of explanation for why I'm here?" she asked, immediately feeling stupid as Pansy spared her a scathing glance. "Well, I just thought maybe the truth was, uh. Private," she finally decided, and Narcissa, to her surprise, let out a quiet laugh.

"My dear," she said with genuine humor, "the truth has nothing to do with it. Come on, then," she beckoned, venturing out of the room, and Hermione rose to her feet with a sidelong glance at Pansy, who reminded her—silently, and with a distressingly communicative glare—to smile.

"Don't slouch," Pansy said.

"That's the least of my worries," Hermione muttered to her.

"Sure it is," Pansy said with a surprising sympathy, leaning forward for what was ostensibly a comforting embrace. "Until I murder you for slouching," she warned in Hermione's ear, and then she painted a beautiful smile on her Chanel-coated lips, vaulting herself forward into the belly of the beast as Hermione hurried breathlessly to follow.

Hermione: this is insane, right? tell me it's insane

Draco: it's insane

Hermione: thank you

Draco: though, it also makes perfect sense

Hermione: !

Hermione: gratitude retracted

Draco: what an unfortunate errand i've sent you on. remind me to make it up to you when we're alone next weekend

Draco: i can do the thing you like

Draco: twice, even

Hermione: ...are you sexting me right now?

Hermione: read the room draco I'm having a crisis

Draco: sorry sorry it's just been a long time

Draco: plus it can't hurt

Hermione: I have to go but fine

Hermione: here

[image redacted]

Draco: not to be totally insufferable, but

Draco: i'd enjoy this more if you weren't wearing pansy's clothes

Hermione: beggars can't be choosers

Draco: but i'm a prince

[one minute later]

Draco: i'm going to pay for that one aren't i

Hermione: yes you are

Draco: harsh but fair

Hermione: ugh i have to go bye

Draco: okay. good luck

[image redacted]

Hermione: wow you've been working out huh

Draco: a little

Hermione: nice

Draco: i thought you had to go

Hermione: be quiet

Draco: i love you

Hermione: i love you too your abs-ness

Draco: it's actually your royal highness prince of abs but okay

"More tea, Bella?" Narcissa asked, her voice a touch too high.

"I'd love some, Cissy," Bella simpered in reply.

Hermione glanced helplessly at Pansy beside her, who replied with a warning jab to her waist; it was her usual militant reminder to watch the mechanizations of Hermione's overly expressive face. Across the table were Narcissa and Bellatrix; Narcissa must have made sure to seat herself in precisely such a way that the sun shone on her pale, golden strands, making her look ethereal and regal in the light. Bellatrix, unquestionably the elder sister, wasn't… unbeautiful, exactly, but it was clear which sister had inherited most of the family's looks.

"This is wonderful, isn't it?" said Bellatrix.

"Oh, marvelous," Narcissa replied. "It's so wonderful you were able to come."

"Well, I'd heard you weren't feeling well," Bellatrix said. "I'm so pleased you seem so much better, sister, even if you do look a bit tired."

"Oh, you're sweet to worry," said Narcissa, who conjured a smile. "You know, sometimes I tell myself 'stop caring so much about your appearance, just let yourself go, look how well it works for Bella'—but then, of course, my vanity gets the better of me."

Hermione coughed on her biscuit and looked at Pansy, who aimed a spoon warningly in her direction.

"It's true, I can hardly manage to focus on luxuries anymore," Bellatrix lamented. "It's so busy running a household with my husband gone. It's so wonderful yours is so…" She paused, her spoon colliding delicately with the lip of her porcelain cup. "Attentive," she mused, raising her tea to her lips, and subtly, Narcissa's nails bit into her palm.

Briefly, there was a pause. Hermione could feel the air in the room going stiff and fidgeted in the tension of it, wondering what to say until Pansy lightly cleared her throat.

"I heard the funniest news the other day from Lady Augusta Longbottom," Pansy remarked, taking a sip of her tea. "It seems that the second Weasley son—you know the family, I'm sure," she mused conspiratorially to Hermione, which initially seemed an odd comment, but instantly produced the (probably intentional) effect of having Narcissa and Bellatrix both make a face at the mention of the family's name. "Lovely people of course—they've fallen on hard times, but who hasn't?" Pansy said with glaring insincerity. "Only a touch more shameless social climbing and they'll find their way to relevance again, best of luck to them—"

"Dreadful," Narcissa murmured, and Bellatrix made a pursed look of agreement.

"But anyway, you won't believe it," Pansy continued, "but the second son, Charles? Turns out," she murmured, leaning forward as Narcissa and Bellatrix did the same, "he's got his little ginger hooks into Nymphadora."

Both Narcissa and Bellatrix gasped in unison, and Pansy sat back with a muted sense of triumph, sparing Hermione a glance that smugly said, See? That's how it's done.

"No," Narcissa gasped. "Andromeda approves?"

"Of course she approves," Bellatrix said with a scoff. "Why wouldn't she? Her own husband was no better. I'm sure she's beyond pleased."

Ah, Hermione registered, recognizing one of Pansy's loathsome pearls of wisdom along with the name of the third Black sister: My enemy's enemy is my friend.

"Still—a Weasley?" Narcissa nose was wrinkled with distaste. "You'd think she'd intervene."

"I hear Nymphadora is trouble enough already," Bellatrix said, exchanging a glance with her sister, and while Hermione felt a sense of disturbance at the two of them ganging up on what seemed to be their less-than-cherished niece, she was pleased that the tension in the room had dissipated, leaving the two women to spend the next two hours reliving their disappointment with their sister (who, as Hermione grew to understand, committed the capital sin of marrying beneath her station).

Luckily, the afternoon had never been intended to stretch for long. In fact, Hermione had been about to text Draco that all had gone well (relatively) until she was paused in the corridor by Bellatrix herself, who was making her way back from the bathroom.

"I'm pleased I was able to meet you," Bellatrix said, which surprised Hermione into looking up at the other woman with a jolt. She, Hermione noted, had hair that was nearly as curly as Hermione's own unruly mane, though Bellatrix had pulled hers back to cascade down her rigid spine. "I think we can be very useful to each other."

Hermione blinked, registering the word choice. "Useful?"

"Of course," Bellatrix said. "After all, we have quite a bit in common."

Something in Hermione's abdomen twisted and lurched. "Do we?"

Bellatrix gave a high, cold laugh. "Don't let Narcissa fool you," she said. "She may act like a friend, but my sister only looks innocent. She knows you won't last, dear, and she's doing you no favors by pretending."

Hermione stiffened. "What makes you think it's pretense?"

"Ah, because I'm living proof, aren't I?" Bellatrix mused. "You and I, we're the same woman, just a generation apart. Clever, charismatic, quick-tempered. Inappropriate," she clarified knowingly, sparing Hermione a look that was somewhere between mocking and sympathetic. "Unbroken, in the end. We're both too smart for the men, aren't we? And they'll always be threatened. They'll always look for a Narcissa instead—someone docile and quiet. Sweet. Tame. Young." The last word she spat out with repulsion. "Someone weak. A pretty little thing they can mold."

"They," Hermione echoed stiffly, and Bellatrix forced a smile.

"You know, I'm the great love of Lucius' life," she said matter-of-factly, as if nothing on earth had ever been truer, and while Hermione certainly had no wish to argue it—or anything—with Lady Bellatrix Lestrange, her loyalty to Draco festered painfully in her chest. "But I was always considered too wild to be his consort, too headstrong. Too scandalous a choice. Too notorious for the men who'd come before him, because I never dreamed he'd ever look my way." Her expression darkened. "I don't blame Narcissa for sinking her claws in when she could. She was always the better actress."

Bellatrix stared into nothing for a moment, then turned back to Hermione.

"Draco will choose someone else," she said, and it struck Hermione with a stinging anguish. It was one thing when Nott said it, or when Prince Lucifer said it. They were men; men who underestimated her, at that. To hear it from Bellatrix, who claimed they were so deeply alike, was disarming. Close to torturous. "When he does, you don't have to be nothing. I'm willing to share." Bellatrix smiled cruelly. "You don't see it yet, my dear, but you will. He will choose some new Narcissa over you, whoever she is. You won't even see it coming. He'll promise you the world, he'll promise you his life, and then, when you feel safe—when you feel loved," she said with a twisted look of mirthless humor, "you'll see someone new at his side. Suddenly, she'll always be there. She'll always be in the place they tell you you're not allowed, and suddenly you'll notice the attention he pays to her, and the way the camera makes her pretty blonde hair glow, like it deserves its very own crown—and eventually you'll wonder, should I have seen it coming?"

She shrugged, and Hermione, dazed a little, swallowed heavily.

"But by then," Bellatrix concluded, "it will be much too late."

She tore her gaze away from the imaginary (or, perhaps more accurately, historical) narrative she'd concocted and rested a hand on Hermione's shoulder, giving it a squeeze that prompted her to tense up in response. "When it happens," Bellatrix advised, "come find me. People can't help themselves when it comes to our stories, you know. They think they love a princess, but she bores them over time. The wicked witch, she endures."

"Nobody likes the mistress," Hermione said, curling one hand to a fist, and Bellatrix let out a hearty laugh.

"Think bigger, little girl," she said. "Being liked is so fucking ordinary."

Then she pivoted away without another word, disappearing down the corridor and leaving Hermione behind.

Draco: how did it go?

Draco: that bad, huh?

Draco: i'm going to bed soon but i'm here if you need me

Draco: i love you

"Can we talk?" Hermione asked, and Narcissa looked up. "Honestly, I mean."

Narcissa considered her for a moment. "I do prefer honesty, generally speaking."

Hermione gambled a little with, "You don't act like it."

Narcissa gave a grim smile. "Fair," she said, and sat upright from where she'd been reading on her sofa, making room for Hermione. "Sit."

Hermione sat, angling herself towards Draco's mother.

"Sorry if this is invasive," she began, and Narcissa rolled her eyes.

"You want to know what happened with my sister?" she guessed, and Hermione nodded, wincing a little. "I suppose you ought to hear it," she said, and then added after a moment, "You remind me of her sometimes."

Hermione flinched, and Narcissa slid her an amused glance.

"I adored my sister," she said. "It's not an insult."

"I know," Hermione said, which was approximately 67% a lie.

"She's smart," Narcissa said. "Interesting. Exciting. The boys always loved her," she said with a heavy exhale. "Even though she wasn't as pretty as I was, they always had no interest in me when she was there. I told myself when I was younger that it was only because she'd sleep with them, but now I think it was something else entirely. It was because they wanted to own me, but they could never own her."

Hermione let the point settle for a moment.

Then she asked, "Draco's father?"

Narcissa's mouth stiffened.

"I never really knew if she actually loved him," she said. "Maybe it was half because she loved him, half because she wanted to hurt me. My mother said I was selfish to think it was about me, but I think maybe I wished it was." Narcissa crossed one long leg over the other, letting her foot dance from the ankle. "I am very selfish."

"I doubt that," Hermione attempted, and Narcissa turned to give her a silencing glance of disagreement.

"I am," she said firmly, "but we all have flaws. I was selfish. I saw that the Prince of Wales was available for the taking, and I took him. But not out of spite, not for meanness." She cleared her throat, eyeing her hands. "I fancied myself in love with him. Stupid girl that I was."

Hermione hesitated, and then, "And Bellatrix's flaws?"

Narcissa huffed a laugh. "She's spiteful. Vindictive. She could have fucked him quietly—she was certainly smart enough to be discreet—but she wanted me to know. She wanted me to see I'd never really have him." She shook her head, glaring at something; her memories, most likely. "She was right."

"Was it—" Hermione squirmed in discomfort. "Was it… just her, or—?"

"Does it matter?" Narcissa asked neutrally, glancing at her. "What's another woman? Another twenty women, even? One betrayal was more than enough, and I could never quite repay him for my pain. There was never an equivalent," she lamented bitterly. "He has no brothers, no real friends. No one. It was why I loved him, really, because he seemed entirely alone. I thought I had all of him to myself."

She leaned her head back with a sigh. "Does that answer your question?"

Not entirely, though the only remaining question was the most invasive of all.

"Is it," Hermione began, and bit her nails into her palm. "Is it still happening, do you think?"

She wasn't sure what she'd expected. For some reason, though, the single tear that slid down Narcissa's porcelain cheek felt out of place. Hermione wondered whether sadness had put it there, or whether Narcissa had done it herself. It was difficult to tell which of the Black sisters was right about the other being a snake.

"Everything got worse after I saw them together," Narcissa said. "I think maybe Lucius knew sooner that there was something wrong with me—that the merchandise was damaged," she said with a grimace, "but it got so much worse after that. He used to look at me like I was beautiful, but then he started to look at me like I was mad, and truth be told, I felt… something. Something bubbling up, and then—" She swallowed. "The pills. The fall. I couldn't trust him anymore, and if I couldn't trust him, then—"

She stopped again.

"I can't trust him," she said to herself. "I can't trust him," she repeated, this time in answer to the question, and Hermione knew, instinctively, that what she meant was, I don't know.

"Do you think," Hermione started again, and then cleared her throat. "Do you think that Draco, he'll, um—"

She stopped, feeling stupid. Of course she couldn't ask her boyfriend's mother whether or not he might choose his father over her. Of course she couldn't ask this woman, out of anyone, whether she believed her beloved son was capable of enormous pain.

In the end, though, she didn't need to ask.

"Watch the way he looks at you," Narcissa said. "It'll tell you everything you need to know."

Not bad, Hermione thought. She'd certainly heard worse. Pansy, for example, had simply reminded her that her being queen consort was about as likely as Neville being decisive on any given topic, and advised she stop sulking.

So this, comparatively, was excellent advice.

"Thank you," Hermione said, glancing up at her. "Your Highness."

Narcissa pursed her lips, dismissive. "If you do marry my son, don't ever call me Mother," she said. "I'll withhold the rest of my jewels."

"Noted," Hermione replied.

"They're beautiful, you know," Narcissa murmured to herself, closing her eyes. "Almost worth it."

They think they love a princess, Hermione heard in her head, but she gets boring over time.

Maybe the princess and the witch had more in common than they thought.

"Good night, Narcissa," Hermione said eventually, about to rise to her feet, but then Narcissa cracked one eye, looking up at her.

"You know, Odysseus loves Penelope," Narcissa said, which seemed to be some odd form of parting wisdom.

"He also has a baby with Circe," Hermione reminded her grimly, but Narcissa merely shrugged.

"Yes," she said, "but he weathers the storm for Penelope, and what really matters in the end?"

An excellent question, Hermione thought.

And she was still thinking it in the morning, when Narcissa's painted smile was icy perfection yet again, the single tear from the night before little more than a phantom Hermione wondered if she'd half-imagined.

"Two more days—finally."

"Two more days," Hermione agreed, the words turning from bright exuberance to a growl of frustrated impatience. "I've hardly even noticed it's my birthday. Despite Colin wishing me many happy returns while he took my picture this morning," she mused, and Draco laughed.

"Is it any better?"

"It's not bad," she said, shrugging. "We've gotten into a rhythm, you know. They're always there, I smile, they're still there, I'm still smiling, they won't go away… We're really very happy together."

"I feel bad for laughing, but—"

"Definitely laugh," Hermione assured him firmly. "I like listening to it."

The sound of it sobered a little, settling to a wistful sigh.

"I can't wait to see you," he said. "I miss your face."

"I miss your face. And your other things."

He groaned. "Don't remind me—"

"Your diplomacy," Hermione cut in. "That, and your excellent taste in suits."

"You're monstrous. You're totally monstrous."

"I know." She glanced at the clock. "I'd better get to bed. See you soon?"

"Two days, Hermione. Two days."

She closed her eyes, clinging to the thrill of it.

"Two days," she agreed.

The weekend at Theo's, always a strange highlight of the year given its origins, wasn't particularly different from the others at the outset. Daphne and Hermione, exhausted from the demands of maintaining their individual tasks as well as their newly-successful blog, took the opportunity to sprawl out on the lawn of Nott Manor, alternately dozing and reading beneath the sun. Fleur and Neville had joined them, as well as—much to Hermione's immense surprise—Tracey Davis, whom Blaise had brought along. Blaise and Pansy were, to everyone's palpable relief, their usual impossible selves, discarding their disagreements in favor of mercilessly schooling Harry and Theo in a semi-violent game of volleyball.

"You're hopeless," Pansy said, once Neville cheerily informed them the score was something astronomical to two. "I don't know why we bother."

From Harry, defensively: "I was having a nice time until you cursed my bloodline."

From Theo, with a shrug: "That was my favorite part, actually. The bit with the ball I could take or leave."

From Hermione, musingly: "After seeing Theo play croquet, I have to say, this was really an improvement."

From Daphne, nodding: "More surface area. Harder to miss."

From Blaise: "And yet he did—"

Daphne: "Many times."

Blaise: "—with enviable aplomb."

Harry: "Or none, depending."

Hermione: "On?"

Pansy: "Whether one defines 'aplomb' correctly, or simply as a synonym for woeful blundering."

Harry, nodding: "That, or if you squint."

Theo, suspiciously: "My keen senses indicate mockery afoot."

Blaise, approvingly: "Twenty points for accuracy!"

Daphne, expectant: "Twenty for the mockee, and for the initiating mockers?"

Blaise: "A figgy pudding, and a happy new year."

From Fleur, with a nod: "Seems reasonable."

Theo, tossing an arm around her: "That's when you know it's a trap."

Daphne, ignoring them both in favor of pressing Blaise for points: "…and?"

Blaise, with a contemplative sigh: "You're very persuasive. Ten for persistence, Lady Daphne, and as I'm a highly gracious victor, New Tracey can have five."

"What?" said Tracey, just as Hermione said, "For what?"

"Not you," said Blaise, and then, "For proximity."

"What do you mean not me?" Tracey said, as Hermione huffed, "Only half?"

"Of course half," Blaise said, and then, "Context matters, you know."

"I don't see what context has to do with it," said Tracey, in the same breath as Hermione's attempted, "Surely I should get the same amount as Daphne, then, if proximity counts."

"I see that you're experimenting with your technique, New Tracey, so plus five for unearned but blinding confidence," Blaise said, and then, "Context is everything, Old Tracey, or else why would capes be deemed compulsory for vampires only to then be ruled too extravagant for the dentist?"

"I imagine many vampires require a dentist," Hermione noted tangentially, feeling she had the requisite expertise. "It's a highly toothy profession, isn't it? Being a member of the undead, I mean."

"It's really more of a calling, but you make an excellent point," Blaise said. "Ten points to New Tracey."

"HA," said Hermione, mostly to Daphne, followed by a "What?" from Tracey, who'd clearly stopped listening until the repeated use of her name.

"Seems like things are unnecessarily confusing," remarked Neville, who had beckoned a reclining Pansy into his lap, and Blaise slid him a glance of irritation so foreign to his features Hermione didn't recognize the expression at first.

"While some things," Blaise said coolly, "are simply unnecessary."

In response, Pansy's eyes narrowed.

"This wine is delicious," Fleur remarked at a helpful volume.

"It should be noted that in this instance," Theo said in a narrative tone, "'delicious' is being incorrectly applied as a synonym for 'readily available,' but altogether the premise is sound."

"English isn't my first language," Fleur reminded him. "It's not even my second."

"You'll get there," he replied comfortingly.

"Should we do something stupid for Hermione's birthday?" Daphne asked, giving her arm a nudge. "Since we have all this 'delicious' wine, that is."

"In this case, she means 'potent, but still bad,'" Theo explained to Fleur.

"Are you going to translate everything for me?" she asked.

"I would," he said with a shrug, "but I'm really only half-fluent in Blaise."

"Minus five," called Blaise, looking up from where he'd distracted himself somewhere in Tracey's neck.

"See?" Theo said to Fleur. "I haven't the slightest idea what he means."

"What sorts of capers could we get into that would befit my elderly status?" Hermione asked, flopping back down on the blanket. "Prank-calling Prince Lucifer, perhaps?"

"That would be really more of an antic," Harry said, falling beside her. "Though, if we catfish him, then it's a caper."

"Are we ruling out heists?" mused Daphne.

"Yes," said Pansy, just as Blaise said, "The day I rule out a heist, assume I have been overtaken by malicious spirits and proceed to throw me in the river."

"Any particular river?" asked Harry.

"An ancient one would be preferable," Blaise said, "though please, don't be afraid to inconvenience yourselves. If Nott would like to throw himself after me in anguish, he is perfectly welcome to do so."

"See?" Theo said again, and Fleur nodded sagely. "Totally incomprehensible."

"That," Hermione judged after a moment of serious calculation, "would be closer to a quest, I think."

"True," Daphne agreed. "We certainly don't have enough wine for a quest or a heist. Just a caper, I would guess."

"Or," Hermione suggested, "two antics? Possibly three small pranks?"

Harry lifted the bottle, glancing at it. "I'd say there's definitely an entire antic in here, with room for an additional suite of pranks if we really decide to throw caution to the wind."

"And to think," someone said behind them, "I thought we were maturing."

Hermione looked up to find the sun's rays obscured by a head of pale blond hair and a pair of sunglasses, lips curled up in an expectant smile.

"Hi," she said, and Draco lifted his sunglasses, sliding them on top of his head.

"Hello, stranger," he replied, and the moment his gaze fell on hers, she felt the misgivings of the past few weeks (months, even) fall away like scales, gifting her a shudder of exposure. His smile broadened unwillingly as he looked at her—his attempts at restraint in the presence of their friends appeared to be serving him quite poorly—and after less than a moment he was bending down to reach her, lips brushing upside-down over hers.

She thought she'd been fine in his absence, requiring very little, but the moment she kissed him again, the indistinct haze of constantly missing him that she'd grown to ignore—the moments of looking fruitlessly for him any time their group had come together, her reflexive expectancy for the sound of his laugh during any given moment of happiness, the way any sense of being entirely herself felt somehow incomplete without him beside her—shattered in glorious fashion. She reached up as he kissed her, smoothing her palms over his clean-shaven cheeks, and found herself clinging to him, fingers wrapping tightly around the sharp corners of his jaw as his hands slid down her forearms.

"Yes, hello, we are also here," said Theo.

Draco sat up with a roll of his eyes, giving Theo an admonishing glance and then turning back to Hermione, angling his head towards the house. She gave a breathless nod, jolting upright, and pointedly ignored Daphne's enthusiastic gestures as she took Draco's hand, letting him pull her in towards the house.

He tugged her into one of the bathrooms on the first floor as she let out a series of half-hearted, mostly-laughing protests, finally permitting him to set her on the lip of the sink amid her unconvincing opposition. "Bed's too far," he said gruffly, and in the laughing moment he tilted her chin up for his kiss, she caught a glimpse of the way his eyes caught hers.

It was funny the way time passed, Hermione thought. His face was a little thinner, his hair shorter, a little whisper of sun exposure shadowing the bones of his cheeks. His eyes, though, fell on hers precisely the same way they always had; like an anchor, binding them both in place as they swayed together, brought in with the tide.

Narcissa was right, Hermione decided while she looked at him. The act of looking at her brought something identifiably hers into the contours Draco's face, and she, as both the source and the observer of his affection, reveled in the sight of it.

And then she promptly discarded the thought, pulling Draco's lips to hers and relishing the low sound of hunger he growled into her mouth. She remembered, suddenly, the way he'd first kissed her—the strain of fighting not to—and how strange and far away it felt now. This, by contrast, was an undeniable pull, and if the act of missing him had been mostly thoughtless patterns of repetition and mired doldrums of habit, this was a progression filled with intention. A kiss here, a touch there, hips and teeth and shaking hands. She ran her fingers over the evidences of change while he clung to her familiarity, unable to let her go.

There was very little need for foreplay. She couldn't remember a time when kissing could be so satisfactory. He tugged her jeans down, pulling her to her feet, and she shivered, the hovering pause of his fingers over her underwear leaving her to let out a desperate sound she'd never heard herself make.

He picked her up again, pressing her against the wood of the door, and god, she should have been used to it—sex was sex was sex, wasn't it?—but she curled her fingernails into the back of his neck anyway, drawing his lips to the loosely unclasped (but not removed, as that would require an unacceptable parting between them) cups of her bra. He scraped his teeth over the bead of her nipple, curling his tongue around it in apology when she cried out, and the motion of him filling her was so fluid she half-wondered if she should be embarrassed. He made a sound of stammered, gritted desperation, his hands digging into her thighs, and she knew it wouldn't be long. That was the thing about sex—when it was really good, it was an especially fleeting pleasure—but he must have known it, and pulled out of her to drop quickly to his knees.

His mouth on her clit was a fucking revelation. She was sensitive and slick, his tongue rolling over her, and it was so far from the storybook filigrees of romance—so carnal, really, with her hand locking his royal head to her aching cunt while he dove his fingers inside her—she considered maybe she'd never understood how love could have so many distinct pieces. How his voice could satisfy her for so many nights, only for her to remember now how his touch could so easily have her undone.

"I missed you," fell from her lips without warning, his motions continuing as her shoulder blades dug into the door and she arched her back, rising up on her toes to grant further access to the ministrations of his mouth. "God, I missed you," she said, the words more delirious the more she said it. "I missed you, I—fuck, fuckfuckyes there," she gasped as he sucked imprecisely, with feverish intensity, "don't move, oh god, I missed you—"

She came with a slam of her hand against the surface of the door and he was on his feet well before her orgasm had faded, launching her up and back again. He gave her a dizzied look of total intoxication; for not having touched a drink that day, he'd never looked less sober, his hair in total disarray and grey eyes unfocused, lids heavy with want. With utterly biological primacy, she thought, with renewed satisfaction, I did this, and then she fucking buzzed with it, pulse racing.

She didn't have to see to know she looked precisely the same.

"I missed you," he said, voice barely over a rasp as he slid his cock inside her. "I'm doing this for you," he said, the sound of it muffled as his mouth traveled over her neck, her breasts, rising to her chin and her cheeks. "For you," he mumbled unintelligibly, "it's all for you, I swear—"

A handful of thrusts, fast and hard, and she gasped. He choked out a groan. It was familiar bliss, wrenched and wrung out and wrecked. Pain for separation, with euphoria as a reward.

Eventually they caught their breaths slowly, motionless except for his chest rising and falling with hers.

She didn't ask When do you leave again?

He didn't say Soon.

She didn't say Don't go and he didn't say I have to.

She said, "Antics?"

And he replied, "Does defiling Theo's guest bathroom count as one?"

And she said, "Maybe if we do it twice."

And he said, "So brilliant, you are," and then he kissed her, wrapping his fingers in the loosened curls of her hair, and she thought, I will never be weak, and I will never be tame, except for when you're holding me.

Not a princess. Not a witch. Just a woman inconveniently in love, which was apparently not a standard archetype. No allowances had been made for that.

But then the kiss progressed again, and by then, she retained only the knowledge that the floor would soon be requiring her steadfast attention.

People have always wanted something from me, unsatisfied to some degree or another with what I actually am. The more Draco stepped into the role that had been carved out for him for centuries—for dynasties, even, following the footsteps of the many princes and kings who'd come before him—the more they wanted me to be something equally familiar. I suppose the problem was that I was so difficult to jam into a role; after all, I'm not a damsel, I'm not particularly wicked, and if there's a fairy godmother in my life, it's probably Pansy, which is disturbing enough on its own.

The point is, they (read: Rita Skeeter) tried to write our story like it's one that's been told before. But as I've been saying, this one takes some strange turns from the standard fairy tale—which is probably because the princess in the story (read: me) still has a few more twists yet to reveal.

a/n: As I think most of you gathered, I was home for the death of a loved one all of last week and wasn't able to write. Now, unfortunately, I'll be out of the country for a couple of weeks for a wedding and the holidays, which is why I will now present you with a poll! I plan to return with an update on New Year's, and in honor of such occasion, I would like you to choose between:

1) One of the three Modern Romance diaries I have long been teasing, which are collectively part of a subplot that carries on from the existing fifteen diaries; or,
2) The next chapter of this story, which will be from another character's POV.

Let me know if you have a preference on how we start the year. In the meantime, feel free to follow the advent story in Amortentia (Felicitous Tidings from the Nouveau Riche), check out my D/Hr Advent fic (A Matter of Practicality) on AO3, and have yourself a wonderful holiday until we meet again.

23. Motion

Chapter 23: Motion

19 May, 2018
Nott Townhouse, London

Love in the Time of Public Consumption

With the Palace's reluctance to release any details about the nature of Hermione and Prince Draco's relationship, the entire country gradually fell into a state of ravenous curiosity, scavenging for want of news. Ironically, it was during this time of nescience that Hermione's influence on digital media became increasingly undeniable. With the rise of social media and blogging, Hermione's public presence, however unenlightening, was practically synonymous with the dawn of guerrilla 'journalism,' with all such content voraciously speculating whether a royal proposal was indeed impending. It became nearly impossible to go anywhere without further commentary as to the truth of Prince Draco's intentions, and with the release of Lady Bellatrix Lestrange's shocking memoir, Sister Cunning, Sister Fair: Dark Truths from the House of Black, the prospect of Hermione as the next Princess of Wales became an unavoidable source of idle gossip.

By the time the two were seen attending the wedding of

Hm. Well, I hate to stop on such an elusive note (mmm actually I don't, not really, the whole book is rubbish and I do not understand why I continuously fail to simply cast it into the nearest river and/or source of flames) but I do feel it necessary I should pause here, if only to revisit my own memory of this particular era. The entire book is utter nonsense, obviously—so obvious it's hardly worth pointing out—but for whatever reason, I can't resist the nightmarish lure of Rita Skeeter's complete and total disengagement from reality. Her ability to rewrite the past as if she were not entirely responsible for said 'idle gossip' is as simultaneously disturbing and difficult to look away from as the average outfit from cousin Hortense.

It's quite outstanding, too, how many details Rita Skeeter managed to miss about all of us, and I say that as someone who very nearly missed the most important detail in my own life. Of course, fortunately for me, what I lack in personal foresight I make up for in other observations. That, and luck. Quite a lot of luck. An impossibly vast fortune of luck.

What was I saying? I'd better just get on with it. My wife will be nearly dressed by now, and as good as displeasure looks on her, it's best if, for once, I manage not to keep her waiting long.

22 September, 2013
Nott Manor

For the entirety of his life, Theo Nott would put great stock in the comportment of motions. He had been born the sort of child who noticed things other people were disinclined to see, and who would eventually become the sort of man who listened for things other people were disinclined to say, except by gestures. This led him to think, correctly or incorrectly, that he had an exceptionally keen understanding of what people really were.

"Come to a party tomorrow night," he would say one day to a girl who was studying quietly—or rather, pretending to, motions suggesting otherwise, one knee jostling in constrained agitation beneath the table. She'd been staring moodily into nothing, sketching something with the pads of her fingers in the air and idly tapping her pen against the table, but the ease with which she transferred her attention from nothing to him led him to suspect she hadn't been thinking about anything, really. Or, at least, if she'd been daydreaming, her little doldrums of fantasy were closer to earth than to impossibility. "It's for Halloween, at the Hog's Head. You should come," he repeated, and did not explain why.

Nor did she ask. "Come with you?" she asked, doubtful, and he shook his head.

"A group of us," he said, and she leaned back, considering him.

"You're one of Prince Draco's friends," she noted after a moment, succinct and formal in her observations. "You and the loud one and the mean one."

"Yes," he confirmed, "that's us. And you can be the skeptical one, if you like."

She tapped her nails lightly against the table, neither amused nor unamused. "Can my friend come?"

He had a feeling the friend was, in this case, a form of armor. "It's a party, Greengrass, not a binding social contract."

"You know my name," she said, still notably unsmiling, and he shrugged.

"You know mine," he said.

"I don't."

"You do."

"I do not."

An easy trap, but a reliable one.

"You see," he said, "you do know it."

"How did I—" She stopped. "It's Nott, isn't it," she sighed, looking disappointed with herself, and he smiled. "Well, if I know it, it's only by terrible mistake, I'm sure. Just my very good hearing," she assured him, "and a memory limited to collecting useless trinkets of observation."

"You're bored," he said, falling into the seat across from her, and she gave him a disapproving look.

"I don't believe I told you you could sit, Nott."

"On the contrary, Greengrass, you practically begged me," he informed her, swiveling her textbook around to face him. She tensed up, obviously guarding herself from his disapproval, but he pretended not to notice, instead feigning surprise. "Anatomy," he noted. "Would not have guessed."

"Why?" she asked, instantly combative.

"Well, I expected a book on world domination," he said, "but then, I suppose, one wouldn't just keep such things lying around." He flipped a page, observing that she'd been looking specifically at what he perceived to be a spliced-open skeleton leg, and then noticed she was covering her page of notes with her hand. He opted not to look up, sensing her discomfort, and added, "Why anatomy?"

She would confess to him later that evening, influenced by several of the Hog's Head's libations and their discussion of the universe's insufficiencies, her difficulties crafting the human leg in drawings. She always drew the thighs too long, she said, the calves were too short, her proportions were off, she had to learn to do it properly. He would say, innocently, I thought this was just a hobby?, and she would say, Yes, it is, obviously nothing will ever come of it but I can't stand the not knowing, I think I hate the not knowing of how to do something more than anything in the world.

At the time, though, she merely said, "None of your business," and snatched the book back from him, cradling it to her chest as if he'd burst in on a very private thought.

"Very well," he said, rising to his feet, but she stopped him with the parting of her lips; with the thing she bit back right before she said something else, instead.

"I might come," she said, and then, "Is there a theme?"

"Cowboys and Indians," Theo said, and nodded when she pulled a face. "Yes, I know, but it is what it is. Blaise always makes a fuss, so be sure to dress up," he warned. He didn't know yet that she would come dressed as a Bollywood dancer, a 'misinterpretation' of the theme that would ultimately thrill Blaise and quietly impress Pansy, thereby winning them both to her side. He didn't know yet that when he kissed her, unprompted and foolish and only the once, he would run his fingertips over the jewel-colored material and remember the taste of her like the feel of the fabric between his fingers, satin soft. She would say, Thank you for seeing me, and he would say, How could I not see you? and she would say, You know what I mean.

And he would kiss her because he was careless and she would kiss him back and he would destroy it, destroy everything, when he told her the truth. He grew more protective of them, truths, after that night, and eventually he would meet another girl, and it would surprise him to find that her motions were perhaps the least informative thing about her.

"You're bored," she would say, an oddly symmetrical moment, sidling up to Theo as he observed Draco initiating one of his painfully forced smiles, Prince Lucius speaking rapidly in his ear. "And I don't believe I've ever seen you at one of these before."

"Invisibility is one of my special skills," Theo said without thinking, turning to find the French president's daughter smiling at him without a trace of coquetry. He recovered quickly, adding, "No talent whatsoever at runes, though. Abysmal at divination. Can't tell a dream from a palm."

"Pity," she said. "I'd love to know how the evening is going to end."

"Might I recommend flannel pajamas and a hot bath?" he said. "Or perhaps compression socks, for maximum blood flow."

"I meant relative to sex," she said, prompting him to choke on his wine, "but you're not wrong."

It was Fleur who taught Theo to stop looking for hidden things, for meaning, because she laid them all out in front of him. Over the next few weeks he would watch Daphne for any hint that she wanted him, that she liked him more than the others, more than a friend, more than anyone, until it finally occurred to him that looking for signs was a hopeless activity. At the same time he'd strain to see something half-imagined from Daphne, his phone would buzz with a message from Fleur: I miss you, I like you, did you know? Everyone here is so dull and I keep wondering, what would Theo say about this or that? I'm ruined, you know, I have always thought myself the best company and now because of you everything will always be boring to do alone—all of her thoughts expressed for his consumption as easily as she breathed.

"Why" had been a frequent question in the beginning, at least until Theo realized he was as much a reprieve for Fleur as Hermione had been for Draco. That it would go somewhere beyond a single tryst, or two or three trysts, or a lackluster sequence of trysts was unfathomable. He had expected it would end with little more than faltering communication and an occasional nudge to his recollections; remember when Fleur Delacour, beautiful and smart and Important, deigned to choose you, plucked you out of everyone from a superfluity of better choices? Remember how she said, Of course I noticed you, look at you, you've got an energy, I don't know the word in English but you've got it, and then remember how you told her, surprising yourself with your honesty, that you'd be shit in bed, the last girl you slept with felt so close to your destiny that it scarred you, it broke you, you woke up alone and decided you'd simply be celibate until you withered to dust, and Fleur, charmed, said, Oh look at you, so dramatic, you're funny, don't worry I'm good enough at this for the both of us, and then remember she pulled you into an empty room and taught you never to doubt her judgment ever again? Remember that, can you ever forget?

"You always see things so clearly at a distance," Fleur would tell him one night in her bedroom in Paris, whispering to him with such closeness it made him hurt, it made him ache, it made him long to say don't leave, please don't leave, filling him up with things he couldn't bear to ask for. "You see things clearer than anyone until you get up close, don't you? And then you're hopeless," she teased him, long blonde hair falling around his face. "You see nothing, you don't even see how much I like you. Theo," she said between kisses, "I like you," and then he was done for, helpless to argue, telling himself, That's it, this is it, I choose this.

It was easy to love Fleur, not simply because of who or what she was, but because she showed him how. She knew herself, unrepentantly, and taught him how to know her just as well. He had tried desperately to read Daphne, had studied her intently and still come out as empty-handed as if he'd known nothing at all, so this, with Fleur, was like a breath of relief. But he couldn't unlearn the habit—certainly hadn't with Daphne, still learning and re-learning her as she re-shaped herself, grew, became someone exactly the same as the girl he'd first met and yet entirely, unrecognizably different—and realized very quickly during the weekend spent at his house that year that he was even more untalented at it than he'd initially thought.

It started, as most things of that nature typically did, with a thing he shouldn't have said.

"No wait, don't," specifically, blurted out without a hint of forethought when Fleur's hand had lingered worryingly on the top drawer of his antique desk. She'd been looking for something, for nothing, a spare charger or something of the like and then he'd said that, and then the rest of her had frozen, startled by the sharpness of his reaction.

They'd been dating two years by then, and it was a point of pride between them that they didn't keep secrets. He trusted her, she trusted him, and minus one small hiccup early on (which had, in fact, led to a long night of confession, and subsequently led to the aforementioned point of pride) they had never encountered any issues like the one he suspected they were about to have. It wasn't a matter of trust, he reasoned silently—he'd certainly done nothing to give her cause for doubt—but when she gave him a wary look of disapproval, he sighed.

"Fine," he relented, "but you'll see why when you open it."

She slid the drawer open, still frowning at him, and glanced down at the oversized envelope that would have been unremarkable if not for his outburst. Already, he was fairly certain the conversation was going to consist mostly of things they both already knew.

For example: "Who did these?" she asked, sucking in a breath as she removed one of the drawings, which he hadn't looked at since they had been given to him.

Fleur had to have known who had done them; could have guessed, at least, but surely didn't need to. Theo only knew one person talented enough, firstly, and only one person for which he would say, "I'll sit for you, then," when she complained she never got a good enough seat in class to see the model.

He understood, though, that point wasn't that Fleur knew it, but that he say it aloud. "Daphne," he said, obliging with a predictable disturbance somewhere in his gut, warping the air between them. "She did them for her anatomical drawing class the first term of our final year at Hogwarts."

"Oh." Fleur was rifling through them, the two or three full drawings and the little studies Daphne had done of his legs, his arms, his fingers and toes, the sketches of his mouth. Fleur's expression as she glanced over them was unreadable, despite his best efforts. "You didn't want me to see these?"

"I thought you might get the wrong idea," he said, uncomfortably. He was unsure yet what the 'right' idea was, and was having more than a small amount of trouble identifying it.

"I like them. They're very good, she's very talented."

Yes, she was, but it didn't seem fitting to agree. "I don't really care for the subject matter, personally." He'd certainly never looked at them closely. With everything that had followed, he'd hardly looked at them at all.

It was meant to have been a joke, but Fleur wasn't listening. "These are copies," she noted, holding up one of the pages for his inspection and then returning her attention to the others. "Does Daphne have the originals?"

"I assume she submitted them for class," he said, shrugging.

"Surely she would have gotten them back once they were evaluated, wouldn't she?"

"I don't know, Fleur." And he didn't.

"Does she still have them?"

He cleared his throat, uncertain. "Does it matter?"

"Well, I'd like to see them. The copies don't do them justice, there's erasure marks." She paused, glancing down at the drawing again, and repeated, "She's very talented."

It wasn't the first time Fleur had praised Daphne. Fleur was free with compliments, extravagant with praise, and that was true for all of his friends. Hermione was immensely clever, Blaise was full of life, Harry was le plus charmant, Draco was thoughtful, smart, poised, even Neville was endearing. Daphne was talented, always talented, and never had saying so felt anything outside of ordinary. This was the first time Theo could recall that any mention of someone else's strengths appeared to have taken something from Fleur. It was overspending, even with her limitless fortune in kindnesses, and this time it had cost her.

"I doubt she kept them," he said, and to that Fleur looked up sharply, seeming agitated; as if he'd said something truly idiotic, and he was beginning to suspect that he had.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" she asked.

(The inevitable question.)

"There never seemed to be a good time to bring it up," he said, which was true, or at least mostly true. "Besides, I don't see why it matters." That was less true, but he wanted to believe he might have thought that. "I'd have sat for you if you asked," he hurried to assure her, stumbling over his own urgency. "For Blaise, or for Hermione… for Harry, even, and we all know he'd have bungled it entirely."

"I don't care that you sat for her," Fleur said, and he believed that she didn't, though something continued to be obviously wrong. "But you know these are good, don't you? More than good. You know it, don't you?"

She was holding up the page, insistent, imploring him to see something he couldn't; that he hadn't, but that he'd tried to, countless times, and had since given up.

"We're friends," he said helplessly, and Fleur gave him a look of sadness, or perhaps sympathy. As if she felt something for him that was something like, Poor you, you try so hard and still you don't know anything, poor thing.

"I need some air," she said. She replaced the drawings in the folder, replaced the folder in the drawer, replaced the drawer in the desk and then replaced herself in the room with her absence.

Once she'd gone, Theo simply stood there, uncertain.

Then he darted out of his bedroom, racing through the corridors.

"Greengrass," he said breathlessly, skidding to a halt in the doorway of the bedroom she was occupying for the weekend, and she looked up from her computer, eyeing him expectantly. "Something's happened."

"Seems that way," she agreed, making a small motion for him to come inside. He'd had every intention to sit beside her, to explain it with words—perhaps even large, multisyllabic ones, maybe even sentences if he really put his mind to it—but instead he paced beside the bed, trying to recall the sophistications (or, if none could be found, then merely the basic guiding principles) of language.

"Well?" Daphne asked, brow arched. She was watching him with amusement, lips curled up in half a smile, all her motions splintered by some lack of commitment to whatever she was thinking.

"She found them." There, he thought, those were words, excellent work. "Those drawings you did, she found them."

He fell to a sudden halt, staring accusingly at Daphne as if to say, Do you understand the weight of this, do you hear what I'm saying?, but she was only looking back at him, a strange sense of calm on her features. In fact, where they should have gone wide with panic her eyes had simply narrowed, brows compressed in thought.

"So?" she said.

"So," he parroted desperately, holding his hands up, Don't you see it? Help me, please.

"Was she upset?" Daphne guessed, prompting him, and Theo frowned.

"No," he admitted. "No, she wasn't, she was—" Something else. Disappointed? No, he'd seen her disappointed, that wasn't it. "She wasn't upset at all, actually."

"Well, of course not," Daphne said with a sense of easy languidness, almost distractedly, her attention drifting somewhere he couldn't follow. "She already knows, Theo."

That Daphne could remain so calm about this was utterly bewildering. "Knows what?"

"Oh, come on, Nott, you're not a total idiot." Daphne rose to her feet, eyeing her watch. "Nearly time to eat, isn't it?" she mused to herself, thinking. "I should fetch Hermione. I swear," she sighed fondly, "she and Draco haven't taken a breath in at least twelve hours—"

"Hold on, Greengrass," Theo said, catching her floating hand as she moved to pass him. She glanced down at where he'd taken command of her knuckles, thumb floating over them, and then immediately released her, feeling his cheeks burn slightly. "Knows what?" he asked again, nearly pleading this time.

She obviously had every intention to refuse an answer. He could see it in her posture, combative as she always was with him, but perhaps something in the way he'd asked it had caused her to bend. Same as when he'd said, Come to a party, and she'd said, I might come, which he'd always secretly hoped had meant, Okay, but only because you asked, because you asked me, because of you, because my choice is you.

Daphne stepped closer, glancing up at him, and shook her head; Poor thing, poor stupid Theo, you know even less than you thought you did.

"She knows," Daphne said, "that you're the boy I'm going to marry."

Abruptly, he thought about the one question Fleur asked that he hadn't been able to answer: Does she still have them?

She hadn't meant the drawings. Theo realized it with a clang, and in a split second of remarkable cognition, he was so painfully full of wretched understanding he felt certain he could burst.

Then Daphne reached up, gave him a reluctant, blinding smile, and turned away, exiting the room without another word while he gaped at her retreating back, dumbfounded.

That particular motion, he thought with anguish, had left him feeling even more impossibly inept than before.

"I can't believe you're just telling me about this now," Draco said in disbelief, and Theo rolled his eyes.

"I don't know if you recall, but we thought we were going to have to pry you out of that bedroom by force," he said. "That you were even able to walk is positively astonishing."

"Still, to wait an entire week," Draco insisted, beckoning Theo into the chairs near the window of his father's sitting room. "How very thoughtless and rude of you not to consider my feelings on this matter. I have half a mind to sentence you to petty theft for your crimes against our friendship."

"Well, my liege, I besiege you, don't," Theo said drily, and Draco smiled his boy's smile, so familiar after twenty years of friendship. "Or do, actually. Some prison time might do wonders for my feeble constitution."

"What are you going to do?" Draco asked, sipping his coffee. "Tell me you've thought about it."

"No, of course not," Theo said. "It hardly plagued me. I've slept at least six hours."

"A night?"

"This week," Theo grumbled, slumping down in the chair and casting a moody glance out the window to where autumn was progressing far more rapidly than he'd have liked.

Summer had been so very simple, hadn't it? He and Fleur had been happy together, even content. He and Daphne had been better than usual, nearly back to normal. Minus one small disagreement, discovering her blog and being sworn to secrecy about the reasons behind her newfound satisfaction—which had shown so clearly on her face, in her voice, in her laugh—had felt raucously familiar, nearly like being younger, when they'd both so effortlessly been friends.

Though, had they ever really been friends? It was an old question by then, and one Theo had thought he'd grown tired of asking himself—until now.

"Knock, knock," Draco said, interrupting his thoughts, and Theo grimaced, turning his head.

"I'm naked," he said.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," Draco replied blithely.

"The house is a mess."

"Well, pick it up, then."

"I can't, I'm too tired for houseguests. I've caught the dreaded ills of melancholy."

"Humours out of balance?"

"Immensely."

"Got the morbs?"

"Without a doubt."

"Fine, I'll wait outside."

"Don't wait outside, you'll catch cold."

"Sorry, Mum, I've got to."

"I haven't any food in the house."

"Well, lucky I'm not hungry."

"Draco Wales, you irreverent fiend, are you really going to press this?"

"You brought it up, Theodore, did you not?"

"I should have kept it to myself another week."

"A capital offense, had you done it."

"What do you want from me?"

"Open the door," Draco said firmly, "and let me in."

Theo sighed. Once a prince, always a prince.

"Fine," Draco said, "I won't wander much, I'll stay in the foyer. How did Fleur react?"

"While you were otherwise occupied, you mean?"

"Yes, that, what happened for the rest of the weekend?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yes, nothing."

Fleur had come back to pepper him with questions: You understand I trust you, don't you? Yes, he understood. This isn't an accusation but it's a surprise, so do you understand why I was displeased? Yes, of course, he wouldn't appreciate it either if he were in her position. You know I love art, you know I can see that's what this is—art? Yes, he knew that, he knew that if anyone was capable of understanding, it was her. Good, good, so we can put this behind us, then? Yes, they should put it behind them, it was years ago, anyway.

You know I love you, Theo, don't you?

Yes, he knew, he loved her, too, and that was that.

"And Daphne?" Draco asked.

Nothing. Less than nothing. Just a very casual, Oh, you? You're my destiny, you idiot, as if those exact words from him had not sent her into an incalculable spiral five years prior, and then back to normal, as if nothing at all had happened.

"Has Hermione not said anything to you?" Theo asked, and Draco shook his head.

"Though, she wouldn't, would she?" he replied. "None of this is new to her, or to Daphne, either. Just you, apparently."

"And you," Theo said.

"Well, sort of," Draco replied.

"What do you mean sort of?"

"These particular events are new, obviously, but as for the rest—"

"What rest?"

"You know, the rest. The stakes, et cetera."

"You're being elusive and I hate it. Get out of my house."

"No, listen," Draco said with a laugh, reaching forward for Theo's arm, "you can't seriously tell me you didn't know Daphne's had feelings for you forever, can you?"

"Okay, that's it," Theo scoffed, irritated. "Please defenestrate into the moat immediately and without del-"

"You really didn't know?" Draco said, transitioning rapidly from humor to surprise. "I just assumed you were keeping that information locked away somewhere so as to more easily proceed through life."

That Draco could be so ruthlessly matter-of-fact about what had been Theo's own personal cataclysm was somehow so outrageous as to drag his thoughts to a plodding halt.

"She never said," Theo began slowly, "anything."

"Well, I know that, but—"

"SHE NEVER SAID ANYTHING," Theo bellowed, abruptly rising to his feet as Draco sighed, setting down his coffee and following after him. "Do you understand? Two years, Draco, two of them, and she never said a word—"

"Since when are you so blind, Theodore?" Draco said, chasing doggedly at his heels. "And where are you going?"

"Away. I don't know. Elsewhere," Theo snapped, taking a sharp left up the stairs and then pausing, sending Draco colliding into his back before pivoting to face him. "When you say feelings—?"

"She's in love with you," Draco said, astonished. "Theo, everyone knows!"

"NOT EVERYONE, YOU POMPOUS REGAL KNOB," Theo retorted, resuming the process of storming up the stairs as Draco hastily chased after him, bewildering the palace staff.

"This is why you're so upset?" Draco asked, half-panting. "I thought… well, I don't know what I thought, frankly you're mystifying to me—"

"For two years, she's pushed me away," Theo ranted, before rapidly amending the thought. "No, for five years, actually—since the moment I told her how I felt, Draco, she's kept me at arm's length, and I'm supposed to interpret that as love? WHAT SORT OF MONSTERS ARE THEY, DRACO?"

"What on earth are you shrieking about, Nott?" Prince Lucius cut in, stepping out from his study with a narrow-eyed glance from beneath his spectacles.

"OH, AS IF YOU DON'T KNOW," Theo said hotly, adding a perfunctory, "Sir," under his breath before marching up another set of stairs.

"Sorry, Father, he's fine—look, Theo," Draco said, reaching for his arm and slowing him slightly, "much as I admire your sudden devotion to exercise—"

"I all but told her I loved her and she told me not to wait," Theo seethed, falling again to a halt and glaring at Draco. "I called her on her birthday, don't you remember? After I met Fleur, I called her, I said—"

"Nothing," Draco reminded him, and Theo grimaced. "I was there, Theo, you simply said you missed her, you certainly said nothing about Fleur—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Theo demanded, helplessly turning the tables, and Draco sighed wearily, brushing a thumb over his temples.

"Would it have mattered?" he asked, and Theo swallowed, quieting as he considered it.

No, he realized, it wouldn't have. Not then. Not if she hadn't said it herself. He'd waited and waited for her to say it, for her to say anything at all, to tell him he hadn't foolishly imagined everything between them, but she'd said nothing he wanted to hear and Fleur had said everything, and for all his reading between the lines it was the lines themselves he'd really wanted.

"You see?" Draco said, placing a fraternal hand on Theo's shoulder. "It wasn't my information to give."

Theo let his chin fall, dismayed at himself.

"Now what?" he mumbled, and Draco's grip tightened.

Draco knocked twice in the air with his free hand, waiting, and Theo, resignedly, glanced slowly up.

"I put her behind me," he confessed. "I was living a different life. I was making a new one."

Draco nodded, sympathetic as always. "And now?"

"She's better off without me," Theo said, shaking his head. "Look how much she's done, Draco, how far she's come, how happy she is—"

"You're not answering the question," Draco said.

"Maybe some things aren't meant to work out," Theo said, postulating through the thickness at his throat. "Maybe some are too… too heavy, too stifling. Maybe she and I can't get it right, or maybe we were never supposed to—"

"Not an answer," Draco said.

"What does this change, really? Should it change anything, even? If it's always been true and I've only just been informed, then what does that matter? I should ask California to write a thesis on it, she seems to love philosophical quandaries—"

Draco sighed loudly, exasperated. "Theodore, this is still not an answ-"

"BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE AN ANSWER," Theo hurled back, frustrated, and Draco gave him an admonishing look, albeit a quietly supportive one.

"I wish I could help you with this," he said, and as Theo opened his mouth to retort, he shook his head. "No, really, I wish I could. You've helped me with everything and I wish I could take this decision from you and spare you the discomfort of having to make it, but I can't. This one is yours."

"Outrageous," Theo muttered. "What does the monarchy even do?"

"We wear various oversized hats," Draco replied solemnly, and Theo sighed.

"Well, I should go, anyway," he grumbled, glancing down at his watch. "Hermione's coming soon, isn't she?"

Draco nodded. "I'm gone again tomorrow. Doesn't mean you have to go anywhere," he said. "She'll understand, if you want to keep talking—"

"No, no, I'm done talking." Theo fidgeted in place, helplessly trapped within the prison of his insufficient limbs. "I'll just come back and see you once you've captured Spain."

"I'm not going to capture Spain, Theo, no matter how many times you ask."

"All the good princes try for Spain, Draco. It's science."

"It's absolutely not science, but fine. I'll lend it some thought."

"At least frighten the Vatican a little."

"I think it's a bit late for that."

"I'm concerned you're not fully committing to this, Draco."

"A valid concern," Draco replied, "but not my main one. At least not for the moment."

Theo sighed, recognizing an unwelcome dose of sentimental nonsense in Draco's meaningful glance.

"You're sure you don't want to stay?" Draco asked him, and Theo shook his head.

"I'm tired," he said, turning to head down the stairs. "I think I'll have a nap."

Theo woke to the sounds of Blaise talking in low tones outside his door.

"It's been nearly a week," Blaise was saying to someone. "I've never known him to be so reprehensibly inactive." A pause. The other party must have been on the phone. "Yes, of course I did the obvious thing, I detracted thirty entire points!" Another pause. "Oh, no, I didn't do that. Or that." A long pause. "Fine, so I've done nothing, then. Are you happy now? I've rung you, at least." More pausing. "He says he's fine. Yes, he's eating, I think. I don't know. I can't be here constantly, I have continued obligations and he simply won't discuss anything with me. No, not Draco, either. It's as if his own mad brain is exhausting him."

Theo's eyes slowly floated shut again.

"Oh yes, he's definitely got the morbs," Blaise said, just before Theo drifted off to sleep again, burrowing deeper in the covers. "Though, that did give me an idea, so I think we should discuss Halloween. What do you think about Victorian morbidities as an overarching theme? Of course it makes sense, nothing's ever made more sense, minus five for doubting me—"

Theo woke again to his drapes being brusquely pulled aside, light streaming directly into his eyes from the living room window.

"Draco's not the only one who remembers what you were like as a boy," came a voice as Theo groggily struggled to sit up, the blanket now twisted around his lap. "You always get like this, you little idiot. What is it about your emotions that you find so utterly destructive to your psyche?"

"Pans," Theo said hoarsely, rubbing at his eyes, "what are you doing here?"

"Draco called me. And Blaise. And Hermione." She paused, staring in revulsion at the sparsity of items on the floor (upsettingly out of place, apparently) before gingerly stepping over an overturned shoe, settling herself at a distance beside him on the sofa. "They seem to think it's my responsibility to fix you," she clarified, sparing him a sidelong glance that very nearly challenged him to a fight.

"You don't have to," Theo muttered, scraping a hand through his hair. "It's not like I'm one of your favorites."

Her glance turned moderately peeved. "Don't be ridiculous, Theodore. You know perfectly well what we've done for each other."

His posture sagged slightly at the reminder. "Still doesn't mean you have to do anything. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're never fine, and furthermore, you've always been a total imbecile," she said, though she slid a little closer to him on the sofa, resting a hand in the space remaining between them. "You really need a hobby," she said softly, the same way someone more reasonable might have said, I care about you, you're not alone, I'm here.

"Could always take up knitting," he said, in the same tone of voice someone else might have said, Thank you.

"Don't be ridiculous, you'd only poke your eye out." She paused, and then, "You mustn't be like this, you know. You're hardly doing anyone any favors by sulking."

"I'm not trying to sulk," he said. "I'm trying to decide."

"Please. You already know, Theodore," she said, briskly losing patience with him. "We both know you know."

"Untrue," he said. "If I knew, why on earth would I be sitting here with you? I'm not a sadist."

"You don't want to hurt someone. You never do." She leaned her head back, looking at him. "You're the sort of person other people hurt," she said with her usual this-is-the-gospel-truth mannerisms, "I'm the sort who hurts people. It's impossible for us when the roles are reversed, isn't it?"

"You help people, too, Pans."

"Shut up," she said, and from Theo, a smile crept out.

"Fine. You're demonic, you're selfish and spiteful and a merciless shrew."

"Whereas you," she sniffed, "are self-sacrificing to the point of lunacy."

He turned to look at her, and she pursed her lips, displeased.

"You're not your father, you know," she said, still apparently in the business of scolding him.

"You're not your mother, either."

"This isn't about me, Theodore, don't be a child."

He opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut. "What exactly do you want from me, then?"

"I want you to get up," she said, exasperated. "I want you to put on a clean shirt and some trousers—"

"I'm wearing trousers," he said, revealing them beneath the blanket. "Did you really think I was sitting here with you without them?"

"—and I want you to clean this up," she continued, waving a hand over the living room and ignoring him. "And then, when all that's done, I want you to drag yourself out of this nonsensical brooding period and change your life entirely. And find a new aftershave," she added. "Yours is entirely too zesty, too much spice. It offends."

"It's my cologne, Pans, and you're the only one who doesn't like it."

"Well, it's disgusting, dispose of it immediately. No, on second thought, I'll do it," she said, rising to her feet, but Theo pulled her back by her blazer, tugging her back into her seat. "I beg your pardon, Theodore, have you lost your entire mind—"

"Pans," Theo said, "I can't do this."

"Don't be an idiot," she said, her favorite thing to say to him, and she said it in a tone that meant, with no exceptions, Don't be an idiot. "Of course you can, Theodore. You've been through far worse."

"The thing is," Theo said slowly, "the moment I get up, I'll have to go somewhere."

She seemed narrowly skeptical of this as a fact. "You mean you'll have to choose a direction?"

"Yes."

"A life? Or a version of it, I suppose."

"Yes, that."

"Well, how positively unfortunate for you, with your freedom and your choices and your blatant white male privilege," she said, and he rolled his eyes. "Someone should really take those away from you."

"They should, definitely, but Pansy—"

"You can live without one of them," she said, rising to her feet and dusting off her skirt as if he'd dumped his problems into her lap and thereby stained the material. "Figure out which one it is. It'll be difficult, Theo," she added stiffly, "but people do difficult things every day and still manage to rise again the next morning."

She picked up her handbag, obviously tired of his insufferable indecision and heading for the door, but to his surprise she paused after a single step, turning slowly to face him.

"Perhaps I'm being unreasonable," she said, and he blinked, careful to hide his astonishment.

"You always are," he confirmed, "but in what way, specifically?"

She considered it, looking tartly inconvenienced at having to explain herself.

"Well, it's really very difficult, isn't it?" she managed. "That we are all so essential to each other, however implausibly. That I cannot imagine any version of my life without you in it," she admitted with a brush of reprehension, "even if I was never overly thrilled to have you there to begin with."

"A fault of circumstance, I'm sure," he said, the way he might have said, I love you, Pansy.

"Curse, you mean," she replied, with a shudder of, I love you, too.

She flicked a glance over him, shaking her head.

"Shower," she advised with disdain, adding, "And pick a costume soon, Blaise is getting unbearable," before she turned and went, chin in the air as she removed herself from his flat.

It wasn't as if Theo hadn't known who Fleur Delacour was when he'd first met her. He wasn't Hermione Granger, blindly running into the heir to the throne while carrying luggage; he was apprised of the relevant media, and besides, being Draco's friend meant he was keenly aware of who in the world was worth the value of his attention. He was no blushing ingenue by any means, but he'd have been lying if he'd said setting eyes on Fleur hadn't brought a little color to his cheeks.

Seeing her again now, her blue eyes lighting up at the sight of him, was no different this time from the first. Her beauty was never not astonishing; he'd grown accustomed to it the same way one grew accustomed to a sunrise. It was expected, but still, not without some awe. She tugged him into her flat, into her arms, lips warm and exuberant against his.

"Theo," she said, and it was like the first time, like the first ten thousand times.

The thing about falling in love with Fleur Delacour was that it had not been inevitable. In fact, it had felt so strikingly different from anything that had existed before that he'd scarcely been able to recognize the sensation when it arrived. It hadn't struck him in the face or ruptured any of his internal organs, it hadn't been violent, it had hardly even been intrusive or impolite. Instead it was quiet, something that festered and grew, expanding through the tunnels of his veins until he could no longer look down at his own limbs without thinking they belonged somewhere with hers. She was branded into his skin, permanently etched into his memory, living in the echoes of his thoughts.

"Oh, I don't believe in fate," she'd said once, toying idly with his fingers. "Not in the kind of fate other people believe in, anyway, where everything is trap."

"A trap?" he echoed, laughing a little, and she turned to him with her brilliant smile.

"Well, maybe that's not the word," she admitted, resting her chin in his chest, "but it seems to me other people think life is some sort of snare, some cage. They're supposed to do one thing, like they're set on one path. I don't believe in that, I think it's disappointing. I want to have choices, I want to believe in my own freedom, in myself."

Fleur knew how to be Fleur Delacour better than Theo had ever known how to be himself; he had only ever been variations on roles. Draco's best friend, his father's disappointment, the underperforming bane of his teachers' existence for being so very clever and yet so deeply antagonistic it rendered the cleverness an utter waste. "So is nothing predestined, then? Is it all just us making it up as we go?"

"Not so dire as that, but yes, I think so," Fleur said. "I think there are little—what did you call them, predestined? Yes, predestined strings," she said, "many millions of them tied to our fingers, and we have only to choose which ones we follow. And when we pick one, three more fall away, but then six or perhaps ten or more future strings replace it, and we carry on like that, picking strings and moving throughout our lives, casting off futures and picking them up whenever it becomes necessary."

He loved her mind, her voice, her view of the world. He loved her, and he had come to Paris to tell her that.

And other things, too.

Her smile faded as she looked at him. "You have no suitcase," she said, and he swallowed.

"Fleur," he began, and she took a step back.

"No, wait, let me talk first," she said. "Please?"

He nodded slowly, and she exhaled.

"You saw I was… strange," she said tentatively, "when it came to seeing those drawings?"

He nodded again.

"You have to understand." She was looking directly at him, always alarming with how easily she could confess things. "Everyone loves me," she said, and then laughed. "Well," she said with a graceful trace of sheepishness, "when I say it like that—"

"No, you're right," Theo said, shaking his head. "They do, it's a fact. Keep going."

Her lips twitched up, grateful. "That's why I wanted you," she said. "Because you weren't simple, because I had to chase you. Because it was appealing, exciting, to have something that wasn't so easily mine." She slid her arms up, holding herself loosely, like she'd suffered an imperceptible shiver. "But," she exhaled after a moment, "I think I always knew it was because I would never really have you."

She paused, and then, "I miscalculated. I wanted only to want you, but then I loved you, instead. I loved you selfishly, I wanted your love for only me—but there are so many pieces of you that you've already given to others, even I knew I could never have you all for myself. And so it kept going like that," she said with a little laugh, "me loving you, knowing it would end, and loving you all the more for that."

"Fleur," Theo said, shaking his head and stepping towards her, "it wasn't like that, you weren't—"

"The drawings," she said, pausing him with a gentle hand on his chest and bringing him back to her point. "I didn't understand her love for you, how different it was from mine, until I saw it. Until I saw you through her eyes."

She was quiet a moment, her fingers toying with his collar, slipping under the fabric to linger over his beating pulse.

"I knew then my time with you was even more limited than I thought," she said, and he swallowed, knowing she would feel it. Wanting her to feel it, how it would have never been easy, severing himself from her like this. Not with the way she'd already been in his heart.

"Fleur," he said again, and she shook her head.

"Let me do it?" she asked him, glancing up. "My ego is much more delicate than yours, you know. Always has been."

It hurt to smile. "No, it isn't."

"It is. Look at this," she said, gesturing to her hair, her makeup, her fashionable clothes. "Look at me. Entertain my vanity, Theo, please," she murmured, reaching up to brush her fingers over his cheek, and he closed his eyes.

"Well," he said, "if you want."

"I do," she said. The tips of her fingers slid over his lips, tasting of her reluctance to release him. "I don't want to live in a world where you don't love me."

"That world doesn't exist," he said. "Not in any string."

She smiled broadly. "Yes, keep going like that," she said, and replaced her fingers with her lips, kissing him softly. "I have to let you go, Theo Nott," she said to his mouth, the words dissolving between them. "I'm selfish, you know, too selfish to be with someone who doesn't worship my every step, and besides, she loves you more, you'll make her happy. You're her muse," she whispered, and Theo shivered. "You were mine, too, but it has to be over, now."

He played along, did what she asked. "Don't go."

"Oh, but I have to," she said, pleased. Her hips pressed against his as she ran her fingers over him, committing him to memory. "You love her, Theo."

"I do," he said, and she sighed, nails digging briefly into his waist.

"She's so very talented," she said. "She drew you like I could have never drawn you."

He recognized concession in her tone and took her hands in his, taking a step back from her.

"Thanks for letting me down easy," he said, and Fleur smiled, faint sparkles of sadness in her eyes. Even sorrow, even tears, she wore them like jewelry. He lamented that no one would see how lovely she looked like this, saying goodbye, and then remembered many people had probably seen it before, and probably many would see it again.

"Au revoir, Theo Nott," she said, and cast off an invisible string from her finger, tossing it symbolically out the window and into the Seine below.

Only she could have made a moment like this seem so desperately beautiful.

"Goodbye, Fleur," he replied, and tore himself away, blinded a little by the consequence of loss, and the threads of fate not taken.

His father had taught him very few memorable lessons; most of the things Theo had learned from him had been by consequence of misapplication. "Let it breathe," the elder Theodore Nott had often said about wine, "it's fragile."

So that's it, Theo thought. I'll let it breathe.

After Paris, he didn't return to London, but to the place he would have once called home only under duress, had the others in his life not managed to turn that around for him. In every room that his father had berated him, ridiculed him, admonished him for his very existence, Theo had plastered over it with memories of his friends' laughter, and their insistence that for them, his house contained only joy.

He wanted badly to believe as much now, but it was empty and dark when he arrived, save for a single lamp in his father's study.

"Ah," Nott Senior said, glancing up. "What are you doing here, then?"

"I just thought I'd stay for a couple of days," Theo said. "Unless you'd rather I didn't."

Nott leaned back, frowning. "Why?"

"Nothing." Theo glanced askance, then back at his father. "Fleur and I broke up."

"Unsurprising," Nott said, but pursed his lips, considering Theo for a moment. "Fine," he said eventually. "I'll have your bedroom made up, if that's what you want. I'm leaving in the morning, anyway."

"I can make up my own bedroom," Theo said, and Nott gave him the look that meant, You're being tiresome, I'm being accommodating, hasn't this been enough for one day?, and Theo swallowed. "Or you can have someone do it. If you want."

"Well, it was bound to fail, anyway," Nott said, glancing back down at his notes and scribbling something. "I hope you haven't mucked it up too badly, have you? She'd make an excellent prospect for Draco."

Theo flinched, and then shook his head. "No. It's not… mucked."

"Good," Nott said, glancing up with a nod. "Glad to hear it."

Theo waited, wondering if he might continue, but that seemed to be all the conversation either of them could handle. He wandered over to his father's liquors, pouring himself a scotch, and then padded out of his father's study, heading upstairs to his bedroom.

Theo woke in the morning to the sounds of his father leaving, barking orders as he went. He curled up in bed, seeing how long he could hold his breath until his father had gone.

"—ridiculous, Abraxas is waiting—"

…12, 13, 14…

"Nevermind, I haven't the time for your incompetence. Where's my coat?"

…31, 32, 33…

"Not that coat, you imbecile, does this look right to you? It's freezing outside—"

…45, 46, 47…

"For the love of god. Forget it, then—"

…51, 52, 53…

The door slammed and Theo exhaled with a burst of relief, having come disastrously close to the edge of his abilities. It occurred to him, morosely, that his father would not appreciate the inconvenience of him rotting in his bed. After fifteen minutes spent half pondering it, half waiting to hear if his father might say, No no, I need that coat, I'll just come back and fetch it myself (i.e., the impossible), Theo couldn't decide whether the inconvenience of his loss would amount to a good or bad thing. Eventually he rose to his feet, rolling out his neck and making his way downstairs, not bothering with clothes outside the trousers he'd slept in.

He came to a sudden halt, however, when he realized he was not remotely alone.

"Hi," said Daphne, falling to a halt when she saw him. She was dwarfed by the architecture of his father's gothic tastes, gleaming a little against the dark beams of the ceiling, and it brought Theo's thoughts back to another moment; a similar one, only one that had been five years before, almost precisely to the day.

"Things here are just so sluggishly large," Daphne had been saying, eyeing the castle from where they stood outside the sweaty, debaucherous Hog's Head. "They're designed to loom, you know? Even the buildings make you feel small, which I hate."

"I find it difficult to believe anything is capable of shrinking you," Theo said, and she turned to look at him, one brow arched.

"You don't know me," she said.

"Don't I?" he countered, gesturing to her hands. "I know you're an artist."

"I just told you I draw, that doesn't mean you knew I'm an artist."

"No, I knew before you said it," he corrected her, touching her fingers, drawing them over her knuckles. "See," he said, showing her the callus beside her middle finger, the way her pinky crooked to the left and back again.

"I don't see anything," she said.

"Ah, well, I make it my business to see," he informed her. "One of the benefits of being invisible is being the observer, not the observed."

"You're not invisible," she said, frowning. "Do you really think no one sees you?"

"What reason would I have to think otherwise?" he said. "My own father trips over me, mistakes me for plants. I'm like a recalcitrant cat, constantly underfoot, soiling the furniture."

"You're joking," she said, "but also, you aren't, are you?"

She stepped forward abruptly, narrowing her eyes as she stared at him, neither intimate nor clinical. He blinked at the closeness, startled, and her brow furrowed in thought as she scanned him for something, for meaning, for nothing.

"What are you studying?" she asked him. "Literature, is it? Something that ruined your eyes a bit as a child."

He swallowed, saying nothing, and she continued, "Yes, I'm pretty sure I'm right, you must have read in the dark." Her gaze rose to his hairline, his ears, his cheek, lingering on his mouth. "You look like your mother," she said, wavering somewhere between certainty and a guess.

"You've never seen my mother, have you?" he managed to force out, and she shrugged.

"These lips," she said, touching them lightly, "the shape of them, you must have gotten them from a woman. Don't be offended," she added offhandedly.

"I'm not," he said, and he wasn't.

Not if she was looking at them like that.

He lost track of how long she was looking at him, observing him, seeing him piece by piece. She took his hand in hers, stretched it flat across her palm, said nothing. She put her attention, her thoughts, her artist's eyes all over him. She looked at him—really looked, saying things he could hardly hear for being the object of her looking—and when she said, "You're masterful, really, you are," he finally broke down, seizing her hand with an urgency that seemed to wash over her with surprise.

She looked up at him when they touched, her startlement softening to, Ah, yes, of course, good thinking, and then it was, "Thank you for seeing me," and "How could I not see you?" and "You know what I mean," and then he tilted her chin up and she slid forward onto the balls of her feet, tugging him into her and meeting his mouth for a kiss.

And then he ruined it. He said, "You're the girl I'm going to marry," and only now did he understand how it had been a mistake.

Now, facing Daphne again in the dim light of his old house, he finally understood it.

"That's not how you should have told me," he said, an opening line which was two parts: It was, firstly, I should have known better than to say I loved you without learning how to love you correctly, and then reflexively, You should have known by now how to properly say you loved me, because you have always been the one whose love I want.

"I know," she said.

And then, "I should have done it like this," she informed him, taking several long strides towards him until she caught him, snatching him up by the hand and glancing up at him with defiance, with determination, with something he knew another version of her would have wanted to get right but that this one, this Daphne, didn't care if she failed.

"I'm in love with you," she said. "I've always loved you. I loved you even before you tried to say it to me, I just didn't know it yet, and once I did I should have told you sooner. I should have told you the moment I knew, and I should have never stopped saying it."

"Daphne," he said, and she cut him off.

"No, let me finish," she said, and he swallowed, feeling an odd, quieting sense of symmetry in the way the women he loved absolutely refused to let him speak. "There wasn't a right way to tell you, Theo, but I should have known with us there was no right or wrong way. I just didn't understand it yet," she said, beginning to rant a little in her urgency, "and I swear, I'd have let you be happy with Fleur, only I said that silly thing and then Draco called me, he told me you were here and I thought my god, I might never get another chance, and if I let him go this time I won't ever deserve him—"

"Daphne," he attempted, fruitlessly.

"—and maybe I don't, really, but maybe it's not about deserving and earning things, maybe there'll be plenty of time for that, and in the meantime I just have to try, I just have to, Theo, because without you—"

She broke off, fingers tightening around his hand.

"I'm not going to say I'm not me without you," she said, "but something close to that. I think, actually, once I learned there was a me, it was easier to love you. It was less terrifying," she explained, and he stared at her for a moment.

Several moments.

She swallowed, obviously uncertain what his silence meant, and he shook his head, pulling her into him.

"Greengrass," he said, bending to wrap his arms around her waist and turning to speak in her ear. "You complete and utter fool."

She relaxed into his hold with something that was half a laugh, half a sob, entirely an unplanned outburst. "Don't be a dickhead, Nott," she said, her voice so flooded with relief it trembled in her throat.

He pressed his lips to the top of her head, cradling her against his chest.

"What happened?" she asked, voice muffled into his skin.

"I went to Paris," he said. "Broke it off with Fleur, or tried to."

She looked up. "Tried to?"

"Well, I had every intention to," he said, "but she ended it first. She had this mad theory I was in love with someone else," he mused, feigning indifference, and Daphne's brows rose, prompting him.

"Someone else, hm?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "Friend of mine. Artist, blogger, fashion designer, philanthropist—"

"Philanthropist?" she asked doubtfully.

"I presume," he said with a shrug, "given the aforementioned talents."

"You're so weird, Nott," she said, though she hadn't released him. He hoped she wouldn't.

"Really," he said, lifting her chin, "I'm so proud of you. I'm prouder of you than you can possibly know."

"And?" she asked expectantly, and he rolled his eyes.

"Really, I'm supposed to say it prompted like this?"

"Well, if we wait for it to happen organically, it might be another five years."

"The first five years were your fault," he informed her, and she grimaced.

"Nott, honestly, you're impossible—"

"They are, though," he said. "I think you owe it to me far more than I owe it to you, don't you?"

"You never actually said the words!" she said, cheeks flushed from her usual frustration with him. "If we're going by technicalities—"

"Who said anything about technicalities?" he countered. "This is history, Greengrass, you're the only one trying to rewrite it—"

"I'm not rewriting anything," she protested. "I'm just saying, you still haven't technically said it—"

"Daphne," he sighed.

"—so if anything, the scores are totally uneven, I mean at least I used the same ludicrous line about us being destined for one another—"

"Daph," he said.

"—so really, if anyone owes it to anyone, it's you owing it to m-"

He cut her off with a kiss even less planned than the first one, a brusque little collision between still-open mouths that meant her teeth tapped against his in the same moment her arms flew around his neck, securing them both within the radius of the disaster they'd always been.

"I love you," he said. "I don't want to be with anyone else, I don't want you to be with anyone else, I want you to be with me, Daphne, and I want to be with only you. I want us, forever, until one of us dies—"

"One of us?" she echoed, skeptical.

"It'll be me, but fine, until both of us die—" He exhaled with a shake of his head, her fingers grasping at the strands of his hair. "I will love you."

That, it seemed, was satisfactory. Satisfactory enough, anyway, that she pulled him up the stairs to his room, passing his father's long-abused housekeeper—"Lovely morning, isn't it?" Theo said cheerfully, shirtless and mussed and being led by a very small, very determined woman dragging him forth for the very obvious purpose of defiling the freshly laundered sheets—and shoving him in through the door frame, pausing only to catch her breath.

"I feel like," she began uncertainly, "after waiting so long, it should be… I don't know, meaningful in some w-"

"We have all day for meaningful," he told her, gruffly discarding his trousers, and she seemed to hastily agree, sliding out of her yoga pants (bless Hermione, Theo thought, that wonderful angel who'd brought such marvelous items such as cling-fitting spandex trouser-things into their lives) and willingly leaping into his arms. He shoved her back against the wall, bracing with one hand as the other wrapped tightly around her waist, and she wriggled against him, her lips finding his ear.

"Remember the drawings I did of you?" she said softly. "I kept them."

His shudder was a full-bodied convulsion and she laughed, she caught his lips with hers, she kissed him with longing and he kissed her with desperation, shifting to tangle his fingers in her hair.

"I never drew anyone else like I drew you," she whispered, and he, in response, drew the honeyed taste of confession from her tongue in the same moment he slid a hand over her parted legs, stroking her softly.

The words he'd hoped would leave him with dignity instead turned to mush somewhere between his brain and his mouth, fleeing with a groan of, "Jesus, Greengrass," and getting caught in another maelstrom of a kiss, him sliding easily into her and her hissing the sound of her approval into him.

"You got me?" she asked him, which meant, Are you really going to fuck me like this, holding me upright like this you're so skinny, do you even eat, are you sure you want me like this because if you can't there's a bed behind you but actually no, you seem fine, you're doing great and I want you terribly, want your hands on me and your mouth and all of you, want you just like this so don't move, I mean yes move but don't move, but while I have you here, while I'm asking, will you tell me you won't walk away, even if it all goes wrong, even if it fails, if we fail, will you promise you won't let me go?

"I've got you," he promised her, and in the moment, it meant precisely what he said.

They spent the rest of the morning alternating between sex and confession, whispering revelations and obscenities to each other in equal measure where they were sealed beneath the privacy of the sheet pulled over their heads. Between episodes of salacity—I want you, I want you so badly, god yes, like that, do that again, worth the wait? Fucking hell, worth a thousand waits—there were truths.

"Did you really know it when you kissed me that first night?"

"I knew it before I kissed you. Didn't you?"

"Hard to tell anymore. You've gotten me all caught up in your little lunacies I can't remember anything before then."

"Sure, sure, makes sense. What about on my birthday, that trivia game?"

"Oh, I got all the questions right, yeah."

"I knew it. I was positive I saw you typing something, and after the question about desserts—"

"Hush, don't be smug. Next question."

"The thing with Roger?"

"Oof. I don't know, really. I was scared, I guess. I didn't want to lose you."

"So you slept with someone else?"

"I didn't say it made sense!"

"Fine, fine—"

"What about the phone call on my birthday? You wanted me to confess, didn't you. I knew it, I wasn't ready but I knew it—and you'd already met Fleur, hadn't you?"

"I… yes, okay, fine. Yes. I was hoping you'd say something."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Change your mind, tell me you wanted me immediately, pine for me in song, et cetera."

"You're ridiculous. What would you have done if I had?"

"Back then? Dropped everything. Flown back from Paris. Well, bought macarons, then flown back. Maybe eaten a few baguettes, caught a matinee—"

"I was going to tell you on Draco's birthday, actually."

"Were you?"

"Yep. Had it all planned out. I wore that green dress, remember?"

"Ah, I love that green dress."

"I know. I wore it for you."

He toyed with her hand, contemplating the gaps they'd tried to fill between them, the way her fingers fit with his.

"We should take this slow," he said, which was, in its way, I've learned my lesson, I won't rush you, I'll let you lead, however you want to go I'll go. "We can keep it between us for a while, if you want."

She tilted her head up, twisting around to look at him, and gave him a look of gratitude that made him feel, for once, that he'd managed to get something right. Finally, he'd managed to read her correctly, to predict her with whatever meager divination skills he possessed.

But then, without warning, she ruptured it, crushing his sense of satisfaction with three impossible words.

"Let's get married," she said, and he blinked.

"I'm sorry, what did you just s-"

"I'm tired of a life knowing I'm meant for you without really living it," she said, her tone as perfunctory as if she'd ordered him off a menu. "I want it, Theo," she said, struggling to sit upright, "so do it. Put your money where your mouth is."

She raised his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles, and looked at him imploringly.

"Marry me," she said, voice quiet, but steady. He recognized the signs of her immovability, aligning herself with him, with the inevitability of their joining, with the fate of their choosing. It was everything he would have hoped from her, unpredictability incarnate, and he thought to himself, Well, you idiot. You have only the rest of your life to learn everything there is to know about her, so you had better start today.

He waited only until he thought his lungs were certain to burst, and then, when there was no longer any hope of containing it, he smiled.

"Yes," he said, and she smiled back. "Yes, definitely yes."

"Good," she said, sliding up to kiss him, "then it's settled," the same way she might have said, I will love you forever, idiot boy.

"It's settled," he agreed, which was in turn, without question, I am always yours.

Let's just say that our wedding plans—begun so innocently in that bedroom with the two of us jubilantly confessing our sins—didn't turn out quite the way we initially expected. But then, this isn't about our wedding day, is it? This is about Draco and Hermione, who are quite the story of their own.

Maybe someday, someone other than Rita Skeeter will tell it, and then the world will finally know what happened to Hermione Granger the night she disappeared before her wedding.

I mean—I'll know, of course. I'm fairly sure I already do.

But then, like I mentioned, I've got an eye for seeing everything, so long as I'm not the one up close.

a/n: Annnnnd, we're back! Hello and happy 2019, my darlings. Hermione and I will see you next week, per our previously established contract of updates. This will be a busy month; my next book, Inheritance, will be released on my birthday and my current manuscript is set to wrap this month as well, so this fic will likely be the only one updating in January. As a reminder, the Gatsby era advent fic is now complete in Amortentia if you would like to read it. Thank you for being here, and I hope your year is off to a wonderful start!

24. Privilege

Chapter 24: Privilege

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Love in Bloom

It seemed for a time that everything was falling into place for Prince Draco and Hermione, who quietly continued their relationship throughout His Highness' military training. Hermione's popularity as a public figure was increasing, the success of her work for The Transfiguration Progress was gaining traction, and rumours of Fleur Delacour's romantic exploits in Paris had finally put to rest any continuing speculation that the French siren's dalliance with Prince Draco was ongoing. While rumours persisted that Lady Bellatrix Lestrange's impending memoir was causing some stress on the royal family (subsequently pressuring the relationship between Hermione and Draco), Palace staff was adamant that in fact, all was well, and that the daily lives of both Prince Draco and his father, the Prince of Wales, continued uninterrupted. In fact, aides at the time remarked that both Prince Draco and Prince Lucius were quite calm, confident that any such memoir could not possibly contain any substantive threats to the royal family.

Falling into place? All was well? Lucius was CALM? Rita, please. Entrance to our mid-twenties was… Well, candidly, a mess. True for all of us, though our individual messes were extremely distinct from one another. My particular experience fell snugly between a pretty clump of charming chaos (Daphne and Theo) and a Mess of Unusual Size (basically everyone else), so I probably shouldn't be complaining. It was nowhere near as bad as Narcissa's, what with her own sister coming out with a memoir that threatened the state of her marriage, or Pansy's, which was…

Well, it ended with some broken recreational equipment, I'll say that much. And a few other broken things. And one very wonderful, highly perfect, and extremely wholesome thing. I'm getting ahead of myself now, but the point is that my mess was far easier to tidy at the time—and now, of course, we're here. With new problems. And a new and bigger mess.

But this time, as you know, it's a little bit different, because for the first time I'm being honest about how it all went down.

November 5, 2013
London, England

"Granger, are you listening?"

"Hm?" Hermione said, jolting to attention as Oliver gave her the sort of sharp poke she imagined he would have offered as a boy to, who knew, probably his pet iguana. The idea he might have possessed one seemed wildly in character. Either way, she could have done without the uninvited jab. "Yes, yes, you were saying, Susan Bones—"

"Lady Susan Bones," Oliver corrected. "She's very well connected, Granger, so I'm going to need you to pay thirty-five percent more attention to the facts."

"Only thirty-five?" she echoed doubtfully, but he had already moved on, beginning to arrange the items on her desk into a meticulously crafted labyrinth, like a corn maze for a mouse.

"Her aunt is Lady Amelia Bones," Oliver was saying, "otherwise known as Baroness Bones, and the first female leader of the House of Lords. Are you following?"

"Yes, I'm following, Wood. I'm on the page."

"She's magnificent," Oliver added hotly, as if Hermione had deigned to contradict him, "and if we can get Lady Sooz on board—"

"Lady Sooz, really?"

"—then we could have a real go at this thing!" he finished, pounding a fist into her desk that sent several of her writing implements rolling over its edge. "Sorry."

"They're insured," Hermione told him drily, resolving to pick them up when he was less likely to knock them over a second time. "Let me guess, Minerva loves Sooz?"

"Lady Sooz. Honestly, woman, have some respect—"

"Fine, fine, Lady Sooz—"

"She's young," contributed Minerva, sweeping out from her office as Hermione, who'd been sitting on her desk chair with her legs tucked under her, jumped to resume a more professional posture and Oliver, who'd been systematically destroying Hermione's desk, leapt back to his own.

"The problem with this initiative is that it looks stuffy," Minerva sniffed, idly pretending not to have noticed anything amiss, "and as much as I admire Augusta, she isn't providing a sufficient base upon which to grow. It appears that some people find our work," Minerva began, and trailed off, lips pursed. "Trivial."

A Rita Skeeter word, surely. Hermione and Oliver exchanged a glance.

"As such," Minerva went on, "a younger patroness may bring a more enthusiastic demographic to the cause. Her record is thoroughly unblemished," she said, as much praise as she'd offered anyone in the past, "and therefore, highly advantageous. Ideally, you'll both persuade her to our cause."

"You say that like we're courting her," Hermione remarked blithely, which was intended to be a joke, but by the time Minerva's gaze swiveled to hers, she could see that it wasn't.

"Yes," Minerva said, and then disappeared back into her office, leaving Oliver to slink back towards Hermione in the rolling desk chair that he had promised, several times under duress, not to stab with scissors or otherwise destroy in any way.

"You're a girl, aren't you?" Oliver said at half a whisper, prompting Hermione to frown, wondering if he considered this a point of secrecy. "You should have no trouble getting Lady Sooz to like you. You can simply, I don't know. What do women do within collectives?" he postulated, frowning deeply in thought. Hermione opened her mouth, prepared to retort with the appropriate degree of scornful admonishment until he attempted, "Plot vengeance? Archery? Book clubs about archery," he guessed, and then brightened. "If there's one of those, Granger, I want to join immediately."

"I—" Hermione stopped. "Actually, that's refreshing. I thought you were going to say manicures or brunch or something but no, you're right," she sighed, "archery is much more the thing, fine."

"Well, excellent," he said, pleased, adding, "Hopefully you'll be less distracted when the time comes for you to woo her."

"Me?" Hermione said in disbelief, dismissing the prospect of wooing altogether. "You think I'm distracted, Wood?"

"Yes," he said snottily, and in a fit of totally missing the irony, he rolled himself away, nearly toppling over as he encountered the obstacle that was several of Hermione's previously dropped pens.

In reality, Hermione was quite distracted, which was in no small part thanks to the combined whirlwind that was Theo and Daphne. As it turned out, the two of them being together—exciting as that had been for Hermione to hear, until it very promptly wasn't—was as complicated as their being tragically apart.

The whole questionable situation had begun on Halloween when, dressed as a headstone from Highgate Cemetery and an undead Queen Victoria respectively, Hermione had been informed by Daphne that she and Theo were not only secretly dating, but they were also, to her utter disbelief, secretly engaged.

"Excuse me, you're WHAT?" Hermione had whisper-shouted, and Daphne had sighed, taking hold of Hermione's elbow and dragging her into Blaise's bedroom.

"You can't tell anyone," Daphne said urgently, shutting the door behind her, "at least not yet. We don't want to hurt Fleur's feelings, first of all, and secondly—"

"Hi, hi, sorry," interrupted Theo, who slipped into the room behind them in his own costume, which consisted largely of having bells tied to his feet and heavily implied he was in costume as some sort of Victorian corpse. "Well, Greengrass, have you told her or not?" he demanded of Daphne, who turned—beneath layers of pale, glittering luminescence Hermione assumed was paint and not, in fact, a palpable veil of lust—a sudden, blissful shade of pink.

"I'm telling her now, Nott, for the love of god, be quiet," she said in her usual antagonistic tone, just before (confusingly) offering her smiling lips to Theo for a kiss Hermione felt she'd plummeted through the looking glass to witness.

"HOLD ON," said Hermione, not particularly calmly. "When did this happen? What is this? What?" she squawked, and Daphne immediately shushed her, elbowing Theo away to continue her mystifying explanation.

"We're going to have a very private ceremony," Daphne said, and with a quick glance at Theo, she added, "One might, perhaps, call it a secret ceremony. Something just shy of an elopement."

Hermione, meanwhile, gaped at her. "When? Where? Why? How?" and, once again, "What?"

"Excellent journalist, this one," Theo noted, as Daphne gave him another shove which ended, again, in another thoroughly baffling kiss.

"Look," Daphne sighed, nudging him away to return her attention to Hermione, "the thing is, we don't want anyone to know yet because, well—" She squirmed a little. "Well, frankly, because we don't particularly want a wedding."

"Not even remotely," Theo agreed, shuddering. "For one thing, it involves people, which is, as you know, reprehensible."

"Specifically, it would involve my mother," Daphne clarified, "who, while hardly any sort of Prince of Darkness, would very likely get… carried away."

"Carried away?" echoed Hermione, who seemed to be capable of little more than parroting blankly, and Daphne and Theo both nodded, unfazed.

"Yes," Daphne confirmed. "Were my mother to know I had plans to be married, she would insist on inviting everyone I hate."

"And a cake," Theo contributed. "And a color palette."

"Yes, and a cake and a color palette, and a dress—which, by the way," Daphne said with revulsion, "I wouldn't possibly be permitted to choose myself, and which would involve a mile-long train. None of it would have anything to do with me or Theo," she said, making a face, "and it would take at least a year to plan, which sounds horrendous."

"Okay," Hermione said slowly, accepting this premise as logical enough. "So why can't the others know?"

"Well—"

Just then, Hermione's phone buzzed in the pocket of her toga-resembling garment.

"Go ahead and take that," Theo offered graciously, and Hermione spared him a glare, rolling her eyes as she noted Draco's name on the screen.

"Hello?"

Draco's enthusiasm was unbridled. "So, have they told you yet?"

"They're telling me right now," Hermione said, watching with continued bewilderment as Theo pulled Daphne into his arms again, the distance of a few inches having apparently been long-suffering torment. "When did they tell you?"

"Oh, Theo told me yesterday. Have you gotten all your questions out?"

"No, not yet," Hermione said, having not even begun to mentally separate her innumerable questions into categories, much less spoken them aloud.

"Ah, okay, I'll call back," said Draco, and hung up, leaving her to slowly lower her phone.

"Why can't the others know?" she asked again, and Daphne sighed, twisting around in Theo's arms.

"Only because Pansy would have a meltdown," she said, using her practical voice, "and Blaise would tell Pansy, and Harry would think it was hilarious, which is… Well, the point is, don't worry. They'll find out, of course, in two weeks," she hurried to assure Hermione, who breathed a sigh of relief at having an end date for the secrecy.

"Well, good," she said, and then, with a frown, "What's in two weeks?"

"Oh, the wedding," Theo said, prompting Hermione to wish she could retract her previous relief in favor of returning to her more-appropriate sense of looming, unidentifiable anxiety. "We've had to schedule it so it coincides with Draco being home for Abraxas' annual gala, so obviously our timing was limited—"

"You're going to surprise them," Hermione attempted to sort out, "with a… wedding?"

"Yes," Theo said, and Daphne nodded.

"You're not telling anyone at all?" Hermione asked. "Not even your families?"

"No," they said in unison.

"Actually, I told my father, just as a fun way to pass the time," Theo remarked idly, "but, as I suspected, he thought it was a joke. Thanked me, in fact, for the laugh."

Hermione, who had too many other things on her mind to even begin to think of touching that, pressed, "And in the meantime, you're telling them…?"

"Oh, same as always," Daphne assured her. "We're just friends."

The idea that Daphne could comfortably persist with her most outrageous, oft-repeated lie even while Theo's arms were wrapped tightly around her ribs was not only of no conceivable sense to Hermione, but was also keenly upsetting to her understanding of rational human behavior in general.

"WHAT," Hermione repeated, only to be interrupted (Theo and Daphne leaping comically apart) by Blaise poking his head into the room.

"What are you all doing in my bedroom?" he asked, looking alarmingly delighted by the discovery. "Actually, no, never mind," he sighed before they could answer, unhooking his parasol from the forearm of his skeleton unitard to toss it like a rifle over his shoulder, "don't tell me. It'll only disappoint me."

In the end, Hermione had been persuaded that yes, Daphne was very serious; yes, she'd always been in love with Theo, and had simply been a flaming idiot up until now; and yes, they'd talked about it, they were very serious about it, it wasn't some sort of juvenile whim but in fact a need to do away with lost time. Hermione continued to have her doubts, naturally, but had managed to come to terms with it.

Sort of. Mostly.

Certain selfish thoughts had been occurring to Hermione; namely, the impending loss of Daphne as a flatmate. After all, the entirety of Hermione's stay in the U.K. had been spent living with Daphne, so the prospect of losing her so suddenly felt… disruptive, particularly when Hermione's life was in dire need of stabilization.

"By the way," Minerva said, poking her head back into the office and interrupting Hermione's reverie (yes, fine, Oliver was right, she was distracted—not that she'd ever admit it to him) to pause expectantly in the doorway. "We're going to need some media coverage for our Knockturn revitalization project. Now, I should imagine it goes without saying that Rita Skeeter is hardly my press contact of choice," Minerva sniffed, "but she does, unfortunately, have an audience. Particularly now," she clarified, looking pointedly at Hermione, who grimaced.

There was no ignoring the fact that Rita Skeeter had been gleefully promoting Lady Bellatrix Lestrange's impending memoir, which rumor (read: Rita) purported would be released before the end of November. Its title had not yet been disclosed, but there had been new reports nearly every day about what it might contain—including, to Hermione's intense dismay and Minerva's obvious awareness, private and previously unconfirmed information about Hermione's relationship with Draco.

Despite the Palace's denials in the press that such a memoir might contain any truth, Prince Lucius was privately undergoing a campaign of feverish preemptive strike. Already, he'd gone so far as to remind Draco that any conceivable toes which might even dream of existing adjacent to the line would be brutally severed post-haste.

"I want utter, unimpeachable silence," Lucius had seethed to both Hermione and Draco. "Not a word, not a whisper of anything worth reporting, do you hear me? I don't want either of you to appear that you might even be thinking of something worth speculating. I don't want you to smile mysteriously or to betray any expression of possible malcontent. I don't want you to even wear anything that damned Rita Skeeter might interpret as a salaciously-charged color—NEUTRALS ONLY," he barked, and then, "Do you understand me?"

Seeing as he'd looked a bit like he was melting from the inside out, Hermione and Draco had felt it necessary (mostly for the sake of their collective corporeal well-being) to do nothing but nod quietly, acquiescing without a word.

"Please no," Hermione said to Minerva, wincing at the thought of Rita being anywhere near her at this particular time (or any other, for that matter), and Oliver nodded his emphatic agreement.

"Last time that Skeeter woman covered our work, she said I had the mannerisms of a poorly-animated cartoon cat," he said, adding with a grumble, "which I did not care for."

"Well, we'll need someone else, then," Minerva said, glancing expectantly at Hermione. "Perhaps someone you trust to be… discreet?"

Hermione, recognizing that it was an offering, sighed internally at her continued inability to confirm anything, or to openly show gratitude. "I wish I knew someone," she said, chewing her lip, "but I really don't. I mostly avoid any press. You know," she added quickly, "since these are all baseless rumors, of course."

"Of course," Minerva said.

"And I have certainly not been instructed in any way not to discuss any relation between myself and His Royal Highness," Hermione added hastily, "were one to exist."

"Naturally," Minerva said curtly. "Speaking of which, there's a crowd out early today," she murmured, and Hermione stifled a groan. "Can't imagine why."

"You know, that Colin is really growing on me," Oliver said, unhelpful as always as he referenced Colin Creevey, the only paparazzo Hermione could even remotely stand. "I had an extra coffee the other day and we got to chatting, and wouldn't you know it, he also enjoys graphic novels—"

"If there's something I can do," Minerva murmured to Hermione, who shook her head.

"It's fine," she said, though she tensed a little at the thought. "I'll just… go out and run a pretend errand. Once they get their picture, they'll leave me alone."

Minerva nodded, quietly approving. "Well, if you do happen to think of a journalist you feel comfortable approaching, do let me know by the end of the day. Otherwise, I'm afraid I'll have to use my Daily Prophet contacts, and I'm sure we know what that will mean."

"Rita Skeeter hardly even counts as journalism," Hermione muttered irritably, as Minerva kindly pretended not to hear. "In fact, if anyone has covered anything honestly in the last year, it's been—"

She broke off, suddenly struck with an idea.

"Minerva," Hermione said slowly, "do you have any opposition to The Quibbler?"

Minerva, not unrightfully, looked doubtful. "Miss Granger, I hardly think this is the appropriate time for satire."

"Minnie, please. HUMANITY IS SATIRE," said Oliver, karate-chopping a book shut on his desk.

"Well, what if I could promise the article would be broadly read?" Hermione said, hopeful at least of that much, and Minerva shrugged, turning back towards her office with an air of resignation.

"If it keeps Rita Skeeter out of our office," she tossed over her shoulder, "then by all means, Miss Granger. Quibble away."

"Stand still," Daphne said, immediately after having accidentally jabbed a wriggling Hermione with a pin while adjusting the bodice of her gala dress. "You're very fussy today," she noted, glancing up at Hermione with a twist to her fashionably coral-painted lips.

"Yes, I agree," contributed Theo, who was languishing on the sofa with one of Daphne's fashion magazines in his hands. "Stand still, California, or the whole thing will be a travesty."

"In all seriousness, he's right," Daphne said, adjusting the lining over Hermione's hips. The gown was a metallic grey lace over a soft, neutral silk, and while the cut might have appeared demure to the untrained eye, the lace itself had been one of Daphne's most valuable finds: a celestial pattern with references to Greek mythology, all of it camouflaged to indistinguishability by anyone observing her purely through a camera lens.

"Like it or not, people pay attention to what you wear, Hermione," Daphne reminded her. "I'd like for them to say 'Colonial Upstart Stuns in Custom Gown' rather than 'Colonial Upstart's Gown Fits Like Shit,' if you don't mind."

"Does this mean you're finally starting your own line?" Hermione asked her, glancing down at Daphne, who hesitated.

"Well," she said, "I'm not sure."

"Daph," Hermione groaned, "honestly—"

"Well, my parents are going to have a fit when they find out I've gone and gotten myself married," Daphne pointed out. "And really, I can only handle their disapproval a limited amount of times per year."

"But Daphne—"

"I keep telling you, Greengrass, it shouldn't matter what they think," interrupted Theo, the poster child for one's parents' thoughts not mattering, but Daphne merely shrugged.

"Yes, I know, but it's either start a company or elope," she said, "and while one can wait, the other simply can't."

Hermione, a very excellent friend, pretended not to catch the furtive smile Daphne was fighting amid a draping of lace, just as she pretended not to see the one Theo smothered brusquely into his palm.

"Surely a real wedding wouldn't be so bad," Hermione attempted, still hoping to convince her, and Daphne made a face.

"Trust me, Hermione, you wouldn't want to deal with that," she said, sounding adamant. "You'd have to do entirely too much work."

"Me?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Wouldn't Astoria be your maid of honor?"

"Yes," Daphne said, "but really, this isn't remotely enough to hold her interest and you'd end up having to help me with positively everything. You know how foolish I am on my own," she said, and loath as she was to admit it, Hermione certainly did. "Believe me, I'm doing you a favor."

Just then, Hermione's phone buzzed from the table. She strained on tiptoe, unable to see the screen, and called out to Theo, "Can you check that?"

He leaned over, glancing down. "It's an email," he said. "It's from Fl-" He balked, leaping to his feet. "It's from Fleur," he said, hurrying to hand it to Hermione, and Daphne's brow creased with concern. "It was sent to both of you."

"I thought you said it ended amicably?" Hermione said, frowning a bit at Theo's apprehension, and he rubbed self-consciously at his forehead.

"It did," he said slowly, "but that doesn't mean it wasn't… Well, I don't know," he said, exasperated. "Just read it, would you?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, skeptical, but obligingly opened the email, skimming over the brief paragraphs until Daphne's chin rested, breathless, atop her shoulder.

"What's it say?" she whispered, both of them reading the contents.

Dearest Hermione and Daphne,

Forgive me for not being able to do this in person, but I'm afraid I can't quite bring myself to return to London at this time. I am sure you are both well apprised of what has happened between myself and Theo, and that things between us have ended. Please understand, while I treasure our friendship very much, I do not think I will be revisiting London any time in the near future.

"Well?" Theo asked nervously, and Hermione and Daphne both glared at him, shushing him with a look.

I have sent the remainder of the year's rent to Hermione, but I am sorry to say I cannot renew the contract. Beautiful as our memories together have been, the prospect of returning is now a bit dimmed for me, and while perhaps it is selfish to say so, I do not feel I am capable of resuming my occupancy in London.

Daphne, I have adored my time getting to know you. I wish you a lifetime of happiness, and if I may, a word of advice: Do not let him go.

Until we meet again, which I hope will be soon,

Yours sincerely,
Fleur

"Oh," Daphne said with a swallow, looking somber, and Theo, who was twitching at a brief distance from them, lunged towards them.

"Please, can I, so sorry, I just—thank you," he exhaled, accepting the phone as Hermione placed it in his hand and turned to Daphne, frowning.

"Daph," Hermione said quietly, "if you and Fleur are both out, I can't afford the rent here. You know that."

Daphne chewed her lip. "If you'd just let me pay for i-"

Hermione silenced her with a warning glance, and Daphne sighed.

"You could move in with us," she said. "Theo's family has a residence in the city, there's plenty of room, you could always simply—"

"No," Hermione said, suppressing her exasperation as much as possible. "I can't move in with you two, Daph, it's… it's your first year of marriage, you shouldn't have me in the way—"

"You wouldn't be in the way," Daphne protested, but Hermione could only think of the way her stomach hurt, uncertain. She wished, desperately, that she were not presently trapped inside an unfinished dress, pinned into it with no escape.

"What am I going to do?" she asked, fidgeting, as Theo nudged the phone back into her hand.

"We'll think of something, California," he said. "I mean, surely Draco can think of something. And anyway, you at least have until what, July?"

"Yes, but—"

"Maybe Draco will propose," Daphne said hopefully, and for some reason, it made Hermione's entire body erupt in what felt like a cold sweat.

"Just… can you, um. Can you let me out, please?" Hermione asked, shivering a little. "I just… I need to—I can't right now, I just have to—"

Daphne hurried to help her, carefully holding the fabric as Hermione wriggled out and made her way to her bedroom, collapsing on her bed. She knew, on some level, she was being deeply selfish by focusing on her own issues; Fleur was going through a breakup, so it wasn't as if her decision didn't make sense, and far be it from Hermione to deny Daphne any happiness whatsoever.

But still, everything was happening so fast. Things were changing so quickly she felt powerless to stop it, and powerlessness had never been a sensation Hermione Granger enjoyed.

Her phone buzzed again; a text, this time from her mother.

All checked in for our flight! exclaimed Helen. See you in twenty-four hours!

Hermione rubbed her temple, exhausted. Her mother's visit had been a source of excitement until recently, what with Bellatrix's memoir being released and Prince Lucifer flying off the handle and her roommate, usually a source of stability, having a life Hermione no longer recognized. The idea of skirting paparazzi with her parents in tow was suddenly unbearable.

Hermione opted not to respond while she was upset, instead dialing Draco's phone number.

"Your timing is impeccable," he said, answering on the second ring. "I was just about to call you."

"No bad news, I hope?" she asked wearily, not adding, because I don't think I can take it.

"No, no bad news. Good news, actually. My father just confirmed it's still perfectly fine for you and your parents to attend the gala, so that's excellent—"

She sat up sharply, stunned. "I didn't realize there was a possibility we couldn't."

"Oh, well I wasn't—" He broke off, obviously recognizing he'd made a mistake. "Sorry, I just… I just meant to say everything's fine, that's all."

"But you thought it wouldn't be."

She heard the sharp intake of breath that meant he was backpedaling. "Well, I just wasn't entirely sure. There's… Well, there's no point pretending, is there?" he said, sounding defensive. "There's quite a lot of attention on you, and with my father wanting me to stay above the fray—"

"The fray," Hermione echoed, bristling, and Draco hastily corrected himself.

"I just meant—" He broke off. "Never mind. I can't—I'm sorry. That was thoughtless of me."

Her hand tightened on the phone. "My parents have been looking forward to this for weeks now," she said, growing more frustrated by the second. "My mother had Daphne make a dress specifically for this event."

"Yes, I know, which is why I thought—but no, sorry, I'm clearly not going about this right—"

"Would you really have told me I couldn't come?"

"Hermione." She heard him exhale raggedly. "No, no, I wouldn't have, I want you there. Of course I want you there, you know that. I always do. But you have to understand, with everything that's going on—"

"It's just a stupid book, Draco." She could feel her throat tightening. "I thought we were moving forward. I thought you said that law in Parliament meant this would…" She broke off, not particularly wanting to sound whiny. "I just thought we might be closer to being open about it by now. About us."

"I know, I thought so, too. I'm trying, Hermione." He sounded genuine, though it was difficult to tell. Already, the last time she'd seen him felt like a distant memory. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but I am, I promise. It's just a very sensitive time for my family." He paused, and then added quietly, "My mother is refusing to come, she's been… a bit unpredictable. She says my father is trying to force her into behaving like everything's normal, so she won't do it."

Hermione, whose feelings on Narcissa were nearly always mixed, felt her heart sink for the other woman. "Well, I can't say I blame her."

"I know. I can't either, but—" Draco broke off. "The point is, I just don't think it's worth it to fight with my father right now. And I know, I know this is frustrating, but I just don't think the timing is right at the moment. Soon, though, I promise," he said. "When this passes, we'll focus on us again. I promise."

She eased herself back on the bed, glancing up at the ceiling.

'Soon' was starting to feel like an impossibly long time.

"I miss you," she said quietly, and Draco sighed.

"I miss you, too," he said, "like you wouldn't believe."

"At least I'll see you soon." She groaned, remembering, "At this secret wedding—which, by the way, is sure to be a mess."

He laughed. "I hate to say it, but I look forward to Pansy's reaction. Is that wrong of me?"

"Yes. You have a sadistic sense of humor."

"Oh, hardly. Only a little."

She sighed, feeling marginally better, and glanced down at the snake ring on her finger.

"Marriage," she said, finding the concept unimaginable. "Wild, isn't it?"

"Nearly unbelievable," Draco agreed. "Though, they're lucky they can do this. Simply run off together, I mean."

Hermione hesitated, and then, "Is that what you would want to do?"

"Wouldn't you?" he asked, and then, "No, don't tell me, I shouldn't dare imagine it," he sighed, sounding tense. "Any wedding I had would have to be a spectacle. Good on Theo and Daphne for getting around it, frankly."

She felt fairly certain he was treading carefully, deliberately speaking in hypotheticals.

"How are you?" he asked her, venturing a tangent that cemented her suspicions. "Something troubling you?"

Yes. Money. Rent. My job. Theo and Daphne. Your mother. Your father. The idea, the very concept, that your spectacle of a wedding might involve me. The idea, in fact, that the rest of my life, no matter what I do, might be a spectacle, and I will be powerless to stop it.

There it was again, she thought. Powerless.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, another email. Probably Luna Lovegood confirming their meeting for the following afternoon, which meant Hermione should probably hang up the phone and prepare. Or at least prepare for the prospect of preparing.

"Nothing," she said, exhaling, and thought if he were there, maybe everything would be just the slightest bit better. "Just missing you, that's all."

As if that were not its own subject of enormity.

"I miss you too, Hermione," Draco said, sounding temptingly close and yet not nearly close enough. "But I will see you very, very soon."

"I'm coming," said Harry, probably not in the context either of them would have liked him to use it.

(Which was not, Hermione amended hurriedly, to suggest that preferred context was in any way how it sounded. She simply meant that after having been dragged out of bed and bullied into breakfast—"Is Daphne still asleep?" Harry had asked, frowning at her still-closed door and forcing Hermione to groan and shove him out of their flat, lest he discover 'sleeping' was one of Daphne's preferred activities these days—the last thing she wanted was for him to now make further demands on her fragile constitution, or her job.)

"You can't come," she reminded him, nudging his fork away from her eggs. "It's my job, Harry, and I don't see how I could possibly invite you."

"It's very easy," Harry told her. "You simply say, 'Harry, I need'—no, no, 'Harry, I desire—'"

"Please," Hermione sighed. "Don't Prince Harry this."

"Oh, I assure you, it's been Prince Harry-ed," he informed her smugly. "You're having an afternoon meeting, aren't you?"

She deeply regretted telling him that.

"So," he continued, reaching over for a second time, this time for her toast, "I'll just… you know. Pop by."

He smiled at her, shameless as ever, and she felt the onslaught of a headache. "Honestly, Harry, even you have to know that's just… incredibly unprofessional."

"You're right," he agreed, winking at her and taking a satisfied bite. "Better if you simply tell her I'll be joining as a patron of the digital arts," he determined, mouth half-full, and Hermione swatted at his arm, wishing she'd ever possessed Pansy's ability to tell him what to do.

In the end, she'd caved ("You were always going to," Harry had pointed out, kissing her cheek and leaving crumbs behind before he dashed off, luring photographers after him and leaving her a mostly-clean getaway) and invited him to her meeting with Luna Lovegood, whom Harry, for whatever implausible reason, was apparently desperate to meet. "I'm a huge fan of her work," he'd said, and Hermione, lacking the energy to argue, had unwillingly offered up the time and place, hoping he'd behave himself.

"Hi," he said, grinning as she walked in. "I'm a bit early."

The place Luna Lovegood had requested they meet was a small cafe below The Quibbler's digital media office, which Hermione had expected to be a fairly straightforward facility serving coffee and was, instead, some sort of nexus for the arcane (judging by the crystals, cauldrons, and what were possibly tiny preserved bats) or at least the very odd and slightly morbid. Harry was sitting at a table below a drawing of two intertwined skeletons, draped by a banner that read, 'Til Death Do Us Part.

"Yes, hello, I see that," Hermione sighed, checking her watch to confirm that she, by contrast, was precisely on time. "Is Luna here, or—"

"Barman Tom," called an elfinly tiny blonde woman who might have easily been a Dickensian orphan, materializing like a ghost from one of the cafe's back rooms. "Three butterbeers, please. Our guests are here."

"In the flesh?" shouted a man's voice, which ostensibly belonged to Barman Tom.

"In the flesh," replied the blonde, flashing Hermione an absent smile that was moderately unnerving.

She, the woman who could only have been Luna Lovegood, had long—too long, Pansy would have sniffed—waist-length blonde hair and a pencil tucked behind her left ear, which enabled Hermione to see her earrings, a set of something that looked like radishes. She was wearing an egregiously yellow dress, almost blinding, and a pair of slouchy boots that Daphne would have either adored or immediately set aflame (Hermione could never really tell with Daphne).

"Butterbeer?" echoed Hermione, doubtful. "It's a bit early for alcohol, isn't it?"

"Well, if you insist," Luna said absently, tossing over her shoulder, "Hold the beer, Barman Tom, just the butter will do."

In the same motion, she had shot a hand forward, offering it to Hermione. "I'm joking," she said, "it's just coffee and immense amounts of sugar, almost no arsenic at all, and also I'm Luna. You're Prince Harry," she noted in nearly the same breath, glancing at him where he sat at the table. "That's odd, isn't it?"

That this particular woman was capable of judging anything else odd startled Hermione to silence; Harry, by contrast, leapt out of his chair, apparently giddy with excitement. "You're Luna?" he said, reaching a hand out for hers. "I'm a huge fan, Luna. Huge."

"Of what?" she asked, genuinely curious, but Hermione managed to regain control of the situation, stepping forward to gesture Luna to a chair.

"I hope you don't mind," she explained quickly, "but as Harry's taken a bit of a patronly interest in The Transfiguration Project, he asked if he could join while we discuss our upcoming project."

"Or werewolves," Harry said cheerily. "Or dirigible plums. Totally up to you."

"There's really not much to say about dirigible plums," Luna said. "They're presently out of season."

"Are they? Fascinating. And about erumpent horns—"

"Your Highness," Hermione said, kicking Harry sharply beneath the table, "if you don't mind, I'd hoped that Miss Lovegood and I could discuss more interesting topics? Say, the specific topic of Transfiguration, for example?"

A slightly stooped man that was old, quite wrinkled, and with a head like a polished walnut delivered three heavy mugs of something onto the table, the foam atop them threatening to slosh out of the glasses before he gave them a stern look of displeasure and wandered jerkily away.

"Thanks, Barman Tom," Luna said dreamily.

"Why do you call him Barman Tom?" Harry asked her. "Isn't he Barista Tom at this hour?"

"Oh, it's to distinguish him from Handsome Tom, who has tried several times to take over the world," Luna said, expressing a palpable sense of disappointment. "We can't put him off it, I'm afraid."

"Why don't you call him, you know. Evil Tom?" Hermione couldn't help suggesting. "Or possibly World Domination Tom?"

"We tried," Luna said, sighing, "but we just couldn't do away with handsome."

"Ah, yes, understandable. Beauty is such a curse," Harry said, playfully indicating himself.

"Handsome Tom has a lot of curses," Luna replied solemnly, "so I really wouldn't bring that up now if I were you."

"Anyway," Hermione said, raising her beverage to her lips. It was precisely as frothy as the froth had indicated it would be, and tasted how she imagined liquified magic would taste—or, alternatively, diabetes. "About Transfiguration—"

"Yes," Luna agreed, removing her pencil from her ear to stir the foam of her butterbeer. "You want me to write about your Knockturn project, is it?"

"If you wouldn't mind," Hermione said, and then paused, observing as Luna tucked the pencil back into its place behind her ear. "Do you… need to take notes, or…?"

"I'll use the pensieve later," Luna said, dismissive. "Go on, please."

"Right," Hermione said uncertainly, watching Harry's utter delight seem to magnify with each word Luna spoke. "Well, I hope you understand, I want to be sure your coverage is—" She broke off, carefully selecting her words. "Relevant," she decided, "to the work our company is doing."

"What else would it be about?" Luna asked.

Hermione blinked.

"Oh," she said. "Well, you're right, my apologies. I just meant—"

"Oh, you meant because of you," Luna realized, frowning. "Well, I can't imagine my readers have any interest in you. Not to offend you, of course," she offered kindly, "I just don't see how your private life would be important to the subject of public art."

"I—" Hermione stopped. "Yes, well, you're quite right."

"I'm sure you're a lovely person," Luna assured her, "but I'm afraid you aren't exactly the subject I had in mind when I agreed to take this meeting. My audience desires important news, breaking discoveries, the vast majority of which belong to this realm. Will that be a problem?" she asked, taking a sip of butterbeer which awarded her a temporarily dignified foam mustache.

"I… no," Hermione said tentatively. "This realm is, you know. The one I'd hoped to discuss as well."

"Well, wonderful," Luna said, blinking absently as Harry buried a laugh into his butterbeer. "Now, about this Knockturn project, do you foresee any ill-effects on the existing creatures?"

"Creatures?" Hermione echoed. "The… current residents, you mean? The businesses?"

"In part," Luna said. "Mostly, I meant the ghouls."

"Oh, uh." Hermione cleared her throat. "I'd prefer to focus on the… human occupants. With perhaps no mention of the ghouls?"

"Smart," Luna said, nodding. "Ghouls are known to be intensely private."

Beside them, Harry choked into his mug.

"So, you mentioned revitalization?" Luna prompted.

To Hermione's relief, they went on to discuss the project at length for thirty entire minutes, with very few interruptions. Once it had been made clear to Luna that they hoped to narrow the discussion to the affairs within provable reality, the journalist was extremely professional. While she took no notes and did not appear to record any of the conversation, her questions were thoughtful, succinct, and indicative of rapid, off-the-cuff critical thought, to the point where Hermione wondered if Luna were not far cleverer than her dotty appearance suggested.

"Just one more question," Luna said, reaching the end of their allotted time together. "A humanizing element is, at times, crucial to the reception of a piece. What is it that connects you to the project?"

"Oh… me?" Hermione asked, surprised. "I thought you said I wasn't going to be part of the article."

"Well, not your private life," Luna told her, giving her an owlish blink, "but this, I imagine is highly… What was your word? Relevant."

"Oh, um." Hermione cleared her throat. "Well, obviously I care very deeply about the citizens of London, and about public space—"

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning…" Hermione fumbled, a bit flustered by the question. "Meaning, well, the space people use from day to day, the geography of how people live their lives, it's all very… very fascinating, and, well—"

"What's your favorite public art space?" Luna asked. "If you were to pick something to model this project on, what would it become?"

"I—" Shit, Hermione thought. Shit, shit, shit. "Well, you know. The parks in London are just… well, it's all so, um—"

"Assuming you succeeded with this particular project," Luna said, apparently unfazed by Hermione's sudden inability to word, "what would be next for you?"

What was next for her? The question seemed to constrict her lungs. A spectacle of a wedding, Draco's voice whispered in her ear, uninvited, just as Lucius' voice shouted, NEUTRALS ONLY!

"Well." Hermione's throat was dry, and there was no way the sweetness of the butterbeer was going to help. "Um—"

"The idea isn't so much that this project would be the end-all," Harry said, cutting in smoothly as Hermione slid her palms apprehensively over her thighs. "Right, Hermione?" he asked, prompting her. "This isn't some isolated episode of gentrification. This is a project with longevity… isn't it?"

He was clearly teeing up an answer for her, and she nodded, relieved.

"Yes," she said, exhaling, "yes, of course, Harry's right. Contrary to critical opinion, our organization is built on the belief that public art is a right, or should be. People have a right to find beauty in their daily spaces, even as those spaces continue to change, and as such, our involvement has no end date. Investment should be revisited frequently over time."

The nudge from Harry had been enough to resettle her nerves. Within ten minutes, Luna seemed to be satisfied, wishing them the best of luck with the project and promising the article would be delivered to Hermione's inbox by Monday.

"I didn't expect her to be so unnerving," Hermione admitted to Harry as they left. "There's something about her eyes, I think? Or her honesty, I don't know. She's either brilliant or a lunatic, and either way it's frightening."

"Isn't it?" Harry said, mildly euphoric. "She was precisely what I hoped she'd be: totally bonkers," he said proudly, shaking his head. "She didn't disappoint."

Something about his tone of voice slithered its way into Hermione's cracked-open jar of insecurities.

"You like her," she noted, unsure why it slipped out as a grumble.

Unfortunately, Harry heard it, too, gifting her a little frown that was more amused than she would have liked. "Is that a problem?"

"You're with Ginny," she reminded him, still a little more disapproving than she'd intended, and he slid her another glance, longer this time.

"Does that bother you?" he asked after a moment, moistening his lips before holding the door open for her.

She bristled, glancing up at him. "Are you implying something?"

That, as she might have predicted, did not help. "You're the genius," he said, "not me."

She set her jaw, irritated.

"I can't leave with you," she reminded him bluntly, gesturing out the door. "I'm walking back to the office, and if we were photographed together—"

"Right." He seemed… She wasn't sure what he seemed. Her ability to read him was bogged down by convoluted knots of sensitivity she hardly knew how to process, much less verbalize. It seemed she wasn't able to put anything into words anymore. "Well, I'll see you this weekend, then."

He seemed perfectly willing to end the conversation there, but she scrubbed at her temple, frustrated with herself and unable to let that be their uneasy farewell. "I didn't mean to snap at you," she said.

"I know."

"I'm just… I don't know. Tired."

"I know."

"I'm glad you were here, honestly. You helped a lot, and I'm grateful."

A little pause, and then, "I know."

"I guess I'm just… I don't know what I am." She exhaled. "Stressed."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Anything I can help with?" he asked.

Don't go out with Luna Lovegood, demanded the petulant little voice in Hermione's head; the one growing louder by the day. And certainly don't look at her the way you look at me, it added snidely, lashing out with a mix of envy and annoyance and a pinching sense of doubt.

"No," Hermione said, clearing her throat, "I'm fine," and Harry nodded, permitting her to pass him as she made her way to the street, permitted thirteen blocks of solitude before the cameras began to flash.

The arrival of her parents, while ill-timed, was at first a relief. Daphne was in supremely high spirits, as she had been for the entire week, and even Pansy seemed better than usual.

"I think Augusta's had words with Neville," Pansy was explaining to Helen, who was a much more cheerful mannequin for Daphne's final fitting than Hermione had been. "Apparently he's been evasive with her, and naturally she won't stand for it. She thinks his restlessness is a sign he needs more exercise, so he's started playing tennis."

"And it's helping?" asked Helen.

"Well, it keeps him busier than I'd like, but it seems to be," Pansy said. "He certainly needs the practice. His swing is positively Shakespearean."

"Comedy or tragedy?" Daphne asked with her usual mouth full of pins.

"Take your pick," sniffed Pansy, prompting David to snort into his coffee.

"And what about you?" Helen asked Daphne, twisting around to glance over her shoulder amid a tousle of fabric that was part of a modest train. "Are you dating?"

"Oh, no," Daphne said, lying with an ease Hermione deeply envied. Lately when Daphne denied her involvement with Theo, even Hermione had begun to wonder if the whole thing had been an extremely vivid dream. "You know me, Lady G, too busy for boys."

"You know," Helen sighed, "I—what is it, Hermione? Ship, is it ship? Is that what the kids say?"

"Mom, please don't," said Hermione, who was promptly and unfairly ignored.

"Yes, it's 'ship,' I think—anyway, the point is I ship you and Theo," Helen told Daphne, who rolled her eyes and prompted another crisis of confidence for Hermione, who was mostly a very good person and did not deserve this sort of stress. "Won't you make me happy, please? I do so much for you, Daphne," Helen lamented. "Don't you want me to be happy?"

"Your daughter—me, by the way—is dating a prince," Hermione reminded her, exasperated.

"Yes, but that's old news," sniffed Helen, as Pansy scoffed her agreement.

While Helen and David both insisted that the constant media presence was a non-issue ("It's fine, Hermione, it's fine, sweetheart don't stress, we're perfectly capable of being hounded by paparazzi, it's what we were born for") Hermione wasn't especially able to relax. By the day of the gala, she was fussing with everything; what had once been a ritual of great excitement had become tiresome. Her hair pulled, the complicated arrangement of her bra dug into her ribs, her shoes gave her blisters in the first five minutes. Helen looked beautiful in her sleek gown with its modest slit, David looked 'fetching' (Harry's words, much to everyone but David's dismay) and while Hermione's dress had turned out perfectly, she was entirely unable to focus on the beauty of it. Instead, she gripped her champagne glass with tension, watching Theo and Daphne play at unattached banter and wishing she could fast-forward to their elopement and have it all over and done with.

"Something's got you all twitchy, New Tracey," noted Blaise, sidling up to Hermione once her agitation had already sent her mother and father wandering over to Pansy and Neville. "Didn't you read Daphne's blog post about using lavender oil to soothe your nerves?"

"God, don't remind me," said Hermione, who was two days behind on her posts. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Blaise said, raising his glass to his lips and adding, "minus twenty for lies."

She glared at him, and he sighed.

"Fine," he said. "Minus only five, then, because this is a safe space. But certainly not a rewarding one, if you continue to be so reprehensibly dour."

"There's nothing to say," Hermione grumbled, turning to face Blaise because, as she thought with resignation, this might as well happen. "I haven't gotten to see Draco yet."

"Nor have I," Blaise said with a shake of his head. "I believe only Theo and Harry have seen him."

At the moment—somewhere so far away she had to squint to see—Harry was at Draco's side, both men speaking with twin expressions of politeness to the Prime Minister and his aide. "My mother's been… difficult," Draco had told Hermione in a low voice on the phone the evening prior. "She won't tell me why, and neither will my father. Even my grandfather's warned me to behave myself, and I haven't any idea what's going on."

He'd also rushed off the call, eliminating Hermione's opportunity to potentially say, "I love you too and also I might be going crazy"—which was currently an additional conflict between her rational mind, which considered his behavior understandable, and her emotional bits, which were somewhat less (in fact, not remotely) reasonable.

"Well, I have always told you Draco's quite sensitive to trivial things like duty and responsibility," Blaise reminded Hermione, shrugging. "It's why things never worked out between us despite his obvious attraction to me," he lamented, adding slyly, "Don't worry, he seems to have developed a preference for you by now."

"I know, I know," she muttered, tightening her hand around her glass and not particularly in the mood to joke. "It's just… not a great feeling, I guess. Being over here while he's over there."

At that, Blaise gave her a surprisingly sympathetic look. "I know what you mean," he said, and then straightened, clearing his throat. "Thus, you may have ten points for relatability."

"Where's Tracey?" Hermione asked him, and Blaise shrugged.

"Pansy doesn't like her," he said.

"Pansy doesn't like anyone. She doesn't even like me."

"True," Blaise permitted, "but still. No need to antagonize her further with Old Tracey's villainous inability to wear proper statement shoes."

While almost certainly not his actual reason, Hermione opted not to press him further.

"You seem to be better," she noted. "You've seemed a little out of sorts for a bit."

"Have I?" Blaise asked, impassive. "Well, New Tracey, I'm sure there's some sort of sciencey law about this. If you're going to be out of sorts, then I certainly can't be. It's conservation of normality."

"Energy," corrected Hermione.

"Right, sure, auras and all that," Blaise agreed, sipping his champagne. "Anyway, the point is—"

"Why isn't Draco here?" Helen asked curiously, materializing on Hermione's left with a frown. "I thought he'd come over and say hello, at least."

Hermione glanced at Blaise, who busied himself with a very long sip of champagne.

"He can't," Hermione informed her mother tightly. "Rita Skeeter is here—"

"Oh, is that the reporter?"

"Yes, that's the one—"

"Is this different from the one Harry likes?"

"He doesn't like her," Hermione said, just as Blaise answered, "Yes."

"He does, doesn't he?" Helen said. "The blonde one, he told us about h-"

"The point is it's a whole thing," Hermione interrupted briskly. "Princess Narcissa's sister is coming out with a memoir and it's stressful, so Draco and I can't exactly interact publicly right now."

Helen's confusion was intensely unhelpful. "But what does that memoir have to do with you?"

"Mom, he just can't, okay?" Hermione said, bristling. "He's not talking to Daphne or Pansy, either."

"Why not? He's talking to that girl," Helen said, and Hermione blinked.

"What?"

"Her," Helen said, gesturing with her glass to where Draco was, in fact, speaking with a woman Hermione took a moment to recognize. "Who's that?"

"That's Lady Susan Bones," Blaise informed Helen, who gratifyingly turned towards him and away from Hermione. "She's one of Hortense's enemies, not that she's aware of it. Luckily Hortense's curses don't seem to stick, or at least I don't think they do. I'll have to check on that later."

"Who's Hortense?"

"Draco's cousin. Deeply mad, probably some sort of minor deity, maybe a malevolent demon. Impossible to tell at this stage of reincarnation."

"Well, that's quite a review, Blaise."

"Yes, well, she also has a brother—"

Hermione wasn't listening, focused instead on Draco, who was no longer standing with either Harry or Theo but was instead, as Helen had observed, in conversation with Lady Susan, whom Hermione could not clearly see but whom she still wanted very badly to stare at, relentlessly, until something happened. What that something was, she didn't exactly know. Maybe spontaneous combustion? Maybe Lady Susan would simply spill on her dress. Maybe she'd salaciously go in for a kiss and Hermione would then be gifted the opportunity to march up to her, shout, "HOW DARE YOU?" and march back. Maybe Draco would notice Hermione was staring and look over, smile at her, put her at ease. Maybe Rita Skeeter was watching this, too. God, Hermione thought, Rita Skeeter was definitely seeing this, she had no doubt about that. Pansy had said it, everyone had said it: Whenever Draco so much as breathed the same air as a woman, she was pregnant with the next royal heir. Hermione had been secretly carrying twin princes just last week. Now what, now it was Lady Sooz? Now there would be a blog called Soozdragon? It ought to be called snoozefest. She was boring, even Hortense thought so. Her dress was plain, her hair was fine, her face was—

Great, Hermione thought angrily, now she was that girl, making it about looks. The patriarchy was a fucking virus, it had infected all of them. No, probably Lady Susan Bones was smart or something. Probably very nice. Probably very stiff in bed. No, Hermione thought angrily, stop it. Stop. They were just talking. They were just talking, it meant nothing. Lady Susan Bones was… blonde. She was… fine. This was not about Lady Susan. Lady Susan was…

Hermione's thoughts came to a sudden halt, suddenly noticing something else. Specifically, that Prince Lucius stood off to the side near Draco and Susan, not disapproving. Not interrupting. The man who'd told Hermione not to even think of causing a scene was watching his son talk to a young, pretty-ish noblewoman in front of everyone—

And then, just as Hermione thought it, it hit her.

He'll promise you the world, Bellatrix whispered in her ear, and then, just when you feel safe, you'll see someone new at his side—

Someone docile and quiet, Bellatrix laughed, young and tame and sweet, a pretty little thing they can mold—

She'll be in the place they tell you you're not allowed, she taunted, and then—

"You okay?" Daphne said, a hand closing softly around Hermione's stiffened shoulder.

She nearly gasped, as if she'd been pulled up from the risk of drowning, and turned to find Daphne looking at her with concern stitched neatly between her brows.

"Fine," Hermione forced out, turning away to down what little remained of her champagne and leaving Blaise to entertain her mother. "Come on," she said to Daphne, exhaling sharply. "Let's go have another drink."

"What on earth are we doing?" Pansy demanded, climbing out of the car with the usual sense of dignified rage she typically had when deprived even a moment of perfect comprehension. "Daphne, you insisted this was important."

"And it is," Daphne said, gesturing for Pansy to go ahead. "You'll find out shortly, won't you?"

"This is a church," Pansy accused, glancing at Hermione, who shrugged, walking forward without a word.

She, unsurprisingly, had not slept well.

"There you are," said Draco, hurrying to reach her from where he stood with Harry, Blaise, and Theo. He took her hand, kissing her cheek, and she let him, though he pulled away with a frown. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," she said, hoping that would be that. Behind her, Pansy was making further demands, most of which were being hurled at Blaise.

Draco, meanwhile, was pressing Hermione. "You don't look fine."

"I'm fine, I'm tired."

"Is that all? Because if something's bothering you—"

It was unfortunate, she thought, that people were never content to accept 'fine' for its actual translation of 'now is not the time to press me for details,' instead foolishly inviting disaster.

For example, the thing she accidentally said next.

"My mother was curious why you were talking to Lady Susan Bones instead of me," Hermione said flatly, the words delivered without a moment's forethought to how they would land, and Draco frowned.

"What? I spoke to her for two minutes, my father—"

"Yes, your father," Hermione muttered, her stomach roiling. "Always your father, how convenient."

Even she was surprised by the sound of her own bitterness. Draco blinked, stunned.

"I don't understand, what are you—"

"It doesn't matter," Hermione said, glancing over at where Theo had taken Daphne's hand, apparently explaining everything to the others. "It's not important right now."

Draco was, rightfully, unconvinced. "Are you sure? Because if you want to talk, Hermione, we can do that. I understand it's been difficult, but—"

"What do you mean Draco and Hermione already knew?" Pansy's voice said hotly, Pansy herself glaring furiously at Daphne and Theo. "Have you both lost your minds?"

"Well, see, this was the sort of thing we were hoping to, you know. Possibly avoid," Theo said. "But carry on, I can clearly see we've miscalculated."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Pansy demanded, rounding on Daphne.

"Because, Pans, we knew you'd—"

"Have you given this even one single moment of thought?" hissed Pansy.

"—say that," Daphne finished, sighing. "Yes, Pans, we've thought about it. And anyway, doesn't this means someone wins the bet?"

"Oddly? I think it's Harry," said Blaise, looking despondent. "He put his money on you two running off together. I am evidently the only true romantic," he sighed, "as I predicted you'd commit yourselves after a long, drawn out engagement that ultimately strengthened your union, making it impervious to penetration."

"Well, not totally impervious," Harry said.

"Hermione," Draco murmured in her ear, nudging her towards him. "You can't honestly think I have any interest in Lady Susan, do you?"

"That's not the point," Hermione snapped, though she wasn't entirely sure what the point was anymore. She seemed to have lost track of it. "And anyway, this isn't the time. We can talk about it the next time you're home—What'll that be, by the way," she said sarcastically, "two months? Three?"

"Hang on. Are you actually angry about this?" Draco asked, caught somewhere between puzzled and frustrated. "I told you, this is part of a deal—I serve for a couple of years, and then once that's done—"

"Years?" Hermione echoed, abruptly thunderstruck. "Years, Draco?"

"Well—" He seemed entirely taken aback. "It's the military, Hermione, not an internship."

"Why is Harry always here, then?" fell out of her mouth, and in response, Draco frowned.

"Harry wasn't around during his first few years either, Hermione—and what does he have to do with this, anyway? Weren't you just going off about Susan Bones?"

Draco's confusion made her want to shake him, or leave. Or cry.

Mostly cry.

"You had the time to book a church," Pansy was now half-shouting at Daphne, "but you didn't have the time to explain to us why you felt this was necessary?"

"Well, it had to be a church, didn't it? We couldn't simply march into a government office with Draco and say, 'marriage please and by the by, let's just keep this between us,'—"

"Look, it's nothing," Hermione muttered to Draco. "Let's just go in, then, and—"

"It's clearly not nothing, Hermione, but I don't understand, what's going o-"

"Well," came a voice that paused all of them in their tracks. "So you were actually serious about this, then."

All seven of them turned slowly to find, of all people, the elder Theodore Nott standing in the doorway of the church.

"What," began Daphne in a whisper, "the f-"

"I didn't think he'd actually come," Theo hissed, one of his arms sliding protectively around her waist as she twisted to gape at him, their conversation audible for lack of any other sound. Behind them, Pansy, Harry, and Blaise all stood quietly, uncertain, and Draco's hand shot out to close around Hermione's.

"You told him the time and place?" Daphne whispered.

"I told you, he thought it was a joke, he laughed—"

"Well," Nott said, expression soured with disapproval. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I imagine it's just what you need, really. An annulment in two weeks, perhaps a divorce in six months. Marvelous," he scoffed, folding his arms over his chest and staring at his son before letting his attention drift to Daphne. "Wanting to get it over with, are you? Charming." His voice was absent even its falsest imitation of warmth. "I don't blame you. Are you pregnant?"

Theo's arm tightened around Daphne. "Father, please don't speak to her that w-"

"Running from something? Do you owe some sort of terrible debt?" Nott was laughing now, his voice still dry and mirthless. "I can't imagine what would compel you to marry my son unless there was something for you to gain from it, my dear."

"Father," Theo said through carefully gritted teeth, "I've already asked you, I don't care f-"

"How much do you need?" Nott asked Daphne, shifting his stance to reach into the lining of his coat. "Clever of you, picking an easy target, but still, let's be reasonable. There's no need to embarrass both your families with something like this. My son is—"

"Don't you dare," Daphne said, her voice dangerously soft. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

Hermione caught Pansy's wide-eyed look of shock across the room and recalled, as she regularly forgot, that with the way her friends had all been raised, Daphne had just done something quite unheard of. There had been no curtsy, no lowered gaze. Daphne was staring defiantly at Theo's father, nudging Theo's arm away to undergo a step that brought them closer, she the young woman challenging a man who, for all intents and purposes, ranked nearer to a king.

"I don't want your money," Daphne said evenly to Nott. "I have my own. And even if I didn't, I wouldn't require a cent from you, and I certainly wouldn't want it. The greatest contribution of your life, whether you see it or not, is that you are the father of your son, and as far as I'm concerned, any value you possess begins and ends there."

Nott's mouth twisted. "If you think you can—"

"You know, I don't particularly care what you have to say," Daphne cut in, coolly dispassionate in a way Hermione desperately wished she could applaud, or perhaps bottle for herself for later use. "You forfeited the privilege of my consideration—yes, the privilege," she snapped when Nott opened his mouth to argue, "when you mistook me for someone you could bully like you do everyone else. I don't have the time or the energy to explain to you how thoroughly you have wasted my time, nor do I plan to waste one second further. I'm in love with your son, he's in love with me, and your opinion, your approval or disapproval, is no concern of either of ours. I hate to think I'll be forced to associate with you, seeing as you've humiliated your family to unimaginable lengths purely by everything you've said and done, but if that's the cost of a life with your son, I'm more than happy to pay it."

"Goodbye," Daphne finished, gesturing Nott to the door, and though he was visibly vibrating with rage, it was obviously a losing battle. There was no question he would only make a fool or a brute of himself by responding, and the moment that became clear, Nott spared his son a final glare.

"Have her, then," he said flatly, and turned around, letting the door swing wide as he went.

Even after he'd gone, the others remained frozen, eerily silent. Theo, the first to snap out of his paralysis, took a tentative step towards Daphne, who was staring blankly at the door.

"Greengrass," he said softly, and she whipped around, suddenly pink with the fury she'd restrained in Nott Sr's presence.

"We're having a wedding, Theo Nott," she said between her teeth, "and it's going to be enormous."

Theo cleared his throat. "Greengrass, if this is about what just h-"

"The dress is going to have a train," she seethed, jabbing at him like a threat. "I'm going to have a cathedral veil. The flowers are going to cost a fortune. If I have to bankrupt both our families, so be it, Nott, it's happening—I'm going to say 'I do' under a BLOODY FLORAL ARCH," she shouted at him, suddenly incensed, "AND YOUR WANKER OF A FATHER IS GOING TO WATCH ME DO IT!"

"Greengrass," Theo said, stunned, but clearly, she wasn't done.

"HE'S GOING TO SIT FRONT AND CENTER," Daphne continued to rant, now pacing back and forth, "WHILE I TELL EVERYONE THAT I LOVE YOU, THAT I CHOOSE YOU, AND WHEN IT'S OVER, I'M GOING TO STAB HIM WITH THE CAKE KNIFE—"

"Daphne, you had me at cathedral veil," Theo said, half-stumbling to reach for her, but to everyone's immense surprise, it was Pansy who barreled into her first.

"You wretched beast," Pansy said, arms thrown around Daphne's neck as Daphne, meanwhile, seemed to have been jarred back to sanity, staring over Pansy's shoulder to look at Hermione with obvious confusion. "You little demon. Finally. Finally—"

"A wedding," Draco murmured in Hermione's ear. "I suppose it's about time our group had one of those."

She glanced over her shoulder at him, catching the look of contentment on his face and, with a sigh, letting his obvious happiness chip away at the frustration that had been there before.

"You do realize you and I are going to be dragged into all of this, don't you?" she reminded him. "You heard her use the words 'enormous wedding,' after all."

Draco shrugged, still smiling. "Is that so bad?" he asked, gesturing to where Blaise and Harry had joined the dogpile of an embrace Pansy had started, and Hermione sighed again, spirits slightly lifted.

"No, I suppose not," she admitted, tugging his hand to pull him towards their friends.

Just as she took a step, however, Draco's phone buzzed in his pocket.

"Sorry," he said with a wince, pausing her as he hurried to glance at the screen. "It's just—"

Hermione, who knew before he even said a word that it was his father, felt a tired opposition rear its ugly head inside her chest, gripping tightly around her ribs. She opened her mouth to argue, about to beg, plead, snap—for once, she wanted to rail at him, can't this wait?—until she saw the color drain from his face.

"It's out," he mumbled, half to himself. "The book."

"What book?" Hermione said, but he had already raised his phone to his ear.

"How is it?" he said without greeting, releasing Hermione's fingers to wander into a more remote corner of the room as she watched, the sounds of her friends' celebration fading to white noise at her back. "You're sure?"

She held her breath from afar, still keeping a distance from the others. She had the sense, oddly, like a woman on a tightrope, that until Draco returned to her side things would simply teeter on the narrow line of a precipice, left to fall one way or another from whatever he said next.

Draco approached her after another minute, hanging up the phone, and even if he'd said nothing, his face would have confirmed everything she'd suspected.

"The memoir is out," Draco said. "And it's bad."

A piece of advice I never knew until I became part of it: the royal family is hit by rumors constantly, new ones every day, so purely as a matter of practicality, they really only bother to deny rumors if they're true.

Which, by reading Rita's coverage, should tell you a lot about what was coming next.

a/n: Another installment of Olivie Blake is Not Writing is up on youtube! Also, some things to consider: this month's Witch Way Magazine story involves a bisexual lady vampire, a roguish male witch, and a newcomer to New Orleans who is about to be very sexually confused. Thanks as ever for reading!

25. Exposition

Chapter 25: Exposition

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Love in the Time of Public Consumption

With the Palace's reluctance to release any details about the nature of Hermione and Prince Draco's relationship, the entire country gradually fell into a state of ravenous curiosity, scavenging for want of news. Ironically, it was during this time of nescience that Hermione's influence on digital media became increasingly undeniable. With the rise of social media and blogging, Hermione's public presence, however unenlightening, was practically synonymous with the dawn of guerrilla 'journalism,' with all such content voraciously speculating whether a royal proposal was indeed impending. It became nearly impossible to go anywhere without further commentary as to the truth of Prince Draco's intentions, and with the release of Lady Bellatrix Lestrange's shocking memoir, Sister Cunning, Sister Fair: Dark Truths from the House of Black, the prospect of Hermione as the next Princess of Wales became an unavoidable source of idle gossip.

By the time the two were seen attending the wedding of Lady Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott, Earl of Arundel and inheriting Duke of Norfolk, it seemed the public was already quite convinced Hermione would be their future queen consort, with the department store Twilfitt and Tattings going so far as to begin selling engagement paraphernalia in advance of any such betrothal. Sources close to the couple say that due to the heightened scrutiny and the intensely low approval ratings for the monarchy, this period was a crucial one for Draco and Hermione's relationship. Indeed, their "deep love, which was undeniable even to the blindest of observers, was no doubt taking flight, grounded as it was by their mutual love of literature—which I, of course, coincidentally happened to teach them," says Horace Slughorn, former professor and close mentor.

Well, per usual, leave it to Rita to be entirely wrong about positively everything, nothing new there. I think, dreadful as it will inevitably be, the best way to go about unpacking this particular year in our lives will be to process it slowly, one person at a time.

September 27, 2014
London, England

Hermione suspected she would always think of that particular year as The Year of Difficulty, which was in fact so disastrous as to split itself in pieces just to accommodate everything that went wrong.

The year began (or rather, the previous year ended, spilling over into the new year as the story continually picked up steam) with the release of Lady Bellatrix Lestrange's memoir, Sister Cunning, Sister Fair: Dark Truths from the House of Black. It was less a memoir than it was a nasty retelling of the childhood, adolescence, and furtive romances belonging to the Black sisters, including an extremely detailed (graphic, even) account of their respective relationships with the Prince of Wales. Bellatrix and Lucius, introduced by a mutual friend after the latter finished at university, had had a whirlwind affair, the circumstances of their liaison hazy from the start. Bellatrix was already nearly engaged, she wrote, and only after being seen cavorting with Prince Lucius did she agree to break off the agreement with her then-suitor and future husband Rodolphus Lestrange, who held some sort of peerage Hermione could never remember. Bellatrix was, as she called herself, a modern woman from the start. She embraced her sexuality, her passions, her voice. She was open about her affairs with men both before and after Prince Lucius and, to the royal family's dismay, she was no less happy to discuss the times the country's future king had found himself entangled in her bed.

It was always known to us that we could never be together, Bellatrix wrote, but what was born from two such inquisitive minds could not be denied, nor did I ever imagine it would end. How wrong I was! Before Lucius, I would have never believed my own sister capable of such terrible betrayal. Did I suspect her of possessing an eye for my lover, envious as she had always been of the attention paid to me? Yes, of course, but I would have begrudged my sister nothing, and I thought she'd feel the same. But where Narcissa is undeniably beautiful, her loveliness hides a spiteful nature, a cruelty unfathomable even to me who knew her best, and though she knew of my love for Lucius, she did not hesitate to steal him away.

Worse even than the passages damning Narcissa were the ones highlighting Bellatrix's extramarital affairs—particularly the one concerning Lucius, which, while previously only rumored, was now substantiated by laboriously articulated details. Each alleged correspondence was carefully dated, as was each individual liaison, as if Bellatrix had always known this day would come.

I long for you, said one letter from Lucius, handwritten and on display in the book. Nothing has been the same since I was in your arms; I hardly know who I am without you. Bellatrix's reply, encouraging him to see her privately, was hardly met with ironclad resolve. I wish, I wish I could, Lucius said initially, which slowly turned to, We shouldn't, which eventually became, I can't stand it any longer, I have to see you, I have to touch you just to find myself, I swear I'm going mad.

Bellatrix was either a sadistically compelling writer or genuinely emotional, and it was difficult to tell which. She closed her book with an expression of sadness that she had been so quick to turn on Andromeda, the middle Black sister who'd never caused her any pain. For Narcissa, painted throughout as the villain of the book, Bellatrix was filled with sorrow and remorse, claiming that she wished she had not been the source of her sister's misery. Strangely, though, the most inexplicably ruinous part of the book's contents were its concluding lines:

I used to blame my sister for my unhappiness, and blame Lucius, as well. It has taken me until now, upon the loss of my lover, my husband, and my fortune, to realise my true enemy was always this: The belief that, for being a woman, I could never be myself. The idea, the very concept, that I must always apologise for what I truly was, and further, that when I refused, I would be punished for my crimes by the very institution we entrust with honor, reverence, and faith—the monarchy itself—which so easily made judgments about how a woman should be a woman.

It is my great wish that now, finally, a new era is dawning. Perhaps times are changing. Prince Draco has chosen to love a woman of incredible spirit, whose intelligence and thoughtfulness are her loveliest features; a woman whom I was never permitted to be. It is my deepest desire that my own suffering, great as it has been throughout my life, has allowed another woman of my same materials to rise, unburdened.

None of which Hermione read herself, of course. She hadn't been planning to touch the book at all, but within weeks it was impossible to escape any mention of it. Rita Skeeter, gleeful vulture that she was, quoted Bellatrix like she was Shakespeare, or the bible. Every article, no matter how unrelated, seemed to cite Bellatrix's book.

The effects of the book's release were… abysmal, to say the least. The monarchy's approval rating, already wavering for as long as Hermione had known Draco, dropped a staggering percentage. It seemed people either hated the monarchy for its destruction of the pure, desperately impassioned love between Bellatrix and Lucius or, worse, because it was now (pause for pearl-clutching) abandoning its principles by making Hermione Granger, totally un-posh McDonald's-eating, Kardashians-watching, keen-eyed Scavenger of Royal Dick the implausible—nay, inevitable—inheriting consort.

Primarily, the suffering related to Bellatrix's memoir belonged to Narcissa and Lucius, for distinctly different reasons. It wasn't as if they were the only ones who were addressed within the book—Bellatrix had gone so far as to suggest King Abraxas and Theo's father were in some sort of romantic or at least sexual relationship, for which the only evidence she bothered to cite was 'her possession of eyes'—but they were, without a doubt, the targets of near-immediate damage.

Hermione was, of course, not permitted anywhere near Narcissa, but she heard plenty of details about the Princess of Wales' subsequent breakdown. As far as psychological meltdowns went, it was pretty standard; a little screaming, some crying, mild to moderate property damage, a few accusations that Lucius was having her followed and reporting on her movements to his courtesan (Bellatrix, presumably, though Draco glossed over that in his retelling, fixating mostly on 'courtesan' because, as he said, "She just really painted a portrait, you know?"), two or three attempts to flee, and one highly publicized visit by Abraxas which Draco was expressly forbidden to attend.

For Lucius, who had already been unraveling, this was a time of coldness; from the media, who were positively icy in their treatment of him, and from his family, as well. While publicly nothing was said outside of vague, guilty-sounding denial—"HRH The Prince of Wales does not wish to speak about any of the misinformation propagated by Lady Bellatrix Lestrange and hopes the privacy of his family will continue to be respected"—Hermione understood that Draco, Narcissa, and even Abraxas seemed to be aligned in their attribution of blame.

"This wouldn't have happened if you'd just done what we all suggested and paid her off," was Theo's father's take on the situation, reported to them cheerfully by Theo himself, who seemed only able to discuss his father in cheerful tones now that the elder Nott had been dragged into the fray. In Nott Sr's view, the worst of it was the neediness in Lucius' letters; if it had been pictures of his erect penis, fine, as Theo loosely paraphrased, but the concept of needing Bellatrix was the most damning evidence of all.

For months—as the situation simmered within the royal family—Draco's stress was heightened, both because of the now-confirmed infidelities on his father's part (with his aunt, of all people) and because of his Abraxas' coolness towards Lucius. With his father appearing less frequently in public, Draco's appearances were particularly noteworthy, prompting him to invest more fully in his military service that was, by necessity, confidential. During the early months of 2014, Draco was commissioned as a lieutenant and sent away for training, allowing him to focus on something other than his parents' marriage, which the press claimed (correctly) was unraveling further every day; or his own marriage, which they claimed (less correctly) was impending. It seemed to Hermione that Draco was increasingly finding his time away from London to be a relief, rather than the other way around.

But that, of course, is part of someone else's story.

Around March, they found out some extremely unsettling news about Blaise. They had all understood, in some abstract way, that for all his extroversion Blaise was intensely private, even secretive. He would often disappear from time to time, various degrees of unreachable during the day until he chose to make himself available, and that had always been an aspect of his personality accepted by the others.

It was alarming, then, to discover the truth of what he was up to in his spare time.

"You have a what?" Hermione said, startled.

"A job," Blaise repeated, and the others stared at him, entirely flummoxed. "Anyway," he added, adjusting the tie nobody knew he owned outside of necessary costuming, "if that's all—"

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD," shouted Theo, who had, in fact, called the others (minus Draco, who was in training, and Pansy, who was spending time with her parents) for a meeting about Blaise's whereabouts after he hadn't been seen or heard from for three consecutive days. "What do you mean you have a job?" he demanded, and then more hysterically, "What are you even trained in?"

"Minus ten, Theodore, seeing as I thought you were aware we went to university together," Blaise said coolly, to which Theo made a sort of trumpeting sound of disbelief that required Daphne to begin soothingly stroking the top of his head. "Why is it so surprising I'd have a career? I'm not an earl, Theodore, and minus an additional ten for failing to notice. Not your finest performance, frankly—"

"Still, I can't believe you didn't tell us," Hermione said, feeling a slight undercurrent of disturbance at the idea that Blaise, her loudest, brashest friend, was also apparently the one she knew the least about. "Where do you work?"

"I'm an investment broker," Blaise said, which prompted another incoherent eruption from Theo. "I have a few select clients, mostly friends of my mother. She seems to want me to expand but, obviously, I have other commitments."

"Why didn't you ever mention it?" Daphne asked.

"I doubted you would find it interesting," Blaise replied. "Would you like to see my suggested investments for the year?"

"No," they said, collectively certain.

"Understandable," Blaise said curtly. "No points."

Among Blaise's 'other commitments'—aside from the rapidly deteriorating mental stability loosely belonging to Theo—continued to be Tracey Davis, though she was rarely around when the rest of them were present. Pansy was especially vocal about her dislike of Tracey, which Hermione began to suspect was increasingly an issue of jealousy. The more Blaise yielded his time to Tracey, the more furious Pansy got, as if losing her position at the center of Blaise's world had unsteadied her and the only way to resume existence was to lash out, striking him. Neville, who was usually present, said very little. By then, he seemed to be used to Pansy's outbursts and no longer appeared startled by them, assuring Blaise that everything was fine, Pansy loved him, that was all. Blaise usually replied with clipped, disinterested phrases.

"Don't worry, she's not mad at you, she's mad at me," Neville would say, "she's just taking it out on you."

"Yes, I know she's mad at you. I know her better than you, don't I?"

"Well, it's hardly a competition."

"Isn't it?"

Hermione noted that unlike the others, Blaise did not give or take points from Neville. It was instead as if the two were playing a completely separate game, entirely divided from the others.

"Just stay out of it, would you?"

"Stay out of what?"

"If Pansy wants to be cross with me, that's her business and mine."

"And it isn't my business that my girlfriend's happy?"

At that point Blaise would usually make a flippant remark, cutting Neville out of the conversation altogether and turning to Daphne, increasingly present, or Hermione, increasingly silent. Hermione generally found it bizarre that the meaner Pansy got, the more tolerant Blaise was of her—making excuses for her, consoling her, doubling down on his affections. Inevitably she would calm, join his side again, and then both of them would return to harassing Neville. But the moment the mention of Tracey or even a hint of Tracey herself came up—a hair tie left on the ground, a single blonde strand on the sofa cushions—Pansy's expression would go grim again, as if she were grinding her thoughts finely between her teeth.

It turned out Blaise was actually quite good at his job. By the beginning of summer (once Hermione had made an effort to actually pay attention to his work) he'd moved into a bigger office, even beginning to work fairly regular hours. She started spending more time with Blaise alone, finding that they were going through something similar. Blaise was losing Theo, just like Hermione was losing Daphne, and both were having to consider what came next.

"We could live together," Hermione suggested one day over lunch, pausing her chopsticks in her box of takeaway as Blaise smiled his cheshire smile at her. "Couldn't we? I mean, you need a flatmate, I need a flatmate…"

"Well, New Tracey, much as I enjoy your company, I doubt it would cast too favorable a light on you," Blaise pointed out, which made Hermione want to lie down on the floor and moan a bit about injustice. "If Rita Skeeter caught wind of you living with a man? Ha," he scoffed with a wave of his chopsticks. "The Prince of Darkness would rise with all his hellhounds."

"Fine," she grumbled, opting not to mention what Prince Lucifer (and his hellhounds for that matter, though she was loath to subject his metaphorical familiars to the same fate; what had they done, after all, but be metaphorically born that way?) could very well go hang. "What are you going to do, then?"

"Live alone, I expect," Blaise said. "I can afford the rent."

(She, on the other hand, could not.)

"Yes, but won't you be lonely?"

Blaise considered that for a long moment, staring somewhat pensively into space.

"No," he said after a moment, setting down his lo mein. "I suspect Hortense and Thibaut will haunt me vigorously enough. But plus twenty for your consideration of my feelings," he added, angling his chopsticks in her direction. "You're a good friend, New Tracey."

"You should really stop calling me that," Hermione sighed, noting that it didn't seem to be Old Tracey's favorite thing. She had never been a fan of their little circle, but she seemed to dislike Hermione most of all; more even than Pansy, though Hermione figured it was safer, as a survival instinct, to simply stay out of Pansy's way.

"And how goes everything else?" Blaise asked Hermione, leaning back in his chair. "Everything fine with the disaster twins?"

(He meant Theo and Daphne, who were a story best saved until later.)

"Fine. Just, you know. An inseparable maelstrom, nothing new."

"Yes, yes, I'm familiar. And Draco?"

(Also better left for a more opportune time.)

"Nothing new since Monday," she said.

"Your job? How are things with Susan?"

(Nope, nope, nope.)

"Fine, everything's fine. Have you talked to Pansy recently?"

"Yes, saw her yesterday."

"Anything new to report?"

"No, just the same Pansy. I'd give her points for consistency, only I suspect that would become redundant."

"Have you spoken to Harry much?"

(Hermione, for instance, had not.)

"He rang me this morning. Are you still not talking?"

"We're, you know. We're not not-talking, I'm just busy. We're both busy."

"Ah, I see."

And so it would go, so on and so forth for most of the summer, with very little change. Sometimes they would discuss, in further detail, either his job or hers. It was something they had in common, the idea that they had to work. That working, or having a job, was less a choice for them than a necessity. Blaise had the money, or could get it, but he wasn't cut from the same cloth as the others; he was wealthy, not aristocratic, and therefore his not possessing a career path looked something closer to laziness than centuries of land ownership (or however it was that earldoms were lucrative). Hermione felt a sense of kinship with him over that, a bond, and despite appearances that Blaise was doing quite well—perhaps the best of all of them, in fact—she couldn't help the feeling he, like herself, was concealing some very painful struggle.

"Tell you what," Blaise said one day, when Hermione showed up for their usual weekly takeaway lunch in his office. "Why don't we go on a little holiday after the wedding?"

"Really?" Hermione asked, surprised; it wasn't as if they were close. The lunches with him were the highlight of her workweek, but still, it was fairly understood between the two of them that they were not each other's intimate go-tos. Daphne was still Hermione's best friend; Blaise was still part of his boyhood band of brothers with Draco, Theo, and Harry, and when Pansy was amenable, she was closest to him. "Just you and me?"

"Sure, why not? We deserve it," he said drily, "after all we've done for our respective flatmates."

"I—" Hermione considered it. "Really?"

"Yes, really, and minus ten for doubting me," Blaise said with a laugh. "Nothing too monstrous, just a bit of time to get away from London. The disaster twins will be busy consummating their eternal love," he said, waving a hand, "whilst Pansy and Neville will be doing whatever Pansy and Neville do—"

"Communing with the dead," Hermione suggested. "Negotiating with demons."

"—yes, precisely, and Draco will be—"

"Elsewhere," Hermione said grimly, chewing her lip. "So yes, I suppose that does leave us, doesn't it?"

Blaise made a little hand motion of, yes, so, what do you think? and Hermione, surprisingly, felt the idea settle comfortably into her head.

"What about Tracey?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"She'll live," he said, though what Hermione suspected he meant was she's not important.

In July, while Hermione was preparing to move out of hers and Daphne's flat into an apartment of her own that she completely couldn't afford, she made a pact with Blaise: After Daphne and Theo's wedding, the two of them would take a trip somewhere else. They would leave London behind for at least a week to luxuriate somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere or in Atlantis or wherever they could find to give them some place of otherness. In other words, a temporary escape for both parties, and though Hermione still wasn't sure why Blaise seemed to need it as badly as she did, she began to think of it fondly; as in: Soon I'll be on vacation with Blaise, or sure, this is annoying now, but it'll be worth it when Blaise and I are drinking mai tais on a beach somewhere, otherwise occupied.

Then Pansy got engaged.

It was mid-August, unbearably hot and horrifically humid, when Neville suddenly interrupted the dinner they were all having (minus Draco and Harry) to suddenly drop to one knee beside Pansy, taking her hand and uttering, to everyone's disbelief, "Pansy Parkinson, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Well, hold on. Perhaps the story would be better told a few steps back.

It was no secret, obviously, that Pansy had been waiting for Neville to propose for an inventory of multiple years by that point, which is perhaps why none of the others actually expected him to do it. It seemed a conciliatory proposal would be the obvious solution to Pansy's semi-permanent bad mood; thus, the longer Neville put it off, the more the others were certain he was never actually going to do it. What was he waiting for, after all? It soon settled into their collective consciousness that Neville Longbottom, despite wanting so badly to please Pansy—despite devoting himself to her, her fluctuating tempers, and her violently changing moods—was never going to propose, and that would simply be that.

For a time, Hermione wondered if Pansy herself believed this to be true and was simply walking around in a daze, sensitive to every impact. "You could move in with me," Hermione suggested gently, and though Pansy was usually clever enough (or, at least, intuitive enough) to know Hermione meant, PLEASE DEAR GOD DO NOT MAKE ME LIVE ALONE I AM ONLY A HAPLESS INFANT, Pansy retorted with brusque and malicious impatience.

"Why, because I'm going to be alone forever, is that it?"

"No, of course not, I'm just asking—"

"You'd better give up on this fantasy of a happy ending, Hermione," Pansy snapped. "I told you a thousand times, he's never going to marry you, he can say it all he likes but it's simply not happening. Better to move on with your life, do something else. Go to law school if you want, go back to California," she said listlessly, and Hermione blinked, fighting tears. She was used to Pansy's meanness, but it had never felt so sincere before. She was used to having to read Pansy's subtexts, but this time, her belief that Hermione should leave seemed genuine, and not particularly well-intentioned.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Pansy growled. "If you're going to be so sensitive you'll never make it, Hermione, they'll eat you alive."

Then she stalked off, irritated with Hermione's muted dismay, and eventually, it grew to the point where the two of them wouldn't speak for days, sometimes never going beyond cordiality. With Daphne, however, Pansy was a completely different person, clinging to her side as if she or, bizarrely, even Astoria could somehow give her whatever lady secrets that neither Pansy nor Hermione appeared to have.

"What is going on?" Daphne seethed through her teeth the day she and Hermione accidentally bumped into a bizarre portrait of a brunch featuring Pansy, Astoria, and Lady Susan Bones, all perfectly made up and discussing in hushed tones something that was likely—based on what Hermione had been overhearing between a bored-to-death Daphne and a chattering Pansy—the society events of the upcoming fall. "Honestly, what is she doing?"

"You're the only one she talks to now, aside from Neville," Hermione said with a grimace, tugging Daphne back into the street and turning to find another cafe before they were spotted. "Even Blaise says she sometimes doesn't answer his calls."

"Yesterday Draco said she seemed better," Daphne said thoughtfully, and Hermione blinked.

"You talked to Draco?"

"Only briefly," Daphne said quickly, "and only about the wedding."

"I don't care if you talk to him, Daph, I told you, we're fine."

(Strange to think now Hermione was the one saying things like: We're fine, everything's fine, I'm not upset, don't worry. The days of Daphne reassuring Hermione seemed long, long behind them.)

"Well, the point is she's either doing a very good job of putting on a show for Draco or he knows something we don't," Daphne said, while Hermione thought it could just as well be either, or perhaps both.

Then, just before Daphne's wedding Pansy got engaged and, like magic, she warped into a completely different person; one that was neither who she'd been before she'd met Neville nor who she'd been since. She was Engaged Pansy, a new and stranger version who was always serene, never picking fights, always generous with her time and her thoughts and her praise, never expressing any malcontent.

This Pansy, more than the others, terrified Hermione. For the first time she was skirting Pansy's calls, avoiding her when she made surprise visits (first to the flat Hermione and Daphne shared and then to Hermione's flat she occupied alone), until one day Pansy called four times in a row, insistent.

"Hermione, I need you to come with me on an errand, don't bother to refuse," she said in the voicemail. "I'll meet you at your office this evening."

The errand, it turned out, was to bring Pansy's engagement ring to a jeweler.

"Why?" Hermione asked, naturally.

"It doesn't fit, it needs to be resized."

"Oh," Hermione said, surprised. "Why did you need me to come?"

"Must I need a reason?" Pansy sniffed.

"I didn't even know it didn't fit. I thought you liked it?"

"Of course I like it—Neville can't make a single decision on his own, I picked it out for him ages ago—but still, he got the wrong size."

"Really? Let me see it, are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure, Hermione, please. It's on my finger, isn't it? Besides, Astoria says it looks big."

"Since when do you care what Astoria thinks?"

"I'm just saying, Hermione, I'm not the only one who thinks so."

"I know you aren't, but it's been a few weeks now. I'm just surprised."

"Well, you're busy, you haven't been paying attention."

"Fine, okay, but let me just look, I could have sworn—"

"IT DOESN'T FIT," Pansy shouted, and immediately, as if Hermione had inadvertently broken some sort of fragile case containing Pansy's emotions, she drew back, almost wounded, and shrieked, "It's all wrong, don't you understand? It's not right, it's not right, I just need to get it fixed right now, I need you to come with me, I need—"

"Pansy," Hermione said, tugging her into a boutique to escape the photographers that, as usual, were lingering on the street. She picked up a blouse, pretending to look at it, and with her free hand reached down to grip Pansy's hand, wrapping her fingers tightly around Pansy's knuckles. "Pans, take a breath—"

"It doesn't fit," Pansy repeated numbly, sounding a bit broken, and Hermione snatched a handful of hangers off the rack before dragging her into the fitting rooms. She hastily slid the curtain shut as Pansy stumbled in with her, impassive. "It's all wrong," Pansy said again, staring down at her perfectly manicured finger as if it no longer belonged to her, and for lack of any conceivable understanding, Hermione took her hand gently, eyeing the ring.

The diamond gleamed. Pansy herself was perfectly put together, like usual, and the platinum band (betraying evidence of Pansy's flawless taste) fit loosely but not too loose. Pansy herself, however, had a wild look in her eye, like her brain itself had been the thing to rattle out of place, spinning around inside her skull.

"Hermione, you can't leave me," Pansy was mumbling, tightening her fingers around Hermione's. "Promise you won't leave, promise me—"

"I won't leave, Pansy, I won't. I'm right here."

"You should, you know. You should get out, you're too clever for the rest of us. You shouldn't be here but it's too late, you are, so don't go."

"Yes, Pans, I'm here—"

"He's lying to me," Pansy whispered. There it was, Hermione thought, holding her breath. "I don't know what he's lying about, but I don't think he's what he says he is. It's like he's changed shapes or he's a different color or something and he thinks I don't notice, he thinks I don't feel it—"

"What do you mean?"

Pansy shut her eyes. "I don't know," she said hoarsely. "I can't… I don't know. I'm not a monster, Hermione, I swear, I'm not—"

"Of course you aren't! Pansy—"

"He's so good, isn't he?" she begged, and she seemed to genuinely be asking, pleading with Hermione to tell her whether or not it was true. "He's good, isn't he?"

Hermione couldn't help it; she checked Pansy's arms, scoured her for damage, just in case. It seemed that, for a moment, Pansy had been gripped with a terrible fear, and in the same moment, Hermione had gotten caught up in it, too. As if Neville could have magically been gripping Pansy from afar, holding so tightly there would be little vines, tiny welts to prove whatever he'd done to her most confident, smartest, and secretly kindest friend.

"Is he hurting you?" Hermione asked, half-holding her breath, and only then did a glimpse of the old Pansy return to her dark, scattered gaze.

"No, no, of course not. Neville? He wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Pans." Hermione sighed, pulling a rigid Pansy into her arms. "You don't have to marry him," she said, holding fiercely to Pansy's unyielding frame. "You really don't."

Pansy stiffened. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, sliding coolly from Hermione's embrace and adjusting her hair, her bracelets. As if they'd been met with some sort of storm that had passed, and now she was putting everything back in its place.

They never spoke about what happened that day in the shop, but after that day, Pansy seemed much more subdued, and Hermione stopped avoiding her calls. They had less than a month until Theo and Daphne's wedding, and besides, both had other things on their minds without holding onto any ill-feelings towards each other. Their friendship resumed, warily at first, and then with the comfort they'd previously possessed.

"Susan Bones is such a bore," Pansy said one day out of nowhere, prompting Hermione to look up from where she was finishing up an email to Minerva. "Honestly, the idea anyone could possibly prefer her to you is absolutely ludicrous."

Immediately, Hermione's eyes filled with tears, which she quickly and hurriedly suppressed.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, clearing her burning throat. "I think Susan's nice."

"She isn't nice," Pansy corrected, flipping the page of her magazine. "She's ordinary."

And Hermione, who knew better than to say something as idiotic as 'thank you,' merely smiled, returning her attention to her computer screen before picking up her phone, selecting Blaise's name from her contacts.

Maybe we shouldn't go on holiday right after Theo and Daphne's wedding, she said. Shouldn't we stay with Pansy, just in case she needs us for her wedding or something?

Blaise's response was short, perfunctory: We'll see if that actually happens.

Hermione blinked, surprised, and then Blaise followed up with, By the way, Harry's coming by my office tomorrow. Still planning to come to lunch?

Hermione considered it, toying with her hair as she pondered it.

"Put the hair down, Hermione, honestly," said Pansy, not even looking up from her magazine as she flipped a page. "You're not a little girl, are you?"

Hermione sighed, flashing Pansy a glare that Pansy ignored, and typed back to Blaise.

No, I can't tomorrow. But tell Harry I say hi.

The trouble with Harry started, as Hermione had known it would, at the same time she began working with Luna Lovegood. Initially, Harry's interest in Luna was purely related to the articles she promised Hermione: one, the one they'd discussed over butterbeers—which was surprisingly coherent, given everything Hermione now understood about the other woman—and another, following up on the projects two months later in the early months of the year. Let me see! Harry would insist via email, and Hermione would forward them along to him. Well, I'd hoped for goblins, he would reply with disappointment, but I suppose this is good, too.

Around January, a new slew of articles began coming out, showcasing another drop in favor for Harry and, for the first time, the rest of Draco's family as a result. Prince Harry and Ginny Weasley on the rocks again, the headlines declared, featuring old pictures of Harry frollicking with scantily-clad girls in clubs and Ginny, toned and tan and with her long red hair streaming down her back, looking furious. While this was nothing particularly new for Harry, it coincided unfavorably with Lucius' portrayal in the papers as being similarly unfaithful, and for the first time Harry, too, was the subject of enmity from Lucius and Abraxas. The royal family is positively awash in immorality and privilege, wrote Rita Skeeter, delighted as always to find scandals afoot. All that money and power and they're no better than a seventeenth century French court. It's a good thing Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger have no sisters, or perhaps Prince Draco and Prince Harry would be on a mad dash to make history repeat itself!

Harry wasn't entirely without defense. The trivialities of personal complexities we can neither know nor possibly fathom is as pointless as trying to identify nargles in empty air, Luna Lovegood wrote in February, an article which Hermione had thought at first was meant to defend her. We can't even name all the creatures in the sea, Luna insisted, and certainly (despite my best efforts) nobody's found any reported evidence of wrackspurts. How can we claim to know what exists in the private lives of public figures?

"Thank you, by the way, for your article," Hermione said to Luna the next time they met, finding the butterbeer slightly less unnerving this time. They were starting a new project, as always—Minerva was nearly as addicted to motion as Oliver; she hid it better, being significantly less of a maniac, but it was no wonder the two were such kindred spirits—and Minerva had suggested Hermione touch base with that 'Loony or whatever her name is' in advance of their next fundraising effort. "I really appreciated your support in the midst of all this nonsense."

"Yes, well, Harry didn't particularly want me to submit it for publication," Luna mused in admission, startling Hermione with mention of him. "He insisted it wasn't bothering him in the slightest, but personally I've never cared for poor journalism. A bit of a pet peeve of mine, lies."

"I—" Hermione stopped, clearing her throat. "You spoke to Prince Harry?"

"Oh, occasionally during the day," Luna said, apparently unaware how disconcerting this information was for Hermione. "He seems to like being informed what I'm working on. He has such a marvelous capacity for appreciating the banalities of existence—you know, disagreements within mermaid tribes, plants which can be used to breathe underwater—actually no, not that one so much," she corrected herself, frowning. "It's odd, but as soon as I discussed my experiments in the arena of fresh water exploration he rushed off the call."

"Did he?" Hermione asked, half-listening.

"Yes, it was so strange, I was merely telling him it's quite cold in Loch Katrine, next time clothes of some sort would be a necessity—"

"How often do you talk to him?" Hermione cut in, and Luna shrugged.

"Whenever he wants to talk," she said, impassive, and pressing Hermione tangentially, "Now, what was it you wanted to discuss? Another Knockturn project?"

"Yes, but about Harry, are you—" Hermione hesitated. "Is it… romantic between you, or—?"

This seemed to puzzle Luna deeply. "Romantic how?"

"Oh, you know, um. Never mind," Hermione said with a laugh, flushed with embarrassment. "I suppose Harry wouldn't be a chocolate and flowers kind of guy, would he?" she said, more to herself than to Luna. "It does seem a silly choice of words, now that I think about it."

"I vastly preferred the sex to the chocolates," Luna said without batting an eye, "and as I informed him, I have little use for flowers. Anyway, Knockturn?"

Hermione had scarcely waited an hour past the meeting to call Harry, unsure what she wanted to say until he'd already picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"You're fucking Luna Lovegood?!" she shouted, and Harry cleared his throat, the sound in the background fading as he made his way somewhere quieter.

"Nice to hear from you, Hermione," he said, and she could tell through the phone he was wearing his Prince Harry smile, probably smelling of jasmine and torment from wherever he was on the other end. "How's the weather in London this evening?"

"We work together, Harry, this is totally unprofessional—"

"What is?"

"You can't just sleep with people, Harry," she hissed, "you're supposed to be with Ginny!"

He was quiet for a moment.

"You're upset on Ginny's behalf again, I see," he said, seeming to be implying something hateful, and Hermione gritted her teeth.

"You can't just go around with whoever seems interesting to you that day—"

"Ginny and I aren't together," he said. "We've never been particularly conventional, and anyway, if she had a problem with it, I'd be more than happy to discuss it with her."

"Yes," Hermione argued, still enraged, "but you can't honestly think—"

"Hermione, if there's something you want to tell me, you'd better do it," Harry said quietly, seriously, almost dangerously, and in reply, she set her jaw, furious.

"This isn't about me. I don't have anything to tell you."

"You don't?"

"No, I don't. I just thought you were better than this," she spat at him. "I thought you could keep it in your pants but no, of course you can't, you just stick your royal prick wherever the hell you like—"

"I told you," Harry cut in. "I told you, this is what you've always thought of me. You never took me seriously, did you? You still don't."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You could have had me, Hermione, if you wanted. If that was what you wanted, but you didn't. So don't turn this around on me—"

She bristled. "You think that's what this is about? You think I'm jealous or something?"

"I don't know, Hermione, you tell me. Seems like Draco's not there and you want someone, anyone, to pick up the pieces for you. You want me to take you away, stay in love with you and only you, so that you don't feel alone? I'm not doing that. If you want something from me, say it."

"This isn't about me, it's about you," Hermione snapped. "About how you can't stay loyal to anyone! You just run around doing whatever you want, and you don't even care who you hurt by doing it. You're only here when you're here, and then when you're gone you're just—"

"Call your boyfriend," Harry interrupted, his tone sharp and mean. "This seems like a conversation you should be having with him."

"Leave Draco out of it—"

"You know what? Leave me out of it too, Hermione. Call me when you grow up."

And then he hung up, gone, and she stared at her phone, unable to process what had gone wrong and worse, unable to apologize without really understanding whether she was actually sorry.

Over the next few months, Harry was deployed somewhere Hermione didn't know, the information withheld for his safety. He came back once or twice, holed up with a small blonde woman, and again the day Blaise invited Hermione to lunch knowing she would refuse. Harry had maybe reconciled with Ginny; they were back in the tabloids again. It was made public that he would be attending Theo and Daphne's wedding with a plus one expected to join him (prompting new speculation) but her identity, until the day of, remained undisclosed.

But this, of course, Hermione only knew from covers she saw on magazines. For nearly a year, she heard very little at all from Harry himself, until the day of Theo and Daphne's wedding.

For Theo and Daphne, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. As in: it was a wedding planning time, which was, without question, the worst.

The moment Theo slipped the vintage diamond ring on Daphne's finger, it seemed they had both made themselves slaves to something increasingly larger than they were. It wasn't as if either family really objected to the match; Daphne's parents were pleased enough with Theo's name and fortune and Nott Sr, according to Theo, merely made some sort of grunt of acknowledgement without looking up from his books. Daphne and Theo were happy together, now so joined at the hip it was rare to see one without the other, but the little bubble of contentment quickly threatened to cave beneath the pressures of satisfying two aristocratic families intent on getting their way.

Despite staying in Daphne's house, Hermione hadn't previously interacted with Daphne's mother, Ava, and was startled to find upon meeting her that she was the spitting image of her second daughter. Ava and Astoria walked into Daphne and Hermione's flat with precisely the same commanding presence, with the only difference between the two women being the evidence of maybe fifteen years (Ava was extremely well-preserved) and Ava's hair, an updo where Astoria's was set in loose waves.

"This is where you live? Fine," said Ava, acknowledging and dismissing the flat in the same breath in a way that made Hermione heartily afraid of ever meeting Pansy's mother. "Well, let's get started, shall we?"

"I brought all the latest," Astoria said, dropping a pile of couture bridal spreads on Daphne and Hermione's coffee table. "Unless you already have these, Daph?"

"Um, no," Daphne said, giving Hermione a look that said just watch, let's see how this goes. "Actually, I was thinking I might like to find a vintage dress, and then, I don't know. Maybe alter it a bit, I gu-"

"No," Ava said, picking up the Marchesa lookbook as her younger daughter leaned over to crow her approval, neither woman acting as if Hermione or Daphne were in the room. "Don't be ridiculous, Daphne. This isn't the time for one of your silly projects."

Astoria was slightly better on her own, though only marginally.

"What about a black maid of honor dress?" Daphne suggested, gesturing for Hermione to sample the carrot cake she'd requested for the tasting, and Astoria let out a loud scoff.

"What is it, a funeral?" she asked.

"I just thought it might look nice," Daphne said, faltering slightly at her sister's disdain despite having considered it a brilliant idea the night prior. "You know, modern, elegant. Good for a September wedding."

"This cake is delicious," contributed Hermione, optimistic that it would be a simple enough decision to deem a cake a cake and then, god willing, they could leave.

"Well, Mum said she'd prefer a jewel tone if you're so set on an autumn ceremony," Astoria said, frowning, "but I suppose I don't look bad in black." She leaned over, taking a bite of the cake for herself before making a face, shuddering a little. "You're not seriously getting this for a wedding cake, are you? You know Mummy's going to say it's provincial."

"It's what Theo likes," Daphne said defensively, and Astoria rolled her eyes.

"So? Everyone knows the wedding isn't for the groom."

"Isn't it for the bride, at least?"

"Please, Daph, don't be stupid," Astoria said with a laugh, affectionately patting her sister's shoulder. "It's for Mum and Daddy, for their friends, for the newspaper. By the way, you should, you know. Lose a bit of that relationship weight," she said, dropping her voice while permitting her gaze to linger on Daphne's stomach, the latter flushing pink with embarrassment. "Not to be rude," Astoria sang with a slyly arched brow, "but it is a quick courtship, and you know people are going to talk. I only say it because I love you, Daph."

Needless to say, Daphne began dragging Hermione to yoga and pilates, twice a week each, and pushing her into running on the weekends.

"I didn't even notice," Daphne huffed through a jog that was making Hermione yearn to sit down, nap, possibly even have a quick, casual bout of plague just to get some peace. "I mean, Astoria's right, I've gained five pounds since Theo and I started up, happiness is truly a curse on the hips—"

"You look amazing, Daph," Hermione panted, wanting very vehemently to die. "Astoria's just, I don't know, being unreasonable."

"No, no, she's right," Daphne fretted, pushing Hermione another two miles until she was certain they were both going to collapse.

Meanwhile, the two fathers were having it out as well, much to Theo's surprise. He hadn't expected his father to care much about the details of the wedding, but it seemed that the negative press Nott Sr had gotten for Bellatrix's memoir was meant to be resolved in some way by Theo's marriage to Daphne. Nott must have spent a fortune getting the wedding included in every possible society feature, pushing them into formal engagement photos and emphasizing his son's title, his own title, and their proximity to the throne. He insisted on having the wedding at his own manor house; the Greengrasses objected heartily, wanting instead a fashionable London wedding for the benefit of their more metropolitan society friends.

As for what Theo and Daphne wanted, neither was consulted, and as a result, they became increasingly rebellious, prompting Blaise to begin referring to them as the 'disaster twins.'

"That's IT," Daphne shrieked, storming out of one of her summer fittings for a very traditional dress that, while certainly elegant, had not been her choice, and was instead grudgingly settled upon after intense pressure by her mother paired with a chorus of ruthless encouragement from Astoria. "I can't do it anymore," Daphne shouted to Hermione, who hurried out of the salon behind her, carrying her abandoned purse. "It's exactly what I thought it would be: everything they want or what Theo's father wants, nothing that we want—"

"It's your wedding," Hermione said, panting once again to keep up with Daphne as the latter continued to rage-stomp through London. "You don't have to go along with everything they say, you know. If you want a different dress, have a different dress, then—"

"No, no. No." Daphne stopped suddenly, rubbing her forehead with a scowl. "Call Theo, would you? Tell him to meet us in ten minutes."

The subsequent summit between future-husband and future-wife, which Hermione feared was going to involve the two of them running away together to Canada or Berlin or something, was instead a total surprise.

"This wedding is one day," Daphne said, pacing imploringly in front of Theo and Hermione, "it's one day and if they want it, it's theirs, but I want to know that every day afterwards is going to be mine—that it'll be ours."

She seemed to be staring especially intently at Theo, who frowned. "What are you saying, Greengrass?"

Daphne, somewhere between stubbornness and fury, said, "I want my own line. I want to start a company, I want to design clothes."

Theo blinked, glancing at Hermione, who shrugged.

"You can't honestly think I'd stand in the way of that, do you?" he asked Daphne, who shook her head.

"No, but I have to ask you, because I'm going to need your help. Building a business in our first year of marriage, it's going to be stressful," she said, revealing to a furtively surprised Hermione that Daphne had, in fact, lent some thought to doing it. "You'll be a part of it, Nott, just by being… I don't know. Next to it."

"Well, sure," he said, glancing again at Hermione as if she might be able to explain the problem, which she could not. "Whatever you need, Greengrass, you'll have it. Money, time, support, whatever you need, it's yours."

"Well—" Daphne cleared her throat. "That's the thing. I want your name," she said, startling both Hermione and Theo even further.

"What?"

"The line," Daphne said. "I want to call it Daphne Nott."

Theo gaped at her, entirely bemused. "What? But it's yours, Greengrass, it's entirely your making, I have nothing to do with this—"

"Yes, Theo, you do." Daphne stepped forward, taking hold of his collar and imploring him, somewhat militaristically, to see whatever it was she was trying to express. "Theo, don't you understand? Daphne Greengrass isn't anyone. She belongs to her father, her mother, her family, her birth, her class… Daphne Greengrass is nothing. She can't even say no, she almost lost you—don't you see it? This, whatever this is that I make, I want to make it with you," she said, and turned sharply to Hermione, imploring her to agree. "It's not like it's anti-feminist, is it?"

"I—" Hermione fought a laugh. "I hardly think I'm the definitive authority."

"There, see? Hermione says it's fine," Daphne paraphrased shamelessly, turning back to Theo and waiting for him to agree. "Don't you get it, Nott? I want my own life. I want to make my own choices. I want to choose my own name."

Theo exhaled with a shake of his head, reaching out to stroke her hair.

"Why," he said, "would you possibly want mine?"

Daphne let out a tremor of a laugh.

"I don't know," she said softly. "I guess it just looks so good on you."

Hermione, who was beginning to get the sense she should probably leave the room, rose to her feet only to stop suddenly, pivoting around to look at Daphne.

"The blog," she said, and Daphne's brow furrowed.

"You're not still thinking about what Draco said, are you?"

(He had said things, which could wait until later.)

"No, no, I'm just thinking. The blog has a pretty solid following," Hermione said slowly, catching Theo's dawning look of understanding. "It would be great for your line if you just took ownership of it."

After all, by that point, 80% of the articles were written by Daphne. The entire blog itself was undoubtedly Daphne's brainchild, designed by her and curated to her aesthetic. Hermione falling behind had only meant Daphne had picked up the slack with enthusiasm, finding pleasure in the task.

"You should just say the blog is yours," Hermione continued. "Fleur will wear anything you design for her," she added, which was true. Theo's romantic relationship with Fleur might have been over, but her working relationship with Daphne had only just begun; already, the two had been in contact for a new gown and some pieces for Fleur's Paris Fashion Week wardrobe. "You can talk about the designs on the blog, claim it as yours."

"But—" Daphne frowned, glancing at Theo as if to confirm that he was hearing this, too, and then back at Hermione. "But I like doing it with you."

"With me she only tolerates it," Theo added, earning himself a backhand to the stomach as Hermione laugh-sighed with a shake of her head.

"Take the blog," she told Daphne, "and move in together, too. I'll find a new flat."

"But—" Daphne was clearly having trouble processing. "Hermione. We already agreed, I'm going to keep living here until the wedding."

"Yes, I know we agreed, but—" Hermione broke off, chewing her lip in a way Pansy would have scolded if she'd been present. "But I want you to start your life," she said, not feeling the need to add that if Daphne's happiness came at the cost of ending the way things had been always between them, so be it. The Daphne who was ready to be with Theo was moving at a different pace than the one who had needed Hermione by her side, and Hermione couldn't—or wouldn't; she wasn't totally sure whether she was being held back or keeping herself at bay—keep up.

"Are you angry with me?" Daphne asked, still having difficulty with the necessary calculations. "I told you this stupid wedding would be a lot of work, but if it's too much—"

"I'm not angry," Hermione assured her, and she wasn't. "I'm happy for you. I love you, Daph, you know that. I just want you to be happy."

For a moment, Daphne seemed stunned, processing a broad spectrum of emotions in the span of a few blinks.

Then she beamed, touching her fingers lightly to her heart, and reached out for Hermione, pulling her into an embrace.

"I couldn't have done it—any of it," Daphne swore fiercely in Hermione's ear, "without you."

Maybe, Hermione thought, maybe not.

In the end, Daphne did start her line. Daphne and Theo stopped arguing with their parents, instead acquiescing on every point, never bothering to tell either family they'd moved into the Nott townhouse together three months in advance of their wedding and now stayed up at night, Hermione often by their side and sometimes Blaise, determining logos, clients, choosing between suppliers, contemplating new hires, sorting through paperwork.

"You're okay with this?" Astoria asked, twirling around in the amethyst dress at her final fitting; the gown was purple, which Daphne hated, to set Astoria's coloring off beautifully with the lighting in the church that Daphne's parents had chosen.

"Yes, it looks perfect on you," said Daphne, nudging Hermione to show her the nearly-finished website, the emails back and forth from Fleur discussing the design of her custom gown, the growing success of the blog in the months since Hermione had stepped back. "What do you think?" she whispered, and Hermione frowned.

"What does it matter what I think?"

"Hermione," Daphne said impatiently, "it will always matter to me what you think."

Then she reached down, squeezing Hermione's hand, and for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt happy, and at peace.

"Hello?" Astoria said, gesturing to herself. "Belt or no belt?"

"No belt," Daphne and Hermione said in unison, and exchanged a glance, warmed by their synchronicity as Astoria shrugged, conceding.

And then—prompting Hermione to flinch—her cell phone rang in her purse, indicating that for the first time in nearly nine months, Draco had finally come home.

For Draco and Hermione, the year had gone… not particularly well, beginning with Hermione's trip home to see her parents over the holidays. She had forgotten, somehow, to lend any thought to how she was viewed by the American press, having been exclusively concerned with the British tabloids for months. To her surprise, her face was all over the gossip rags she'd used to surreptitiously eye in the grocery aisle.

Where the English were hesitantly fascinated by her, alternating between their loathing of her hair and her clothes and her unimpressive job and their enthrallment with the idea that she was a cheeky normal girl who'd won over their Prince with her mind, the Americans were positively slavish in their devotion. Princess Hermione, they rapturously called her, as if she were already married to Draco. One of their own, they said, who was living every girl's fairytale.

Hermione couldn't stand to look at it, spending all her time at home with her parents and hardly escaping the four walls of her house until she returned to London.

Things with her job, responsibilities for which were growing in no small part due to Luna Lovegood's coverage of their work and Minerva and Oliver's success in fundraising, were intensifying, despite Hermione's continued emotional lethargy about her role. When Oliver pushed her again about Lady Susan Bones, she was quick to give in, though she didn't particularly care to ask herself why that was. Instead she simply befriended the noblewoman (who was her age) in a courteous way, meeting with her every month or so to have a very forced, highly dull conversation about public art.

"It's very exciting to be part of this," Susan said when they met, offering Hermione yet another in what felt like a long line of frustratingly smooth, perfectly manicured hands that smelled like Chanel. "Thank you so much for including me."

Yes, yes, sure, "Where does your interest in the arts stem from?"

"Oh, my aunt, Baroness Bones—Have you heard of her? I know you're from the States"—What was that, was it some sort of sly reminder that Hermione didn't belong? Had Susan done it intentionally? Was she trying to make Hermione feel small, feel unimportant, what?)—"Anyway, she was always supportive of legislation promoting public art. It was truly one of her passion projects, and I'm afraid it was inevitable I be infected."

"How wonderful," Hermione said, surprising even herself with how false the words sounded, and hurried to amend it with, "I'm glad we'll be able to work together. I think your support will be invaluable to the project."

Susan (bless her fucking heart) was at once entirely incandescent. "Thank you, Hermione, that's very kind."

They pointedly did not discuss Draco, or the fact that, as Hermione had already predicted, Susan's presence at Abraxas' annual gala meant that discussion of her by the press was heightening. As for Draco himself, his training coincided nicely (suspiciously, according to Rita) with several months away from London, starting in January.

Their last night together before he left was, unfortunately, some of their better sex—the unfortunate part being less the satisfaction (always a plus) and more the idea that even when they wanted to fight—when he was frustrated with her lack of sympathy for his situation and she was furious with his apparent inability to see what was right in front of his goddamn face—sex was always easier. Sex always seemed like the better option, more productive for both parties; a fight, by comparison, seemed so depressingly fruitless.

After all, what agreement were they going to come to? Was she supposed to say, 'Oh, I'll just not care anymore that you won't confirm you're dating me and that you also won't publicly deny you're involved with Lady fucking Sooz, I'll be totally fine with you being gone for nine months because hey, everything's fine here?' Or would he tell her, 'Look, my grandfather is the literal king of this country but sure, fuck it, fuck him, let's see if he can really force me to abdicate, let's dare him, that certainly wouldn't make me resent you at all and besides, my family isn't falling apart as it is, everything is the most fine!'

So yeah, sex. God, he was good at it. Even after so many years of it he was really, really good, and he knew what she liked. They both knew how to channel their frustration into physicality by then, transmute it into touch. There was a familiarity that was undeniable between them; a comfort, even when it was aggressive; even when it was fast, when it was rushed. He was still the boy who liked to ask questions about her writing, who wanted to have philosophical discussions about her work, who sat with her in the library and managed to occupy her space without disrupting it. Even without the library, without the writing, without the work, he was still that boy, and she still fell into his arms just as readily, even with everything that changed.

When there were no arms to fall into, however, things weren't quite so easy to push aside.

"Look, I have to talk to you about something," he said at some point, coincidentally the same day she'd yelled at Harry. "Don't be cross with Theo, okay?"

Hermione grimaced; there was only one thing that could mean. She'd been wondering for some time, actually, if Theo ever kept any secrets from Draco.

"You know about the blog, don't you?"

Draco was silent for a moment.

Then, "Yes, I do. I've known for some time now. It's good," he said, and the inevitable but hung in the air between them.

Silence.

"If you want me to stop doing it," Hermione said, feeling a little bitter, "you're going to have to say so."

"I don't want to tell you to stop."

"Yes, but you want me to stop, don't you?"

More silence.

"My grandfather is concerned," Draco said eventually.

"Does he know about it?"

"No. God, no. If he knew, we'd really have a problem."

"So what's this, then? If it's not a problem."

"It's just that he's just asked me to… to make sure there's nothing questionable the press might dig up. You have to understand," he said quickly, "all this business with my father, it's unpleasant. My grandfather feels it's been a bit of a nasty surprise."

"How was it possibly a surprise?" Hermione retorted. "Everyone already knew what your father had done, didn't they?"

Too harsh. She'd overdone it, could tell immediately she'd been cruel.

"I didn't know," Draco said quietly. "I mean, I knew, but I didn't… actually know."

Suddenly, she felt very, very tired.

"He just doesn't want any more surprises," Draco continued, and Hermione sighed.

"When are you coming home?" she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

He used the diplomat tone, the one that meant he knew what he was doing and was planning on doing it anyway. "Not until September."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. I told you, I'm doing this for u-"

"Don't, Draco. You're doing it for you, because it keeps you out of London. Because you don't have to deal with me or my demands."

It was an unfair accusation, and she knew it. But she wanted him to deny it, which he only sort of did.

"It's for us," he repeated staunchly, "but can't it partially be for me, as well? I finally feel useful. I'm not just a puppet for my father, I'm not a pet for my grandfather. I have an actual job here, a real role. I'm not just sitting around in my palace being told to behave, for once."

He paused, and then, "Can't it still be something that's for us?"

"And what am I supposed to do?" she shot back. "You're robbing me of my voice. All I am now is a picture, a name, a headline—I was supposed to be someone," she seethed through her teeth, "not just marry someone!"

He was silent again.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop writing," he said. "I can't do that."

"But you want me to."

Silence.

"Oh, just say it," she said, half-snarling it, and he sighed.

"Fine, I want you to," he said, his voice soft and hard and cold and sad. "Are you happy now, Hermione?"

No, she wasn't. Not at all, and it didn't get much better. The expensive flat in the nice neighborhood with good security that her parents took out a second mortgage to help her afford, the job that required her to constantly be in contact with a girl she couldn't look at without thinking that's what they want me to be—it weighed on her, and Hermione's thoughts started to twist and morph, convoluting themselves into a dull refrain consisting of Bellatrix Lestrange's laugh and her own harrowing thoughts: Is a boy, any boy, worth all of this?

The night before Daphne and Theo's wedding, Hermione got the call from Draco saying he was in town, that he wanted to see her, that he'd missed her. A similar sentiment, the same thing they'd said to each other every night, then every other night, then with windows of silence in between, both too busy with other things to devote their time to the same conversation, spoken like muscle memory over the phone.

It seemed to Hermione that she was falling into bed with a stranger now, unrecognizable from his months in training. Possessing authority had changed him, down to the places her fingertips used to recognize blind; he was muscular now, his slenderness filled out with all the evidence of physical exertion left in its place. The boy who'd studied with her in the library was gone, replaced by a man who looked increasingly like his father. The first time she saw him she almost flinched, seeing Lucius in Draco's features and thinking they're right about you, you're just like your father and then hating herself for believing something she knew (she hoped) was a lie.

Even naked, even in his arms, even post-orgasm, she struggled to feel the satisfaction she'd become accustomed to.

"How are you?"

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yeah, fine, I don't know."

It was like they were strangers; like an awkward one-night stand, except they were strangers who had already had their likenesses unflatteringly painted onto porcelain soup bowls in the front display of Twilfitt and Tattings.

"How's your mother?"

"Well, hard to say. It seems like she and my grandfather go back and forth on whether she and my father should get a divorce. The only person adamant they stay together is my father."

"Ah."

"And… you?"

"I told you. I'm fine."

He seemed to know she didn't want to talk, seemed to also know they should talk, but wasn't sure how to go about making it happen.

He slid his hand down to hers, toying with her fingers.

"I missed you."

Yes, so you mentioned. "I missed you, too."

"You're not wearing your ring," he noted, eyeing her finger.

"I had to clean it." True, but then she'd forgotten about it.

"Ah."

He slid his thumb over her knuckles.

"I thought we could arrive together tomorrow," he said quietly, which was something she might have once considered exciting. True, there would be no paparazzi, but surely someone would leak the photos and then for a few weeks Rita Skeeter and the rest of the world would believe that she and Draco were happy, were together, were destined for marriage, and that would keep her going for a while, make her feel loved, or important. It might let her believe for a few days that she was a priority in his life.

She said: "Sure, sounds good."

She did not say: "Too little, too late."

The church was decorated to Ava's taste (Astoria had started out interested, then lost interest in everything save for her own dress, as Daphne had predicted) and was occupied by what felt like a hundred people Hermione had never met. Still, it was a relief to see the others. Pansy was in a good mood, Blaise and Neville were being civil, Astoria was being inordinately helpful, Fleur had cheerfully declined her invitation and sent an enormous gift in her place, Harry had brought Ginny; evidently they had come as friends. He caught Hermione's eye, holding it for a second, and mouthed, "Hi."

She exhaled, breathing a little easier, feeling a weight lift at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he'd forgiven her.

"Ready?"

Daphne was breathtakingly beautiful, her gown simple and elegant and a crisp white silhouette that, although it hadn't been the one she'd wanted, was unforgettably stunning. The cathedral veil, an excellent choice, streamed down her back like a ray of gauzy sunlight, and it occurred to Hermione that Theo, despite his best efforts, would probably struggle not to cry, if he managed it at all.

"Why are you asking me?" Hermione said, laughing a little, and Daphne shrugged, looking excited. She looked, in short, like a woman about to marry the love of her life.

"You just seemed a little unsteady," she said, before leaning forward to murmur in Hermione's ear, "Are you happy?"

Hermione was too tired to lie. "No."

Daphne squeezed her arm, comforting her.

"Then change something," she advised, leaning in for a mock-kiss (only mock for the sake of their saviors, lipstick) to Hermione's cheek before taking her place in the threshold of the church. The doors opened, the audience rose, and for a moment Hermione was temporarily blinded, temporarily suspended; as if Daphne's advice had suddenly made her feel freer, and that loss of paralysis had been like looking directly into the sun.

Hermione took her seat beside Draco, watching Theo watch Daphne's approach down the aisle. Hermione was positive she saw Daphne exchange a challenging glance with Theo's father, giving him an almost audible fuck you before turning sweetly to Theo, who struggled either not to laugh, or not to cry. He took her hand, brushing her knuckles lightly with his lips, and turned to lead her to the altar, her fingers held tightly in his.

Seeing them go saddened Hermione a little, as much as it filled her with happiness. Like all their big moments of change, this one was equal parts of both.

"What now?" she asked Draco quietly, looking first at her hands, then his.

She'd left the snake ring at home, forgetting it again. His signet ring was on his right hand, untouched.

"I don't know," he murmured.

Then, eventually, Theo leaned forward to kiss his bride and the room exalted in joy, celebrating the newness, the precipice, and the consequence of forever.

The good news? That this particular year would end much differently than it started. By the end of 2014 we would have all made some changes, some more alarming than others—but that, I suppose, is all part of life's usual funny way of working out.

a/n: Alright, we've hit rock bottom. Time to go up from here!

26. Impulse

Chapter 26: Impulse

19 May, 2018
12 Grimmauld Place

Like Brothers

It has already been established that Henry, Duke of Grimmauld, fondly called Prince Harry, is Prince Draco's closest relative. Born a matter of weeks apart, hardly anyone needs reminding that the two were famously brought up as brothers following the deaths of Prince Harry's parents. While each young man took considerably different approaches to their roles as working royals—with Draco opting to attend university at Hogwarts whilst Harry entered the British Army—the two continued to enjoy the close relationship they'd shared as adolescents throughout their adult lives.

It's been said that Prince Harry was among the first to welcome Hermione into Prince Draco's intimate circle of friends, and to this day, she and Harry maintain a close friendship. On the occasions Hermione has been photographed publicly with both princes following her engagement, it seems quite obvious that she and Harry share a particularly special bond. While there was at one point speculation that Prince Harry may have once considered Hermione a romantic prospect, the rumour has since been dismissed by both parties. As Harry has been like a brother to Draco, so has he been for Hermione, say friends of the couple.

This is… perhaps more credit than I deserve (a rarity, really, that Rita Skeeter would attribute anything but debauchery to me), seeing as Draco and I certainly had our differences. I'll admit, for example, that as everyone else watched Theo and Daphne ride off into the sunset after their wedding, I wasn't too concerned with them. I already trusted they were happy, so I busied myself observing something else: that something had broken between Draco and Hermione. Something sacred was gone, warped and hollow in the air between them, and their separation, temporary though it was, set in motion a chain of events that none of us saw coming.

Least of all me.

1 October, 2014
London, England

"Well," Ginny said, falling brusquely into the seat opposite Harry with a muted groan, "that was more of a headache than usual."

"Oh, was it?" Harry asked neutrally, sipping his coffee and waving amicably to the many photographers outside the cafe window before re-focusing his attention on her. "You look well, Gin."

"Yes, well," she sighed. "It's so nice we can still enjoy such private time together," she said insincerely, as four camera flashes went off outside. "Anyway, how've you been?"

"Oh, fine," Harry said, knowingly evasive. He doubted it was worth discussing anything with this sort of rabid hounding going on outside, and besides, Ginny already knew most of everything. "Steve's been a bit of a downer, but that's to be expected."

"Ah, and how's Nancy?"

"I don't know," Harry said honestly. "She isn't particularly interested in speaking to me at the moment, and I figure it's not exactly the best time to seek her out."

"Well, did you see the papers?"

"Mm, papers?" Harry echoed with faux-bemusement, half-smiling, and Ginny kicked his foot under the table. "Ouch, Gin—yes, fine," he sighed, "I've seen them. But you know as well as I do it's hardly worth acknowledging anything in them."

Unsurprisingly, the guests at Theo and Daphne's wedding—most of which were the dreadful acquaintances of one of the two noble families—weren't particularly tight-lipped. DID PRINCE DRACO AND HERMIONE GRANGER SPLIT? screeched the Daily Prophet, citing as proof the fact that Draco and Hermione (called by Harry and Ginny, for purposes of discretion, Steve and Nancy) were observed by 'close family and friends' being notably cool towards each other. The Palace, which had not confirmed rumors of their relationship, did not bother addressing rumors of their breakup, either. Draco had immediately returned to the Royal Navy and Hermione was being vigorously harassed, but hardly more than usual. The only difference was that the headlines featuring Hermione's walk to work now highlighted her solitariness as a flaw.

"I'm surprised you haven't rushed to her aid," Ginny mused into her cup of tea, and Harry tried very hard not to sigh, instead opting to return her unladylike kick beneath the table.

"I told you," he said, "it's not like that between us."

"Like hell it's not. You really haven't even considered it?"

"Nancy's a friend. Her well-being concerns me."

"Is that what you call it?" Ginny tutted softly, lifting a brow. "Dirty boy."

"Gin, honestly."

"Well, how's it going with Dreama? Let me guess, things are over," she said, subtly sparing him a smile, and Harry shook his head.

"She ended it, actually," he said, and to that Ginny paused, her brown eyes widening.

"No," she said, surprised. "She did, really?"

"Yes, really," he said, obscuring his mouth with a cough into his napkin to add, "She didn't think there was anything serious between us."

Those had been Luna's exact words, in fact. "Oh, don't misunderstand, the sex is very good," she had assured him in something of a softened pep talk, "but it seems to me perhaps you want more than that."

A ludicrous argument, really, as it was something Harry typically said to other people. He'd felt oddly out-of-body upon hearing it, and not exclusively because he was still inside her when she brought it up.

Needless to say, it had been one of his less impressive orgasms.

"I didn't think you wanted serious," Ginny remarked into her tea cup.

"I don't," Harry said. "I never have."

(He'd said the same thing to Luna, who laughed, and then sobered quickly. "Sorry, I thought you were joking," she said, scrutinizing his expression with a frown. "It's just that you seem like a very sensitive person, don't you?"

"Are you calling me a soft summer prince?" Harry asked, mildly devastated, and Luna glanced slowly down.

"You seem objectively quite hard," she remarked, making it a matter of professional journalistic integrity, "and not strictly a prince, so no, I suppose not?")

"Well," Ginny said, leaning across the table to brush her lips against Harry's cheek as the flashes went off, "I guess we'll probably have to marry each other eventually, then, won't we?"

The photographers, having gotten what they wanted, promptly shuffled out, probably making their way to wherever Hermione would be next. That Harry had no idea where that was depressed him about as much as the idea that he and Ginny would eventually have to settle for each other—and it was very much a mutual settling.

"How are you and what's-his-name?" he asked, leaning back, and Ginny grimaced, now free to prop her feet up on the chair beside him.

"They're fine," she said. "He just wants, you know. Serious and all that."

"Men," Harry said, shaking his head. "They're totally unreliable."

"I told him I was never really considering him," Ginny agreed, pairing it with a conspiratorial eye roll. "He doesn't get it, apparently."

"Doesn't want to get it, I imagine," he said, adding fondly, "You're a catch, Gin."

She sniffed her opposition. "Well, I don't want to be caught."

"A relatable feeling."

To that, she spared him a doubting smirk.

"What?" he demanded, and after a moment of silently communicating his stupidity, Ginny leaned back, sighing.

"Could you order chips?" she said tangentially, staring moodily at her saucer. "I'm positively starved, and I can hardly eat like shit around the rest of the team."

Harry reached over to the seat beside him, curling a hand affectionately around one of Ginny Weasley's narrow feet. He could feel the familiar shape of her high arches through the canvas of her shoes; could picture them the way they had often been, settled against his chest with her hair spread out over his pillowcase.

A pity not all loves were built to carry eternities, he thought. If only some loves were given honorable deaths instead of an ongoing media circus.

"Chips it is," he assured her, beckoning to the waiter to order.

Draco hadn't spoken much about what had actually transpired on the evening of Theo and Daphne's wedding. He wasn't especially communicative to begin with, but even so, his silence on the subject of Hermione was hardly unnoticeable. With Theo on his honeymoon with Daphne, that left Harry behind to attempt to pry open the lid on the Prince's jar of feelings, which he had never been especially good at. He scarcely knew how to deal with his own, and Draco's were certainly another story.

"Did you fight?" Harry asked him.

"No." Draco had been listless, almost jittery.

"I don't understand."

"What's to understand? There wasn't a fight, it just wasn't working. Sometimes things don't work."

"Yes, but—"

"It was making her miserable, and I certainly wasn't much better. It's not her fault, it's not mine, it just is what it is. And besides, I have my parents to contend with at the moment," Draco said with a gloomy look of revulsion, "and I can hardly expect her to wait."

"Well—" Harry hesitated, unsure what to say. "If that's the case, maybe you should actually consider Lady Susan," he said, and Draco's mouth tightened. "Only because you seem like you're not getting whatever it is you wanted out of your relationship," Harry hurried to add, "and because she is, you know. A reasonable possibility, don't you think? Surely it would ease things for you, at the very least."

Draco's grey gaze settled irritably on Harry's. "You sound like my father."

"Well, I'm just saying," he insisted, defensive. "I'm worried about you."

"Don't, Harry. I'm fine."

It was disheartening, Harry thought, how easily Draco could pretend everyone else was an idiot. It must have been something he'd learned from Prince Lucifer.

"Jesus, Draco," Harry sighed. "You're not fine, nor should you be." He could feel himself falling into all sorts of traps, never quite grasping Theo's proclivity for helpfully-worded doublespeak. To him, that was as inauthentic as lying. "Maybe you didn't have a fight," he added doubtfully, "but you can't honestly expect me to believe this was the outcome you wanted."

That, gratifyingly, produced some results. One result, or one truth, which was more than Harry had expected to receive.

"I just want to get away," Draco finally said. "From this, from her, from everything." Obviously, he did not mean Susan. "Maybe if I'm gone," he explained quietly, "they'll go easy on her."

Then Draco had looked vacantly out the window, adding, "I just want to believe I've let her down for the last time, that's all."

Harry couldn't bring himself to say anything.

Shortly after that conversation, Draco had gone.

Harry intentionally did not seek out Hermione for a number of reasons. Firstly, he wasn't entirely sure she wanted to speak to him. Sure, she'd smiled at him at Daphne and Theo's wedding and it certainly seemed their previous conflict was over, but he wasn't convinced that meant she had any interest in picking up where they left off. Secondly, Harry was becoming increasingly more concerned that he'd brought up Lady Susan Bones to Draco out of something very suspiciously like self-interest. His own feelings, loath as he was to acknowledge them, had not changed much, or even remotely, or even at all.

Harry was highly disappointed to find that, upon running into Hermione at Blaise's flat on the evening of 2014's Halloween (the theme was "historical betrayals, traitors, and other instances of treason," presumably because Theo and Daphne were still not back from their honeymoon) nothing at all had changed. He still felt something warm in his chest the moment she turned to face him, pleasure alighting on her cheeks as she called out for him to join her.

"Harry!" she said, as brightly enthusiastic as always. It was one of the things he liked about her, that she was so completely and unreservedly not-British. She seemed to feel without restriction, which was a novelty for him. "God, I'm so relieved you're here," she said, making her way over to him in the corseted gown she was struggling to maneuver. "I was a bit early," she half-whispered, gesturing over her shoulder, "which Tracey did not care for."

Unsurprising. Harry had yet to sort out what Tracey did care for, which often didn't even seem to be Blaise. He was also rather unsure what her costume was supposed to be, but that was hardly out of the ordinary.

"What's this?" Harry asked, gesturing to Hermione's gown (or, more accurately, her struggle with said gown) with amusement, and she sighed.

"It's Daphne's Anne Boleyn costume," she said. "Funnily enough, Anne works for rather a lot of themes."

"Well, you look marvelously uncomfortable," Harry congratulated her, and she gave him a swat of disapproval.

"Well, I am, though by now I've drunk nearly enough to distract myself," she grumbled, shifting her skirt around. She smelled, as usual, like a bit of rose and vanilla; something flowery and comforting. "I should have known the rest of you would be unreliable with your arrival times. What are you supposed to be?" she demanded, eyeing his costume with unobscured skepticism.

"I'm Benedict Arnold Cumberbatch," Harry said, pointing to his deerstalker. "Obviously."

"Obviously," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes, and glanced over his shoulder. "No Ginny?"

"We're off at the moment," he said.

Her brow arched. "And Luna?"

"Actually, Luna did not have much of a sustained interest in me," he said smoothly, pouring himself a drink as he caught signs of Hermione struggling not to say something, probably about their previous argument. "That, I think, has run its course. So," he determined, turning to her with his glass held aloft, "I'm afraid you'll have to keep me company this evening."

She raised her glass to his and then faltered for a moment, pausing.

"You know, I've been meaning to tell you I'm sorry," she began, and he cut her off with a shake of his head.

"Bygones," he said firmly. "I was harsher with you than I should have been."

"No, you were right, but—" She hesitated. "I just… wasn't in a very good place at the time."

He'd told himself he wouldn't ask, but it slipped out: "And now?"

"Now? Oh, well." Her cheeks flushed with discomfort. "It's different now, isn't it? Everything is."

"Different as in better?" he attempted, deciding to be optimistic.

"Well, um." She fidgeted, brushing a wayward strand of hair away from her face. "I quit my job," she said, apparently changing the subject from the invisible and unmentionable topic of Draco, and Harry blinked, surprised.

"You did?"

"Yeah. I never really cared for it," she said, draining her glass and reaching over to pour herself a new one. "I was getting tired of sucking up to Lady Sooz. And anyway, without—well, you know," she said, once again not mentioning Draco's name, "without any reason to have an 'uncontroversial job,' I hardly need to stay there. It didn't pay particularly well, and it turns out I don't really give a shit about public art," she said, and instinctively, Harry fought the urge to look over his shoulder for Pansy. She was elsewhere, dressed as Aphrodite (who, as he foggily recalled, had treason-adjacent liaisons with Ares), and surprisingly had not come running at Hermione's sudden use of obscenities. "So yeah, I guess that's, you know. Over. Thank god, honestly." Hermione took a sip of her new drink, apparently deeming it satisfactory. "It's like I can breathe for the first time in a year."

"What are you going to do next?" Harry asked, and Hermione shrugged.

"Who cares?" she said, though it was obvious to Harry that she, in fact, cared. He already knew she was worried about affording her flat; he certainly wasn't going to mention it, but he doubted that particular concern had gone away. "Go on vacation with Blaise, I guess."

That, he thought, seemed rather unlikely to happen, but for her sake, he played along. "How impulsive of you."

She slid him a—did his eyes deceive him? Was it actually coy, or did he merely want it to be?—teasing glance, half-smiling. "Yes, I'm impulsive now. Like you," she added with a hint of not-so-innocence, shrugging again. "I think it works for me."

Harry felt something voracious climb the notches of his ribs to roar within the caverns of his lungs.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, it does work for you," and she smiled at him. A smile, full-stop, and he suffered an old, resurrected creaking in his chest at the sight of it.

"And how are you?" she asked, inserting a little of her gentleness into her tone. That, he thought, was another thing about her. Her ability to soften was unlike anyone else he'd ever known. She had a loyalty to her affections, a sincerity to her emotions that he had always craved, thinking that if he'd ever had it, then perhaps he'd be someone else entirely. Someone worthy, or at least worthier, by virtue of her deeming him apt.

He never spoke much about his parents. He'd never been quite sure, either, why he'd decided to tell her about them all those years ago when they'd been looking out over the lake at Hogwarts. He'd always kept his tragedies to himself, for the most part—except for with her, that day. He supposed it must have been that craving again, that festering sense of needing her to see there were depths to him. A circuity of thought, really, that he could share with her because he should, because he ought to, because she was a safe place for his sadness. Harry had envied Draco most of all for that, for the safety in loving Hermione Granger. For the knowledge that someone intelligent and compassionate and utterly without pretense or superficiality would find something worthy in him to love.

"It's hard," Harry eventually said, "every year. But it's nice to be here with you," he told her, taking a sip and gambling on the tingle of recklessness absorbing into his blood. "I'm glad you came tonight."

He hoped he hadn't imagined the flicker of something illuminating Hermione's face.

"So am I," she murmured, the two of them raising their glasses in perfect synchronicity.

Maybe it had been the drinks. Maybe it was the way she didn't leave his side. Maybe it was that his usual mannerisms, the nudges and brushes and occasional bumps of familiarity, were returned in a way they hadn't been before. Maybe he was flirting; maybe she was, too. Maybe it was the way he eventually got drunk enough to talk about his dad, to remember the words James had once spoken to Lily: Take your time. I'm sure enough for the both of us.

Maybe that was why Harry followed her when she went to Blaise's room, complaining about her shoes and insisting Blaise surely owned some sort of velvet slippers she could change into, and maybe that was why Harry had shut the door behind them, lingering beside her as she opened Blaise's wardrobe door.

"Do you ever think about it?" Harry asked, and Hermione paused, caught. He knew that look on her face and felt comfortably certain it was guilt.

"Think about what?"

"You know what." He was feeling bold, as he often was. That was his nature, wasn't it? He'd pursued her that way until he'd noticed Draco's lingering glances, but now Draco had been the one to fuck up, hadn't he? Harry pushed the thought of Draco aside. For once, he thought, let me be more than the spare, more than second-choice, more than her afterthought. "You know what," he repeated, and Hermione turned to look at him, the halo of her curls messy and glowing in the dim light from Blaise's nightstand.

"You and me?" she asked, and Harry, already having ventured further than he ever suspected he would, nodded silently. "Yes, I… thought about it. I think about it. From time to time," she added, clearing her throat, and Harry's heart leapt to his mouth.

"And what do you think about?"

There was no mistaking it. Her gaze skated over his chest and she was devouring him, eating him alive. Oh yes, he thought deliriously, I've already fucked you, haven't I? Somewhere in your dreams, in your sleep, maybe you were wide awake—fuck, maybe you knew exactly what you were doing when you pushed my imaginary head down to your spectral lap. Somewhere, you and I have already been together, haven't we, and it was good, wasn't it?

I could do it for real, he promised her silently, and he saw her cheeks flush.

"Stop looking at me like that," she said, clearing her throat. "It's just… Well, you were right, weren't you? That things would have been different with you."

Jesus, fuck. "Yes."

"Not that I'd do it over," she added hastily.

"Of course not."

"But if I did—"

"It'd be different."

"I mean, that's just an assumption."

"No, it would be." His heart was pounding, and he could hear the rush of blood in his ears. "You really think anyone cares what I do?"

"Harry, don't say that—"

"No, I'm serious. I'd have dropped everything for you."

The idea of it, of being someone's priority, seemed to make her mouth water, and he couldn't say he blamed her. "You say that," she said, weakly insistent and half-convinced, "but look at you and Ginny."

He shrugged. "Ginny's not you."

Oh, he was saying the right things, he could see it. He could see her posture giving way, and she took an unsteady step that sent her careening into him.

"I," she began, and looked up at him. "You'd get tired of me, Harry."

He shook his head. "Not true."

"You don't know that. And anyway, it's not as if I wouldn't have the same problems with you—I mean, look at me, even now! We're broken up and I still have the press to deal with—"

"It'd be different, Hermione. I don't have to answer to anyone. I don't choose," he clarified, voice suddenly little more than a rasp, "to answer to anyone."

He watched her swallow, indecision pulsing at her throat.

"You're drunk," she said after a moment.

"So?"

"I'm drunk," she said, looking at her hands—which were resting on his chest—as if she didn't know who they belonged to, or how they'd gotten there. "I'm just sad and drunk and stupid," she whispered, spreading her fingers out; digging them in, staking her claim. "I'm lonely and scared and—"

The words 'fuck it' leapt again to mind as he bent his head, tugging her mouth up for his. FINALLY, his brain shouted, his entire body screaming with his rapid loss of restraint. YES, THIS, PLEASE, seemed to echo through all of his muscles, and he hoped, he hoped, that she would feel it, too. That she would respond in kind, as if every single fragment of bone, every sliver of her constitution would yield to his, letting out some kind of primal shout at the wait that was finally fucking over—

Her teeth collided with his, her mouth still open, and the last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the wince, the flinch, as what was supposed to have been a long-awaited comingling of exultant breaths was, instead, a train wreck of a collision. "Ouch," she muttered into his mouth, though her arms slid up to encircle his neck, as if she wanted fiercely to fix it. Her tongue slid into his mouth, darting experimentally along his; her rhythm was counterintuitive, he found himself frowning with confusion, struggling to match the pressure of her lips. He pushed when she pulled, he could taste liquor on her tongue, it all felt… off. It felt spectacularly off, and he suddenly felt a wave of nausea at the memory of how many kisses he'd had that felt precisely like this one tasted: drunk, lonely, and sad, precisely as she'd said they were.

Harry suddenly felt conscious of his own saliva. Was there too much of it, was that it? He was overthinking, overprocessing, he wanted to force the whole thing into acquiescence and it showed. She made a sound like, oof, too rough, and he realized the shadow of facial hair he'd neglected to shave was hurting her, scraping her mouth when he'd aimed his kiss incorrectly. Worse, it seemed like she was kissing a ghost; like her kiss was designed for someone else to be on the other side of it. She seemed to be kissing him with a desperation vastly different from his, imploring him to respond to a choreography he didn't know, that he couldn't guess, that he kept getting wrong. He bit her lip, an accident, and she recoiled, pushing him away.

"Oh god," she said, her expression suddenly contorting, and he felt the blood drain from his face.

"Hermione," he croaked, feeling a horror he didn't actually know how to name. What was he going to say? I can do better, don't you understand, I'm Prince Harry, I'm fucking Prince Harry, half my skills belong in the bedroom and I swear, give me another shot, I can un-fuck it up—

"That," she said, gingerly holding a hand to her mouth, "was a mistake."

Then, to his disbelief, she promptly burst out laughing, almost howling quietly into her palm.

"Oh my god, that was a disaster," she wailed, half-hysterical with something that could easily have been tears or laughter or both. "That was like kissing my best friend, or I don't know, my brother, I don't even—"

"Yeah," Harry said weakly, swallowing hard. "Yeah, I, um. I guess we just, I don't know. Got carried away—"

"Well, at least I have an answer now," she said, wiping a pool of tears from the corner of her eyes as she laugh-sobbed a hiccup. "God, what a relief. All this time I've been asking myself what if, what if I'd just picked Harry—what if all this time he's been right there, you know? God." She shook her head, shuddering. "Wow. Okay, look, let's not tell anyone about this, okay?" she said, and abruptly sobered. "Can we keep this between us? I mean it was just a kiss, hardly anything, but still—"

Immediately, a montage of alternate-universe disasters flooded the back of Harry's eyeballs, like blinking back stars: he and Hermione falling into bed together, him with his hands all over the haunted skin where Draco had been, then surely doing so again because who could only do it once? Harry never did it once, certainly not if he felt like this, and then of course Draco would barge in, would find out, his grey eyes narrowing with fury, How dare you?

What the fuck had he been thinking?

"No," Harry agreed, suddenly violently ill. "No, we can't tell any-"

But before he could finish—before he understood what was happening—Hermione was yanking him with her into Blaise's wardrobe, the bedroom door bursting open and followed by voices, angry, their whispered shouts slicing into Harry's mental phantasms of calamity.

"What are you doing—"

"Just shh, someone's coming—"

"—not doing this again, Neville, have you lost your mind?"

Harry frowned at a frantically motioning Hermione, catching unusual tones from Blaise's voice as the bedroom door slammed shut, two sets of pacing footsteps audible from the other side of the wardrobe.

"You told me to make her happy, Blaise, didn't you? You insisted I propose—"

"Yes, well, I hardly meant propose to her and then continue doing fuck-all else, did I?"

Harry brought a hand silently to his temple, frowning. Either Blaise, dressed as Brutus, and Neville, dressed as Judas Iscariot, were having some sort of argument that he didn't understand, or he'd recently suffered a head injury.

"What would you have me do, then?"

"Make a bloody choice, Longbottom! You can't have everything! You certainly can't marry her while you're still—" Blaise broke off, furious, and took a series of heated steps, seething venomously, "You can't expect me to fuck you in good conscience while you're promising your life to Pansy."

Hermione's hand rose, forced over her mouth as she inhaled sharply.

"This was never in good conscience, Blaise," Neville's voice snapped, "my conscience is shit. I've told you, Gran insists on the marriage, I can't get around it any longer—"

"And what about me? What am I supposed to do? I won't keep lying to her, Neville, I can't, and I certainly can't be the one who loves her more than you do while you run off and marry her—"

"You didn't seem to have any problem with it before. A year and more of lies and now you feel guilty, Zabini? Because I bought a fucking ring, that's the difference?"

Harry's head spun. The wardrobe suddenly felt impossibly emptied of air.

"Yes, it's the fucking difference," Blaise hissed. "We have to be done here, do you understand me? This has to end—"

Neville was dismissive, unconcerned. "You say that every time."

"I MEAN IT EVERY TIME," Blaise snapped, but almost immediately, he seemed to wither, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "I can't do this, I can't watch this, I have to leave." He was nearly inaudible. "I don't want to want you, Neville, anymore. I don't want any of it, and it's only for Pansy's sake I haven't fucked off to god knows where—and don't you see the irony? I am hurting her, I'm the one quietly destroying her life, and then because she's hurting, I can't bloody leave!"

"You don't want to leave. I know you don't." Neville's voice, too, was close to unrecognizable, meaner and harsher and yet somehow more vulnerable, too. "Don't lie, Blaise, not to me. Don't you get sick of lying to everyone?"

"Don't—"

"You know I don't want to do this. I've tried a thousand times to tell her, I swear, but she doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't want to hear me at all. Pansy, my grandmother, they only want things to look perfect, to seem perfect, but with you—"

"Neville. For fuck's sake. Don't."

"None of you ever want to hear the truth, do you?" Neville was bristled and wounded. "Well, you don't get to deny everything, Blaise, and certainly not me. You have to know, you have to know that I love y-"

"STOP."

Harry flinched. Blaise was breathing heavily now, obviously distressed, and Hermione's hand shot out, tightly gripping Harry's wrist.

"This," Blaise said hoarsely, "is not happening. Not anymore. Never again."

"Blaise, please—"

There was the brief sound of shuffling feet, hands grasping at clothes and a forceful gasp of a kiss, and then one of them tore angrily away.

"Blaise, don't leave—Blaise please don't—"

The door opened and shut, the sound of the party drowning out anything that had been in the room, and in the sudden loss of sound, Hermione slowly pushed open the wardrobe door, climbing unsteadily out.

"We have to tell Pansy," she said instantly, and Harry balked.

"What, right now? But—"

"But what? She has to know," Hermione said, and her face paled slightly. "And I'm going to tell Draco what happened between us, too."

Immediately, Harry felt a tightening of panic in his chest. "Hermione, are you sure—"

"Yes. I have to tell him. I'll tell him it was a mistake, that I was lonely and you were comforting me, that it didn't mean anything. And in the meantime, I'm telling Pansy about this," she said firmly, stumbling in the direction of the door as Harry apprehensively held her back.

"Listen," he urged her, "maybe we should talk to Blaise, first, or Neville. Tell them what we heard, and then—"

Hermione stiffened, turning to stare at him.

"I thought you'd be the first to suggest we tell her," she said, mouth tightening. "Aren't you the brave one, Harry? The one who tells the truth?"

No, he thought, I'm the one who believes that being in love can make you weak, can make you reckless. I'm the one who knows best how to suffer in silence, and you, lucky you, you'll probably never understand.

"Fine," he said, letting her go. "Tell her, then."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You're not coming?"

He shook his head. "Take her home," he suggested. "She'll be upset, and she certainly won't want an audience. She'll hate me for it, and you, if there's anyone else there to watch her find out. You know she will."

Hermione frowned. "But—"

"Just get her out of here and tell her," Harry said, firmly this time, and for a moment, Hermione was silent, but then she nodded, resigning herself to what had to be done.

"Okay," she said, and slipped out of the room, leaving Harry and his losses behind.

Harry fell asleep that night swimming with thoughts of Hermione, of Draco, of whatever damage he might have done the evening prior. He checked his phone the moment he woke, expecting to see something from Draco, but saw nothing. Perhaps something else had distracted Hermione; was it possible she hadn't told him yet?

Harry bolted upright, suddenly remembering what that distraction might have been.

"Henry," came Pansy's voice the moment he dialed, answering after a single ring. "What a pleasant surprise."

He blinked, startled by the toneless sense of normality in her voice.

"Hey, Pans," he said, and then, gently, "What are you up to this morning?"

"Oh, I was thinking of running some errands," she said. She seemed to consider it for a moment before adding, "Would you care to join me?"

"Is…" Harry began, and faltered. "Is Hermione there, or…?"

"No, Hermione's at home, I believe. Meet me in fifteen minutes, then?"

He stumbled out of bed, nodding. "Yes, sure. Breakfast?"

"Oh, shortly. Just one thing I have to do first."

She sounded nearly cheerful, and Harry stumbled over to his wardrobe, selecting a pair of trousers and a crewneck sweatshirt. "Okay, well, I'll be right there, then—"

"Wear athletic clothes," she suggested, and he faltered, glancing down at what he had just donned. "Some trainers, at least."

An odd and slightly discomfiting suggestion. Would they be burying a body?

No, he reminded himself, then she would have told him to wear boots.

"Pansy," he said slowly, "what are we doing?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing," she said. "Just thought we might get a quick game in."

"A game?"

"See you in ten minutes," she said evasively, and then she hung up the phone, leaving Harry to race out the door.

He arrived at her house to find she was wearing some sort of ultra-posh sporting outfit, a dress of blinding, virginal white with a short, cheekily-pleated skirt. Her hair was tied back, the ponytail cascading effortlessly from its jaunty position at the apex of her skull, and she smiled brightly at him, gesturing to the racket-shaped bag in her hand.

"Oh," he registered, "a game of tennis," and she smiled.

"Hello, Henry," she said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek as he returned the greeting. "You look well," she added, and the smell of honeysuckle from her hair mixed with both her perfume and his sense of displacement to bring him a dizzying sense of confusion. "Shall we, then?"

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, just to the tennis club," she said. "My mother has a membership, you know, as does Augusta, and I recently got myself one, too. It's lovely, secluded, private—"

"Pans," Harry said warily, and she flashed him another unsettling smile.

"Come on, then," she said, beckoning for him to follow as she made her way to her car, the driver already waiting. Harry, who was pretty sure he was at least marginally captive in this scenario, followed her without comment, shifting into the seat beside her as the car took off.

"I don't have a racket, Pans, so I'm not sure if—"

"Hm? Oh, don't worry about it," she said, her attention fixed outside her window.

Harry cleared his throat, shifting in his seat.

"I'm surprised you're not cross with me," he said, and she didn't turn.

"Whatever for?"

"Did…" He broke off. "Did Hermione talk to you, or—?"

"Hermione's always talking, you'll have to be more specific." Pansy turned to give Harry a glance, half-smiling. "My goodness, Henry, you seem unusually tense."

Harry didn't think it worth bringing it up that Pansy, a girl he'd known from childhood, was never this calm unless something horrible was festering beneath the surface. He'd seen her fits of rages as a child and knew she was capable of fury beyond compare, even if she'd learned over time to lock it up somewhere in a vault of secrets. At eleven years old, she had told him, coldly, that he would never amount to anything, diminishing him to several years' worth of silent emotional trauma all because he'd teased her about her nose.

Harry knew Lady Pansy Parkinson was capable of a great and terrible meanness, and he waited rather impatiently for it to out. It was only when they arrived at the club, though, him striding in her wake with an assured sense of imminent disaster, that he realized what she must have had in mind.

"Oh, hi Harry," said Neville Longbottom, who was waiting for them in a set of athletic clothes as crisply white as Pansy's. He seemed his usual self, not at all like the version of himself he'd been the night before, and Pansy smiled coolly at him, holding out a racket.

"Here," she said, "a gift," and Neville smiled, grateful.

"Wonderful, so thoughtful of you," he said, kissing her cheek, and for a moment, Harry saw a flash in Pansy's dark eyes—something dreadfully sinister, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag—that made him wonder if it wouldn't, in fact, be much wiser to run. "Are you playing too, Harry?"

"I sincerely hope not," Harry slid between his teeth, and Pansy gave them both a smile, withdrawing her own racket to give it a testing smack against the heel of her hand.

"Well, I just thought, it's so silly of me—all these tennis lessons you've been taking and I've never once asked to join you," she said, and Harry caught the motion of Neville's smile faltering momentarily. "I thought I'd finally give it a shot."

"Oh," Neville said, "right, well, yes. Harry, are you—"

"Why don't you serve?" Pansy asked smoothly, flashing Neville a pointed look instructing him to take his place on the opposite side of the court. She turned, giving her racket another hard smack, and then smiled at Harry. "This'll just take a moment," she assured him, brushing her thumb briefly over his cheek, and he sighed, tugging her into him.

"Should I be worried?" he asked, muffling the question into her hair, and she gave his rear a light smack with her racket.

"Not about me," she said, and he reluctantly made his way off the court, observing from the other side of the fence.

Right from the start, it was clear Neville was at a disadvantage. "Fault," Pansy called as the ball hit the net, shaking her head, and Neville scurried forward to retrieve the ball, attempting again. On the third attempt, he successfully hit the ball over the net, which Pansy returned with ease, sending Neville stumbling over his feet as it hit the ground.

Pansy's lips pursed almost imperceptibly, thinning as her eyes narrowed, and Harry felt a brief wave of anxiety. Pansy was an excellent tennis player, viciously competitive even when she wasn't angry.

And it was becoming clearer and clearer that she was.

The match did not get much better. Even when the ball was successfully volleyed back and forth, Pansy found a way to send it into the most difficult places to reach. Neville was panting, obviously struggling, wiping sweat from his brow while Pansy looked no less winded than she had all morning. Harry, much to his dismay, found himself watching the slim muscle in her arms and legs, the power in her serve, the accuracy of her swing. She was no less talented or athletic than Ginny; if not for her upbringing, perhaps Pansy, too, might have pursued sports with more vigor. Harry, despite his ongoing sense of fear, found himself impressed and, perhaps unwisely, smugly proud.

At the end of the first set, Pansy strode forward, taking her place on the court for the new serve, but Neville balked as she approached him, hastily backstepping.

"We're switching sides," she informed Neville tightly, the fury Harry had expected now beginning to spark in her expression, evident in her voice and by the tightening of her knuckles. "Do you not know the rules by now, Neville?"

Neville, who was dragging in heaving breaths, shook his head quickly. "No, no, of course, just a bit… a bit out of it, I suppose—"

"All that tennis," Pansy mused, swinging the racket a few times through the air as Neville flinched, obviously sure she intended him to be her next target. "What was it… nearly every day for a year, Neville? Hm. I'm starting to think you wasted your money."

It was then, Harry imagined, that it finally occurred to Neville: She knows.

He looked helplessly at Harry, who shook his head. You'll get no help from me, Harry thought, setting his jaw as Pansy flashed Neville another disquieting smile.

"It's my serve," she said, and reluctantly, Neville dragged himself to the other side of the court.

She didn't wait until he got there; instead, she hit a ball that struck him in the shoulder, ricocheting back as Neville stifled a yelp. She walked over slowly, picking up the ball, and eyed it for a second.

Then she resumed her place on the court, serving a ball that proceeded to hit Neville squarely in the stomach.

"PANSY," he coughed up, doubling over, and she wandered over to her bag, producing another ball and serving this one to the same place, leaving Neville to feebly swat it away. It glanced off his knuckles, prompting him to swear under his breath, and when he looked up again, Pansy was waiting, both hands on her hips.

"My fault," she said, and added graciously, "Your serve."

Neville grimaced. "Pansy, let's talk about this—"

"About what?" she asked, eerily calm.

Part of Harry feared for Neville's life even as the other part of him soared, watching her exact her revenge with the precision he'd always admired. She certainly had a meanness, but a careful one. She had a sense of vengeance that was sharp as a knife.

Neville gaped at her.

"Serve the ball," she said again, waiting, and even while Harry hoped Neville had the sense not to walk into that trap, he also badly wanted to see what would happen.

This time, Neville's serve was acceptably mediocre, and Pansy backhanded it directly into what appeared to be his esophagus, prompting him to drop his racket, choking. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, wandering over to his side of the court, and Neville stumbled backwards so quickly he tripped over the fallen racket, collapsing clumsily on his back.

Harry, now quite certain he should intervene, rushed onto the court, just in time to see Pansy lean over Neville.

He thought for a moment she was caressing him, but upon closer inspection he could see she was removing something from his shirt; a tag, he realized, proving that Neville's ensemble not only looked new, but that it was, in fact, new.

"You didn't even love me enough to lie properly, did you?" she said softly, crumpling it in her hand and casting it aside.

"Pansy," Neville choked out. "Pansy, please, I never wanted to hurt you—"

She raised her racket, eyeing it, and Harry could see from a distance the disruption in the stringing; she'd broken part of it on her last serve. She tossed it aside as Neville made a low sound of apprehension, dragging himself away from her, but then she turned and said nothing, either to Neville or to Harry, and removed herself from the court.

Harry hurried to catch up to her, the white pleats of her skirt swinging aggressively as she walked.

"Where are you going?" he asked her, a little urgent with concern, but Pansy seemed to have lost some of her rage-serenity by then, looking lost and uncertain instead. He shook his head, darting in front of her to say, without room for refusal, "You're coming with me."

Her dark eyes were dazed, unfocused.

"I want a drink," she said.

He nodded. "Alright, then we'll have one," he said, and tucked her securely under his arm, leading her back to the car.

They did not have one drink.

They had several drinks, all gin and tonics sloppily made by Harry with Pansy perched on the counter of the kitchen that he never used in the house where he never stayed (his godfather's former townhouse, now his), but which he knew would be available for several hours of potential disconsolation. She sat with her ankles crossed, sipping delicately even while the gin seemed to flow and flow and flow, the drinks made with considerably less effort each time. After about half an hour Harry gave up on spritzing limes, even on shaking or stirring. Eventually, however-many drinks in, Pansy gave a little hiccup and shoved her glass into his chest, shaking her head.

"This is disgusting," she said, flouncing down to her feet and stumbling until he caught her elbow, propping her upright. "I'm making us the next one."

He watched her blearily make her way to the bottle where it sat on the table. The corner of her skirt was folded up slightly, revealing white shorts that hugged the curve of her arse; below that, the line of her hamstring; beside that, the little shadow of muscle on the lateral plane of her thigh.

"What about Blaise?" he asked, tearing his gaze away, and she shrugged.

"He's dead," she said, and Harry blinked.

"You didn't kill him, did you?"

She gave Harry something he assumed was supposed to be a glare, though it was slightly obscured by the way her makeup had started to smear a little at the corners of her eyes. She hadn't cried, he noticed. He wasn't sure if he expected her to.

"Of course I didn't," she said. "He's just dead to me."

She dug around in her bag, pulling out her mobile, and showed it to Harry. It had forty-five missed calls and messages from Blaise, ten from Hermione, five from Draco, and one each from Daphne and Theo.

"I have no interest in speaking to him," Pansy said gruffly, and stumbled back, bumping into Harry's chest and glancing impatiently over her shoulder at him. "Watch it, Henry."

"Yes, my fault," he said facetiously, and then hesitated before adding, "So you've decided to punish Blaise more than Neville, then?"

She frowned at him, abandoning the effort of making a drink and instead picking up the bottle of gin, shaking her head. "I'm not punishing him."

"Of course you are," Harry said.

"Why, because I don't want to hear his excuses?"

"Because he loves you," Harry corrected, observing her skeptical blanching with a shake of his head, "and there's nothing worse you could do to him than disappearing entirely from his life."

"Not true." She slid the back of her hand across her mouth, the moisture from the gin still slick on her lips. "Could always beat him at tennis," she said, hiccuping with an unbalanced step to the side, and Harry shook his head, steadying her with his hands on her hips.

"There could be nothing worse, Pansy, believe me," he said in her ear, "than living a life you're not in."

She stiffened for a moment, the diamond on her finger flashing as her palm slid resentfully over her mouth.

"If that were true, he wouldn't have done this," she said, discarding the words to let her hand fell back to her side. "He threw me away, not the other way around."

"Did he?" Harry spun Pansy around, catching her shoulders as her darkened scowl met his imploring look. "Believe me, Pans, he had to have had a good reason for all of this. This is Blaise we're talking about, you and I both know he loves you more than anyone—"

"Yes," she scoffed, "and look what that got me." Her eyes slid to the floor, then to where Harry's hands were curled around her arms. "I don't want to forgive him," she said, so quietly he almost didn't hear it, and he grimaced.

"Maybe not today," he said slowly. "And maybe not for a while, but—"

"Harry, he—"

Her eyes widened, one hand clapping over her mouth, and he saw it: the little glitter of moisture in her eyes that meant she was about to break.

"Harry," she struggled to whisper, his name emitting like hardship through her lips, "he lied to me. To me. He fooled me, he tricked me, he—"

It wasn't 'he fucked my boyfriend,' Harry noted, though either way, it wasn't a thought she could finish. He pulled her into him, resting his chin on top of her head as she dragged in a gasp, suddenly succumbing to anger, or sadness, or to the particular suffering of both.

"I thought I knew him," she said hoarsely, "but I didn't, not at all. All those times I told him my secrets, all the weapons I gave him thinking he'd never use them, I gave him the means to ruin me and he did." She rasped out a sob, resting her forehead against Harry's t-shirt. "I see it now," she muttered, shaking her head. "He kept saying to leave him but he wouldn't say why, he couldn't just tell me—"

"Maybe there was a reason."

"What possible reason?" she demanded, leaning back, and Harry watched a tear slip down her cheek, her lashes wet and her lips parted and her face flushed pink with emotions she so rarely showed. "He let me believe I was going mad—and all that time he could have told me, he could have told me, and at least—at least if I'd known, I wouldn't feel so… so stupid—"

"You're not stupid." Harry shook his head, wiping the tears saturating the shadows beneath her eyes with a slip of his thumb. "You love Neville, you love Blaise, you didn't want to believe either of them capable of this—"

"No. No." She shook her head vigorously, fists curling to tighten her fingers in Harry's shirt. "No, I never loved Neville, I never did. It was always that I needed him, that I thought he could solve my problems, but I loved—"

Her hand flew up to her mouth again, battling back the words on her tongue as she glanced up again, pained.

"Please don't make me feel that right now," she said, begging him for the first time that he could remember. She'd always been too proud, too stiffly arrogant or aloof, too something else that he had never been. She had always been his opposite, driven by duty and carrying burdens he'd never understood. Just discard them, just drop them, he'd always wanted to say, to plead with her, but she never had. She'd always carried everything herself, only giving others spare, fleeting glances into everything she locked away.

"Okay," he said, "okay." His head spun, the heat of her in his arms joining up with the gin in his system to flood him, head to toe. "What do you want to feel, then?"

"I want what you give to everyone else." He could feel her heart racing, her hips pressing into his. It occurred to him that he was leaning against the counter, that Pansy was in his arms, that once when he and Draco were sixteen he'd said, "Have you seen Pansy lately?" and Draco had groaned, "Harry, talk about other tits all you like but she's practically our sister," and so he'd thought to himself yes, okay, so there was one girl he could never touch and it was Pansy, and it registered in his memory that he couldn't set his hands on her breasts, couldn't put his mouth on her thighs, certainly couldn't sink his teeth into that perfect arse, that wasn't for him, she herself wasn't for him.

"I want," she said softly, "the Prince Harry treatment."

He swallowed hard. "The what?"

"I want you to try to win me," she said, her fingers rising to toy with his lips. "Tell me you want me. Try to get me in bed, Harry, like I'm someone you might actually chase," she said, and furiously, with truly unhelpful timing, he was sure his erection jerked against the unspoiled white of her delicate, tempting pleats. "You're good at it, aren't you?"

"Good at what?" he asked, dazed and somehow even drunker, and she smiled, the little smudge of mascara beneath her eyes suddenly seeming like a charming eccentricity rather than evidence of alcohol mixed with sorrow.

"You'll make me come, won't you?" she whispered, her fingers tight around his collar, her thumb sliding across his throat as he shuddered. "I'm good too, Henry," she said, and part of his brain screamed: Call me that when I'm inside you. "I'm very good."

"We shouldn't," he struggled to say. "No, we shouldn't," he insisted, slightly more convincingly that time, "you're sad, we're drunk—"

This time, the second time in two days he was touching someone he shouldn't, it was Pansy dragging his mouth down for a kiss. It was something he'd almost never thought about; unlike with Hermione, which he'd imagined for years, this was a collision he'd never expected to feel, which he'd told himself would never happen, that maybe—if he got lucky—might happen in a dream but not like this, not his platonic friend Pansy, not the girl who'd mocked his hair and, on the occasion of his enlistment, kissed his cheek with the parting benediction, "Don't die or I'll kill you." It was something Harry had ruled out a long time ago and hadn't rehearsed even once—so the moment her lips touched his, he braced himself for impact, for failure, a mirror image of the kiss from the night before.

Instead, though, he gasped, something like a spark alighting on his tongue.

"Yes," Pansy murmured, digging her nails into the back of his neck, "like that."

He kissed her back hungrily, voraciously, with palpable starvation, until he became aware of what he was doing and tried, hopelessly, to stop.

"Pansy, Pansy, wait—"

Her hands tugged at the waistband of his joggers, the ones he'd put on thinking he might play tennis, not let his oldest friend satisfy her previously unconsidered curiosities about his penis. He inhaled sharply, her palm brushing over the head of his cock, and she glanced up, her dark eyes filled with a recklessness that looked precisely like wickedness on her.

"Henry," she said, sliding her hand slowly along his shaft, "surely I don't have to ask you not to disappoint me."

He gave another full-bodied shudder, gritting her name between his teeth. "Pansy, listen, you're very—" He glanced down, noting the perfect framing of her décolletage by the white tennis dress. "Persuasive," he choked out, "but still, I don't think this is a good idea, I don't think I should—you know, while you're—"

"Vulnerable?" she asked, her hand stilling where it cupped his cock through his trousers, and he swallowed, staring down at her and trying to remember the many, many reasons this was surely a bad idea.

"Um," he said, and she seemed to falter for a moment, the insecurity he knew she quietly possessed blooming over the flush in her cheeks.

"Sorry," she said, taking a step back. "Of course not." She cleared her throat. "You're right," she said crisply, exhaling. "You're right. We shouldn't, of course, this is nonsense. I'm being unreasonable. Worse," she said with a little laugh, "I'm being impulsive, which we both know is not my strong suit."

"Well, not too many women I know would carefully plan a tennis massacre, so maybe 'impulsive' isn't the only worthy thing," he said, and she gave him one of those sad, drunk smiles, brushing her hair back and smoothing down her skirt.

"True," she said, reaching for the bottle again. "Better we didn't do something we'd regret," she added, and took a long sip, wincing as it went down.

Harry watched her, the image of her blurring slightly as he dragged his gaze from her lips to her breasts to her waist, to the way her hips flared out gently, and to that skirt, fuck, that little skirt with the pleats, the toned lines of her legs, the thoughts of them wrapped around him. All of it, the thoughts he'd never had before, rendered him suddenly incapable of blinking her away.

"Pansy," he said, and she looked up, setting the bottle down again with a gulping swallow.

"Henry?" she asked.

"Get on the table," he said.

She blinked, surprised.

Then, slowly, she leaned back, reaching for the table behind her and lifting herself up to perch at its edge, waiting.

He took two steps to close the distance, his hands finding either side of her face and tilting her head up before lowering his lips to hers. This time, the kiss was slower, less aggressive. He took his time, intending to make her feel it. Whatever she wanted—however she wanted to be wanted—he decided he would do it. This was what he could give her, this was what she had asked, that no one else could give her. It would have felt noble and unselfish if Harry hadn't been so fucking into it, into the taste of her, which should have been gin and more gin but was actually the flavor, somehow, of her lips, sweet and honeyed. He dragged her hips forward, hitching her thighs over his hips, and she fumbled with his trousers as he slid the little shorts down from beneath her skirt, depositing them on the floor and feeling the velvety slickness at her slit.

"I thought you found me repulsive," he reminded her softly, laughing it into her mouth, and she tightened her legs around him.

"You are," she said, tugging him into her as she lay on her back and he climbed on the table after her, propping himself up on his elbows. "But I'm permitted to have a weakness from time time."

The idea of it—that he could be her weakness, even for just a day, an hour, a minute—was oddly satisfying. Lady Pansy Parkinson, never fully content with anything, was turning to him for satisfaction, and that was something shy of miraculous. Harry, shoving aside thoughts of Hermione and Draco and Neville and Blaise, resolved that he would deliver on his offering as many times as possible before they both eventually sobered up.

"Do me a favor," he said, taking a fistful of Pansy's ponytail, "and call me Henry while I fuck you."

She let out a sound like a strangled moan, only he could hardly believe it possible. That would mean that she, the girl who never allowed herself release—the woman who never lost control—was coming undone in his arms, and at the thrill of it, he leaned forward, putting his lips next to her ear.

"Let go," he commanded, sliding inside her as his tongue slid over the diamond-studded lobe of her ear, and this time there was no mistaking the full whimper that escaped her lips.

"Henry," she gasped, and he thrusted into her with the oblivion of certain error, not stopping until she cried out, half-sobbing his name, to let the bottle of gin crash to infinitesimal shards of nothing on the cold kitchen floor.

He remembered very little of the rest; how they'd made it up to his old bedroom, fucking again until they passed out cold, waking up later that evening to discover they were both sticky with sweat and spilled gin. He had black smudges of her makeup smeared across his abs and traces of her perfume on the inner linings of his arms; she'd left her dress on his kitchen floor in a pool of liquor and glass. The following conversation—let's not talk about this, yes you're right let's just call this two friends making each other feel better, okay good perfect I have to go—was mostly mumbled through pounding heads and respective touches of embarrassment, though he'd kissed her forehead and told her she could stay if she wanted.

"I said I wanted the Prince Harry treatment," she said with a grim laugh, "and that means a hasty exit."

It only occurred to him several seconds after she said it that he should probably retort with something, only the mush of brainless non-thought inside his head prevented him from doing so. What he would have said, he wasn't entirely sure. Possibly that he didn't bring girls here, not here to the house he'd shared with his godfather; maybe that he'd never had sex like that, like he could fucking die and it wouldn't even matter; perhaps that she'd gotten far more from him than anyone, both because he'd wanted to and because he knew she would never stand for less.

But he didn't say it, and not because he didn't try. It was because before he could, he was brusquely interrupted, Pansy handing him his phone and motioning for him not to say anything as she tiptoed into his bathroom, wrapping a sheet around her as she went.

"Harry," Draco said, and it was only after Harry had answered the call that he remembered maybe Draco knew, maybe he didn't, that Harry had kissed Hermione. His heart plummeted into his stomach, a ripple of panic leaving him with a cold chill, until Draco quickly continued without waiting for an answer. "My grandfather's been in a collision."

"What? Fuck," Harry said, bolting upright and immediately wincing, pressing his hand to his temples. "Ouch, I—What do you mean, is Abraxas okay?"

"He's fine," Draco said. "Rattled, but that's all. Listen, I need you to do me a favor—"

"Yes, anything," Harry said quickly, motioning for Pansy to wait as she reappeared in the doorframe. "Do you need me to go to the palace? Should I get Lucius, or—?"

"No, I'm with my father now." Draco sounded agitated, clipped. "Theo's going to join me, I just spoke with him, but listen—I need you to go to Hermione's."

Harry's stomach lurched again and Pansy frowned at the look on his face, grabbing an oxford that was hanging from the corner of the wardrobe and pulling it on to perch on the bed beside him. "Hermione's? Why?"

"I'm positive this is going to drag things up for her, and I just don't want her alone," Draco said, still sounding evasively concerned. "The press will be hounding her again, I'm sure, and without Daphne—" His voice drifted for a moment, then returned. "Anyway, I'll worry about security, but keep her company."

"I—" Harry glanced at Pansy, who motioned for him to hurry it up. "Why me?"

"Well, I'd have Pansy do it, but I can't seem to reach her. And I thought to ask Blaise, but… Well, the point is, Daphne will be with Theo," Draco continued, sounding distracted, "and there's no one else, so—"

"I'll grab Pansy and head over," Harry agreed, and he could practically see Draco's curtly approving nod.

"Thank you," Draco said, and then, "Sorry, I have to give a press conference shortly."

"You? Why not Lucius?"

"He's still on a press moratorium. Anyway, I'll see you," he said, and was gone, hanging up as Pansy frowned expectantly.

"What is it?"

"Abraxas was in an accident, Draco wants us to go stay with Hermione. Do you," Harry began, and hesitated, glancing over her. "Do you want to change first, or just—?"

"Just what," Pansy scoffed, "let Hermione see what I've been inadvisably up to for the entire day? No, Henry, I don't think so." If the use of his full name affected her in any way—it had made his cock twitch slightly in an unhelpful episode of Pavlovian dick—she didn't acknowledge it, adding impassively, "I'll be there after I stop at mine."

"Pansy," Harry said, and then hesitated. "Listen, about Neville—"

She gave him a glare that suggested he watch where he stepped.

"Are you going to leave him?" he managed to ask, and she pursed her lips, folding her arms tightly over her chest.

"I don't know," she said, and before Harry could say anything, she added, "His grandmother would kill him if she knew. Believe me, she won't accept this." She paused for a moment, contemplating something, and then said, "And besides, it would be rather stupid of me to give up the match."

Harry gaped at her, and Pansy sighed impatiently.

"Close your mouth, Harry," she said. "It's unseemly."

"Pans, you can't honestly tell me—"

"I'm not telling you anything," Pansy sniffed. "I simply haven't decided."

"But—"

"But what?" she prompted, glaring at him. "What am I supposed to do, Harry? A scandal like this could cripple me. I have to get away from my mother, from my father, I still have to manage to marry well, and if not Neville, then—"

"Pans, you can't possibly marry him!" Harry burst out, finding himself surprisingly infuriated by the thought. "After what he did to you?"

Pansy leveled a dispassionate glance at him.

"Perhaps being made to marry me is precisely the punishment he deserves," she said, and before Harry could think what to say, she'd already walked out of his bedroom, leaving him behind.

Draco had been right; per usual, there was a crowd of photographers outside Hermione's flat. Harry, who was usually quite adept at not being pictured unless he wanted to be, pulled a nondescript hood over his head and darted through after another of the building's residents, making his way to her unit.

"Harry," she said, blinking as she pulled open the door. "What are you doing here?"

"Didn't Draco tell you I was coming?" he asked, but at the obvious look of confusion on her face, he amended the statement to, "Never mind, just thought I'd keep you company. Pansy's on her way, too," he added, and Hermione exhaled with relief, beckoning for him to come inside.

"I'm so glad you've been in touch with Pansy," Hermione called over her shoulder, making her way to the kitchen to pour him a glass of something. "I haven't heard from her since I told her about, you know, Neville and Blaise on Halloween. It was the weirdest thing," she said, re-emerging with two glasses of wine, "but I swear, she didn't even react at all. I asked if she was okay and she said 'don't be silly, Hermione, I'm perfectly well,' and then she just disappeared. You know," she added thunderously, "I have half a mind to cancel my vacation entirely. I'm beyond furious with Blaise, no surprise there—"

Harry, who had just noticed the live stream of the news on her laptop, interrupted as he reached for his glass, gesturing to the screen. "Draco's press conference is starting," he said, and then glanced up at Hermione. "Were you watching the news?"

"Hm? Oh, I was just—Well, I was just making sure everything was alright," she said, going slightly red. "But of course, we don't have to watch this, we can just—"

"No, no, let's," Harry said, turning the volume up as Draco continued speaking.

"—the collision this morning between His Majesty's car and the vehicle containing two paparazzi is evidence that the media's increasing fascination with my family's private lives has begun to sacrifice safety in its pursuit of news. While His Majesty is relatively unharmed, there is great danger in permitting this behavior to continue. We are this nation's public servants, first and foremost, but the safety and privacy of our family must still prevail."

Hermione sat down silently beside Harry, her eyes glued to Draco's face as she raised her glass slowly to her lips.

"I must ask that journalistic integrity include compassion," Draco said. "I would also ask that that compassion extend not only to myself, to my parents, the Prince and Princess of Wales, and to my grandfather, but also to those who do not have the luxury of our security privileges. Specifically, I would ask that the press respect the privacy of Miss Hermione Granger," he said, and Harry glanced at a startled Hermione, "who, unlike the others in my family, does not hold a public position and therefore should not be forced to sacrifice her private life for public consumption. Harassment of Miss Granger by the press is not now and has never been acceptable, and though I take responsibility for not intervening sooner, I now charge the men and women of the media with holding themselves to a higher standard of accountability. It is my hope that together, we can ensure that no further damage will come to anyone."

Harry watched Hermione's hand tighten on her glass, recognizing something on her face that he'd seen once before; four years before, in fact, when he'd realized he'd already lost her to Draco. She was going to fall for her prince anew, or perhaps all over again, and Harry could see there was nothing he could do to convince her otherwise.

For some reason, though, that thought was no longer met with the twinge of pain it had always prompted before. Rather than linger on the subject of Hermione and Draco, Harry found it was Pansy's name repeatedly on the tip of his tongue. He wanted, for some reason, to reveal what had transpired between them; to tell Hermione, who'd always listened to his secrets, and commit the events to reality, so that someone other than himself would know.

Instead, what fell out of his mouth was, "I don't think Pansy's going to leave Neville."

Hermione, who had been watching Draco wave and depart the press conference, suddenly jolted back to the present. "What?"

"I think she might stay with him," Harry said reluctantly, and Hermione, who had been frowning into nothing, suddenly launched to her feet.

"Is she insane?" Hermione demanded. "After what he did to her? How could she—how would she—" Her phone buzzed on the table and she groaned, glancing at it. "Hold on, that's the building, one second—"

She stomped into her bedroom, disappearing, and in the same moment there was a knock at the door. Harry rose to his feet, pulling the door open to reveal Pansy standing in the corridor, now wearing a navy shift dress and looking as if she'd never done anything over the past twelve hours but hydrate and care for her skin.

"Henry," she said.

He cleared his throat. "Hi, Pans."

"No clever greeting, then?" she asked, striding past him to set her purse on Hermione's entry table. "Pity, you're usually so much more reliable than that."

"A bit hungover, I suspect," he said.

"Well," she said, pivoting to face him, "bound to happen from time to time, I suppose. Where's Hermione?"

"She's just gotten a phone call, she'll be right out—"

"PANS," came Hermione's voice, followed by the woman herself, who came barreling around the corner with her mobile phone still in hand. "Pans, you won't believe the call I just got—"

"I expect not, Hermione," Pansy remarked, "as I'm not in the habit of concerning myself with the specificities of your antics."

It struck Harry as increasingly absurd that this Pansy had ever been as astonishingly untamed as the one from mere hours before. Hermione, however, knew nothing of the things Lady Pansy Parkinson-Six Names had said about Harry's dick (and more specifically, how he should fuck her with it), and thus, she was able to discard the comment quickly.

"My landlord just told me he's returning my November check because someone already paid off my rent for the rest of the year," Hermione said, prompting Harry to frown with bemusement. "Which is funny," she added emphatically, or perhaps accusingly, "because I recall specifically telling everyone I did not need financial help."

"Get to the funny part," Pansy sniffed, and Hermione, rather than express any displeasure with Pansy's snotty remark, let out a loud sigh of relief, tugging Pansy into her arms and embracing her tightly.

"I know it was you," she said, and Harry, who was fairly sure Hermione was right, felt himself smiling faintly. "Only you, Lady Parkinson, would so shamelessly disregard the things I say—"

"Sounds unlikely," Pansy muttered, but while she didn't return Hermione's hug, she did grudgingly say, "You're a good person, Hermione. A good friend." She cleared her throat, adding with a detesting sense of displeasure, "It's about time something good happened to you."

At that, Hermione drew back, contemplating something.

"You should come with me," Hermione said suddenly, and Pansy frowned. "On holiday. I was supposed to go with—" She broke off, reddening. "Well, the point is I need that holiday badly, and apparently now my rent's paid off, and as for you and N-"

Harry shook his head quickly over Pansy's shoulder, warning Hermione to silence, and Hermione faltered.

"The point is I want you to come with me," Hermione said, gripping Pansy's hand tightly. "You could use some time away, couldn't you? To, um… clear your head," she suggested, and Pansy considered it a moment. "We could have a girls' trip. Please," she added, a little helplessly, and Pansy sighed, swatting her away.

"Fine," Pansy said. "But only if you promise not to be excessively emotional."

"I promise," Hermione said quickly. "I'll keep my angst to a minimum, I swear."

"And there will be no mention of my personal life."

"None! I promise, none—"

"None of yours, either."

"Absolutely not. Not a peep."

"In fact, no discussion at all."

"Nothing! We won't even speak," Hermione insisted cheerfully, and Pansy sighed, finally relenting.

"Alright," she said. "Holiday it is, then."

"Perfect," Hermione exhaled, relieved, and flicked her hand towards the window, gesturing to the photographers outside. "I don't want to be here, anyway. I'm losing my mind looking for a new job, and I certainly don't want to be around for Abraxas' gala. Probably not for the rest of the month," she muttered under her breath, "seeing how I'm sure Lady Sooz will be around," and Harry blinked, slightly taken aback.

"You'll be gone for an entire month?" he echoed, startled, and Hermione and Pansy both turned towards him.

He thought it was Hermione—who was clearly running from her problems (which, naturally, included Draco)—who'd been the reason he'd faltered, but after a second glance at both of them, he wasn't entirely sure that it was.

"Is that a problem?" Pansy asked, her dark gaze falling on Harry's, and with a flash behind his eyelids, he heard her little sigh in his ear, the ghost of it sending a shiver of apprehension up his spine.

"No, of course not," he said, and forced a smile, certain that if it wasn't already, there was a not-insignificant chance it was about to be.

I was there when Pansy and Hermione left for their trip, both of them fleeing the numerous things in their respective lives that neither had any wish to face. I felt something I didn't understand at the time while watching them go; I was used to being Pansy's childhood friend and Hermione's second choice, but somehow, I had an inexplicable sense that something, somewhere, was changing.

I didn't have long to wait before I discovered my unnameable sense of prophecy was truer than I thought.

a/n: fyi, my book Inheritance has been retitled One For My Enemy. It will still be released on my birthday, January 31. I'll probably read an excerpt on Olivie Blake is Not Writing for next Monday's video, but in general summary: drug dealing witches half-murder the heir to a rival criminal enterprise; inadvisable love, sibling rivalry, and quests for revenge ensue.

27. Revival

Chapter 27: Revival

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Knight in Shining Armour

Many will recall that in November of 2014, King Abraxas was grievously victimized by a savage fleet of hounding photographers, leading to a treacherous car chase with near-fatal consequences. Understandably, His Majesty opted not to make any public remarks following the crash, asking instead that his grandson, Prince Draco, address the press on behalf of the Royal Family. Aside from the question of why it had been Draco and not his father, the Prince of Wales, who had been asked to speak, the press conference is most oft remembered for its concluding remarks: Namely, Prince Draco's request that the safety and privacy of the woman who would be his future wife be protected above all others.

While Prince Draco had been reluctant to speak with the press about private matters, making few comments (if at all) about his personal life, it seemed that—in the face of rumours he had begun courting beloved aristocrat Lady Susan Bones—Hermione was to be his glaring exception. In fact, less than a month after the initial address, paparazzi would capture Miss Granger sunbathing in the private villa she was sharing with a friend, and Draco would again come quickly to her aid, publicly condemning the Greek press for their actions and demanding an immediate retraction of all leaked photographs. With his grandfather and father were still absent in the press, the young Prince was quick to emphasize there would be no stiff upper-lipping this one; "It was clear that if His Highness had to run into every publication syndicate waving a lance on horseback and challenging each individual editor to a duel, he would do it," comments an anonymous Palace source, adding, "Frankly, it was a bit arousing, if I'm being honest! But don't print that, of course."

There are pieces to this story that Rita is, of course, leaving out; specifically, that she herself printed those pictures alongside a scathing article calling me a 'shameless party girl,' and then she proceeded to postulate that perhaps I had been drowning my sorrows following the loss of my royal boyfriend.

Astoundingly, she got one thing right, as I was drowning my sorrows—sort of, maybe. Suppressing them, at least, or trying to. Draco and I were doing a somewhat tenuous job of being exes, I'll admit; it wasn't something that came easily to either of us, for reasons which now seem obvious but at the time were considerably less so. I had gone on vacation hoping to recover a bit of myself—and I did, I think, or at least make excellent headway towards recovering something. But what I gained in inner peace did come at a cost, as I would soon discover.

The cost of significant outer exposure, that is.

November 20, 2014
Mykonos, Greece

Perhaps it was for the sake of nostalgia that Hermione and Pansy opted to return to Mykonos, where they had once vacationed with Daphne. Hermione hadn't wanted any particular extravagance—certainly couldn't afford any, even with Pansy's help—but as Lady Six-Names pointed out, Hermione no longer possessed the requisite anonymity for a quiet holiday. "If you want privacy, you're going to have to pay for it," she informed Hermione stiffly, handing her a credit card without any additional ceremony. "And do not press me on this, or I will simply change my mind about joining you."

From the start, Hermione doubted that was true. For one thing, Pansy must have had just as pressing a desperation to leave as Hermione did, given that her fiancé and her best friend had been hiding their affair for over a year. For all that Pansy was acting as if nothing had changed, Hermione was positive that it had, just as she was convinced that some time away from London would permit them to have a real and perhaps even illuminating conversation.

During such time, Hermione fantasized she would finally get to the heart of Pansy's feelings; would manage to assuage them, and then, perhaps over a disgusting round of ouzo (probably; it just seemed highly likely), she would finally sever Pansy's need to rely on Neville for… whatever positively medieval reasons she had for remaining attached. Simple, easy. When had distance not made things much easier, or retrospect much clearer? Hermione imagined it would be a week's effort, possibly two weeks tops, and then the remainder of their stay could be blissfully devoted to feminine bonding and their own personal Eat, Pray, Love.

"Let me stop you right there," Pansy said before Hermione even had a chance to speak, dropping her bags the moment they entered the small but luxurious (Intimate!, read the website) rental villa. "I know you have grand aspirations to fix me, Hermione, but let me assure you that, per usual, nothing is broken."

"I wasn't—"

"I can see you've got that smug little Saint Granger look on your face," Pansy continued, leaving Hermione to adjust her expression to something of a pout, "but it isn't happening. I know perfectly well your agenda for bringing me here, and just because I've made no opposition up to this point does not mean I'm willingly submitting to it. You'll not convince me of anything, Hermione, and we're certainly not speaking of it today."

"But Pansy—"

"Perhaps tomorrow," Pansy sniffed, "when I've had a bit more sun," and then she wandered into the kitchen, seeking out a pitcher for what Hermione suspected was going to shortly be mojitos as Hermione was left to sigh, resigning herself to concession. Pansy was right, she thought, not yet. The bonding would have to be a process, and a slow one.

A very slow one, as it turned out.

"Not today, either," Pansy said on day seven. Her bikini top rested beside her reclining lounge chair as she opened one eye, doubtfully glancing at a falsely cheerful, mimosa-bearing Hermione. "And what are you looking at?"

"Um," said Hermione, who wasn't totally sure how appropriate it was to applaud Pansy for her apparently very excellent breasts. Was it the same as complimenting a woman's shoes, or her haircut? Surely it should have been. Didn't men regularly congratulate each other on their pectorals at will?

"Don't gawk, Hermione," Pansy said, though Hermione thought she saw a little smirk flit briefly over Pansy's lips. "They're just tits."

Hermione kept her bathing suit on, thankyouverymuch, lacking both Pansy's aforementioned 'just tits' along with her general aristocratic confidence (read: confidence), and after a moment lamenting another failed plot for intimacy (promised by the villa's website!), she settled herself beside Pansy with a mournful sigh, earning herself a lazy backhanded swat.

"Stop it," Pansy said.

"Stop what?"

"This, what you're doing. Stop it immediately."

"What am I doing?"

"You're meddling."

"I'm not!"

"You're trying to," Pansy scolded, turning her head and arching a brow. "You want me to break it off with Neville, is that it?"

"Well, do you want to break up with Nev-"

"We are not having this conversation," Pansy said firmly, returning her face to the gleaming sun. It wasn't overly warm, being November, but compared with the autumnal gloom of London, the sunbathing felt extremely appropriate. "I came here so as not to think about it, Hermione, and that includes not discussing it. Or do you, in fact, wish me to be extremely unhappy?"

"I… don't," Hermione said, feeling trapped, and rushed to add, "But—"

"No buts," Pansy said, and then smirked a little, "Unless you're feeling cheekier today than usual."

"Pans," Hermione said, feigning a gasp, "was that a crude and irreverent pun?"

"I'm on holiday, Hermione. I'm permitted my moments," Pansy replied, reaching blindly for the mimosa Hermione had set between them and then smiling to herself, apparently perfectly satisfied.

Unfortunately, the truth—which Hermione was loath to admit even to herself—was that her attempt to wander into Pansy's psyche was equally about helping Pansy as it was about distracting herself. With Daphne on her honeymoon, Hermione had been lacking her usual emotionally chatty friend (Daphne messaged her every now and then to check in, but generally Hermione assumed Daphne and Theo wouldn't wish to be disturbed), and was now having to sort out her lingering trauma for herself.

At first, it had seemed fairly easy. "Maybe we're trying to make something work that isn't really supposed to," she'd said to Draco during Daphne and Theo's wedding reception, "and it's just exhausting both of us. Maybe we need to just stop trying so hard. Or," she added as a murmured afterthought, "maybe we need to stop trying at all."

He'd said very little, really. Only, "Is that what you want?"

She'd given it a go, trying out how it felt to be firmly her own advocate. "Yes," she'd said, and in response, he'd nodded stiffly, raising his champagne glass to his lips and pausing it halfway, looking out over Daphne and Theo's first dance.

"Well," Draco said after a moment, lightly clearing his throat. "I'm afraid I don't know how to imagine my life without you."

She didn't either, but that didn't seem to be the point. "Maybe we should try," she said, and Draco glanced at her, questioning, but ultimately nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, perhaps we should."

It wasn't as if Hermione was an expert in break-ups. She'd never really had a boyfriend like Draco before; one that she'd planned (or tried to plan, or couldn't plan, but wanted to) a future with. It was strangely the same, actually, being broken up with him, as it had been being with him and away from him. He hadn't exactly been present in the months leading up to their split, so his subsequent absence was hardly much different.

He'd called her a few days after the wedding. When she answered, he sounded confused, as if he'd dialed her number out of habit and no longer knew why he'd done it. "Just saying hello," he said, uncomfortably.

"Hello," she told him. "Anything else?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"No," he said, and then, "Have a nice night, Hermione."

He hadn't made the mistake of calling again, and she'd deliberately not called him, either. Not until Halloween, which had been its own series of catastrophes.

"Listen, don't hang up," she rushed out, and heard him make a sound like a laugh, only slightly more injured.

"Why on earth would I hang up?"

"I just… I don't know," she said quickly, and then, "It's about Pansy. It's Neville and Blaise, they've, um—"

"Fought?"

If only, she thought grimly.

"They've been sleeping together," Hermione forced out with a wince, chewing her lip and glancing at the clock. It was two in the morning; she was surprised he'd answered. He was normally quite a heavy sleeper. Did that mean he'd still been awake, or…? Her mind raced to fill in the blanks. Was he with someone, maybe? Was he not sleeping because he couldn't sleep, or was it because someone was keeping him awake at night—and if they were, what was her name, and was she prettier, smarter, better dressed (definitely that) than Hermione?

"They've what?"

The concern in Draco's voice woke her from her half-drunken spiral.

"They've been seeing each other behind Pansy's back," Hermione said, rushing to explain what she and Harry had overheard. To her distress, Draco immediately sounded frantic.

"I should speak to Blaise, he told me that—well," Draco amended brusquely, "never mind what he told me—the point is I truly can't believe he would do something like that to Pansy—"

"Wait, Draco," Hermione cut in, knowing that if she didn't say it now, she'd never say it. "There's, um. There's something else."

He quieted for a second, probably hearing the tremorous quality her voice had taken.

"Are you alright?" he asked her, concerned, and upsettingly, she noticed her fingers were shaking. She was having a fit of cold sweats, too, which was hardly ideal. Better to get it out quickly, she reminded herself, and took a deep breath.

"I kissed Harry tonight," she said, and then, in what was mostly terror, she rushed to fling out, "But it wasn't good at all, it wasn't… it wasn't, you know, anything. I was just sad, and it's so hard, you know, that you're not there anymore and I just—I wasn't trying to, I don't know what I was thinking but I was—"

"Hermione." Draco gingerly cleared his throat. "It's alright, really."

Her intake of breath was so sharp it escaped like a hiccup. "What?"

"We're broken up, Hermione. You're at liberty to do whatever you like. You don't have to explain it to me."

"But—" She swallowed hard, uncertain why that, his very reasonable reaction, didn't feel entirely like a relief. "Really?"

"I have to admit, I thought it would happen." He was placing long pauses between sentences, letting her fill the gaps with her own racing thoughts, which in turn made her stomach start to hurt. "I suppose I do know how Harry feels about you, and I guess I… Well," he said with a dry laugh, "nothing, nothing—"

"No, tell me," she pressed him, morbidly curious, and he sighed.

"I suppose I'm relieved it was just a kiss, if I'm being honest," he said.

She tried to imagine him, wherever he was, and the way his hand might look. That was where he kept his emotions: his hands. She pictured one of them tight around his phone, his knuckles white with effort at restraint—or was it his free hand she should have been concerned about? Was it holding open a book, was it running exhaustedly through his hair, was he stroking the tips of his fingers down the line of someone else's languid spine? Was he on some military cot in some godforsaken slice of nowhere, trying to steal a second for his thoughts—or was he in a hotel suite, his bare skin wrapped in silk sheets, catching his breath while some blue-blooded princess slept, satisfied, beside him?

"It was—" Not you, Hermione thought. "Definitely a mistake."

"Ah. Well, I'm sorry to hear that."

She grimaced. "No, you aren't."

"No, I'm really not," he confirmed, and laughed, and for the first time in their conversation, Hermione laughed as well, forgetting herself for a moment and then wanting, absurdly, to cry. It was as if the release of her apprehension called for a release from her tear ducts as well, which she couldn't abide. The last thing she wanted was to cry, which she'd been doing such a marvelous job of not doing, not even once, since they'd broken up.

"I'm sorry," he said, sobering for a moment, "I really don't know if that was the right thing to say, I'm just—"

"No, it's fine." She hurried to force it down, whatever unpleasant emotion was swelling up in her throat. "It's just… I haven't kissed anyone but you in, god. Not in four years. It just felt weird, and different, and not, um—" She pulled her knees into her chest, shaking her head. "I guess you're not the right person to talk about that with."

"Why not?" he said. "I would hope we could still be friends, despite everything."

Friends, she thought, grimacing. Right. The thing they'd tried to be so many times and failed.

"Yeah, I know, but still—"

"I know. I understand." He toyed with the silence for a moment, venturing, "I guess I just want you to know that I still care about you, Hermione. You're important to me, and that's not going to change. I want you to be happy, whatever that means. Whatever it comes with."

"Yeah." She forced a nod, forgetting that he wouldn't see it. All this effort at schooling her face was wasted, but she was desperately hoping it wouldn't extend to her voice. "Yeah, it's just a lot of change. I quit my job," she added. "Just—wow," she exhaled, "like, a few hours ago. Hard to believe that actually happened."

"You did?"

"Yeah, I just… couldn't do it anymore." She fussed with the hem of Daphne's Anne Boleyn costume, trying not to pick at the stitching. "I gave Minerva my two week's notice this afternoon. Well, actually, I told her I was going to give it to her," she said with a hasty half-laugh, "and then, after I said it, I wrote it."

Draco was quiet for several long moments.

"How did Wood take it?" he asked eventually, and Hermione laughed again, tears threatening to spill if she did it any harder.

"Alternated between scolding me and hugging me," she said. "Honestly, I don't think he could focus his attention on one or the other if he tried."

"Well, at least not everything is different, then." Another pause, and then, "How do you feel about it?"

"Honestly? Relieved. Like a weight's been lifted. Though," she sighed, "I don't know what I'm going to do next."

"Well. That's a bit exciting, isn't it?" Draco asked. "Must be, a little."

"Yes, a little. I think I'm transitioning from excitement to fear, though."

"You, Hermione?" He laughed. "No, not you. You're never afraid. You're the bravest of all of us. Certainly much braver than me."

By then, very little was keeping her from tears. Purely the grit of her teeth, she suspected, or the apprehension that crying would mean she had been the one in the wrong the whole time, and now there would be no going back.

Yes, she determined unhappily, fear was definitely keeping her from sadness, though it probably wouldn't do so for long.

"Still could fail," she reminded him. "Bravery's nice, I guess, but it's not much of a safety net."

"We're your safety net," he, in turn, reminded her. "You're not alone, Hermione."

Okay, she thought, that was enough.

That would have to be enough.

"Well, I should probably go," she said, rushing off the phone. "I want to check on Pansy, I'm worried she might murder Neville. She seemed much too calm, frankly, and I'm not sure she was even listening—"

"Yes, yes, you're right, I should, too. Goodnight, Hermione."

"Goodnight, Draco."

That was the last time they'd spoken. The next day she sent him a text that she labored over for hours—ultimately going with: Sorry to hear about your grandfather, hope your family is alright! Here if you need me—though she hadn't expected a response. She certainly hadn't expected his press conference.

The whole conversation seemed to continuously come back to her in pieces every time she closed her eyes, her mind incapable of resting. You're at liberty to do whatever you like, he'd said. Did that mean he was doing whatever he liked? She supposed, in retrospect, she had broken up with him, so wasn't it perfectly reasonable he would find a rebound? He was a prince, for fuck's sake, it wasn't as if he'd have any difficulty unearthing someone to sleep with. She'd said kissing someone else was strange, but she only noticed in retrospect that he'd said nothing in response. Jesus Almighty Christ, what could that have meant? Maybe he'd had a threesome, maybe two threesomes, maybe a whole fucking orgy and meanwhile, she'd been sitting there morosing about like a silly, angsting teenager—'lol, isn't kissing weird?'—and maybe Draco had thought to himself, Christ, Hermione, how sad you are.

She badly, very badly, needed to fix something, and she had hoped it would be Pansy. She'd hoped, desperately, that Pansy would have been the distraction she needed to forget about Draco, but it seemed that was not to be.

"I can hear your thoughts from here, Hermione," Pansy said, eyes still closed as she sipped her mimosa. "Whatever it is, you'll either have to desist immediately or Skype with Daphne about it. Unless you're finally going to let me review your skincare regimen," she mused, looking perfectly content and not at all as if trauma were circling her thoughts. "Heaven knows you could do with a better exfoliant."

It was that or nothing, it seemed. Another win for Lady Six-Names.

"Yeah, I guess," Hermione sighed, picking up her drink. "Fine, whatever. Make me over if you want, I don't care."

"That's the spirit," Pansy chirped, stretching out in her chair and returning—much to Hermione's envy—to her state of sunny serenity.

Typically, Pansy and Hermione's food consumption consisted of snacking throughout the day in the kitchen of their villa, but by that evening Hermione was feeling especially restless. When Pansy gave every indication that she was settling in for another night at home, Hermione began to sense she was responsible for seeking out her own entertainment.

"I'm going out for an early dinner," Hermione told Pansy, who shrugged, looking up from where she'd been slicing feta and cucumbers.

"Well, off you go, then," Pansy said, waving her away. "Just be careful," she added, popping a slice of tomato in her mouth, "and don't do anything foolish."

Hermione tried not to grumble too much in response, making her way from the villa into town. She'd planned on having a walk, getting something to eat and then briskly returning, but she was surprised to find herself recognizing a familiar silhouette as she passed the outdoor seating of a small cafe.

"Roger?" she said, startled, and with a frown, Roger Davies looked up from his cup of coffee, sliding his sunglasses back to reveal his own stunned expression.

"Hermione," he registered aloud, and after a moment to orient himself, he rose quickly to his feet, offering her a brisk and somewhat awkward hug. "Hi, sorry, that was quite a surprise, um—" He glanced warily over her shoulder. "You're not with… Well, who are you here with?" he amended in nearly the same breath, attempting unsuccessfully to appear casual.

"I'm with Pansy," Hermione said, and Roger looked visibly relieved. "Did you think I was here with Daphne?" she asked, amused.

"Well—" He grimaced, caught. "I didn't want to say anything, but—"

"She's on her honeymoon," Hermione assured him, and then immediately suspected she should have softened the blow, seeing Roger flinch at the reference to what Hermione only then realized was not her best friend in this scenario, but rather, his ex-girlfriend.

"Yes, I… well, I rather assumed," he said, and cleared his throat, gesturing for her to join him. "Would you like a coffee? It's bloody strong, sort of like a kick in the—Well, that's not important," he said quickly, and Hermione frowned, unsure what to make of this very frazzled Roger Davies. She'd always gotten the impression he was a bit aloof, something of an art-adjacent intellectual. He and Daphne, when they were most in sync, would spend most of their time discussing art and culture in feverish tones, and he had always given Hermione the feeling he'd seen a lot of the world, or had at least studied it. The clumsiness of his behavior, then, felt highly out of character.

"Is everything alright?" Hermione asked him, and he winced.

"Well, no, not even remotely," he told her, half-laughing, and she took a seat, figuring she had, by that point, no other choice but to relent. "I'm afraid your friend Daphne's done quite a number on me."

Hermione was pretty sure Roger and Daphne hadn't spoken since they'd finished school. "How so? And hold on, wait a minute," she realized, recalling the concept of university courses. "Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts right now?"

Unfortunately, she pieced things together (his absence from school, his presence here on a literal island, and his jumpy search for Daphne) much too slowly.

"Yes, well, I saw that Daphne was engaged to your friend Nott a few months ago," Roger said uncomfortably, "and it, ah. Well, it became something of a festering problem. The muse, you know," he said, as if Hermione could have had any idea what that meant. "She can be something of a flighty minx."

"Can she?" Hermione asked, lacking any other response.

"Well… alright," Roger sighed, resigning himself grudgingly to explanation, "being perfectly honest, I'm going to need something a bit stronger than coffee for this particular story."

"We could get a drink," Hermione offered, gesturing to the restaurant she'd been intending to go. "I was going to have one myself, and an early dinner, if you're up for it? Unless you're here with someone," she amended, glancing around, and Roger let out a barking laugh.

"No, god no—I accept," he said, shuddering a little. "I've been losing my mind the last few days. I thought a bit of time alone would help, but—"

"Totally understand," Hermione said kindly, and he flashed her a grateful smile. Unwillingly, she remembered that Roger Davies was really not unattractive; in fact, he was extremely handsome, now blonder and more golden from whatever time he'd already spent on the island, though she pushed the observation aside. Obviously, he was also in shambles, and that, Hermione reminded herself, was not something to be dismissed in favor of his forearms, however toned they happened to be.

"Shall we, then?"

"Yes, of course," he said, paying his bill and gesturing for her to lead the way.

Roger Davies' story of his recent meltdown was a long one, though not particularly complex. It began, as he'd mentioned, with seeing Daphne and Theo's engagement announcement in the paper, which had apparently launched a manic, furious series of paintings that were, in his words, essentially erotic studies of parts of Daphne's body. He still remembered the precise shade of her cunt, he informed Hermione—who then immediately ordered another drink—which was beautiful, precisely as Daphne was, in fact never had there been a woman with a more beautiful cunt (his words, not Hermione's), and while he would try to persuade himself to create something—anything—else, all he seemed capable of doing for months were recreations of her, which were not only unhelpful to his psyche but also hardly a novel pursuit for his profession. They didn't sell well, and certainly didn't hold much value for his professorship; it wasn't a particularly original concept, he informed Hermione unhappily, as it was certainly not the first time in history a lovesick man had been obsessively painting cunts.

After hurling a canvas out his office window and accidentally injuring a student who had been leisurely cycling by, Roger had discovered he could no longer paint anything at all. Nothing, he said emphatically, waving his arms—not a single thing, no matter how hard he tried—and the more constipated his muse—YES, CONSTIPATED, IT'S VULGAR I KNOW, BUT THAT'S LIFE, ISN'T IT, HERMIONE?—the worse his moods became. He'd always been subject to flaring tempers (he bemoaned his artistic temperament, adding as an afterthought that Daphne had always understood that about him), but it was a festering sort of madness, a chattering in his head, and the less he created, the less he could sleep, and the less he slept, the more angry he became; until, finally, a few weeks ago, he was called into a meeting with the dean, whom Roger had proceeded to (and he wasn't proud of this, by the way) shout at, insisting that the man had never known the true meaning of art—IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE—and therefore could not imagine the depths to which Roger was now suffering, crucified by the whims of the woman—no, the siren—who'd filled his life with beauty, only to rip it mercilessly away.

"They rather forcefully suggested I take a sabbatical," Roger finished, draining a fifth or sixth glass of ouzo as Hermione nodded, the rush of blood in her ears nearly as loud as the sea itself by then. "And now here I am, running into—who else? Daphne's best friend, of course," he said with half a laugh, "so I suppose that's my karmic punishment for being such a total dickhead."

He took a sip of wine (yes, they had also had wine; it was a longer dinner than Hermione had anticipated) and shook his head, sitting back with a sigh.

"I should be clear, I'm happy for her," he added, which was such an absurd statement it prompted Hermione to a fit of furiously smothered giggles. "Obviously, I wish her well."

"Obviously," Hermione managed to agree.

"I just seem to be… struggling, a bit, with a figment of her. A specter," he explained, waving a hand around. "I think, though, now that I've put some of this behind me, I've been able to sort some of it out." He leaned forward, startling Hermione slightly. "The thing is," he murmured conspiratorially, "there's two Daphnes."

His hand was resting on the table beside her forearm, urging her to listen to his latest (and hopefully cunt-free, she thought) artistic theory.

"There's the real Daphne, of course—the one who was always in love with Nott, as I knew perfectly well but didn't want to admit to myself, for obvious and selfish reasons—and then there's the Daphne I created in my mind. The brain does something odd once time passes, doesn't it? It curates the memories out of order," Roger said emphatically. "It makes the good things bigger than we remember and shrinks the bad. It fools us, presents us with things we want to see, until we can no longer see the truth of what someone is—and it's just like love, isn't it? Memory, like love," he sighed, "is a just pretty little trick. We can't see everything, only pieces of things."

He stopped, apparently realizing how close he was to her, and hastily leaned away.

"But of course you wouldn't understand," he said quickly, picking up his glass again. "You and your prince are very happy, I'm sure, as you should be—"

"Actually, we broke up," Hermione said, the words exiting her lips with a flimsy sort of numbness. "And I completely understand what you're saying. Only, I haven't quite gotten to it being a pretty trick yet. It's mostly just a mean one right now," she said, and then, for the sake of irony, she laughed.

Only she hadn't laughed.

To her dismay, the sound that came out of her was a sob, and Roger's eyes, blue as the Mediterranean itself, abruptly widened, alarmed.

"Hermione, oh, I'm so sorry," he said, letting his glass clatter to the table as he reached out, leaning towards her. "I had no idea you had a ghost of your own."

She had hoped Roger would say something obnoxious, but the fact that he did not served to make her cry harder, the liquor in her blood apparently taking control of her otherwise sound ability to reason.

"I'm sorry," she said, weeping incoherently into her palms, and he soothed her with a hand on her shoulder. The motion had the effect, somehow, of making Hermione distinctly more aware that he was Professor Davies, some years her senior, and not simply her friend Daphne's ex-boyfriend. "I didn't… I don't mean to—to have a meltdown like this, I'm so sorry, I just—"

"Why don't we take a walk," he suggested, fishing around in his pocket to pay their bill, "and we can talk some more? I wouldn't have spent so long going on about my own silly tragedies if I'd known—"

"No, no, you're fine," Hermione managed, gulping air and rising to her feet, relieved he'd offered. The last thing she needed was to go back to Pansy right now, like this, with her makeup smeared below her eyes, and her cheeks and eyes equally red from the strain of crying. "Thank you, really, I'm so sorry—"

He shook his head, assuring her with an impressive gallantry that she'd done nothing wrong, and then steered her towards the beach, permitting her to talk. It was the first time, really, that Hermione had been able to discuss with anyone what she was feeling since breaking up with Draco—even since before that, when things had simply been difficult, and which she'd had no outlet to express.

In fact, she realized she'd been trying so desperately to convince herself she was fine that she hadn't thought to question anything she'd done over the last several months.

"I quit my job," she said deliriously, "just like that, like nothing! I kissed my friend, for fuck's sake, it's like I've just gone off the rails completely—"

"Believe me, I know the feeling," Roger said, sympathetic. "Do you know that student my painting hit nearly broke his arm? He didn't, but still, that would have been on my head if he had—"

"I don't know what to do next," Hermione ranted, "and worse, I haven't even thought about it! I haven't even begun to think about it," she wailed, newly devastated at being faced with her inadequacies. "I just ran away from my problems—away from Draco, and away from my only conceivable income—"

"Well, you're being a little hard on yourself, aren't you?" Roger said, glancing down at her. "It's only just happened, after all. You have to give yourself time to breathe."

"I know, but I—"

"No, no, you don't," Roger cut in, turning to take hold of her shoulders and giving her a very long, very intent stare. "Listen to me, Hermione, and take it from someone with a few more years of experience under their belt: It is not a weakness to feel," he told her, his grip on her both alarmingly firm and surprisingly comforting. "That is your humanity—it's your duty as a human being to honor your emotions. To feel," he insisted, releasing her with one hand to begin gesticulating wildly, "and to do it strongly, and fully! Because it is the only thing no one can ever take from you," he said, softening with urgency, "and therefore, believe me, you have an obligation to nurture it."

She stared at him, a little dumbstruck, and a little drunk. He seemed to be staring back at her, though not entirely at her. He was staring at something that seemed to be happening inside his head as it projected directly onto her forehead, which confused her almost as much as his manic speech had soothed her.

"Hermione," Roger said, and she blinked. "May I ask you for an incredibly bizarre favor?"

"Yes," she said, thinking that seemed reasonable enough considering how strangely the night had already gone, and he exhaled, relieved.

"May I… paint you?" he asked, and at her look of disquietude, he rushed to add, "Your face," he assured her, abruptly releasing her and looking sheepish. "It's just—your eyes are such a warm shade of brown," he explained, gingerly brushing away the frizzy bit of a rebellious curl, "and with the sea behind you like this, it's the first time in months I've really thought I needed to commit a palette to memory, and I suppose it's invasive, but I just thought—"

"Yes," Hermione exhaled. "Yeah, sure, of course."

Tentatively, Roger smiled, and for a moment, he looked a little bit like Draco. He was broader around the shoulders, more of a golden blond than silvery, but Hermione felt a sense of relief at the thought that maybe she had done something helpful for him; that she'd contributed, in some way, to relieving his pain, even while he was doing the very great favor of listening to hers.

"Excellent," he said, running a hand through the ruffled strands of his blond hair, and then he gestured for her to follow.

Roger was staying in an airy bed-and-breakfast sort of place, modest accommodations for which the only remarkable feature was a sea-facing balcony. The room was relatively neat, a small pile of books left abandoned on the floor beside the single untucked corner of the all-white bed; a bottle of aftershave, a razor, and a toothbrush were the only personal items in the bathroom.

When Hermione emerged, smearing away the traces of makeup she'd already cried off nearly an hour ago, he had set up a little chair for her on the balcony, beckoning for her to sit. In the distance, the sea was an inky blue-black, with a darkness vast enough to be eternal but pale where the waves crested below moonlight.

"Here, just sit here," he said, placing her. "This won't take too terribly long, I just want to choose the colors, and then—"

He broke off, rapidly becoming distracted, and rummaged around for his brushes, pausing every now and then to eye her from a different angle. She felt strangely comfortable, despite the head rush that remained from the evening's libations. She'd never thought of herself as beautiful, really, and certainly not the kind someone would find worthy of painting; compared to Daphne and Pansy, Hermione was aware her looks were hardly her main strength. She was pretty enough, and sure, she had other qualities—she was the smart one, the thoughtful one, sometimes the brave one—but worthy of being art? That was a little thrilling, newly hers, and she shivered with anticipation.

"Are you cold?" Roger asked, frowning as he noticed her motion. Without waiting for an answer, he picked up a thin wool blanket from inside the room, holding it up for a moment and then nodding his approval, wrapping it around her shoulders like a shawl. "There," he said, stepping back and returning to his paints. "You can talk, by the way," he added, though it was clear his mind was already elsewhere. "No need to be silent."

"I actually don't mind the silence now," Hermione admitted, watching him. She wondered how he could have possibly seen, as Daphne could see, which colors were in her eyes besides brown, or what color the ocean was, besides blue. Artists had always been softly foreign to her. "I think it was just a problem when I knew I couldn't talk about things."

"Well, not everyone likes to discuss their feelings," he said, his attention focused on the page before him while he spoke. "I can't say I know her well, but still. I find it difficult to imagine Pansy is your best option for sympathy."

"Well," Hermione began, and sighed. "No, I suppose she isn't. She sort of reveals herself in pieces," she clarified quickly, not wanting to totally disparage her friend, "but I guess you have to be lucky enough to be there when she's in the mood for it."

"Well, I'm sure you'll get through to her. I just told you my entire story," Roger said with a low chuckle, "so I have to imagine it's coming."

He glanced up, taking a long look at her, and then gave her a fleeting smile.

"You're very warm," he said. "I think that's what it is about you, why your colors are so appealing. Your eyes—they're kind, and they're honest. A rarity," he said, and returned to his painting. "Refreshing, I think."

"I always thought my eyes were boring," Hermione said. "They're just, you know. Brown."

"Brown eyes are underrated," scoffed Roger, with the tone of someone who had done the research and would know. "There's more soul to brown eyes, and besides, they have a ring of power to them. There's a sense of timelessness—some sort of ancient quality, I should say, an agelessness that's both silencing and vast. They hold wisdom, curiosity, authority—"

"You're just saying that," Hermione scoffed; though, she had to admit, it was flattering.

Roger looked up, brow slightly furrowed. "No, I'm not," he told her, and after a moment to set his brush down, he crept forward, adjusting a curl that had fallen around her cheek. "Really, they're very beautiful," he said, eyeing the product of his adjustment, and now he was close enough for Hermione to smell the anise on his breath, the hints of spearmint from his aftershave. "There's a decadence to them, a richness, and—"

She tugged him in close and kissed him without thinking—or rather, thinking only that he was being very handsome and also very poetic and also, she was quite drunk, and had she mentioned he was handsome?—and he inhaled sharply, hands frozen. Then, slowly, he relaxed, curling his fingers around her arms as he gradually gave into the urgency of her kiss.

The moment he was returning the pressure, responding to her motions, Hermione shot to her feet, lurching into him, and he stumbled backwards into the hotel room, his back crashing into the post of the bed.

"Hermione," he said, his rapid pulse visible along the line of his throat, "are you sure?"

She shook her head, half-laughing. "No," she admitted, "but I don't really want to think about it right now. Do you?" she asked, leaning back to look at him, and he blinked.

Blinked again.

"No," he admitted, and pulled her back to fall with him into the mattress, her dress slipping easily over her head and onto the small pile of books as he made his way down her torso; permitting her, at last, to lose herself with a gasp.

"WHERE," Pansy shrieked, stomping towards the door even before it opened, "HAVE YOU BEEN?"

"Hi, Pans," Hermione said, trying with all her might not to be guiltily sheepish. "Sorry, I just lost track of time, I didn't mean to stay out so la-"

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?" Pansy demanded, launching directly into a rant without even waiting for Hermione to fully enter their villa. "This was irresponsible, Hermione, and thoughtless! You didn't even tell me where you were going! I looked positively everywhere and couldn't find any trace of you—I THOUGHT YOU'D LEAPT INTO THE OCEAN," she snapped, and Hermione winced.

"Pans, please, I just—"

"THIS HAS BEEN A VERY TRYING TIME FOR ME," Pansy shouted, and while Hermione had been prepared to insist that Pansy was not, in fact, her mother, she suddenly realized that Pansy's bottom lip was trembling, her hands tightened to shaking fists at her sides. "I've lost my best friend," Pansy said, voice suddenly grieving, "and discovered the man I never wanted to marry anyway is now not only thoroughly uninteresting to me, he's also unpalatable as a human being and bloody untenable as a match—and I had sex," she wailed, flailing a hand out as Hermione gaped in silence, taken aback and still immensely less than sober. "I slept with exactly the worst person I could have possibly chosen to sleep with—and now YOU," Pansy flung at her, "THE ONLY PERSON WHO CARES ABOUT ME, HAS VERY WELL RUN OFF AND—"

"I slept with Roger," Hermione blurted without thinking, and Pansy blinked, falling to a sudden halt and staring at Hermione as if she'd grown another head.

"Roger who?" Pansy demanded.

"Roger Roger. Daphne's Roger," Hermione said guiltily, and Pansy blinked again.

"When? Where?"

"Now. Just now. His hotel room."

"Just n-" Pansy broke off, stunned. "What, is he here? On the island?"

"Yes. He's staying in town."

"But—"

"I just saw him tonight," Hermione confessed, feeling wrung out already, barely thirty minutes from the crime. "I ran into him and we had dinner and some drinks, and he was sad about Daphne, and—"

"Daphne? What on earth—"

"And I know, I know I shouldn't have," Hermione said, fingers twisting in anguish, "but he was just… he was being so nice to me, and I was… I don't know, I was just—"

"Well." Pansy swallowed, straightening for a moment, and then she returned her attention to a floundering Hermione, scrutinizing her for a long time before speaking. "Well," she said again, sighing it out, "so how was it, then?"

It was Hermione's turn to be startled. "What?"

"Well, spill, Hermione," Pansy said stiffly. "There's no reason to deny Roger Davies is an entire meal of a man. Asinine art complex or not, I can certainly appreciate his physicality, can't I?"

Hermione stared at her, venturing half a giggle that broke off crisply, cut off by the apprehension she'd imagined Pansy's reaction.

"He's… a meal?"

Pansy pursed her lips. "Aren't we supposed to be friends, Hermione? I would have thought you could manage not to be so thoroughly judgmental—"

"No, no, I—" Hermione broke off, fighting a laugh again. "I just thought, um—"

"Was it good?" Pansy asked again, and Hermione bit her lip.

"It was… Well, um—"

"Spit it out," Pansy sniffed.

"It was…" She hadn't wanted to answer, only Pansy's dark glare was growing narrower by the second. "Fine, I—yes, okay? Yes," Hermione blurted hysterically. "I came like four times," she wailed, all in a single remorseful rush, and then, having unwillingly confessed to sins she hadn't yet processed, she immediately burst into tears for the second time that evening.

In response, Pansy sighed, pausing for a moment, and then wandered closer, resting a hand awkwardly on Hermione's back.

"Oh, come now," Pansy said, somewhat soothingly. "We can't help it that these mortal prisons of ours require mindless stimulation from time to time. An orgasm is hardly a crime, is it?" she tutted softly. "And four, that's not so bad, is it? In fact it's really quite good—"

"No, it's not—it's not that," Hermione said, struggling to sniffle as Pansy withdrew (ostensibly from nowhere) a handkerchief, handing it to her. "Thanks," she managed, and wept a little more, convulsing a bit as Pansy seemed to finally release the last of her reservations, leaning her cheek gingerly against Hermione's shoulder.

"I slept with someone, too, as I mentioned," Pansy said, sighing, "And I came many, many more times than four."

Hermione laugh-sobbed a hysterical hiccup, then choked it down quietly, still weep-smiling.

"Do you regret it?" she managed to ask, and Pansy considered it.

"No," she said, shrugging. "It was certainly a one-time thing, but I suppose I needed it."

"Who was it?"

"No one you know," Pansy assured her. "An old friend."

Hermione struggled to nod, and then Pansy drew back, scrutinizing her for a long moment.

"What's this about?" she asked, gesturing to Hermione. "The sex was good, wasn't it?"

It was good. Quite good. Hermione wasn't above admitting she enjoyed sex as a pastime, as a recreation. Her opportunities to seek it out were typically slim—she wasn't, after all, usually so impulsive—but she had enjoyed it, and as far as partners went, Roger was certainly considerate. And enthusiastic. And extremely not unendowed. She understood now why Daphne hadn't given him up right away, even amid all her friends' opposition. Roger Davies was a delicious, acrobatic alternative to pining.

Hermione swallowed hard, dragging her gaze up to Pansy's.

"He wasn't Draco," she forced out eventually.

Pansy, in an unusual moment of understanding, permitted the statement to settle for a moment before nodding.

"We should go to bed," Pansy said, and then added quietly, "But we can talk about it in the morning, if you like."

Hermione smiled gratefully, relieved.

"I would love to," she said, feeling, at last, like she'd achieved some sort of release.

The next day wasn't incredibly unlike the others. Pansy, an early riser, had made them both tiny cups of espresso, and Hermione stumbled hungoverly into the kitchen in her bathing suit and a slovenly topknot before they ventured onto the patio, both of them staring out over the pool and drinking their coffees in silence.

"This is good," Hermione said, and took another sip. "Really good, actually. Thank you, it was nice of you."

Pansy was quiet a moment.

"Just so you know," she remarked, "there's no need to sleep with me just because I've been nice. You can simply enjoy the coffee without returning the favor."

Hermione turned, about to retort, and found that Pansy was laughing silently into her cup.

"Thanks," Hermione said drily, rolling her eyes. Then she set her empty cup down beside the two lounge chairs, preparing to sit, before pausing—contemplating the possibilities of boldness—and promptly untying the strings of her bikini, letting it fall to the ground before reclining smugly on the chair.

"My, my, look at you," Pansy said, drawling it with a nearly Theo-esque brand of humor. "Feeling wild after your night of debauchery, Hermione?"

"Yes, actually," Hermione said, lying back in the sun—which could certainly have been warmer, but she'd already made such a show of removing her top she figured she couldn't very well go back now. "I feel much better in general, though I'd still like to have a chat with you."

"Well, nothing new there," Pansy sighed, perching at the edge of her chair and glancing expressionlessly at Hermione. "I take it you want to admonish me for my choices?"

"Yes, I do," Hermione confirmed, "but unfortunately I don't think it will work. I think I just have to own up to the fact that I'll never understand your world—it just feels so, I don't know. Backwards," she said apologetically, "to me, anyway. All this noble marriage stuff, it seems very… archaic." She shrugged. "And it doesn't seem to fit you at all."

Pansy considered that for a moment, staring vacantly out at the pool, and then angled herself towards Hermione.

"My parents are not in love," she said. "They have never been in love, as far as I know. I don't think Daphne would say her parents particularly cherish one another. Draco's are entirely another story, though hardly a dissimilar one." Pansy was quiet for a moment, then said, "I always envied Harry, actually, for having the mythology of James and Lily. They were so famously in love, and so young when they died, they never grew to loathe each other. It's a ridiculous thing to say," she said with a grimace, "and I know I certainly shouldn't envy him for being an orphan, but it does something to you, I suppose. When you grow up believing love is actually the point of all this, then perhaps that changes things. Makes you a different sort of person."

She went silent again, pensive, before saying, "Whereas I have only understood marriage to be a means to an end. A business partnership, in a way," she clarified briskly, "and as much as Neville isn't ideal as a mate, he does make for a very valuable merger. A wise acquisition."

Hermione winced, and Pansy nodded gruffly.

"Yes, I know," she said. "I hear it, too. It's why I don't like saying it aloud, but it remains true."

"Okay, but couldn't you still have a partnership that's, you know. Better?" Hermione attempted optimistically, and Pansy shrugged.

"Maybe, maybe not. But I'm aware I become less valuable the older I get. I suppose I just see my life after marriage as the real start to everything, the actual adventure. Everything I do until then is just biding my time until I manage the thing I was born for."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," Hermione said, and if Pansy had it in her to chuckle, she might have.

"Yes, it is, quite," Pansy agreed. "Though, I think if I had never met you, I wouldn't give it a second thought." She glanced down at the tiny cup in her hand, eyeing the handle of it, and mused aloud, "Nor would Draco, actually. I think he would have simply married Astoria, or perhaps Lady Susan, and never considered he should feel anything other than satisfied that he'd done his job. And really," Pansy scoffed, "his job is to procreate. He makes a big fuss of public appearances or political influence or whatever he seems to think his contribution is to the world, but down to the quick of it, his job is to stay out of trouble and make smaller versions of himself. But now, having met you, I don't think he can—"

Abruptly, she stopped.

"Can what?" Hermione asked curiously, as it was, for once, not he's a job you're unqualified to handle, or let go of this fantasy, Hermione, that's all it will ever be. "Pans, are you okay?"

"Come on," Pansy said quickly, launching to her feet and grabbing Hermione's wrist, yanking her back inside the house. "With a sense of urgency, please, let's go—"

"Hey!" Hermione said, folding her arms uncomfortably over her (much smaller than Pansy's, but still) breasts and following Pansy inside. "What exactly do you think you're d-"

"I'm not sure, but I think I saw a photographer outside," Pansy said, removing her cardigan from her shoulders and handing it to Hermione. "Did anyone see you yesterday?"

"I—" She thought about it, slipping into the garment, but certainly couldn't say either way. "I really don't know, Pans. I wasn't paying attention."

"Mm." Pansy was looking outside the window, nudging Hermione securely behind her. "We should stay inside for the morning. If I did see cameras, then I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."

"What do you mean?" Hermione said, though she knew perfectly well, and she was already cringing internally at the thought of it.

"Oh, I'm sure everything will be fine," Pansy said briskly, dismissing her with a glance. "Now, come on, Hermione, put those tiny twins away and let's finally have breakfast."

WORLD EXCLUSIVE: PARTY GIRL HERMIONE GRANGER GOES TOPLESS IN GREECE! CLICK FOR THE SCANDALOUS PHOTOS THE PALACE DOESN'T WANT YOU TO SEE…

"Well," said Hermione. "Shit."

"You know, I think perhaps it's best we head back a bit early," Pansy said, shutting the screen of her laptop and glancing at the shuttered windows, politely not mentioning the photographers lingering outside. "All this warm weather is starting to dehydrate my skin, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Hermione sighed. "You look terrible, Pans."

Needless to say, the holiday was cut short. Even before they'd made it back to London, Hermione's phone had been buzzing with messages, many of them—alarmingly—from her mother, who ostensibly did not care for seeing her only child's breasts while innocently in line to buy chicken at the grocery store. Pansy, it seemed, was also in a rush to get home—for reasons seemingly unrelated to Hermione's crisis—and so, rather than return to her flat (which she assumed would be surrounded by paparazzi), Hermione made a single phone call before turning her phone off for what would surely be the next week.

On the first ring: "Hermione, are you home?"

"Hi, Daph. Yes, I'm back."

"Oh, thank god," said Daphne, exhaling swiftly upon hearing Hermione's voice. "Come here straightaway," she insisted bossily, adding—much to Hermione's relief—"I'll chill the rosé right now, it'll be cold by the time you get here."

Hermione arrived at the Nott Townhouse to find Lady Nott herself rushing fussily around the house in yoga pants, moving boxes (which they evidently had yet to unpack) out of the way and dragging Hermione by the hand into the living room.

"Listen, I'm so happy to see you," said Daphne, enveloping Hermione in a tight, floral-scented hug, "but before we discuss anything, I have to tell you—"

"Wait, can I go first?" Hermione said, desperate to get Roger Davies out of her system, and Daphne shoved a glass of pink wine into her hand.

"Yes, okay, go," Daphne said, "but quickly, as I have to tell you that—"

"I slept with Roger," Hermione flung out hastily, and Daphne blinked.

"Roger who?"

"Roger Roger. Your Roger—"

"What? How?"

"He was in Mykonos—it was a one-time thing, I just had to tell you—"

"Well, my goodness," Daphne said, obviously amused. "I hope you enjoyed yourself, at least. He can be very reliable," she added, chuckling into her glass. "I wonder what he's painting now? He really does have such a talent. His work always had such a marvelous tactility—"

"I really don't know," Hermione said, trying not to think about Daphne's very beautiful cunt, "but anyway, I'm so sorry—"

"Don't be ridiculous, he's very useful. I'm actually quite pleased you got to try him—"

"DAPHNE, good lord—"

"What?" she insisted, taking another smug sip of her wine. "It's like when you order something delicious, and you want everyone else at the table to try it, but then you can't exactly go around sharing because, you know, he's not actually some sort of tapas dish—"

"What is it," Hermione sighed, exasperated, "about you and Pansy and food?"

"Oh, how was Pansy?" Daphne pressed, suddenly urgent. "I'm so sorry I was away for all of this—I hate to think you were left with Lady 'walk it off, you're fine' Parkinson—"

"Actually, not bad," Hermione said. It was, after all, the single bright spot in recent months. "She was pretty good company, given everything. Where were you, by the way?" she added, frowning. "You were in France for ages. I really thought you and Theo had just given up on coming home."

"Oh, well, it wasn't just the honeymoon," Daphne admitted, leaning closer. "Actually, after the first week in Provence, we met with a bunch of industry people in Paris. You won't believe this," she added excitedly, "but you know how Fleur's sister Gabrielle walked in some of the shows at Fashion Week? Turns out Fleur's contractually obligated to Chanel, which we already knew, but Gabrielle isn't, which means—"

Somewhere else in the house, a door opened. Daphne blinked, interrupting herself.

"Oh, yes, right, before I forget, I had to tell you—"

"California, is that you?" came Theo's voice, followed by the long strides of Theo himself. Hermione turned, ready to greet him with enthusiasm, until she noted Theo's wiry form was followed by…

Her heart stopped.

"So, by the way, Draco's here," Daphne whispered apologetically, and Hermione gave her a silencing glare, nudging her away and attempting to rapidly regain her cool as she gave Theo a hug and then, after a moment's hesitation, locked eyes with Draco, whose smile flickered briefly.

"Hermione," he said, and when he leaned in to greet her with an embrace, she felt her entire body seize up, her very skin reluctant to make contact in such an oppressively normal way. "Listen, I am so sorry, I'm taking care of it right now," Draco said quickly. "I have Dobby looking into legal repercussions as we speak, and I promise you, this will all be over soon—"

"I didn't think you'd still be in London," Hermione said numbly, kicking herself as it emerged with a bit of a rasp. She slid out of Draco's embrace, adding, "And also, what?"

"Oh, the, um. The… pictures," Draco clarified with reticence, as Hermione remembered—had managed to forget, for an astounding five entire minutes—that the entire world had now seen her breasts, and she was powerless to do anything about it. "I'm so sorry, I think someone must have tipped off the press about where you were staying. Naturally, I will do whatever it takes to get ahold of the photographs. I'm sure I can put a stop to any further spread of this, wherever possible—"

It occurred to Hermione that perhaps what Draco was in London for was, in fact, the purpose of cleaning up her mess. She imagined Lucius' reaction to the photos and immediately cringed, adding quickly, "Draco, I'm so sorry—"

"What?"

The surprise in his tone startled her so fully she felt her attention jolt up, finding his face. It was the first time they were seeing each other since the breakup; really, it was the first time she'd actually looked at him in a number of months, having been blinded by melancholy and malcontent the last time they'd been together. Now, he was dressed smartly (and with an extra layer of polish) in a navy suit, his hair swept back from his face, and she noticed for the first time that his jaw was a touch squarer, his cheeks leaner, as if whatever traces of boyishness he'd once retained had been abruptly erased without her noticing.

He no longer looked as much like Lucius; Hermione wondered if she had imagined that to begin with, given her anger with him. His eyes were different from his father's, as they had always been. The shape of them, and the intensity, had come not from Lucius' hawkish stare, but from Narcissa's intently searching one.

She also noticed, slightly too late, that Daphne and Theo had quietly exited the room, and that she and Draco were now alone.

"What are you sorry for?" he pressed her, shaking his head. "You had every expectation of privacy and this was an unacceptable breach. Believe me, you have nothing to apologize for."

"Still," she ventured uncomfortably, "I'm sure Lucius is relieved I'm no longer his problem. He can't possibly be happy about this," she remarked, laughing a little, though it emerged as more of a grimace.

Draco was looking at her strangely, and she skirted his glance, eyeing her hands.

"Hermione," he said, frowning. "Do you think I'm here because my father sent me to bury this?"

"I didn't mean to imply anything, I was just—"

"My grandfather is stepping back from public appearances for the remainder of the year," Draco said, shifting his stance to slip one hand in his trouser pocket. "My father isn't particularly popular with the press at the moment, so I'm handling what remains of their obligations. I'm in London at least until after the holidays," he explained, prompting her to inhale sharply, uncertain what to do with that information, "and I'm sure they feel the same way I do about the pictures—that it certainly wasn't your fault. And even if they disagree," he said, shrugging, "I frankly don't care. You shouldn't have to go through this on your own."

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he glanced briefly down at his watch, re-orienting himself with time. "Ah, I should go," Draco said, giving her an apologetic glance. "I hate to run out like this, but I have to be at an event in a few minutes—"

She, meanwhile, had lost all concept of normality.

"So, wait a minute. You'll be here," she echoed, momentarily stupid, "for… a while?"

Draco paused, and cleared his throat.

"Yes," he said, "but don't worry, you needn't see me unless you want to. In the meantime, don't worry about the pictures," he assured her, brushing past his previous remark in a way that made her inclined to do so, too. "I'll handle it. I expect there won't be anything left in print by tomorrow."

"Thank you," she managed to say.

He nodded perfunctorily. "Of course," he said, and shifted, reaching to button his suit jacket. He suddenly looked very masculine and adult, a man who knew he stood in line for the throne, and to Hermione's dismay, the shape of his chest was suddenly much more prominent when he moved. Before she could stop herself from looking—catching herself, cheeks flushing, once her attention had drifted to his torso (and slightly south)—she noticed that his eyes, too, had slid over her with the briefest, subtlest motion, the flick of his grey gaze so smoothly employed she thought perhaps she'd imagined it.

"For what it's worth," he said, "Greece suits you."

She wasn't sure she'd actually heard him. She thought maybe she'd imagined that, too, along with the look he'd given her.

"Have a nice evening, Hermione," Draco said, and then, before she could say anything in response, he'd already slipped out of the room, nodding politely as he went.

I later learned that Roger did finish that painting. It was part of an Impressionist-resembling color study that he called Return to Life: Mykonos, 2014, leaving my name and features out of it. I'm told it was met with lukewarm praise.

As for me? I think I'd had my fill of being a muse.

Which was probably for the best, as the rest of my life was just in the process of starting.

a/n: My birthday is on Thursday, which is coincidentally when my book, One For My Enemy, is being released in paperback and ebook! Look for announcements in all the usual places: tumblr, instagram, twitter, etc, where I am olivieblake, and if you so desire, listen to an accidentally quite erotic reading of a passage on youtube. In the spirit of it being my day (and perhaps some other people's, but for the purposes of discussion, solely mine), if you have ever wanted to tell me in my personal love language that you enjoy my work, then you are very welcome to support my books with likes, reblogs, even IRL recommendations! Yes, thrilling, I know, she says with wincey optimism, but forgive me my trespasses, as it is my birthday and it comes but once a year.

Lastly, with love from me to you: Thank you for being here, for reading, and for filling another year of my life with your presence!

28. Sweep

Chapter 28: Sweep

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Can't Live Without Each Other

During their official engagement announcement and the subsequent private interview (with, of course, yours truly), Prince Draco was surprisingly—even astonishingly—open about his relationship with Hermione. He was particularly vocal about his pride in her accomplishments, noting that her influence on his beliefs was inextricable from his role as future king. "She's compassionate and brave," he said, gazing adoringly at his intended bride, "and fiercely loyal, too. That she trusts me to share her life, and that she has willingly chosen me for her future, is not something I consider easily won. Without her, the man you see before you would not exist."

Hermione has been similarly cryptic, elusively referencing something of a rough patch in their relationship. "He was sure even when I wasn't," Hermione has reportedly said of her prince, "and strange as it is to think I ever had any doubts, I'm grateful he gave me the space to have them. It has prepared me, in a surprising way, for everything that's to come."

A surprising thing, no doubt, to hear a future princess discussing her fairytale as if it could be such a chore! But that, as Prince Draco has said, is part of Hermione's remarkable pragmatism. "She is far cleverer than me," he said, laughing, and whether or not that's true, it's quite clear the two have come a long way towards finding their happy ending.

Boy, Rita really does have a way of expressing her distaste for me even with flowery language, which I suppose is fairly commendable. Assuming her job is to be a heinous bench even when she's not technically being one, then give this woman a raise! Naturally, she wasn't allowed to mention my little 'incident' in Greece in this book, but I find it difficult to believe she wasn't thinking about it and cackling to herself as she wrote this.

At the time, actually, Rita was quite busy using the Daily Prophet for her elaborate royal fanfiction in which Draco, Lady Susan, and I battled it out in some sort of erotic love triangle, so naturally, my accidentally exposed breasts were the subject of great joy for her.

Luckily for me, I had ninety-nine problems, of which my tiny twins were only one.

November 30, 2014
London, England

"You could come home, you know," suggested Helen, not for the first time, and Hermione sighed.

"And do what, exactly?"

"Mm," said Helen, "unclear." She squinted into space for a moment, venturing, "Any thoughts?"

Almost none, actually. "I'm not sure how well a job interview would go at the moment," Hermione grumbled, "considering my boobs are the most famous thing about me right now."

The thought was giving her a headache, or perhaps she already had one. She raised a hand to her temple, suddenly nauseated. Maybe she was getting sick. She'd certainly woken up that morning feeling like she'd been hit by a truck, though she had no reason for it outside of the usual: the paparazzi outside her window, the complete lack of direction towards any conceivable goals, the ex-boyfriend who was still a famous prince.

You know. The usual.

"Well," Helen said brightly, "I'm sure we could convince our receptionist to take a sabbatical, if you wanted. Provided you could resign yourself to wearing a shirt, that is."

"Ha ha," Hermione said, rolling her eyes and letting her hand fall from her throbbing forehead. "How's Dad taking this?"

"Hm, excellent question, I should ask him. David," Helen shouted over her shoulder, "how are you taking this?"

David's voice was audible from a distance. "Taking what?"

"This business with Hermione," Helen shouted back.

"Hermione who?"

"You know, the one with the curly hair? She used to live here?"

"Very funny, Mom," Hermione sighed, and after a few seconds of muffled trudging, her father appeared within camera view. He was wearing his early morning trail running gear, a little dirt and sweat smudged over his face, and the little semblance of unruly curls he'd passed onto Hermione presently stood wildly on end.

"I think," David said slowly, resting one hand on his wife's shoulder, "as I have always thought, that our daughter can and will do anything she puts her mind to."

"Oh, that's very nice of you, Dad," Hermione said, surprised, "but I think at the moment I'm—"

"Who are you?" demanded David, which had clearly been his intended joke, and Hermione sighed again, less patiently this time, as Helen gave David's hand a brief, dismissive pat.

"Ignore him," Helen advised Hermione, as David gave Hermione an enthusiastic thumbs up, meandering away for a shower. "Though, to answer your question, he seems to be taking things quite well. It's really you we're worried about, Hermione."

"I'm fine," Hermione said listlessly, clearing a bit of lingering something from her throat, and Helen arched a skeptical brow. "I am! Mostly. Well, sort of," she admitted. "I just don't know what I'm doing next, that's all. And it's not really something I know how to just jump into."

"Well, do your friends have any ideas?"

What a question, Hermione thought, feeling herself grimace. Pansy was relatively inaccessible when it came to life advice. Harry was certainly not much help in the professional arena. Daphne was building her business, which wasn't unhelpful, exactly, but she wasn't much less lost than Hermione was. Draco was… plainly put, out of the question. He would almost definitely try to help, which Hermione wasn't sure was something she actually wanted. Blaise might have been helpful, but Hermione couldn't find it in herself to face him yet; she retained her anger on Pansy's behalf.

The only person who'd been slightly useful had been Theo, which, despite often being the case, never failed to be surprising.

"Surely the principles of job-seeking aren't entirely unlike nepotism, which is a thing we are all generally experienced with," Theo said cheerfully, 'taking a break' to have a drink with Hermione and Daphne after lifting exactly one box. "You did work with people of significance, California, did you not? Maybe that McGonagall woman or Neville's zesty gran could point you in the right direction."

"That's quite sound advice, actually," Daphne said, and Theo gave her a fleeting look of smuggery. "Amazing, Nott, you've managed to get one right—"

"Well, add it to the list, Greengrass," he sniffed, which was, of course, a remark probably made in error, as she was soon piling additional boxes into his arms and sending him retreating up the stairs in affectionate but unrelenting punishment.

"Theo's not wrong, nor is he ever," Helen said fondly, once Hermione had relayed his suggestion. "Why haven't you tried it?"

"Well, I hardly think I can ask Minerva." Hermione pressed the back of her hand to her head, wondering if she'd been imagining the sensation of warmth. "I did just quit my job, Mother," she reminded Helen, "so I can hardly ask for favors."

"I thought she liked you?" Helen countered, surprised, and Hermione shrugged.

"I never really knew for sure," she admitted, "but either way, I don't think it's a very good idea to say, 'Oh, by the way, remember how I quit working for you? Well, turns out I just don't want to work for you'—"

"But that's not true," Helen insisted, interrupting. "Surely she'll understand the work just didn't suit you. Don't you think?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, not wanting to confess to her mother that, in fact, Minerva had called her earlier that morning. Hermione had let the call go to voicemail, unsure whether she felt like dealing with her previous employer before she'd had a cup of coffee—or, more likely, several more spirals of panic, none of which she cared to consider at the moment. "I've never had a very good read on her."

"Well, as I've mentioned, you're more than welcome to come home if nothing else suits," Helen said again, gravely hospitable. "David and I would be happy to host you."

A tempting offer, or would have been, except 'home' had not been California or the United States for some time. Hermione had more support in London than she ever had at 'home,' and the idea of leaving—even for something productive or promising—was far more discomfiting than the prospect of staying there, lost. Yes, Hermione's life in the U.K. had largely revolved around her relationship with Draco, but even without him in the equation, it was still the place where her friends were.

Besides, that was assuming Draco was actually no longer in the equation, which was something Hermione was apparently still struggling to reconcile.

As if Helen could read her mind, she ventured carefully, "I suppose I haven't asked you—how have things been with Draco?"

Hermione could feel her cheeks burning, along with the rest of her. "Hm?"

"Draco, you know. Your friend from college, I think it was?"

"No, I—" Hermione wasn't quite in the mood to joke, though she wasn't sure she wanted to be serious, either. Talking about Draco meant saying things out loud, but not talking about him meant thinking about him silently until she eventually went insane.

Hermione took a minute to weigh her options, and then confessed, "It's hard, actually. Harder than I thought it would be."

"Did you think it would be easy?" Helen asked.

Kind of, yes. After all, she'd expected him to be gone after they broke up, which she had recently found out a matter of days ago that he wasn't.

They hadn't seen each other since the run-in at Daphne and Theo's house, but still, he was in London, and therefore his presence was unavoidable. Just as Hermione had been in the tabloids constantly, now Draco was, too. WHERE'S HERMIONE? demanded the Daily Prophet, showing pictures of Draco making his grandfather's usual appearances. Is His Royal Highness an eligible bachelor once again? mused Rita Skeeter, sounding as positively delighted as ever by the prospect of Drama, and even the DRAGONFLOWER blog, which had been relatively silent save for their features on Fleur's outfits, seemed to be joining in anew. Draco's appearance in a tuxedo at the opera house two evenings prior had manifested a new series of photoshopped images all over the internet, some of which paired Draco with Fleur while, more often these days, others featured Lady Susan.

Which wasn't to say Hermione was jealous, exactly, though she wasn't technically not, either. If she were being honest, she would have had to confess that while her insecurities about Lady Sooz seemed to be mostly in her head (after all, how long had rumors about Draco and Fleur persisted even while Hermione had known the truth?), they still made her stomach twist with discomfort.

"You could date," Daphne had suggested after The Roger Incident. "Surely one of these silly posh boys we're stupidly friends with knows someone. Oh," she realized, snapping her fingers, "what about Harry's friend, the ginger one? He's tall," she said thoughtfully, and Hermione grimaced.

"I really don't see that going well," she said, trying to imagine being with Ron Weasley and finding herself utterly incapable of doing so. "Besides, I don't actually think dating is the problem."

Roger had proven that for her already, as far as Hermione was concerned. The problem wasn't that she'd needed sex from someone else or even someone else's intimacy, but that she'd needed… something of her own. To feel like herself, she supposed, and to do something simply because she'd wanted to, rather than existing as a limb belonging to Draco that was ultimately controlled by his family.

Greece suits you, he'd said, with a look that confirmed it. Had it been kindness, maybe? Something to make her feel better, or was it flirtation? At the time, it had seemed undeniably the latter, but if she could be imagining one thing (i.e., Lady Sooz), then she could certainly have dreamt up another. Could she have been misinterpreting the whole thing because she wanted him to still want her? That would be human nature, Hermione told herself, and besides, they had dated a long time. It wasn't as if she wanted him to feel nothing.

Don't worry, you needn't see me unless you want to—what about that? Did he want to see her? Did he want her to want to? It was a touch maddening, the wondering. The end of their relationship had once meant the end of her misery from their constant estrangement, and she had thought that would be that. Now, though, she was left with nostalgia for what they'd once been.

Either nostalgia, she thought again, or purely nausea.

Had she really wanted things to be over, or had she simply wanted them to be different? She no longer knew, and it was distressing. She was a person who liked to know things, or at least to be able to reason them. Her current feelings defied any conceivable rationality, which she hated, and as a result, she had the sudden sensation of wanting to expel all of her stupid emotions, heaving them down to the street below. That, or throw up, possibly. Her emotional and corporeal state seemed to be battling for dominance, and Hermione, in the meantime, was left feeling crippled and unsteady, or possibly sick.

"I guess I should keep my distance until I figure it out," she said, and Helen gave something of a shrugging nod.

"Certainly not a bad idea," she said. "But in the meantime, if you don't feel comfortable talking to Minerva, maybe you should try talking to that other woman you seemed to like. Augusta, you said?"

Hermione considered it. It seemed somewhat bad timing to ask the favor of Augusta's time, given everything that was happening with Neville and Pansy, but Hermione supposed she did have a relationship of her own with Lady Longbottom outside of whatever was or wasn't happening with her grandson's engagement.

Surely it wouldn't hurt to reach out, would it?

"I could try," Hermione said, reaching for her head again.

"Are you feeling okay, hon?" Helen asked, observing her. "You seem a little off."

Hermione shook her head, picking up her phone and resolving to do something, anything, outside of spending the entire day pondering the consequences of the nothing she and Draco now shared.

"I'm fine," she said, swallowing any lingering doubts as she located Augusta's phone number and dialed.

To Hermione's surprise, Augusta was eager to see her. Within twenty minutes, Hermione was hurriedly struggling to piece together some semblance of an outfit, reaching for her only Pansy-approved blazer and the skirt Daphne would have probably advised (a guess) before making her way to the cafe Augusta requested. It wasn't until Hermione arrived, however, that she pieced together what might have otherwise been obvious, had she been a little less achy and a little more remember-y.

"Hermione," said a grimly unsmiling Pansy, rising to her feet upon Hermione's approach. "So pleased you could join us."

(What Hermione had forgotten was Pansy's standing appointment with Lady Augusta, which she supposed was less an oversight than it had been an assumption that such an appointment might be canceled under such very unique circumstances.)

"Yes, of course," Hermione said, and desperately withheld a cough. "Apologies," she said, maintaining a careful distance from Augusta, who rose genially in her typical pastel ladysuit of tweed. "I think I may be coming down with a cold, so it's probably best I stay on this side of the table."

"Both of you, then, hm?" Augusta said, flashing Pansy a look Hermione couldn't quite interpret. "I suppose returning to London after your little holiday might have done it. The city's being rather dreary," Augusta lamented, casting a disapproving gaze out the window, and Hermione turned to look at Pansy, who seemed… off, in some unknowable way. Hermione frowned to herself, unable to put a finger on what was different, and instead noted that Pansy looked much the same way Hermione felt.

Though, that could have something to do with the fact that Pansy was having tea with her cheating boyfriend's grandmother, so perhaps it wasn't so much Hermione's imagination as it was an inevitable result of the obvious.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Hermione said, and Pansy sipped quietly at her tea, unresponsive. "Anyway," Hermione continued, turning to Augusta, "it's lovely to see you. How have you been?"

"Well, largely healthy," Augusta said, flashing Pansy a look of furtive disapproval. "You should take better care of yourself, my dear," she told Pansy stiffly. "My grandson hasn't the strongest constitution."

"No," Pansy drily agreed, "he doesn't."

"Are you taking sufficient care with your diet? Fruits and vegetables are paramount for immunity," Augusta said, still apparently focused on Pansy. "Perhaps you should also increase your consumption of ginger, if you continue to feel unsettled. It's a very common natural supplement."

"I'll be sure to tell Neville his health is at risk," Pansy said, and Augusta gave her an expression Hermione had never seen before, turning back to Hermione to fix her with a much warmer, considerably more friendly glance.

"Now, Hermione," Augusta said, transitioning back to her usual demeanor, "you said you wanted to have a chat, then? Tea?" she offered, "or biscuits?"

Hermione shook her head, the smell of food slightly turning her stomach.

"Just the chat, thank you," Hermione said quickly, glancing at Pansy before facing Augusta. "It's just that, as I mentioned on the phone, I felt The Transfiguration Project was no longer the best fit for me, and—"

"And it isn't," Augusta agreed. "You're a bright young woman, Hermione, with quite a future. Much as I adore Minerva, an administrative role is not for you. I told her so myself several times," she lamented, shaking her head as she took a sip. "Unfortunately, Minerva can sometimes lose sight of the big picture when it comes to fostering up-and-coming young professionals. Hazards of working alone for so long, I suspect."

"Oh, that's very kind of you," Hermione said, trying not to indulge the throbbing of her head. The last thing she wanted was to remind Augusta that she, too, was under the weather, seeing how Pansy seemed to have heard enough about it. "I don't mean to disparage Minerva at all, it was an honor to work beside her—"

"Yes, yes," Augusta said, waving away Hermione's niceties. "Still, I should put you in contact with some other young ladies of your caliber. Lady Susan Bones, perhaps—"

Pansy coughed briefly into her tea, and Augusta gave her a stern look.

"Pansy, dear, you should have them bring you a bit of honey and lemon," Augusta said, tutting her disapproval. "In the meantime, perhaps it's best you don't see Neville until you've recovered fully. This is a very trying time for him, you know," she remarked, giving Pansy a warning look. "Best if you not give him something else to worry himself over, hm?"

"Yes," Pansy said, not contributing anything further, and Hermione delicately cleared her throat.

"Well, I am familiar with Lady Susan," Hermione unhappily admitted, though she might have confessed to worshipping the woman's feet just to prevent any further squirming in the wake of the unmentionable Neville Trauma, "but not particularly well. Only to the extent of her patronship of The Transfiguration Project, so—"

"Oh, you must get to know her better," Augusta said, brightening again as she turned to Hermione. "You and she have so very much in common—both driven, bright, unselfish. A very charming quality for a young woman," she said, and Hermione saw Pansy's hand tighten on her teacup. "Best to be gracious, I say, which you and Susan certainly are."

Briefly, Hermione's head swam with a wave of something discomfiting, washing over her momentarily until she had to force it back with a swallow.

"Well," she said, blinking for a moment to steady herself, and then, when that didn't work, she gripped the table for a moment. "Right, well, as I was saying—"

"My dear, you look terribly unwell," Augusta said with a frown, turning to Pansy. "Did you say you had a stomach flu, Pansy?"

"Yes, I did," Pansy said, a little touch of concern reaching her voice as she turned to Hermione. "You really should go home, Hermione. I imagine it will only get worse from here."

"Do you need a doctor, perhaps?" Augusta asked, fretting. "I have a very good friend, Poppy, who occasionally makes house calls—"

"No, no, I'm… I'm fine," Hermione said, though she felt a brief trickle of sweat begin to pool at the small of her back. "I just, um. Maybe you're right," she said, swallowing again, and then a second time. "Probably best if I go home, and—"

"Yes, go," Pansy said, urging her out the door. "Do you need me to come with you, or—?"

"No, I'm fine," Hermione said, launching to her feet. "I just… I'll call you, Augusta—"

"Yes, and if you need that doctor—"

"Oh no, thank you, I'm fine—"

It was a blur from her seat to the sidewalk, and from there the chill in the air struck Hermione with a dizzying slap, sending her running for one of the city's great miracles: A conveniently available cab, a couple departing the backseat just as Hermione reached the just-closed door.

"Hi," she said, yanking the door open and letting the words bubble up from her throat. "Yes, hi, I need to get t-" she began, and then cut herself off abruptly, taking a step back and wishing she could rewind to earlier—like, say, to approximately twenty minutes before she'd left the house.

Because, much to Hermione's dismay, what came out of her mouth did not end with directions.

Hermione woke with a start to the sound of a knock on her door, shivering slightly from the sweat clinging to her mismatched sweats. She rose to her feet in the dark, not bothering with the light switch, and looked through the peephole.

Odd, she thought. Either she was hallucinating, or Batman had come to her apartment.

She paused for a moment, suddenly incomprehensibly cold, and considered whether Batman could force his way inside. The answer was yes, she assumed, though she'd never been particularly well-versed in comics. She was about to consult Wikipedia for confirmation when she realized she had no idea where her phone was, and then she heard another knock.

"Hermione," came a voice, and since she didn't think Batman knew her name, she reached for the door, slowly drawing it open.

It was not Batman, as it turned out, though it was someone dressed head to toe in black, a motorcycle helmet over their face.

"Yes?" she said.

"Oof," replied not-Batman, shaking his helmeted head. "You look dreadful."

"That's rude," said Hermione, opting to turn around and return to the little nest she'd burrowed for herself on the sofa. Standing, she noted, was a very trying activity, and she felt the immediate urge to resume being horizontal.

Not-Batman had followed her into her apartment, which might have worried her under other circumstances, but considering she was maybe-probably dying, she didn't bother to say much.

"I'll just put the kettle on," she said, waving a hand as her face met the sofa cushions, and the man who wasn't Batman seemed skeptical, glancing over his shoulder at the kitchen.

"Well," not-Batman said, removing his gloves, "I see Pansy was right, then." He seemed to be surveying her apartment with a doubtful tone, shaking his still-helmeted head. "How long have you been feeling sick?"

"I'm not sick," said Hermione, teeth chattering slightly. "I'm cold. And hot. And," she said, squinting to recount her symptoms, "mildly vomitous."

"Mm, yes, so quite well, then," judged not-Batman, removing his helmet and setting it on her table. For a moment, Hermione was quite sure he had a silvery glow around his head, and wondered if perhaps she had misjudged. It seemed suddenly quite possible he was not only not Batman, but also possibly an angel.

"Do you have a message?" she asked him.

"No," he said. "Can't I come check on you without bearing a message?"

That, she thought, is precisely what an angel would say, only he didn't seem to have wings. He seemed, in fact, intensely familiar, though she supposed everything was a little disorienting at the moment, and besides, the lights were still off.

"You look like my ex," she told him. "But I'm not allowed to talk about him, so don't ask."

For a moment, not-Batman looked incredibly perplexed.

"Just out of curiosity," he said, "if you were allowed to talk about him, what would you say?"

Hermione considered it.

"Trick question," she judged eventually, shivering so sharply she bit her tongue. "You won't get a word out of me, Bruce."

"Bruce, hm?" he echoed. "Is that who you think I am?"

"Well, you're not Batman," she said.

"Infallible logic," he agreed, moving to sit beside her on the sofa and pressing his cold knuckles to her forehead. "You're burning up, Hermione," he said, sounding concerned, "and unfortunately, I don't actually know how to care for someone with the flu. Probably should have considered that before I came," he murmured to himself, removing something from his pocket. "Do you think I can simply Google 'flu,' or—?"

"You know, I've been thinking," Hermione interrupted, squinting at him. "What if we could travel through fireplaces?"

"Hm?" said Bruce, who seemed to be looking something up on his phone instead of listening, which she considered very rude. "Fireplaces, did you say?"

"Yes," she said, snottily. "We could call it a floo system."

"Flu system?"

"Floo system," she corrected, and sneezed. "Sorry."

"Bless you," he said, still looking down at his screen. "Lozenges, wonderful, such sage advice—"

"Hold on," Hermione said, gripping his arm as a wave of dizziness passed over her yet again. "Hold that thought. I have to do something."

"Do what?" asked Bruce.

In answer, she promptly threw up on his shoes.

"Ah," said Bruce. "Yes, I see."

When Hermione woke again, she was tucked snugly in her bed, a warm figure sitting beside her. She opened her eyes slowly, squinting, and registered that it was, in fact, Prince Draco, who was wearing one of her t-shirts and a pair of very snug, very short shorts—also hers.

"Sorry," he said. "Had to borrow some things."

He was sitting with his back against her headboard, long legs outstretched on top of her duvet, ankles crossed. He was also wearing a pair of reading glasses, glancing at her with his thumb holding his place in one of her books.

"What," Hermione began, "the fuck?"

Draco held up a finger for pause, reaching for one of her hair ties from her nightstand to mark his place in the book, then set it down on the floor beside him, turning to look at her.

"Where would you like me to start?" he asked, and she shivered a little, frowning.

"How did you get in?" she said.

"You let me in," he informed her.

"I did?"

"Yes. You called me Bruce several times."

"Oh," she said, finding that vaguely familiar. "Okay."

"Anything else?" he prompted.

"Yes," she said. "Why are you wearing my clothes?"

"Mine are a bit… soiled," he said, and then added hastily, "But that's to be expected, of course. Blame my lack of preparation."

She winced, piecing that together. "Oh god, sorry—"

"No, no, you're fine," he assured her, and she burrowed deeper in the covers, not wanting him to see how flushed she was. "No need to hide, either," he informed her, half-laughing as he removed his reading glasses to set them on the nightstand. "Or did you fail to notice you're also wearing different clothes?"

She lifted the covers, glancing down at her sweater and yoga pants, and felt vaguely embarrassed, only mostly shivery and tired. "Oh," she said, and then, "Since when do you wear glasses?"

"It's a recent thing," he said. "Just for reading, and just one eye. Turns out my genetics are not, in fact, perfect," he sighed, "only don't tell anyone. Divine right does not extend to vision, but we can't have them telling the Church."

She wanted to laugh, only she worried she might throw up again. Speaking seemed less volatile a motion, so she opted for further questioning. "How did you know I was sick?"

"Oh, you know. Saw a picture of you heaving in the Daily Prophet," he said, and when her horror must have shown on her face, he hurried through a laugh. "No, no, I'm joking. Pansy rang me," he explained, which wasn't all that much better, in Hermione's mind.

"She told you to come here?"

What a minx Lady Six-Names was, as Hermione was hardly in a fit state to be seen by a man who, despite having seen her naked several hundred times, had never witnessed her this repulsively exposed.

"No," Draco said, shaking his head, "but I didn't like the thought of you being alone. She hasn't been particularly well, either," he added, frowning. "I believe she's just getting over something similar, though I'm sure she'd very well murder me if I tried to help."

Hermione briefly pondered his murder herself, then dismissed it, finding the prospect exhausting. That was the difference between her and Pansy, Hermione thought with an inward sigh. Surely Pansy was never without energy for violence. "She didn't tell me she was sick."

"Well, unsurprisingly, Pansy prefers it if other people do not suspect her of bodily functions," Draco said. "I think it's one of her great shames, her frail humanity. Perhaps in her next life she will ascend mortal functions."

"Here's hoping," Hermione faintly agreed.

Draco smiled.

"Drink water," he advised, gesturing to the glass on her nightstand. "I tried making you soup, but you refused it, so water it is."

She sat up, or struggled to. "I refused it?"

"Well, I was very clear about the fact that it was a royal decree, but you told me that I, Bruce, was in no way capable of decrying anything," Draco said. He shook his head, adding, "You were quite mean about it, actually."

Hermione sipped the water. "Was I?"

"Yes. In fact, you told me to 'mind my business and run along,'" he quoted, "and then you called me an arrogant toadstool and advised that I take my ferritty features elsewhere."

"I'd apologize—"

"Don't. It was illuminating, really."

"—but I won't," Hermione agreed, "because frankly, I think it's about time someone told you about those."

"My ferritty features, you mean?"

"Yes," she said solemnly, and he chuckled.

"Noted," he said, and she settled herself in the blankets again, shivering. "Still cold?"

"Freezing," she said, "and also burning. So, you know, normal mortal things," she sighed, and he laughed again, scooting closer to her on the bed.

"Well," he said, "I could try the soup again, if you wanted."

"How did you get soup to begin with?" Hermione asked him. "I'm fairly certain I don't have any."

He shrugged. "I have some privileges. As a general rule," he mused, "if I wish to have something, it is fairly uncomplicated for me to get it."

Hermione groaned. "See? Arrogant toadstool," she informed him, and he gave her something like an unapologetic smirk. "Princes these days, honestly. Give them an inch, they take the whole damn empire."

"Now that," Draco said, "is surely genetic."

She flashed him her best imitation of Pansy's disapproval.

"Shouldn't you be somewhere, by the way?" she asked him.

"Probably," Draco said, "but you're hardly in a fit state to be alone. You already seem to have lost the last three hours of your life, haven't you?"

She refused—refused, bodily, and with what remained un-vomited of her convictions—to be swayed by that, or by anything.

"I imagine the Prince of Darkness is going to call at any minute," Hermione said, deciding to be difficult.

"Oh, I'm sure he will," Draco agreed, "but I'm slightly unconcerned with him at the moment."

Hermione scoffed. "A rarity."

"More common than you think," Draco countered, "particularly recently."

She slid him a sidelong glance. "Meaning what?"

Draco considered her for a moment, then gestured to the glass of water beside the bed.

"Finish it," he said.

She shook her head. "You finish. Your sentence," she clarified. "Trade you. Hydration for intel."

He paused to gauge her offering, grey eyes slightly narrowed, and then nodded.

"Fine," he said. "My mother would like a divorce and my father refuses to agree. My grandfather, meanwhile, will not approve it without my father's cooperation. And I," he ventured, and stopped. "That's a separate matter."

Hermione arched a brow.

"Water," Draco said, and she scowled.

"Fine," she said, grumpily sitting up to take a sip. Her head swam once again, gifting her a shudder of revulsion. "You what?" she said into the glass, and Draco was silent for a moment, considering it further, before opening his mouth.

"Initially," he began, "I thought it might be better for you if I stepped aside. I thought perhaps you might be happier with someone else. But then you told me what happened with Harry, and—"

"Hold that thought," Hermione said, and then, with a bit of dazed relief, "Oh, look, a salad bowl."

"Thought you might need it," Draco replied, and placed a cool hand on her back as she vomited, waiting politely for her to finish.

"So," Hermione said, permitting Draco to help her back into bed after he'd insisted she take a hot shower (something about, "Google says steam," though he'd refused to move from the other side of the door) and clambering under the blankets. "You were saying?"

"About what?" he said, feeling her forehead. "Hm," he said, sounding concerned. "You're still quite hot."

"Thanks," Hermione sniffed, and sneezed. "You, too."

"No, I meant—" He stopped, half-smiling. "Never mind what I meant."

"You said something about Harry," Hermione reminded him, and then tried to strain foggily for recollection. "Or was it Blaise? Or Neville. God, fuck Neville," she grumbled, burrowing into the blankets as Draco resumed his place at her side. "Can you believe him?"

"I can't, actually," Draco said. "I'm trying, for Blaise's sake, but—"

"What?" Hermione said, staring up at him. "What do you mean for Blaise's sake? You're talking to Blaise?"

"Of course I'm talking to Blaise," Draco said, as if she'd said something irrational. "He's my friend, Hermione, and has been for y-"

"How very fucking dare you," Hermione shot at him, and Draco sighed, rising to his feet. "Where are you going?"

"I'm making you soup," he called over his shoulder, "but by all means, continue berating me."

"I'M GOING TO," she shouted. "DON'T YOU HAVE ANY LOYALTY?"

"Yes, of course I do," he said, followed by the sound of cabinets opening and closing. She heard the clang of dishware, a few beeps from the microwave, and then his footsteps resuming a path towards her bedroom. "Pansy understands," he said, reappearing in the frame, and Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"Like hell she does—"

"She does," Draco said firmly, "because this is, quite unfortunately, a private matter between them. Of course, she did not take my part in his deception well," he admitted, and then the microwave beeped again. Draco turned, disappearing into the corridor.

"WHAT DECEPTION?" Hermione shouted after him, perhaps a bit too violently.

"Ouch, Christ," said Draco, presumably about something other than their conversation. "Balls almighty—"

"HELLO," Hermione prompted grouchily, and after a few more sounds, Draco emerged in her bedroom, oven mitts on his hands as he carried her the bowl of soup.

"Wait a minute, it's hot," he informed her, perching on her side of the mattress, and she folded her arms irritably over her chest. "Oh, fine," he sighed, moderately exasperated. "You're not going to eat until I tell you, are you?"

She made a face that meant she was going to do whatever the hell she liked, and he grimaced.

"Blaise told me last year that Neville kissed him," Draco said, and Hermione blinked, stunned.

"What? When?"

"New Year's Eve," Draco said. "When we all went to Courchevel."

"But—"

"He told me it had only happened the once, and I believed him. I had no idea it continued, obviously, but at the time, I thought it best not to upset Pansy—"

"But—"

"And yes, perhaps that was ill-advised of me in retrospect, but I was really quite certain Blaise wasn't harboring any secret feelings towards Neville. I suspect even he wasn't aware that he was, at least not at the time, and it has really never been my practice to press him unnecessarily—"

"BUT YOU DIDN'T TELL ME!" Hermione informed him, and Draco, a bit startled by her volume, stopped abruptly, snapping his mouth shut.

Immediately upon recovery, though, he became defensive. "It wasn't my information to tell," he insisted, "and besides, you would have told Pansy, which is precisely what Blaise didn't want—"

"You don't know that," Hermione snapped. "When have I been anything but loyal to you, hm?"

Draco stopped for a moment, his pale brow furrowing.

"Loyalty again," he noted, and frowned. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

She glared at him.

He turned, picking up the bowl of soup, and held up a spoon.

"Eat it," he said.

"Fuck you," Hermione replied.

"You're feisty when you're sick," Draco noted, spooning the soup for her and leaning forward. "Open your mouth," he said, annoyingly princelike, and she scoffed.

"Draco, don't tell me what to d-"

He pressed the spoon against her lips, ignoring her, and she glared at him.

"Your choice," he said, looking horrifically unsorry. "If you want to keep shouting at me, you'll have to eat the soup."

She folded her arms tighter, annoyed, and finally gave in.

"Fine," she growled, opening her mouth, and he gave her a smug look of triumph, spooning broth into her mouth. "But," she said, hastening to swallow, "that means I get to be as angry as I want."

"Yes, fine," Draco permitted neutrally, spooning another bite. "You can be as cross as you like until the end of the bowl. Sound fair?"

She swept a willful gaze over him, noting how ludicrously tight her t-shirt was on him and delighting momentarily in his probable discomfort, and then returned to glowering.

"You should have told me about Blaise," she said. "You should have told Pansy, too. There's no excuse for what he did."

"His excuse," Draco said, bringing the spoon to her lips as she grudgingly permitted her mouth to open, "isn't the issue. He's my friend, and while I'm not happy with his choices, I don't like to see him suffer. Which, by the way, he is doing," he said firmly, observing Hermione as she chewed the salted noodles of what was clearly canned chicken soup, "whether I contribute to it or not."

"He was selfish," Hermione snapped.

"He felt trapped, I think," Draco said, shaking his head. "He fell for Neville and he didn't want to hurt Pansy. It's hardly excusable, but still, I can see how it was a difficult situation for him."

"Oh," Hermione scoffed, "so you think what he did was fine, then?"

"Open your mouth," Draco said.

"Fuck you," she shot back.

He glared, and she glared back.

"Obviously it wasn't fine," he said, gratifyingly conceding first. "Of course I don't approve. How could I? Pansy is suffering, but so is he, and they're both my friends. And truly," he said, grumbling it, "I don't think this was a trifling thing for either of them, and certainly not for Blaise. You don't know him the way I do, Hermione."

"Oh, so now I don't know him?" she said, needlessly childish, and Draco sighed.

"Open your mouth," he said again, "or I won't continue."

She grudgingly unhinged her jaw, accepting the proffered bite.

"He's always felt like an outsider," Draco said, placing the spoon carefully in her mouth. "I think he loves us differently than we love him, and loving Neville…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "It's nothing he's felt before, nothing he knew how to deal with. I think he thought it would go away, that it might fade, but when it didn't—"

"That isn't what love is," Hermione said, forcing a swallow. "Love isn't some hopeless thing you have to chase through hell or high water! It shouldn't be, anyway," she muttered. "It certainly shouldn't be something you choose when it means one person is suffering."

Draco stopped for a moment, eyeing the bowl of soup.

"No," he said, and then, emboldened by his moment of humility, Hermione kept going.

"When you love someone, you don't just keep them in the dark," she said, somewhere between irritably cross and painfully anguished. "When things are hard, you don't just make excuses! That's not how things are supposed to work—"

"Well, if one person isn't willing to be honest, then what is the other person supposed to do?" Draco countered. "Look at Pansy," he reminded her, shaking his head. "The truth isn't important to her, is it? She hardly confesses to anything, even now—so what was Blaise supposed to do?"

"Oh, so now it's Pansy's fault?" Hermione snapped, incensed. "It's not that simple, Draco! A person can't always admit to being hurt, or to feeling lonely, or to thinking it's her responsibility to carry her own emotional weight—and how hard was it for him to simply look at her and notice? Didn't he love her enough to see it for himself?" she demanded, a little desperation creeping into her voice. "He was so busy thinking about himself, about his own struggle, without considering hers—"

"He was most certainly considering how difficult things were for her," Draco argued, fingers tightening further around the spoon as the discussion gradually progressed from its initial subject, "but what was he supposed to do, Hermione? If it were up to him, he'd have been honest in a heartbeat, but he wasn't free to do so! It's not something he knows how to do, it isn't in his nature—and besides, his role has obligations—"

"Of course he does, but doesn't he have some obligation to her, too?" Hermione shot back. "Shouldn't she have the right to be a priority in his life, if he is in hers? Yes, fine, he has rules," she said bitterly, "and yes, fine, so she doesn't always understand the restrictions of his life—but couldn't he have done more?" she insisted, feeling the ache in her head throb angrily against her temples. "Was it really asking too much for him to put her first?"

"He isn't perfect," Draco insisted. "He was raised to believe he should always put duty first—should put his responsibilities first, and put his blood and his family above everything—and yes," he said, slightly pained, "now he can see that he was wrong, and now, probably rightfully, he's suffering for it, but—"

He broke off, clearing his throat, and glanced down.

"Blaise," Draco clarified, his grey gaze fixed on the bowl in his hands as he re-oriented the argument to its source, "is suffering for his mistakes, and I can't let him do it alone. Much as I love Pansy, and as much as I know this is a struggle of Blaise's own making, I can't let him go through it alone. Perhaps I relate to it," he said, glancing up to look at her. "Perhaps I understand what it's like to know that something I've done has cost me everything, and that in the end, I was too much of a coward to fight for it. But whatever it is," he sighed, "I can't abandon him, Hermione. Some lessons are too painful to learn alone."

For a moment, Hermione simply stared at him, unsure what to say.

Then she slowly parted her lips, opening her mouth, and Draco slid a spoonful of soup between them, letting her chew quietly in silence.

"What," Hermione said, "are we going to do about Blaise and Pansy?"

Draco shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I want to repair it, but I think it's on her to decide. When she's ready, perhaps she'll come to him," he said, looking slightly wearied by the wait, "but for now, I think it's best that he simply—"

"Are you fucking Lady Sooz?" Hermione cut in, and Draco blinked, startled.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Making love, then, whatever," Hermione amended, muttering it with preemptive brusqueness, and Draco stared at her for a second.

Then, to her distress, he started to laugh.

"My god, I can't believe it took me four years to see you this ill," he managed, nearly spilling the soup as he struggled to maintain his composure. "This is… honestly, it's quite an experience—"

"Yes or no, dickhead," Hermione said, impatient.

"Wow, I just—Lady Susan, really? No," he said, shaking his head and curling his hand around the remains of a tightly controlled wave of laughter. "No, god no, of course not. What did you call her?" he asked, and when Hermione turned away, annoyed, he gripped her arm, laughing harder. "Did you call her Lady Sooz—"

"Don't laugh," Hermione said, suddenly sick with either embarrassment or relief. "It's not funny, Draco—it's not like you've denied it, and she's all over the press!"

"Oh, believe me," Draco said, wiping the back of his hand against the moisture at his eyes, "if I denied it, it'd be much, much worse. The Palace only bothers denying things that are true, you know," he said, still indulging a tremor of humor, "which is a ridiculous rule that somehow we've all stupidly agreed to follow—"

Something like relief or sadness or possibly a brief, sudden chill swept brutishly over Hermione, who snatched the spoon from Draco's hand.

"Don't fuck her," Hermione said, opting to feed herself. "Okay?" she prompted, angrily taking a bite.

Draco gave her a fleeting half-smile, reaching forward to brush her sweaty curls away from her clammy forehead.

"Okay," he said. "You have my word."

"Good," Hermione sniffed, shoving the bowl at him. "And hold this."

"Yes, Your Highness," he said, rolling his eyes. "And by the way, how is the sou-"

He stopped himself as she leaned over, retching into the conveniently-placed salad bowl, and then he sighed, patting the back of her head.

"Right," he said. "Well, that makes sense."

"It's the Lady Sooz talk," Hermione muttered, spitting into the metal bowl and groaning with discomfort. "Not that I'm not a feminist," she reminded him, collapsing with her cheek pressed to his lap.

He gingerly lifted his hand, beginning to stroke the frizzy mass of curls that clung to her neck.

"Don't worry," Draco said, the sound of his voice fading away as her eyes groggily fell shut. "I know, Hermione. I know."

She woke sometime in the dismal hours of the night, well past midnight with her bedsheets positively drenched, to find Draco sleeping on his side. He was facing her, still wearing her t-shirt, which she noted for the first time featured the Hogwarts crest. It was funny, seeing their past emblazoned on his chest like that, and it made her smile a little to herself, though even that brief moment of consciousness was sufficient for her to feel she desperately needed a shower.

She tried sitting up but was wrapped in the blankets too tightly, like a human burrito. She groaned, struggling to pull free, and found Draco's unmoving form was prohibiting her escape.

She reached out, touching the bone of his cheek.

"Draco," she said. "Wake up."

He stirred, making a low sound of complaint. "Five more minutes," he muttered, and she sighed, about to try to climb out of bed again, when his eyes flew open. He startled himself to consciousness, catching her arm with a jolt. "Sorry," he said, launching upright. "I forgot where I was for a second—"

He had always slept well in her bed. She wondered, briefly, if it wasn't where he was but when he was that had disoriented him.

"It's fine. You're fine. I just need to shower," she said, gesturing to the sweat clinging to her clothes. "And—"

She broke off, sneezing, and immediately discovered there were no tissues to come to her aid.

"I need to shower," she repeated into the palms of her hand, and he gave her a piteous look of sympathy. "Don't look at me like that," she snapped, and made her way to the bathroom, turning the water all the way up and ignoring the fact that she hadn't shut the door behind her.

She saw his silhouette materialize in the bathroom through the opacity of her shower door.

"Need anything?" he asked her, and she let the beads of scalding hot water sting her skin as she bided her time, not answering right away.

"No," she said eventually, and then, perhaps because the water was greatly improving her state of mind, "Except maybe some advice, if you're up for it."

"Oh?" She watched the shape of him as he leaned against the door frame. "Try me."

Hermione pondered changing her mind for a second, but decided it was better to say something. At least there was someone present whose advice she trusted, and there was no sense putting that to waste.

"Well," she said, "Minerva called me yesterday morning."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"What did she want?"

"I don't know. I didn't answer."

"She didn't leave a message?"

"She just asked me to call her back."

"And you… haven't?"

Hermione slid the shower door open a crack, arching a brow at him. "I've been busy," she reminded him, gesturing to the soiled clothes on the floor, and he gave her a subtle half-smile.

"You're putting it off," he corrected her, "illness or no illness, or you wouldn't be bringing it up now."

She shut the door again, groaning. "You think you're just so clever, don't you?"

"I'm hardly unclever."

"Well, seeing as I've been vomiting, this isn't the flu," she told him. "So you're not a very good nurse."

"Maybe not," he permitted. "But what I lack in medical diagnosis I have in spades about you, don't I?"

She let the water slide over her in silence.

"What are you afraid of?" Draco pressed her, and she grimaced.

"Her, mostly," she admitted. "Minerva's a little terrifying."

"She was always nice to you, wasn't she?"

"Well, yes, but—" Hermione cleared her throat. "I was always nervous to disappoint her, and then I did."

"How do you know?"

"I quit working for her, Draco, that's how I know."

"Maybe that's not disappointing. Why else would she call?"

"I don't know."

"Surely she still thinks highly of you. Why wouldn't she?"

"I don't know, but—"

"You should call her," Draco said. "Maybe she has another opportunity for you."

Hermione was quiet for a moment.

"I think," she said, "that's the part I'm actually afraid of."

She heard him shift his weight from foot to foot, his posture changing.

"Is it?"

She turned off the water, sliding the door open a crack, and he slid a towel through the vacancy.

"The thing is," Hermione said, accepting it and shutting the door, "I want to do something meaningful with my life."

"Yes," Draco said. "I know."

"Right." Hermione wrapped the towel around herself, wondering how to confess the rest. "It's just that I know I want to make an impact, which means I need… a voice. My voice."

"Yes," Draco said. "And?"

"Well—"

Hermione slid the door open, stepping out from the shower, and glanced at an expectant Draco.

"If she offers me something safe, like my old job, I'm afraid I'll take it," she confessed, watching Draco's brow furrow with confusion. "I'm afraid," Hermione clarified slowly, "that I'm not actually ready to give up the possibility of having you. That I'll choose to limit myself again because of… well, you," she repeated, and Draco leaned against the frame again, waiting. "Because honestly, I don't know how to see my life without you in it, but I think I need to."

"Because you don't want to be with me?" Draco said, and Hermione winced.

"I don't know," she admitted, folding her arms tightly over her chest. "But I don't want to live my life like you're the only thing in it, you know what I mean? I was unhappy, clearly." She paused to cough, then sneezed, swiping at her nose and giving him an apologetic look. "I just don't want to fall back into being the background character of my own life."

Draco was quiet for a moment.

"You know," he said, "I shouldn't have ever let you feel like that."

"I know," Hermione said.

"And if you were unhappy with me, it didn't have to be that way."

"I know."

"There were two of us."

"Yes."

"And I told you," he said, "I want you to be happy. Whatever that means for you."

"Yes," she repeated, a little frustrated, "and you keep saying that, but I don't actually know what that means. Because I was happy with you," she reminded him, feeling an old sting of hurt rise up in her throat again. "I used to be happiest when you were with me, but then you were gone so much, and I was—"

"Overlooked. I know." He glanced down, then back at her. "So why are you afraid, then?"

"I don't know." She laughed a little mournfully, shaking her head. "I mean, god, obviously we're already broken up, so it's not like we're…"

She trailed off.

"Not like we're what?" he prompted.

"Nothing. Nothing." She glanced down at her bare feet, still wet, and laughed again. "I'm being ridiculous—you're obviously just here to be nice," she sighed, gesturing to the entire mess that was herself, her life, and her deplorable gastrointestinal expulsions. "We're friends, I get it, but—"

"Oh, no, hang on," Draco cut in, startling her into looking at him. "Friends, really?"

"I," she began, and then, still foggy on what he was attempting to say, "Sorry, what?"

He paused a moment, calculating something, and then took a step towards her.

"If it isn't clear, Hermione, I love you," he said, and she blinked, finding the admission newly unfamiliar, as if he might have been saying different words than the ones he used to say.

"Believe me," he said, "I have every intention to have a life with you. The moment you decide you want that life as well, you'll have me. But," he continued, his expression unchanged, "if that takes time, so be it. If it never happens, fine. Other people in love have suffered before, and so will I. I thought when we split up that maybe someone else could make you happy—that Harry, specifically, could make you happy," he admitted, his gaze cutting away from hers for a moment and then returning, filled with certainty, "but it's since become quite clear to me that stepping aside is not remotely what I want."

"Draco," Hermione said, frowning, but lacking anything else to say, he continued in her silence.

"It occurred to me," Draco informed her, "that right from the start, I did you a disservice. You know what I never did?" he asked, suddenly somber.

She was surprised her voice came to her, considering she wasn't sure she trusted herself to look at him.

"What?"

"I never swept you off your feet," he said.

She stared at him, her pulse quickening erratically, but despite his admission, he'd come no closer, remaining instead near the door.

"I plan to," he clarified, "however long that takes. Whatever it requires."

She said nothing.

"Call Minerva in the morning," Draco advised. "See what she says. If she offers you something you want, then take it, whatever it is. Controversial, uncontroversial, so be it. If it sends you halfway round the world and you want distance, take it. If you want meaning, have it. If it's time you need, it's yours. In the meantime, call it arrogance, but for whatever it's worth, I am sure enough to wait," he said, and she could hardly believe he was saying it—she was convinced, at least partially, that her fever had never actually broken, and that this was, in fact, a dream—but she doubted even her subconscious would have dressed him in that outfit.

"Draco," she said. "You know you have rules. I," she amended, "know you have rules. I know you can't make empty promises, nor should you."

He shrugged. "If the gamble here is my crown, then it's worth it," he said, and she stared at him. "That's not an empty promise."

"You know I wouldn't make you give that up," she said.

"No," he agreed, "but I would, if that's what it took."

"It's irrelevant, Draco, because I'd never let it happen."

"Fine. Then can't I love you for that?" he said, and she curled a fist.

"Fuck you," she said.

"Well," he sighed, "lucky I already know sick Hermione is rather fond of her expletives—"

"No, really, fuck you," she said, mouth tightening, "because you know it's not just you I'd have to choose. You know it's more than that."

He cleared his throat, appropriately sobered by her anger. "Yes," he said eventually, "I do know that. But if you wanted me, it would be different. I would be different," he clarified, "for you."

"How?" she demanded. "You'd come home?"

"Yes, if that's what you want."

"You'd be seen with me, publicly?"

"Yes. Though, it would require an engagement," he said.

She blinked. "You're proposing?"

"Not now. Not like this. But yes," he said, and her head spun.

"But," she began, and stopped. "But your father—"

"Is hardly something to model my life after," Draco supplied for her. "He's a miserable man who's done little but made others miserable, and if he is still somehow worthy of my grandfather's throne, then surely so am I."

"Well, your grandfather, then—"

"He won't like it, probably, but he'll have little choice but to accept it," Draco said. "Succession is what it is, and there are no other heirs. Certainly no better ones," he amended, half-laughing, "though I suppose King Harry does have a certain terrible ring to it."

"But," Hermione said again, and faltered. "But—"

"The only remaining concern I have," Draco informed her, "is you. Full disclosure?" he prompted, to which she said nothing. "If it were up to me, I would fulfill the obligations of my rank for another year, perhaps two, and then return to public service. I think it's a valuable experience, and if I'm to be king of this country, I would rather have it than not. But, if it comes at the cost of your happiness, then simply say the word and—"

"You can't be serious," Hermione cut in, somewhere between disbelieving and… no, just disbelieving, she realized, numbed again to silence.

"Oh, I am. Very serious," Draco assured her. "I'm sorry it took losing you to know it, but I know it nonetheless. You are the only person who will keep me from you, Hermione, and once I've won you over—which I will do everything in my not-inconsiderable power to do," he cautioned her, leaning in to invade what was suddenly her extremely naked space, "you'll see I was serious all along."

For a moment, neither of them moved. It seemed at once impossible that he was saying anything he was saying, and similarly, totally inconceivable that at this time yesterday, she had been fully convinced he was fucking some snotty member of the nobility.

"Jesus," Hermione said under her breath, and when that was not sufficiently impactful, "Fuck."

Draco gave her a gravely sympathetic nod. "Yeah," he said. "I know," and when she leaned forward, considering the value of kissing him (Spoiler: it was very high, because who fucking said things like that?), he stopped her, reaching out to rest the back of his hand coolly against her forehead.

"Well, you seem to be better now," Draco noted, seeming to have observed the impressive way she'd gone several minutes without hurling, "so I should let you get some rest."

To her amazement, he released her, striding to the door and glancing over his shoulder.

"Feel better, Hermione," he said, and though it seemed a perfectly adequate time to faint or perhaps reprise her fever, she surprisingly did not.

"Thanks, Draco," she said, and only after he had collected his things and left did she realize he'd been humming something familiar under his breath.

"Ah, Hermione," said Minerva, beckoning her into the office. "Excellent, I'm so glad you were able to come in."

"Thank you for inviting me. I'm so sorry for the delay," Hermione offered, and Minerva glanced up, surprised.

"Hm? Oh yes, I assumed Wood's incurable chattiness might have kept you," Minerva said, waving a hand to reference his desk, and Hermione fought a laugh.

"No, I meant that I'm sorry I couldn't return your call right away," she explained. "I'm just getting over some sort of stomach bug that my friend and I had, but—"

"Not to worry," Minerva said, shooing her excuses like flies. "I won't keep you long. I simply wanted to ask if you had any interest in writing professionally," she said, and Hermione, surprised, felt herself inhale sharply. "It occurred to me that perhaps I should get with the times," Minerva remarked with notable lamentation, "and begin some sort of blog to support our ongoing philanthropic efforts. You had one, didn't you?" she prompted Hermione. "A blog, I mean."

"Oh," Hermione said, blinking. "Yes, I did—"

"I thought so. Good, as I'd certainly prefer you to that Lovegood lunatic you dug up—she's clever enough," Minerva said without much enthusiasm, "and hardly untalented, but she's entirely without your vastly preferable clarity. That, and your obvious passion for social change, which is of course the heart of any not-for-profit endeavor. Now, that being said, I'm aware freelancing isn't enough to pay the bills," Minerva continued, sorting through some of the excess pages on her desk without bothering to concern herself with Hermione's reaction, "but I'm certainly not unconnected. I have friends and former colleagues with similar philanthropic pursuits with which to build your portfolio, so if you haven't found another position—"

"No," Hermione hurried to assure her, pulse quickening at the prospect. "No, nothing else."

"Well, wonderful," Minerva said, glancing up. "You're welcome to use our office space, if you like, and for the sake of your visa, I can continue as your employer—"

"Minerva," Hermione said, positively overwhelmed. "I'm… I'm honored, and—"

She stopped, considering something.

"Though, you do realize that my reputation is," Hermione began, and faltered, wondering how to say, 'Well, my tits were in the Daily Prophet and so, perhaps, any articles written by me at this time might not be taken seriously' in a way Minerva might find compelling. "Well, it's not its best, I'm afraid—"

"So use a pseudonym," Minerva said, and looked up, squinting at Hermione to gauge something unknowable. "Penelope Clearwater," Minerva judged after a moment, and shrugged. "There, done. May I expect you in the office tomorrow morning? I'll have Wood brief you on our next event," she said, and before Hermione could say anything, Minerva had already risen to her feet.

"Welcome aboard, Penelope," she offered, and Hermione, still in a state of disbelief, slowly took her hand, shaking it with amazement.

"Thank you, Minerva," she said, feeling a rush of affection for her once and future employer that she felt unable to put into words. "Really, I'm so grateful you thought to ask."

"Yes," said Minerva. "Of course."

Hermione beamed.

Minerva, meanwhile, gave her a small frown.

"You can leave now, Hermione," she said, and Hermione blinked, startled back to cognizance.

"Yes, yes, of course," she said, hurrying out of her office and pulling her phone out of her bag.

"How did it go?" asked Oliver, grinning gleefully as looked up from the skateboard he'd ridden in on from lunch. "Told you it'd be relatively painless, didn't I?" he asked, kicking it up and then tossing it over his shoulder.

"I should know by now you're always right, Wood," Hermione said.

Minerva offered me a freelance writing job, she sent in a message. I took it.

She paused for a second, and then added, I don't know where that leaves us, but I'm happy about it, I think. It feels right, at least for now.

"Yes, yes, truer words. By the way, this is the former you," he informed the person now sitting in Hermione's desk—a young woman named Demelza Robins. "And as you can see," he sniffed, "you have quite a lot to live up to."

"Right, sir," squeaked Demelza, as Hermione shook her head, receiving a text in response.

So, came the reply, one might say you're shining like the sun, then?

Perhaps… smiling, having fun?

Hermione, who was feeling oddly optimistic, opted to take that as a sign.

Feeling like a number one, she confirmed in reply, humming the lyrics to Super Trouper under her breath as she winked at Oliver, tossing an exuberant, "See you tomorrow," proudly over her shoulder at Demelza before making her way to the door.

Draco told me later that he'd always intended to say all the things he'd said to me while I was sick, but he'd imagined them being more romantic. Personally, I don't think it's possible. I think the way it happened was exactly right.

Besides, we had bigger emergencies to deal with. Remember when I said the end of 2014 would hit all of us hard? Right, well…

Prepare for impact, I suppose.

a/n: My book One For My Enemy is now available! Find links at olivieblake dot com, if you so choose. Thank you for the birthday wishes, and thank you, as always, for reading!

29. Push

Chapter 29: Push

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

All the World is Watching

There is no doubt that Prince Draco and Hermione Granger are some of the most visible people in the world, public figures with celebrity so iconic they transcend political significance to reach the stratosphere of popular culture. It is perhaps no surprise, then, that they are so selective of their various philanthropic endeavors, their intimate circle of friends, and, of course, their carefully guarded behaviours. While Hermione has been known to be rather spirited, she has become one of the royal family's most reliably reserved members, and Prince Draco has rarely encountered a misstep during his lifetime of public service. Indeed, the pair is beloved for their efforts and passions, and hardly anyone could speak against their good names.

Okay, hardly anyone, sure… but then there's good ol' Rita Skeeter. Here, for example, are a few of her very real headlines from the month of December 2014:

DRACO GONE WILD! PENSIVE PRINCE IS NO MORE: PARTYING HEIR'S LATEST ROMP PROMPTS FRESH SCANDAL FOR ROYAL FAMILY

BITTER RIVALS COMMENCE ROYAL BRAWL! PRINCES CLASH AS BONDS OF CHILDHOOD FALL PREY TO TROUBLING ENMITY

BETRAYAL IS THE NEW BLACK! POSH TRIBE OF ENGLISH ELITE COMES UNDER FIRE FOR ADULTEROUS MISDEEDS

HERMIONE GRANGER NOT AT FAULT FOR LATEST PUBLIC SLANDER, SAYS LADY BELLATRIX; ROYAL PROTOCOL A 'CRIPPLING AFFRONT TO MODERN WOMANHOOD'

That last one isn't technically anti-me (it's more of an alarming passive-aggressive bullet to my reputation, given Lady Bellatrix's existence as… well, let's just call her a controversial source), but still. I think it goes without saying that 'beloved' is something of a forking exaggeration, don't you think?

December 9, 2014
London, England

Minerva Mcgonagall did not, as Hermione had already known, fuck around. Less than a week from their initial conversation, Hermione was already taking meetings with some of Minerva's friends and former colleagues, all of whom had ventured from the private sector into philanthropic pursuits over the course of their highly successful careers.

The previous week, after meeting with Oliver and Demelza about The Transfiguration Project's next venture (another gala, though this time—impressively—Oliver had successfully seduced someone at the Tate Modern into granting them an exclusive opening), Hermione had also taken an hour-long phone call with Dr Poppy Pomfrey, a friend to both Minerva and Augusta and a former Chief of Surgery, who had primarily turned her attention to improving technology in hospitals. Her latest project was virtual visits, or 'telemedicine,' aka video conferences with doctors, which were designed to decrease medical costs and to aid those with chronic conditions. Hermione, who knew little about the medical field in Britain, hardly noticed when their prescribed hour was up.

The most recent of Minerva's introductions was to a woman named Dr Aurora Sinistra, a researcher and professor of astronomy. She managed a government-funded lab for most of her career before branching out to education, rallying for funds to create an observatory providing city schools (most of which served students who knew nothing outside of densely-packed urban spaces) the opportunity to see and analyze the stars, either through overnight visits or augmented reality simulations. This, too, was new to Hermione, which was something Dr Sinistra was eager to rectify.

"You'll have to come to the Astronomy Tower to see what we've developed," Dr Sinistra offered excitedly, "perhaps next week? I'd be happy to give you a tour."

Hermione, who'd been considering the possibility of pitching a full story on the Astronomy Tower (Dr Sinistra's observatory) to a variety of publications, was quick to nod her agreement.

"I would love that," she said, and the subsequent realization that she was not, in fact, lying about her enthusiasm was something just shy of miraculous. "I find the whole thing fascinating."

Dr Sinistra seemed pleased by that, and perhaps a bit flattered.

"You know, Minerva said you were particularly bright," said Dr Sinistra, smiling. "You'd think I'd know by now just to believe her without question, but still, I think I underestimated you. You pick things up quickly," she said, rising to her feet as Hermione struggled to hide her pleasure, offering a post-meeting handshake. "I daresay I've met very few young people with your capacity to learn. I thought I'd be answering a lot of very monotonous questions, to tell you the truth."

"But what you do is so interesting," Hermione said, surprised to hear it, and Dr Sinistra laughed.

"Not to everyone, I assure you. Your passion is refreshing," she added, and then, with a promise to have her administrative assistant reach out to Hermione to arrange a tour of the Astronomy Tower, Dr Sinistra departed the Transfiguration offices, waving to Minerva and slipping out while Hermione wandered over to Oliver.

"Good meeting?" he asked her, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. Oliver had recently set the rubbish and recycling bins on their sides, placing them at opposite ends of the room like a football pitch. He had, as a result, been doing a lot more depositing of waste than usual.

Hermione nodded, amused by his latest 'sporting' endeavor, and Oliver declared, "Excellent, glad to hear it. I'd gotten a bit tired of mopey Granger."

"So had I," Hermione agreed, before eyeing his makeshift scoreboard and noting, "Oh, good, nice to see recycling's winning, at least."

"There are many paper products in this office," he informed her smartly, and added, "So, how was space lady?"

"Brilliant," Hermione said, with a bit of palpable envy, which was a thing she had felt after meeting with Poppy, too. There was something about observing women in positions of power—particularly those in science and medicine—that struck her as highly invigorating, and which made her feel bitten with inspiration purely by proximity. It was a similar feeling to meeting Minerva, but the newfound diversity of subject matter was providing Hermione an unexpected level of satisfaction with her work. She briefly wondered how difficult it would be to sweet-talk Fleur, who was apparently dating some rugby player from Bulgaria purely out of boredom, into reading about Dr Sinistra's Astronomy Tower over another highly publicized cup of coffee. "Though, maybe don't call her space lady?" Hermione suggested, and Oliver shrugged.

"If there's a science guy, then surely there should be a space lady," Oliver replied, crumpling the page he'd been reading into a ball and kicking it into the recycling bin with a shout of, "GOOOOOOOOOOAL!"

"Don't you need that?" Hermione asked him, arching a brow, and Oliver scoffed his disinterest.

"I was just proofreading," he sniffed. "Robins has the electronic file."

"Right, well, um, about that—I haven't actually seen the edits," Demelza said, timidly raising a hand for Oliver's attention, and Oliver gave a loud, exasperated sigh.

Well, it's not as if you don't know perfectly where they are, Robins—"

Hermione had opened her mouth to tell Oliver to please stop being so deeply Oliver when her phone went off in her pocket, distracting her. It jolted her with a first vibration, then a second, and then several more. It was clearly a string of text messages, which, in Hermione's experience, typically only meant one thing.

YOU NEED TO COME HERE IMMEDIATELY, came the frantic text from Daphne.

I am not joking

I wish I were joking

I think maybe I should start drinking, that might help

I don't know anymore

But either way I can't do that alone so come here immediately

Please

Thank you

Hermione frowned. I thought you were with Pansy? she replied, recalling that the two of them had had plans to meet in the afternoon when she'd been chatting with Daphne earlier that morning.

I AM, Daphne wailed, THAT'S THE POINT!

"Somewhere you need to be, Granger?" Oliver barked, and Hermione jumped, no less startled by him now than she had been while working as his subordinate.

"Yes, coach," she said, though what had been meant as a dismissive remark had the unintended effect of pleasing Oliver immensely. She rolled her eyes, returning her attention to the screen, and said, I just need fifteen minutes or so to finish up here. Is everything okay?

Her reply: DOES IT SOUND OKAY TO YOU

Followed by: Please do take your time. There's simply no need for all this fuss. Though, if you do plan to be present, then please consider doing so with some degree of haste. I do not have all day.

Hermione frowned, then typed, Pans?

Yes, I have taken ownership of Daphne's communication. Clearly, she can no longer be trusted.

That, Hermione thought, was an alarming turn of events. I'll be right there, Hermione said, and glanced up to see that Oliver was now furiously typing something at his desk, while Demelza was struggling to fish out one of many crumpled paper balls from the recycling bin.

"You don't have to do that, you know," Hermione told her, and Demelza shrugged.

"I kind of like it," she said, looking sheepish. "My last job at university was really rather quiet, and—"

"ROBINS," Oliver bellowed, startling them both, "WHAT'S THE WORD FOR WHEN OBJECTS TAKE ON HUMAN FEATURES?"

"Personification?" Demelza guessed.

"Probably anthropomorphism," said Hermione.

"GRANGER'S GOT IT," Oliver announced, rising to his feet and frisbee-tossing several sheets of paper into the recycling before halting abruptly, frowning into space, and then dropping to fish them back out. "Stand aside, Robins," he said, gallantly nudging her away, "I forgot it's still Tuesday and I need these."

Hermione rolled her eyes, shutting her laptop and making her way out of the office. "Bye, Wood," she said, "See you, Demelza."

"Mmhmm," replied Demelza, watching with something close to riveted amazement as Oliver dove headfirst into the bin.

By the time Hermione arrived at Daphne's, the recently-dubbed Lady Nott was positively beside herself, dragging Hermione by the wrist and then half-throwing her onto the sofa next to a calmly tea-sipping Pansy.

"TELL HER," Daphne barked, reminding Hermione very much of Oliver Wood as Pansy coolly angled her head in Hermione's direction, considering her for a moment before adjusting her own tailored blazer and offering Hermione's cardigan a pursed look of displeasure.

"It's nothing," Pansy said, adding with a disapproving glance at Daphne, "It's obviously this one who needs a sedative."

"It's not nothing," Daphne snapped, throwing her hands up in agitation. "Tell Hermione precisely what you told me!"

In response, Pansy looked positively nauseated, or possibly just annoyed. It was always difficult to tell.

"Well, what is it?" Hermione pressed her, wondering what could possibly have gone wrong. Was Pansy still sick? That hardly seemed worth Daphne's extreme reaction. "Are you okay? Is she okay?" she asked Pansy, gesturing to a now-stormily pacing Daphne. "Because it seems like whatever it is, you should probably just tell me. You know, out with it," she attempted to sniff, hoping for a brisk imitation of Pansy herself.

Pansy made another expression of repulsion, reluctantly conceding.

"Very well," she said stiffly, and set her saucer down on the side table, adjusting her hair for a moment before saying, "It appears that I am pregnant. I will therefore be requiring all of you to calm down, as I am growing a human brain at present and cannot possibly be expected to do so with all this ceaseless shrieking. By the way, Hermione, would you please pass the milk?" she said, and Hermione blinked.

"What?"

"The milk," Pansy repeated, gesturing to the platter in front of Hermione's knees. "You are familiar with the concept of milk, aren't you? Surely they have it somewhere in the backwaters of the colonies."

Hermione glanced at the milk, and then back at Pansy.

"I'm sorry," she said slowly, "but I thought you said—"

"SHE'S PREGNANT," Daphne confirmed with a yelp, smacking Hermione's hand aside and replacing the platter of tea materials with herself, perching on the table. "And that's not even the worst of it! She's—"

"Right here," Pansy cut in sharply, pursing her lips at Daphne in warning, "and still not particularly overjoyed about all this unnecessary hysteria, should that strike either of you as a relevant detail."

"But… I thought you were sick," Hermione managed to say.

"Yes," Pansy said, "I was. I am." She cleared her throat. "I have been," she corrected herself, removing a loose thread from her hem and depositing it on the floor, "on a fairly regular basis."

"But—" Hermione's brain, proclaimed brilliant only a matter of hours before, was now struggling to process this information. "How could you possibly be—" She blinked, still unable to grasp it. "You're pregnant, really? But—" Another blink of total puzzlement, ending in the completely inadequate remark of, "But how?"

Pansy looked a bit like she would rather stab Hermione than continue discussing the subject, but unwillingly submitted to answering. "You may recall that I've been… not myself, recently," she said, mouth tightening. "It appears I missed two days of my birth control around Halloween. Coincidentally, at such time, I also happened to," she began, and paused, pulling her shoulders back stiffly. "I happened to engage in something of an inadvisable tryst," she said sourly, "on one of the aforementioned days."

Hermione's head briefly swam with the effort of remembering where she'd been on the evening of Halloween, which now seemed positively lifetimes away. She hadn't been particularly herself any more than Pansy had been at the time, though she shook herself of the memory. Her misstep with Harry wasn't remotely relevant to whatever was going on with Pansy, which still had a number of foggy details.

"Obviously these two events have a common source," Hermione said, frowning. "Halloween is when I told you about Neville."

"Yes, strangely enough, that does ring a bell," Pansy said drily, reaching serenely for her tea as Daphne made a gesture of incoherence, amounting to something along the lines of, YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN? THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!

"Okay, well, hold on," Hermione said, struggling to be the voice of reason, "what are you… I mean, what are you going to, um. Well, I guess—?"

"All this babbling is entirely unhelpful," Pansy said, rolling her eyes. "Obviously, I will simply advance the date of the wedding, that's all. It's not ideal, but it's hardly as if I have much choice. Besides, it will be a perfectly quiet affair, everyone knows Neville and Augusta are rather private—"

"Whoa, whoa, what?" Hermione said, beginning to understand why Daphne's reaction had been so extreme. "But the baby, it isn't—" She blinked. "It… can't be Neville's, can it?"

Pansy shrugged. "I hardly think that matters," she said, prompting Hermione's jaw to fall slightly agape. "After all, he can't exactly permit me to tell his grandmother what I know about his sexual exploits, can he? Augusta would never forgive him," she sniffed. "She'd rather send him away, I'm sure, like his father, which is perhaps Neville's greatest fear."

Hermione exchanged a glance with Daphne, who was, by now, extremely pale.

"Pans," Hermione said hoarsely, "that's… that's blackmail."

"Yes," Pansy said.

"Your plan is to… blackmail Neville into marrying you," Hermione repeated slowly, "and… force him to raise someone else's baby?"

Pansy took a sip of tea, resting the cup gingerly on her lap.

"Well," she said, "force is an unpleasant word. More like persuade him, I should think, that it's in both of our best interests."

Hermione, who couldn't believe what she was hearing, hardly managed to steady herself before exclaiming, "PANSY!"

"Oh, marvelous," Pansy sighed. "Now you're both being irrational, wonderful."

"FOR GOOD REASON," Daphne snapped, and Pansy glowered tartly at them both.

"I should think it no less than Neville deserves," she said, "and besides, he's not an idiot. Whatever he feels for Blaise, it will never be an acceptable match. At least this way," she said in neutral tones of disinterest, "the two of them can continue carrying on as they have been, and in the meantime, I will—"

"—SECRETLY RAISE ANOTHER MAN'S BABY?" Hermione demanded, just as the door behind them opened.

"Oh, hello, California," Theo said cheerfully, "a pleasure as always. Greengrass, I heard shouting, did you need anyth-"

"I NEED YOU TO LEAVE IMMEDIATELY, NOTT," Daphne said.

"Ah, wonderful, just checking. Speak later, then," Theo replied, closing the door as Pansy gave Daphne a silencing glare, shaking her head.

"This is precisely why I didn't want you to tell her," Pansy said quietly, and Hermione, who didn't process at first that she was the 'her' in question, balked for a moment in disbelief.

"You weren't going to tell me?" she echoed, astonished. "But… but I thought—"

But I thought we bonded wasn't a particularly mature thing to say, nor anything shy of needy, but still, it seemed relevant. Daphne gave Hermione a look of apology, reaching over to give her forearm a light squeeze.

"Pansy just means she didn't think you would approve," Daphne explained as Pansy eyed her cup, "and she's right, because nobody in their right mind would approve." She turned back to Pansy, shaking her head. "You can't really believe I think you're making the right decision either, Pans. Not even you believe that."

Pansy, Hermione could see, was fully planning to deny it to her grave. "I don't have a choice," Pansy said. "I can't get rid of it. Even if there was a way to do that discreetly, I—" She broke off, lips pressed thin. "I can't."

Hermione opted not to press her on that. "But Pansy, the father—"

"Is not important," Pansy supplied flatly, giving Hermione a look that, unlike the others, was successfully quieting, mostly given that it looked closer to fear than anything else. "I don't want him to know about it, and anyway, he can't be in the picture. He wouldn't be, regardless."

"How do you know?" Hermione pressed, and Pansy shook her head.

"I just know."

"But who—"

"It was nobody," she repeated, "and I told you, it's not important. It's my fault; I was irresponsible. He doesn't need t-"

"To what? Deal with the consequences?" Hermione asked, and to her dismay, Pansy flinched. "No, Pans, I'm sorry," she hurried to say, "that's… that's not what I meant. I was just trying to say—"

"I know what you were trying to say, Hermione, and believe me, I've already considered it. I've considered everything many times." Pansy was quiet for a moment, hands tightening on her cup, before she said, "I've already known for some time."

Hermione frowned. "How long?"

"Two weeks," Pansy said, and Hermione blinked.

"But that means you knew even when we—"

"It's done," Pansy said, voice clipped. "It is what it is, Hermione, and you don't have to accept it, or me. But I don't see a better alternative."

"You could do it alone," Daphne interjected softly, reaching out to take Pansy's hand. "You wouldn't really be alone, anyway. You have us."

"Yes, you do," Hermione hurried to agree, shifting closer to Pansy on the sofa and slipping an arm around her shoulders. She regretted that it had not been the first thing she'd said, though with Pansy's customary habit of stifling her emotions, it was always quite difficult to remember she happened to be a person with a surprising capacity for insecurity. "You don't need Neville, Pansy," Hermione reminded her, "or whoever the father is, so if you don't want to—"

"No. No, this baby, it needs a father." Beneath Hermione's touch, she felt Pansy stiffen with tension. "I'm hardly maternal, Hermione, and I certainly can't be mother and father both. I can teach it, I can raise it, but I need someone there to… to nurture it. To be everything I'm not, I can't—"

She exhaled with something Hermione thought for a moment might have been half a sob, but then she abruptly straightened, casting off the suggestion as easily as if it were a fly.

"Some women aren't meant to be mothers, and I'm one of them. Neville, whatever else he is, will be a good father," Pansy said, resuming her tone of disinterest. "The best I can do is give the baby a good name, a comfortable life. Better that," she added with a scowl, "than being the illegitimate child of a disgraced heiress. Not to mention I'd likely be disinherited, if not entirely disowned—"

"But—" Hermione looked pleadingly at Daphne, who gave a small shake of her head, warning Hermione to silence. She realized that Daphne must have already ruled Pansy's calculations, at least on this matter, generally correct. "But who is the father, Pansy?" Hermione said, cutting herself off to take a different approach. "Maybe you're not giving him enough credit, or—"

"I told you," Pansy said brusquely, "the father is out of the question."

Again, Daphne gave Hermione a warning look. Hermione grimaced, frustrated, but agreed to change the subject. "Have you told Draco?"

"Not yet," Pansy said dully.

"What about Harry?" Daphne asked, and Pansy shrugged.

"I don't see how it would concern him. Either way, he's away for at least three months," she said, and Daphne and Hermione exchanged a glance, not wanting to ask the obvious follow-up question. They silently argued over who should bring up the name Blaise until Pansy glared at them both, adding the next most obvious remark of, "No."

"Pans, come on," Hermione said, chewing her lip. "I mean, obviously he, you know—"

"No," Pansy said again.

"Well, but hang on, wouldn't he be involved by default?" Daphne asked gently. "I mean, as far as we know, he and Neville are still—"

"Doesn't matter," Pansy snapped. "Whatever Neville does aside from raising this baby is entirely up to him, and I have no interest in what that is or will be."

"Pans," Hermione said, "listen, I know Blaise is—"

She broke off when Pansy gave her a look that was terrifying enough to melt her intestines, prompting her to a rapid, remorseful silence.

"Blaise," Pansy said tightly, "is no longer part of my life. He will have no part in this or in anything, and I forbid both of you to tell him."

"We haven't spoken to him," Daphne said quickly, and Hermione grimaced.

"I know Draco does," she admitted, "but—"

"Draco can do as he likes. I'm not asking for anything but the meager belief that the two of you will graciously permit me to live my life as I wish to," Pansy said impatiently, "and without either of your interference. If the two of you are truly my friends—"

Hermione shook her head. "Pansy, please."

"If you're truly my friends," Pansy repeated, glaring at Hermione, "then you will stay out of this, you'll keep your opinions to yourself, and you'll not say another word about my marriage to Neville. Am I understood?" she demanded, and though Hermione wanted very badly to shout about something—anything—she did manage to remember at the last second that Pansy was pregnant, and therefore not eligible to be physically shaken into seeing sense.

"Good," Pansy said, and looked as if she might have said something else, but then she paused, contemplating something, and leaned her head against Hermione's shoulder, giving Daphne's hand a squeeze.

It was, it seemed, a gesture of gratitude, and Hermione, despite everything, was pleased she had been there for the strange and wonderful thing that was now happening to her friend, however insane she happened to be as a result of it. Pansy, after all, wasn't nearly as aloof as she pretended, and Hermione had the luxury of possessing fewer doubts than Pansy about what kind of mother she had the potential to be.

As quickly as the moment had happened, though, it was over, and then Pansy was nudging Hermione and Daphne away.

"As for names," Pansy said, picking up her tea again, "both of yours are out. I simply don't care for them," she remarked, and then proceeded to take a sip, briskly beginning to discuss the possibilities of an intimate family wedding, which would be held at the end of the month.

By the end of the week, Draco had been informed about Pansy's pregnancy, as had Theo. Hermione had gone over to Daphne and Theo's for a quiet dinner after work, finding that Draco was already present. He rose to his feet upon her entry to Theo's study and drew her aside, offering her a bag of her favorite sour gummies, a candy cane-flavored tube of Chapstick that he must have had to ask her mother how to find, and a package of six plastic claw-clips.

"What's this?" she asked, frowning down at the thematically nonsensical collection of items, and he shrugged.

"I know you prefer your hair out of the way while you're writing," he said, pointing to the clips. "Though, if you prefer flowers as a congratulatory gift, that's certainly within the scope of my capacity."

"No," she pressed him, "I meant…" A sigh. "What is this?"

His mouth quirked.

"Well, it's certainly no grand gesture," he permitted, "but it's a start, isn't it?"

This damn prince, Hermione thought, shaking her head.

"It's sweet," she grudgingly admitted. "Thoughtful."

"They do call me the pensive prince," Draco reminded her very seriously, and she considered shoving him, or perhaps kissing him, or maybe both at once—until he took a step back, startling her. "Don't get ahead of yourself," he advised, shaking his head. "I'm playing a long game, Miss Granger, and I can't have you taking advantage of my spectacular vulnerability, however appealing it may be."

This fucking prince, Hermione sighed internally, though by then, Daphne was taking hold of her arm and pulling her into the newly (sort of) furnished dining room.

"Behold," Daphne said proudly, waving a hand at what appeared to be a baked ziti. "Nott and I have cooked. It has béchamel," she announced, nudging Hermione and referencing her new culinary prowess as Theo meandered in after them, cupping a hand around the back of Daphne's neck and dropping a kiss to the top of her head.

"Every single bowl in the kitchen is dirty," he declared proudly, "and it's all this one's doing."

"Shut up, Nott," Daphne said, beaming. "Sit down, would you? We have guests."

"Guests, is that what we're calling them? Magnificent," Theo replied, pulling out a chair and pausing Hermione before she moved to take the seat. "Please, California, there's a prince in our midst."

"He means himself," Draco informed Hermione with a sigh, as Theo did, indeed, proceed to take the seat for himself, gesturing for Draco to sit across the table—or perhaps on the floor in the corridor, unclear. "Thank you, Your Highness."

Draco took the seat across from Theo and beside Hermione, his knee brushing hers as they sat. She shifted slightly, giving him a scolding glance, and he slid a look of amusement at her, raising his glass of red wine to his lips with a languid, deliberate smile.

She was suddenly keenly aware both that he probably understood how handsome he was, and that he was clearly now using it against her.

"Stop," she said in an undertone, and he slid his tongue out over his lips, persisting innocence.

"Stop what?" he murmured, leaning close enough that she could smell the thrill of his familiar scent, a little darker this evening than usual. Clean, like always, but with some underlying sense of something warmer, deeper, like the glow of a midnight fire. Like skin on skin in the dark, and she fought a thoroughly unhelpful swallow, shoving him away.

"Stop," she warned again, and his smile broadened, raising his glass for another sip.

His right hand was absent its usual signet ring, she noticed, and tried not to check his left.

That effort lasted about half a second. Damn it, she thought, spotting the signet ring on his opposite hand. The code hand, which was a place his ring did not—should not—belong. To her immense displeasure, Hermione was left to cross her legs tightly, trying to focus on whatever Daphne and Theo had cooked for dinner instead of what Draco might do to her later if she let him.

"So," Daphne said, "about Pansy—"

All four of them glanced over their shoulders reflexively, still not entirely convinced Pansy wasn't somehow listening via wiretapping or perhaps by watching them from an enchanted mirror.

"Are we going to intervene?" Daphne pressed, glancing pointedly at Draco, "or—"

"I tried," Draco said, shaking his head. "She's set on this."

"I also tried," Theo remarked, and when Daphne frowned at him, he shrugged. "We talk from time to time, Greengrass. It's not unheard of, and I, as you know, am a spectacularly talented source of comfort."

"Do either of you know who the father is?" Hermione asked, and both Draco and Theo shook their heads.

"I don't even have a guess," Draco admitted. "She's always been highly secretive about, you know."

From Theo: "Her lovers?"

From Draco, with a wince: "Please don't call them that."

From Hermione, musingly: "Her… paramours?"

Draco, with a sigh: "Slightly better, but also acutely worse."

From Daphne, with a pensive frown: "Well, it has to be someone we know, doesn't it? It's hard to imagine that Pansy would deign to touch anyone who wasn't somewhere along the periphery of social acceptance."

Theo, with a laugh: "What Greengrass means is: Do we think she would she slum it with someone below her rank?"

Daphne, with equal annoyance and tenderness: a backhanded smack to Theo's chest.

Hermione, humming thoughtfully to herself: "What's the deal with the Weasleys? Maybe it's one of theirs."

Daphne, with a grimace: "Impossible. She'd die first."

Hermione, smartly: "Well, she's obviously not giving up a name, is she? Seems sort of telling, don't you think?"

Daphne, uncomfortably: "That is, unfortunately, a valid point. Whoever it is, she clearly doesn't want us to know."

Theo, with a scoff: "That's because if Draco knew, he'd descend upon him like a tyrannical plague."

Hermione, abruptly noticing that Draco had gone suspiciously silent: "Really?"

Draco, still suspiciously silent: a shrug.

Daphne, irritated: "She's a grown woman, you idiots, she can do what she likes. I just want to know who it is, considering she'd rather marry Neville and live unhappily ever after than confess."

Hermione, still stuck on Draco's silence: "You're seriously upset she slept with someone?"

Draco, unconvincingly: "Of course not. Daphne's right, she can do as she likes."

Hermione, warningly: "Draco—"

Draco, averting his eyes: "Yes?"

Theo, stifling a laugh: "Alas, the prince doth protest."

Draco, glaring: "Oh, so you've remembered who I am, then?"

Theo, sniffing: "It's a metaphor. And anyway, California, there's a reason Lady Six-Names is so feverishly secretive. She may not have brothers, but she has Draco, and as far as approval goes, he's more difficult to please than Prince Lucifer."

Hermione, stunned: "Really?"

Daphne, sitting upright with a sudden revelation: "Is that why she never said anything about Michael Corner?"

Draco, eyes narrowing: "What did Michael Corner do?"

Theo: "Based on context cues? Penetrat-"

Daphne, with a sidelong glare: "Stop."

Theo, innocently: "Yes, wife."

Hermione, turning to Draco with exasperation: "Well, that must be why she won't tell us, then. If you're going to be unreasonable about it—"

Draco, flippantly: "Exiling him for his misdeeds is hardly unreasonable. Beheading him for treason would be, maybe, but I've barely even considered execution."

Hermione, aghast: "She just had sex, Draco! It's not a crime—"

Draco: "Right, hence my adherence to appropriate retaliation. Such as disinheritance or, more immediately, stripping him of his lands and titles."

Daphne, reassuring Hermione: "He's joking."

Theo, laughing into his glass: "Sure he is."

Hermione, still frowning: "But Neville—"

Theo, cutting in: "—is a different story. He seemed perfectly harmless to all of us, firstly, and of course now, with the Blaise thing—"

Draco, with a heavy sigh: "Can we change the subject, please? If Harry were here he'd feel precisely the same way, and clearly Theo's too busy laughing at my expense to admit he agrees with me—"

Theo: a small shrug that denied nothing, earning himself another swat from Daphne.

Draco: "—but the point is, I'd be perfectly happy to listen to Pansy if she had any wish to confess. Seeing as she does not, I'm sure we can all agree that whoever he is, he's of such considerable ill-repute—"

Hermione, rolling her eyes: "Jesus, are you a medieval prince now?"

Draco, louder: "—that she doesn't want us to know, and thus, he is unlikely worth our speculation. Whether or not he retains his testicles can be a subject for another day."

Hermione, with a sigh: "I just think, you know, doesn't he deserve to have a say? Or, I don't know, at least—"

Draco, emphatically: "Theodore, you were saying you and Daphne planned to head to Edinburgh this weekend?"

Hermione, huffing: "Nice try, Your Highn- wait, you're going to Edinburgh?"

Theo, replying with something that felt very rehearsed: "Yes, to Edinburgh. Daphne's meeting with some distributor about textiles and I, of course, simply plan to wander the city begging for scraps—"

Daphne, brightly, and with equal rehearsal: "You know what, Hermione, you should come! We could go visit our old haunts, don't you think?"

Hermione, cutting a glance at Draco: "Do you have something to do with this?"

Draco, with palpable innocence: "Hm?"

Hermione: "Draco."

Draco: "Hermione?"

Theo, mournfully: "I hate this game."

Daphne, sighing loudly: "Oh, give it a rest, you idiots. Hermione, Draco was thinking of joining us after a public appearance he also has to make, so he thinks it would be a lovely idea for you to come along."

Hermione, skeptically: "Draco, is this true?"

Draco, with theatrical surprise: "Well, I am quite obviously hearing this for the first time, but given the coincidence, it does seem like quite a brilliant idea, doesn't it?"

From Hermione: a narrowed glance of disapproval.

From Draco: a smirk, alight with obvious mischief.

Theo, eyeing the dregs of his wine: "Obviously, California, this is a very spontaneous idea that we've all had independently, and with no conceivable evidence of collusion—"

Hermione, drily: "Obviously."

Theo, louder: "—but I do think it worth your time. We've gotten into hardly any antics, have we? Not for years, and to be frank, marriage has made me positively well-behaved."

Daphne, with a quiet scoff: "Hardly."

Theo, with a wink: "Not in front of the children, dear."

Draco, turning to Hermione: "Look, it's all perfectly innocent. Just a trip with friends, that's all."

Hermione, doubtfully: "You really think you can manage to get away for an entire weekend?"

Draco, settling his grey eyes on hers with pointed deliberation: "For you? Yes."

Hermione, after a beat of surprise: "…With me, you mean?"

Draco, coolly: "Mm, yes, sorry. Slip of the tongue."

The reference to said tongue was highly unnerving, more so than Hermione would have predicted prior to that evening. It wasn't as if she didn't already know what his tongue was capable of, though it was highly possible that was the worst part. She felt like part of her history with Draco was somehow being rewritten, very like the original except for a few embellishments, and included in the latest version of their text was how it felt to be swayed by being near him, arresting her anew.

She'd taken a job she knew his father wouldn't accept. She'd told him the truth: I don't know where that leaves us. ABBA aside, they weren't anywhere that warranted weekend trips, or ring-codes of I want you, or anything logically following a single stomach flu confession.

She tried to give Draco a look that said: We talked about this.

He replied with a look of: I haven't done anything wrong, have I?

"Oh, just say yes, Hermione," Daphne said impatiently, interrupting their silent exchange. "If not for Draco, then for me, because we all know Nott's no use. The other day he asked for his grey trousers and I had to inform him they were, in fact, green."

"She really allows me no freedom for artistic expression," Theo said, and Daphne leaned over to kiss him with something that seemed equal parts fondness and agitation; as if she desperately wished for him to stop talking, but could only stand to do so with her lips.

The compulsion was, unfortunately, very familiar.

"I told you," Hermione murmured to Draco, "I don't know what I want yet. I don't know if I'm ready to start up again."

"I know," he said, shrugging, "but you do at least plan to let me put forth my case for consideration, don't you?"

His ring glinted from his left hand, the one-time symbol of his furtive promise winking at her once again from around his glass.

"It's just a mini-holiday with friends," he assured her. "Not some sort of dastardly plot. I even asked Pansy to come along, though I suppose it's not a surprise that she said no."

"It's not that," Hermione said firmly, and Draco gave her a look of: Then what is it?

She sighed, not wanting to reply. She didn't feel like telling him that it was herself she didn't trust, not him. They weren't technically playing a game, but it still felt like confessing it would register on Oliver's scoreboard as a point to him, not her.

But still, he wasn't wrong, was he? It was just a weekend with friends, hardly a sacrifice on her part. She could finish her work with plenty of time to spare before they left, and it wasn't as if she was giving something up by going.

And besides—maybe, just maybe—she was a little curious about what he had in mind.

"Fine," she conceded, and from across the table, Daphne wiped a little smudge of lipstick from Theo's cheek, giving Hermione a devilish look of satisfaction. "Fine, you win, then. I'm in."

Most of Saturday was spent in Theo's company, as Draco had at least been honest about his appearance at some sort of grand opening for Edinburgh's children's hospital while Daphne did, in fact, have to meet with a textile manufacturer about getting her hands on a particular kind of gauzy fabric for Gabrielle Delacour's next gown. It was virtually impossible for Hermione to go anywhere in the U.K. by then without being recognized, but Theo did have a strange gift for being invisible; fewer heads than usual turned their way as they wandered through the Queen Street Gardens.

"So," Hermione said, nudging Theo with conspiratorial affection amid the crisp and biting Scotland cold, "how is married life, then?"

A brief, nearly imperceptible smile flickered over Theo's face.

"Oh, fine," he said, giving her his most troubling glance of swaggery. "It's not entirely unpleasant, you know, waking up in the morning next to the person in the world I distinctly hate the least. Doesn't hurt that she's such a winning conversationalist," he added with a tone of suggestion, "and quite a fair hand at most strategy-based board games."

"I know you're not saying anything technically dirty, but still—gross," Hermione groaned, and Theo's smile broadened. "I really don't want to hear about your sex life, thank you."

She heard enough about it from Daphne. You'd think the sex might get a bit tiresome once you're married, but no, she'd said into her coffee, leaving Hermione to choke a little on the abrupt change of subject from where they planned to meet for lunch. Turns out it's just the beginning, now that I know I can ask for things and he'll have to divorce me before he can say no.

Please don't tell me what things, Hermione said, quite reasonably, and Daphne's lovely lips twisted up with pleasure.

He may be an unceasing pestilence, but he's very good at what he does, she replied, to which Hermione reminded her firmly that she had already had a bout of stomach flu and certainly could not stand another go-round.

"Well, it's something of a vast enormity, circumstantially-speaking, to be hers without restriction," Theo remarked, with something Hermione suspected was honesty beneath the musing of his tone. "Forgive my vulgarity, but there is something excessively freeing about sharing a life with the woman I love."

It was a wonderful sentiment, albeit a highly suspicious one.

Hermione slid him a narrowed glance. "Is that suppose to be subterfuge, Your Lordship?"

Theo, in answer, reached out to wrap an arm around her shoulders, briefly nudging his cheek against the top of her yarn-spun, pom-beanied head.

"Normally it would not be within my unique set of distasteful personality constraints to be so forward," he said, completely un-forwardly, "but I suppose I can't resist my opportunity to tell you that this prince of ours is something of a rarity. Believe me, if I could have chosen someone else upon which to waste my time and adolescence, I would have opted for something far less smugly blond," he said, hip-checking Hermione with a smirk, "but it is, as far as I can tell, impossible to find even the barest of comparisons."

"This," Hermione informed him, "is the least subtle wing-manning I've ever seen."

"Oh, no, no," Theo corrected her, shaking his head. "I have no interest whatsoever in the pleasures of His Highness' flesh. I only think that as a subject of this kingdom, our prince could do no better, and naturally it is within my best interest to ensure you see as much yourself."

There was, of course, no way in hell she was going to tell him he was being extremely persuasive. It would go to his head, which was the last thing Theo needed.

"You're totally doing that thing they did for King Henry VIII," Hermione noted. "Sneaking women into his rooms, plotting his next wife—"

"Maybe, maybe not," Theo replied, tapping her nose, "but it would certainly never occur to him to ask for my help, so I suppose that leaves me to forcefully intercede."

"Well, you are very forceful," Hermione sighed, and Theo nodded, pleased.

"As my final word on the matter," he began, and Hermione groaned.

"Yes, fine, you think we should get back together, I get it—"

"I was going to say please don't tell my wife about the debilitating crush I allegedly have on her," Theo sniffed, as Hermione rolled her eyes, "but yes, I suppose now that you mention it, I do think it's worth considering. On your terms if you wish," he added with a shrug, "but it isn't wholly irrelevant to say that what he feels for you is no small thing. Certainly nothing easily dismissed."

"Noted," she grumbled, and Theo gave her another nudge.

"Come on, California," he said, "let's go feed some birds."

"It's bad for them," Hermione said, and Theo gave an exasperated sigh.

"Then be a little bad, Cali," he sniffed, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets and jogging directly for a crowd of pigeons as Hermione frowned a little to herself, contemplating everything that had passed between them, both said and unsaid.

It started out simple enough.

"You know, maybe we should go out," Hermione had suggested to Daphne—neutrally, without inflection, as if she hadn't been practicing it in her head all through dinner—and Daphne had glanced up from her digestif, surprised.

"Really?"

"Yes, really," Hermione said, turning to Draco, who was observing her with a quiet look of curiosity on his face. "I mean, royal residences are great," she assured him drily, as he gave her a little laughing nod in concession, "but don't you feel like getting out?"

It occurred to her that perhaps she was testing him in some way, though acknowledging it to herself now would surely require her to explain it to him later, which sounded terrible. It wasn't as if she wanted to bark at him to choose her over everything, but perhaps if she were being honest, she might have admitted that she did feel a bit like putting his latest theory—that he could sweep her off her feet—to work. The old Draco could have easily bought her thoughtful gifts and snuck away with her, as he was doing now.

What the old Draco would never have done, though, as Hermione well knew, was chance his father's disapproval. If she were being honest, she might have admitted that her urgency in pushing him out of his comfort zone was less about her wanting to explore Edinburgh's nightlife than it was about forcing him to make a choice.

"You want to go," Draco began, drumming his fingers lightly on the arm of the Edwardian sofa, "out?"

He arched a pale brow, and she shivered again at the sudden reminder of his arrival earlier that afternoon. He'd leaned forward, brushing his lips against her cheek with his hands resting lightly on her hips, and said in her ear, "It appears Scotland suits you just as well."

Prove it, she'd thought.

"Yes, out," she confirmed, nodding. "Nothing crazy, just… get outside these walls." Go somewhere people can see, she didn't say, but he wasn't an idiot. Surely he could hear the implication, and after a swift glance at an expressionless Theo, Draco rose to his feet, stretching out his long legs and finishing his glass of Scotch.

"Out it is," he said, beckoning with his chin for Theo to follow. "We'll just get changed, then."

Hermione, who hadn't quite believed he'd actually say yes, blinked, noticing that even Daphne looked as though she considered it an unexpected outcome. Daphne rose with some bemusement to her feet, giving Hermione a suspicious glance, and then Draco nodded to both of them, setting his empty glass on the side table and exiting the room with Theo at his heels.

"I meant be bad with the pigeons," Theo murmured in Hermione's ear, pausing to give her a tiny glance of admonishment, "but if you insist—"

"I do," Hermione said with far more confidence than she felt, and Daphne sidled up to her with a little furrowed look on her face.

"What are you up to?" she mused, and Hermione shrugged.

"Are you going to dress me up or what?" she asked, and Daphne, who could never deny herself the opportunity to make Hermione less of a general disaster, declined to press her, opting instead to lend her a pair of perfectly-fitted black jeans to go with a silky top Hermione had thrown into her bag at the last second.

She hadn't imagined they'd be able to sneak in anywhere. For an occasion like this one, Draco used his driver and his security team, and by the crowd of lucky photographers waiting near the royal residence, there was no escaping the inevitability that all four of them would chance being photographed. There was an element of agitation in Draco's fingers, which tapped restlessly at his thigh, but when Theo, after hanging up with Harry, offered to stagger their entrances to the nightclub—the owner was apparently an old friend of the baddest of the Bad Lads—Draco wordlessly shook his head.

"It's one evening," Daphne contributed, nudging Theo. "Even Prince Lucifer can hardly object, given everything."

"Right," Draco agreed, and looked at Hermione, who was beside him in the backseat. "And I have nothing to hide."

She glanced down at his hand, noting the ring that remained on his left. He, it seemed, was still offering her something that she was neither convinced nor unconvinced she wanted.

No, she corrected herself, swallowing as Draco shifted in the leather seats, his thigh gently nudging hers. She wanted it; that was fairly undeniable. She just wasn't sure yet what she was willing to give up to have it.

She kept waiting for Draco to push back somehow, to call her bluff, but he didn't. He ignored the stares as he entered the club, leading Hermione with a hand that hovered (intimate, but politely so) above the small of her back. He had requested a private table, but passed through the crowd to arrive there without much acknowledgement of nearby gawking, or of the phone cameras flashing. He merely gestured Hermione into the darkened booth, settling himself beside her and ordering a drink from a waitress who'd arrived tits up for the occasion.

"And for you?" Draco asked Hermione, who was still positively gobsmacked that any of this was even happening, and Daphne leaned forward, speaking to the cocktail waitress for her.

"She'll have gin and tonic, and so will I," she supplied at a shout.

There was a real sense of the macabre to nightclubs in general, but especially this one, Hermione observed, waiting in nervous silence beside Draco for her drink. It was dark save for the dull glow of eerie red bulbs, and had the distinct presence of misbehavior. Draco's hair suddenly seemed especially gleaming, silver and pale and almost saintly amid all the lascivious darkness, and for a moment, Hermione felt intensely guilty about her request.

Shortly after receiving their drinks, though, the song Fancy by Iggy Azalea came on, which was unfortunately one of Daphne's favorite shower songs as of late. She yanked Theo to his feet with an alarming immediacy, the two of them making their way to the dance floor, just as Hermione raised her drink tentatively to her lips, aware that she was now alone with Draco.

He slid an arm behind her shoulders, resting it on top of the booth's low cushions.

"So," he said, and Hermione bit down on her straw.

"So," she agreed, glancing at him.

She caught the slow crescent of his smile, his teeth suddenly devilishly white.

"You look nervous," he commented, though she couldn't quite hear him.

"What?"

"I said you look nerv-"

"What?" she repeated, frowning at him, and he laughed, scooting closer to her.

He brushed away a curl from her ear, leaning to speak into it. "You look nervous," he said, perfectly audible and entirely too close. She cleared her throat, turning her head so sharply he didn't have time to move, his lips nearly brushing her cheek.

"I'm not," she lied, and he gave her a doubtful look, the song changing with a laughable irony to Katy Perry's Dark Horse. "I'm fine," she assured him, shifting in her seat, and Draco shook his head, removing his jacket and rising to his feet to hold his hand out for hers.

"Dance with me," he suggested, and Hermione still couldn't quite hear him, but the invitation was obvious. She hesitated for a second, watching him beckon her a second time with an arched brow, and then, lacking any better alternative—this had been her idea, hadn't it?—she gave in, accepting his proffered hand and letting him pull her to her feet.

The overloud bass thudded within Hermione's ribs as she made her way down to the floor with Draco, spotting Daphne where she was furiously making out with Theo a few feet away. The two of them, it seemed, were benefitting early from Hermione's alleged 'spontaneity.' Hermione, meanwhile, let Draco take hold of both her hands, swaying with her from a reasonable distance. People were staring, obviously; every now and then, the strobe lights would reveal eyes on her and Draco from all over the room.

Hermione glanced around apprehensively, contemplating changing her mind entirely and suggesting they go back and watch a film or something, only then Draco's hand settled on her hip, pulling her closer.

"Relax," he said in her ear, the song changing again to something she was too distracted to recognize. "Dance with me," he told her again, curling his fingers to drag them slowly down her spine, and as much as she wanted to resist him—as much as she'd hoped her test would be more for him than for her—she relented, resting her palms flat on his chest and then slowly, gradually, sliding them up to wrap her arms around his neck.

She could smell him again, familiar and unfamiliar, and with the crowd shoving around them on the dance floor she was pushed further and further into him, pressed closer and inescapably closer the longer they danced. What little she'd drunk that night intensified exponentially, heating a little in her limbs, and then she found motion easier; she let herself go a little more with each shift of his hips against hers, her hesitation vanishing conversely with each increased pulse of pressure from his touch.

The song changed again; this time to Down on Me, which was old and had no place among the sugar-pop tastes the club had catered to so far that evening, but which came on anyway. Hermione had no choice, beholden to the whims of the vengeful music gods, but to think of the last time she'd been dancing with Draco to this particular song; him in his Batman mask, her in her Cleopatra costume, the gaudy snake ring on her finger.

He seemed to be thinking the same thing. He took her right hand, glancing down at it for a moment, and then carefully slid his thumb over the gold serpent that wrapped snugly around her ring finger, tracing her knuckles lightly.

Then he released her, pulling her into him again, and turned to say something in her ear.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

She shivered, reflexively pulling him closer, and suddenly whatever restraint she'd had evaporated. She wasn't exactly the partying type, but this close to him, she couldn't resist putting a little extra sway in her hips, letting herself grind feverishly with him as he wrapped his arm around her, one hand tightening in the fabric of her blouse until he could run his fingers over the little slip of skin above her jeans.

She felt a vibration from the pocket of his trousers, grimacing.

"Your phone," she shouted, and he shifted to pull it partially out of his pocket, glancing down at the screen.

"Just my father," he replied, pulling her back into his arms. "Dobby called in the car, too, but it's fine."

"You're not going to answer?"

He shook his head. "I'm busy," he said in her ear.

She fought a startled gasp as he spun her by her hips, securing them against his. The line of her spine was pressed into his torso, the bare blades of her shoulders digging into his chest, and he slid his hand over her waist, toying with the hem of her shirt and the line of her jeans. His pace was faster now, to match the thudding bass. She could feel it in her bones like the vibrations that continued from his phone, still furiously buzzing between them until they abruptly stopped.

"See? It's fine," he said, lips brushing her neck as he spoke.

It was an accident, it seemed, and surely unintended, only then he stopped, momentarily frozen.

He stayed there, unmoving.

Then he kissed her neck, deliberately that time, and she held her breath.

His lips traveled upwards, pausing behind her ear, and she shuddered.

He kissed the edge of her jaw, one hand tightening around the shape of her hip, and nudged her chin up with his nose, lips grazing the side of her throat.

She leaned her head back, resting it against his shoulder, and he paused for a moment, trying to read her face in the dark.

"You saw the ring," she told him hoarsely, not even sure if he could hear her, but it must have been clear enough; that, or maybe he'd already done the math and figured out what it meant that she was wearing it again. He reached around to take hold of her cheek, angling her chin over her shoulder—raising her lips to his—and paused there for half a second, letting a single breath pass between them.

His phone buzzed in his pocket again, disrupting the brief spell of total insanity, and she swallowed hard, waiting to see what he'd do.

Hermione, it's my father, I have to take this—

Hermione, I'm sorry, it's important—

Hermione, you understand, I have to—

Hermione—

"Hermione," he said, and she closed her eyes, dreading the inevitable.

"Hermione," he said again, before he brought her mouth to his and kissed her.

It shouldn't have been a surprise how good it felt, or how much it sparked. If there was one thing they'd both always had, it was chemistry, and it wasn't like the circumstance of darkness and heat and sweat and darkened rooms were wholly unfamiliar. None of this was all that new, really, and yet it was entirely different now, newly cursed by deprivation. She felt herself gasp a little in his mouth, startled by the new-oldness of it, or the old-newness, and he pivoted her hips with both hands, spinning her to face him.

Things got heated quickly, even with people watching, though whether that was his doing or hers was something of an impossible mystery. She knew she was the one tearing desperately at his collar, but he was the one who had his hands slipped hungrily under her blouse. She was pulling him towards her, yanking him nearly in half to hold his chest to hers, but he was the one keeping their hips locked in place, one hand slid into the back pocket of her jeans. It was something that could escalate—that would escalate, if she wanted it to—and out of a wild surge of abandonment, Hermione broke the kiss to say in Draco's ear, "Let's go somewhere."

His fingers tightened on her hips, pressing into them. "What?"

"Let's go," she repeated, giving his trousers a pointed yank to suggest she'd moved on from the insufficiency of dancing, and he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Not yet," he said. "Not until you want me."

"I think it's pretty obvious that I want you," she growled, impatient. "Come on, it doesn't have to count for anything, we can just—"

"No," he said, shaking his head, and she frowned at him.

"But you were just—"

"Yes, I know," he said, and then broke off, jostled a little by someone next to him. "Come on," he sighed, taking her hand and leading her back to their table. "Hey," he said once they were alone, catching the look on her face and pulling her into him. "Don't be angry, I'm just—"

"I'm not angry," she snapped, and then grimaced. "I'm not," she repeated, slightly more convincingly that time. "I just… I thought you wanted—"

"I do, Hermione. Obviously I do, and believe me, I—" He glanced around, shaking his head, and then leaned forward. "I want you, trust me, but not like this," he said in her ear. "Not until you're ready."

"But," she began, exasperated. "But I am, I just—"

He reached out, holding her face with both hands and stroking the bones of her cheeks.

"You really think I'm going to waste my second first time with you?" he asked, and she blinked, suddenly a little dazed. Or possibly dehydrated. Impossible to tell.

"Draco," she murmured, and he did the most unhelpful thing he could have done: he pulled her into him again, dropping his lips to hers. "Draco," she mumbled into his mouth with fury, and that she was thoroughly unable to prevent herself from kissing back—even with the idiotic proclamation that he intended such efforts to go nowhere—was highly discouraging. Truly, she thought with displeasure, she was hopeless.

"Draco, you stupid prince, just let me take off your pants and—"

"Draco," came a voice behind them, prompting them to leap apart, Hermione's hand flying up to her mouth. Theo was standing just behind them, shoving a cell phone into Draco's chest with one hand; the other was laced with Daphne's fingers. "You need to take this."

"What?" Draco asked, unable to hear him, and Theo gave the phone another hard shove.

"YOU NEED TO TAKE THIS," he said again, shouting it this time, and at Theo's obvious urgency, Draco's brow furrowed with puzzled concern.

"What is it?" Hermione asked Daphne, apprehensively reaching for her arm.

"It's his father," she said softly, and Hermione looked over at Draco, watching his knuckles go white the moment he took the phone.

There was no avoiding the paparazzi upon their hurried exit. Photographers and reporters were successfully kept out of the club (probably why it was a favorite of Harry's) but once outside, Hermione could barely move, finding herself blinded and crowded as Daphne pulled her into the car and Draco rested a hand on her back.

"You three go," Draco said in her ear, pausing Hermione as she climbed none-too-gracefully into the backseat. "I have to go see my father right now. I'm sorry, Hermione, truly, but it can't wait—"

"Hold on," Hermione said, throwing out an arm before he could shut the car door. "Wait a minute—"

"I'm sorry," he said again, looking troubled and torn. "It's not a matter of not choosing you, Hermione, but this is my family, and I can't just—"

"No," she said firmly, "no. I meant hold on because I'm coming with you."

She hopped out of the car, the photographers continuing to snap pictures of them as Theo leaned over, conversing quietly with Draco.

"What's going on?"

"I have to go, just take Hermione and Daphne and—"

"No," Hermione said again, interrupting Draco with a hand on his arm. "You could be waiting half the night for news, Draco, and I'm not letting you wait alone. I'm coming," she said firmly, and suddenly, it occurred to her that perhaps her life no longer revolved around Draco, but that certainly hadn't changed her impulse to be near him when he was suffering. He gave her a look like he might have argued, but she shook her head, stopping him before he could speak.

"Just let me be there for you," she told him, unsure whether she was pleading with him or admonishing him, and a tiny flicker of something, possibly surprise, furrowed in his brow.

"We'll get your things and meet you there," Theo said, adding a hand motion that was probably yet another code, and after a beat of hesitation, Draco finally gave in, nodding to Theo and moving to shut the car door.

Then he took Hermione's hand without a word, tucking her under his arm and heading to a second car as the flashes around them went off, unrelenting.

Lucius, as it turned out, had suffered another cardiac arrest, something just shy of a heart attack. It had prompted him to collapse during an official appearance in Wiltshire, where he'd refused to be taken to the hospital. Instead, he'd demanded to be taken home to his wife at Malfoy Manor, where he'd been treated by a private physician.

By the time Draco and Hermione got there, Lucius was in bed, weak and drugged but hardly as unconscious or unspeaking as one (read: Hermione) might have hoped.

"You again," he said upon sight of Hermione, his grey eyes narrowing. "I thought we were done with you."

Narcissa was sitting regally at Lucius' bedside; she gave Hermione a little shrug that indicated she, unlike her husband, was unsurprised. She also didn't appear particularly doting at Lucius' bedside, but she was at least present, which was more than Hermione might have guessed based on the things Draco had said about the state of his parents' marriage.

"Have you seen the headlines?" Lucius was demanding from Draco, who appeared to be only half-listening, instead checking his father for damage that he was obviously not going to see. Hermione hovered near the door, suddenly feeling as if she was an intruder. "Look at this," Lucius snapped, reading from his phone: "'Party prince trades responsibility for debauchery while his father desperately clings to life,' 'Prince Lucius suffers brush with death, Prince Draco responds with wild American-influenced bender'—"

"Oh, please," Draco sighed, taking a seat beside his father. "You can't honestly believe that's important right now, Father, compared to your health."

"EVERYTHING IS IMPORTANT," Lucius retorted, struggling to sit up as Draco forcefully nudging him back, hushing him into remaining against his pillows. "Don't you understand what this means, Draco? Don't you see what you've done?"

"It was one night, Father," Draco said. "They'll forget about it in a week—"

"NO," Lucius bellowed, and Hermione flinched with apprehension, catching Narcissa's look of pursed disapproval from across the room as Lucius continued shouting at his son. "This is how it starts—this is how everything starts. Do you think I somehow haven't noticed that you're the only thing keeping our family from ruin, Draco? You think I don't realize you're this family's only hope?"

Hermione winced, and Draco sighed.

"Father, listen to me, it's really not so dire—"

"No, you listen," Lucius snapped. "Are you really going to throw away everything you've done? Look how hard you've worked, how much you've grown," he ranted. "Look what a reputation you've created for yourself, and now—AND NOW—"

"Father, please don't overexert yourself—"

"If you think I'm not proud of the son you have always been," Lucius said through gritted teeth, and Hermione looked down, eyeing the carpet beneath her feet. The argument suddenly seemed intensely private, exclusively meant for Lucius, his son, and perhaps his wife, though Hermione wasn't sure whether Draco might take it poorly if she left. "If you think I don't see what a fine young man you've become, or what a worthy heir you are, Draco, you're wrong."

"Please, Father, we don't have to talk about this right n-"

"If this is some attempt to… to throw that away, Draco, just because I've let you down, then please, listen to me—"

"It's not," Draco began, and swallowed, his pale head bending towards his father's in what was obviously a difficult moment. "It's not that, I promise you."

"Don't destroy your life, Draco." It was half omen, half emotion. "Don't undo everything you've done, don't undermine everything you've proven just because of what I did—"

It occurred to Hermione, with a sudden, striking realization that she'd known but never really understood, that somehow, Lucius was both father and employer, authority and paternal figure both. He, like Draco, was a man as well as a figurehead, and similarly, for Draco, his family, his occupation, and his ceaseless expectations would all be inextricable from each other.

It became alarmingly clear to Hermione, suddenly, that to accept Draco for what he was—for who he was—was, in essence, to join the family business.

Which was, it seemed, as much a personal matter as it was anything else.

"Father." Draco's voice was soft, and obviously anguished. "Father, you don't understand."

Hermione, who'd scarcely been listening after getting lost in her own head, heard the sound of a throat clearing. She looked up to realize that Princess Narcissa was now standing in front of her, one hand gesturing to the door.

"The usual bedroom," Narcissa suggested, her voice a cold tone of: This doesn't concern you.

Hermione looked at the bend of Draco's neck, swallowing hard, and nodded slowly, slipping out into the corridor and hearing the door shut securely behind her.

Draco came to find her after about half an hour. By then, she had showered and put on the robe that Princess Narcissa's housekeeper had brought for her; she was staring blankly into nothing, lost in thought, until Draco knocked quietly on the open frame, stepping inside the room and closing the door behind him.

"So, listen," he began, and Hermione cut him off with a shake of her head, rising to her feet.

"You listen," she said, and he blinked, a little taken aback, but waited for her to continue. "Things are different now," she told him, and he opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him with another silencing glance. "They're different. I actually like my job now," she reminded him. "I don't need you as much as I did before. And I can see," she began, and swallowed, grimacing at him. "I can see you're needed elsewhere."

She watched him force a swallow. "Hermione, please, I—"

"You don't need to give up everything for me," she said, clarifying her point for the benefit of his obvious agitation. "Your family needs you, Draco. I can wait."

His fingers twitched at his side, tentative. "And in the meantime…?"

"Don't sleep with anyone else. I won't, either," she assured him, prompting him to frown with confusion, "and, of course, try to see me as often as you can. And call," she murmured, reaching up to sweep his pale hair back from his forehead. "Call me whenever you like, Draco."

He shut his eyes as she inhaled, setting his hands blindly on her waist.

"Miss Granger," he said, his voice a little cracked, "are you, by chance, asking me for a relationship?"

She waited for a moment.

Waited until his eyes floated open again, and her fingers traced his cheek.

Then she reached down, untying her robe, and let it fall open.

"I'm saying I want you," she said softly. "Isn't that enough?"

For a moment, he stared down at her, his grey gaze sweeping over the curves of her with a longing she could practically taste. It was clear that if he wanted, if he dared, he could have her in his arms in a moment; in less than a heartbeat. He could have her right here, taken her against the wall or bent over the edge of the bed or flat on her back; he could have had her on her knees, he could have had her however he wanted, and she could have him. She could have him, he could be in her bed with his beautiful mouth on her desperate skin, and the thought of it was so very tempting it very nearly pained her; almost strangled her with how badly she wanted it.

It. What was it, exactly? Sex, obviously, but what else?

Him, her mind said firmly, but she shoved the impulse away, taking Draco's hand instead and pressing her lips to his palm, pulling him closer.

He gave her a look she couldn't interpret, his grey eyes fixed on her face. She waited, rising up on her toes, and when he leaned forward to kiss her—so lightly, so delicately, that she felt it leave her lips like a quiet, meditative breath—she tugged him into her, holding him in her arms, but he resisted.

"Not quite," he murmured to her lips.

She stiffened, frowning up at him, thoroughly bemused.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he said, and brushed his lips against her forehead, touching her cheek. "Sleep well."

Then, much to her disbelief, he slipped out of the room, leaving her to stare after him, dumbstruck.

I ended up thinking a lot about what Prince Lucifer said about reputations. Specifically, that he said Draco's had been created—not born or given, not even earned, but manipulated by choices, crafted by Draco's own hand. Sure, I think the Prince of Darkness was at least a little altered from whatever medications he'd been dosed with at the time, but he'd given me something to think about, whether he'd intended to or not.

How had all of my friends been affected by trying to defend some invisible thing they'd painstakingly manipulated, whether true or false, purely because other people could see it? And what was it worth, in the end, to sacrifice everything just to control what other people could see?

For one friend in particular, we were all about to find out.

a/n: I'll be at a conference for about five days starting Thursday, so next week's chapter will be a couple of days delayed until the following Thursday. In the meantime, look out for a Valentine's Day nottgrass posting this week in Amortentia: Black Jeans and Daphne Blue. Thank you for reading!

30. Flame

Chapter 30: Flame

19 May, 2018
Malfoy Manor

The Future House of Malfoy

As consort to the future King of England, there is little doubt Hermione Granger is already quite conscious of her responsibility to bear the children who will inherit her husband's throne. While the House of Malfoy has produced a single son for the last four generations, there are already those who speculate that perhaps Hermione and Prince Draco, the first marriage made for love in nearly a century, may ultimately opt for a larger family.

Hermione is reticent to speak of motherhood, instead focusing her attention on advancements in science, art, and education, but Prince Draco is known to be exceptionally fond of his godchild, having spoken with great affection (and enthusiasm!) for the little one he calls 'Jamie' in various private interviews. It seems rather safe to presume we may soon see a nursery full of princes and princesses, if His Highness' doting nature is any indication of his willingness to start a family.

That any of us have even touched this book is preposterous, though I suppose there's something of a morbid curiosity in seeing how we've all been recast in Rita Skeeter's diabolical narrative. It was a marvelously clever thing Hermione did, in the end, requesting that Rita write the official account of her relationship with Draco; surely, had Rita been given anything less than the noose of Palace approval, she would have told a very different tale indeed. Her account of my marriage, for example, was certainly no sentimental ode to lovestruck coupling—though, I suppose that's what I get for largely foregoing romance.

Or, rather, for delaying romance, I should say, as 'foregone' is perhaps too harsh a sentiment.

20 December, 2014
London, England

"Are we done, then?" Neville said, glancing awkwardly up at Pansy.

The question had been preceded by about five minutes of silence that were neither particularly comfortable nor uncomfortable. They'd had several meetings of a comparable variety that ended similarly, though with some degree of variation. Is that all, Will I see you next week then, Is it just the cake tasting tomorrow, etc etc.

"Yes," Pansy said, taking a sip of her tea and doing everything she could not to retch it back up. "Unless you have any remaining questions," she permitted, though she fervently hoped he did not. Much as she had hoped, in theory, to be rendered emotionless by Neville's presence, she seemed to be suffering quite a lot of feelings in reality, none of them particularly good.

There had always been little disconnects like that for Pansy between her feelings and her thoughts, particularly where it came to her logical mind, which was in constant battle with a demon who seemed to live inside her head. At the moment, the demon was quietly suggesting to Pansy that perhaps she should simply reach across the table and shove Neville's head into his empty bowl of soup. It would flash behind her eyes for a moment, bright and intoxicating, and then she would swiftly exhale, bite her nails into her palm, and recall that this, the arrangement between them, was practical.

Necessary, even.

And then she would smile, like now, and Neville would give her a look that said how plainly he feared her, and she would tell herself that made her happy, or at least satisfied. She would not think about the last time Neville said he loved her, or the fact that it had been a lie. Such thoughts tended to upset the baby, or perhaps her digestion. It was beginning to be quite difficult to determine which sensation was which.

"I trust you with any and all cummerbund choices," said Neville, and in reply, Pansy thoughtfully did not remark how little she trusted him with anything, as she assumed by now he was probably already aware. She didn't make a habit of wasting her breath, or at the very least, tried not to.

She rested a hand on her stomach, imploring herself to remain calm. The many evenings of frantic research about her condition had informed Pansy quite conclusively that she was growing a brain at the moment—would soon be growing ears, hands, tiny fingers with tinier fingernails—and therefore, as the person responsible for such development, she should be quite careful with her body's reactions to things. Stress, for example. Sadness, too. Depression in the mother could irreparably harm the child, which she'd read about the previous night until she'd forced herself to sleep. The baby needed sleep. It needed food, comfort, warmth.

She painted on a smile, taking another sip of her tea.

"Wonderful," she said. "I'm meeting with your grandmother tomorrow to go over any final details, but aside from that—"

"I'll see you next week?" Neville supplied for her, and she nodded.

"I'll be the one wearing white," Pansy said, which was meant to be a joke, though it had the unintended effect of prompting them both to matching grimaces. There, she thought, catching the reflective wavering of his expression. See? We have something in common, don't we?

Perhaps the most important thing, in fact, in that they were very soon to share the same unsavory fate.

"Do you need a ride home," Neville began tentatively, "or—?"

"No, thank you," Pansy said, and Neville nodded, rising to his feet.

"Well, bye then," he murmured, and leaned forward hesitantly. Pansy forced herself rigidly still as his lips brushed her cheek, though the demon in her head suggested that shoving him away (and into the frying pan—or was it the fire?) would be preferable.

He glanced down at her stomach, and then, Pansy thought, perhaps something had stirred in him. The idea of being a father was very enticing to Neville, as she already knew. There had once been a time she'd looked fondly at Neville and thought how wonderful it might be to have several smaller versions of him. Perhaps a girl with her father's soft-spokenness, or a boy with his height and his kindness. It seemed unlikely Pansy would have any such things now, seeing as the child she'd actually been given would have none of those qualities even remotely. Instead, the baby whose brain she was currently growing would likely have black hair, messily unkempt, and a ruthless sense of irresponsibility. This baby, unlike the imaginary children she would never have with Neville, would have its mother's weakness and its father's proclivity for vice, which was… perhaps less than ideal.

Still, maybe it would also have an infectious smile; the specific sort of smile that made others wish to smile in reply. Perhaps with an incurable taste for adventure—which would mean at least one broken piece of priceless furniture—but then, it might also be a child who learned to mend and fix. It would have atrocious eyesight, without question, but maybe it would see the world as something to be conquered, and if she did nothing to screw it up now, then it might grow to hold the world in the palms of its hands, which Pansy herself would make for it.

She would do everything in her power to make everything as perfect as she could, as she had always done. Trust me, she thought to the baby, I will take care of you, and if I can promise you one thing, it is that you will never have a problem your mother cannot solve.

Neville must have noticed her spirits lifting, because he softened a bit, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Are you well?" he asked her quietly, and while she knew he meant something other than what he asked, she nodded stiffly.

"I'm fine," she said, though she must have done it poorly. Neville slipped his hand from his shoulder, letting it find a less icy place near his side, and withdrew a step.

"Next week, then," he said, awkward again, and Pansy nodded.

"Next week," she agreed, rising to her feet. Neville, gentleman that he was, helped her put on her coat, then awaited instructions. He was like that, always wanting to be told what to do next, or so she'd thought—though really, by now she no longer believed her understanding of him was particularly real. That had been the primary insult of the lying, after all; the deception of what he really was. It was less the fact that Neville had been sleeping with Blaise—Pansy knew better than anyone sex could so easily be nothing—but that he had been something Blaise could fall in love with, or at the very least, find attraction to. It must have meant that Neville himself was a lie.

They parted as he put her in her private car and turned away, heading somewhere she didn't know. Perhaps he was going home to Blaise. They were free (free enough, anyway) to be together now, and so perhaps they spent each evening in each other's arms, drinking Blaise's favorite wine and talking about nothing, or about everything. Blaise was enamored with his little joint meditations, ponderings he called exercises of thought; which, like all his games, could only be played with others. What about this thing, or perhaps this thing, Pansy what do you suppose this means?

Blaise, like Pansy, hated being alone. He feared it more than anything.

She could feel herself growing agitated at the reminder and soothed herself with a hand on her belly, closing her eyes as the car pulled into the street. She would have to name the baby after his father, most likely. Neville Longbottom II. Perhaps she could name him after Draco, though there were no appropriate nicknames to distinguish between them, so maybe not.

You could name the baby Henry, the demon suggested nastily, popping up inside her head.

Do me a favor and call me Henry while I fuck you.

Pansy tightened her legs, her pulse quickening slightly. This was hormonal, as she already knew. She'd always been very conscious of her body, which was how she'd known so quickly she was pregnant. Little things had changed; internally, of course, and then with her hair, her skin, her sense of the world around her. It was as if something inside her had woken up, and while it came with more vomiting than she cared to admit, she also felt in tune with something different, some energy outside herself.

So, given that, she understood her sexual impulses were more difficult to suppress lately than usual, and attributed it to the change of pregnancy. She glanced down at the baby and admonished it silently, then changed her mind. You do whatever you want, she said to it, I don't mind.

The car pulled up to her family's London townhouse and after gracefully disembarking, legs held perfectly together, Pansy strode in through the front doors, paused by a little sound of throat-clearing from her left.

She stopped short, going slightly rigid, then pivoted slowly.

"Mother," she acknowledged, and Lady Dahlia Parkinson pursed her lips.

"You're late," observed Dahlia.

"Yes. I'm afraid it took longer than expected to get a table."

"Did you give them Neville's name?"

"No. I made the reservation myself."

"Well, there you go, then," Dahlia said archly.

Pansy fought a grimace. "Is that all, Mother?"

By the looks of it, evidently not. Dahlia slid a glance over Pansy, expression souring further the longer she looked. "That dress is from at least four seasons ago," she noted. "The empire waist has thankfully come and gone, don't you think?"

"You told me yourself Chanel is never unfashionable," Pansy said.

"Good Chanel is never unfashionable," Dahlia corrected, "but even Karl makes mistakes." She paused for a moment, and then added, "You've put on weight."

Pansy glanced down, adjusting her coat. "I'm sure it's just the dress, Mother."

"No, dear," Dahlia murmured, "it isn't."

Pansy said nothing.

"The wedding is quite rushed," Dahlia noted, adding slyly, "More so than your friend Daphne's."

Silence.

"Daphne's such a pretty girl," Dahlia mused to herself. "Such a lovely figure, don't you think?"

Pansy shifted in place. "Mother, I—"

"Even that American has a memorable face. Disastrous, really, to think how she's had the gall to position herself, but I suppose that's rather remarkable, isn't it? In a slightly vulgar way, I suppose, for however long it lasts. Though," she added with a scoff, "if those partying photographs are any indication of what, exactly, Draco sees in her, then I suppose it's really no surprise—"

"Mother," Pansy said. "You may recall she's my friend."

"Yes, yes, you've mentioned," Dahlia said, dismissing the comment and adding tangentially, "Really, it's such a pity you never turned Draco's head. Though, I suppose that's my own fault. You were too familiar with him, always so eager to be his friend." She gave a small tsk of displeasure, adding distastefully, "A man never looks twice at a girl he's known since childhood."

"I'm marrying Neville," Pansy reminded her mother, who sighed.

"Yes, thankfully," Dahlia said, "though something's rather off about him, isn't it? He'll lose his hair early in life, I suspect. Best to get him on some sort of preventative supplement now," she advised, "or support a fondness for hats."

She pondered her glass of sherry, then gave Pansy another sweeping glance.

"Well done," Dahlia mused softly, and Pansy blinked.

"Well done what, Mother?"

Dahlia gave Pansy a look of detest for her tragic insipidity, rising to her feet.

"You've eaten very little," she observed, taking a few steps towards Pansy. "You've been unusually ill, and even you're not so ludicrously tasteless to consider this dress remotely flattering. Besides, having your wedding so soon after your friend's, it's unlike you." She slid the hair forward from behind Pansy's ear, adjusting it to fall more pleasingly around her face. "I know my daughter's ego well enough to know you'd never submit to such a brief engagement if it were not entirely necessary."

Pansy, who had been scolded from birth for her every nervous tick, was careful not to employ any in response. "I told you," she said quietly, "Lady Longbottom requested that we have the wedding sooner. Neville's father isn't well, and she hopes t-"

"It was really quite brilliant, what you did," Dahlia interrupted, removing a speck of dust from the shoulder of Pansy's dress and depositing it into the air. "You saw you were losing his attention, didn't you? I had questions, really, what with all the alleged tennis he so clearly wasn't playing," she said, chuckling to herself before sobering to glance again at Pansy. "Was it another woman, then?" she asked, and Pansy's mouth tightened.

"No," she said, and again, Dahlia laughed.

"Very well, don't tell me. I'm relieved, really," she sighed. "I was so worried you couldn't see it."

Pansy bristled. "See what, exactly?"

(The demon was feeling sadistic, it seemed.)

"That you'd lost his interest," Dahlia replied with clever certainty, shaking her head before adding, "Which, of course, you were always going to do eventually, but with such a long engagement I was beginning to grow concerned. The pregnancy was very clever," she admitted thoughtfully, "though, you'll need to do a better job of hiding it. If I can tell, then certainly so can everyone else," she warned, and Pansy fought the urge to flinch.

Dahlia smoothed Pansy's hair, half-smiling, and remarked, "I always suspected you lacked a bit of killer instinct, my darling. I never thought you had what it took, and for once, I'm pleased to see I was wrong."

Punch her, whispered the demon, or comment on her hairline. Either or.

But Pansy, who knew better than to listen, merely took a step back, removing herself from her mother's reach.

"I wasn't trying to trap him," she said, but Dahlia waved a hand, disinterested.

"Save your energy," Dahlia advised. "There will be others to convince. Your father, for instance, not to mention Augusta. She's very old-fashioned, you know," Dahlia sniffed, "despite what she claims. She'll want to think you pure, the old bat—so don't spoil it."

She turned her attention to Pansy's stomach, giving it a doubtful glance.

"You'll have to go away with Neville after the wedding," Dahlia suggested, still scheming to herself. "He has a house in the country, doesn't he?" she asked, and when Pansy nodded grimly, she declared, "Good. Stay there until the baby's born. People will talk, of course, but your reputation will be largely intact. When you return, you can focus on your patronage for—oh, I don't know. Impoverished children, perhaps," she said with a little shrug, "and people will forget any of this ever happened, as they do. Or perhaps simply have another very quickly and people will believe Neville exceptionally virile, which—Pansy. Pansy, are you listening?"

The idea of sleeping with Neville, once fine enough, was now repulsive to the point of upsetting even the baby. Pansy, feeling a series of newly unpromising symptoms, had clapped a hand over her mouth, hurrying to the stairs as her mother let out a chuckle that grew to a full, mocking laugh.

Please be a boy, Pansy thought desperately to the baby. I'll grow the dick myself, she told it firmly, just to see to it you'll have some privilege I haven't.

Then she flung herself into the bathroom, her knees hitting the priceless Italian marble of her parents' expensive floors, just in time for her stomach to turn.

At night, Pansy dreamed about Harry.

During the day, she thought of the former versions of him, imprints from her memory, which came to her mostly out of curiosity. She would rest her hand on her stomach and think of him at the various ages the baby would one day be—the scrawny orphan he'd been, then the lanky teenager in glasses, then the young man who'd always been the sort capable of convincing other people they needed his approval. When they'd been children, Pansy would always secretly hope Harry would be the one to invite her to play. Draco always did, but he and Theo spoke a language she didn't understand, and therefore the games weren't always fun (the two of them were either always on a team or they were cheating, she was sure, though she could never quite figure out how). But it was Harry who would tease her about how clean and pressed her dress was, who'd push her and nudge her and pull her around and dare her to do this or do that, and wasn't she so scared of everything? Get away from me, she'd say, and Harry would grin his sloppy grin that matched his untucked shirt and his overgrown hair and then he would oblige her, running off with Draco and leaving her to wish she'd said nothing at all.

Pansy had seen Harry's attention cut away from hers too many times to know she could never keep it. They were friends, and it was best that way, because there were no other women in existence as close to Harry as Pansy had always been. Having him and losing him would be a far worse fate than having nothing, and trapping him, unlike trapping Neville, wasn't an option. Neville enjoyed being trapped, even if he'd never admit it. He liked the security of having restraints, but being forced into anything would lead to Harry's eternal resentment.

This way, Harry would thank her, Pansy was sure. She would say I solved it on my own, and he would say you always do, Pans, you always know what to do, you always clean up my messes, and then maybe he'd kiss her forehead or she'd kiss his cheek and they'd go on as if nothing had happened—or so she hoped.

But at night, it was a different story.

At night, it was grown-up Harry, the Harry who'd had her on his kitchen table, who'd been wearing contact lenses instead of the glasses that had so long been a distraction from his wide green eyes. It was Harry's lips next to her ear, saying don't be afraid, Pansy, play a game with me, it'll be fun—Pans, you're a queen, he'd say in her dreams, and yes, sex with Neville was fun, just as it had been fun with everyone who'd come before him, but sex with Harry was incendiary. From a purely mechanical perspective, she could tell he'd had practice. Sex was a craft, and he'd clearly done the work on pacing, on responsiveness; on the subtle details of balancing aggression with intimacy, blending them to a brilliant jewel tone of quintessential satisfaction.

What people didn't always realize about Harry—because he was chronically procrastinating, and therefore a terrible student—was that he could be spectacularly single-minded when it came to something he wanted. He had a rare sense of focus, razor-sharp, when there was something he needed; it was almost a compulsion. He wanted answers, usually. He hated an unanswered question, and it nagged at him like an itch. She could see on his face he'd thought to himself I need to know how she works, and then he'd put himself to task, and if he solved one thing then he'd inevitably have to solve another. She likes my tongue here, how will she like my fingers? How will she have me when I pull her to my chest, where will I kiss her when I take her on her back?

Pansy, on the other hand, was meticulous, detail-oriented, which didn't always work for sex, but certainly did when it was sex with Harry. Her compulsion to get things right met his obsession with having answers in a way that meant nothing, absolutely nothing, was ever lazy. It meant every sensation was felt, and fully. It meant that when he slid his fingers through her hair and she pressed her lips to his intake of breath, neither motion was unintentional.

There were no accidents between them—except for one. For once, Pansy had let go just as Harry had asked, and look what had happened. It was probably no coincidence that the one time in her life she'd forgotten about her birth control had been the same singular instance she'd slept with Harry, who was about as wrong for her as any man (or woman, for that matter) could possibly be. She remembered coming home to the two pills she'd missed and thinking: It's going to happen, it has to, because things like this do not simply align to less than cataclysmic consequences.

It was either a miracle or a catastrophe, this baby.

But a true instance of either was so rare that Pansy couldn't help feeling it didn't matter which it was.

Usually, when she woke from dreams of Harry she thought of Blaise, who had been appearing in her thoughts more than she cared to acknowledge. Anger was a difficult emotion to hold, it seemed, and hatred too heavy to carry around. She wished her episodes of spite had more longevity, but between sharp instances of loathing she missed Blaise in little pieces she couldn't avoid. She missed his meandering thoughts, his constant wondering. She missed his laughter, his absurdity, the way she could never predict him, however much she tried. Neville was the proof, wasn't he? Blaise surprised her, always. He made her question everything, always. That the only man whose love she'd never doubted had betrayed her with the man whose love had always meant nothing was so consummately Blaise that Pansy wondered how she hadn't seen it coming.

She missed him, badly, and when she woke from her dreams of Harry to find a little pulse of yearning between her legs, she sometimes slid her fingers down and thought of Blaise. His love for her had been so constant, so maniacal, so beautifully undeserved. She didn't know which she craved more, that sense of undying loyalty or an actual fucking cock inside her. It was beginning to blur in her mind, the wanting, which she guessed was another symptom of growing a baby. Most of her thoughts, she suspected, were redirected to whatever it took to keep the little thing warm.

"Sorry," she whispered to it. She didn't really think of it as a real thing yet, though she did think of it constantly. She understood that it didn't have thoughts or feelings yet because she was still making the thing that would eventually provide them, but still.

She wanted it to know that she cared, even if doing so looked very convincingly like she didn't.

"So," Hermione said with Hermione's usual enthusiasm, "how was lunch with Augusta?"

UTTER FUCKING RUBBISH, the demon replied.

"Hermione, please," Pansy sighed, "I'm going to need you to immediately desist."

"Desist what?" she asked.

"Everything," replied Pansy, and Draco chuckled.

"Pans," he murmured, warning her to good behavior, and she pursed her lips, suggesting with a glance that perhaps, given everything, he should take his niceties and put them entirely elsewhere.

Following news of Prince Lucius' ill health, Draco had returned to London to continue his father's public appearances. The blow to his reputation that had come from his frolicking around with Hermione and the disaster twins had been addressed with Draco's usual diplomatic charm, but it was obvious Abraxas had put him on something of an apology tour, placing him in front of every conceivable media mouthpiece until they had no choice but to grudgingly consider his good deeds.

Pansy had (of course) scolded all involved parties for their carelessness, reminding them what happened when they no longer took into consideration the fact that actions had consequences. They, sheepishly, had said nothing for nearly five entire minutes—until, of course, Hermione had interrupted in favor of turning their attention to Pansy's personal life.

"Pans, I'm just asking—"

"It was fine," Pansy cut in, pursing her lips. "I don't always enjoy Augusta's taste, but as always, I'd be foolish to refuse it. Now," she sniffed, clearing her throat and rising to her feet, "if you'll excuse me, I suspect you have things you wish to say to me, which unfortunately I have no plans to entertain."

"But Pansy, I just—"

"Are the two of you back together or not?" Pansy asked neutrally, leveraging a pointed glance between Draco and Hermione until the latter's cheeks flushed pink. "Because Rita Skeeter seems to suggest that you are, whilst the two of you seem to be enraptured with an irritating little game that you aren't."

"We're not," Hermione said firmly, giving Draco, who was looking innocently down at his glass, an admonishing glare. "Well, I mean, we're… Well, we're, um—"

"Back together," Draco confirmed, and then qualified it with, "Sort of."

"Sort of?" echoed Pansy, who already knew as much. She looked over at Theo, who was shaking slightly with silent laughter, and returned her attention to Hermione, arching a brow.

"We're not," said Hermione, conclusively. "Together, I mean. Not really."

"Though, of course, they are," corrected Daphne.

"Well, yes," Hermione said, cheeks now furiously crimson, "but also, we're really rather not."

"We will be," Draco suggested, and Hermione nodded.

"Yes. I mean—maybe. But not necessarily," Hermione hurried to amend. "There is, after all, a reason I declined to spend Christmas with your family—"

"You're still in London, though, aren't you?"

"Yes, but that's unrelated. We discussed this, Daph, it's not as if I stayed for Draco—"

"Mm, of course not."

"—I simply stayed, which isn't at all the same thing—"

"No, of course not. Though it is, isn't it? Sort of," mused Draco, and Pansy, having successfully distracted them, slipped out of the room, making her way to the kitchen to fetch herself something she hoped (though the baby vehemently disagreed) would be moderately nutritional.

"They're hopeless," came a voice behind her as she was peering sullenly at a box of Weetabix, turning to find Theo leaning against the doorframe. "Though, so are our cupboards."

"Well, I hardly expected anything else," Pansy remarked, giving him a disapproving glance. "That the two of you are somehow continuing to survive into adulthood remains an unsolvable mystery."

"Mm," Theo said with a hint of suggestive amusement, "quite."

Pansy shot him a warning glare over her shoulder, then proceeded to seek out the Nutella she was confident Daphne would have hidden somewhere in the backs of her cupboards. "Is there something you want, Theodore?"

"Oh, only barely. I do seem to recall a certain friend who came to my aid when I was somewhat in need of some violent nudging," he mused, traipsing innocently towards her, "and I merely wondered if, perhaps, I might return the favor."

"The difference," Pansy reminded him irritably, "is that you, Theodore, are a mess, whereas I am clearly not."

"Well, indubitably." Theo launched himself onto the counter, letting his interminably long legs swing in the process. "Looking for something?"

"An escape hatch," Pansy said, locating peanut butter and considering it for a moment before determining it unsatisfactory. "Though, any hasty exit would suit me fine."

"The good stuff is in the spice cupboard," Theo advised.

Pansy gave him a narrowed look of suspicion, though she obliged, proceeding to shift one cupboard over. Behind the rack of spices (clearly purchased all at once, with only one or two showing any sign of being opened) was a bag of Haribo sour bears, a handful of Cadbury bars, something that appeared to be an enormous chocolate frog, and, much to the relief of Pansy's less responsible nature, a half-empty jar of Nutella.

"I can't eat this," she said over her shoulder, which was mostly a reminder to herself, and also to her demon. And the baby.

"Sure you can," Theo said.

"No, I can't. The baby needs vitamins."

"Hmm." Theo peered around his kitchen, frowning in thought, and then leapt off the counter, rummaging around in something Pansy hadn't realized was a fruit bowl until he'd removed the bundle of Daphne's scarves that had been sitting in it. "Well," he said, withdrawing an apple and hunting around for a knife, "as we were saying—"

"You don't have to slice it for me, Theodore, I'm perfectly capable of—"

"—you're clearly in need of guidance," Theo continued, surprising Pansy by managing not to cut off his own thumb, "and while I'm not the ideal person for it—"

"Or even an adequate person for it," she grumbled.

"—surely something about this feels wrong to you," Theo finished, beckoning for the jar in her hand. "The difference between us," he informed her, unscrewing the lid from the jar and slathering an apple slice in chocolate, "is that where I was once hesitant to make a choice, you are intent on choosing the thing you know is wrong." He held the apple slice out to her, tempting her with it. "Why do you think that is?"

She reached for the apple, scowling as Theo retracted a step. "Theodore—"

"Pansy," he said, arching a brow. "Why do you insist on the worst possible version of your life?"

"You don't know that. Have you considered the maths?" To his shrug, she informed him, "Surely if you had, it tells you that winding up penniless and cast out by my family is hardly the better situation."

"If they disinherit you, they have no heirs," Theo reminded her.

"They'd rather have none than me, believe me," Pansy muttered, and Theo sighed, holding the apple out for her.

"Take it," he said.

She stiffened. "I don't need any favors."

"It's not a favor. Open your mouth."

"Close yours," she growled, and Theo grinned.

"You're hungry, Pansy, and you need help. Separate issues, though not unrelated," he reminded her, waving the apple in front of her face until she looked away, annoyed. "You know, I have to tell you," Theo said, taking a step towards her, "I find it very interesting you'd rather marry Neville than whoever the father actually is."

Pansy, who was tired of being hungry in addition to immensely bothered, snatched the apple from his hand, taking a bite of it and opting not to answer.

"The reason I say that," Theo said as if she'd asked, "is, of course, because it doesn't exactly seem like you're afraid the father won't help you. I think," he said, watching her closely for a response, "you're afraid that he will."

Pansy said nothing, her expression still carefully schooled. Theo, meanwhile, turned back to the apples, picking up another slice, and dipped it into the Nutella a second time.

"I think you care about the father," Theo summarized neatly, holding the apple out to her. "Contrary to what you claim."

Pansy scowled, but accepted it. "I told you. I don't want him to know."

"Yes, clearly," Theo scoffed, continuing to scrape apples against the jar on her behalf, "but that's precisely what makes me so sure it's someone who matters. After all, Neville's quite safe, isn't he?"

"You think the man who cheated on me," Pansy echoed doubtfully, "is safe?"

"Yes, very safe," Theo confirmed, handing her the next apple slice. "Isn't he? He did the worst thing to you he could have done and you're still marrying him, which indicates to me that he didn't actually hurt you very much. Not as much as Blaise, anyway—"

"Don't talk about Blaise," Pansy warned, and Theo gave her a disarmingly Theo look of conspiracy.

"The point is," Theo continued, "whoever the father is, he clearly matters more to you than you're letting on."

He slid a sidelong glance at her, which she made a point to avoid.

"Pans, if you're afraid of telling him—"

"I'm not afraid of telling him," Pansy corrected impatiently, beckoning for another apple slice and snatching the jar from Theo's hand. "I'm not afraid, I'm just—" She broke off, glaring at him, and dug the apple into the Nutella. "I don't want to be tied to him for the rest of my life," she said in a low voice, and Theo frowned.

"You don't mean that," he said.

"Of course I do, Theodore, I don't go around saying things I don't m-"

"No, I meant—that isn't exactly what you're trying to say," Theo interrupted. "You're not afraid of being tied to him. You're afraid of him feeling tied to you," he noted, and then leaned against the counter, scrutinizing her. "Pans."

She glanced down at her fingers, noting chocolate on the pads of them. "What?"

"Lick it," said Theo, and she looked up, scowling.

"What?"

"Lick it," he advised, pointing to the Nutella, "and you do realize you're really rather loved, don't you?"

"Theodore, that's disgusting."

"Well, be that as it may, it's true. We care about you, Pans."

"I meant licking my fingers, but that doesn't help."

"Please. As if you don't want to."

"What, be cared about? I'm not a masochist."

"Actually, that's exactly what you are," Theo corrected her, "so just lick the chocolate, would you? You're only ridding yourself of a chance to be happy."

"What, because I won't stoop to grooming myself like a cat?"

"No, because you're planning a life with someone you will never love. And for the record," he drawled irreverently, "a cat is precisely what you are."

"Theodore—"

"You are not your mother," Theo said, and Pansy stiffened, still staring at her hand. "And for the record, I find it immensely silly that I have to keep reminding you. Don't you realize I have other things to do with my time? I have a very demanding schedule," he airily remarked, "which largely begins and ends with servicing my wife at all hours, but still—"

"I'm making its brain," Pansy said.

Theo blinked, interrupting his maniacal rant. "What?"

"I'm making its brain," Pansy said, and then clarified, "The baby's. I'm responsible for giving it a brain, and its heart, and then, someday, I'll be responsible for putting things in both of them. I will be the one to teach it right from wrong. I will be the one to read to it, to show things to it, to encourage it to dream or to try or to learn." She glanced up at him, frowning. "Do you ever think about how easy it is to ruin a child?"

"I do, actually," Theo confirmed. "All the time. But then I remember there's you," he assured her, sliding his finger along the lid of the Nutella jar, "who managed somehow not to be ruined by your parents—only very slightly damaged," he amended, meeting her glare with a wink. "And there's Draco, of course, who's mostly quite inoffensive as a person, despite being the spawn of blond satan," he said in an episode of gratuitous praise, glancing down at the chocolate on his finger, "and Harry has no parents, so—"

He placed his finger in his mouth, sucking it lightly, and shrugged.

"Maybe there's a bit more to it," he suggested, and Pansy made a face. "What? Go on, do it," he said again, and she sighed, glancing down at the smeared bit of cocoa and hazelnut on her finger.

"The baby wants it," Theo reminded her neutrally, and Pansy grimaced.

"I'm not naming the baby after you," she told him.

He shrugged. "Your loss."

She brought the edge of her knuckle to her mouth, making a point to kick him in the shin in the same moment his grin broadened.

"Ouch, Pans—"

"Don't tell anyone," she told him. "Seriously. Don't."

He straightened with a grimace, grabbing the jar back from her, and shook his head, digging two fingers in and smearing them over her face.

"And to think," he sighed as she let out a yelp, "I shared my wife's Nutella with you."

She scowled at him, visciously, and in apology, he held out the jar.

"Talk to him," he advised, and Pansy sighed.

"You've always been my least favorite," she grumbled, though she conceded to accept both the jar and the subsequently gifted spoon, leaning against the counter and licking chocolate from her fingertips as Theo turned to slice another apple.

Pansy supposed she shouldn't have been surprised to find her sitting room occupied upon returning home. She'd hoped for a bath, and maybe a quiet evening to read, but instead discovered something just shy of an ambush.

"Theodore sent you, didn't he," she commented drily, because there was nothing she hated more than being surprised. "Truly, he's so committed to lacking any form of subtlety I can't decide whether to congratulate him or kill him."

In answer, Blaise rose to his feet, buttoning his jacket.

"Does that mean you're happy to see me, then?" he asked.

Pansy tapped her foot for a moment, considering it. On the one hand, she could forgive him.

But on the other, he'd lied to her. Repeatedly. For over a year.

Some decisions really only require one hand.

"Get out," she said.

Blaise tilted his head, engaging his most infuriating habit of trying to read her intent rather than listening to her words.

Then, outrageously, he said, "Marry me."

Damn it, Pansy thought, quietly enraged. He must have known he was still the only person who could ever catch her off guard long enough to make his point.

"You've lost your mind," she said.

"Not quite. Nearly, but not quite."

"Get out."

"You haven't heard my proposition yet."

"I don't have to. I'm already engaged," she reminded him, "and also, I despise you."

His lips quirked slightly, and then he shook his head.

"Well," Blaise murmured, "as I've mentioned, hate isn't the opposite of love. I believe love's true opposite can be easily defined by your impending marriage, in fact."

Briefly, the demon in Pansy's head suggested a knife could be readily found somewhere in the vicinity, and that it would make a pretty home out of the side of Blaise's slender neck.

"Indifference," Blaise reminded her, "in case you've forgotten."

"Get out," she said, and he shook his head, bold now in his mutiny.

"Choose me," he repeated.

"Why would I ever do that?"

"Because you don't love Neville."

"I don't love you, either."

"Oh, you love me, Pansy, far more than either of us understand. Don't you?"

"Not anymore." She waited, sharpening her rage for a moment, and delivered her fury drily, succinctly. "You lied to me."

Blaise hesitated, then nodded.

"Yes."

"For over a year, Blaise, you lied to me."

"Yes."

"And you let Neville lie to me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I fell in love with him," Blaise said, and fell silent.

Pansy, meanwhile, felt an ache somewhere near her chest. She placed her hand on her stomach, remembering the baby's brain, and willed herself not to release any too-terrible hormones.

"You broke my heart," she informed him, and to his credit, Blaise looked sufficiently miserable. He looked, for another moment, uncertain, and then he took a step forward, and then another, until the two of them were face to face.

"I've hated every day of waking up to life without you," he said quietly. "I don't know what it will take to have you back, but I know you don't want to marry Neville, so I'm starting there."

He reached out, looking as if he would have taken her hand, and then stopped himself.

"I'll raise it, whoever's it is," he said, and she slid her arm protectively around her stomach. "It's yours, and that's enough for me. More than enough." He paused for a moment, collecting himself, and said, "I may not have Neville's name, but if it's money you're worried about, I have plenty. And I will love you," he promised her, dark eyes falling solemnly on hers, "better than Neville ever could. I knew what made you happy once, and Pansy, I could do it for a lifetime, happily, if you let me."

She'd never been a fan of pretty words. A consequence of growing up with people who meant nothing of what they said, and said nothing of what they meant.

"Why?" she demanded.

"Because, Pansy, I'm telling you, I—"

"No," she interrupted, folding her arms over her chest. "Why?" she repeated, more emphatically that time, and Blaise flinched, nodding as if he'd known she would ask, but had been dreading it.

"I wish I had a reason that felt… reasonable," he admitted, and she was relieved to see he looked flustered, which he almost never was. "The truth is, I really don't. I don't know why it was him, I don't know why I couldn't turn him away, I don't know why I couldn't simply deny it—"

She knew Blaise well; knew, specifically, that he would spin silver all night if she let him.

"Deny what?" she prompted, cutting him off.

He looked away. "You always do this," he said, and she opened her mouth to retort, but he shook his head. "I mean it in a good way." He slid a hand over the hair shorn close to his head, looking wistfully disappointed, or perhaps grudgingly relieved. "I have been a falsity for so much of my life I forget, from time to time, that perhaps some people expect more out of me. That you," he clarified, "expect more from me."

Pansy arched a brow, expectant, and Blaise grimaced.

"I know you won't understand it," he said. "I know it won't be something that… computes for you, but—"

"What, you think I don't understand love?" she asked, suffering a sting at the accusation. "That because I choose tangible things, real things—just because I understand the way the world truly works, Blaise—I can't possibly grasp the sensation of loving someone. Is that it?"

He shook his head vigorously. "No, Pansy, I—"

"You think I'm just as cold as everyone else does—is that it, Blaise?" she demanded, frantic now with something she hadn't realized was fear until it produced a chill. "Everyone thinks I don't care," she snapped, feeling pressure in her throat and vehemently swallowing it down. "Look at Hermione—half the time she thinks I'm being cruel just because I'm trying to be honest, because I'm trying to tell her the things she needs to hear, but doesn't wish to. She thinks it means that I don't love her, that she doesn't matter to me, and I thought—" She broke off, swallowing again. "I thought you knew better, Blaise, I thought—"

"Pansy." He shook his head and pulled her tightly into his arms, and though she went rigid with dismay—remembering, after all, how many nights she'd thought of him, wondering what he'd been thinking and hating herself for it, for missing him, and for giving him the means to hurt her in the first place, which she'd been so careful to deny everyone else—she managed to slowly uncoil the tension in her limbs once she felt the rapid thudding of his heart, and the pressure of his throat that told her he was no less anguished than she was.

"I didn't mean that," he said in her ear, "but it's impossible not to fear you, at least a little bit, even when I love you."

She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his chest.

"He caught me, somehow, or caught onto me," Blaise said softly. "He saw through me, and at first I hated it, and hated him, but the clearer he saw me and wanted me anyway, the less I could stop myself from wanting him in return. You know my loathsome proclivity for truths," he murmured, leaning back to catch her eye, "and if that's what he loved me for, I don't know. I really don't. But I didn't know how to tell you, either, and I was too selfish and too afraid—"

"Afraid of what?"

Blaise winced.

"Afraid that if I stopped," he exhaled wearily, "I would never feel it again."

She wanted to say the words, Feel what?

But it seemed that somewhere, in little caverns of her chest where she had no wish to go, she already knew the answer.

She already understood that to feel something rapturous once was to wonder at constant intervals how fleeting it was, or how real it had ever been. It was to constantly question whether it was possible to feel it again, and there was a certain undeniable longing to do so. Because Pansy did understand love, didn't she? Understood, at least, that one of love's defining characteristics was the constant thumbing of its nose in the face of logic, toward rationality itself. Hadn't she always understood that Blaise Zabini, whatever he was, was rare? That he had made her, for all the times she'd been made to feel she was nothing, feel as if she, too, was something more than what she was?

And if Neville had done that for him, the demon in her mind whispered, then perhaps it wasn't all that surprising he'd given up everything to possess it.

"I didn't want to hurt you, Pansy," Blaise said, "and I know those must sound like empty words, but I really thought that—"

"Do you love him?"

Blaise blinked, looking down at her. "What?"

"Do you love him," Pansy repeated, and clarified, rather inanely, "Neville."

That, out of everything, seemed to be the topic Blaise was least comfortable discussing.

"I haven't seen him since Halloween, Pans. After everything, I couldn't… I just couldn't. And I promise, I swear to you, I'll never see him again, Pansy, never. Just let me do this for you—please," he said again, quietly anguished, "please, give me a chance t-"

"Do you love him?" Pansy asked, and then, coldly, "Don't make me ask you a fourth time, Blaise, or I'll be forced to remind you how much I detest being made to repeat myself."

Blaise hesitated again. She'd only seen him hesitate a handful of times, and most of them had been during this conversation. "Pansy, I—"

She gave him a hard look of impatience, and gradually, he withered.

"I'm so fucking in love with him I feel like it's rotting me from the inside out."

The statement dropped between them like a weight, at first, and then shifted somewhere before it reached them to float like a feather. In the span of an instant it went from heavy, burdensome truth to whispered confession, to the filigree of a secret shared between friends. How delicate it was, Pansy thought, and how weightless, by the end.

How terribly she had missed him, she thought, and reached up to touch the bone of his perfect cheek.

"I can't marry you," she said, and he blinked.

"Pansy, just give me a chance t-"

"I forgive you," she said, though she added firmly, "If you ever lie to me again—"

"Oh, I'll end myself before you have a chance to get to me," he assured her hastily, "I'm not stupid."

"Good," she sniffed, and pursed her lips, nudging him away. "Am I winning?"

"Yes," he said instantly. "You've always been winning. As it turns out," he sighed in false lamentation, "the keeper of the points is deeply, unquestionably biased."

"Be sure to take some points from Theo," Pansy said, "as I don't care for his little foray into mediation. It'll go entirely to his head."

"You keep saying Theo," Blaise noted with a frown, "but he never mentioned anything. It was Draco who told me about the, um. You know," he said, glancing down at her torso, and Pansy swatted at his shoulder. "Whatever little creature you seem to be growing in there."

"Well, be ready to commit treason, then, because we riot against the monarchy at dawn," Pansy said irritably, and then, noting that Blaise was still looking at her stomach, sighed loudly. "It's too small to do anything, Blaise, so please desist your incessant gawking. It's hardly bigger than a pea, and you're certainly not going to see it, however long you stare."

"Can I," Blaise began, and promptly made a face. "Can I touch it, or—?"

Cut off his hands, suggested Pansy's demon.

But then again, she thought with a sigh, it would be very nice to share it with someone.

"Yes, fine," she permitted, watching Blaise's eyes widen as he reached out, tentatively spreading his fingers across her stomach. "Happy now?"

"Yes, actually," he said, and while she once again wanted very much to feel nothing, she sensed a loathsome warmth rising from her chest into her cheeks at the look of uninterrupted bliss he wore on his idiot face. "I'm very happy, Pansy," Blaise said, and then looked up, meeting her eyes with a smile that made her feel quite alarmingly hollow (or perhaps rapidly overfull) for having been so long without. "Though, the fact remains that I would more than happily raise it with you, if you changed your mind."

"You would be a menace as a father," Pansy told him stiffly. "What child would possibly manage any discipline from you? Your impulse control is positively woeful."

"Ten points for diminishing my personal trauma," Blaise said.

Pansy slid her hand over his, letting her palm float over his knuckles.

"What will you do now?" he asked her quietly, and then added with a sigh, "Please don't say marry Neville, because I've played my last card with the marriage proposal. If that won't stop you, then I simply haven't the slightest idea how to recover from my crippling failure."

Pansy considered it for a moment, tapping her fingers on top of his, and then nudged his hand away.

"Get out," she said, and Blaise blinked.

"But I thought—"

"Go," she said again, and then, loftily, "Tell him I'll take care of it, like usual."

Blaise frowned, bewildered, and then slowly, his brows came unfurrowed. His eyes un-narrowed, his lips un-tightened, and every instance of tension in his shoulders came gradually undone, something dawning in each of his bones.

"Go," Pansy said again, and then, beatifically, Blaise smiled.

Then he kissed her forehead and pivoted away, clumsily—with the patience of a man who'd already waited a lifetime—and half-sprinted from the sitting room of her parents' empty townhouse, shouting his undying love for her as he went.

"Pansy," said Augusta, frowning at her entry. "It's quite late. I thought we were already clear on the floral arrangements?"

"We were," Pansy confirmed, "but it appears I will have to make one final change."

"Well, my dear, I realize you have a very… specific taste," Augusta qualified impatiently, "but as I mentioned, I simply didn't think your choices were appropriate for a December wedding. Given the expediency, it would be best if we simply didn't make any further changes, don't you think?"

Pansy took a deep breath, bit her nails into her palm, and exhaled.

"There's one change, actually. I will not be marrying your grandson," Pansy said, and Augusta stiffened, then frowned. She, after all, was as well-trained as Pansy, and would certainly rather die than betray any evidence of surprise. "The wedding is canceled. I have already taken the liberty of canceling the reservations made under your name, and provided both our families are willing to be discreet, I've drafted a joint press statement that I feel should be more than suff-"

"Have you lost your pretty little mind?" Augusta snapped, rising to her feet with a speed Pansy wouldn't have guessed within her capacity. "You will marry my grandson, you selfish girl, because you've made a promise—and perhaps that means nothing to you, but in this family, we keep our word."

Pansy's demon suggested silently that perhaps Augusta would like to hear the irony of that particular statement, but she reminded herself that in order for Blaise to have his happy ending, then Neville would have to have one, too.

"I understand your opposition," Pansy began, but was cut off again.

"Listen to me very carefully, Pansy, as I will only say this once," Augusta said, her fingers tight around her glass. "If you leave my grandson in disgrace, I will personally ruin you. I will see to it no young man of any caliber ever considers you. I will poison the well of every noble family in England—in the entire United Kingdom—before I let you profit from your schemes. You think I'd let you leave here having dirtied my Neville's good name? Over my dead body," she snapped, as Pansy struggled to remain expressionless. "I did everything I could to nurture you, to mentor you, because you were my grandson's choice. Because you were friends with Hermione Granger, that clever girl, who's worth ten of you," Augusta spat, "and because I hoped one day, with Neville's help, you might manage to become something more than a less-pretty duplicate of your snake of a mother—"

"I'm not my mother," Pansy said, struggling to remain calm, and Augusta scoffed.

"Please. You think I can't see what kind of women you are? You may have a name, you may have a fortune—you may have the breeding of someone worthy, and perhaps you bamboozled my grandson into thinking that meant you were worthy yourself—but you and your mother are both cold-hearted, manipulative, enamored with your own ambitions, and—"

"I was unfaithful," Pansy said, and for once, Augusta blinked.

"What?"

"I have a lover," Pansy repeated, shrugging. "If you require something with which to dirty my name, Lady Longbottom, then have it. I'm pregnant with another man's child," she informed her, and though she would not be able to acknowledge it for another several minutes, some piece of her was conscious of her reputation falling away like a weight. "And unless you wish me to make a cuckold of your grandson…"

She trailed off, expectant, and Augusta, who appeared crimson with rage, couldn't quite manage to speak.

"I thought not," Pansy murmured, turning away. "Best wishes to you, My Lady, and of course, should we ever meet again—"

"I will bloody ruin you," snarled Augusta, flinging it at Pansy's back, and Pansy turned slowly, catching her eye.

"Then I beg your pardon now," Pansy said simply, "because I doubt my destruction will bring you satisfaction."

She dropped into a perfect curtsy, lingering only as long as Augusta's rank was owed, and spared her one-time future matriarch-in-law a temperate nod of her head.

"Goodnight, Augusta," Pansy said, and if something else was said, she didn't hear it.

She headed through the door without a second glance, one hand on her stomach, and said to her baby: Be whatever you want, little love. I promise I will always defend you.

Pansy doubted her parents would do something as drastic as canceling her credit card (the shame of charges being declined in public would be enough for Dahlia to take to her bed for a week) so she checked herself into a suite at the Goring, finally opting to settle down for the bath she'd so long intended.

"I'm fine, Hermione," she must have said around eight hundred times. "Please stop calling."

Hermione, always incurably chatty, was infinitely worse on the phone. "Pans, you shouldn't be there alone, Daph and I can be right over if you need us t-"

"Hermione, please. The last thing I need is the brigade of photographers you'd bring with you," Pansy said irritably, "and besides, as I've already told Draco, I'm perfectly content to be alone. Not everyone has your desperate need for company."

"Pans," Hermione said with her usual mild hysteria, and Pansy sighed, dropping the phone from her ear as a knock arrived at the door. The sound of Hermione's voice continued from the phone's speaker at breakneck pace as Pansy rose heavily to her feet, hoping her room service request for Nutella had finally arrived.

"—Pans, are you listening—"

"Yes, yes," Pansy said into the phone. "Something about how I must be devastated and in need of tiresome affection, I heard you—"

She swung the door open, realizing she probably should have put on shoes, and perhaps also produced some money for gratuity. "Yes, hello, you can put it on the—"

She stopped.

"Pansy," said Harry, his mouth grim.

Pansy slowly raised the phone to her ear.

"I have to call you back," she said to Hermione.

"What? Pans, I'm just trying to tell you t-"

She hung up the phone and set it on the entry table, half-hiding behind the door.

"Hello, Henry," she said. "Did you need something?"

Harry shook his head, exasperated.

"Are you going to let me in, Pans, or will we have to discuss this from the corridor?" he asked, and she grimaced, reaching out to yank him inside the room and then resting her back against the door, wincing slightly as he turned to face her.

"What," Harry began, "the f-"

"I'm sorry," Pansy said instantly, and then blinked. "Wait. How much do you know?"

Harry gaped at her.

"I'm just checking," she sniffed. "I'm not stupid enough to confess to something I've not done, am I?"

He stared at her a bit longer.

And continued to stare.

And then, when Pansy had begun to squirm and he was still staring at her in silence, she finally flinched.

"Who told you?"

"Theo," he said, and Pansy made a mental note to murder him at her earliest convenience before Harry suddenly snapped, "You really weren't going to tell me yourself? Did you think I'd just come home and think to myself, 'Oh, what a coincidence,'" he postulated with traces of mockery, "'she happens to be pregnant, I wonder whose it could possibly be, if only I grasped basic arithmetic—'"

"You're cross with me," Pansy observed, lifting her chin, "but I hardly think—"

"Oh, don't even try it, Pans," Harry growled, raking a hand through his untamed hair. "Even you have to know this was shitty, and now you're going to go ahead and marry Neville—"

"No, I'm not," Pansy said staunchly. "I'm in a hotel, aren't I? And you managed to find me, didn't you, so if you're not going to bother being fully apprised, then I really don't think—"

"Oh really, Pansy, I'm not fully apprised? Shocking," Harry cut in brusquely, and then immediately took a step back, catching the flaring of his temper and beginning to pace the living room of her suite in agitation.

"Listen, Pans," he said after a minute, speaking as much to her as to himself, "I don't particularly know what to think right now, I hardly know what to feel—"

"You don't have to do anything," Pansy said quickly, prompting him to freeze in place. "I promise, Harry, I wouldn't put that on you, really. It was my mistake, and I'll fix it, I swear—"

She broke off, noting the look that came over his face.

"Are you," she began, and stopped, clearing her throat. "Have I said something wrong, or—?"

To her surprise, Harry sank heavily into the sofa behind him, staring at some fixed point in space and dragging his hands to his unshaven cheeks.

"You really think," he began, and stopped.

She blinked, waiting, but he continued staring into nothing.

"Harry," she ventured, and his attention shot to hers.

"You honestly think I want an out?" he said, and though he'd rasped it, said it softly, she felt it like a full-bodied strike to her constitution. "You didn't think for even one moment that maybe I wanted to know because I want it?"

"Want what?" she asked numbly, and his eyes widened.

"You're joking," he said, his voice a listless scratch against his throat.

"No, Harry, I'm not, I just—"

"The baby, Pansy," he said emphatically, still staring at her. "The baby, you think I don't want it?"

She slid her shoulders back, compelling her problematic hormones not to interfere.

"Harry, I simply thought—"

"Is it because you think I'm irresponsible, is that it? That I can't handle a baby because I'm not capable of being an adult?"

"No, Harry, listen—"

"I thought you knew me better than that," he accused her, launching to his feet again. "All the times I've been there for you, and you still don't trust me? Do you honestly think I'm whatever Rita Skeeter thinks I am? Because Pansy," he said, looking unforgivably hurt, "if that's what you really believe—"

"No, no, Harry, please—"

"—I've clearly done you a disservice, haven't I? And it's no surprise, but if you were going to keep this from me because I convinced you I couldn't handle it, please, I at least deserve a chance to prove you wrong—"

"This isn't about what you deserve!"

"—or at least the chance to try, don't you think? You can't act like this is all your doing, Pansy, because it isn't, it's half mine, responsibilities included, and—"

"HENRY," Pansy snapped, and Harry fell to a rigid halt, suspended mid-rant.

"What?" he croaked, and she dug her fingers into her palms, flinching apprehensively at the prospect of telling him the truth.

"It's not that I didn't think you could do it," she said.

"Then what—"

"I didn't want you to have to do it."

He looked at her in confusion, and she sighed heavily, finally leaving her post at the door and approaching him in the living room.

"I didn't want to be the thing that tied you down," she explained, and when he opened his mouth, she cut him off with a shake of her head. "I don't want to be your obligation, Harry. I didn't want to be a responsibility, and certainly not a burden, and I thought, if I could just keep it from you long enough, then it was something… some kindness," she pleaded desperately, "or some favor I could offer you, so that you wouldn't have to derail your life alongside mine, and I thought—"

"You thought I wouldn't want you?" Harry asked, and Pansy stopped.

She attempted to say something—No, no, of course not, I don't care what you think of me, Henry, and I never have, we both know you're a tireless knave and this has nothing, less than nothing, to do with your feelings about me, and besides, we'd never work, it's silly we're even pretending—but found her throat dry, her mouth empty.

"You have Ginny," she managed, and Harry shook his head. "Or… that Loony journalist, or—"

"None of them are you." He looked at her a long moment before saying, with pained deliberation, "You are much, much more important to me. You always have been."

Her chest tightened. "But Harry—"

"Pansy," Harry said, scraping a hand over his cheek in disbelief. "You didn't want me to feel obligated, I can understand that—but you didn't want to give me a chance to choose you, either?"

"I," she began, and struggled, her demon suggesting very noisily that flight was likely the better option. "No, of course not, Harry, don't be silly, I only meant—"

"Don't lie to me, Pansy." He advanced a series of steps to take hold of her, keeping her from the escape she'd hoped he hadn't noticed she was planning. "Please, just tell me the truth. If not for me, then for—"

His green eyes floated down, falling gently where her hand had begun to reflexively settle.

"My entire life," he said, shaking his head. "My entire life, all I wanted was a family."

Pansy, carefully rehearsed in suppressing even the most violent of her feelings, said nothing.

Harry spent a few more seconds thinking about something in silence, letting his thoughts float around in his head, and then he glanced up, half a smile on his face as he looked for another long moment at Pansy.

"I hope she has your eyes," he said.

Immediately—despite her best and most concerted efforts—Pansy felt another surge of distress rise up from her throat, shattering her ceaseless defenses and reaching her lips with a sob.

"You monstrous, incurable idiot," she had hoped to say calmly, but instead flung at him in a wail, not realizing he'd pulled her into him until she was already beginning to saturate the material of his sweater with tears she cursed in silence. "My eyes are nothing, you horrible rogue, nothing worth remarking in the slightest, and certainly not compared to yours—I've spent all this time thinking about a little green-eyed boy with your idiot face and your idiot hair and your stupid, stupid laugh—"

Unhelpfully, Harry laughed aloud, and despicably, Pansy sobbed even harder.

"DON'T LAUGH AT ME—"

"Pans," Harry said with a sigh, stroking a hand over her hair and resting his chin atop her head. "Did it really never occur to you that perhaps I might want it all?"

She struggled to glance up, bemused.

"The foot massages," he explained, and she stared at him, utterly bewildered. "For when your feet swell? Those, you know the ones—I want them. I want the doctor's visits. I want the trips to the shops when you can't do without some sweet, or when you have some silly craving. I want to tell people move, she's pregnant, get up, don't you see she's carrying a baby? She's making a brain right now, for the love of Christ, get out of the way—that. I want all of that," Harry informed her, as if this were extremely reasonable, and added, "And besides that, I want the baby, too. I want to be her first word—"

"You don't know it's a girl," Pansy said, and Harry shrugged.

"Fine, his, whatever, the point is I want us to fight over which one of us she says first. I want her first steps, I want to put her on my shoulders and say Mummy's in a foul mood, isn't she? And I want to spoil her, Pansy, my god do I want to spoil her positively rotten—"

"She's not a girl," Pansy argued weakly.

"—but of course you won't be the bad one, will you? No, you'll act tough, but you'll be the one she tells all her little secrets. You'll say isn't Daddy such an idiot and she'll say Yes, Mummy, why on earth did you ever agree to marry him? And you'll say, Well, because he's an epic lay, sweetheart—"

"Henry, for heaven's sake, I would never say that to a chi-"

Pansy broke off, registering the reality of the portrait he'd been painting for her.

"You," she began, and stopped. "You want to marry me?"

She half expected him to reach out with his Prince Harry grin, to touch her cheek and tease her, to say of course Pansy, won't it be fun, like a little adventure, only he didn't.

He gave her another long, sobering look, and he said, "I understand that maybe it doesn't appeal to you, being with a boy you've known forever. I understand maybe you'd hoped for a better love story, or a more reasonable one, but give me a chance—let me prove to you ours can be good, that it will be worth however long it takes. Give me time, take as much of it as you need. My father told my mother he was sure enough for both of them, Pansy, and I will be that for you. For you, Pans," Harry said, "I swear, I am sure enough for both of us."

It was, in a word, the most idyllic, most ludicrously perfect sentiment.

And then, slowly, Harry shifted away.

"Don't," Pansy warned, and he winked up at her, and she loathed him and wanted in equal measure to kiss him and throw him from her window. "Harry, this is ridiculous, it's trite and sentimental, please don't ruin it with some fairytale proposit-"

"Lady Pansy Parkinson Six-Names," he said, settling himself gallantly on one knee as she groaned, "will you do me the honor of—"

"Jesus balls," Pansy growled, "have you even thought about this, Henry? I've already told Augusta Longbottom I slept with someone else, which she's sure to mention to someone, and once Rita Skeeter finds out about this it'll be all over the papers, and—"

Harry shrugged.

"I'm Prince Harry," he said. "It doesn't matter what they think."

For a moment, his clarity stunned her.

Then, in a swarm of demonic possession—

I never thought you had what it took—

You may have the breeding of someone worthy, and perhaps you bamboozled my grandson into thinking that meant you were worthy yourself—

You're cold-hearted, manipulative, enamored with your own ambitions—

"No," Pansy exhaled, what was left of her reservations leaving her shoulders like the turn of a tide. "No, it really doesn't, does it?"

Harry smiled up at her, pleased.

"So," he said. "May I have your hand in marriage, then, or shall I grovel a bit more?"

She rolled her eyes. "Way to bungle it."

"You say bungled," he replied, "I say logistically expedient."

She hesitated another moment, unsure.

"It's not as if I'm in love you," she said, and at his frown, she remarked weightily, "Yet, I mean. I love you, of course, I always have, but the rest—"

"No, that will come with time," he assured her. "For me, too, but I know enough to trust it. Don't you?"

"I don't trust much," Pansy remarked.

They nodded, jointly sympathetic.

"The sex is good, though," Harry said. "Isn't it?"

She let out a delicate scoff at his uncontainable hubris, but permitted a nod.

"Fine. Yes."

"In fact, the sex is very good."

He was looking at her the way he used to look at the trees he planned to climb in the garden when Prince Lucius wasn't looking.

"Don't get carried away," Pansy warned him, and Harry's grin broadened.

"You know, seeing as you're already pregnant," he said slyly, "I don't really see the point of waiting until marriage. I hardly see the point of waiting ten minutes, to be perfectly honest with you, but—"

"I haven't said I'll marry you," Pansy reminded him, deliberately toying with a pause before leaning down to murmur in his ear: "Henry."

Much to her satisfaction, he gave a visceral shiver.

"Call me that when I'm inside you," he said, half-whispering it, with his eyes half-closed.

She straightened, running her fingers through his hair, letting her nails scrape along the nape of his neck. He leaned forward, resting his hands on her hips, and pressed a meditative kiss to her skirt, his lips softly brushing the fabric.

The pads of his fingers skated up the side of her thigh, tracing little lines of longing. Her pulse ricocheted inside her chest, heart pounding, as his lips brushed the silk of her blouse, the skin beneath it pebbling with the delicacy of a breeze.

"Marry me and I'll fuck you," Harry said with guttural certainty, his voice buried in fabric. "As often as you want. However you want me to."

She shuddered. "You really think I'm just another of your randy conquests, then?"

"No." He shook his head. "You're the conquest, Pansy. You're endgame." He rose up slightly, fingers toying with the buttons of her blouse. "You're the one I've been waiting all this time to win."

"I'm not a prize, Harry," she reminded him with an irritable groan, though she leaned her head back for the kiss he bestowed on her neck.

"No," he said, "but you're mine to earn, and I will spend a lifetime doing it."

His hand slid possessively over her waist, palm resting flat against her stomach.

"Say yes," he said in her ear, and in her head, her demon gleefully whispered: Do it.

Harry slid a hand around the back of her neck, drawing her chin up for a kiss, and paused just as a breath passed between them.

"If you hurt me," Pansy warned, and he laughed, nipping lightly at her lips.

"I know better," he said, and kissed her cheek, and then her forehead. "No need for threats, Pans."

He drew her closer, her hips flush against his, and hell on earth, he was really very good, wasn't he? Her blouse was already parted, the lace of her bra pressed to his chest, and one of her hands sat helplessly on his waist, the other curved around the muscle of his back. He was a master of his craft, unforgivably.

"Come on, Pans," he coaxed her, lips brushing the side of her mouth. "Let go," he whispered, and she exhaled, letting him lay her back on the sofa of her hotel suite.

"Yes," she said in his mouth, and he slid her knickers aside with a grin, kissing her until her lips went numb.

Second times carried the immense probability of being a letdown from the first. Not so with Harry, though that may have been for lack of lucidity about the details of their first encounter. Gin did not a memorable occasion make, and though the floor of her hotel room was hardly a more responsible venue than his kitchen table, there was a certain sparkling clarity now to the prospect of sex with him. All of it should have been very straightforward—how different was his tongue from any other really?—and yet it wasn't, because was it actually his tongue that made the difference, or was it the way he looked at her, green eyes locked on hers while he looked up from having the taste of her on his lips?

Her entire understanding of sex was warped incontrovertibly by the way Harry was fearlessly, brazenly, completely incautiously into it. There were no wandering thoughts, no lack of intensity, never a doubt he was wholly focused on her. "Fuck, you feel so good," when he was inside her, "Christ, Pansy, the way you taste," when he slid his shoulders beneath her hips, "Harder, baby? Come on, say it," when he wanted her to grab his hair, to dig her nails in, to return the favor and say yes, Henry, yes, like that, make me feel it. Was it weird? It wasn't not weird. She'd recognize things she'd always known—scars, freckles, the omnipresent tan that faded near his hips—because how many times had she seen Harry shirtless? More than she could count. She knew where every muscle was, had seen them all in action, but it was different to sink her teeth in and make him swear under his breath.

"Play nice, Pans," he'd pant in her ear, and then she'd bite him sweetly, kiss him hard. "Better," he'd say, wrenching her hips up until her entire body hummed with pleasure, or with something very like it, until it washed over her in waves.

It wasn't until she finally made it to her long-awaited bath, however, that a small detail about her childhood friend Harry snuck back into her consciousness, the haze of sex fading to finally permit blood to flow to her brain.

"Wait a minute," she said, jolting up from where she'd been resting against his chest. "You're Prince Harry," she accused him, and he arched a brow.

"Who exactly did you think I was before just now?"

"No, you're—you're royal," Pansy said, something gripping tightly at her throat. "You're third in line for the throne!"

"I thought you were aware of all this," Harry remarked neutrally. "Don't you have all our patents of nobility sitting somewhere around your house?"

"Harry," Pansy snapped, "you're not listening. If you're third in line, then…"

She trailed off, glancing down at her stomach, and felt herself quake slightly with nerves.

"Hm? Oh, yeah," Harry said, sliding a hand around her waist. "Not to panic you," he said with a laugh, brushing his lips near her ear, "but I'm thinking we should probably get married quite soon."

"I—oh no." Pansy's vision briefly swam. "Do people know you're here?"

"What people? The hotel staff, I suppose."

Shit, said Pansy's demon.

"What?"

"Well, I was a little pressed for time, Pans. Couldn't exactly plot my disguise when I was petitioning for emergency leave and rushing over, could I?"

"Henry, pay attention," Pansy sniffed impatiently, nudging him away from where he was leaving a trail of kisses down her neck. "I told Augusta I'd been seeing someone. If she does decide to go to the media and everyone saw you come to my room, it's only a matter of time before people start to think that—"

"That what? We've been seeing each other? Fine," Harry said, shrugging. "I don't see why Abraxas wouldn't approve. It'll be difficult, maybe, given everything with Neville, but it's not as if you're some sort of… oh, I don't know," he postured with a grim laugh, "an American commoner or anything—"

"Hermione," Pansy realized, the lightness in her chest from Harry's reassurance suddenly trodden on with disappointment. "Abraxas can't approve two risky marriages so close together—he won't do it, Harry, you know that."

"Pans." He reached for her, easing her back, and though she was intensely reluctant, she leaned her head against his chest again, letting him soothing her with a stroke of his thumb to her cheek. "You're growing a duchess right now," he murmured in her ear, brushing his lips against her temple. "Don't want her to have a weak chin."

"She's not a girl," Pansy said.

"Sure she isn't," Harry replied, and Pansy sighed.

Then she remembered, absurdly, the thing she had once told Hermione about the woman who would one day be Prince Harry's wife, when she'd been certain it would be anyone but her.

"They're going to throw me to the flames, aren't they?" she asked him softly, and Harry tucked his chin into the crook of her neck, inhaling her for a moment before answering.

"Yes," he said, giving her the benefit of believing her strong enough for the truth, and then he added slowly, "But I won't let you burn, Pans."

Pansy waited for the familiar ripple of fear and discovered, for the first time, there was none.

Then she closed her eyes and laced her fingers with Harry's, hoping that in the moment, she would grow a little bit of bravery for the baby by virtue of gaining some for herself.

I suppose it's no surprise Hermione would come to me in her time of crisis. Before I was a mother, I was designated crisis-handler and problem-solver—which is a role I have no choice but to accept, considering I am surrounded by ineptitude.

"Oh, just a favor," Hermione said on the phone, as if this could possibly be any pleasurable errand, "but it will have to be you."

I suppose I do owe her something. After all, if not for her, I certainly would not be where I am now, nor would I have been able to do the things I've done.

But still. I'll have to remind Jamie once again not to do as Aunt Hermione does the very instant I get back.

a/n: Hello, friends! I have to travel again this weekend (busy month) and am unsure if I will manage to finish the next chapter in time to keep to our usual schedule, so I apologize in advance if things are a bit off-kilter for another (1) week. If you are in need of some daphne and theo, a reminder that Black Jeans and Daphne Blue is now available as Chapter 133 in Amortentia. Thank you for your patience!

31. Influence

Chapter 31: Influence

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Period of Unrest

The end of 2014 marked a series of scandals for the royal family, much of which was attributed to Hermione's unusual but unmissable presence in the public eye. Prince Draco's surprisingly adamant defense of Hermione coincided with weeks of rumoured familial turbulence, prompting intense criticism of her influence where it came to the Prince's behaviour. Notably, Lady Bellatrix Lestrange was the lone supportive voice in defense of Hermione, despite many beginning to express their doubts in the young American's temperament. For a brief period, Hermione became such a radically polarizing figure that the once-foregone conclusion she would be Prince Draco's choice became increasingly less likely, prompting many to doubt she would ever receive King Abraxas' approval.

Indeed, Hermione's appearances, in particular those following Prince Harry's controversial marriage to Lady Pansy Parkinson, launched a wave of speculation about her future with Prince Draco, whom many sources claimed was suffering extreme pressure from his father and grandfather to choose a more suitable potential bride. Hermione, despite her unpopularity, was rumoured to be quite eager to repair her reputation, grooming her public image and waiting in relative silence in the hopes Draco would ultimately propose.

By all accounts, her efforts were highly effective, albeit slow to take root. It was over a year later, once Hermione's image had undergone a dramatic transformation, that there finally came an end to the months of conjecture that she had been quietly put aside.

Well. Like usual, Rita has mostly no idea what she's talking about.

(Minus the rumors, of course.)

(Largely because those were started by her.)

December 23, 2014
London, England

"Quieter than usual today," Hermione noted, observing the thin crowd of photographers outside The Transfiguration Project's offices and pausing at the sight of the (sadly) now-familiar Colin Creevey. "Has everyone gone home for the holidays?"

"Morning, Miss," replied a cheerful Colin, snapping a picture that nearly blinded Hermione as she struggled not to spill her coffee. "Actually, I imagine they're at the Goring Hotel," he said, giving her an apologetic look when he noticed her displeasure at the disruptive flash. "But I like you much better, of course," he informed her, and Hermione frowned.

"Better than… who, exactly?" she asked, wondering if perhaps Draco had gone to visit Pansy that morning. Not that Hermione was especially interested in the stir that would inevitably result from renewed gossip that Draco might have chosen a more suitable noble bride, but if that were the case, she would have expected more people waiting outside for her reaction.

"You haven't heard, Miss?" asked Colin, frowning. "It was in all the blogs first thing."

"Well, I had a slow start," Hermione began, before abruptly realizing she hardly had to explain herself to a paparazzo. She admonished him with a glance, venturing irritably, "What's happening at the Goring?"

"Hold for a moment," Colin said, shuffling around for his phone. He was always a little bit rumpled, slightly too skinny, and the iPhone he dug out of his pocket had a considerably cracked screen. "Careful," he warned, handing it to her. "Watch your fingers—"

"You really need a new phone," Hermione commented with a disapproving shake of her head, and Colin gave her a sheepish look of agreement.

"Been trying to scrape together enough for a better lens," he explained, holding up his camera. "I've been hoping to focus a bit more on my personal portfolio, but the whole thing's a bit dodgy, really. Bit of a struggle to be taken seriously."

"Tell me about it," Hermione murmured, and paused, squinting a little at where the crack in his screen obscured a photograph of what looked like the back of Harry's head. "This is what the fuss is about? Prince Harry?"

"Hm? Well, yes and no," Colin said, nudging her finger aside and scrolling past a series of candy-colored ads. "It's this bit, really," he showed her, and Hermione frowned, quickly skimming the article.

—not only broken off her engagement to longtime beau Neville Longbottom, but may not have been entirely faithful in advance of their upcoming nuptials. An anonymous source revealed late yesterday evening—

—Prince Harry's arrival at this particular hotel suite coincides with his uncharacteristic request for emergency leave, citing familial difficulties. Certainly his distress may be valid, as the two are famously childhood acquaintances, but could it be the misbehaving Prince has finally bedded the wrong woman? Sources say—

—The Longbottom family could not be reached for comment, but countless describe Prince Harry's demeanour upon arrival to the Goring as noticeably tensed, even visibly concerned. Is it possible Lady Pansy's rumoured lover is none other than—

"No," Hermione said aloud, the countless foggily incomprehensible pieces of Pansy's behavior suddenly fitting together with unpleasant clarity as one hand flew up to her mouth. "Wait a minute, does this mean—"

She blinked as a flash went off. "This doesn't pay as well as you'd think," Colin offered in apology, snapping another photo, and she glared at him, shoving her phone back in his hand and forcing her way to the door of Minerva's offices, removing her own from her bag.

Daphne answered on the second ring. "Well, it's about time, isn't it?"

"Have you seen the—"

"Yes, of course I have, and worst of all, Nott's claiming he's known the whole time—which is frankly just like him, the smug little weasel. If he weren't so spectacularly agile, I swear I'd just—"

"Daph," Hermione growled. "Harry?"

"I know, I know, I'm completely bowled over myself. Not to mention," Daphne exhaled, "that Draco is going to have a bloody aneurysm."

Hermione leaned against the wall of the corridor, surprised. "You think so? I mean, I guess, but—"

"This couldn't be more out of character for Pansy, honestly," Daphne was ranting, not particularly interested in listening to Hermione's opposition. "And they're painting Neville as the victim, can you believe it? None of this has any trace of her usual deftness, and you'd think she'd have done something to get ahead of all this bad press—though, the fact that the whole thing reads like a perfect Harry scandal means perhaps we shouldn't jump to conclusions," she pondered aloud, opting to lean outrageously optimistic. "Maybe it's not what it looks like? He'd certainly come see her either way, wouldn't he? He'd do it for any of us."

Hermione, on the other hand, was only becoming more and more convinced this was the rare occasion of something being precisely as it looked. "Think about it, though, Daph. Pansy wouldn't tell us who the father was."

Daphne's voice was grimly conciliatory. "Yes. I know."

"And I just keep thinking, if it was actually someone none of us knew, then why not just—"

"Yes, yes, I know," Daphne lamented moodily. "It makes perfect sense now, so of course I feel like a total idiot. Which Nott seems to be positively delighting in—"

"I should call Draco," Hermione realized, blinking. "You don't think he'll actually be angry, will he?"

Daphne paused for a moment, considering it. "Well, I suppose it depends. On the one hand, the man who's practically his brother might have recently knocked up the girl who's basically his sister," she began, and trailed off.

Hermione waited, frowning. "And the other hand?"

"Hm? Oh, sorry. No, I only have one hand at the moment. I just keep thinking there must be something we're missing—don't you? I mean really, Pansy and Harry, it's completely unfathomable—"

"Is it, though?" Hermione asked, sounding a little pained in her distress. According to Pansy, the liaison in question had taken place the day after Halloween, which meant it could have easily been the aftermath of the night Hermione and Harry kissed. Was it possible that Harry, feeling rejected by Hermione, and Pansy, having been newly informed of Neville's deception, had drowned their sorrows together? Harry had made a comparable offer to Daphne once in jest, back when the two of them had been in a similar position. Was it completely egotistical of Hermione to consider that Harry might have been so emotionally damaged he'd turned to Pansy in her stead?

And if Harry was the father of Pansy's baby, was Hermione somehow responsible for this?

Not that Pansy would necessarily know that, or Daphne, for that matter. Hermione, who had carefully said nothing of her ill-advised liaison, couldn't decide if she wanted to remove herself from the sequence of events or not; though, either way, she was growing increasingly concerned that so much had happened over the past few months without any of their knowledge. Were they all friends or not?

"I suppose I really have no idea what the truth is," Daphne said flatly, hitting directly upon Hermione's primary concern. "Though, for the record, I'm sure Harry plans to tell Draco himself, or I assume he will, anyway. Last I heard from Theo, Draco and Prince Lucifer arrived at Sandringham early this morning."

Sandringham. Draco had invited Hermione two days ago to spend the holiday with him and his family, though she'd obviously declined, claiming she had work to do. Which wasn't a lie, exactly, though the meatier truth was far more personal; that in reality, she was still reeling from their encounter at Malfoy Manor and didn't think it was a good idea to be so close to him before she'd made up her mind.

It made sense, on some logical plane she wanted very badly to exist permanently in but didn't, that Draco didn't want them to entangle feelings with sex until she'd made a decision about whether or not she wanted a future with him. He'd made it clear, both in actual words and in what Hermione had gleaned from observing him with his family, that his dick and his crown were inextricable—which was admittedly the smart thing to do, moving forward. It wasn't as if he could ever be the handsome stranger carrying her luggage again. She knew what his life was like now, and understood clearly what was expected of him, just as she knew how it felt to love him. Unfortunately, her emotions were getting the better of her, and like usual, future-planning felt hugely out of the question.

She'd planned to spend Christmas with Daphne, Theo, and what she'd thought would be Pansy, avoiding questions from her mother and safely skirting the lure of Draco's highly persuasive presence. "Just say the word and you have me," he reminded her when she'd complained of feeling stung, taking his rejection sorely the night of his father's illness. Bastard, she'd thought with bitter admiration, hating him through another inflamed resurgence of affection for his dumb morals and his irritating certainty.

It was the easier choice to take comfort in her bed and promise nothing. Harder to insist they both do what was right.

Stupid princes.

Which, naturally, brought her full-circle to Harry, the more impulsive of the two troubled royals, and the one who had maybe slept with Pansy, maybe not.

But probably yes.

"Hermione?"

"Wait a minute," Hermione said, registering something Daphne had casually remarked moments earlier. "Did you say they made a victim out of Neville?"

"Oh, good lord," Daphne sighed, "have you not seen Rita's take on all this? Something about a badly behaved tribe of nobles—which astoundingly excludes Neville."

No, she hadn't seen it, and she dreaded making contact with it now.

"Balls," muttered Hermione, as Oliver appeared in the stairwell, frowning down at her.

"GRANGER," he shouted, "ARE YOU IN OR OUT?"

Jesus. Would no one stop asking her that?

"I MEANT OF THE OFFICE POOL REGARDING THE ODDS MINNIE WILL OPT FOR FESTIVE OFFICE WEAR," Oliver clarified, adding with a sniff of his usual frenzied affectation, "YOU MAY REMAIN OUTSIDE, IF YOU SO CHOOSE."

"Noted," she called back, and returned her attention to the phone. "I just have a couple of articles to wrap up. See you this afternoon?"

"Obviously," was Daphne's response, just before they both hung up.

By the time Hermione arrived, however, Daphne and Theo were both packed.

"What," she began, and was immediately cut off by Daphne thrusting a bag into her hands.

"Pansy checked out of the Goring this morning," she said.

"Okay," Hermione said slowly, "and…?"

"Pick out anything from my wardrobe that fits," Daphne instructed, "because we're going to Sandringham tonight."

"What?" Hermione said, balking. "But I can't just—"

"It's that or stay in London alone, California," Theo informed her, sloping in to drape against the doorframe.

There was almost no doubt in Hermione's mind that whatever unintelligible spidey-senses Theo and Draco shared from their incorrigible boyhoods were presently going off. She had resisted the urge to text Draco (not knowing what to say, really), and hadn't heard from him all day, which was newly unusual. Their patterns of communication post-breakup had gone from nonexistent to infrequent to constant but unremarkable, and it was usually initiated by him. How was your day, what are you doing, look at this video of a cat playing the harpsichord, etc. To hear nothing was warning enough.

"Fine," Hermione conceded gruffly, picking out two of the dresses and coats she'd already worn previously and recovering one of her own sweaters from Daphne's closet. "May I ask why it matters that Pansy checked out?"

"Because Harry arrived at Sandringham House just before noon," Theo said.

"Yes," Hermione sighed heavily, "and…?"

"And last I heard, he and Draco were stepping into a private meeting with Abraxas right around the moment he arrived. Which was," Theo began, and glanced at his watch. "Approximately four hours ago."

Clearly, this detail meant something to Daphne, though Hermione couldn't fathom how it was related. "So?"

Theo and Daphne exchanged a glance.

"What?" Hermione demanded, and Theo made a rapid series of indecipherable gestures to Daphne, the two of them silently arguing as he indicated his wife should have the floor.

"Well," Daphne conceded slowly, glaring at him before turning to Hermione, "do you know much about the Royal Marriages Act?"

Hermione, who was up to that moment the only person who made a practice of citing political statues in casual conversation, frowned in answer. "Not outside of it being the thing Abraxas is trying to repeal."

"Right, well, it still has some relevance," Daphne reminded her, "and because of it, the ruling monarch has the ability to veto marriages for all members of the royal family. Typically," she added, with another glance at Theo for confirmation, "King Abraxas would need to approve any potential marriages in writing before they could take place. Draco will need written approval," she explained, supplying an example. "You know, if you two ever decide to admit you're actually together, that is—"

"You think Draco's meeting with Abraxas about me?" Hermione asked, though that didn't seem right. The timing seemed mostly irrelevant, even with Draco's insistence on her making a decision, which was a suspicion that seemed to be confirmed when Theo's mouth slid into a narrowed grimace.

"To my knowledge," he said carefully, "Harry is the one who requested the meeting. Oh, and one other thing," he added, glancing over his shoulder into the corridor before Hermione could fully process the point he'd just made. "We won't be going alone."

"We won't?" Hermione asked blankly, looking up from her bag in time for a second figure to appear in the frame of Daphne and Theo's bedroom.

"Minus five for not seeing it coming," remarked a bespoke-suited Blaise, greeting Theo with a nod and filling the doorway with his usual lofty air. "Though, I suppose you may also take five for similar reasons, so the whole thing is really a wash."

"Oh, fuck no," said Hermione and Daphne in unison, albeit with the latter unwisely declining what the former considered a highly compulsory expletive.

"Perfect," Theo said cheerily, throwing an arm around Blaise. "Should be a lovely Christmas."

Hermione and Daphne were in agreement that Blaise's punishment for seeking Pansy's forgiveness—and, presumably, Draco's and Theo's, but not theirs—would have to be the obvious.

"Pansy asked me to come," Blaise pointed out. "I wouldn't be here if she hadn't."

Silence.

"It's become subtly apparent you both have some unresolved issues," he observed. "Any chance you're in the mood to discuss them?"

Further silence.

"Well, ten points for consistency," he commented musingly to the air, which nearly trapped Hermione into snapping a reply. Luckily, Daphne got to her first, giving her a sharp, quieting jab in the ribs.

"If it helps," Theo began, and Daphne shot him a glare.

"Don't," she warned.

"Yes, wife," said a pleasantly smiling Theo, before turning to Blaise, shrugging. "Greengrass doesn't want to talk right now," he said. "Maybe later."

"Theodore, honestly," was Blaise's drawled response, probably with good reason, though even privately, Hermione hated to give him the satisfaction of being right.

She supposed on some strange level she was relieved Blaise was there, mostly because his presence was giving her a reason not to think about the alternative (i.e., Theo's theory that Harry was asking King Abraxas for permission to marry Pansy). On the one hand, she figured she should have been pleased; on the other, it all seemed intensely sudden. She was supposed to have been co-maid of honor in Pansy's marriage to Neville in a matter of days, and now…

Harry?

It was enough to boggle the mind.

"You know, you're obviously working through something," Blaise commented to her, slipping beside her like a shadow once they arrived in Theo's nearby country house. "Historically, I am very helpful for your ponderings."

"I have no interest in speaking to you," Hermione informed him, hoping he'd leave. He did, temporarily, as Daphne did her the favor of ushering her into a guest room, but then he was by her side again the moment they made their way to Sandringham.

"See, the thing is, I know you, New Tracey," Blaise continued as if they'd never been interrupted, prompting Hermione to groan aloud as they followed Daphne and Theo through the house's corridor. "You love a proper crusade for righteousness, so I can't quite sort out why you haven't taken advantage of your opportunity to lecture me on my misdeeds. It's all very disorienting, really—and I can't say this for certain, seeing as it's a subjective matter, but minus ten for what I feel is really quite poor characterization—"

"Do you honestly think taking points is going to make me sympathetic?" Hermione asked with a glare, and Blaise gave her a clever little smile.

"No," he said, "but I have your attention, don't I?"

She turned away, infuriated with either him or herself, or possibly with both of them. "You knew what you were doing would hurt Pansy," she said flatly, "and you did it anyway. Worse, you lied to us. To all of us."

"Yes," Blaise confirmed, "and as you can clearly see, my pores are suffering the full toxicity of my regret. Which is also why I think we'll all feel better if you just shout at me a bit," he suggested blithely, "and then, perhaps, we can resolve this little detail of my complete and total betrayal, hm?"

She scowled, and he nudged her.

"Points for self-awareness, I imagine," he mused with a lofty gesture to himself, and she rounded on him, successfully provoked.

"Listen, you delusional tyrant," she snapped, and to her dismay, Blaise smiled broadly. "No, stop it. Stop," she repeated, watching his grin evolve to a lazy chuckle. "It's not funny, Blaise. You lied to us, and honestly, with Neville, it's just—"

"Repugnant?" Blaise asked, and then, unsatisfied with his choice of words, "Alternatively: deceitful, odious, abominable—"

"Fucked," Hermione corrected through gritted teeth, and he shrugged.

"Well, five for always having the right idea," he said, "though, minus two for predictability."

She shot him a glare. "Would you kindly shut up?"

"Mm, minus another two for redundancy, and another for stagnation of progress. We won't make any headway at this rate, New Tracey, and certainly not by supper."

"Blaise, for the love of god—"

"Hold on," Theo said, coming to a sudden stop just as they were about to turn out of the main corridor into a narrower one. "They must have just left Abraxas' office."

From down the hall, Harry and Draco's voices echoed in hushed but frantic conversation.

"Why are you stopping?" Hermione asked Theo. "Just tell them we're here."

Theo shook his head. "I don't think we want to interrupt this quite yet," he cautioned her, holding a finger to his lips as Harry's voice became more clearly audible.

"—they're going to vilify her, Draco, and you know it better than anyone else. You think I'm going to wait for it to get worse? No, absolutely not—"

"Obviously I don't want to make things more difficult for Pansy, you know that. But this—what you're proposing," Draco was impatiently urging him, "it's drastic and impulsive, and surely you have to see my grandfather's point! Subjecting her to a scandal like this one could be catastrophic to her reputation, not to mention that—"

"Not to mention that if I do nothing, Draco," Harry cut in, equally agitated, "the damage will be far worse."

"I understand the timing is sensitive. That's not at issue. But now, Harry? She's facing an onslaught by the press, not to mention the reactions from her family. If you had actually thought about this before you came marching in here—"

"I've thought plenty," Harry snapped. "And believe me, I'm not doing to Pansy what you did to Hermione, and I'm certainly not—"

"Excuse me?"

It was the first time Hermione had ever heard Draco sound truly angry. Even when he was at his most frustrated with her, the effect was largely tempered. Now, she nearly shrank from the sound; directed at her or not, it was such a rarity she suffered it in echoes.

"I didn't mean," Harry began to say, and then abruptly cut himself off. "Actually, you know what? I did mean it," he said, and there was a dangerous hint of superiority in his tone, prompting Blaise and Theo to exchange a glance. All four of them inched forward, peering around the corner to see what was going on. "You threw Hermione to the wolves and you made no apology for it. You had every advantage at your disposal—"

"Advantage? You call being watched day and night an advantage? You need my grandfather's approval for one thing, Harry, and you think that's the height of injustice. One fu-" Draco broke off, one hand in a fist. "One thing," he said again, barely repressing his temper, "and you think you have any idea what I went through? I was trying to think of my future, of our future, and—"

"No. No, you know what you are, Draco? You pretend you're different, but you're a snake just like your father," Harry said tightly, and from afar, all four of them tensed in response. "You could have defied him at any moment, you could have protected her. Your hands were never fucking tied," Harry snapped. "You just needed their approval—you needed to hold yourself above her, to never toe the line, because deep down, you love that bloody crown of yours, don't you? You don't stand for anything but your birthright, and let me remind you, Draco—Hermione doesn't love you for that," he warned, "and she won't love you much longer if that's the choice you always make."

"Oh, no," whispered Daphne, and Hermione, equally frozen, couldn't quite decide which direction she wanted to run; either away from them, so as to hear nothing, or towards them, just to make it stop.

"Of course you think this is about my crown," Draco was saying angrily to Harry, "because this is the first thing you've had to take responsibility for in your entire life, isn't it? You've always been privileged without consequences, beloved without any concept of obligation. Everyone's always indulged you, they've let you get away with everything, and now you expect to undo the mess you've made by making an even bigger one? There are other options, Harry, outside of total combustion—"

"Is this because I slept with Pansy," Harry cut in sharply, "or because I kissed Hermione?"

Briefly, Hermione's stomach lurched as the other three turned to look at her, varying expressions of disapproval evident on their faces.

"Interesting," murmured Blaise, and Hermione glared at him, warning him to silence.

"Kind of you to finally bring it up," Draco snapped at Harry. "Or was that just going to be something you kept from me forever?"

Clearly, that he had already known about the kiss was a surprise to Harry. "You were broken up, Draco," he said, contradictorily defensive. "It wasn't any of your business."

"Oh, of course, my mistake. More's the pity, then, that I wasn't surprised at all when you said nothing."

Harry set his jaw, agitated. "If you knew, then why didn't you just—"

"Because it was your job to tell me, Harry," Draco cut in, harshly final. "You knew how I felt about this—about her, about us, about everything. When you told me to move on, you were doing it for a reason, weren't you?"

"So this is about Hermione, then," Harry deduced, looking irritated.

"No, Harry, this is about you. About the fact that you would have happily thrown away your relationship with me once before—maybe more than that, how can I possibly know?—and now you've done it again."

Harry turned away, listless. "I wasn't—"

"How long did you wait, Harry?" Draco pressed, stepping closer. "How long after you tried with Hermione did you wait before you took advantage of Pansy instead?"

From where she stood, Hermione winced. While Draco had briefly been on solid logical ground, his personal feelings on the subject were obviously getting the better of him.

"Hang on," Harry said, sputtering in his fury. "You think I took advantage—"

"She was vulnerable, she was alone, she had her heart broken—and somehow," Draco ranted, "you thought that was a perfectly good time to add her to your list of conquests?"

"My list of—Jesus, Draco, are you hearing yourself?"

"She's not some girl we know, Harry, she's Pansy, and you had no right—"

"No right?" Harry scoffed. "She's a grown woman, Draco, and what do you think this was, some sort of nefarious plot? Do you honestly think I don't care about her?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, Harry," Draco said, bristling, "seeing how I apparently know nothing about anything when it comes to you. I certainly did not expect I'd be spending the day holding my tongue so as not to contribute to the endless list of reasons my grandfather is perfectly within his rights t-"

"Holding your tongue? Everyone could see you agreed with Abraxas!"

"Of course I agreed with him, Harry, use your head! You marry her now, you both get dragged through the press. Have you seen what they've already printed? Adultery rumors don't exactly make for a charming wedding backdrop, much less a christening gift!"

"I don't give a damn what Rita Skeeter thinks—"

"Well, you should have given a damn what I thought," Draco shot back. "You blindsided me, Harry! You pulled me into that room without one single mention of anything you've done over the past two months, and now you have the audacity—"

"It's called giving a fuck about someone other than myself, Draco. You should try it."

Briefly, there was a crisp, sharp axe of silence that fell across the corridor, extending from where Draco and Harry stood combatively in the center to the not-so-vacant points at either side. For the first time, Hermione caught a glimpse of something she hadn't noticed earlier; someone standing at the opposite end of the corridor, lingering just out of sight.

"Shit," said Theo, dragging Hermione's attention back to the moment as his eyes widened, registering something she couldn't interpret from afar. "Shit, shit, shit—"

He shot out from their hiding spot, launching himself into the hall, but whatever he'd seen, it was clearly too late. Draco had wound up so quickly that no one else—especially not Harry—had seen it coming before his fist cracked directly into Harry's cheek, leaving Hermione to gasp aloud.

Harry went down hard, one hand flying up to his face, but despite the fact that Blaise and Theo rushed to come between them, it was clear there would be no retaliation. Harry stretched out his legs, favoring his eye, and glanced solemnly at Hermione, his expression obscured by his palm. Draco, following Harry's line of sight with wary apprehension, turned rigidly over his shoulder, spotting her where she stood.

Immediately, the spark of rage in Draco's expression faded, replaced with something Hermione might have called remorse if he hadn't pivoted away so quickly.

"Draco," she called after him, taking a step toward where he stood, but she'd reacted much too late.

Within moments, Draco had turned his stride in the opposite direction, disappearing along with the evidence of whoever else had been their silent witness.

"...and then he kind of, um. Punched him," finished Hermione, and Pansy tilted her head, considering this information at length while staring briefly into nothing.

"Interesting," she said. "Punched him how?"

"I—what?" asked Hermione, glancing at Daphne for clarification, which she unhelpfully seemed to lack.

"Well," Pansy said, rising briskly to her feet, "Harry and Draco have punched each other approximately seven times in total, and each time has been slightly different. It was Draco this round, so that's interesting," she noted, as if she were discussing differential equations, or something equally calculable. "Harry had a strong lead for nearly a decade, but this brings it up to a much more respectable four to three. It's utterly male behavior," she added, neither approving nor disapproving, "but at least it was in private."

"I," Hermione began, and stopped. "No, you just keep going," she sighed, not really in the mood to bother with her own confusion, and Pansy shrugged.

"Draco fights with Harry from time to time, unlike with Theo," she said. "The sibling rivalry thing is very strange and very real with Harry, but I suppose Draco was well within his rights, from the sounds of it. Besides, Harry has had it coming for several years," she remarked tangentially, and Daphne rolled her eyes.

"They were fighting about you, Pans," she reminded her, and Pansy shrugged again.

"Yes, well, I said what I said," she informed them. "And besides, Harry did rather recklessly impregnate me, in case you've both forgotten."

It was the opening Hermione had been waiting for. "Yes, and about that—"

Pansy waved a hand, dismissing her. "Irrelevant, now, Hermione, and certainly unproductive to discuss. In fact, the point is—"

"Nope. No, no way," Daphne cut in, giving Pansy a look so stern Hermione suffered aftershocks of viewing it, while Pansy, equally taken aback, reluctantly sat. Apparently, this would be the day Hermione witnessed the darker sides of all her usually pleasant friends.

"You owe us an explanation," Daphne warned, leveling it at Pansy like a threat. "I don't know what it is about the rest of you taking advantage of my UNIMPEACHABLE GOOD NATURE," she barked, dazzlingly furious, "but I have had about enough today. Bad enough I'm expected to offer Blaise my forgiveness despite his complete and total lack of effort to earn it, but now I find out that this one—" Here, a sharp reference to Hermione, "kissed Harry, and you—"

"You did?" Pansy asked, turning to Hermione with a disapproving purse of her lips. "Honestly, Hermione, didn't I tell you right from the start not t-"

"Yeah, I don't really think you have a leg to stand on here, Pans," Hermione pointed out drily, and in reply, she gave a loud, exasperated sigh.

"I suppose not," Pansy sniffed, as Daphne gave them both a glare, warning Hermione to silence.

"Explain yourself," Daphne said grumpily to Pansy, who scowled.

"Why should I have to go first?" she demanded, gesturing to Hermione. "It's her boyfriend that's gone and punched my… Well, whatever he is," she muttered to herself, resting one hand on her stomach. "Is there a word for a very dear friend who inseminates you and subsequently proposes marriage?"

"Only if there's one for a prince who won't sleep with you until you agree to be his queen," Hermione replied moodily, and Daphne, who until that moment had been only slightly frightening in her irritation, suddenly went blank with something that looked suspiciously like rage.

"I," Daphne began, and then stopped.

Then she turned, wiring her jaw shut, and stormed out of the room, abruptly disappearing.

"Hm," said Hermione, feeling slightly guilty, and Pansy stood with an irritated sigh.

"Honestly, it's as if she forgets she was our resident idiot not terribly long ago. Still or sparkling?" she asked Hermione, always the perfect hostess, and Hermione gave a loud groan, collapsing where Pansy had been on the bed. "Tantrum it is," Pansy determined disinterestedly, shuffling around for a glass while Hermione stretched out on the duvet, huffing aloud.

"This," Hermione said, "is ridiculous. I'm so angry or something I don't know where to start."

"Angry 'or something'?" Pansy echoed, pausing. "Your self-awareness could do with some introspection. Start there," she advised, beginning to pour the bottle that had been sitting on ice. "Angry 'or something,' honestly—"

"You lied to all of us," Hermione said, lifting her head, "and worse, you almost married someone else without even telling Harry the baby was his!"

"Mm, yes," Pansy confirmed, taking a sip from her glass, "and out of curiosity, would this be the same Harry you neglected to mention you kissed, despite my explicit warning it would probably destroy his relationship with Draco?"

"I—" Hermione grimaced. "That's not exactly what you said."

"One of these days, Hermione, you'll learn to read subtext. Not everything need be so colonially flagrant," Pansy said.

"At least I told Draco," Hermione pointed out, annoyed, and Pansy considered her point for a moment, then grudgingly nodded her agreement. "You, on the other hand, didn't tell Harry anything."

Pansy, either legitimately or not, was mostly unresponsive. "My sins are not at issue here."

"Aren't they?" Hermione demanded, adding, "Not to mention you're the one who told me Draco and Harry's wives would have to be something neither of us would ever be."

She hadn't meant to sound so accusatory, but once she'd said it, it was as if the air in the room had suddenly gone stale. Pansy's hand tightened around her glass, her long Dior-coated lashes halting in a frozen, suspended pause.

"Yes," she murmured, "I did say that."

It was a rare occurrence, catching Pansy in a truth. Hermione sprang upright, taking full advantage. "Have you thought about this, Pansy?" she pressed. "Harry asked Abraxas for permission to marry you—you, who've always said you'd rather die than be forced into the spotlight—and now you're not even willing to confide in me? In me," she repeated, suddenly sharply aware that anger, without the 'or something,' was precisely what she felt. "All these years of telling me I was unqualified for Draco—actual years, Pansy, four of them—and now you have nothing to say to me?"

She still didn't, it seemed. Pansy raised her glass to her lips in silence, taking a careful sip.

"If I have doubted my relationship with him," Hermione reminded her, "it's been partially because of you. Because you were the one who told me—"

"Oh, for the love of god, Hermione, I clearly don't know anything at all," Pansy cut in briskly, nudging her aside and settling beside her on the bed. It was something that might have emerged with impatience or irritation under other contexts, but given the events of the day, Hermione doubted they were about to argue. "At least I was thoughtful enough to give you the fair warning I should have given myself. It isn't rendered less true just because I now find myself in this position," she muttered, giving Hermione a starkly displeased glance, "though, yes." She took another sip from her glass. "I realize I will have to retract the statement."

Uncharacteristic didn't begin to cover that remark. "You're sorry?"

"Please. Not remotely." Another sip. "What I am is wrong, not sorry."

"But—"

"My entire life," Pansy clarified, "I have never been able to separate Draco from his crown, nor, I believe, has he ever been able to extricate himself from it. When I look at him, I still see the position he will hold, the authority he was born to. The daunting nature of his life's work. I see an amorphous, aberrational image of him plastered beside the real one, and I see the truth that Rita Skeeter has carefully robbed from him, piece by piece, every moment since he was born." She turned to look at Hermione, considering her for a moment. "I used to think similarly of Harry, too."

Hermione fidgeted, unsure what would come next. "But now?"

Pansy shrugged. "When he promised me a life with him, I didn't see a crown. I didn't see headlines or tabloids. In fact, under the circumstances, I was absent the constant burden of expectation in my life, which I didn't realize had obscured so much truth from me for ages."

She paused for a moment, fingers tightening around her glass, before confessing quietly, "Do you ever think about the man he will become? The husband, the father." She was pensive a moment. "What does it really mean to share a life with someone? I don't think I ever understood it in those terms until I imagined him from a different view—the one next to me," she explained, "standing at my side. Waking with me, taking comfort from me, giving it back. I could almost stitch it together like that; into something I could trust, something that made sense. Creating a future with pieces from my memory." Her voice was nearly wistful, spinning her gossamer feelings into words. "As for the rest… will he balance me, make me whole? I don't know, I truly don't, but the thought of him beside me is—"

She trailed off.

"Compelling," she finished.

She glanced down at her glass, shaking her head.

"My entire life I would have given anything to have his certainty," she said, lifting the glass to her lips, "and now I have it. Or I'm directly adjacent to it, at least."

She chuckled for a moment into nothing.

"The irony of all this is not escaping me," she added to Hermione, breaking her own miniature enchantment with a look of dry impassivity, "but I hardly consider my time well-spent unpacking the satire that is my current life."

"But if Abraxas approves," Hermione began, and then stopped. "And wait a minute. What if he doesn't approve?" she asked, realizing she didn't know the answer, and for the first time, Pansy seemed a visible degree of remorseful.

She paused for a moment, collecting herself. She glanced briefly at her watch, and then set her glass beside her feet.

"I'm sorry," Pansy said, turning to Hermione. "I wish I were a better friend to you than I have been."

Hermione frowned. "Pans, I didn't mean to imply you were a bad friend, I was just—"

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Pansy called, looking as if she'd been expecting it, and then Harry's head slipped inside, catching Hermione's presence on the bed and sparing her a wobbly smile before closing the door quietly behind him.

"Ready?" he asked, turning to Pansy.

The bruising had begun to set in around his eye. Pansy rose to her feet, taking his chin in her hand, and observed him for several seconds.

"You provoked him," she remarked, and Harry grimaced.

"I know."

"He had every right to be angry."

"He was angrier than he needed to be."

"Did you apologize?"

"No. I'm not sorry."

Pansy's hand tightened around Harry's chin.

"Henry," she warned softly, and his gaze cut guiltily away, landing on Hermione's silent observation before being swiftly brought back to Pansy. "Tell me you aren't reckless enough to believe even your relationship indestructible."

"I—" Harry attempted to flash her a Prince Harry look of innocent denial, but Pansy didn't budge. "Fine," he conceded, withering, "I'll talk to him later."

"Later?"

"Yes, later. He'll stop me if I talk to him now."

"Henry," Pansy warned a second time, and Hermione cleared her throat quietly, prompting them both to look at her.

"What exactly are you two thinking of doing?" she asked carefully, and an obviously reticent Harry and a blankly unresponsive Pansy exchanged a glance. "Because it looks to me," Hermione mused, rising to her feet, "like maybe you're considering running off together in lieu of waiting for Abraxas' approval. Romantic," she assured them, "but even you know Draco will have a hard time forgiving you if you go behind his back."

"Better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission," Harry said stubbornly, "and it doesn't matter. Draco's not on my side this time."

"Oh, fuck off," Hermione sighed, and to her surprise, Pansy appeared to stifle a laugh. "Draco is always on your side, Harry, don't be an idiot. He stood beside Blaise through everything, he'll stand with his demon of a father, and he even forgave me, so—" She broke off, something registering like a pinprick to her heart. "He will forgive everything but this, Harry. Everything but this."

What she had realized, inconveniently timed, was that Draco was not his father, a man who stood alone in the world and buried himself in selfishness or solace. Unlike Lucius, Draco cared deeply. He trusted unconditionally. He could have excised any number of unnecessary or vulnerable characteristics to fit the mold he was given, but what had he done instead? He had selected a group of people and given them pieces of himself. To Theo, who had experienced nothing but lovelessness from birth, Draco had given affection without constraints; loyalty without end or expectation. To Blaise, genuine consideration in a life otherwise flooded with rejection. To Daphne, the value of value itself, aside from her looks and status. To Pansy, he had given the intimacy she would have always lacked, if not for him.

With Harry, it would always be about balance. Draco was born without equals, without siblings or competitors, so he had made one for himself. And maybe Harry couldn't see it at the moment, but that, too, had been a gift. Because while the rest of the world saw Harry as an afterthought, Draco, misguided or not, had always demanded more from him. To Harry, Draco had given the weight of expectations he didn't wish to bear alone. Draco had made a rival of Harry because even a rival would be more than a shadow, and that had been a gift.

"Tell him," Hermione said to Harry, "or you'll lose him," and they both understood without her saying so that it was the only outcome neither of them would be willing to chance.

Because Draco had given something impossible of himself to all of them, and to Hermione, it had been love, unequivocally. Something he had every reason not to be capable of, but was.

Though that was hardly relevant at the moment.

"Fine," Harry said, and then glanced between Pansy and Hermione. "Do I owe her an apology, too?" he asked Pansy, who rolled her eyes.

"Yes," she said, "several. Most considerably because whatever stupid thing we do next will have consequences that will keep her from the happiness she deserves, at least temporarily."

Ah, Hermione thought. So that was what the bad friend apology had been for.

"Who says you aren't part of my happiness?" she asked, feigning reprehension. "It matters to me that you, you know. Not marry Neville, for one," she said to Pansy, "and that you get your shit together," she said, turning to Harry. "Because clearly, you're a mess."

"You could have blocked it," Pansy added disapprovingly, lightly flicking the bruising beside his eye. "Honestly, Henry, I thought you had better reflexes."

"And to think, this is the eternity I've selected for myself," he informed her drily, and he didn't kiss her, didn't lean towards her—certainly made no motion to suggest any gesture of romance at all—but for a moment, Hermione noticed something between Pansy and Harry she hadn't catalogued before.

A spark.

Which, in her experience, was really all it took to become a flame.

So it hadn't been about her at all, Hermione determined, feeling guilty now for even considering it. She might have been part of how it started, but only in that she was the person Harry kissed just before he decided who would be his last.

Blissfully, she let it go; her confusion about Harry, her frustration with Pansy, all of it. She released it like an exhale, bidding it farewell and placing it securely behind her.

"Call Draco," Hermione suggested to them, "and you'll see that I'm right."

It was close enough to the truth, which was: I'm happy for you.

Not that her opinion really mattered.

"So sanctimonious," Pansy sniffed in reply, not taking her eyes from Harry's.

They met up again the following morning, by which point Daphne had recovered from her brief period of temper. "My humours were imbalanced," she said, "but I've decided to forgive you your heinous crime of sexual omission."

"You were on your honeymoon," Hermione pointed out, "and also, I was trying very hard to pretend it never happened."

"Fair," Daphne sniffed, "though, if it happens again, it will take at least twice as long for me to forgive you."

"Noted," Hermione said, observing that Blaise, who was wearing a wine-colored velvet suit, was languoring silently at Daphne's side. "And this?" she asked, gesturing pointedly between them. "Am I to assume this has been resolved?"

"Yes," said Blaise, and Hermione arched a brow at Daphne, who sighed.

"I'm weak," she grumbled in explanation. "It's not my fault. He just has very excellent cheekbones," she lamented, Blaise's lips curling up with smuggery, "and unfortunately, he does assign the points."

"I gave her two hundred in exchange for her forgiveness," Blaise clarified, "though I suspect it was the well-timed bottle of rosé that won her over."

"Don't be ridiculous, I can hardly be bought so cheaply," Daphne said.

"Cheaply? I stole that from Hortense," Blaise informed her, "which means my death is surely imminent."

Following Daphne's look of playful agreement, they both glanced briefly at Hermione, awaiting her reaction. Mostly, all she could conjure was an unwilling sigh.

"I'm still not happy about what you did," she said, and Blaise shrugged.

"I wouldn't expect you to be. I'm certainly not."

Hermione hesitated, unsure whether to venture the subject of Neville. "Are you two, um." She paused, hating that he was probably going to make her finish the sentence. "You know, you and, uh. Are you guys…"

Blaise gave her a markedly Cheshire smile. "Yes, New Tracey?"

"Well, I just. You know. I feel like we should know," she attempted. "I mean, if I'm going to have to interact with, well. His face," she concluded lamely, and Daphne stifled a giggle.

"I'll give you fifty points if you use your words," Blaise informed her, as Daphne slipped away with a roll of her eyes, joining Theo where he'd emerged from another room. "A hundred, even."

"Fine," Hermione said, folding her arms over her chest. "Are you and Neville dating now?"

"Ah, so succinct. One hundred it is," Blaise said, turning smugly to exit, though the moment Hermione let out a growl of disbelief, he retreated with a laugh, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "The answer to your question, New Tracey, is no," he assured her, shaking his head. "I don't think either of us will be seeing him again."

"I—" Hermione frowned, bemused. "Really? Because I was there, when he, you know—"

"Words," Blaise said, tapping her nose, and she swatted his hand.

"I heard you two," she said, warning him to honesty with a glance that said, under no uncertain terms, Don't play with me. "On Halloween, Blaise, I heard you two talking."

"I know." He sobered for a moment. "I'm not denying that I felt something for him. In fact, it's Neville who wants nothing to do with me," he explained, his voice carefully aloft, "though, I suppose it's for the better. I can hardly expect Pansy to want him around, can I?"

"But—" Hermione glanced up, watching his noticeably schooled expression. "What happened?"

Blaise shrugged. "A story better told another time, New Tracey. Perhaps over several bottles of stolen libations. But," he said, leaning over to brush his lips to the top of her head, "your concern for me, given everything, is worth well over a hundred, points-wise."

"Two hundred?" Hermione asked, optimistic.

"One hundred ninety-nine," he replied, "as there are some terms and conditions applied to Lady Nott's forgiveness."

She smiled hesitantly, pausing him before he released her to follow Daphne and Theo.

"I'm sorry," she said, one hand resting on the velvet of his suit. "Really, I am. It's not that I want you to be unhappy."

"What's to be unhappy about?" he asked her, feigning indifference. "At this rate, I'm hoping to make panicked elopements an annual occasion."

"Blaise," Hermione sighed, and he smiled thinly.

"Some things," he said, taking her hand in his, "are quite simply cursed from the start."

He brushed his lips across her knuckles, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.

"I'd rather have you," he said.

The collective you, he meant.

The royal you, as it were.

"Well," Hermione permitted, leaning into his shoulder, "then here's to happy endings, I suppose."

Draco met them at the church, waiting just inside the door to catch Hermione's arm before she passed.

"I don't suppose you already have a date, do you?" he asked her in an undertone, and she turned, giving him a playful look of scrutiny.

"I could be convinced," she said, "though, there's no need to punch anyone over it."

He grimaced, shaking his head. "Not my finest moment, I know."

"Not your worst, though," she assured him, letting him offer her his arm. "You didn't perform a musical number in advance of the whole, you know, abject violence thing. So yeah, it could have been worse."

"I really think that might have saved it," he commented ruefully, and she paused him, giving him a subtle tug towards her and brushing her lips against his cheek.

He leaned away with surprise, blinking down at her. "What was that for?"

"Nothing. Well, nothing I know about yet." At his look of confusion, she sighed, "I know you, Draco. I know there's something you're not telling me."

He slid her a glance, resuming their path inside. "And you're rewarding me for that?"

She shrugged. "I'll reward you later, maybe," she said. "When you inevitably confess."

"Who says I'm going to?"

"Just a hunch," she said, letting him guide her into the front pew ahead of him. "You're just a soft summer prince, you know. You can't really help what's in your nature."

"Ah, tragic," he sighed, "so you've sorted me, then."

"A little, yeah." She spared another glance at him. "I take it you and Harry talked?"

Draco nodded. "He tells me I have you to thank for that."

"Eh, I think Pansy would have convinced him eventually." She paused, waiting, and then, "You approve, don't you?"

"Hm, of this? Not what I pictured, I'll tell you that much." He glanced around the church, considering the context of its walls. "I never disapproved."

"Oh, stop it," Hermione scoffed. "I heard the fight, Draco, and no offense, but I'm not really that surprised you'd take your grandfather's side on this one."

"Mm." He seemed to be obscuring something; possibly something he'd confess to later. "Well, I'm pleased this is Pansy's choice. And I'm happy for Harry."

She raised a brow, doubtful. "Are you?"

His smile might have been faint, if not for the sun that shone in from the window. A gloomy morning, predictably, minus spurts of light that broke the clouds.

"Do me a favor," he said to her, leaning over to lower his voice. "When we leave, take the long way back to Sandringham."

"Sandringham?" She hadn't intended to go there, expecting instead to return to Theo's house with the others. "Why?"

He took her hand, tucking it under his arm again. "Because I'd like to walk with you, that's why."

Her now-practiced instincts sent up a flag of warning.

"People will see," she pointed out.

"Yes," he agreed. "But I'm having such a marvelous hair day," he informed her, giving her knuckles a gentle pulse of pressure, "and you look perfectly pleasant."

"But I—"

She hesitated, unsure about his intentions, which he must have suspected.

"I'll confess later," he promised her, turning his grey gaze to hers, "but for now, will you trust me?"

He cared deeply.

He trusted unconditionally.

He loved, unequivocally.

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but there was a tap on Draco's shoulder. "Ready?" asked Harry, giving Hermione a warm glance in greeting but quickly returning his attention to Draco.

Draco rose to his feet with a nod, buttoning his jacket and resting a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Of course," he said, and took a step, moving to join Harry at the altar just as Hermione's traitorous mouth fell open.

"Yes," she called after him, her voice slightly too loud, and Draco turned with a surprised half-smile, waiting for her to complete the thought. "Yes," she clarified, lowering her voice, "a walk would be nice."

He nodded, measured with his approval, and then turned away, Daphne slipping hastily into the seat he'd vacated beside her.

"Everyone is going to have to stop asking for emergency alterations," she hissed, turning to look at the doorway. "Honestly, if I have to do this one more time—"

"How does she look?" Hermione asked, just as Pansy materialized in the doors.

Her hand was tucked into Blaise's arm, her dark hair pulled back in a low chignon at the nape of her neck. She wouldn't have worn her hair down for this, not being that sort of woman, but still, her makeup was soft and quietly ethereal. She was glowing a little, her dark eyes on Harry's from afar.

"Perfect," Daphne breathed in answer, and Hermione nodded, completely in agreement.

Rather than wear the couture bridal gown she'd bought for her wedding to Neville, Pansy had opted to wear one of her own dresses, a dark green that brought out the warmth in her cheeks and, even from a distance, the color of Harry's eyes. It had been refitted slightly, accommodating the belly that didn't yet show (but the enviable breasts that definitely did), and the delicately off-the-shoulder design gave Pansy a subtle romanticism that was reflected well by the hesitant smile she wore as she walked, her fingers tight on Blaise's arm.

There wasn't a lot of fuss to the procession; Hermione guessed Pansy wouldn't have stood for any unnecessary ceremony. Pansy reached the altar quickly, releasing Blaise, and turned to Harry with something Hermione might have called nerves if she'd ever believed Pansy capable of possessing them.

"Are you sure it's me?" Hermione saw Pansy mouth, and in response, Harry's lips broke into a broad smile.

"Sure enough for both of us," he replied, and took her hand, the subtle motion of Draco's strained swallow just enough to catch Hermione's eye from afar.

Lucius slammed the newspaper down in front of Draco and Hermione, pausing while they glanced at the headline.

(It probably went without saying their pleasant meandering from the church had been rudely cut short upon arrival.)

"This," Lucius said, "is a version of what was published on the Internet late last night."

BITTER RIVALS COMMENCE ROYAL BRAWL! PRINCES CLASH AS BONDS OF CHILDHOOD FALL PREY TO TROUBLING ENMITY

"This," he said, tossing another down on top of it, "is from this morning."

BETRAYAL IS THE NEW BLACK! POSH TRIBE OF ENGLISH ELITE COMES UNDER FIRE FOR ADULTEROUS MISDEEDS

"And this," he concluded, adding a third to the pile with a grim look if dissatisfaction, "is what I've been told will publish Christmas Day."

HERMIONE GRANGER NOT AT FAULT FOR LATEST PUBLIC SLANDER, SAYS LADY BELLATRIX; ROYAL PROTOCOL A 'CRIPPLING AFFRONT TO MODERN WOMANHOOD'

"Looks like the palace has a leak," Hermione observed succinctly. "And anyway, this last one is true."

Draco coughed, nudging her, and she sighed, rolling her eyes and tacitly agreeing to silence.

"It's not a leak," Lucius muttered. "It's Bellatrix."

Briefly, Hermione recalled what she'd managed to forget over the course of the past twenty-four hours; the figure flitting out from the corridor after witnessing the fight between Harry and Draco.

"What possible reason could there be," Hermione began angrily, "for inviting Bellatrix here?"

Lucius gave her a look of unfiltered exasperation. "She wasn't—"

"She wasn't invited," came a voice behind them, and to Hermione's alarm, both Draco and Lucius shot to their feet, turning to drop into respective bows as she registered the late entry to their highly unwelcome conversation.

"Your Majesty," she said quickly, knocking her foot against the desk in her rush to curtsy and then wincing, hoping he hadn't noticed.

By the look on his face, he had.

"Miss Granger," he said, not unsmiling, and then gestured for his son and grandson to resume their seats, making his way into the room. "As I was saying, Bellatrix wasn't formally invited, but it appears people make their way in all the same," he remarked, giving her a look clearly intended to remind her that her presence, too, was hardly planned.

She grimaced, trying not to look too sulky, and he, similarly, appeared quietly entertained.

"Sit," he suggested, though from a king, suggestion was a loose term.

She sat.

"Did you have a nice walk?" he asked neutrally.

She and Lucius appeared to be equally distraught by the question.

"Sir, I really wasn't trying to—"

"Father, I was just about to tell them—"

"I'm merely asking," Abraxas said, resting a hand on his son's shoulders. "Relax," he told Lucius. "The last thing I need is for my heir to suffer another bout of palpitations, hm?"

Obediently, sort of, Lucius leaned against the back of his chair.

"Bellatrix's reasons for being here are unimportant," Abraxas said to Hermione, "though I do not think we will make the same mistakes again." He slid Lucius another glance, expressing something in silence this time, and then turned back to Draco and Hermione. "The walk?"

Hermione swallowed, and then managed, "Lovely."

"Excellent," Abraxas said. "And the wedding?"

Draco coughed sharply, choking for the duration of a millisecond.

Abraxas sighed, nudging Lucius over to perch on the arm of the chair.

"So," he said. "Harry is married, then."

Silence.

"Without my permission," Abraxas noted, "after I expressly told him I required some time to decide."

More silence.

"And I wasn't even invited," Abraxas added with a sigh, as Hermione fidgeted in her seat.

"Sir," she said, "as far as your permission—"

He glanced at her, and she stopped.

"Yes?" he prompted, and she let her attention flit briefly Draco, who gave her a shrug that said, Might as well try.

"I, um." She cleared her throat. "I see why you wouldn't want to give them your permission, given… all of this," she said, gesturing with as little flinching as humanly possible to the headlines Lucius had thrown upon the desk, "but please, Sir, they're our friends, and they really meant well. And Pansy, if you knew her—do you know her?" she asked, second-guessing herself, and Abraxas shook his head.

"Not well, I confess," he said, and Hermione nodded, reasserting her point.

"Well, then you don't know that Pansy—Lady Pansy, or, um—"

"Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Grimmauld," Draco supplied.

"If I allow it," Abraxas warned him, and then, to Hermione, "Go on."

She glanced again at Draco, who was mostly expressionless.

"If you don't know Pansy well," Hermione said again, carefully addressing the man she mentally reminded herself was the King of England, "then you might know she's usually the model aristocrat, but you couldn't possibly imagine what it's like to be one of the people she truly loves. She's fierce, she's tough and protective, but she's kinder than she seems, and she's brilliant and wholly, completely, incomprehensibly good, and at first you might think she's the bad kind of posh, but really, deep down, she's—"

She glanced at Draco, who was looking at his hands, vacantly smiling.

"She's just the most deserving person I know," Hermione finished, turning back to Abraxas. "And besides, you don't know the full story."

"No," Abraxas agreed, "I don't. It's a sensation I've become quite familiar with."

He considered her for a moment.

"What would you do, Miss Granger?" he said. "In my position, I mean."

Hermione frowned. "Me?"

"Yes, you," Abraxas confirmed. "You are my grandson's choice, are you not? Surely you have some meritable thoughts you might share with us."

"Oh, I'm not—" She broke off, not finding it worth getting into whether or not she was really Draco's choice at the moment. "I just meant I'm not sure I should be the one to decide."

"You won't decide," Abraxas assured her, "I will. But I have heard my son's position on the matter, and my grandson's, and Harry's, and now I would like to hear yours."

He leaned back, waiting. Hermione wasn't quite sure how sincere his interest was, judging it to be mostly not, but she could feel Draco radiating beside her, helplessly leaned forward out of curiosity for what she might say.

"I get the feeling there's something nobody wants to tell me," Hermione observed, deciding that whether he wished to hear it or not, King Abraxas was going to receive the full weight of her candor. "I take it that your approval of Harry and Pansy's marriage has something to do with me?"

Abraxas nodded. "As a direct inheriting heir, Draco will have to be free of any similar scandal. Such things take time to die."

At least he was doing her the favor of answering. "So if you approve of Pansy, you can't approve of me. Is that it?"

"Yes," Abraxas said. "An inelegant but mostly accurate assessment."

Beside her, Draco was carefully unmoving.

"That's why you didn't approve?" she asked him softly, turning to look at him, and Draco glanced up, dragging his thoughts away from something else.

"Yes," he said, and did not expand on the answer.

She doubted she would get anything further from him given their audience, and she was right.

"Should you choose to remain in a relationship with my son," Lucius began, but Abraxas cut him off, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Miss Granger," he said, addressing her directly, "I do not pretend to know or understand your affection for Draco, nor do I expect you to understand what it is to rule a country's affairs. What I do know is that you are not a conventional choice, and therefore your presence at his side will come with qualifications. Our family has served this country with devotion and care for generations," he reminded her, "and while there is, understandably, a certain fascination with being part of it, the reality of our position is that it is—"

"A job," Hermione said. "One that I'm unqualified to hold."

She managed to say it without bitterness, and Abraxas nodded.

"You understand, then," he said. "I cannot permit your relationship with my grandson to be public knowledge until I'm comfortably assured you are fit for the role at his side. He is not a celebrity," he warned. "He is not a fairy tale. He is a man who will be a king."

"I'm aware," Hermione said, catching the motion of Draco's hands tightening. "I'm also aware that it's a very lonely position, isn't it?" she asked, glancing at Lucius. "I imagine it can be so lonely that at times you feel you have no choice but to turn to someone who makes the world feel right again," she said, making Bellatrix's implied presence in the conversation as much a threat as an offering of sympathy before slowly returning her attention to Abraxas, "and what a shame, isn't it? That the only qualifications you value in a woman might mean both your son and your grandson will have severed their hearts from themselves for the rest of their devoted, public-serving lives."

"You forget yourself," Abraxas warned, and Hermione shook her head.

"You asked my thoughts, Your Majesty," she said, "but I think you know perfectly well it would be cruel to withhold your approval of Harry and Pansy. In fact, every minute you do nothing subjects them to the whims of Rita Skeeter," she pointed out, "and everyone in this room knows that's a punishment without equal."

"And you?" Abraxas prompted. "You would have me show favor to your friends rather than yourself?"

She gave him a look that promised, categorically, she would choose Pansy's happiness over her own every time.

"Let your conscience dictate as it must, Your Majesty," Hermione said. "I've spoken mine."

She turned to look at Draco, who was watching her in silence.

"I'll wait," she told him in an undertone, and for a moment, a little glimpse of something broke through his carefully constructed facade.

A little sun through the clouds.

Which was promptly disrupted by Lucius.

"Return to service," he said to his son. "You've carried the burden of my position long enough. It's time I returned to it."

He glanced momentarily at his father, who said nothing.

"I won't deny having my own wrongs to right," Lucius admitted slowly, "but if you wish to repair the damage to your reputation—"

"I do," Draco said. "I will."

Abraxas nodded, approving. "Very well. We'll speak again at dinner?"

A King's dismissal.

"Yes, Grandfather," Draco said. "I'll take Hermione back to Theo's, and then we can discuss my future this evening, if you wish."

His knee nudged hers; a tiny, juvenile gesture to indicate the equivalent of having had his fingers crossed.

"Well, off you go, then," Abraxas said, giving Hermione a look of expectancy. "A pleasure as always, Miss Granger."

"The pleasure," Hermione said, "is all mine."

She curtsied. Draco bowed. He led her out of the office, waiting until the doors had shut behind him, and then gave her an apologetic glance.

"I, honestly," he exhaled, "didn't mean for that to happen."

She already knew as much, and was considerably less interested in his apology than she was in a number of other things. "You wanted us to go for a walk so people would see us together publicly in advance of your grandfather's decision," she said, "is that it?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Then he gestured for her to keep walking, drawing his hand slowly back to his side.

"It was the only thing I could think to do," he confessed in a low voice. "Whether my grandfather approved Harry's marriage or not, I didn't want to chance Rita Skeeter writing about how I'd put you aside."

"Why does it matter?"

"It mattered once," Draco reminded her, giving her a look that plainly expressed the volumes of their past he hadn't forgotten. "It mattered to you once, and whether it matters now or not, I won't make the same mistake again."

It was time for the truth, Hermione thought. On both sides. The walk from the church had been pleasant, both of them occupying the time with mindless chatter, but clearly, now was the time to have it out.

"Draco," she said, pausing as she noticed a door to an empty sitting room. "Can we, um—?"

"Yes, of course," he said, ushering her inside and closing the door behind him. "Believe me, Hermione, you have every right to be cross with me, or to have questions—"

"Just one, actually," she told him.

He pivoted slowly from the doors, facing her with a look of careful apprehension.

"Ask me," he said.

"I—"

She considered it.

I still don't understand why you were so angry, she thought. I know you, Draco, I know you through and through, I know every beat of your heart and I don't understand, it doesn't make sense, why are you so angry?

But none of that came out of her mouth.

"I'm never going to love anyone the way I love you," she sighed, "am I?"

He gave her a look like he would have taken it from her if he could have, or perhaps carried the entire weight of it himself.

"I hope not," he said, and swallowed. "I know I certainly won't."

She sat down slowly, lowering herself into the embroidered chair behind her, but for all her deliberation, she couldn't shake the feeling she'd just crash-landed into some monumental pillar of inevitability.

"Why?" she finally managed. "Were you upset because it was Pansy?"

He shook his head.

"Because of what Harry said?"

"No. Kind of, but no."

She hesitated, and then, "Because of me?"

"Yes. But not the way you think," he said, and then, after a moment, he qualified it with, "Which is obvious, I imagine, because we both know you and I aren't anything at the moment."

She was the one who'd decided that, she remembered, watching his attention shift to his hands.

It had been her, all along, who'd been hesitant.

But at the moment, all her reasons fell away like scales from the central tenet of her truths.

"Draco," she sighed, "we've always been something."

He looked up, surprised.

"Forget something," she corrected herself with a laugh, "we've always been the whole damn thing, haven't we? The moment you showed up in my life—the moment you stepped into that hall at Hogwarts—you have been the thing, and you know what?"

She looked at him, at the face she'd so long fought not to miss, and shook her head.

"If you thought having to wait would drive me away, then let me give you this, Draco. Let me give you something. Because when the time comes—and it will come," she promised him, "I swear, I will be sure enough for the both of us."

He looked at her in silence for several long moments.

Long enough to make her wonder if she'd said the wrong thing.

Longer, even, than it took to wish to retract it, only she didn't.

Then, to her relief, Draco finally stepped forward, producing something from his jacket pocket.

He set it down on the table beside her, addressing her in a voice even she strained to hear.

"I am angry," he explained, as Hermione stared in disbelief at the small black box, "because I wasn't ready yet. Because I needed more time to win you over. To convince you, which I had every intention to do. But I thought… I don't know, a few months? Maybe that was ambitious of me," he admitted, and she couldn't take her eyes from the box.

Not very many things came in a box that precise size and shape.

"Maybe it was foolish of me to think it would happen so soon," Draco continued, "but I suppose it's fair to say I am unused to other people taking precedence. I simply thought there would be a day when I would ask and you would agree, and until Harry called me into my grandfather's office yesterday, I thought that day would happen months from now, not years."

She waited for him to say they were earrings.

He didn't.

"As it turns out, though," he said, "you and I are equally sure."

He reached forward, about to snap open the lid of the box, and she quickly caught his hand, stopping him.

"No," she said. "I'm not ready to see it yet."

He exhaled slowly, almost raggedly, but nodded, retracting his hand from hers.

"I understand," he said, his voice falling to a mechanized dullness. "Like I said, it wasn't supposed to be now, but—"

"Ask me," she interrupted, and he blinked.

"But I thought you—"

"Just see what I say," she told him. "Win me over, sure, take your time, but ask me. You deserve to know what my answer will be," she promised him, and she could see his pulse racing, darting in the hollow of his throat.

"Hermione, I—"

"Hermione Jean Granger," she reminded him. "Use my full name."

He swallowed hard. "I haven't asked your father—"

"He doesn't own me, you stupid prince, and this isn't the real thing. Just ask me," she said, her heart thudding in her chest, "and try to mean it, because the next time you ask me, it probably won't be about us. It'll be, you know. About your father, your grandfather. Your country. We'll do some dumb interview with Rita Skeeter, probably, so make sure this one is good. Make sure it's quiet."

She stepped forward, brushing her thumb over his cheek.

"Ask me like it's just you and me," she said, "and nothing else."

In retrospect, maybe it had sounded stupid. She could certainly see how it might be hugely impractical, promising something that was hardly a promise at all, but at the time, she was less concerned with what she was asking and more with what asking would mean. She wasn't thinking diamonds or tiaras or gowns; she was thinking, you, Draco, and me, and do it because you want to, because you were noble when you could have been selfish, because you love me best by being who you are.

Because we deserve to have a moment defined by nothing else but us.

He was old-fashioned by default; divine right and all that. He lowered himself to one knee, looking up at her with the unopened box held loosely, symbolically, in one hand.

"Hermione Jean Granger," he said. "Will you marry me?"

Someday, she thought, this will be the best love story nobody else gets to hear.

This will be the story no one else gets to touch, because it's ours, yours and mine.

"Yes," she promised him, and drew his chin up for a kiss. "Yes, Draco, I will."

That was the first time he proposed to me.

The second time would be a lot more public, and minus one very aggressive show of opposition that would be carefully left out of our televised interview, everyone on earth would have access to every tiny, inconsequential fracking detail of what he said and what I said back and what I wore, and for months afterward, the most common clickbait on the internet would be, "You'll never believe Hermione Granger's real name." (It's Hermione. Yeah. That was the whole thing.) For six months, the dress Daphne picked out for me would be sold out across the globe, and as a joke, my mother would send me the Christmas ornament with my face on it that she actually—for real, not kidding—picked up at a CVS in central California.

But hey, that wouldn't be for a while. Like you can probably guess, there are still one or two secrets left to tell.

a/n: Sorry about last week, I got trapped in a blizzard. I also posted a new one shot in Amortentia yesterday (Chapter 134: You Make My Dreams) but other than that, just happy to not be in Iowa. (Sorry to any Iowans, but… move away from where u are. I say this because I care about u.)

Thank you as always for reading!

32. Trap

Chapter 32: Trap

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Not With a Bang

The marriage of the Duke and Duchess of Grimmauld marked a subtle turning point for Prince Draco and Hermione, due in large part to the stir caused by the whirlwind romance between Prince Harry and Lady Pansy Parkinson. It was rumoured that the pair, burdened by accusations of immorality, had married without the consent of His Majesty—a rather unsurprising suspicion, given the quaking scandal following the abrupt end to Lady Pansy's engagement to Neville Longbottom. However, the Palace later released a statement confirming that His Majesty had, indeed, been privy to Prince Harry's plans to wed his childhood friend and secret sweetheart, and expressed in dignified tones the exuberance with which King Abraxas was most pleased for the happy couple.

The repeal of the Royal Marriages Act of 1772 was a quiet afterthought to the whirlwind private marriage, particularly against the backdrop of

(Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Jamie is worth a bit more than a few lines of Rita Skeeter's nonsense, of course.)

whose christening was a rather spectacular affair. In fact, 2015 proved to be a banner year for the extended Royal Family, despite relative silence from Prince Draco and Hermione.

It was a quiet year, actually. No accidental pregnancies, almost no major feuds, only one or two threats and ultimatums. Forgettable, really.

(Just kidding. Obviously.)

December 31, 2014
Norfolk, England

"…three…two…one…HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Hermione turned to Draco, lifting her chin, and he gave her a kiss she'd begun to categorize in a mental file marked contentment. It was mostly a matter of brevity, lacking any of the particular mystery she associated with other kisses; most recently, for example, the kiss upon which they had sealed a secret not-engagement, not-betrothed as they now were. Rightfully, that was something preserved between the two of them, and an occasion like this one, surrounded by their friends, was hardly an opportunity for Hermione to remind Draco he owed her something.

Many things.

Specifically, the variety of things he should be doing to her upstairs, if he had any sense. Which he apparently didn't.

"You're doing it again," he murmured to her, giving her a laughing nudge, and she grimaced. Evidently she'd been undressing him with her eyes again. Or unconsciously trying to do it with her hands. Who could tell the difference.

"You should write a book," she muttered in response, never quite sure she was fully feigning agitation. She was a sensual woman! Sexual frustration made her voice ever so slightly shrill. "However you're managing all this restraint, it should be patented and sold. People need it."

"I told you, it's a matter of principle," he said, criminally unseductive. "Principally speaking, I can't possibly bed you until I've won you. It's chivalrous or something."

"Or something," Hermione huffed in confirmation, her gaze falling on where Theo and Daphne were sitting across the room. "Personally, I could do with less chivalry and more of… whatever that is," she informed Draco, gesturing, and in the same moment, Daphne tugged Theo closer, one of her hands curling around the back of his neck. Upon closer inspection, though, Hermione noted the other of Daphne's hands had been rather inconspicuously concealed. "Well. On second thought, maybe not."

"That," Draco observed with interest, "is marriage, evidently."

"Doubtful," Hermione informed him, turning her attention to where Harry and Pansy were sitting together, dutifully not touching. They seemed to have settled into the knowledge their lives were about to change quite drastically, and it had manifested in a noticeable exclusion from the usual ruckus. Pansy had spoken very little, perhaps a result of Rita Skeeter's tumultuous storm of criticism against her, and Harry, reacting to his new wife's quiet, had fixed his attention solely on her.

Even Hermione now had to admit Abraxas' concern about approving Harry and Pansy's marriage had been valid. Archaic though it was, his certainty that the media would take great pleasure in skewering Pansy for her role as the amoral villain in Neville's story was deeply, depressingly accurate. Countless articles had already been released questioning Pansy's fitness as a royal, and even that was hardly the worst of it. The most troubling of all topics at the moment were the rumors of a feud between Hermione and Pansy, which were not remotely aided by Lady Bellatrix Lestrange.

It is a pity that, in this day and age, women should still be pitted against each other as rivals, said Bellatrix in the article released by Rita Skeeter shortly after Harry and Pansy's wedding, but there can be no denying that the assumption of the HRH title by the former Lady Pansy Parkinson will be an obstacle for Hermione Granger to overcome. The Royal Family's expectations for womanhood border on canonical sainthood, which is not only impractical, but impossible.

Are the women who marry into the Royal Family expected to be absent any trace of sin? Impractically, I see no reason to believe otherwise. It may appear that the Duchess of Grimmauld is evidence to the contrary, but I would argue that Lady Pansy's ascension to prominence is evidence of little beyond the status quo. Prince Henry, for all he is beloved by the media, will likely never be king, and therefore however much the Duchess of Grimmauld may fall short, it is unlikely she will be anything but fleetingly tawdry.

Unfortunately, what looks like progress is, in this case, quite the opposite. Lady Pansy, for all her recent ills, is still a member of an ancient noble family. She belongs to the aristocratic class, and she is the product of antiquity and wealth, well-born and well-educated. Whatever she does, and however unholy she has been, she can still only be marginally scorched; that, and she is no outspoken critic of much of anything, nor does she challenge the preserved state of the monarchy in any meaningful way.

My prediction, given the controversy with Pansy and Harry, is that we will soon see less and less of Hermione. As far as I can tell, King Abraxas' approval of Duchess Pansy is proof that Queen Hermione will never be permitted to exist.

Hermione hated to admit it, but Bellatrix made some excellent points. Pansy's current slander was, at best, about the alleged affair she committed for love—which, while certainly scandalous, was no real threat to Abraxas or his heirs. Hermione, on the other hand, stood to challenge everything about the English class system. She was an American, without the proper sanctity of noble blood. Her parents were dentists, not lords. She was a journalist, not an heiress. That her children would be born to the titles of princes and kings was… historically, not awesome.

Hermione was beginning to wonder if Abraxas' intimation of concern for her relationship with Draco had really been a very sly, very clever trick. She had believed his approval of Pansy a personal favor to her rather than the other way around, but there was currently no telling whether she'd been right.

"I lost you," Draco observed, and Hermione blinked, more than a little remorseful to find she had been staring at Pansy. He slid an arm around her, burying his lips in her hair. "I told you not to think so much about that article. Bellatrix is evidently cleverer than I thought," he lamented with a sigh, "and she has a way of manipulating people, it seems. My father is living proof."

That much was undeniable. Hermione still couldn't imagine what possessed Prince Lucifer to speak to his one-time inamorata, given everything that had happened since her husband's death.

"Sorry," she exhaled, glancing up at Draco with something she hoped was sufficiently remorseful. "It's still a little fresh, I guess."

"I know." He looked around for a moment, taking stock of the rest of the room; Blaise was reclined on the floor at Pansy's feet, and Theo and Daphne, apparently resolved of whatever mischief they'd been up to, had wandered over to drape on either side of Harry and Pansy. "Come on," Draco said to Hermione, motioning for her to be quiet as he took her hand, and then he pulled her into the corridor, pausing just on the other side of the wall.

He pressed her against it, her shoulders locked against damask walls, and lowered his mouth to hers as she gasped; a little startled, a little voracious, and entirely thrilled. She twisted her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, and he responded with a nip at her lips, a slip of tongue, and a stifled laugh.

"Are you sure you have to go?" she whispered, and he shook his head.

"Say the word and I won't," he told her. "My grandfather can put me in the Tower, I don't care."

"Lot of good that does me," she muttered, digging her nails into the vertebrae along the back of his neck. "Are those my only choices?"

"Of course not." They were both breathless, quietly exhilarated. "We could flee the country. Become jewel thieves."

"Not you," she scoffed. "You have no applicable skills, Your Highness."

"I beg to differ," he said, and in punishment, he gave her hair a furtive yank, tracing his lips along the side of her neck. "I make a very persuasive lure."

"Not that helpful for a heist," she gasped, fumbling to remove the tails of his shirt from their trousered prison and putting her very capable hands to pebbled skin. "What even are your skills? Diplomacy?" she guessed, irreverently toying with the band of his underwear. "What I need is a hacker. Or, you know, someone who can pick locks—"

"I worry you've given this too much thought," he remarked, and then, abruptly, he removed her hands from his pants, taking a step back. "Slow down," he said, and she scowled at him, wrestling herself free.

"Why? I've already told you I want to be with you, Draco—"

"I know, I know, I just—" He shook himself, staring into space and probably counting backwards from a thousand, or thinking of Theo's dad's bollocks. "I told you, not yet. It's good right now, and I don't want to rush things."

Hermione permitted herself a long, hungry look at him, cataloguing him in pieces: the pale hair that stood on end, a consequence of her greedy fingers. His untucked shirt, his undone belt, his amorous indiscretion. His eyes were somehow both bleary and bright, dazed and clear, and directed at anything but her. As if looking at her might undo him further.

That wouldn't do. "Draco," she said, and his grey gaze fell on hers, and she shivered.

Every recent touch had been extravagance, opulence incarnate as much as it had been nothing at all. His hand brushing her waist, the small of her back. The angling of his hips toward hers. A graze of his knee, his elbow. The way she would indicate something and he would lean closer, the smell of his cologne turning her perfectly respectable thoughts to rapidly disoriented fog. The mere motion of his lips—parting or smiling or put to the tranquility of glass—was electrifying. He was onto something with all this waiting, if that something was his intent to kill her slowly. Even now, just the rustle of clothing on the other side of a wall from their closest friends was enough to paralyze her judgment. She wanted him so badly, so raucously, and with such insuppressible longing it echoed like madness, rattling around inside her bones.

At least she wasn't alone. "Don't," he said, though he took her wrists and locked them beside her head, pausing to scour her face with a manic glance. Welcome to sexual delirium, Hermione thought. Occupancy: two. "Don't," he repeated, and caught her lips with something breathy and slow, gradually progressing. A rumination, a provocation that grew to a blow, a collision.

"Don't?" she echoed doubtfully, and he shook his head, releasing her hands to take her face between his palms.

"Don't," he confirmed, but he was holding her tightly, grasping for her curls and deepening the kiss as she wrapped her fingers aimlessly around the backs of his elbows, forbidding him to release her.

What a disaster they were. There were so many avenues of fates she might have lived, all of them just fine without him, but none of those were real. She had told him the truth; the moment she'd met him, she was done for. So was he. Oh, so with someone else it could be easy? What was easy? Probably nothing. She didn't want easy or soft or slow. This was so much better, the taste of foregone acquiescence on her devastated tongue. What a tragedy they were for anyone but them. For anyone who would never know the way it felt, just giving in.

"Come on," she whispered, "give it up. You don't want to wait either."

He grimaced. "Don't I?"

"No." She wrenched his head back with a sigh. "Unless you want to go into the Royal Air Force having been celibate for months."

"Suffering is important, Miss Granger. I lack sufficient trauma."

Good, she thought, I'd save you from all of it. "Careful what you wish for."

"Only ever you." His lips were on her throat again, his hands on her waist. "Always you."

Jesus balls almighty. "How's tonight for a second-first time?"

"Can't." He slid the neckline of her dress down, tongue slipping between fabric and skin.

"Can't?"

"Won't." Bastard. Her entire body throbbed. "Can't-won't."

"Could, though."

"Mm-mm."

"Oh," she exhaled, "well, in that case—"

She shoved him away, hard, and he stumbled. She watched him struggle to regain his footing, dizzily, and then smile at her, crookedly. His expression was so swept up and lost and perfect she positively fucking ached.

"Thanks," he rasped, scraping a hand over his cheeks, his lips, his jaw. She wished she were dumber, or at least less imaginative. She could see that mouth on every part of her, all over her, all of the time.

"No problem," she gritted through her teeth, lyingly. "Just trying to help."

"Yes. Good. Noted." He was unfairly handsome, the asshole. "What were we saying?"

"I believe I was telling you to go," she sniffed, and his smile broadened.

"No, you weren't. You were telling me to stay."

He crept towards her again, one step and then another. He was looking at her with softness now, or something close to it. Less like he wanted her tied to his headboard, anyway, and more like he wanted to kiss her feet, or cook her dinner. Like he wanted to sing her to sleep.

"Yeah," she said, "maybe. I don't know." She looked away, feigning disinterest. "Sounds familiar."

His lips met her cheek. "It'll be different this time," he told her. "You have your work, your job." He rested his forehead against hers, solemnly promising, "I'll write you love letters."

"Letters, really?"

"Yes. And poetry. Like King Henry to Anne Boleyn."

"That story ends poorly," she reminded him, and he chuckled.

"Does it? I can't recall."

"I heard she takes a lover and leaves him for the beaches of Spain."

"Well, that won't do." He kissed her again, slower this time. "Say the word and I won't go," he said to her lips, and she shook her head.

"Go. You need to."

"Do I?"

It was another thing Abraxas had unintentionally convinced her. "Yes. You have a reputation to uphold, things to learn. You're going to be king."

Another kiss, playful. "Am I?"

"Allegedly. Unless you stay here with me, and then no."

"And do you want my alleged throne, Miss Granger?"

She leaned away, resting her head against the wall, and placed a hand squarely on the beat of his quietly pulsing heart.

"It's a pretty chair," she said. "A little gaudy for my tastes, but I think I could make it work."

He paused for a moment, accommodating a smile, and then he laughed, taking her hand and pulling her knuckles to his lips, grateful.

"Maybe by the end of this year, things will be different," he said, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "All this Harry and Pansy stuff will have died down, I'll be finished with active service." He laced his fingers with hers. "One more year?"

"Yes." She could do a year. What hurry was she in? Maybe not a year without sex, but she'd cross that bridge when she got to it. "Okay. One more year."

"Ready?" asked Daphne.

"Ready," Hermione confirmed, and turned to Pansy, who was sourly wrapping her scarf around her neck and glancing impatiently at her feet.

"Frankly, I'd rather die," Pansy sighed, and Daphne shrugged.

"Should've used a condom, Pans."

"I will murder you," was the Duchess of Grimmauld's tight response, and Daphne smiled broadly.

"Off we go, then," she said, patting Hermione's knee and cheerfully throwing open the car door.

The day of Daphne's first show coincided with the start of Pansy's second trimester, which Pansy unhappily informed them was the period in which nausea began transmuting to a more tangible discomfort. More woeful, though—or at least more collectively woeful—was the coordinated effort to make it clear Hermione and Pansy were not, in fact, feuding, which had been a nonstop source of interest for the press.

The only basis for said feud, aside from Bellatrix' suggestion it should exist, was the argument that Pansy and Hermione's public appearances had noticeably decreased—which, unfortunately, wasn't exactly invalid. Pansy had spent the weeks following her wedding as something of a recluse, attempting to hide her pregnancy until it became more likely the baby hadn't been conceived during her engagement to Neville. Daphne had been the one to suggest they both join her at her show, assuring them the only photography at the event sans-winter coats would be of the show itself.

Pansy, ever the aristocrat, was carefully expressionless as she stepped out of the car, joining Hermione with a perfectly curated look of pleasantry. The camera flashes were blinding; the paparazzi had clearly done their research, knowing it was likely that both royal-adjacent women would be attending. Pansy and Hermione paused, acknowledging the media, as Daphne made her way directly inside.

To Pansy's credit, she complained very little about her newfound fame/perpetual harassment. Hermione had waited, initially, for any evidence that the invasive media attention she had dealt with on her own for years—and which Pansy had retained little sympathy for—would disrupt Pansy's already tenuous state of existence, but Lady Seven-Names was inscrutable to the last. All indications of agitation were violently suppressed, manifesting in absolutely no visible discomfort until they entered the building.

"You okay?" Hermione asked, catching a little blip of misery through Pansy's mask. She couldn't even bring herself to feel smug at the knowledge the tables had turned, knowing how unpleasant it could be. "It'll be fun, you know, getting out of the house for a bit. Blaise says you haven't been doing much."

Pansy and Harry were now living in Grimmauld Place, the house in London which had belonged to Harry's godfather. True to form, Pansy had rendered the previously vacant house immaculately livable in a matter of days, even before Theo and Daphne had finished their languid process of renovating. Unfortunately, not everything had been as straightforward as home improvement; Harry's attempt to finagle an early return to London from his emergency leave was currently an ongoing process. He would be in and out of the city until early summer, which meant Pansy and Blaise had returned to their previous state of near-inseparability.

"Blaise," Pansy scoffed, "is wrong."

She glanced warily around before removing her coat, giving her own body a tight-lipped glance of disapproval. Her attempts to conceal her pregnancy were mostly effective so long as nobody bothered to closely take stock, but there was no doubt her current means for concealment was a departure from her usual style. It bothered her, Hermione was fairly sure, that her first appearances as a royal made it appear her taste was… bulky. Oversized. Anything but the distinguished sleekness she'd specialized in for twenty-five years.

Pansy caught Hermione following her gaze, grimacing. "It's not that I don't want to be here," she said. "Obviously, I want to be present, particularly in the event Daphne's collection requires any restraint—you know how she gets with pleats." Hermione rolled her eyes, and Pansy half-smiled. "Your concern for me is admirable, Hermione, if entirely misplaced. My only apprehension is that at the moment," she said, gesturing somewhat wryly to the clothes Hermione knew Pansy wished she wasn't wearing, "the last thing I want is to see—"

"Ah, bonjour, mes belles amies!" exclaimed a delighted Fleur, who gathered Pansy in her arms the moment she crossed the threshold. "I can't tell you what a relief it is you've finally arrived, Gabrielle has been busy with fittings all morning." She pulled Hermione into a subsequent embrace, smelling like her usual mix of sensuality and sophistication, and immediately, Hermione understood Pansy's unusual reticence to see her. Fleur, Hermione noted, was wearing something Pansy probably wished she had on: a tailored blazer dress paired with mile-high stiletto heels that sent her perfect figure towering gracefully over both of them. "How are you both?"

Hermione, gratefully, was able to answer easily. "Really good, actually."

"Oh?" Fleur looked blissfully pleased. "The writing is going well, then?"

"Yes, very." Hermione's new clients had increased, and the demand from her existing clients was already quite high. By the time she paused her work for her nightly phone call with Draco, she was usually happily exhausted. She was, as she regularly told him, the good kind of drained. Inspired was probably the better word, though there was no escaping the fact that it was work. "There's going to be an article about one of my clients next month, actually, if you feel like picking up a copy of Astronomy magazine."

"Ah, I love the stars," Fleur declared, smiling broadly and turning to Pansy. "And you, Your Highness?"

"I'm well, thank you," Pansy said, opting not to elaborate, though the effect of her repression did little to dim Fleur's pleasure in seeing them.

"And everyone else?" Fleur pressed them. "How is Blaise since we last spoke?"

Hermione and Pansy exchanged a glance. "Well, he's… mostly his usual self," Hermione answered Fleur on their mutual behalf, "but you know how he is."

Fleur leaned closer, dropping her voice. "Have things not… improved?"

Hermione shook her head. "He won't tell us what happened. Won't tell me, anyway," she clarified, looking at Pansy, who shook her head. "And apparently not Pansy, either."

"I must say, it's been quite the gossip, even in France," Fleur said, looking concerned.

Unsurprising, Hermione thought. Obviously, Augusta had miscalculated when she initially leaked Pansy's behavior to the press; she had even less idea than the rest of them that her grandson was being put aside for Prince Harry, but the moment she discovered it, she had clearly cut off all communication with the media. Neville remained the subject of some attention, still painted as the victim of Pansy's treachery, but he appeared in public very infrequently. Last any of them had heard, Neville and his grandmother had departed for one of their country estates around the holidays.

Blaise had managed to escape any mention, naturally. In the media's eyes, this was all some sort of intersection between royal-adjacent feuds: Draco and Harry, Harry and Neville, Pansy and Hermione. Their friends, including Fleur, knew better. Blaise was covering his heartache well, taking refuge in his renewed friendship with Pansy, but it was unmistakably present. Neville's name hadn't been spoken aloud for weeks.

"And Harry?" Fleur asked, turning to Pansy.

She, to Hermione's surprise, visibly softened. "He's… quite well," she said, somewhat tentatively. Even with hesitation, though, it was the one subject she seemed willing to expand on, adding, "He's impossible to live with, of course. Terribly messy, mostly unconcerned with any sort of ritualized behavior, recklessly amicable with the staff. I tell him constantly they will have no reason to listen to us if he continues as he does, but of course he hears approximately none of what I tell him unless he wants to. Not to mention the other day I found his toothbrush in the kitchen sink. And the motorbikes," Pansy sighed. "There are more than I expected. I'd always thought that was something Blaise and Draco exclusively shared, but it appears not."

"Once a rogue, always a rogue," Fleur said fondly. "I must say, I always wondered what sort of woman Harry would find himself with."

"A beleaguered one," Pansy said firmly, though it was markedly transparent. Harry was the one subject she had discussed with any pleasure in weeks; however much irritation she feigned, Harry was obviously the highlight of her narrative. "I'm quite pleased he's away until March."

Hermione made a note to spend extra time with Pansy until Harry's return. Obviously she was missing him, which they both knew she would never admit.

"And you?" Pansy asked Fleur, always polite. "Are you still seeing the rugby player?"

"Who, Krum? No, he's quite busy, and I wasn't willing to travel so often to Bulgaria. Tragically, it's another Englishman," Fleur said, looking playfully disappointed with herself. "I seem to have a weakness for them, though it's a son of a diplomat this time."

"Oh?" Pansy said, surprised. "Not Diggory, is it?"

"Yes, in fact. Do you know him?"

Hermione tuned them out, looking around at Daphne's handiwork for what would be the first major reveal of the Daphne Nott line. It wasn't a traditional fashion show, as Daphne had already informed her (and her devoted audience, via S.P.E.W.), but it was certainly impressive. Daphne had created something of a winter wonderland inside a large, high-ceilinged, glass-covered atrium, the winding path of which would feature a few live models while the rest of her winter line was draped over mannequins. The jewel of her collection was allegedly the dress designed for Gabrielle Delacour, which had somehow managed to remain a secret only Theo had seen. For the most part, Daphne had stuck to a common theme of opposition: chains and leather details on delicate rose-colored lace, jewel-toned embellishments on patterns of tweed and houndstooth, Victorian necklines with ultra-modern sheer paneling. Hermione hardly had the credentials to comment on the fashion itself, but she had to agree with Daphne's eye. The white of the fake snow made the colors especially decadent.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Her Royal Highness," Theo drawled, wandering up behind them and giving Pansy a perfunctory bow. "Never thought I'd be delivering that line unironically, but here we are. Fleur," he added, giving her a pleasant nod (they'd met several times since their breakup and had transitioned, somehow, to friendship, probably aided by their mutual interest in Daphne), before settling his attention on Hermione. "Oh, hi Cali," he mused as an afterthought, pretending to mistake her for a houseplant, and she grabbed his arm, dragging him away.

"They're talking society," Hermione whispered to him, stepping onto the path Daphne had created and dusting some iridescent snowfall from her sleeve. "I just don't have it in me, I'm afraid."

"Something bothering you?" Theo asked, glancing down at her, and she rolled her eyes.

"No, Theodore, I'm fine. You can even tell Draco I said so."

"I don't report to him," Theo sniffed, though at a glare from Hermione, he amended, "Fine. I don't report to him until our predetermined hour of reconnaissance. Are you quite pleased with yourself now?"

"Yes, very," she said, pausing before a mannequin wearing a floral-printed dress structured into the shape of a tightly-bound corset, draped with thin onyx chains. "Hmm. Could I wear this?"

"Well, Greengrass called it 'medieval peasant, but fashion'—so no, I doubt it, no."

Theo was smiling vacantly. Above or around them, Hermione suddenly became conscious of the quiet sound of piano; specifically, the Philip Glass album Theo typically put on while he was reading. He was looking at the dress designed by his wife, one hand in his trouser pocket with the other amicably looped through Hermione's, pleasantly at rest. She, whimsically, could easily step outside the moment to see how very, very far he'd come from that strange moment of ranting in their university lecture hall, when he would have been utterly incapable of envisioning this for himself.

She nudged him. "You're a real grown-up now, aren't you?" she asked, and he frowned down at her.

"That seems so exceedingly unlikely I can't think how you might have arrived there," he remarked, mildly insulted. "Certainly don't tell Greengrass. She'll think I've improved, and then where will we be—"

"I think I'd like to grow up a bit myself," Hermione sighed, and then Theo's expression turned from playfully serious to intently so. "What?" she demanded, and he shook his head, patting her hand and wheeling her around to return them to the momentum of the path.

"You set all of us in motion, you know," he said. "We all see it, even if you don't."

She glanced up at him, surprised. "What's that supposed to mean?"

His response was flippant, evasive. "Oh, you know."

"No, actually, I don't. You're her muse," Hermione said, gesturing to Daphne's work, "and she's yours, isn't she?"

Theo's mouth twitched, then stilled. She would think about his response for the rest of the day, once she had taken her seat beside Pansy, Fleur, and an unsurprisingly late Blaise—"Yes, hello, is this where the tigers will be?" shout-whispered Hortense, at which point Thibaut realized they were not, in fact, at the zoo, and the two of them slipped noisily out—and until the moment Gabrielle Delacour stepped out in Daphne's final gown.

"You'll see," Theo had advised, "if you're looking closely enough," and surprisingly, she did.

The last gown was instantly recognizable, even for Hermione. It was a surprising departure from the rest of Daphne's collection in that it was relatively unembellished, worn without jewelry or any particular styling. Gabrielle's hair, normally a stick-straight platinum blonde, had been curled and left voluminous, teased at the crown, and the dress itself was an obvious homage to a modernized, updated version of Princess Narcissa's Dior slip dress, complete with the high slit and restructured bodice Daphne had once constructed on the fly for Hermione.

This gown, though, was a different color. Instead of Narcissa's emerald green, this one was ruby red—brilliantly, gloriously, flamingly red—and beside Hermione, Pansy leaned over, murmuring in her ear.

"It's you," she said, smiling to herself, and Hermione, surprised by Pansy's warmth, smiled in response, reaching out impulsively to take Pansy's hand. She expected Pansy to pat her knuckles politely, or to brush her aside, but to her amazement, Pansy took hold of her fingers and held on tightly, neither of them noticing the camera flash that went off just as Gabrielle strutted by.

It would be the picture to briefly save their friendship in the public eye, just as it would be the one to change Pansy's life forever.

"Will you reason with my father, please? I'd do it myself, or try to, only I suspect he's stopped listening. That," Draco growled, "or perhaps I'm very easy to ignore when I'm merely some incorporeal voice he can heartily pass on to Dobby."

"I would, but I really don't see what I could possibly do about this," Hermione said, frowning down at the article in the Daily Prophet which had been, unfortunately, no great surprise. Below the picture of Hermione and Pansy—taken in the brief moment Pansy had not been carefully guarding her stomach from view—was the joyous proclamation of Will there be a royal baby for Harry and Pansy?

Troublingly, albeit not surprisingly, the photograph was followed by heavily Skeeter-ized editorials. Are pregnancy rumours the reason for the rushed elopement? Is Prince Harry's absence indicative of trouble in paradise for the newlyweds? Anyone with eyes, which unfortunately Rita Skeeter had, could see some version of the truth: that Pansy was more than a few weeks pregnant, which the baby itself would inevitably prove true. The topic of the month, then, seemed to be precisely as Pansy feared: Is the baby really Harry's, or is it Neville's?

Equally unsurprising was that the Palace remained silent on the subject. The Royal Family, as Lucius had said to Draco, was not some reality television show open to public speculation. In short, let the gossip wheels turn where they may, which was understandably easier for King Abraxas to live with than it was for anyone in their immediate circle.

So. What could Hermione do?

"Well, nothing, probably. But if there's one person I trust to make him see sense, it's you," Draco sighed, "which, believe me, is regrettable. I don't relish it, but I'm concerned. This is a child's life we're talking about," he said, sounding apprehensive, and Hermione remembered, briefly, that when it came to infidelity, Draco was uniquely familiar with the damage accompanying the melodrama of having one's parentage questioned. "And with Harry having difficulty getting in contact with anyone—"

"Why not ask Neville to say something? He could easily confirm the baby isn't his, couldn't he?"

Draco was silent for a moment.

"I believe Blaise already tried," he said, using the diplomat's voice he employed for cautious half-truths, and Hermione sighed heavily.

"You mean he did try," she guessed. "And Neville refused?"

"Neville is…" More hesitation. "Refusal is a strong word," Draco said, tiptoeing delicately around the subject.

"What exactly happened between them?"

"Well, unfortunately, I imagine Pansy's happiness is no great concern to—"

"Not Pansy and Neville them. Blaise and Neville them."

"Ah." Draco sounded increasingly uncomfortable. "I suppose I can't say for certain—"

She rolled her eyes. "Speculate, then. This conversation is off the record."

"Right, right, well—" He trailed off. "It's my understanding that Blaise's terms for reconciliation involved a relationship as opposed to a liaison, which Neville… declined." A softer word than refused, Hermione noted irritably. "He has some concerns about how his grandmother will take the news. I believe he worries about her health."

"Bullshit," said Hermione, who was fairly confident Lady Augusta Longbottom would likely outlive them all. "He's afraid of his grandmother?"

"His father is ill. Increasingly so."

"So?"

"I—" She could hear Draco's grimace through the phone. "I didn't say I agreed, or that I approved of the argument. But whatever Neville said to justify it, Blaise seems to have accepted it."

"No, he most certainly has not," Hermione said impatiently. "I find that extremely unlikely."

"Well, I only know what he's told me, Hermione. I have my own suspicions, but it's not my place to intervene."

"But you want me to intervene on Pansy's behalf," she reminded him, surprised by how bitter she sounded, and Draco exhaled tightly.

"I can't imagine this is easy for you. I know I've put you in this position before."

She said nothing, unsure she wanted to confess (or even acknowledge) her own injury.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, "believe me. I doubt it helps much to apologize for the way I overlooked you in the past—but I have promised you it will not happen again, and I mean that. Not just for you. I will stand by you, Hermione, always, but either I stand for what's right or I don't. Unfortunately, it's a test I will have to pass first with Pansy."

"I know," she said grudgingly, which she did. "I know that. And really, I don't want her to struggle like I did."

"I know you don't. Still, it can't be easy, seeing people come to her need when you must feel I abandoned you to yours." He paused, and then, "Though I suppose, if I'm being honest, I always thought you were stronger."

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"Surely that can't surprise you," Draco said neutrally. "Pansy, for all her intensity, is quite fragile. That has never been true for you."

"I," Hermione began, and stopped, considering it. "I wouldn't say fragile."

"Neither would I—not to her face, anyway. But the reality, Hermione, is that you have a resilience Pansy does not. Which isn't to excuse my past behavior," he said quickly, "but is, quite simply, reality. I am more worried about Pansy because you never gave me a reason to worry about you."

Hermione groaned. "You're trying to persuade me to talk to Prince Lucifer, aren't you?"

"Trying to? No. Why, is it working?"

"Yes," she grumbled, and she could hear him stifling a laugh. "Are you lying to me?"

"What reason would I have to lie to you?"

"To send me off on a ridiculous errand to try to convince a man who hates me that he should listen to me? That's just the top of the list, but I'm sure there's more if I really think about it—"

"No, no, I just wanted you to know. I admire your strength, Hermione, really. More than anything."

She glared into space, wishing she could reach him with it.

Draco sighed, "I've said the wrong thing, haven't I?"

"No," she muttered, "you've said the right things. I hate it."

"If it helps, I'm not trying to do anything right. Historically, it's not my strength."

"Yes, yes, noted." She chewed her lip, thinking. "So, if I agreed…?"

"I'd arrange it. Dobby would send a car."

"Mm," she said, incoherently.

"By the way, before I forget, I loved the article about that… what's it? Oh, yes, The Astronomy Tower, that's it, loved it. That's the place you had the tour last month, isn't it? You'll have to take me, it sounded fascin-"

"Stop," Hermione grumbled. "I'm already mulling, you terrible prince."

"But this is a separate mulling. Isn't it?"

"Oh, shut up, it's all the same."

"Is not. It's not a favor for me, anyway, it's for—"

"Do not," Hermione huffed, "appeal to my sense of philanthropy. You've already done enough."

She could hear him smiling. "And if I do?"

"I'll find another prince. I hear the Greek prince is attractive."

"Pavlos? He's married."

"Of course not Pavlos. His son, umm… Constantine. Constantine-Alexios."

"Alexios is sixteen."

"Well, wonderful, I can wait a couple of years."

"True, we've waited this long."

She sighed loudly, rising to her feet and wishing there were something in her vicinity to frustratedly kick.

"You will," he said, "won't you?"

"YES," she barked. "I hate it."

"I know." He sounded smugly victorious.

"I hate you."

"Well, rightfully."

"I don't want to do this."

He hummed his agreement. "Who would?"

"He's going to mock me. Threaten me. Probably try to bribe me."

"All very real possibilities, yes."

"You'll owe me."

"I already owe you."

"Yes! You do."

"But you'll do it?"

She scowled into empty space.

"I haven't had an orgasm in weeks," she informed him, "just so you know."

"Don't remind me."

"Why not? This is entirely your doing!"

"Yes, yes, I know. But it's all part of my process."

"Process of what?"

"Oh, driving you mad enough to marry me, I suppose. Which, obviously, you would have to be entirely mad to do."

"And if you go mad in the process?"

"Ah, so be it. My predecessors have been mad before, and for far worse reasons. In fact, now that I give it some thought, 'Mad King Draco' has quite a lovely ring to it—"

"Call Dobby," Hermione groaned, "before I change my mind."

She could hear the sound of him sitting up, probably immensely pleased with himself.

"I love you madly, Hermione."

"Yeah, yeah," she sighed, missing him desperately anew. "I know."

The truth was that Hermione had no shortage of sympathy for Pansy, even with the resources Pansy had that she did not. A security entourage was certainly a benefit, but Hermione knew better than anyone that bodily harm was the least of her concerns. No, the real damage was the seeping of Rita Skeeter's words into her brain, under her skin, into the sanctity of her thoughts. Lady Pansy will always be ill-regarded for her misdeeds. Hermione Granger will never be enough for this monarchy. These women will always be pitted against each other, no matter what they do.

Strangely, as Hermione waited for Lucius to meet her in his office, it was Astoria's words that came back to her. For him, it will always be easier. Boys will be boys, won't they? It always comes back to that. Look at Prince Harry. Look at Prince Lucius. Even if Draco were to do something truly awful, they would eventually forgive him—but they never forgive the woman on his arm.

"Miss Granger," Lucius acknowledged, and Hermione stood, sinking into a slightly lower curtsy than strictly necessary and hoping her attempt at reverence would set them off on the right foot. "I'm afraid we have company this afternoon."

She looked up, surprised, to find Theo's father wandering in beside Lucius, appraising her with his usual thin-lipped, derisive half-smile of disinterest.

"Oh," she said, abruptly souring, and Nott Sr replied with a mirthless laugh.

"Yes, fine, sit down. Lucius," he beckoned, gesturing the Prince of Wales into the desk chair, and then he settled himself beside Hermione, stretching out with obvious superiority. "When Abraxas heard you two were having a chat, naturally he suggested I join you."

Hermione knew with a single, swift glance at Lucius this had been news to him, as well.

"How very thoughtful of my father," Lucius said through his teeth.

"An honor," Hermione contributed drily, and Nott spared both of them a pleasant nod.

"Your displeasure is noted. Now, onto the matter at hand," he began, turning to Hermione. "What will it take to make you go away, Miss Granger?"

She bristled, glaring at Lucius. "That's not even remotely the matter at hand."

He gave her a small shrug, as if to say, Too bad.

"Fine," she said, turning to Nott. "Let's do this, then, shall we?"

"I asked you a question," he reminded her. "I'd have dressed it up for more of a song and dance, but I think we understand each other by now."

"Yes, we do," she agreed, oddly grateful he hadn't bothered. There was at least the relief of brevity implied. "What have I supposedly done this time?"

"Oh, nothing, certainly nothing new. Only slightly more pressing." Nott's smile slid back from his teeth. "You may have noticed that the official position of troublesome royal paramour has been filled. Rude, isn't it?" he murmured. "A friend of yours, even. Swept the role right out from under you, and after everything you went through first?" he mused, shaking his head. "You gave her permission to exist."

This again. It rattled in Hermione's bones, manifesting in her teeth. As if the 'Who Wore It Better?' spreads pitting them against each other weren't stupid enough without Nott Sr's contribution. "I'm not here to argue about Pansy."

"It would be a short argument," Nott agreed, dispassionate. "To my understanding, the marriage was your doing. Has she thanked you? I'm guessing not."

"Who told you that," Hermione scoffed, "Rita Skeeter? Bellatrix Lestrange?"

Lucius shifted uncomfortably.

"Miss Granger," Nott said, "the point is—"

"What is it you hate about me so much?" she asked him, abandoning the protocol Daphne so carefully taught her in favor of irritably crossing her legs. "Is it really my birth? My opinions? Or," she said emphatically, "is it simply that you can't make Draco unlove me?"

She was pleased to see Nott's smile twitch slightly, evidence of annoyance that extended beyond amusement.

"It's that, isn't it?" she guessed, already quite certain she was correct. "You can't control him if he stays with me. He listens to me." Briefly, she felt a surge of understanding. "You hate it, don't you, that he sent me here to speak to his father—because he holds me in higher esteem than he does you, is that it?"

"You forget yourself," Nott warned, the same words Abraxas had used, and Hermione shook her head.

"No, I remember myself, Sir," she said firmly, "and for that, there's no getting rid of me."

Nott's entire countenance soured, the glare on his face sliding from Hermione to Lucius.

"She's precisely Bellatrix," Nott said, rising brusquely to his feet. "I hope you're pleased."

Lucius said nothing.

Then, after another hard glance at Hermione, Nott shook his head.

"When you find yourself unhappy with your choice, remember that I warned you. I will not be the one you blame when things aren't what you hoped," he cautioned her, giving her a bullying glance.

"Your displeasure is noted," Hermione said.

Nott spared a final glare, and then compressed it into a tight smile.

"Until next time," he said, and bowed to Lucius. "Your Highness," he acknowledged perfunctorily, and then swept from the room, not waiting for dismissal.

For a moment, left alone, neither Hermione nor Lucius spoke. They sat in silence, her watching him and him observing his hands, until gradually she sighed.

"Look," she said, "about Pansy—"

"I realize I'm not your favorite person," Lucius interrupted, his grey eyes rising swiftly to hers, "nor should you ever imagine you are mine, but understand that I'm not the idiot my son thinks I am. I know what it is to feel trapped," he said, sounding oddly as if he were warning her, or perhaps sympathizing with her. "I don't want you here, believe me, but if you plan to stay, then I want your word you will come to me. Should things go wrong, Miss Granger," he clarified, "I want your assurance you will come to me."

It sounded as if he meant to indicate she should trust him more than Nott, which was something she might have done anyway, though she was loath to admit it. "Why should I give you my word? What possible benefit would there be for me to confide in you?"

Lucius seemed to find this unimportant. "Fine. If I can't have yours, then have mine: Whatever it is, I will help you." He was looking at her intently, scrutinizingly. "Am I clear?"

Not even a little bit.

"Help me," Hermione echoed skeptically. "Like you helped Narcissa?"

He had the decency to flinch. "This is not about my wife."

"Isn't it? Isn't it always about your wife? I mean, I get it," Hermione scoffed, leaning, perhaps unwisely, into the exasperation she felt with Nott Sr. "I'm the Bellatrix in this story, I understand. I'm the villain, I'm the one you want to separate Draco from, but if you think I'm ever going to be stupid enough to trust you—"

"Bellatrix is not the villain of my story," Lucius snapped, cutting her off. "You are not, and will never be, the woman Bellatrix is."

It was so surprising that Hermione's mouth snapped shut, and Lucius grimaced.

"I thought I was dying," he said briskly, rising to his feet. "I had things to say. Regrettably, I thought she would be sympathetic. I wish it surprised me more that she was not."

Hermione hesitated. "I wasn't trying to—"

"To pry? No, but perhaps you'll understand it more than my son ever will. You seem to already." He turned over his shoulder, considering her. "I love my wife. I love her, truly. What I have—had," he corrected himself stiffly, "with Bellatrix was something different. Not that you are entitled to my truths."

He walked to the window of his office, looking out into the London sky outside.

Hermione turned in her seat, facing him. "If I'm not entitled to know, then why tell me anything at all?"

"Because I have nothing to lose by doing so. Not like you." He glanced over his shoulder again. "You have everything to lose and you don't even realize it."

Unbelievable.

"You honestly think I don't realize it?" Hermione struggled to restrain her temper. "Draco's girlfriend or not, I've been in his life nearly five years! How blind do you think I am to not notice what's at stake?"

Lucius rounded on her, frustrated. "Do you even want this?" he pressed her, slamming a hand against his desk and referencing, somehow, the abstractions of his career. "What if I offered it to you sans Draco, hm? What if I said to take it," he ranted. "Take this, take all of it, it's yours now. Centuries of tradition, they are yours to bear. Right or wrong, the errors of everyone who came before you are yours alone. The responsibilities of bearing a crown, it will fall to you—"

He grew increasingly agitated as he spoke. Hermione followed the motion of his rapid pacing, managing to slip into his monologue, "Of course I don't want it without Draco—"

"THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

His voice was so frantic she winced, taken entirely by surprise, and Lucius curled a hand tightly around his mouth, collapsing into his vacant chair.

They were silent again for multiple minutes, Lucius fidgeting to numbly probe his temples between his fingers and thumb.

"The story they will never tell you is that I did propose to Bellatrix," he said, and Hermione blinked. "I did it without my father's approval, without even his knowledge. To this day he has no idea how resolutely I begged her to marry me."

Immediately, the entire narrative of Lucius' life as she had known it reshuffled in Hermione's head. She had never questioned, even for all the inaccuracy she'd known when it came to her own story, that Lucius' portrayal might have had similar fallacies.

"And?" she asked, leaning forward tentatively.

He shook his head. "She's not married to me, is she?" he said, brittle with impatience. "She was the smarter of the two of us. She took one look at the ring and refused."

"But then why wouldn't she—"

"Tell anyone?" He shrugged. "Doesn't suit her, I imagine. A better narrative for her purposes, making me the one who wronged her."

Hermione was fairly certain she was currently employing all of Pansy's least favorite nervous ticks, from twirling her hair to biting her lip. "Does Draco know?"

Another headshake. "No. Not even Narcissa knows. And I forbid you to tell them."

"You can't actually forbid me," Hermione replied without thinking, and Lucius sighed, raising his head to glare at her.

"You are not Bellatrix," he said again. "You love my son, that much is obvious. But my god," he exhaled, frustrated, "what are you doing? What are you thinking?"

"I—" Hermione glared at him. "What are you thinking?" she countered, her mind far more apt to focus on what he had recently informed her. "You genuinely thought you could ask to speak to Bellatrix privately and she wouldn't turn around and use you? I thought you loved your wife!"

"You are speaking to the Prince of Wales," Lucius snapped at her.

"Then act like it!" Hermione retorted brusquely, before realizing she had probably taken things a step too far. "Sorry," she said, clearing her throat. "Got a little carried away."

He scoffed. "I didn't know you were capable of apologizing."

"Sometimes," she muttered, "people earn it."

They glared at each other in silence.

"Jesus Christ," said Prince Lucifer, leaning back in his chair and giving her a brutally dismissive glance. "What do you bloody want from me?"

He seemed to be referring to her reason for visiting in the first place. "I'm not done," she informed him impatiently, and he waved a hand.

"Yes, in fact, you are. What is it?"

She wanted to continue the conversation, but that obviously wasn't happening. She folded her arms over her chest, recalling that at least he hadn't tried to extort her this time.

"Pansy," she said tightly. "You have to do something. She's being crucified by the press."

"Well, aren't we all."

Lucius was sulking, it seemed. "I'm not asking you to help me," Hermione reminded him. "I'm not even asking for much—just for you to do something, anything, to show that the royal family stands behind her. Surely it wouldn't hurt you to make her some sort of… I don't know. Some patron of something."

"Fine." Lucius drummed his fingers against the desk in thought, eventually grumbling under his breath, "She'll have to work, then. A public role on behalf of my father. But she will agree to whatever I choose."

"She will." She might, Hermione corrected herself, but decided to cross that bridge when she got to it. "I'll make sure she will."

"Fine." His percussing fidgeting stopped. "Are we done, then?"

"For now, apparently." Hermione rose to her feet, irritated again, but then paused, giving Lucius a deliberate glance as she curtsied in farewell. "I don't want your help," she told him firmly, "but if I had no other choice, I would consider it. I would consider considering," she amended, "it."

He shrugged. "That's all I asked," he reminded her.

"Though," she began, "about Princess Narcissa—"

"Out," Lucius said instantly, and Hermione sighed.

"Yes, Your Highness," she said, making her way to the door and sealing it carefully behind her.

Pansy listened without interruption; though, considering how little Hermione could actually relay from her meeting with Lucius, it wasn't a long explanation. It consisted mostly of one or two lines, loosely paraphrased as: "If you want Prince Lucifer's support, then you'll have to agree to his terms and do what Draco does. Appearances and things. Speaking engagements, I guess, maybe."

"I see." Pansy took a sip of her tea. "And if I don't?"

Hermione blinked, surprised. "If you don't what?"

"If I don't agree. Then what?"

"I—" She frowned. "Well, Pans, I assume that means they'll just keep doing what they're doing, which is nothing."

"Mm." Pansy tapped her foot, exhaling slowly, "And I should think this is a beneficial offer because…?"

"Are you serious?"

"Of course." Pansy shrugged, reaching down to adjust the strap of her shoe. "Bad press is bad press, Hermione. It happens. I don't see the point in making a fuss."

"But Pans, if you don't do this—" Hermione broke off, unsure how to proceed. Historically, Pansy rarely listened to anything. "Think of your baby," she began, but it became immediately apparent she'd chosen poorly when Pansy glared at her. A real glare, not just a look of disapproval, which was rare.

"I do, Hermione. Constantly."

"That's not what I meant, I was just—"

"You think I don't know what you meant?" Pansy's tone was clipped and bothered, agitated beyond her usual degree. "I was the one who told you about the questions of Draco's paternity, Hermione. Of the two of us, I certainly know very well what you're getting at."

"Well, fine," Hermione sighed, frustrated. "If you know, then why not just handle it now? Get Abraxas and Lucius to shut down the rumors?"

"Because it means—" Pansy's mouth tightened. "Because," she said brusquely, "I'm not Draco or Harry. I'm not even you." She gave Hermione another impatient glance. "I am not likable, Hermione, nor have I ever been. If you make me the face of anything, then—"

"Then what?" Hermione scoffed. "You get to actually decide how people see you? Surely it's better to have control of your image than—oh, I don't know," she said, caustically referencing herself, "sitting back and waiting until you have a turn to speak for yourself, hm?"

"This sounds like your problem, Hermione. Not mine. I certainly don't want to fight about it."

Pansy turned away, obviously dismissive, and for a moment, Hermione struggled to bite back her frustration. She thought of the headlines in the tabloids about their feud and it flashed, briefly, in her mind that maybe Rita Skeeter was right. She had done the work. She had suffered by herself while the Palace had continually denied her existence, time and time again. Now, Pansy swept in and chose silence while Hermione ached to be heard. She wrote under a pseudonym just so she could possess anything close to a voice; just to remind herself she existed, outside of the man she had chosen to love. All that effort, all that isolation, all that pain, and Pansy could so easily deny the acknowledgement Hermione might never get?

For a moment, it enraged her. Oh, so they could feud, then, but they couldn't fight? It incited Hermione to a momentary, breathless period of violent opposition. She was the thing that didn't belong, Pansy had always said so, and now that they were going through the same thing—

Pansy reached down, adjusting her shoe again. This time, Hermione caught a trace of redness, obvious pain where the strap sat; none of which showed on Pansy's face. She merely touched one perfectly manicured finger to the buckle, appearing to contemplate it for a moment, and then tucked one ankle behind the other, resuming her seat again. Even in her own home, Pansy was the portrait of resolute elegance. If it were Hermione, or even Daphne, they'd be in sweats by now, cozied up in something and resplendently barefoot. Only Pansy dressed each day like this, as if anything shy of perfection would kill her.

They weren't going through the same thing, Hermione realized, slowly releasing her fury.

They had never gone through the same things.

"Pans," Hermione said, and Pansy looked up, guarded. "The world won't end if you fail at something, you know."

Pansy's dark brow furrowed. "I never said—"

"You don't have to care anymore what your mother thinks, Pans, or what anyone thinks." Hermione scooted closer to her, graceless, and held her hand out, expectant. "Give me the shoe, Pansy."

Pansy balked. "I beg your pardon?"

"The shoe, Pans, give it to me. It hurts, take it off."

"That—" Pansy inhaled, stiffening. "If this is some sort of heinous metaphor—"

"Give me," Hermione began, and exhaled swiftly, "the bloody shoe."

Pansy, unsurprisingly, began to argue. "I don't know what sort of colonial escapade you think this is, Hermione—"

"Are we doing this?" Hermione demanded. "Are we going to fight about it, Pansy? Give it to me," she said, reaching forward as Pansy swatted her hand away.

"For the love of god, you're being a total barbarian—"

"You're just as educated as Draco!" Hermione snapped, incensed. "You're more educated than Harry! Why should they be allowed to represent this country and not you?"

"That," Pansy retorted, "has nothing to do with anything, and—let go of me—"

Pansy held Hermione's head at arm's length, giving her a shove. "You were fine with the idea when it was Neville!" Hermione growled, swatting her hand away, and Pansy scoffed, accidentally smacking her elbow into Hermione's forehead.

"The things I would have done as Neville's wife were hardly the s- Ouch," she yelped, as Hermione nipped at her fingers. "Did you just bite me?"

"Admit that you're scared," Hermione said. "Just say it!"

"Absolutely not," Pansy replied instantly, and Hermione bent down, grabbing hold of Pansy's ankle. "WHAT—ARE—YOU—DOING—"

"I'm taking off your shoe, you absolute maniac—"

"I'm the maniac?"

"YES," Hermione said, wrestling her hand free from Pansy's death grip. "It's cutting into your skin, Pansy!"

"That's none of your bus- OUCH!"

Hermione managed to free the strap from the buckle, yanking the shoe from Pansy's foot. Pansy, meanwhile, let out a roar of something that immediately became a whimper, her thumb dropping to soothe the welts her shoes had drilled into her ankle.

"You horrible brute," Pansy said, and then, to Hermione's astonishment, she sniffled, swiping inelegantly at her nose. "I was… I was perfectly fine, and now you've—you've gone and—"

"Oh, hush," Hermione said, rolling her eyes and sitting on the floor to take Pansy's other foot in her hand, removing the buckle with slightly more patience this time. "It's hurting you, whether you want to acknowledge it or not," she said gruffly, and Pansy scowled at her through tears.

"If that's a metaph-"

"NOT EVERYTHING IS A METAPHOR," Hermione said, and then, to her bemusement, she suddenly felt the urge to cry, too. An excess of emotion in the room, or some sort of sort of betrayal by her body. Hermione looked up at Pansy, holding her breath, and then released in a stream of unpreventable blubbering, "I just want you to be happy, Pansy!"

"I just want you to be happy," Pansy sobbed, holding both hands to her face. "Don't you see I deserve this," she said, muffled into her palms, "after everything I put you through? You're the one who should be giving speeches, not me, I've done nothing, absolutely nothing—"

"You're the dumbest girl," Hermione wailed. "Just the dumbest, dumbest girl!"

"I know," Pansy wept, struggling to breathe. "I can't believe you spoke to Prince Lucius for me—"

"I can't believe you're crying—"

"I'm not crying, you're crying—"

"Shut up, I am not—"

"You are—"

"What in the unholy afterlife is going on?" came a voice behind them, as Pansy and Hermione looked up from their twin piles of estrogen to find Daphne standing in the doorway, looking utterly bewildered. "I thought we were having dinner," Daphne said, wandering inside with a shake of her head, "but if we're having a cry, then so be it, I suppose."

"What do you have to cry about?" Pansy demanded, as Daphne flounced on the floor beside Hermione.

"What? Nothing. I just want to be included," Daphne sniffed, which, unfortunately, made Pansy cry even harder.

"I don't know why it's so hard for me to just say thank you," she said, reaching blindly for Hermione's hand and tangling her fingers with hers. "I only want to say thank you, but every time I try, it comes out entirely wrong—"

"Don't thank me," Hermione said, wiping her eyes as Daphne leaned against her shoulder. "Just do this, will you? Please, just do whatever Prince Lucifer asks."

Pansy hiccuped once, settling her nerves, and then slid slowly to the floor, letting Daphne and Hermione take up either side of her.

"Promise me," Pansy said, "that you will always fight with me."

Daphne gave Hermione a quizzical look, which Hermione waved away. She'd explain it later, when they got around to it, and Daphne shrugged, evidently in agreement.

"I promise," Hermione assured Pansy, pulling her and Daphne in for what ended up being a very squashed, highly awkward embrace. So much for not feuding, she thought fondly, and kissed the tops of her dumb friends' heads. "You will always, always be worth the fight."

"So? How was it?"

"Not too terrible," Hermione replied, settling herself on her bed. "I mean, it was definitely moderately terrible—"

"Understandable," Draco said kindly.

"—but only to a safely predictable degree." She reclined against her pillows with a sigh, relieved to be home. "Now I just have to worry about my deadline for the Dr Pomfrey blog tomorrow, which is a perfectly reasonable thing to have on my mind."

"Ah, yes, right. Well, I'd let you go," Draco said carefully, "only I had a thought about something."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. So, remember how I owe you?"

"Yes," Hermione sighed, "it rings a bell."

"Right, well, I don't really want you running off with another blond prince, so I thought maybe I'd try to fix it."

"Mm?"

"Yes. Only if you're up for it."

Hermione closed her eyes. "Seems questionable, but go ahead."

"Okay. Well, first thing. Are you alone?"

"Creepy question but yes, I'm at home."

"Okay. And are you, ah." She heard him swallow. "Are you… wearing anything?"

Hermione's eyes snapped open.

"What?"

"Sorry, no, let me back up. What," he clarified, "are you wearing?"

She sat upright. "Jeans. A sweater."

"Oh, the grey one?"

"Draco." She couldn't decide whether to be elated or concerned. "Are you… is this…?"

"Phone sex? Maybe. Kind of. I mean, Ideally, yes."

"Oh my god."

"Should I stop?"

"What? Jesus, no. Did you actually think you'd started?"

"Well, I asked what you were wearing."

"Yes, but I—" Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes, and flopped back on the bed. "Okay, never mind, just keep going."

"Oh. Well, right, okay—jeans, you said?"

She glanced down. "Yes."

"Take them off. Prince's orders."

"Alright, Your Highness." She bit back a smile, setting the phone down and wiggling out of her jeans before putting the speaker to her ear again. "They're off."

"Knickers?"

"Black."

"Sexy. Off."

"I'm still wearing a sweater, Draco."

"The jumper will come off when I say it comes off, Miss Granger."

To her utter delight, she shivered.

"Alright," she said, holding the phone in place with her shoulder, "knickers are off, old boy, cheerio."

"Please," he sighed, "do not do that."

"Fine, fine. What now?"

"That's a good question. Hm." She bit back a laugh as Draco considered it. "Well, if I were there, I would be touching you right about now. Kissing your stomach, your hips. That scar on the inside of your knee."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Take the jumper off now."

"One sec." She set the phone down, removing her sweater, and re-settled herself on the bed. "Now?"

"Hmm," he mused, and then, "You know what I like? The sound you make when I touch you, the little gasp at first. The little twitch of surprise, I love that."

"It's because your hands are usually cold."

"It's my blue blood. Can you do it for me?"

"What, gasp?"

"Yes."

She blinked. "Wait, are you…"

"Also participating? Yes, Hermione. It's called consensual sex."

"Oh." Now that was exciting. "I'll gasp if you moan," she offered, and he laughed.

"You want me to moan?"

"Yes, Draco, I want you to moan."

"Right, well—" He gave a little gruff sound of something that, somehow—despite how maybe-poorly this was going—successfully made her breath fall short, unintentionally complying with his instructions. "Like that?"

"Yes, like that, god—"

"I miss the taste of you. It's the first thing I'd do if I had you right now, if I were there. I'd take you in my arms, of course, I'd kiss you until you gasped in my mouth, but then I'd make my way down your torso. God, I miss the way you taste."

Okay. Okay, so it wasn't going poorly at all. "Yeah?"

"Yes. Do you like my tongue on you?"

Jesus. "Yes. I like," she began, and hesitated.

"Come on, then. Tell me."

Tell me. Prince's orders.

"I like the way your mouth feels on my… you know."

"Apex of your thighs?"

"Jesus. Clit." She half-laughed. "Is that dirty?"

"Yes. I like it. Please continue."

"I love the way your mouth feels. How hot your breath is." She inhaled sharply. "I like when your fingers are inside me."

"Do it."

"Do what?"

"Use your fingers." She felt herself positively pulse with longing. "Pretend they're mine."

Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Okay," she said, and yep, she was wet already. This was happening. This was very definitely happening. "Oh," she exhaled, closing her eyes. "Now what?"

"I'm fucking you with my fingers." Fuck. She could count on one hand how many times she'd heard him say it. "Your legs are tight around my head."

"Oh, oh my god."

"Don't like it?"

"No, I… I like it. I just. It's… new. This. It's new."

"How do you want me to fuck you?" That was two. Christ.

"I want you to slide up against my—" Breasts? Boobs? "Tits?"

"Yeah?"

"Yes, I want you to, um. Suck on them. My nipples, I mean."

He swore quietly under his breath, then returned to the phone. "Right, okay. I'm sliding my tongue around your nipples, Hermione, and I'm—I'm hard for you. That's not even a lie, I'm completely telling the truth. Just the sound of you, I'm—" He swallowed. "I miss you."

"Put your hand on your—" Dick. Prick? No. "Cock. Put your hand on your cock. It's mine, I'm stroking you slowly."

"Ah, but I'm supposed to be doing this for you—"

"Fine. I'm stroking your cock with my hand, but now I'm asking for more. I want more."

"What do you want?"

"I want you, Draco. I want you inside me, I want you to fuck me."

"I'm kissing your neck the way you like it. Running my tongue along your jaw."

"I have my hands in your hair, my legs around your hips—"

"I love it when you do that. Drives me positively mad."

"You're looking at my face."

"Always. Always, Hermione, I love to watch you come."

She shivered, working her hand faster against her clit.

"Tell me more," she begged him.

"I'm fucking you slowly, so slowly." Three. "We have all night. I'm taking my time."

"I want it faster."

"Well, too bad." She groaned. "I'm going to take you right to the edge and tease you. Maybe scrape my knuckles along your clit right when you think you can't bear it, hm?"

"Asshole."

He chuckled, breathing hard on his end. "I want your mouth."

"Have it. I like to kiss you when I'm about to come."

"Are you?"

"About to come? Yes."

"Don't." She whimpered. "Take your hand away for a second."

"Draco, you royal bastard—"

"Just wait, Hermione. Baby," he said softly, "babe, just wait."

She squirmed, fingers tightening in her vacant sheets.

"I love you," he said, "I love the way you look, the way you taste, the way you feel. Love how strong you are, how smart. How brave."

Her throat was impossibly dry.

"Love the way your hair looks on my sheets. Love to put my hands in it, make a little mess of you. Love when you arch your back and pull me closer."

"Draco," she pleaded softly, and he chuckled.

"Love it when you beg," he murmured, and she let out a loud groan.

"Draco—"

"Okay," he said, "okay. Put your hand where I would be."

JesusfuckingChrist. "Okay—"

"I want to fuck you harder now." Four. "I want to be deep inside you."

She said something incoherent; something delirious, and then, "Yes."

"Are you going to come, Hermione? Come for me, I want to feel it."

She felt it like an avalanche, fivefourthreetwoone—"Oh god," she gasped, biting her teeth around the sound of it, and from the breathless silence on the other end, she figured he was close. "Draco, oh, Draco, I love the way you feel inside me," she hurried to say, mindlessly conjuring phrases she assumed would be effective as her wave of recent orgasm slowly ebbed away. "Miss the way your skin tastes, love your mouth on me, all over me, want you to fuck me like this all night, want you to pin me to the bed and—"

"Hermione," he choked out, and she bit her lip, silently satisfied, as she waited for the sound of his breathing to slow again, steadying quietly.

She stayed on the phone with him in silence, still in her bra and nothing else, and listened to the sound of his breathing for two minutes… three… five.

"Well," he said eventually, clearing his throat. "That was…"

He took a few more breaths, trailing off.

"It's possible I need to come home immediately," he murmured, and she laughed, rolling onto her side to face the picture of them she'd returned to her nightstand.

"I love you," she said. "Really kind of a lot."

"And I love you really quite terribly," he agreed. "Inconveniently."

"Ardently?"

"That's the one."

She smiled, then paused for a moment.

"Hey, Draco," she said, "would you choose this? This life, I mean. Your job. Your… title. If you had a choice."

"You mean if I could be with you some other way?"

"No, I mean—" She shook her head, which of course he couldn't see. "No, just leave me out of it for a second. Say I'm a foregone conclusion. Would you still want this?"

Gratifyingly, he took a few moments to answer, considering her question at length.

"Not every day," he admitted. "Some days, no. Many days, actually."

I know what it is to feel trapped, Lucius said in Hermione's mind.

"But then, other days, I am incredibly grateful this is my birthright," Draco said, surprising her. "Responsibility means having the power to make changes—to make decisions, to take action, to impact others. It's no small thing."

"Oh." Still, it was quite a price. The cost of power was steep.

"Having second thoughts?" he asked her, warily interpreting her silence.

"Eh, third or fourth. Maybe somewhere in the sixties."

He gave a low laugh. "Well, I promised you time," he reminded her. "Time I unfortunately regret offering, given my… current state."

"Restraint's a real bitch, isn't she?"

She heard him smile.

"Well, time to sleep, I imagine. Have that deadline in the morning."

"Yes, that. Bed, then?"

"Tragically alone, yes."

"You did this," she pointed out.

"I know." A pause, and then, "Goodnight, Hermione."

She looked at his smile from the frame beside her bed, replaying it in her memory until she imagined she could feel the warmth of it on her face.

"Goodnight, Draco," she said, and hung up the phone, suddenly quite exhausted.

I think, at that point in my life, I was just starting to see myself as a vehicle for making things happen. I had pushed Daphne, once. I pushed Pansy. For that one instance, I even managed to successfully push Lucius.

But it would still be some time before I figured out where I fit into the fabric of my surroundings.

a/n: Thank you again for reading! Keep an eye on Modern Romance—it may see an epilogical update this week.

33. Arrow

Chapter 33: Arrow

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Lady in Waiting

Following the scandals of 2014, Hermione seemed to be taking a much quieter role at the same time Duchess Pansy's prominence in media grew. For much of 2015 and 2016, Prince Harry's wife filled the long-coveted role once belonging to Princess Narcissa as a beloved public figure, eclipsing even the film and television stars of the era to establish her legacy of elegant, quintessentially British style. It would appear that during this time, Hermione slowly began to discover her own sense of fashion as well, conforming to an expectation of propriety and taste that would be well established by the time her engagement to Prince Draco was announced.

Some might argue this change was precipitated by Hermione's wish to prove herself capable of going toe-to-toe with the Duchess of Grimmauld, or perhaps to show His Majesty that she, too, could rise above the unfortunate scandals of the previous year. Whatever the reason, there is little question that Hermione's quest for Draco's heart was considerably aided by the period of relative silence she spent cultivating what would ultimately become her royal persona.

It's funny how Rita Skeeter's version of my life and my own are, despite numerous fallacies, basically the same story, just being told in dramatically different ways. However you slice it, this looks like a story about how an English prince met an American commoner who changed both their lives forever… only it isn't, really. Her version is entirely about two people fighting to be together against the odds—which isn't not the same as mine, but I think it's pretty clear from passages like this one how knowing the details can make the difference.

Personally, it's hard not to see my story as a comedy of errors. One that was about to become even more so, actually, because there is one particular human blunder that we haven't yet had the pleasure to meet.

March 27, 2015
London, England

The introduction to a new client at the end of March was, rather unexpectedly, the most equally fortunate and unfortunate thing to happen to Hermione in several months. She had been enjoying moderate success with Minerva and a handful of her acquaintances, finding it to be marginally steady income, but when the opportunity arose to expand her portfolio, Hermione thought it only natural to accept.

("A reasonable conclusion," Draco later said. "Good intentions, as it were."

"Good intentions can go hang," replied Hermione.

"Well. As a matter of professional ethics, I don't take hangings lightly," Draco informed her, "but that being said, yes. True.")

"I'm so sorry about this," said Dr Pomona Sprout, a semi-introverted conservationist who was experimenting with plants that could be used to combat global climate change. "I'm afraid he was rather insistent I introduce you. The article you wrote on my behalf was… well," she mumbled hastily, "as you know, it was quite well-regarded, certainly more so than any of my previous efforts, and—"

"Dr Sprout, I'm more than happy to chat with him. I'm certainly not in a position to turn down more work." (And she wasn't, seeing as she didn't exactly have a royal budget. Or any budget, for that matter.) "Tell your friend he's welcome to email me," Hermione assured her.

"Oh, he's not my friend," Dr Sprout said quickly. "We're… acquaintances. We were colleagues, once. Sort of," she clarified, wincing. "Well, colleagues would be a stretch, but I'm afraid we do, um. All have our struggles, don't we? Career-wise, et cetera—"

"Well, I'm happy to speak with him regardless," Hermione said, a bit bemused by Dr Sprout's hesitation. "Does he need a blogger or something? Copywriting?"

"Hm, yes, well… I'll just let him tell you, shall I?" was Dr Sprout's rushed answer, before she rapidly changed the subject, switching gears and dropping any mention of it until Hermione had foggily forgotten her request.

The following week, Hermione received a very strange email from a man she vacantly knew as a prominent English self-help author; sort of a Dr Phil-type public figure, she supposed, though exceedingly British—almost a caricature of one, really. For a moment, she was convinced she had incorrectly read the signature.

Dear Ms Clearwater,

It is my pleasure to inform you I will be paying your office a visit this afternoon. Conveniently, I find myself free! There is no need to thank me, of course, and do not worry, whatever you have on will be perfectly acceptable. My dear friend Pomona tells me you were exceedingly keen to meet me. (Don't hold that against her, my dear—it is quite a common reaction!)

There will be no need for additional security measures; I always travel with my own team. As for refreshments, a nice hibiscus tea will be fine. Sweetened with passionfruit would be ideal, but I understand it can be difficult to acquire for those who lack my relationship with the foreign fruit markets.

Cheers!

Gilderoy Lockhart
Bestselling Author and Personality
5-time Winner of Woman's Weekly Most Charming Smile

(In Draco's later words: "Yikes."

"I regret introducing you to that phrase," Hermione said.

"Why, am I misusing it?"

"Unfortunately, no. You just manage to make it so posh somehow," she grumbled.)

"Minerva," Hermione called, wandering into Minerva's office with the email pulled up on her phone. "Sorry to bother you, but have you ever met Gilderoy Lockhart?"

"The silly man-boy who writes putrefying nonsense? No, thankfully," Minerva said without looking up. "I'm rather outside his preferred demographic, I'm pleased to say. I've narrowly missed meeting him several times, though not without considerable effort. Why?" she asked, her spectacles balanced precariously low on her nose as she looked up at Hermione.

"Oh, nothing important," Hermione managed faintly. "Only that he's coming here for a meeting."

"What on earth for?" Minerva said, balking. "I specifically had Wood leave him off the call list!"

As if summoned by magic, Oliver appeared in the doorway, poking his head in. "Minnie, you rang?"

"No, no," Minerva said impatiently. "Granger here said Lockhart, and I momentarily panicked."

"I always leave him off the call list," Oliver said, staring accusingly at Hermione. "What've you done, Granger?"

"Well, I—" Hermione fumbled slightly in protest. "Dr Sprout told me she had a friend in need of a writer—"

"Well, of course," Minerva scoffed. "Everyone knows all of Lockhart's books are ghostwritten, the man can't write the ingredients of a can of soup. Though," she sighed, "I can't imagine what you might have done to Pomona to make her take such drastic action against you."

"I think it was supposed to be a favor?" Hermione guessed. "I mean, I do need the money, so—"

"Nobody needs money this badly," Oliver scoffed, though to Hermione's surprise, Minerva's face clearly said differently. She gave Hermione a look of mild remorse, which Oliver interpreted with a grimace, and then both of them turned to Hermione with hesitation.

"What?" Hermione demanded, glancing between them. "What's going on?"

"Well," Oliver said, and glanced at Minerva. "Do you want this one, Minnie?"

"Not particularly," Minerva sniffed, and Oliver shrugged.

"Well, suit yourself, but it won't be gentle, then—"

"I don't need gentle," Hermione cut in, exasperated. "What's going on?"

"Oh, nothing, really. Only that we're on the brink of failure," Oliver informed her, incongruously cheerful. "Soon to be remedied, I'm sure. Minus Robins, who will likely be on the chopping block soon."

"Sorry, did you say something?" came Demelza's voice, resounding timidly from the main office.

"BACK TO WORK, ROBINS," Oliver barked over his shoulder, turning back to Hermione with a shrug. "Poor thing."

"I don't understand," Hermione said, turning to Minerva with surprise. "I thought the Knockturn campaign was going well?"

Minerva's response was brisk, nearly flippant. "It is. Was. Unfortunately, some of our donors have pulled funding."

Hermione balked. "What on earth for?"

"Mm, well, surprise, surprise—that harpy of a Skeeter woman somehow managed to smell blood in the water," Oliver said, missing Minerva's obvious silencing glance and narrating to Hermione without restraint. "Granted, the auction didn't do as well as we'd hoped, but that was hardly an excuse to accuse us of embezzlement. Even a whisper of a scandal is enough to scare most of our patrons away," he said with half a demonic laugh, still completely unaware of Minerva's increasingly warning glare, "and now, of course, with Augusta's contribution gone—"

"Augusta's out?" Hermione echoed, stunned. "But why—"

She turned slowly to Minerva, who was rubbing her temples with a sigh.

("You can't blame yourself for everything," Draco told Hermione soothingly over the phone, "and certainly not this. Although… I'm quite sure you're going to, aren't you? So I suppose I'm wasting my time," he sighed.

"I'm hardly that predictable," Hermione retorted.

"Unfortunately, Miss Granger," Draco replied fondly, "on some counts, you very much are.")

"This is because of me," Hermione guessed, turning to Minerva with a grimace. "Rita Skeeter is discrediting you because of me, isn't she? And Augusta doesn't want any more bad press, I'm sure," she realized with frustration, recalling that Augusta and Neville had yet to venture out publicly in some months.

Minerva waved a hand, dismissing her concerns. "We'll survive it. The point is, you are quite right to think of your career. It is highly possible this project may not have sufficient business meriting your services much longer."

"But why didn't you tell me?" Hermione pressed. "You don't have to pay me, Minerva. And if you need more donors, I can try to find a bigger name publication for the Knockturn profile—"

"This is not your problem to solve, Miss Granger. Wood and I are taking care of it," Minerva said firmly, leveling yet another glance at Oliver. "Your energy," she said, resuming her attention to Hermione, "is better spent securing new clients, however unpalatable they may be."

"But—"

"Lockhart will remain on the do-not-call list," Minerva said to Oliver, waving a hand to send him bouncing away with a nod. "As for you, Miss Granger, perhaps it would be best to draft a non-disclosure agreement for him to sign before he arrives here. The others may have been respectful of your identity," she warned, "but I do not think Gilderoy Lockhart capable of keeping much of anything to himself."

Hermione blinked, registering this was excellent advice. If he revealed the truth about her pseudonym, she was relatively done for. "Right, of course," she agreed, hurrying away to reply to Lockhart's email.

("What did you tell him?" Draco asked.

"Oh, you know. I took a very brisk and businesslike tone."

"...Did you?"

"Yes! I think. Mostly.")

Dear Mr Lockhart,

I look forward to meeting with you! In advance of your arrival this afternoon, would you please consider signing the attached NDA? Forgive me if it seems unconventional, but for the protection of both parties, I feel it may be prudent.

Sincerely,

Penelope Clearwater

("Prudent," Draco echoed thoughtfully. "A very diplomatic word."

"Mm," Hermione agreed, "I do know some of those.")

Within minutes, she had an electronically-signed form in her inbox, along with the email:

Ms Clearwater,

What a marvelous idea! I confess, I often worry things said in confidence will reveal themselves publicly, either for better or worse. Never can be too careful, I say! Why, I once mentioned to Prince Draco my great love of Scotland, and behold, he chose to attend university at Hogwarts. Which is not to say I'm a close confidante of the Prince, of course… or at least, I'm not saying it until after you sign the form, that is! Ha! Ha! In any case, better that we settle matters of privacy now. I should hate to influence you too greatly through no fault of my own!

Cheers!

Gilderoy Lockhart
Bestselling Author and Personality
5-time Winner of Woman's Weekly Most Charming Smile

"Jesus," remarked Hermione in an undertone.

("What I want to know is who he lost most charming smile to," Draco remarked to himself. "That, and whether or not they're still alive."

Later, Hermione would be able to say with disarming certainty: "Frankly, I doubt it.")

Hermione looked up at Demelza's desk, contemplating her for a moment. "We don't have any hibiscus tea, do we?"

"Mm, I don't think so," said Demelza, pondering it for a moment as behind her, Oliver slid his finger across his throat, giving Hermione a pointed look to remind her (as if she could forget) of Demelza's impending doom. "Why, should I fetch some?"

"Erm, no, thanks," Hermione said, forcing a smile and attempting to surreptitiously wave Oliver away. "You just, um. Keep working."

"Okay," Demelza said cheerfully, returning to her keyboard as Oliver began feigning stabbing motions into his neck.

"Miss Clearwater!" declared the man who could only be Gilderoy Lockhart, sweeping into the room wearing what Hermione would argue was a very Blaise-like cape. "A pleasure to introduce myself," he said, folding into an elaborate bow. He was wearing something very similar to the ensembles Draco typically wore when he was representing his grandfather at state functions; Gilderoy even had a similar series of insignia and medals pinned to his lapel, beneath which he wore a velvet brocade vest.

"Hello, Mr Lockhart," Hermione said, rising to her feet to extend a hand. "Apologies for the unorthodox introduction, but I'm—"

"My goodness, has anyone ever told you that you look precisely like Hermione Granger?" Gilderoy remarked, clasping Hermione's hand and shaking it with vigor. "I, of course, have a far sharper eye than most—your teeth are much larger," he declared, "and, of course, you must be several inches smaller, by comparison you are positively diminutive—I was introduced to her, you see, on the occasion of Prince Draco's last birthday," Gilderoy offered solemnly, dropping his voice to a near whisper. "Did you read in the news about his feud with Prince Harry? All my doing, I'm afraid."

"I," Hermione began, still utterly puzzled, but ultimately opted to go with, "I heard they're no longer feuding."

"Well, I'm pleased the Palace is finally reporting something true, for once," Gilderoy said, with both a conspiratorial glance and a palpable sigh of relief. "I must say, it was a difficult process, but I do have a talent for arbitration."

Hermione blinked, slightly dizzied.

("Is it very wrong of me to find this very entertaining?" Draco later asked her. "I hate to say it, but the man has an admirable certainty."

"I think 'admirable' might be a stretch, don't you?"

"Mmm… I'm afraid not," Draco lamented. "Unfortunately, I suspect that if I were given the opportunity to bottle his confidence, I might do it. You know, just for my off days," he assured her, "and perhaps, from time to time, during sex."

"Please," Hermione scoffed. "As if you need help."

"True," Draco said, not-so-quietly pleased. "I suppose I don't.")

"Pardon me if I'm being completely obtuse," Hermione said slowly, to which Gilderoy permitted an obliging nod, "but… are you suggesting that you had something to do with the Princes' reconciliation?"

"Well, I certainly can't take full credit," Gilderoy said sagely. "They both wanted it, in the end. I was just there to absorb some of the tension, you might say."

"Mm, yes, I see," Hermione evasively agreed, "and you also think I look like Hermione Granger?"

"You do know who she is, don't you?" Gilderoy said, and before Hermione could answer, he had already scoffed to himself, "Why no, of course you don't—just another failure of celebrity," he sighed heavily. "Because of course nobody really knows anyone, no matter how dazzling their public persona. Such a pity, as I'm sure you know. She's a lovely girl," he offered fondly, "given such a difficult lot in life, I'm afraid. Told me herself she was quietly adopted by the couple purporting to be her parents."

"Is that," Hermione began, and coughed. "True?"

"Oh, indubitably. She's actually of an ancient noble line, if you can believe that!" Gilderoy said with a laugh. "Her blood runs purer even than the Royal Family's, I imagine—though, I'm sure she'd like to keep that to herself, so please, do not ask me to substantiate my knowledge. I would never betray her trust that way."

("Well, at least he has morals."

"Draco, I worry your defense of him might actually be mildly troubling."

"Ah, valid. Retracted, then.")

"I… yes," Hermione faintly agreed, "quite right. Sorry," she added, grimacing slightly, "how do you know Dr Sprout, again?"

Gilderoy paused for a moment, frowning. "Dr Sprout?"

"Yes. She recommended me?"

"Oh! My heavens, you mean Pomona, landscaper to the stars!" Gilderoy crowed, bewildering Hermione even further. "Yes, she is responsible for the garden in my country home, which I must say, was quite a revelation. You would know that, I'm sure," he remarked, nudging her. "I wouldn't hold just anyone responsible for my garden portraiture."

"I really don't know why I'm asking this," Hermione sighed, "but what, exactly, is garden portraiture?"

"Oh, my girl, only the finest of landscape artistry," Gilderoy exclaimed. "Surely Pomona told you?"

("Did Dr Sprout ever tell you how they know each other?" Draco asked, quite reasonably, and in fact, Hermione had later discovered that a sheepish Dr Sprout once sought funding for one of her projects from a board which included Gilderoy Lockhart as one of its prominent members. Mistaking her for some sort of fancy gardener, he agreed that he would secure the board's vote to apportion funding to her conservation research in exchange for her creation of several elaborate shrubberies—all of which were designed to look like Gilderoy himself.

"It's kind of a long story," Hermione said, "but I've seen the shrubberies, and they are very impressive."

"Well, she does seem to take great pride in her work," Draco said kindly.)

"Anyway, that aside," Hermione said, "as for your copywriting needs—"

"No, no, not copy," Gilderoy corrected her, draping himself over the chair opposite hers. "No, I need your assistance on my next book. A memoir," he explained, "my first, in fact."

Hermione, who was unsure she'd ever seen Gilderoy Lockhart promote anything other than himself, was unable to dismiss a skeptical, "Really?"

"Well, my other books have been about using my experiences to help others. How to win friends and influence people, for example—"

"Isn't that by Dale Carnegie?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, he wrote something similar, I suppose," Gilderoy said, shrugging, "but there was also my book about finding love and creating lasting relationships—"

"Aren't you rather notoriously unmarried?"

"—and, of course, a critically-acclaimed book that perhaps you've heard of? It's called Ask, Believe, Receive, which I'm sure you're well aware continues to be the bestselling book in its category—"

("Isn't that the whole idea behind The Secret?" asked Draco, and then, after a moment's thought, "I think I remember Oprah telling me I should read it."

Dismissing that Draco had apparently met Oprah, which was a fact that would later enthuse her mother, Hermione replied, "Oh yes, famously. But eventually I decided to just stop pointing it out."

"Ah, yes. Makes sense," Draco agreed.)

"—but naturally, it soon became obvious that people were clamoring for more details about my life story," Gilderoy concluded, giving Hermione a look of admirable humility, "so, after some pressure from my publishers, I finally agreed. Naturally, we'll discuss your availability and my work preferences, but—"

"I'm sorry," Hermione interrupted. "But aren't you supposed to be an author?"

"In more of a spiritual capacity, yes," Gilderoy said, appearing to genuinely believe that was a statement that made sense. "I'm afraid my previous ghostwriter had other obligations, and it has now become necessary for me to undertake a new partnership."

("What happened to his previous ghostwriter?" Draco asked curiously.

"You know, I spent a lot of time trying to sort it out," Hermione said.

"Any luck?"

"Well, as far as I can tell, a great number of people have been paid enormous sums of money not to talk about it."

"Hmm. I could pay more, if you wanted. Or arrest some people, up to you."

"Draco," she sighed, "your prince is showing."

"What? It's a fact—"

"I know. A fact which never stops being weird."

"Good weird?"

"Weird weird."

"Alright, fair enough.")

"So," Gilderoy continued, "as for the terms of our working arrangement, rest assured you'll be paid quite handsomely for your time. I expect you to record our many conversations, of course," he said, "and you will be responsible for all writing and editing. Once I have cast my expert eye upon your work and given my approval, my publisher wants a polished draft by the end of the summer," he informed her, "which, I imagine, is feasible?"

Hermione cast a longing glance over her shoulder to where Minerva and Oliver were meeting in her office. If Minerva was right that The Transfiguration Project was suffering, that was a major client gone. She could probably find other ways to pay the bills, but none this quickly.

"Yes," she sighed, turning to Gilderoy. "Yes, I suppose so."

"Marvelous," Gilderoy declared, and then glanced around. "I don't suppose you were able to get any of my requested tea?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr Lockhart," Hermione said, "but if you'd like to keep some here for when we spend time on your book—"

"Oh, no, no," Gilderoy said with a shudder, casting a gaze around with repulsion. "This absolutely won't do. No, we'll meet at The Chamber Club, of course. I can't be expected to work… here," he remarked, derisive for a moment, then resuming his previous buoyancy. "Shall we reconvene next week, then, Penny?"

"Penny?" Hermione echoed, confused.

"Unless you have a more preferable nickname," Gilderoy sniffed, as Hermione recalled the unlikely truth that he genuinely believed her to be Penelope Clearwater, ghostwriter. "Though, you should know, the Chamber is extremely exclusive, very private—secretive, even. You'll have to dress much better than this," he pointed out with an undertone of sympathy, "so I'll send over some swatches. You and Hermione Granger certainly have that in common," he added with a laugh. "One of these days I'll talk her out of those cardigans."

("Something I'm hoping to do myself," Draco wistfully remarked.

"What, you don't like my cardigans?"

"No, I do," he said, "I just prefer them on my floor."

She groaned, "...Really?"

"You're right," Draco sighed. "I apologize.")

Hermione pulled said cardigan closer around herself, clearing her throat.

"Well, I'll send over an employment contract, then," she suggested, "and once we've sorted the details, I'll see you next week?"

"Mm. Any chance of champagne while I'm here?" Gilderoy asked hopefully, and as Hermione shook her head, he sighed. "Well, fine. Next week it is," he said, rising to his feet and holding out a hand. "Pleasure doing business with you, Penny."

"And with—" Hermione broke off as Gilderoy gave her hand an ostentatious kiss, foregoing the proffered handshake in favor of… whatever that was. "You," she finished, narrowly avoiding being smacked in the face by his cloak before he swept out of the conference room, gracefully descending the stairs.

By April, Hermione knew with uncomfortable certainty what she'd taken on when she acquired Gilderoy Lockhart as a client. She had initially been apprehensive that people might take notice of her meeting him at his social club, but he had at least been right about one thing: The Chamber Club was an extremely private place, with an almost Illuminati degree of security. It was only reached through the lavatory of an institutional building (it was a bit like a speakeasy that way, hidden within an old library) but permission inside revealed a spacious, dimly-lit, smoke-covered and heavily-velveted entry hall that faced a pair of old portraits: one a young, unsmiling King Abraxas, and mirroring it, a similar portrait of young Prince Lucius.

Enemies of the heir beware, Hermione texted Draco upon first discovering the portrait of his father—or tried to, before a man in a full suit of armor made it uncomfortably clear there was to be no text messaging or photography. This, again, revealed itself to be very much to Hermione's advantage. Not once while working there had anyone looked at her, and in fact, she was hardly the least interesting person inside the Chamber.

Once, she was quite certain she'd seen a man who could easily have been a giant, and whatever he was dealing to a deeply handsome stranger—either illicit drugs or dragon eggs, she couldn't be sure—he was definitely a more noticeable presence than she was. After that, Hermione stopped worrying she'd be recognized and, instead, turned her attention to the much larger problem of the actual work.

Which was to say, her client.

"Gilderoy Lockhart is a total buffoon," scoffed Pansy on one of Hermione's rare evenings off, and beside her, Harry nodded his agreement.

"I don't use the word 'buffoon' lightly, but in this case, it's definitely the right one," he said, lamenting it slightly. "I've only met Lockhart once, but it was… a fairly intolerable experience that I don't wish to repeat."

("I was there, actually," Draco later told Hermione. "I believe Lockhart was trying very hard to become friends with Harry? Which, of course, I was only marginally upset about."

"You were upset?" Hermione echoed, scoffing. "What on earth for?"

"Well, I believe he was busy telling Harry they were both, you know. Ladies' men, et cetera, which was, at the time, quite a blow to my teenage confidence—"

"Draco. This is a very weird side of you."

"Well, you agreed to marry me, Miss Granger. If you can't love me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best," he sniffed.)

"Mm, well, you should know you and Gilderoy are actually quite close," Hermione informed Harry. "Did you know he once picked you up from rehab?"

"Well, who hasn't, really," Harry replied, shrugging.

But where Harry was characteristically amiable, Pansy was characteristically alarmed. "That's not going in the memoir, is it?" she asked, perilously on the safe side of impending outrage, and Hermione shook her head.

"Nope, definitely not—not that I'd put it in even if he said to. It's just a fun personal anecdote for Penelope to cling to between visits," she said drily.

("It's not too late to quit our jobs and become jewel thieves," Draco reminded her.

"Learn a useful trade, first," Hermione advised him.

"That literally never becomes less painful, but thank you for keeping me grounded.")

"At least Lockhart's quite handsome," remarked Astoria, who had opted to accompany Daphne that evening for reasons none of them understood. That she was presently between boyfriends seemed to be Daphne's best guess. "Could be worse, couldn't it? You could be spending all your time with a dull old grump or something."

"That's—" Hermione winced. "True, I guess."

"What I need is an older man like Lockhart," Astoria sighed, and at Daphne's look of concern, she rolled her eyes. "Not to settle down with, you silly girl, just to entertain myself a while. Everyone's coupling up for spring and it's maddening, really. I ought to be with someone interesting, but it's hard when everyone suitable is such an incurable bore." She considered it, and then brightened. "I don't suppose you know any widowers, do you?"

"Abraxas," Harry suggested.

"Ah yes, a highly achievable conquest," Pansy said, rolling her eyes and shooting him a warning glare. Harry replied with a smile, nudging her under the table with his foot and leaving her to kick at his ankle.

"I hear Cedric Diggory is available again," Hermione said, and Daphne and Pansy both turned to her with surprise. "What? I read things," she informed them, and then, because neither woman seemed likely to dismiss her unusual employment of society tidbits, she sighed, "Fine, I saw it on the DRAGONFLOWER blog. Happy?"

("You still read that?" Draco asked, chuckling.

"Sometimes I miss you," Hermione grumbled. "Don't let it go to your head.")

"I had no idea that was still a thing," Pansy said, making a face. "Do people really still suspect Draco and Fleur of being in some sort of committed foreign liaison?"

"Yes," Daphne and Hermione said in unison, with Daphne explaining, "Which I only know because, again, they're always the quickest to identify the designers Fleur is wearing. And yours, actually," she added, lifting her cup of tea to her lips and gesturing with mischief to Pansy. "I think you're a new favorite, in fact."

"Of course I am," Pansy said. "I have impeccable taste."

("Hm," Draco said, "and of course I have to imagine Harry said something like—")

"It's true, she does," contributed Harry, with a salacious grin that earned him another kick to the ankle.

("Yep," Hermione confirmed. "Right on the first try.")

"They don't cover you very much," Astoria observed, turning to Hermione with a pensive frown. "I don't suppose that bothers you, does it?"

Per usual, Astoria's candor was slightly unnerving, though Hermione had learned to consider it a compliment; evidence of familiarity. It was better, anyway, than her more layered microaggressions, which were both extremely British and deeply headache-inducing for Hermione to interpret.

("She has a point, though. Does it bother you?" asked Draco.)

"No, it doesn't," Hermione said, and meant it. "I'm not some sort of fashion plate or socialite, and anyway, I'm trying to keep a low profile. I'd like to be taken seriously," she added, at which point Astoria gave a little laugh of disbelief.

"If you mean overlooked entirely, then you're doing a marvelous job," she said, which was met with a glare from Daphne. "What?" Astoria demanded from her sister. "I only mean that it's a bit of a fantasy, this 'being taken seriously' idea. We'd all like to be valued for having thoughts, wouldn't we?" she informed Hermione, "but if it's not going to happen in our lifetimes, then we might as well take advantage of being fascinating. Sooz makes tidy work of it."

Hermione fought a groan; as if she didn't have enough illogical reasons to dislike Lady Susan Bones without Astoria's help. Susan had taken a step back from The Transfiguration Project over the past couple of weeks, which certainly wasn't helping things.

"What's Lady Sooz up to?" Daphne asked, feigning innocence. "And do be specific about her clothes," she added hastily upon catching Hermione's admonishing head shake. "What? This is of professional interest to me."

"Oh, well. I suppose I only know what she's not wearing," Astoria remarked, taking a sip of her tea.

For a moment, there was a long period of silence.

"Alright, fine, I'll bite," Harry eventually growled, turning to Astoria. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Oh," she demurred, "have you not heard?"

"Astoria," Daphne growled, as her sister sighed, obviously delighted to be the one informing them of such clearly desirable gossip.

"Well," Astoria said, leaning forward with her tea cup clutched with both hands, "I imagine you've heard that Neville Longbottom"—at the sound of his name, there was a collective tightening of knuckles around the table—"has been spending quite a lot of time with the youngest Weasley son, haven't you? Apparently they know each other from secondary school—"

"Oh, that reminds me, I should see what Ron's up to," Harry said suddenly, digging his phone out of his pocket. "I've been so busy with all these public appearances I haven't even thought to have him ov-"

"Hush," said Pansy, glaring, which Harry returned with a smile.

"Anyway," Astoria continued, "as you know, Sooz and Ginevra Weasley are great friends—"

"Are they really?" Harry asked, looking genuinely incredulous.

"For the love of god, Henry—desist," snapped Pansy.

"—and now, it seems, they've got a whole little group together. Them and Michael Corner"—that name being met with a choking sound from both Daphne and Pansy as they coughed into their cups—"though, I have to imagine it's Neville that Sooz has her sights on," Astoria finished conspiratorially, "because really, she wouldn't waste her time on Corner. He's much more Ginevra's speed, you know, what with all that misbehavior after university—"

("Is no one ever going to tell me what Michael Corner so infamously did?" demanded Draco.

"Nope," said Hermione, "Never.")

"—and besides, Neville may be a bit of a louse, but he does have quite a lot of public sympathy—"

"I do so love hearing about all your old flames, Pans," Harry remarked neutrally, catching the stiffening of Pansy's shoulders. "I may have had more scandals," he mused, obviously toying with her for his own amusement, "but yours are just so deliciously eternal. And really, it's quality over quantity, isn't it?"

"Henry," Pansy warned icily, and then rose to her feet, clattering cup against saucer and heaving her now-considerable belly in the direction of the kitchen.

"Oh, come on, Pans, he's joking," Daphne called after her, still laughing a little at the mention of Michael and giving her sister a mostly-unsuccessful look of disapproval. "Look what you've done, you little monster," she said to Astoria as Harry sighed, giving the rest of them a little 'what can you do' shrug and following Pansy into the kitchen. "You're just a small apocalypse wandering around in Chanel, aren't you?"

"Well, I'd wander apocalyptically in Daphne Nott, wouldn't I? Only you haven't made anything remotely suitable for the occasion," Astoria retorted. "How many cocktail gowns does a person need, Daph? Make a coat dress, for heaven's sake, put yourself to use—"

"You wench, honestly," Daphne said fondly, as Hermione glanced in the direction Pansy and Harry had gone.

She wasn't quite sure how to categorize their relationship now that Harry was permanently back at home, though she knew he and Pansy had been putting on quite a show for the public. He was certainly very affectionate with her; long gone were the days of the philandering prince and his many love affairs, or so the tabloids were happily convinced. Harry was often caught by photographers looking dotingly at his wife in odd moments, but Hermione was unsure whether Pansy had adjusted to that degree of warmth. After all, she was… uncomfortable, Hermione supposed was the right word, with intimacy. It seemed to be constricting for her, and Hermione worried she needed to step in—juuuuust to make sure that Pansy understood Harry was just being his mercilessly prince-like self.

("He can certainly be… well, himself," Draco permitted, "but still, it's not as if Pansy doesn't know that, is it? She's known him nearly her entire life."

"Well," Hermione sighed, "you know I like to fix things."

"Oh yes, I'm very familiar. It's one of your most charming compulsions."

"It's not a compulsion!"

"Oh, of course not," Draco chuckled. "Slip of the tongue.")

Hermione picked up her cup, making her way to the kitchen, and began rehearsing lines in her head. Pans, you have to understand, this is just how he is. Look how much he cares about you! I know it may be difficult, but if you would just give him a chance—

"Oh, my," Hermione botched out instead, falling to an unsteady halt as she waltzed directly into something that, had she arrived even one second later, might have been an extremely compromising situation.

Pansy and Harry froze precisely where they were—which was on top of the kitchen table, Pansy's fingers wrenched tightly in Harry's hair and Harry's hands hidden from sight beneath the material of Pansy's dress; there was a moment of terrible awkwardness, Pansy coughing loudly and releasing Harry as the latter turned away, adjusting his trousers—and then Hermione, lacking any other alternative, set the teacup down on the table, clearing her throat.

"So," she said, and then, much to her dismay, the question that fell out of her mouth was: "Is it always like this?"

("Stop laughing," Hermione would be forced to eventually groan to Draco, who would, unfortunately, be quite incapable of doing so.)

"Yes," Harry said gruffly, turning back to Pansy and giving her a smile that blatantly asked for trouble. "I have to assume it's just pregnancy hormones."

"You're not," Hermione began, and stopped. "You guys aren't, like… well. You know."

"What, arguing in front of you and then sneaking away for sex when the rest of you aren't paying attention? Certainly not," Harry said, earning himself a backhanded smack to the shoulder from his wife. "What? It's rude not to answer a question, Pans."

"She hasn't asked one, Henry, because she's a child. It's called sex, Hermione, and it's nothing to be ashamed of," Pansy sniffed, nudging Harry out of the way and dusting off the immaculate material of her dress. "We're consenting adults, we're having pleasurable sex, everything is normal."

"No, I… I know," Hermione said, now transitioning from shock to untimely amusement, fighting to hide her laughter. "Right, I was just—well, I'm glad, of course, because I thought—"

"Well, you thought incorrectly, as usual," Pansy said, briskly adjusting the state of her normally-polished chignon, from which a number of stray pieces had escaped. "Besides, Harry's correct. It's simply hormonal." She glanced at him, straightening his collar and brusquely smudging the hint of lipstick from his jaw. "I have no doubt I will return to myself immediately upon expelling his contribution to the patriarchy from my womb."

"I'm telling you, it's a girl," Harry countered for the millionth time, resting a hand on Pansy's stomach before getting his fingers slapped away. "What? I told you, we can confirm any time you like, and then we'll both know for certain that I'm right and you're wrong—"

"Oh, shut up, Henry James," Pansy said with palpable irritation, sauntering past Hermione and disappearing from the room.

Hermione watched her go, frowning slightly with bemusement, but turned back to find a vacant look on Harry's face, his green eyes fixed with brightness at where Pansy had just been.

Clearly, they did not need her help. Which, Hermione supposed, was a good thing.

("Ah, so that's why you called me," Draco observed slyly.

"Again, don't let it go to your head," Hermione said.)

"If you want to have sex with your wife, Harry, just go," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes, and Harry spared her a shameless grin, resting both hands on her shoulders and brusquely kissing her forehead.

"Thanks," he said, smacking her cheek with his palm and winking as only Harry could wink.

"This is very inappropriate," she told him firmly, and then, because she had clearly already lost him, she shouted over her shoulder, "YOU STILL HAVE GUESTS, YOU KNOW!"

But by then, Harry had already disappeared at half a sprint, turning the corner and chasing Pansy up the stairs.

"—now, back to the subject of my formative years, where of course I was Head Boy—"

"Were you?" Hermione asked, glancing up at Gilderoy. "Because I know you were a Prefect, but I'm quite sure I didn't read anything about—"

"Oh yes, yes, I simply misspoke," said Gilderoy, smiling broadly. "I have so many accomplishments, you see, they sometimes blur together. Too many stories, too little time!" he declared, as Hermione attempted to surreptitiously check her watch. "I'll have to tell you next time about how Prince Harry nearly lost the naming rights to his son during our most recent weekly game of Gleek—"

"His son?" Hermione echoed, and Gilderoy leaned in.

"Yes, it's very hush-hush," he supplied, "but I will say, after the save I managed on His Highness' behalf, Gilderoy is sure to be a strong contender."

"Isn't Gleek a three-player game?" Hermione said. "Who else was playing?"

"Why, that would certainly be inelegant of me to reveal!" Gilderoy trilled, briskly patting her knee. "So let's just say he's a very close friend of the Palace, very close. He and I are invaluable resources to His Majesty—though, of course, he would be, wouldn't he?"

"Are you talking about the Duke of Norfolk?" Hermione sighed, referencing the man otherwise known as Nott Sr, and in answer, Gilderoy looked both scandalized and exuberant, pleased to see she had correctly intimated his point.

("Incredible," Draco said, apparently overjoyed by this new imaginary revelation, and Hermione groaned.

"I worry you might approve too much of Lockhart."

"I worry that too," Draco said, "but, unfortunately, it is what it is.")

"Now, don't tell a soul I've said it," Gilderoy assured her cheerfully, "because it's a secret to the highest degree. Theodore's quite soft-hearted in real life, did you know? Surprising, I imagine," he said airily, "because he's so very grim in public, but he's got a real flair for the dramatic arts."

("He's not wrong," Draco said with an audible shrug. "Nott's a monster, obviously, but he plays a mean game of charades.")

"Of course he does," Hermione sighed with a shake of her head, returning to her notes and finishing just in time to meet Blaise for their scheduled after-work cocktails.

By May, obviously not much had changed; Transfiguration was afloat, but barely, and while Gilderoy Lockhart's memoir was certainly lucrative, it continued to be the most terrible writing project Hermione had ever attempted.

"I spend half my time sifting through what he tells me and checking it for details," she explained to Blaise, who chuckled into his whisky sour, "and the other half discovering there's no real way to prove most of what he says. He does a very good job of only discussing people who are completely untouchable—though, just as a statistical matter, some of these stories have to be true, right?" she asked, choosing to be optimistic. "I mean, otherwise, how did he even get famous?"

"Mm, well, packaging is everything," Blaise reminded her. "For all that he's a number of unsavory things, Gilderoy Lockhart is still the big three: handsome, charming, and articulate. He sells books, and that," Blaise concluded, "is what we in the finance industry call a lucrative investment."

He paused, obviously feeling a vibration from his phone, and slid it out from the inner lining of his jacket pocket. "One moment, please, New Tracey—"

"Minus ten," Hermione teased, prompting Blaise to look up, shaking his head.

"Hubris," he observed, adding, "Minus ten for incorrectly assuming requisite authority for point deduction."

("I tried that once," Draco later remarked, sighing. "I got suspended for nearly three days."

"You did?" Hermione asked, aghast. "I didn't even know suspension was a thing!"

"It is, and I highly discourage you from attempting it," Draco said, with something of a shudder. "It was a low point in my existence, I assure you.")

Blaise typed something into his phone, which was met with a near-instant answer. Then he paused, considering something, and replied, tucking his phone back into his pocket only after Hermione caught a glimpse of the name on the screen.

"Wait a minute," she said, blinking as she caught his wrist. "Did that say Tracey Davis?"

"Minus an additional five for snooping," Blaise sniffed, and Hermione groaned.

"Oh, come on, I can't help that you had it out right in front of me—"

"Fine. Yes, it's Old Tracey," Blaise said matter-of-factly, looking as if he had every intention to end the conversation there until Hermione made it clear, glare-ily, that abandonment would not be an option. "What?"

"Well, I just—I don't know," Hermione said hesitantly, but at Blaise's arched brow, she conceded, "Fine. I guess I thought we were done with her? I mean, she was part of the whole Neville thing," Hermione realized, abruptly surprised to discover she'd given it absolutely no thought. "Wow, I never once thought about how Tracey took it. Surprisingly well, I assume," she answered herself with a laugh, "if she's back now."

"Mm," Blaise said noncommittally, taking a sip of his drink, and Hermione felt a low, painful sinking in her stomach.

("Ah, right," Draco said uncomfortably, "about that—")

"Oh, no," Hermione sighed.

"Hm?"

"You didn't."

"Didn't what?"

("He did," Draco confirmed.)

"Blaise—"

"New Tracey, you'll have to start using your words or I shall have to deduct—"

"You didn't tell her!" Hermione accused, and at Blaise's lack of expression, she groaned, "BLAISE!"

"Hold on—before you have some sort of colonial meltdown and threaten my stamps, it's not what you think," Blaise said quickly, though Hermione doubted that, and she told him so with another glare. "Tracey and I were never official, and certainly never committed. By the time I was seeing Neville with any regularity, she and I were together so infrequently I don't believe either of us considered it a relationship."

"But Blaise—"

("In his defense, he has… well, not a good reason," Draco said tentatively, "but a reason.")

"I can't tell her," Blaise said stiffly, his hand clenched around his glass. "I can't, because then I would have to tell her how it ended, which I have no interest in doing. And besides, it isn't as if she's asked me—"

Hermione scoffed at that, grumpily disapproving. "Blaise, I certainly doubt she's thought to ask 'oh, hey, did you happen to have an affair with someone else while we were maybe, sort-of seeing each other? Just wondering, okay thanks'—"

"Things with Neville are finished," Blaise said firmly, "and I see no reason to bring it up. After all, Neville has Michael Corner now, so it goes without saying that—"

"But I thought—" Hermione blinked. "Michael Corner?"

("One of you is going to cave one of these days and tell me!" insisted Draco.)

"Of course," Blaise said, scowling a little at the thought, and Hermione frowned.

"But how do you know? I mean, have you and Neville spoken recently? Because if you have—"

"No. No, not that." Blaise shook his head, drumming his fingers on the bar counter. "I just know."

"But how can you possibly know, if—"

"You don't honestly believe he's interested in Susan Bones, do you? Please," he scoffed, "she's just a lesser Pansy." He drained the remainder of his glass, giving Hermione a pointed look. "Besides, it worked once, didn't it? He convinced one man to hide with him, so he can easily convince another."

Blaise eyed his empty glass, contemplating it a moment.

"The world loves a pretty picture," he murmured, more to himself than to Hermione. "It's such an easy thing, isn't it? Misdirection." He set the glass on the counter. "People only see the easiest explanation, New Tracey. They're only capable of seeing the things they've seen before, and they're happy with that, aren't they? I would have thought you'd come to realize that by now."

("He's," Draco began, and sighed. "I'm just happy you're spending time with him.")

One of the things Hermione had learned from Draco was that silence, even when she would prefer to ask questions, was sometimes the best way to persuade people to continue. Whether it worked or not, she wasn't sure pestering Blaise would help, and in lieu of pressing him for perhaps the thousandth time, she rested her hand lightly on his.

"Plus twenty for correctly reading the room," Blaise remarked in answer, and turned to her with something of a half-smile. "Though, much as I'd like to tell you what happened with Neville, I don't know that I can."

Sometimes, though, her instincts won out. "Why not?"

"Well, because I don't really know." Blaise paused for a moment, and then continued, "It was almost as if someone had gotten to him first. Fair, I suppose, since I did take my time about it," he said, giving Hermione a wry, lifeless smile. "But either way, the door had been open once, and it was locked by the time I arrived."

"Oh, Blaise." She leaned against him, contemplating it. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Ah, I'm not," he assured her. "There's some closure, I think. At least I know I must have actually loved him, which is… comforting, in a way. I'd hate myself more if I had made Pansy suffer for nothing," he explained, and Hermione glanced up, observing his face; a bit of wistfulness, tinged with loss. "Not to be dramatic, that is," he said, "which, as you know, is something I prefer to do in a more appropriate outfit."

"Do you," Hermione began, and, per usual, stumbled. "I mean, Tracey, is she—"

"Words," Blaise advised.

She rolled her eyes. "Do you have feelings for Tracey, then?"

"Mm, of a sort. I feel more for her than most, but less than… I have felt. Or have been known to feel, on occasion. A single occasion." He glanced down at her. "Do you suppose there's a word for that?"

"I'd hate for it to be complacency," she said.

"Well," he sighed, "as would I."

They were quiet a moment, Hermione sitting upright to sip from her glass of wine, when Blaise resumed his usual persona.

"I suppose we should return to your problem," he said, and Hermione made a face. "I know how valuable my advice is to you, New Tracey," Blaise warned, wagging a finger in her direction. "I can hardly withhold it in favor of my own inconsequential traumas."

"Blaise, they aren't incons-"

"Is it that you want Lockhart to be truthful?" he asked. "Or to be less… Lockhart, I suppose—"

As with all her friends, there was no point pushing him back to the topic of conversation. They all had monarchical reflexes: dismissal was dismissal.

"I guess," Hermione began with a sigh, and then grimaced, "I guess it's not so much a problem with Lockhart. It's just frustrating," she admitted, shrugging.

"What, that he's such a beautiful idiot?"

"That," she confirmed reluctantly, "and that he gets so much more attention than far worthier subjects, you know? Minerva's non-profit is circling the drain, but Gilderoy just got paid to give some magazine a tour of his house. Just makes me feel sort of helpless, I guess."

Blaise made a little humming sound that wasn't precisely agreement.

("Hmm," said Draco.)

"What?" Hermione asked, glancing swiftly at him, and he made the same sound again. "Blaise, honestly—"

"Minus five for rushing me. I'm simply wondering whether there isn't more you can do," Blaise commented, giving her a pointed look. "You're a person of some influence, aren't you?"

"What, me?" Hermione asked, scoffing. "Hardly. I think I've been warned not to cross the line enough, haven't I?"

"Who says you have to cross anything?"

"You just said—"

"You, New Tracey, are an arrow," Blaise said, and Hermione blinked.

"An arrow?"

"Yes, an arrow," he replied smartly. "You can show others where to look."

"I—" Hermione broke off. "What?"

"You're a public figure, whether you like it or not," Blaise reminded her. "What you have is an audience. They will see whatever you want them to see."

"But Draco already supported The Transfiguration Project himself. If even his support wasn't enough to save it, then what am I supposed to do?"

"I certainly don't know," Blaise said, shrugging.

"But—"

"But what?"

"I can't exactly step out of line. There's, you know. Rules," she finished lamely, and Blaise shrugged, reaching forward to take her glass from her hand.

"Well, you can work within the system, can't you?" he asked her. "Not everything you do has to be some sort of reckless rebellion against authority. Surely you can conjure something of interest to aid in your philanthropic pursuits."

Then he finished her wine, prompting her to her feet.

"Come on, then," he said, "let's go Skype Steve. I haven't heard from him in ages."

"Have you not?" Hermione asked, surprised. "I've always suspected him of incredible communication dexterity."

After all, Draco was extremely excellent about keeping tabs on all his friends. She'd caught Pansy on the phone with him the other day for what she was almost positive was, strangely, fashion advice.

"Well. I'm sure loads has happened since yesterday," was Blaise's lofty response, ushering her out the door and in the direction of her flat.

("I wondered when you'd finally come to me for help," Draco said later. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Hermione sighed heavily. "Are you saying you've had an idea how to help this whole time?"

"Oh, only a small one, but yes," he told her. "I've just learned it's best to keep it to myself until you ask."

"Oh, no," she grumbled, "I really am predictable, aren't I?"

"Is it such a crime for me to know you?" he asked.

"No, I suppose not." A pause. "So, what do I do, then?"

"Well, Miss Granger," Draco said happily, "from what I've heard the past few months, I suspect a solution is quite conveniently right under your nose.")

June brought with it a new version of Pansy; her most pregnant yet, and therefore her strangest. She was a mix of highly emotional—bursting into tears at the sight of any small animal—and also highly irritable, which was not aided by her state of physical discomfort. The particularly warm start to summer meant Harry had urged Pansy to spend some time outside the city, prompting them to recuse themselves briefly from public appearances.

("So, Pansy was good, then?"

"She was," Hermione assured Draco, "…sort of."

"Ah yes, sort of," he remarked drily. "The preferred state of good.")

Luckily, Daphne and Theo had come along to stay for a few weeks, with Hermione and Blaise joining them from London for a weekend. Godric's Cottage, known for being the house of James Potter's boyhood, was certainly smaller than any of Theo's father's properties, but it was a very quaint manor house with a lovely garden, located just outside a village that was equally charming.

"Oh, you're finally here!" exclaimed Daphne, hanging up her phone from where she'd been pestering someone in the garden as Blaise and Hermione approached. She threw her arms around them, expressing some combined degree of elation and relief. "Thank goodness," she said, giving Hermione in particular a lethal squeeze, "as Pansy's driving me absolutely bananas—"

("Ah, I bet it's the syndrome," Draco predicted.

"What syndrome?" asked Hermione.)

"Daphne, are you thirsty?" came Pansy's voice.

("Hostess syndrome," Draco replied.)

"I told you, I'M FINE," Daphne shouted back, giving Hermione a tightly-forced smile. "It turns out Very Pregnant Pansy is so caring and considerate I half want to drown myself—"

"Well, surely you could still stand to drink some water," Pansy said, stepping out with a tray of glasses. "You've been on your phone all m- oh, you're here," she said, maneuvering her considerably swollen self over to where Blaise and Hermione were standing before calling over her shoulder for Harry and Theo. "They've been cooking all morning," she informed Hermione with a roll of her eyes. "Something about me not being PERFECTLY CAPABLE OF PREPARING A SIMPLE BRAISE MYSELF," she added at an enraged shout, before suddenly sparing Hermione a lovely, maniacal smile. "Anyway, are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"Please feed us whatever you would like," Blaise wisely replied, permitting Pansy to lead them to the table set up in the garden as Daphne slid an arm through Hermione's, clearly relieved to have at least one level-headed woman in attendance.

("Not that it matters, but Harry's hardly even a disaster in the kitchen," Draco said. "His godfather was very proud of his culinary prowess and passed along some tricks, I believe. Something about the importance of seduction via food."

"Good to know," Hermione said. "Weird, but good."

"This is why Lockhart preferred Harry," Draco sighed mournfully. "I know it.")

The spread set out by Harry and Theo—who was apparently staying out of his wife's way as she worked, also quite wisely—was a very pleasing brunch, including eggs and bacon and a cheese plate Hermione suspected Blaise of requesting in advance. It was also an extremely beautiful day, the sky crisp and blue overhead, and within moments, conversation had turned from remarking on the weather to what Harry and Pansy were planning to call their future spawn.

From Harry: "It'll have to be James for a boy, which it won't be."

From Pansy: "Which it will, and anyway, no."

Harry, affronted: "Sorry—what do you mean 'no'?"

Pansy: "Apology accepted, and I mean I'm not naming my son after your dead father, Henry. It's simple math."

Theo, with some doubt: "Is it?"

Pansy, to Daphne, while waving a hand dismissively in Theo's direction: "Do something."

Daphne, with an exhausted sigh: "Nott, please. We're just trying to live our lives."

Theo, with obvious enjoyment: "My pleasure, sweetheart."

Harry, who was continuing to insist: "What do you want to name him, then?"

Pansy, with a scoff: "Not Theo, that's for certain."

Blaise, with a chuckle: "Plus five for an excellent leaping off point."

Hermione, thoughtfully: "Personally, I've always liked the name Hugo."

Pansy: "Hermione, are you feeling well?"

Hermione, with a frown: "Why?"

Pansy, without any change in tone: "Because you should really eat before the rest of your obvious delirium sets in."

Harry, sighing: "You know this is pointless, Pans. It's a girl, and we're calling her Lily."

Pansy: "Absolutely not. A disastrous name."

Daphne, rolling her eyes: "Your name is Pansy, lest you've forgotten, which is the same concept only infinitely worse."

Theo, gingerly venturing a point: "Just curious, are we submitting all our dead mothers for consideration? Because if so—"

Daphne: "Nott, for the love of god!"

Harry, interrupting: "Hang on, I want to know why we can't name our child after my parents. Don't you remember I'm an orphan?"

Pansy, sniffing: "I haven't forgotten, Harry."

Hermione, aghast: "Pans, are you crying?"

Pansy: "Only physically. Please ignore it, it will pass."

Blaise, with palpable glee: "Plus ten! Only because I'm enjoying myself immensely."

Hermione, tentatively, to Pansy: "Is this about Harry being an orphan, or…?"

Pansy, crying: "Absolutely not. I was just thinking about the slim but conceivable chance my child would be born with red hair and it saddened me deeply."

(Draco, later: "I actually have to give her that one.")

Harry, coaxingly: "Well, Daph's right, Pans, why don't we give our girl a flower name? A tribute to both you and my mother?"

Daphne, hastily: "But not Dahlia, of course. Not your mother, obviously—"

Theo, clearing his throat: "Again, if dead mums are still on the table—"

Hermione, thinking: "What about Daisy? That's a sweet name. Or Rose?"

Harry: "Oh, I like Rose—"

Pansy, sobbing quietly: "Are we just yelling out plants, then? What's next, Juniper? Amaryllis? OAK? PINE?"

Hermione, tentatively: "I think you've transitioned into trees, actually, Pans."

Pansy, sniffling again: "Might as well name the poor girl Maple or Apple or Willow—"

Daphne, cutting in with a revelatory blink: "Actually, that would be a bit cool, don't you think? Willow? Not Apple, that's been done—but you could even give her your dad's name for a middle name, Harry. Boy's names are very fashionable for girls these days."

Harry, frowning to himself: "Willow James, you mean?"

(Draco, with a little humming sound: "Willow James. I quite like that."

Hermione, in a relieved confession: "I know. I was afraid to say it in case Pansy tried to feed me more, but I thought so, too.")

Theo: "I agree with my wife, actually. And that's not even a matter of being afraid she'll withhold sex. I just genuinely like it."

Blaise, considering it aloud: "Greengrass is right, Willow James Potter is quite a cool girl's name. She gets twenty starter points just for that."

Hermione, sighing heavily: "Great, so even the unborn baby is beating me."

Theo, kindly: "We all knew that was inevitable, Cali."

Harry, turning to Pansy, who had her face buried in her hands: "Pans? Any thoughts?"

(Draco: "She loved it, didn't she? No, you don't have to say it. Of course she did.")

Pansy, with a choked out sound: "It's a tree, you idiots."

Harry, gently: "Well, if you don't like it, then—"

Pansy, in wails that turned rapidly to incoherent shrieks: "NO, I LOVE IT. You wretched idiots, you've made me love it, AND NOW IT'S A TERRIBLE NAME THAT I LOVE, and I hate all of you, and besides, SHE'S A BOY."

Harry, settling an arm beside a now hysterically-laughing Pansy: "Well, suppose for a second she's a girl, Pans. A lovely little girl named Willow James, and then I'll have to chase boys and probably some girls away the moment she appears on this earth, won't I?"

Pansy, hiccuping: "BE QUIET, HENRY."

(Draco, lamentingly: "I wish I'd been there for this."

Hermione, sympathetically: "I know. I wish you had been, too. But on the other hand, I can't wait for the baby to be born, because pregnant Pansy is kind of… a lot."

Draco: "Well, you can't merely skip to the parts you want, you know. You have to sit through all the pieces of the story, even if they don't happen the way you'd like. Otherwise, how can you really be sure you understand anything?"

Hermione, after a pause: "Having a deeply philosophical day, I take it?"

Draco, with a sigh: "It's a speech I've already given myself more than once today, I'm afraid.")

Once Pansy had recovered from her episode of feelings ("Pregnancy feels a bit like having all your emotions at once," she explained to Hermione, after thanking Harry very tenderly for his help cleaning up but before barking at him to 'stop looking at her with his smug face'), Theo and Harry showed Blaise where he would be staying, and Hermione pulled Daphne aside.

"I wondered if I could ask you a favor," she said, and Daphne blinked, surprised.

"You never ask me for anything," she noted, and then permitted her eyes to narrow. "You haven't gone and impregnated yourself, have you?"

"No, god, no, extremely the opposite—"

"You're… the opposite of pregnant? What does that even mean—"

("I don't know what she found confusing. Makes perfect sense to me," said Draco. "Though, get on with it, I want to know what she said.")

"Look, I want you to dress me," Hermione said. "Like, actually style me," she clarified, as Daphne's eyes widened. "Not just advice—I won't even wear anything publicly without consulting you first."

"I—" Daphne blinked. "You understand, of course, that this is quite literally my dearest wish—"

"Yes," Hermione sighed, "I've been assured of that since the day we met, yes."

"—but… are you sure? It's rather unlike you, don't you think?"

"Well, actually, Draco convinced me to consider it."

("I'm an arrow," Hermione clarified slowly, "and I have to point at the right things. Right?"

"Right," Draco said. "And it's an innocuous thing, but you do have an easy way to do it.")

"I wouldn't even have to say anything," Hermione explained to Daphne, having thought it through by then. "I'll get in the blogs, and while they're talking about what I'm wearing, I'll still be drawing attention to important things. I have an audience, so—"

"It's a big ask," Daphne warned her. "Financially, for one thing—"

"Well, I'm making a bit of a stupid amount of money off Gilderoy, so I might as well put it to use helping Minerva—"

"—okay, fine, but I know how you are about your principles—"

"I know. I know, and I do want to be considered for more than my clothes. But I've been overlooking the obvious, haven't I? I have you, I have Pansy—who, I think we both know, is a paparazzi darling. She's polished and perfectly dressed all the time," Hermione pointed out, "and the things she's done for Prince Lucifer have gotten a lot of press. They circulate all over social media."

"It's true," Daphne said, nodding slowly. She exhaled in thought, considering it. "I just want to be sure this is really something you want," she warned, "because Rita Skeeter will still find ways to belittle you, you know. No matter how impeccably dressed you happen to be with my help."

"I know."

"And the tone of the narrative will be… different. They'll judge you on your looks, Hermione, which I know you hate. And you've seen what they say about Pansy's nose—"

"Yes. I know," Hermione said, grimacing, "but even bad press means they're talking about me, right? About what I'm doing, hopefully. Where I'm going, at least."

Daphne considered her at length, scouring her in silence.

("Well?" Draco demanded.)

"Yes," Daphne agreed eventually. "Yes, of course, it's my pleasure, Hermione. It's not as if I was ever going to say no."

("See? I knew she would," Draco said, satisfied.

"Oh, sure. Then why were you so impatient to find out?"

"Only because I had something to tell you."

"Something more interesting than Daphne agreeing to style me?"

"Well, maybe not more interesting. But certainly interesting.")

"So this was Draco's idea?" Daphne said, surprised. "I guess that makes sense. For a boy, he does have pretty good fashion sense."

"I honestly have no idea whether he does or not, but I'll take your word for it," Hermione said. "Certainly don't tell him that, though, he's arrogant enough as it is."

"Well, fair. By the way, do you know if he's going to be around soon?"

("So, what's this 'interesting' news, then, Draco?")

A spark of possibility flamed in Hermione's limbs for a moment. "I think so, maybe. Hopefully. I definitely hope so."

("Oh, only that I'm coming home next month," Draco said casually. "For an entire week, in fact.")

"Well," Daphne said, giving her a suggestive nudge, "does that mean he's won you over yet?"

("And—?" Hermione prompted, momentarily breathless.)

"Mm… yeah," Hermione said, half-smiling to think of the countless conversations they'd had by then, about anything and everything. Mostly everything. "Yeah, I'd say so."

("And," Draco murmured, "you may as well burn your clothes, Miss Granger. I don't foresee you needing them.")

"Good," Daphne said approvingly, sliding an arm around Hermione's waist and turning her face to the sun.

("See you soon, Draco.")

"You know, I think this is going to be quite a good summer," Hermione predicted, leaning her cheek on Daphne's shoulder.

("Very soon, Hermione.")

"Yes," Daphne agreed, blissful. "I think that it already is."

It was a very good summer; particularly that July, which was very nearly perfect. In fact, if not for Gilderoy, it would have been a deeply picturesque and, dare I say, idyllic time—but, of course, there was Gilderoy, who certainly can't be circumvented.

And who, in case you couldn't tell, was a future problem as yet in the making.

a/n: The new chapter of Modern Romance is now available. Thank you for reading!

34. Renaissance

Chapter 34: Renaissance

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Change in Tides

The repeal of the Royal Marriages Act was eclipsed in popular media by a combination of Royal Baby Fever, a period following the birth of Willow James Potter, and, shortly afterwards, the now-infamous Gilderoy Lockhart scandal. The act was replaced by a new succession law which included a surprisingly progressive stance on royal inheritance, including the provision that female heirs—including Prince Harry's daughter—would not lose their place to future sons. Given the times, one could hardly call it a controversial move; however, it did signify a great deal of social momentum, as the Succession to the Crown Act garnered a unified expression of support from Duchess Pansy, Princess Narcissa, and Lady Bellatrix Lestrange.

Yes, you read that correctly. The unholy trinity of Pansy, Narcissa, and Bellatrix did briefly become a disturbing alliance, and perhaps unsurprisingly, its origins were even stranger.

But, of course, to get there, we have to wade through quite a mess.

July 31, 2015
Godric's Cottage

"Okay, seriously?"

"Yes," Hermione said firmly, shoving Draco onto his back and tugging at his belt. "Unless you'd like to chance going another six months—"

"Yes, fine, noted," he growled, nudging her away long enough to fumble with his trousers himself. "Though, I'd hoped for—"

"Yeah, yeah," Hermione muttered, slithering out of her underwear and pulling him into her. "We can be romantic on our second-second time. Look, we gave it a good try, but some things—" She broke off, hurrying to return the pressure of his lips and the hasty slip of his tongue. "The point is," she gasped, hazily recalling the point, "perfection can wait. This can't."

"Fair," he rasped; still not entirely out of his trousers, but close enough. "Though we have what, ten minutes? How long is it supposed to take to find a cake knife?"

"I—"

"New Tracey," came a voice on the other side of the door, and Hermione gave Draco a warning glare as he froze, one hand wrapped around her thigh. "Are you in there? Silly question—yes you are, we can all hear you—but be that as it may, I do have to talk to you quite urgently about this manuscript."

"Blaise," Hermione managed, digging her nails into Draco's hip, "this really isn't a good time—"

"Minus ten for forcing me into such an inelegant confession, but I'm aware," Blaise said drily. "Unfortunately, given the calamity downstairs, I don't think I'm going to have much for spare moments. Lady Seven-Names is, as you know, consumed by lunacy, which isn't even to mention the inexplicable looming presence of Lady Bellatrix—"

"Just do it," Hermione hissed to Draco, who grimaced.

"I didn't really picture Blaise's voice being present," he said in a gruff undertone, "much less any mention of my father's mistress," but Hermione, who had had quite enough of waiting, wrenched one leg up and slid her palm over his cock, prompting him to a violent shudder.

"—the point is," Blaise continued, "I've finished it, and I really think we should discuss—"

"Oh, fuck," Hermione sighed, Draco sliding inside her with a moan he was forced to muffle into her shoulder. "Ignore him," she whispered, in what she hoped was a coaxing tone but suspected was more of a demonic one.

"—it's well-written, obviously, twenty points in the direction of your vocabulary; who knew 'defenestration' was a word you could employ so frequently and with so little effort—"

Fortunately, even with the ongoing distractions, the sex was as promising as it always was (particularly in that Draco's dick, beautifully resilient, was as pleasing a shape as it had always been), and in all honesty, the days leading up to this had certainly been foreplay enough. Hermione had already been hovering on the brink of orgasm for multiple days, and she doubted it would take much; she had suspected even a little clitoral friction would send her reeling, and it did.

The unfortunate news, aside from Blaise's voice on the other side of the door, was that Draco's zipper, flayed open as it was, was digging into her leg. She shifted to reach her hand underneath her, tugging his trousers down lower, and then motioned for him to continue.

"—and while I'm aware this has been… some effort, on your part—"

"Talk to me," she whispered to Draco, teeth clenched. The angle was good—she was certainly close enough that orgasm would build in minutes—but her brain hummed with the knowledge they could be interrupted at any moment, and that she was allegedly supposed to be doing something else, like attending to a madwoman. "Just, I don't care, say anything—"

"Jesus, you feel spectacular," Draco gasped in her ear, and Hermione closed her eyes, sinking her nails into the back of his neck. "Hermione, you're so—I'm, I can't—"

"Draco," came Harry's voice, and briefly, Draco went rigid, prompting Hermione to stifle a groan in frustration. Things had been building so promisingly, that itch of near-orgasm growing closer and more tantalizing, and if he just didn't move—"I know you're in there, mate, and I get it, I wouldn't interrupt if it weren't important, but—"

"Frankly, catching me like this would be classic Harry's birthday," Draco grumbled, and Hermione shoved him onto his back, climbing on top of him and resolving to manage this herself if she had to kill both of them in the process. "My goodness, Miss Granger—"

"Shut up," she said, closing her eyes and sliding her fingers along either side of her clitoris, intent on making quick work of it and putting off quality for later. She wasn't typically such a procrastinator, but seeing as it was this or madness, good sex would have to wait another day. "I'm close, Draco, so just—"

"You know, I was speaking, Prince Harry, so minus ten—"

"Sorry, Blaise, but I don't give a fuck at the moment, my wife urgently requires tranquilizing—"

"Oh, Christ, Hermione—"

"Just—okay, everyone stop talking," she panted, her legs now tiring of their precarious near-shaking, almost-there-but-not-quite effort and the rest of her on the brink of the bad kind of pain. She picked up one of Draco's hands, set it ungraciously on her breast, and gave him a warning grimace. "Tell me you like my boobs or something."

"Oh, I do," he said quickly. "They're very—"

"Don't say spectacular," she growled, only to be cut off by the sound of a loud, angry scream from somewhere downstairs, and then the sound of Daphne's voice: a mix of rage and panic.

"HARRY! IT'S YOUR BLOODY FUCKING CURSE!"

"Well," Draco said, as Hermione let out a frustrated stream of obscenities. "Shall we reconvene at a more convenient time, then?"

Reaching any sort of climax, even retroactively, would probably require a brief look back. Where did it start? Pre-Draco, most likely. In fact, to explain everything, it would have begun just before his arrival.

"This dress," Daphne said, shoving it into Hermione's hands and squinting at her. "Yes, decidedly this one. By the way, the Breton top you wore last week sold out online," she commented offhandedly, sifting through Hermione's small-but-growing shoe collection. "Ah," she decided after a moment, picking up a pair of espadrilles and handing them to Hermione. "Here. A little casual, but it is summer. And a Sunday event."

"This for the lunch with Minerva next week?" Hermione asked, glancing skeptically down at the sundress. She'd never thought of herself as the type, considering it more of a Pansy move. "Why not just wear more stripe-y things if that's what's working?"

"It worked," Daphne corrected. "Ever forward, Granger. We're trying to craft something here, and it requires experimentation."

"I agree," came Helen's voice, emanating from Hermione's laptop. She had insisted on staying via Skype while Daphne chose Hermione's outfits for the coming weeks; so far, Helen had contributed little outside of echoing whatever Daphne said, though she appeared to be having the time of her life doing it. "You were in People last week, did you know?" Helen asked, slightly too excited to manage the mystique she was attempting. "You and Taylor Swift were both 'Riviera chic.'"

"Were we?" Hermione asked, not particularly interested, but Daphne straightened at the news with a frown.

"Hm. That's… not ideal." Daphne began shuffling through Hermione's closet again, more feverishly this time as Hermione draped across her bed, observing.

"Something wrong with Taylor Swift, Daph?"

"Well, it's been done," Daphne tossed distractedly over her shoulder. "Breton stripes are classic, obviously, but also very Red era. We've got to make sure you're associated with taste, not trends—and certainly not foregone ones."

"So true," Helen chirped, looking pleased she'd been so useful. "Besides, the 1989 era is all about dainty separates. And kicky oxfords."

"Oh, no," Daphne sighed to herself, glancing down at the pair of narrow-heeled oxfords in her hand and swiftly disappearing into the murky depths of Hermione's wardrobe.

Hermione, meanwhile, was smiling vacantly to herself, which she only realized she was doing after Helen had made a loud, all-knowing, maternal sort of sound. "You look daydreamy, sweetie," said her mother, sounding suspiciously nudgy. "Excited for your prince to come rescue you from the terrors of Gilderoy?"

"HA," came Daphne's voice from the closet, as Hermione sat up, rolling her eyes. "If by excited you mean helplessly arous-"

"Ignore her," Hermione told her mother firmly. "She doesn't know what she's talking about."

"Well," Helen began, "if you need any reminders about the importance of lube—"

"Mother, please don't," Hermione cut in, as Daphne emerged just long enough to smile wickedly at both of them. "Actually, may I humbly request that both of you stop, please? It's not like I'm some sort of sex fiend," she insisted with a scoff, perhaps protesting a tad too much.

"Mm, of course not, dear. Though, please remember that you're representing our proud nation," Helen said, and Hermione groaned, pulling the laptop from where it sat on her nightstand and flopping back on her bed.

"Mom. Do not."

"I'm just saying—"

"Do the two of you have actual plans for his trip here?" Daphne asked, withdrawing from the wardrobe with a sheath dress and blazer in each hand. "Or is it just, you know—"

"Safe and well-lubricated copulation," contributed Helen.

"That," Daphne agreed.

"I cannot overstate how much I hate this conversation, but no, no plans," Hermione said, loudly clearing her throat and turning to Daphne. "Do you and Theo usually have plans?"

Daphne considered it a moment. "No," she conceded, shaking her head. "It's more like I'm usually trying to talk him out of plans. He seems very keen to start an a cappella group with me, which I have to assume is the result of letting him watch Pitch Perfect too many times."

"I didn't know Theo could sing," Helen said, sounding delighted by the news.

"He can, but he shouldn't," Daphne assured her, turning back to Hermione. "And anyway, answer the question, or we'll just have to assume you'll spend the next week defiling a prince of the realm."

"He still has work-related things to do for his father and grandfather," Hermione insisted, wanting to discuss literally anything that was not her sex life, "and I have work to do myself, so I imagine we'll just be, you know, hanging out and—"

"Netflix and chill?" Helen contributed optimistically.

"Mom, seriously, I just—you know what? Never mind," Hermione sighed. "You're the worst, but I'll give it to you, you're hip."

"I suspected as much," Helen agreed, and then, in a surprisingly non-horrifying transition, added, "Really, I'm happy you're doing well, honey. You two seem to be in a good place."

Which they were; not that Hermione planned to tell her mother how frequently she and Draco had both gone into great, debaucherous, and possibly immoral and/or blasphemous detail about what they were going to do to each other the moment he arrived. "Well, it doesn't hurt that I'm actually extremely busy," Hermione admitted, gesturing to where Daphne was beginning to lay out her outfits on the bed. "I still have a bit more work to do for my clients before Draco gets here, not to mention finishing Lockhart's manuscript before Harry's birthday party—"

"How's that going?" Daphne asked, looking up from where she was choosing between extremely similar (in Hermione's view) statement bangles. "You haven't complained much about him recently. Lockhart, I mean," she added with a roll of her eyes, "as I've certainly heard enough from Pansy about Harry."

"Are things not going well with them?" Helen asked, and Hermione and Daphne exchanged a look.

"Well, Pansy has taken it upon herself to host a party," Hermione said slowly. "Something about how he ought to have something good happen to him on his birthday for once? It sounded like a nice thing, but she was also shouting it, so it could have easily been a threat."

"Historically, Harry's birthday is somewhat, well… cursed," Daphne supplied for Helen's benefit. "Remember the big Blaise and Pansy row?" she asked, to which Hermione shuddered. "Anyway, this year I imagine the curse has something to do with his surprise wife being militantly with child."

"Mm," said Helen, the only one of them who could even mildly relate to such a condition. "Understandable. When is Pansy due?"

"Early August," Daphne said grimly, "which can't come soon enough—only I believe she's concerned what Rita Skeeter might speculate if the baby makes its appearance too early," she sighed. "Tragically, I do believe Pansy quite capable of holding it hostage inside her body as long as it takes to preserve what remains of her reputation."

"But people can do the math, can't they?" Helen said. "I presume, anyway."

Hermione nodded with a grimace. "She told me at one point during one of her more sane trimesters that most babies are born approximately two or so weeks before their due dates, but even so, there's really no passing this off as a child born in wedlock."

"Oof," Helen said, aptly. "Hence the quiet retirement to the country like a Victorian mistress?"

"Yes," Daphne confirmed, "precisely that, in fact. Worse, I hear Lady Bellatrix has been trying to ingratiate herself with Pansy since her falling out with her mother, which I have to imagine is hardly much help. Oh," she said, realizing she may have left out some details necessary for comprehension, "Pansy's mother is—"

"—best friends with Princess Narcissa," Helen recited dutifully. "Believe me, she's made that plenty clear, even to me. Multiple times to David."

"She's certainly not enjoying her pseudo-house arrest," Hermione said, conceding with a knowing grimace, "Not that we really expected her to. And as for Lockhart, I haven't had to see him much now that I'm working on the full draft. He is still extremely willing to text Penelope his thoughts in the middle of the night, though. Which," she added at a mutter, "I, of course, love."

"Oh, he seems lonely," Helen said wistfully, and then added, as if Gilderoy were merely one of her hapless colleagues, "He just needs a nice girl. A Jennifer Aniston type, maybe."

"I think you might be confusing her with Rachel Green," Hermione pointed out, to which Helen shrugged her possible agreement, "but more importantly, I don't think it's very nice to wish that sort of life on a poor defenseless woman."

"Is he really so bad?" Daphne asked, chuckling, and Hermione sighed loudly.

"No, I suppose not," she grudgingly permitted. "He's just… very bloated by celebrity, you know. He's not a bad person," she decided, which was almost excessively extravagant praise, "but he's certainly one of those very insecure people who needs the fame to validate his existence."

"How much longer are you working with him?" Daphne asked her.

"Well," Hermione said, calculating it, "I'm a bit ahead of schedule—"

"That's my girl," Helen congratulated her, as pleasantly smug as if she'd done the work herself.

"—so I promised his publisher 31st July for the first edited draft. I sent the current draft to Blaise," Hermione admitted with a roll of her eyes. "I unwisely mentioned to him how I felt I was going a bit insane from spending all this time inside Gilderoy Lockhart's head, and he begged me to let him proofread for me."

"Well, that is right up Blaise's alley," Daphne said thoughtfully. "There's an element of judgment involved, as well as gossip. It really checks a lot of his boxes."

"It's so nice Blaise is back," Helen remarked tangentially. "I was really distraught for a while there without him."

"What?" Hermione asked her mother, who shrugged.

"He does the best wine pairings. For months none of my reds were even close to right, and frankly, I would resent being made to go back."

"I… whatever," Hermione sighed. "Anyw-"

Her phone buzzed beside her, which, unfortunately, neither Daphne nor Helen missed. Hermione, in an effort to appear… not precisely what she was (read: anxious and horny), pretended not to notice, instead inspecting the collar of a blouse Daphne had selected.

"Well?" Helen said, brusquely breaking the silence. "Is it Draco? Is he here?"

"I don't know, Mother," Hermione sniffed, "I'm very busy and import-"

"Yep," Daphne said, scooping up the phone from the duvet and reading it aloud. "Only two hours until I can have my hands on your—Christ," she said, holding Hermione at arm's length, "is this really what he does? Lord almighty—oh, no, wait, Theo does this too, do you think they learned it togeth-"

"Please," Hermione said, snatching the phone from her, "get out of here immediately."

"Yes, Daphne, please leave," Helen said. "She only has two hours to buy some lube and make herself presentable."

"I have lube, Mother, and for your information—"

"AHA!" Helen said, triumphant. "I knew it."

"I LOVE YOU, GOODBYE!" Hermione shouted, closing the laptop and turning to face the remaining obstacle of Daphne, who smiled broadly.

"You know, if you need me to style you in the boudoir sense—"

Hermione gave Daphne a long, murderous glance, and in turn, Daphne gave a sulking sort of sigh, smoothing one hand over the outfits she'd chosen and meandering towards the door.

"So, listen," Daphne mused, "I know you'd never ask, but—"

"Out," Hermione barked.

"—the Feathers bra," Daphne finished neutrally. "Gives you a nice shape, but won't look like you've been waiting around for him or anything."

"I don't need you t-" Hermione broke off with a grimace, consenting to ask, "Black or nude?"

"Well, black," Daphne scoffed, "my goodness, this isn't an ordinary day—"

"OUT!" Hermione repeated, and Daphne flashed her another grin, sauntering out the door and tossing a knowing smile over her shoulder as she went.

Over the course of the newest version of their relationship, Hermione had grudgingly come to grasp the purpose behind Draco's sexual reticence; that, namely, while the previous iteration of their relationship had been sex without communication, he was now giving communication without sex a valid (albeit validly difficult) go. It was one of those things that was easier to understand in retrospect, as even with a similar geographical distance between them from the previous rounds of romanticism, Hermione could acknowledge that this degree of emotional investment was different than it had been.

It felt to her like the doubts she had once clung to without questioning why they existed to begin with had gradually evaporated over the course of embedding him back into her habits, her thoughts, her daily activities. He had been woven into her life, and she into his, in a way they had accomplished by precisely their former relationship's opposite: all communication, no touch. It seemed they had fixed the fractures in their relationship by strengthening the foundation of their friendship—something that may not have occurred to her to try without his taking the lead.

Still, with the return of some newly familiar (and some familiarly new) emotions, Hermione had her fingers crossed for something of a sexual renaissance, as well. Would it make a difference, having promised each other more than they had ever been willing to gamble before? At times, her curiosity about their impending reunion swelled to something just shy of panic. Would waiting so long mean falling out of rhythm? Could sex somehow become bad if both parties were so heinously out of practice? She was pleased Daphne had already chosen her clothes for her. That was one thing she didn't have to exhaustively overthink.

By the time Hermione was being led through the palace to where Draco was allegedly finishing a call in his study, one of Draco's staff chattering to her about candelabras or hors d'oeuvres or possibly the situation in the Middle East, she was growing increasingly apprehensive. How, exactly, did one go about having sex for the second-first time? She was relieved now that their first-first time had been spontaneous, half-drunken, and problematically exhibitionist (possibly also unsanitary?) because it meant she'd had no time to think about whether or not it should have happened to begin with. Now, though, all she had was time to think, and every second of it made her nervous. It was like she was meeting a stranger for their first date—only, he happened to also be a very good friend of hers, whose penis she had high hopes to reintroduce to her, you know. Lady lips.

Jesus. If the state of her internal monologue was anything to go on, the sex was going to be a disaster. Luckily, Draco was still on the phone when she slipped into his office, and she had a few gratuitous moments to begin listing off dirty thoughts in her head: clitoris, cunnilingus, fellatio… What was the deal with Latin, exactly? Why did all sex terms sound like obscure wizard spells?

No, no, she thought with a renewed burst of apprehension, back to the point—

"—thought I made that quite clear? If it's my decision he doubts, tell him to take it up with me."

The door shut quietly behind her, alerting Draco to her presence. He turned, giving her an apologetic glance, and mouthed that it would only be a moment before returning his attention to the phone call.

"I understand the council's concerns. I will address each of them individually at tomorrow's leadership summit." He paused, brow twitching a little in thought as he listened, and Hermione lingered near the doorway, eyeing the books on his shelves.

They had changed some in the time since she'd last been there. Draco had amassed a much larger collection of what seemed to be a mix of historical narratives, military biographies, and, to her surprise, a small but noticeable (to someone like her, anyway, who noticed something like that) increase in literature. It appeared, against all odds, that Prince Draco had been reading for pleasure.

"I will inform my father that the most efficient route forward will be for me to address their constituents directly," he continued, and Hermione turned, sliding an early edition copy of The Age of Reason from its home on the bookshelf and pretending to glance over the pages. "Yes, I understand he's been rather preoccupied of late, but that hardly renders him incapable of recalling the stakes at hand."

Hermione, still fake-reading, continued to sneak glances at Draco, who was dressed in his usual prince-casual ensemble of a white oxford with folded sleeves, navy trousers, and his favorite pair of camel loafers. He had also taken on his usual Voice of Diplomacy, with its measured, steady tone, and part of her mind eased with a little bit of certainty: clearly, she remained deeply, wholly, uncomfortably attracted to him. His forearm tensed slightly as he raised a hand to his mouth, looking out the window in an artful pose of thought, and Hermione felt a little surge of enamoration replace a receding prick of nerves.

"It will have to be tomorrow. I'm afraid I have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment—"

She turned back to the bookshelf, replacing Sartre where he'd been, and noticed a thinner book beside it, picking up a copy of Henry and June by Anaïs Nin. An odd choice, she thought, frowning down at it. She hadn't thought feminist erotic works to be Draco's cup of tea.

"Snooping?"

She jumped, turning to discover Draco was off the phone and also standing alarmingly close to her, smelling of bergamot and clean linens. "Just… surprised," she managed to say, finding herself awkward once again, and he reached over, brushing her arm with his as he gingerly took the copy of the book from her hand.

"Have you read it?" he asked her, sounding either deeply serious or playfully so. His blond hair was swept back from his face in a wave, and his mouth quirked a little as she caught herself looking at him a bit too wantonly long. "I would have guessed Anaïs to be one of your favorites."

"She isn't not a favorite. Though, she did write an entire journal about incest," Hermione reminded him. "And she was a bigamist for a bit."

"Well, all interesting women are a bit strange, aren't they?"

That time, he was definitely toying with her, giving her a nudge and pretending not to notice when he'd permitted his shoulder to linger overlong beside hers. He opened the book to what she realized was a pre-marked page, reading aloud, "All I can say is that I am mad about you. I am waiting impatiently to see you."

He glanced up at her, observing her careful non-reaction, and continued, "I am wondering when you will come to stay overnight, when I can have you for a long spell. It torments me to see you just a few hours and then surrender you. When I see you, all that I wanted to say vanishes. The time is so precious and words are extraneous, but you make me so happy, because I can talk to you. I love your brightness, your preparations for flight, the warmth between your legs. I want to demask you. I am too gallant with you. I want to look at you long and ardently… I live in a perpetual expectancy. You come, and the time slips away in a dream."

He paused, looking up at her, and Hermione cleared her throat. "Keep going."

His smile was cleverly restrained. "I don't know what I expect of you," he continued, "but I am going to demand everything from you—even the impossible, because you encourage it. You really are strong. I even like your deceit, your treachery. It seems aristocratic to me. Does aristocratic sound wrong in my mouth?" (No, never. Even his obscenity was posh.) "I was thinking how I could betray you, but I can't. I want to undress you," Draco murmured, his fingers meandering blindly to reach her waist, "vulgarize you a bit—I want to own you, use you, I want to fuck you, I want to teach you things."

Hermione shivered, watching the shape of Draco's shamelessly patient mouth.

"I have been on my good behavior with you. But I warn you, I am no angel. I think principally that I am a little drunk. I love you. I go to bed now—it is too painful to stay awake. I am insatiable. I will ask you to do the impossible—what it is, I don't know. You will tell me probably. You are faster than I am. I love your cunt—it drives me crazy. And the way you say my name! God, it's unreal."

He paused, pretending (she hoped) to be absorbed in his reading, and turned deliberately to another pre-marked page. "Everybody thinks of the noise and the power of you, but I have heard and felt the softness. There are words in other tongues I must use when I talk about you. In my own, I think of: ardiente, salvaje, hombre."

Jesus, Hermione thought.

"I want to be there wherever you are," Draco read, unflinching even as his fingers tightened in the fabric of Hermione's blouse. "Lying next to you, even if you are asleep. Kiss my eyelashes, put your fingers on my eyelids. Bite my ear. Push back my hair. I have learned to unbutton you so swiftly. All, in my mouth, sucking. Your fingers. The hotness. The frenzy. Our cries of satisfaction. One for each impact of your body against mine. Driving in a spiral; Ah, the rupture—"

He stopped, turning a page and blatantly ignoring the obvious racing of her pulse.

"We fall together into our savage world," he said, as Hermione found it difficult to swallow. "He bites me, he makes my bones crack. He makes me lie with my legs wide open and digs into me. Our cravings grow wild. Our bodies are convulsed—"

Rapidly losing patience, Hermione tore the book from Draco's hand, flinging it onto the ground as he looked up without surprise, but with an arrogant look of certainty. Sparing herself the indignity of admitting that whatever he was doing had worked, she brought his mouth to hers with an illiterate brutality, foregoing language in favor of the touch she was owed. He kissed her fiercely while she slid her hand down, venturing incautiously to touch him. He was painfully hard; she was throbbingly ready.

She'd said it before and she'd say it again: People really underestimated books.

She pulled him closer, letting him shove her back against the shelves while she flicked his trousers open. Not suave, not practiced; just a happy coincidence in her favor. "Here?" he asked drily, amused. "I had dinner plans for us, you know."

"Change them," she informed him, and he smiled against her lips.

"Missed me?"

"Take off your pants," she growled.

He laughed, then, fully and vibrantly, though he persisted his conceit of disobedience, dragging down the zipper of her black jeans and sliding his hand under the lace band of her thong. Ah, so foreplay then, as if erotica was somehow not enough. Thankfully, Hermione's agitated sense of wondering whether the sex could possibly be good enough to stand against months of celibacy had vanished. Primitively, it would have to be friction over fretting. Enlightenment would have to wait, and so she ground against his palm as his tongue darted lightly across her lower lip.

"If you insist," he said, which was not technically in reference to anything outside the command she was giving him with her hips, and he slid the lace aside, brushing her clit and reducing her to a shudder. From his pocket, his phone began to vibrate, which he ignored. She pulled him closer, kissing his neck. He smelled… she couldn't put a finger on it. Ardiente, salvaje, hombre. Thank you feminist literature for that timely sexual awakening. Hermione arched her back and Draco lifted her with one arm, settling her against the bookshelf.

The buzzing from his phone stopped. Her legs tightened around his waist.

"Close?" he whispered.

"Close," she gasped. It was happening very quickly, as it sometimes did when she was heartily aroused but prepared to go much longer. The first orgasm on similar occasions had a tendency to feel like the first in a series of sneezes; for any lingering satisfaction, it required a sequence of three, at least.

Draco's phone buzzed again. Another phone call, precisely at the moment Hermione felt the fracture of that first orgasm, and while he didn't stop, he didn't exactly not, either. She could feel the brief bolt of tension in his spine, the distracted way his kiss paused for a moment, like he was inconveniently recalling what had happened the last time he had ignored his phone.

"Just check it and then take off your pants," Hermione growled, and he smiled, shifting her in his arms and shuffling around for his phone.

"Let me just make sure he's not dead or dying," he said hastily.

"Yes," Hermione sighed, "I agree. The last thing I need is to assume your father is at risk every time I'm making out with you."

"Yeah, it's not looking great statistically," Draco admitted, pinning his phone to his ear with one shoulder and wrapping his arms around her again as it rang.

"Draco," came the tinny, distant sound of Lucius' voice, "I've been trying to reach you for nearly an hour."

"Father, it's been five minutes. What is it?"

Draco leaned forward, kissing Hermione's neck and nearly dropping his phone from its precarious location as Hermione caught the usual low tones of irritation from the receiver, along with the word 'council' and the usual suspects: 'lost your mind' and 'unacceptable.'

"Father," Draco said impatiently, "now's not a good time t-"

From the other end, Hermione could hear the usual timbre of distress in Lucius' voice. It was no wonder the Prince of Darkness had such a questionably weak heart, given how much strain he regularly gave it.

"Father, I know what I'm doing," Draco said, his voice changing as he shifted his head, hands stiffening where they had curved themselves around Hermione's ribs. "Are you questioning me because you doubt my decision, or because you don't feel I have the right to make decisions of my own? Because at the moment, I suspect it's the former."

As Lucius continued to talk, Draco pulled back, obviously frustrated. Hermione, meanwhile, was becoming more aware of the way a book's edge had been digging into her back, which no amount of shifting in place seemed to remedy.

"You can't expect me to believe that," Draco said, lips pressed thinly. "If anyone is having a tantrum, Father, I—" Chattering from the other end. "What does Mother have to do with anything?"

Lucius' voice became rapid, incomprehensible noise, and Draco glanced at Hermione.

"Fine. We can discuss this later. At the moment, I have other engagements that require my attention." (A pause for more outrage.) "Yes, surprisingly, my time is valuable. Schedule it with Dobby, he has my itinerary for the week." (To that, a series of loud, enraged barks.) "Yes, I said what I said. We will speak later, Father. Goodnight."

Draco hung up the phone, turning it off and returning his attention to Hermione.

Sort of.

He was facing her, leaning forward to kiss her, only it was obvious his thoughts were elsewhere.

"What is it?" she cut in briskly, nudging him away long enough to scan his face with what she hoped was successfully delivered skepticism. "I can tell you're not all here."

"It's nothing. Never mind. He just—" Draco grimaced, then cleared his throat. "It's nothing. Where were we? Oh yes, my pants—"

"Whoa, no, no way," Hermione said firmly. "The point of waiting was so we'd both be invested when it happened, right?"

"I—" Draco looked conflicted for a moment, then sighed. "Yes, right."

"And clearly your attention is currently elsewhere. Yes?"

Another tick of hesitation, and then, "Yes. Sort of."

"And we have a week," she reminded him. "And, more importantly, you already made us wait this long, didn't you? So suppose it's my turn now to demand the perfect second-first time, hm?"

He gave her a crooked half-smile. "You're punishing me, aren't you?"

"Yes. Which is precisely what you deserve."

"True." He exhaled, then scraped a hand through his hair. "Shall we have dinner, then?"

"Yes. We'll talk about your father or something," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, "so that the situation is dealt with, case closed."

"Or something?"

"Yes. It's healthy. Or something."

"Well—" Draco broke off with a sigh, taking her face in both hands, and gave her the reluctant, grateful look of a man who unfortunately understood a once-perfect moment had lost some of its utils of satisfaction. They would only suffer diminishing returns, and why waste it? "Alright. Yes, fine, you're right." He withdrew to let her adjust her blouse, giving her a wistful look. "I've missed you, you know. You have a unique ability to drive me to lunacy whilst keeping me alarmingly sane."

"It's mostly vengeance," she told him, kissing his cheek. "So, want to talk about how your father refuses to allow you any authority?"

"Yes. I would like to complain at length, if it pleases Her Temperate Majesty."

"It does," Hermione replied, and Draco swept her a low, reverent bow.

"Then, my dear, let me open with this: My father is the devil," he said, which was the beginning of a lengthy, complicated rant.

Needless to say, they did not have sex that day, instead laughing together over their glasses of wine until Hermione forced herself to go home, grudgingly returning to work on Lockhart's manuscript.

"No sex yet, really?" Daphne said over the phone that evening, blatantly disappointed. "I had such high hopes."

"Daph," Hermione sighed, "do you need something?"

"Nothing, actually. Just wanted to tell you I haven't had to go to Pansy's early—turns out," Daphne said with a hint of intrigue, "she has a visitor."

"Okay, and the visitor being…"

"Guess."

"Daph, I hate this game."

"You're right," she sighed, "everyone hates this game. It's so hard to resist, though, seeing as it's Bellatrix."

Hermione blinked.

"What? Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"Yes, Bellatrix Lestrange, and your disbelief is extremely correct. Apparently, Very Pregnant Pansy's finally gone batty enough to enjoy the old witch's company. Can you believe it?" Daphne exclaimed, exhilarated by her own bewilderment. "I can't even imagine the nonsense Harry's going through if Bellatrix is coming and going from their house—"

"Hang on, so Bellatrix might even be… what? At Harry's party? Even for Pansy, that's—" Hermione broke off, wincing. "That's pretty abominable."

"I'd have gone with despicable, but I don't think any of us are in a position to argue with her, least of all Harry. Maybe Pregnant Pansy and Bellatrix are… friends? No," Daphne answered herself with a sigh, "I don't see it. I don't like it. I want it taken away from my thoughts immediately."

"You don't think this is just about her mother, do you?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Even so, Pansy genuinely adores Narcissa, or at least I think she does—"

"No idea, but at least I'm off the hook until Friday," Daphne said. "And so are you, presumably. Which, of course, leaves you to your week of debauchery with the young prince?"

"BYE, DAPH," Hermione said, hanging up the phone and returning to her Gilderoy edits.

Good intentions, the purer they were, had such a regrettable tendency to produce unsatisfactory results. The next morning, for example, due to a collision of unfortunate circumstances that mostly included Hermione's half-asleep self conspiring against her with probable goblins, she was awoken half an hour after her alarm by a phone call from Gilderoy.

"Penny! Darling, you'll never believe it—well, maybe you will, you know my mind, always busy, busy, busy!—but I just realized there were some bits missing about the time I spoke in Geneva touting the EXTREME IMPORTANCE of women's rights. I worry people will overlook the empowerment I provide to the fairer sex, don't you see? Probably best if I repeat the details of the speech to you now, before the draft is submitted—"

Hermione stumbled out of bed, listening to Gilderoy's three hour oration and writing a hasty blog post for Dr Sinistra before finding the Geneva story in an old draft of the memoir (unwillingly titled, per Gilderoy's request, Magical Me!). Attempting to piece the story back in before her plans with Draco was a lofty, nearly impossible goal, which was not improved by Draco interrupting her frenzied editing.

"Hi, so, haven't heard from you in a bit—"

Something about the sentence she had just written didn't make sense. She switched two of the words, then re-read it. When it occurred to her she might have been silent for too long, Hermione ventured, "I thought we said this afternoon?"

"I… Hermione? Do you, by chance, know what time it is?"

She switched the words back, deleted them, and then retyped something that was precisely the way the sentence had been before, maybe. Was that even the correct preposition?

"Hermione?"

She blinked. "Hm?"

"Ah, okay. You know what? You stay there."

"Okay, bye."

She hung up the phone and continued editing, not noticing that further time had passed until registering a knock on the door that dragged her back to the present.

"Hello, Bruce," she said, pulling the door open for the motorcycle-helmeted man to pass into her flat. "Missed me this much, did you?"

"I was growing concerned that you needed to eat," replied Draco, who removed his helmet and thrust a bag into her hands. "I don't know how good it'll taste, but I figured it better to bring it to you."

Hermione glanced down at the containers of food and frowned, then looked up. "Is it—?"

"Several hours after our allotted meeting time? Yes," Draco confirmed, smiling broadly, "but I can amuse myself until you've finished. Unless you'd like to take a break?"

"Hm?" Hermione said, suddenly realizing she was starving. Whoever had made dinner, it was clearly something they'd been instructed by Draco to make based on her favorite childhood foods. She was fairly sure she smelled macaroni and cheese, and thus, was rapidly becoming uninterested in conversation. "I just have, you know. A bit more, and then—"

She stopped to look up, blinking. "The council meeting—that, um. With your dad?"

Draco laughed, leaning over to kiss her cheek and wandering into her kitchen. "Everything's mostly fine. He's not thrilled, of course, but historically he never is, and anyway he's distracted, so—" He broke off, rifling around in her silverware and returning to dig a fork into the container of pasta. "Nothing to worry about. Almost done?"

"Um," she said, shoveling a mouthful of baked cheese and bread crumbs into her mouth, "mmphomph—"

"Go, go," Draco instructed, waving her back to her desk. "Finish. I'll be here."

"Mohphmphphmm?"

"No, I don't mind." He kissed her forehead. "As Harry would say, I'll just be over here, making no noise and pretending I don't exist."

Hermione managed a swallow, thickly forcing out, "Harry's never managed to achieve that level of innocuity in his entire life."

"Yes, but I am the pensive prince, am I not? Back to work," Draco instructed her, giving her a nudge. "The sooner you're finished, the sooner you can, you know. Finish," he said, and then winced. "Yes, I heard it, I apologize."

"That was terrible," Hermione agreed, but puns aside, he had a point. "Alright, then," she conceded, returning to her desk and assuming things would soon improve.

Things did not improve.

"Oh, no. Don't tell me—"

"Yes."

"Again?"

"Again. I'm sorry. I just got off the phone with him for the third time and now, evidently, he would like me to include a recipe for the 'world-famous tarte' he once baked for the Sultan of Brunei, for which he has sent me nothing but a list of ingredients. It has a question mark next to the word 'oven'? Which either means he wants me to research the existence of such an appliance, or he doesn't actually know at what temperature his tarte famously bakes."

"Well, you certainly don't need to be sorry about having to work, but—"

"Oh, no, I'm not. I'm only apologizing because I'm obviously going to have to decline your proposal. I cannot be your consort, sadly, because I now have grand plans to pursue a career in vengeful murder instead."

"Well, it was a lovely thought while we had it."

"Yes, I agree. Anyway, goodbye forever—"

"Though, perhaps shy of murdering him, there might be some other option?"

"Hm. I could arrange for him to be hit by a bus? Technically, that could be manslaughter, if I manage it well enough. Though, if I'm planning to accomplish it, I should really stop premeditating it over the phone."

"Are you suggesting I would turn you over to the authorities? Miss Granger, I am the authorities."

"Eh. I think you'd crack."

"What?"

"I just don't think you're capable of murder. I think you'd try, of course, but ultimately discover your heart's just not in it."

"I feel… as if I should be offended? But that can't be right."

"I can't tell you how to feel, Draco. But I can certainly tell you you would not be my accomplice of choice."

"That's very hurtful, thank you, but for the record, I meant more along the lines of simply finishing the manuscript? Just send it to the publisher now, perhaps?"

"That's… a reasonable albeit less satisfying conclusion. Still, it'll take me most of the day."

"Well, then take it. We can have tonight before we leave for Harry's in the morning. Can't we?"

"Hm, true. Yes, fine. Though, you should know, I've done almost no grooming for the last two days."

"Au naturale, then. I accept."

"Gracious of you."

"Candidly—and I wish I were above this, but I'm not—I would accept almost anything at this point."

"Well, this is what happens when you play with fire, Your Highness. You get burned."

"Diligently noted, Miss Granger. Anything else?"

"Haribo, please?"

"Starmix or Tangfastics?"

"Draco, please. Do I seem like some kind of philistine?"

"Tangfastics it is. See you soon."

"Yes, and while we're on the subject of meeting my demands, don't wear pants."

"Mm, I will probably wear pants."

"Then what even is the point of being prince?"

"You're not wrong, I've been saying that for years. Love you."

"Love you. See you then."

"Is your phone off?" Hermione said, pulling Draco into her flat. "Again, not that I want Prince Lucifer to die, but—"

"He can't, given his ongoing satanic duties and what appears to be an eternal ambition to pester both me and my mother—but yes, rest in peace, understood," Draco agreed, turning his phone off and tossing it inside his helmet before rolling them both across the floor, well out of sight. "Lockhart?" he asked her, letting her remove his jacket.

"Manuscript reviewed and submitted to the publisher," Hermione confirmed, stripping him of his shirt and pulling him into her. "I convinced him it was his idea that it was perfect as it was," she added, "so that should keep him busy for close enough to the rest of time."

"Excellent," Draco ruled, and bent his head, kissing her gruffly in the same motion he picked her up. "Wall sex? Sofa? Shower? You do possess ample floor space—not that I've given it much thought," he said, indicating with a wolfish glance the precise degree to which he was flagrantly lying.

"Might I suggest the kitchen, given its proximity?"

"As you wish," Draco said firmly, hoisting her onto the counter and delivering a trail of kisses to her neck. Hermione, being quite keen to save time, had done them both the favor of tossing her underwear into the hamper just as he'd arrived, which Draco discovered with a look of pure, bleary-eyed elation. "Well, this is—"

They both froze as the sound of a cell phone went off.

"It's not mine," Draco said quickly.

"I know. It's mine," Hermione said with a grimace, and Draco twisted around, spotting it on the table and frowning.

"It's Harry," he said, and blinked. "Wait, it's still to early for Pansy to be—" He broke off optimistically. "Right?"

In answer, Hermione shoved him aside, lunging for the phone. "Hello?"

"Hermione, good, thank god, I can't reach Draco—"

"Harry? Is Pansy having the baby? What's going o-"

"No, no, she's fine, she's just—"

"What's he saying?" Draco asked, concerned. "Is it time?"

"No, I think he's just—Harry, what exactly is the prob-"

"HENRY JAMES POTTER," came a shrill, hysterical version of Pansy's voice.

"Right, so, the thing is," Harry said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "Pansy is, um—"

"IF YOU THINK I'M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO FIND YOU—"

"—well, so, she's a bit of a handful at the moment, perhaps you've heard—"

"Harry," Hermione exhaled with a grumble, giving Draco a sympathetic wince, "we're going to be there in the morning, remember?"

"Yes, no, right, I know, but—"

"Where's Blaise?"

"He had some sort of emergency, I think. He was supposed to be here this afternoon, but then Bellatrix was here and—"

"—YOU PUT THIS BABY IN ME, HENRY! I SHOULD THINK IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING THE ONLY RESPONSIBLE THING IS TO GET IT OUT!"

"—Theo and Daphne won't arrive until the afternoon. Nott's still laughing at me, I'm pretty sure, and Daphne said she wouldn't come without you, and certainly not if Bellatrix might be here, which again, I hope she won't but can't exactly guarantee—"

"Harry," Hermione sighed, exasperated, "are you really suggesting we drop everything and come there right this minute?"

"Birthday curse, am I right?" he said, anxiously half-laughing. "Anyway, listen, it's not as if I'm not entirely trained for this, but I'm afraid that—well, look," he sighed, "tell Draco it's like that time we ran off during our last year at Eton, back when we met those girls who—well, never mind. Just tell him December, Liquid Tuesday—"

"Liquid Tuesday?" Hermione echoed, and Draco blinked, taking the phone from her.

"That bad?" he said, and from where he stood, Hermione could hear Harry speaking rapidly. "Oi, mate, too many details—yes, okay. Fine, fine, we'll go. Try playing Fernan- really? That's not working either? Christ, that's unprecedented. Yes, see you soon." He hung up, turning to Hermione with a shrug. "Well, that's that, then. Any chance you've ever wanted to have sex in a moving vehicle?"

She considered it. "With or without a driver?"

"Driverless cars are a bit futuristic even for us, love."

"Ugh." Hermione grimaced. "I guess it'll have to be Harry and Pansy's guest bedroom, then."

Draco shrugged. "Harry's birthday is some sort of mild disaster every year. If the disaster this year is that they all catch us having sex, so be it."

"Fine," Hermione sighed, "fine."

"That's the spirit," Draco assured her cheerfully, tugging her under his arm. "Now, forego the knickers a little longer? I doubt this Pansy emergency is going to take all night."

"Famous last words," Hermione said.

Tragically, she was right.

"Well," Draco said later, as Hermione let out a frustrated stream of obscenities. "Shall we reconvene at a more convenient time, then?"

"Is it the baby?" Harry shouted down to Daphne.

"I AM NOT A MIDWIFE, HARRY, DO NOT BE CONFUSED SIMPLY BECAUSE I HAVE BREASTS—"

"Fuck," Hermione groaned, shoving Draco away. "I'm exhausted."

The entire evening prior had been spent trying to help a very noisy, very uncomfortable Pansy get to sleep—which she had not managed, complaining instead of something 'too uncouth to mention' and incomprehensible gastric discomfort before insisting on ringing Bellatrix. When she wasn't maniacally demanding that Harry have sex with her (the aforementioned 'Liquid Tuesday' was evidently in reference to an occasion during which Harry's illustrious then-juvenile penis saw an alarming degree of overuse with a traveling girls' soccer team; "He has a thing for sporty girls," said Draco in apparent explanation), she was especially weepy, kissing Hermione's tired face and asking too-sweetly for her not to be upset.

"I am… still quite hard," Draco observed, glancing down at himself as Hermione disentangled her skirt from his zipper. "Though, I think the prospect of Pansy's birth canal might be sufficiently discouraging." He paused for a moment, looking repulsed. "Yes, my apologies to women everywhere, but it's working."

"Come on," Hermione sighed, grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling him to his feet. "Nobody will notice, let's just get out there and—"

She flung open the door, nearly smacking into Blaise. "Oh, balls, I'm sorry—"

"About the manuscript," Blaise began again, and Hermione sighed.

"Blaise," she said, as Draco stumbled out of the room behind her, "I think it's going to have to wait—"

"Well, lovely to see you too, Highness," Blaise said directly to Draco's trousers before Draco quickly adjusted his belt, giving Blaise a glare that somehow managed to be both irritated and appreciative. "Anyway, listen—"

"Blaise, I really don't think—"

"Hello?" Draco said, answering his cell phone while Blaise continued to speak. "Father, my god, I already told you I was—sorry, what?"

"So, I noticed there was something off about some of Gilderoy's stories. I didn't want to tell you until I had a chance to confirm it, but—"

"How many MPs?" Draco pressed, and then, "Really? You're certain?"

"I—" Hermione glanced between Draco and Blaise, a little bit confused about where to direct her focus. "What exactly did you need to confirm?"

"But that's fantastic news," Draco said to his father, something he almost never said. "You sound concerned—obviously Grandfather's going to approve it, isn't he? I can't imagine why he wouldn't, we were in agreement last time we spoke—"

"—anyway, it took me a few tries to get in contact with him, but eventually Neville agreed to see me and he told me—"

"Wait, what?" Hermione asked, Neville's name being enough to startle her into turning to Blaise. "What's Neville got to do with Gilderoy Lockhart?"

"I thought it was a far cry myself, only—"

"HERMIONE," shrieked Daphne. "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?"

"Relax, Greengrass," came Theo's voice, "we'll just fetch the doctor, and—"

"What do you think this is, a regency novel? We're going to a hospital, for Christ's sake—"

"—mental institution, which I will unfortunately have to ask you not to share with anyone—"

"—the baby's a bit early for propriety, don't you think? You're going to just waltz in and—"

"—present an emergency? Yes, Theodore, that's precisely what's happening, and at the rate you're going, it won't be fake—"

"Father, I don't understand—you're concerned about press?"

"ARE YOU PREPARED FOR A HOME BIRTH, NOTT? BECAUSE I MOST CERTAINLY AM NOT!"

"—stolen, basically is what I'm saying, no way of knowing how much—"

"Father, I have to go, Pansy's having her baby—no it's not perfect, in what possible way is that perfect?"

"Okay, EVERYONE CALM DOWN," Harry roared. "My WIFE is in LABOR!"

"He says, calmly—"

"—or very nearly the whole thing. Did Lockhart ever mention spending time somewhere called St Mungo's?"

"What?" Hermione asked, abruptly alarmed a second time at the mention of Gilderoy's name, and Blaise sighed.

"Minus ten points," he said boisterously, before clarifying, "I was saying that I'm ninety-percent confident Lockhart stole pieces of his memoir from multiple patients at a mental facility called St Mungo's. I'm not sure how much of it is stolen, exactly, but I could find out shortly, so if you can just hold off on submitting for a week or so—"

Hermione blinked. "What? But I submitted to the publishers yesterday morning. They're doing the first round of edits right now."

"Well, you'll have to stop them, obviously."

"But I can't just—"

"Where's Blaise?" demanded Pansy's voice, dragging all three of their attention to the stairs. "He'll understand. There's no way to keep this quiet, so we'll have to go loud. Am I understood?"

"Well," Blaise exhaled, taking hold of Draco and Hermione by the shoulders, "shall we, then?"

Draco, who had just hung up with his father, appeared to very quickly pretend as if he had not been taking a phone call of any remote importance. "Yes, of course, let's go, then."

"Draco," Hermione said uncertainly, and he shook his head.

"Later," he mouthed, painting on a smile and clapping a hand on Blaise's shoulder. "It's not important right now. Let's just get this baby born, shall we?"

Unlikely as it was, the moment Pansy had gone into labor, she somehow became the only person capable of remaining calm. It seemed the more labyrinthine qualities of her mind had not faded as much as they had appeared to during her hormonal tides, and she had, in fact, crafted a plan to explain away the baby's early arrival. They were each given a role in a complex theatrical play that was her child's birth, though none of them were informed—least of all Hermione.

"Are you comfortable?" Hermione asked anxiously as they took Pansy to a secure wing of the local hospital, now fretting in every direction. "Is there anything you need, or—?"

"Listen to me very closely," Pansy said through her teeth, gripping Hermione's hand tightly and giving her a shockingly clear-headed look of concentration. "When we arrive, Bellatrix is going to be there—"

"What?" Hermione asked, astonished. "Well, I'll just have Draco or Harry get rid of her, of course—"

"No. Hermione, shut your lovely little mouth and listen to me. You have to speak to her," Pansy said, giving Hermione's knuckles a painful squeeze and then exhaling swiftly, returning to the point. "Tell her something's happened. That I have an infection, or whatever it is you feel comfortable spinning for me, and then tell her to reach out to Narcissa and call my mother."

"I—" Hermione blinked. "Pansy, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly—" Pansy broke off, wincing, and nearly broke Hermione's knuckles before adding, "Fine. Anyway, once Narcissa arrives with my mother, you can do whatever you like, but you must convince Bellatrix. She isn't an idiot, so please, do whatever you can not to be one, either. I am trusting you to manage it, do you understand?"

"But Bellatrix will almost certainly release all of this to Rita Skeeter," Hermione said, alarmed, and Pansy smiled, or grimaced.

"Yes, she will, and that's the—" The rest was drowned out by something of a seething, choked down sound of pain. "Point," she gasped when she had finished, by which point Harry was leaping out of the driver's seat to vigorously yank Pansy's door open. "My goodness, Henry, calm yourself," Pansy informed him stiffly, giving his wild look of panic a disapproving glance. "Women have given birth before, in case you're somehow unaware."

"Twenty points for accuracy," contributed Blaise. "Even the royal ones have done it, or so I'm told."

"Though, it does bear noting that not all of them have done so successfully," Draco pointed out. "Elizabeth of York, Jane Seymour—"

"Well, congratulations on naming two of England's worst queens," sniffed Pansy. "Blaise, take his points immediately—"

"THERE'S NO TIME FOR YOUR AFFECTATIONS, WOMAN," Harry informed her, attempting to scoop her up in his arms until she hastily shoved him away, insisting on stepping out of the car herself as Hermione, slow to react, finally pieced together Pansy's intentions.

"Wait a minute," she said, gripping Pansy's arm. "You had Harry call us here emergently so that the whole country would know Draco arrived in a rush, you made us believe you had befriended Bellatrix Lestrange, you've riled Daphne up for the entire evening leading up to this, you decided to throw Harry a birthday party knowing something would almost certainly go wrong—" She broke off, stunned. "Did you do all of this just to make Rita Skeeter believe the baby was early?"

"Of course not, Hermione, don't be ridiculous," Pansy said over her shoulder, permitting a flustered Harry to clutch loosely at her arm. "Who on earth would ever know to do such a thing with sufficient time to plan their meltdown in advance?"

Only her, of course, and precisely as Hermione registered it, Pansy smiled darkly.

"Now, if you don't mind," Pansy said, "may I ask you to put that pretty head of yours to use, Hermione? Lady Lestrange will soon require an explanation."

And with that, Pansy waddled toward the hospital, crafting a gloriously pained expression on her face as Hermione realized, half-smiling, that Pansy had even had the foresight to refresh her lipstick in the car.

PRINCESS PANSY ON DEATH'S DOOR! ENTIRE COUNTRY WAITS WITH BATED BREATH AS THE DUCHESS OF GRIMMAULD FACES DIRE COMPLICATIONS DURING ROYAL BABY'S PREMATURE BIRTH; PRINCESS NARCISSA, LADY BELLATRIX, AND HERMIONE GRANGER AMONG THOSE WHO WAIT VIGILANTLY FOR NEWS!

"That little sneak," said Hermione, rolling her eyes and tucking her phone away. "She is positively shameless."

It had been less than ten hours and already the news had gone viral, followed by a wave of speculation about everything under the sun outside of Pansy's due date; whether Narcissa and Bellatrix were now reconciled, whether Draco and Harry might have a second altercation, whether Hermione's proximity meant she would be next. There was even mention of gambling odds about the likelihood Pansy and Harry's baby would be named Elizabeth or George.

"She'd better hope karma has better things to do today," Hermione grumbled, somewhere between insulted she hadn't been entrusted with the plan earlier and amused Pansy had gotten away with it so flawlessly.

"Well, you have to admit, she does know how to throw a party," Blaise said, gesturing wryly to where Princess Narcissa, Lady Dahlia (whom Hermione knew very quickly to avoid), and Lady Bellatrix stood together in a hesitant alliance. "A woman willing to use her own mother to accomplish her deviance is a demon indeed. Prince Lucifer certainly has a formidable rival."

"I'm surprised he's not here, actually," Hermione said drily, accidentally catching Narcissa's eye and hurriedly looking away. "Draco says he's been pushing a reconciliation with Narcissa for months."

"Well, no great surprise there," Blaise said, shrugging. "Some men will go to inadvisable lengths to feel qualified for redemption."

Hermione snuck a glance at him, observing the slightly somber look on his face.

"So, you talked to Neville," she recalled aloud, and Blaise turned, giving her something wryly disapproving.

"You may want to try contacting him yourself," he reminded her. "If Lockhart's plagiarism has been intentional—and if word gets out that you assisted him in accomplishing it—your career will certainly suffer."

Hermione had unfortunately come to that conclusion herself, though it wasn't her primary concern at the moment. "What did Neville say?"

"Only that he couldn't be sure. His father hasn't been lucid in some years, not since Neville's childhood, so—"

"No," Hermione said gently. "What did he say, Blaise?"

Blaise's smile quirked temporarily, and then stilled.

"Nothing," he said. "He answered my questions to the extent required and said little else."

Hermione felt a deep, festering ache for him. "Oh, Blaise—"

"Hey," Draco said, appearing behind them. "Fancy a walk and a coffee?"

"Oh, Draco, just a moment, we were—"

"A walk," Draco repeated firmly, his gaze flicking to Bellatrix and his mother before subtly motioning over his shoulder, "and a coffee, hm? Blaise," he added, "would you care to join us?"

"Most certainly, Your Highness," Blaise agreed, winking at Hermione, "and might I say, fifteen points for such a timely interruption."

Given the circumstances (read: the very high profile guests in attendance) most of the floor had been cleared, making their path to the delivery room largely unobstructed. Daphne and Theo were already there by the time the Draco, Blaise, and Hermione arrived, and Hermione could see Daphne tucking away a small cosmetics bag that meant she, too, had been assigned a job by a suspiciously refreshed-looking Pansy.

"Born just before midnight," said Harry, who turned from where he was sitting at Pansy's side to grin lopsidedly at them. "Little thing stole my birthday."

"I think we're just going to start skipping yours," Blaise replied sagely, as Hermione crept forward to see the swaddled infant from over Harry's shoulder.

"Is this Willow James, then?" she asked tentatively, and Pansy gave Harry an impossibly fond glare before nodding to Hermione.

"Yes," she said, "though, she looks a bit more like a Jamie, doesn't she? So I think maybe we'll call her that among family."

Hermione, who was pretty sure that had been a broad concession on Pansy's part that she would likely deny to her grave, sat lightly beside Harry, reaching out to touch the little gremlin's tiny fingers.

"Quite a bit of hair," she noted, observing the wild black tufts that meant this was quite certainly Harry's daughter. "A bit more than a baby usually has when they're born a month early, don't you think?"

"That's true, Pans," Draco observed neutrally, resting his hands on Hermione's shoulders and leaning down to smile at his sort-of niece. "What exactly would you like the Palace to release to the press?"

"We assume you have a plan, of course," Theo contributed, and Pansy glanced down at the baby in her arms, and then up at Harry, whose green eyes were noticeably (perhaps suspiciously) bright beneath his crooked glasses.

"Well," Pansy sniffed, reaching out to slip her hand in Harry's, "you may tell them we had a perfect baby girl, and that we're very happy."

Harry's smile took a turn for the slightly weepy, and beside Hermione, Draco carefully did Pansy the favor of not making much of a fuss.

"Anything else?" he asked neutrally, and Pansy shook her head.

"No. That's all they need to know," she said, glancing at Harry with a look so tender it was almost shy. "Unless," she said, clearing her throat lightly, "you're worried what they might think of us."

Harry gave a burst of a laugh, or possibly a sob.

"I love you, Pans," he said, half-blurting it out, and Pansy blinked with surprise, obviously hearing him say it for the first time.

"I know, Harry," she said, and then, uncertainly, she opened her mouth again.

Then she stopped, hesitating.

"I know," Harry assured her. "I know."

And then they all turned their attention to little Jamie, who, perhaps because of the noise she had already grown accustomed to in utero, continued to sleep undisturbed.

It was around three in the morning by the time Hermione and Draco made it back to Godric's Cottage with Blaise and the disaster twins, who had spent most of the car ride back arguing about who the baby most resembled (Daphne said Harry; Theo said Winston Churchill). They agreed to return to the hospital in the morning, at which point Bellatrix and Narcissa would likely need to be dealt with, and Rita Skeeter as well. Hermione, of course, would have to schedule a call with Gilderoy, and in the midst of everything she had nearly forgotten about the call Draco had received from his father.

"Everything okay?" she asked him upon remembering, and he gave her a thin, weary smile.

"It looks as though the Marriage Act is going to be repealed," he told her. "Which means, by the end of this year, you and I will be eligible to… well, wed," he said, scraping a hand through his hair as he spoke, "which I know I could find a better way to deliver, only my brain's a bit unhelpful at the moment."

Considering it was good news, Hermione was quite surprised he'd been so distressed by the call. "You sounded concerned on the phone," she pointed out, and Draco shook his head.

"Only because my father seems concerned, though I've yet to understand why. Publicity, I assume. Though, I think, perhaps—" He hesitated, giving her a long and tentative look, and then conceded, "I think he worries you and I will struggle again, if the media focuses its attention on you prematurely, as it did before."

Hermione blinked. "You think Prince Lucifer is worried about… me?"

"Well, us, I think," Draco corrected slowly, and then, with a grimace, "I think he worries you're a bit like my mother."

"In what possible way?"

"Well, I—" Again, Draco stumbled into difficulty. "I think my father believes he lost my mother to Rita Skeeter, in some way. Which is of course untrue, but—"

"But it isn't," Hermione said, realizing she still knew things about Lucius that Draco didn't. "I mean, your father certainly made his fair share of mistakes," she said, conceding the obvious point, "but it is a bit like having another person in the relationship, isn't it? Someone we're all trying to make happy, only that someone is everyone, and it's a bit impossible to live up to."

"Yes. Something like that." Draco looked grateful for her understanding, and then glanced down at the bed, and then the clock. "You know," he said carefully, "we have some time, if you want to…"

"Oh, god, no," Hermione said, recalling her exhaustion the moment she considered motion and, instead, dropped like a stone onto the bed. "I'm so tired I think my limbs are about to fall off."

Draco gave an enormous sigh of relief, crawling in beside her. "I wasn't going to say it, but—"

"I'm not going anywhere," Hermione told him, turning to face him. "You don't have to worry about losing me anymore. I won't change my mind, whether we have sex or not." She reached out, touching his cheek lightly and watching his eyes flutter shut, then open. "I love you," she told him, "and that means I will choose you, sex or no sex. Marriage or no marriage. Rita or no Rita."

She managed a weary smile as he pulled her close, settling her head on his chest.

"Maybe we'll have sex tomorrow," he said, closing his eyes.

"Sure, maybe," she agreed, feeling his heart pulse comfortingly beneath her ear.

He stroked her hair, brushing it back from her face. "Goodnight," he said, and kissed her forehead lightly, with the blindness of knowing by touch where to land. She lifted her chin with equal muscle memory, finding his lips to kiss him softly, tenderly.

"Goodnight."

His lips were warm, and she traced the bone of his clavicle as his hand slid down her spine, running along the notches of her vertebrae. He kissed her again, holding his breath a little that time, and she felt his heart quicken where she rested, twisting around to let her leg drape over his.

She felt a little shift of something, like the flip of a switch, following by the coursing of a current through her limbs, pausing to linger restlessly near her core. She reached up, carding her fingers through his hair, and kissed him deeply, shaping the palm of her hand to his jaw. He returned her pressure with his own, his arms circling fiercely around her ribs, and immediately, she felt a jolt, tightening her legs around him as she felt his cock twitch near her hip.

Oh, hello.

Draco slid his hands under her shorts, under her overworn cotton bikini, cupping his hand possessively around her backside. She adjusted the placement of her hips, half-clambering onto him to rub indiscreetly at his cock. He shifted her gruffly, one arm wrapping around her waist while the other shifted to the front of her underwear, and she felt a small, unexpected moan slip out from her lips.

"I want you," he said, more a rasp than a whisper, though it was arguably both. Just a huskily delivered fact, should she have failed to notice.

"Good," she exhaled, shuddering at the beautiful simplicity of knowing it, and he slid under her in a blissfully startling motion, forcing her to reach clumsily for the headboard to keep herself upright.

He was kissing her stomach, her thighs, scraping his teeth against them and tightening his fingers around the curves of her ass until he reached the cotton of her underwear. He paused, saturating the fabric with the warmth of his mouth, and slid his tongue over her slowly, roughly, and then with increasing intensity.

She reached behind her, curling her palm around the head of his cock, and he gave a muffled groan into her underwear, prompting her legs to shake. Really, she thought, this? Just this?

Just this, she answered herself with certainty, and shivered.

Draco slid out from under her, depositing her on her back and easing her shorts over her hips, followed by her underwear. One leg, then the other. He slid his fingers against the slit of her cunt, grey eyes on hers as he watched her shudder. She reached for him, pulling at his t-shirt and watching him strip it from his shoulders. He yanked it from his head, tugging her legs down to match her hips to his and watching the smile that darted across her face, blissful.

She reached for him, curving her hands around the blades of his shoulders as he slid his forearms beneath her. He kissed her, quick and impulsive, and then slower, intently, pressure from his fingertips and hips. She parted her lips and her legs and they both held their breaths in one common space, communal and sacrosanct, him filling her with a motion so exquisite it momentarily overwhelmed them both.

It was easy, natural, impossible, gradually picking up speed and building, climbing, dizzily unsettling, an undeniable arrhythmia, heart palpitations, please never stop, rough and serene, his fingers tangled in her hair while she kissed him, higher and higher and more and too much, too much, spilling over into yes yes yes and Draco, paired with a faintly nagging sensation that there was nothing unusual here—sex was sex, nothing new—and yet she would remember this forever. Remember the time we were so exhausted we barely moved, and you filled me like you'd been born to do it? Remember how good it was, how positively sublime? Remember the rapture of it—ardiente, salvaje, hombre—because we knew it was part of something bigger, not sex but life itself?

This life; ours; yours and mine.

She gasped into his shoulder, holding him close to her until they both went limp.

"Thank you," she said eventually. "For making me wait."

His ribs shook with tired laughter, the shape of his lips defining her skin where he burrowed his face in her neck.

"Thanks for coming back to me," he said, something she realized he had probably been waiting a long time to say.

In case you're wondering, you definitely did read something earlier about a Gilderoy Lockhart scandal; sadly for both you and me, that was not a delusion you temporarily had. In fact, it was one of the primary causes for my current predicament, though not in the way you'd expect. Or, maybe in precisely the way you'd expect. Difficult to tell.

I doubt you require me to say it another fracking time, but for the sake of this bloated exercise in candor, I must once again make clear to you that I certainly didn't know what was coming—or how quickly it would very soon arrive.

a/n: Sorry this is late, but I had a difficult week. I think the next couple of weeks may be unpredictable, so please be patient. The selected passages are from Henry and June, as Hermione mentioned, which was March's read for my latest very real venture: the erotic book club. If you want in, find me on Olivie Blake is Not Writing. Thank you for reading!

35. Fairytale

Chapter 35: Fairytale

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Destiny Takes Flight

During the couple's post-engagement interview, Hermione was asked if she had ever pictured herself becoming royalty. Miss Granger, glancing sheepishly at her beloved, proceeded to confess, "I saw myself with Draco for quite a long time, if I'm being honest, but being royalty was always a secondary thing." She looked again at Draco before professing beatifically to the world, "I suppose it still doesn't feel quite real."

Want to know something they cut out of the televised interview? Rita actually chuckled to herself and said, "Interesting," after I said that; presumably, she was irreversibly convinced I was lying through my teeth. As if it were somehow inconceivable that I might have genuinely fallen in love with the Prince of England without any sort of guile. Imagine that, right? Loving a man separate from his crown… groundbreaking.

Though, I guess by now we can all agree (not to Rita, ever, but certainly here, in private) that it wasn't as if I hadn't considered the implications of my decision once or twice before they arrived.

September 26, 2015
Nott Manor

Hermione's twenty-sixth birthday came and went without much ceremony. Draco was stationed somewhere and/or aboard something that rendered the phone call fuzzy and close to incomprehensible, but Hermione had far more to keep track of than whether or not she was being sufficiently spoiled by her boyfriend-future fiancé. For one thing, the group's annual trip to Nott Manor now involved a small baby, who was thus far managing to be more famous than any of the adults despite her primary hobbies being food and sleep. It was, as Theo often said, the dream vocation.

"Well, if I'll give Harry credit for one thing, it's his genetics," Pansy said, fussing with Jamie's wild hair until it had been reasonably tamed. It immediately rapidly sprang back up, relentless. "I can't believe I'm saying this," Pansy sighed, adopting a musing, sing-song voice as she spoke to her child, "but my goodness, you look just like your father, don't you? You little monstress," she declared, and Jamie made a small hiccuping sound of amusement, agreement, or involuntary reflex. "You're Mummy's little green-eyed monster, aren't you?"

"Charming term of endearment," Theo observed drily, and Pansy shot him a glare.

"She doesn't speak English, Theodore, and for that matter, hush."

Pansy and Harry had won the progeny-related lottery in terms of passing off their accidental love child as a legitimate product of their marriage, seeing as Jamie bore exactly zero—unsurprisingly, but still, a relief—traces of Neville. True, Rita Skeeter had pointed out the obvious math involved (specifically, that 'elopement' + 'premature' birth = the age-old cause for all 'elopements' and 'premature' births), but quickly gave it up for a lost cause. The public seemed far more interested in the fairytale of Harry and Pansy's coupling, which had resulted in what was indeed a charming, unambiguous miniature of them both.

It wasn't a total win, unfortunately. The frequent comparisons of Harry's features to his daughter's resulted in a renewed conversation about Harry's parents, James and Lily, which was increasingly noisy as the year approached the anniversary of their deaths. More unfortunate, too, was Narcissa's involvement.

"How's Harry dealing with the latest gossip?" Hermione asked, and Pansy gave the remark a brief flick of dismissal.

"He knows better than to believe what's being said in the papers," she scoffed. "I told you, everyone knows James and Lily were mad about each other. Anyone who says otherwise," she mused, inserting some incongruent enthusiasm into her voice as she directed her comments to baby Jamie, "should be placed in the bins, shouldn't they?"

It was a standard Pansy answer (or a variant of one), though Hermione wasn't so sure they were such innocent rumors. For one thing, the inclusion of James as one of the Princess of Wales' purported lovers meant a resurfacing of the Harry and Draco 'feud,' and for another, Hermione was growing concerned what that might mean for Narcissa after such a difficult year of bad press.

"Besides," Pansy continued, addressing Hermione and Theo that time and successfully reading Hermione's mind, "it's only a topic of discussion because Bellatrix and Narcissa are getting along at the moment, which I imagine Rita Skeeter loathes. There's nothing more abominable to her sensibilities than amicability."

"Are they actually getting along?" Hermione asked, surprised. "I assumed that was… less real than it appeared."

By that point, Pansy had already revealed to the rest of them that it had been Narcissa's idea to invite Bellatrix into her life over the summer, pointing out for Pansy's benefit that while Bellatrix was hardly trustworthy, she was to some degree reliable.

When Hermione had attempted to speak to Narcissa on the subject, though—to thank her, she supposed, though for what, she hadn't fully composed the words—she found herself rapidly dismissed.

"Why thank me?" Narcissa asked listlessly, cutting Hermione off with an unpleasant glance. "I've used my sister no more and certainly no cleverly than she uses me. Tragically, not all of us have the time for a memoir," she added, a hint of bitterness sliding in at the tail-end of her thought.

Hermione, who was perfectly aware that the release of Bellatrix's tell-all had once coincided unfavorably with a time she lacked the motivation to ease Draco's familial problems, tentatively ventured an apology. "About that—"

"Please. Don't flatter yourself into thinking your sympathy is necessary to me in any way. I understand my value to you, just as I hope you recognize your value to me." Narcissa had given Hermione another cool, leveled look of diplomatic impassivity, which in turn prompted the unsettling realization that, like baby Jamie, Draco's parentage was equally unquestionable. It was the same look Hermione had seen him give others many times.

"If aligning myself temporarily with my sister can be of some use," Narcissa continued, "so be it. I imagine you and I can expect to do the same for each other someday."

"Are you… offering to help me?" Hermione asked her, opting to take the statement to its most optimistic conclusion, but in response, Narcissa's expression went blank.

"Haven't you heard, Miss Granger? I've never helped anyone in my life," Narcissa told her, turning to leave. "But if it ever pleases you to use me, rest assured I won't take it as a slight."

Hermione had given a watered-down summary of their interactions to Daphne and Pansy, who both seemed to think little of it. "You forget, you know, that this is just par for the course," Daphne told Hermione. "It's nothing personal. It's just business—because this is Narcissa's business," she reminded her, and Hermione sighed.

"Sometimes I feel absolutely convinced the royal family is essentially the mafia," she grumbled under her breath. "If it weren't so archaically lawful, it'd be absolutely no different from organized crime."

Pansy, who had most recently conned her own mother, was both unsurprised and unoffended by Hermione's observation. "So what if Narcissa and Bellatrix use each other for their own personal gain?" she synthesized neatly, shrugging. "They forgive each other long enough to coexist in the end and really, how different is that from love?"

"You worry me," had been Hermione's sighing reply.

Now, though, Pansy was insistent that Narcissa and Bellatrix's reconciliation was, as far as she could tell, legitimate. "They've spent quite a lot of time together recently," she noted, which was certainly true. Every outing had been well documented by the Daily Prophet—hence the renewed interest in both women's tired histories. "As a general rule," Pansy said briskly, "I don't spend so much time with people for whom I retain a long-burning resentment."

"Well, you spend time with me," Theo reminded her, to which Pansy scoffed.

"Please, Theodore," she said, turning to her daughter. "Mummy's resentment for Uncle Theo simply hums underfoot, doesn't it?" she asked Jamie, once again employing the same too-bright voice of indulgence. "He wishes it were potent enough to burn, the silly ponce—"

"That might be the cruelest thing you've ever said to me," Theo informed her, reaching for a tightly bundled, silently observing Jamie (truly, a miracle of an infant) and cooing to her. "Your Mummy is a bully, did you know?" he said, tapping Jamie's nose. "She's going to burn me at the stake someday, isn't she?"

"Why does everyone speak to babies in rhetorical questions?" Hermione asked them, though neither were paying her any attention. Theo, in particular, seemed intent on finding baby Jamie's toes, and Pansy was drifting idly to sleep sitting up when Harry abruptly appeared, tapping Pansy's shoulder.

"Your turn," he told her, gesturing behind him. She gave him a brisk nod, absently patting his cheek, and he brushed his lips to her forehead as she stumbled to her feet, ostensibly heading upstairs to nap until Jamie required further sustenance. Harry, meanwhile, took a seat beside Theo with a grin, brushing a finger along the arch of his daughter's unbundled foot.

"How goes your Lockhart fiasco?" Harry asked, glancing up at Hermione. He had clearly just awoken from his own nap, hair standing on end precisely as Jamie's did. "Anything new to report?"

Since Blaise had pointed out that Lockhart may have stolen one of the stories from his memoir from Neville's father, Hermione had been working somewhat tirelessly to confirm or deny, to little or no avail. "Perhaps you were mistaken?" she'd suggested to Gilderoy, unable to believe him capable of intentional theft. He seemed so genuinely steeped in delusion the error had to be retractable. "You know, sometimes I find I've embellished a story with details I may have heard from other people, or sometimes I misremember the details of things—"

But Gilderoy, of course, dismissed her concerns as preposterous, claiming he'd never even heard of Frank Longbottom or of St Mungo's facility. "Perhaps it's merely a coincidence," he told her cheerfully, "or you've got it the other way round? I'm quite popular with the unwell demographic, of course, and perhaps this Bottomless fellow is the one who heard the story from me, hm?"

For months, it had been like chasing a ghost.

"Funnily enough, his publishers don't seem particularly bothered by the idea that some of the details might be plagiarized," Hermione said to Harry. "They told me to find proof, which of course I don't have." She sighed, adding, "I think they're so accustomed to Lockhart's presumed incompetence they don't consider it worth delaying the money that's already been spent marketing the book's pre-release."

"And Neville?" Theo asked, glancing up from his inspection of Jamie's toes.

Hermione hesitated. "Well, I mean, it's bigger than Neville, isn't it?"

"So you still haven't spoken to him, then," Harry deduced, leaning back with his signature smuggery. "Even Hermione Granger's philanthropy has limits, I take it."

"It's just… such a small detail," Hermione said, aware that even she thought she sounded less than convinced. "Just one little anecdote, really."

Not exactly. According to Blaise, Gilderoy's obscure story about the rescue of a Lebanese orphan during the period of his journalism career spent as a war correspondent actually belonged to Neville's father. Frank had been a reconnaissance officer in the Royal Navy at the same time and stationed in the same place, though all Hermione was able to prove was that the timelines overlapped. There was no official statement of any such event occurring within the Navy's records, but Gilderoy considered it a turning point in his career. It was also notably one of a handful of events he was able to describe in perfect, legitimate-sounding detail, which was why Hermione hadn't even thought to question it at the time.

"What could he possibly have stolen?" Theo asked, looking up. "It's not as if we know anything about Neville's parents."

"Not for lack of trying," Harry pointed out. "Though, as I recall, Pansy usually interrupted him before he brought it up."

"It's private," Hermione said quickly. Blaise had specifically requested she not reveal the details. "The problem is I have no way to prove whether or not it happened, so it's either taking Gilderoy Lockhart's word for it or Neville's, and who knows how much his father can actually confirm—"

"So you're just going to give up, then?" came a voice behind them, and Hermione jumped so clumsily Jamie made a sniffled noise of opposition.

"I thought you were supposed to be the one who cared about people," Blaise said neutrally, as Hermione turned, catching his expression of hardened disappointment.

"I—Blaise, of course I'm not giving up," she assured him, though she could feel the strain of knowing she wasn't being entirely honest. "I'm just saying, even if it were true—"

"It's true," Blaise cut in flatly.

There was a stiff, tense pause as Hermione considered what to say.

"You're not going to take any points, are you?" she asked eventually, attempting an awkward sort of playfulness despite Harry, Theo, and Jamie all giving her identical looks of skepticism.

Blaise was silent another long moment.

"No," he said. "Do whatever you want."

Then he turned and left, leaving Hermione to flinch in his absence.

"Well," Theo exhaled eventually, "that was… a first."

"You have to admit, it really is rather unlike you," Harry remarked, turning to Hermione. "Normally you can't wait to rush around for any sort of human rights campaign."

"Well, I already have several," Hermione insisted. "I have a number of clients, not to mention I'm still trying to help Minerva save Transfiguration, and besides, there's Pansy and Narcissa—"

"And you're also very busy avoiding Neville," Theo cut in, obviously amused by more than just the baby. "Which, understandable. A very time consuming activity, maintaining intentional distance."

"I—" Hermione sighed, relenting. "It's not as if I had any great hope to talk to Neville again to begin with. And besides," she added as an afterthought, "this could backfire on me, you know. I'm the one who wrote the book—what if Gilderoy blames me?"

"Well, we certainly can't help you there," Theo said with a shrug. "For one thing, we're notoriously self-serving. Immoral Bad Lads, et cetera."

"Sounds like a very niche matter of integrity, actually," Harry added, giving Hermione a troublingly suggestive grin. "Come to think of it, I happen to know a journalist of utmost devotion to her craft, should you be looking to quibble about anything in particular."

The suggestion alone—give or take the wordplay—was enough to prompt Hermione to a groan, letting Jamie reach up from Theo's arms for one of Hermione's more irresponsibly low-hanging curls. "Your father is a menace, isn't he?" Hermione said to the infant, employing Pansy's same tone of enthusiasm.

In response, Jamie gave her hair a firm tug, leaving Hermione to yelp a little in surprise.

"That's my girl," Harry said, smiling broadly as Jamie chirped in response, quietly delighted.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Luna remarked, looking up when Hermione walked in. That day, Luna was wearing oversized glasses that magnified her eyes to a startling, owl-like degree, nearly propelling Hermione backwards at the sight of them.

"You look better," Luna noted, leaning back to pick up an oversized purple latte. Her blonde hair was tied in an off-centered knot atop her head while her earrings, tiny bottle cap chandeliers, draped down to her shoulders. "Fewer nargles," she observed, scouring Hermione's aura.

"Fewer what?" Hermione asked, sliding into the seat across from Luna.

"Nargles," Luna replied, taking a sip, and did not bother to clarify. Her arm was resting on a variety of periodicals, including a copy of the Daily Prophet, from which a familiar headline peeked out: LADY BELLATRIX LESTRANGE AND PRINCESS NARCISSA UNLIKELY ALLIES IN SUPPORT OF SUCCESSION ACT.

"You wrote about that, didn't you?" Hermione said, pointing to the article. "The act, I mean. Not the family drama." She'd read Rita's version that morning, in which Bellatrix made broad claims that she and her sister's joint support of an addendum to the bill replacing the Marriage Law was part of their joyful reconciliation. "I liked your article better," Hermione told Luna. "I didn't think it got the attention it deserved."

Luna's version, unlike Rita's, focused on the political implications of act's provisions of committing sequential succession (rather than gendered, i.e., male heirs first) to law, which Hermione, not being English, had never actually pieced together was still a thing until learning it was likely to change. Unfortunately, it had been mostly swamped by resurfacing speculation about the Black sisters.

"I initially had no plans to address the subject in detail," Luna admitted, "given that this time of year is mostly devoted to the stirrings of the feverishly paranormal, but when Harry mentioned his interest—"

"Are you two still in touch?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"From time to time. His wife is excellent company."

That, Hermione thought, was too surprising a comment to discard. "You've met Pansy?"

"She told me I looked like a fairy con artist," Luna replied, sipping her purple latte as her earrings clanged noisily beside the mug.

"Oh," Hermione sighed, shaking her head, "well, don't mind her, until you get used to her she can be very—"

"Honest," Luna supplied, and then, after a moment's consideration, added, "I like her a great deal."

"I—" Hermione supposed that made an odd sort of sense. "Well. I suppose I do, too."

Luna nodded sagely. "Anyway," she said, glancing up at Hermione from her cup. "You said you needed help with something?"

"Well, your thoughts, mostly." Why Luna's thoughts, she had no idea. Unfortunately, it seemed Harry was still capable of worming his way into Hermione's moral convictions, and he'd done the unforgivable thing of reminding her precisely what sort of person she was (and wasn't being at the moment). "I have a bit of an ethical crisis on my hands, and I thought you might be able to help me with it."

"Understandable," Luna said perfunctorily, giving Hermione an expectant glance to get on with it. Luna was many things, but conventionally social she was certainly not. It was no wonder she and Pansy got along.

"Well, I've been doing some ghostwriting," Hermione began.

"Vengeful?" Luna asked, and Hermione blinked.

"What?"

"Is the ghost vengeful," Luna said, enunciating with pained deliberation, and Hermione shook her head.

"No, no, I'm not writing for a ghost, I'm writing as a ghost, for a living person—"

"Oh," Luna said, visibly disappointed. "Well, fine, carry on."

"Right," Hermione said, and then, because she couldn't help it, "You do know what ghostwriting is, right?"

"I prefer the spectral reference, but I suppose it is what it is."

"Right. Okay, well," Hermione exhaled, determining it best to move along, "I'm ghostwriting—have ghostwritten, I suppose—a memoir, and I've come to learn it's possible that the author may have unintentionally taken one of his anecdotes from, well." She hesitated, and then confessed, "A mental patient."

Luna tilted her head. "What sort of mentality?"

"Um. Ill, I suppose."

"Hm." Luna drummed her nails on the table, considering it. "What do you think?"

"Me?" Hermione asked, surprised. "Well, I don't know. The author insists it's not true, and I can't prove otherwise."

Luna's owl-eyes fixed vacantly on Hermione's. "But?"

"But what?"

"Well, something remains unsaid." Luna took a sip from her purple latte. "Some part of you does believe it's true, clearly, or it wouldn't be an ethical dilemma, would it? It would just be a Tuesday."

"It's Wednesday," Hermione said.

"Allegedly," Luna replied, and Hermione grimaced.

"Well, I do trust the person who told me. Though, it's second-hand information," Hermione hurried to clarify. "I haven't spoken to the actual source."

"Why not?"

"Well…" That was obviously the difficult question. "My hands are tied, aren't they?" she insisted. "I can't prove anything, and technically my role in the manuscript is complete, except for occasional edits. I already did much more fact-checking than I was asked to."

"How many times have you done that?" Luna asked.

"What, fact-checked? At least a dozen—"

"No," Luna corrected, "lied." She took another sip, giving herself a thin, violet mustache. "Either you already lied to someone about it before, or you've been practicing in the mirror. Either way, it sounds rehearsed."

"I—" Damn Harry and his ridiculous ideas. "I'm not lying, I'm just… rationalizing," Hermione finished weakly.

"Is that a new term for it?" Luna asked, frowning. "I have a tendency to fall behind when it comes to euphemistic language. And colloquialisms."

"No, it's—" Hermione let out a growl. "Fine, I'm lying. I don't want it to be true," she admitted. "It means I'll have done all this work for nothing. And it means my own credibility will be questionable, at best. And," she groaned, arriving at the heart of the issue, "I don't particularly want to speak to the source. He's not especially credible either, in my view." If there was one thing Hermione already knew Neville was, it was a liar.

"Well," Luna said, leaning back in her seat, "I suppose you do have a point. Probably best you didn't ask Handsome Tom," she added, looking moderately chagrined despite him being in no way relevant to the issue. "He would most likely encourage you to protect yourself at all costs. Though, given his propensity for stealing heirlooms, I would not recommend his advice."

"I'm really more interested in your advice," Hermione said, not entirely believing she was saying so herself, though by that point she was morbidly curious. "If you were in my position, Luna, what would you do?"

Abruptly, Tom the Barman appeared with a purple latte for Hermione, which she had not ordered and did not particularly want. Still, it seemed rude to refuse and Luna was thinking, so she permitted herself a sip. It had the distinct taste of yams with a hint of lavender, and she was almost positive the foam was actually closer to marshmallow fluff.

After another odd sip, Hermione glanced up at Luna, who was either thinking very intently or had fallen asleep with her eyes open.

"Luna?" Hermione asked, and Luna blinked.

"Well," Luna said with grave concern, "I really don't think Handsome Tom should be left alone with those heirlooms."

"Oh, right, but—"

"As for your situation, I'm afraid it's rather straightforward," Luna continued, fixing Hermione with another solemn stare that seemed to be her only method of eye contact. "Your obligation is to tell the truth, whatever you think that is. You're a bright sort of witch, Hermione," Luna added, which Hermione thought for a moment might have been an insult, but then realized was either a compliment or some sort of supernatural prophecy. "I imagine your intuition is sufficiently honed. Is the author of the book particularly reliable?"

Laughable, really, to imagine the quality applied to Gilderoy Lockhart. "I suspect not," Hermione admitted.

"Then you'll simply have to decide whom you trust more, your author or your source."

It was the right answer, obviously, though not the one Hermione had been hoping to hear. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, exactly. Maybe that Luna possessed some sort of magical method of turning back time to fix things, since she could also evidently talk to ghosts.

"But what about my career?" Hermione asked tentatively. "If the story's stolen, that doesn't look good for me."

Luna shrugged. "If something requires you to lie for it, perhaps it's not worth pursuing. Also true of sentient books," she cautioned firmly. "Can never be too careful with something if you can't see where it keeps its brain."

"I—well, thank you for that," Hermione managed to say through her confusion, "but as far as the fallout—"

"Excuse me," came a horrendously familiar voice. "Is this the home of His Lordship?"

"Oh, no," Hermione said under her breath, finding herself face to face with Draco's cousin Hortense. "I thought you were dead."

"Ah, so you received our invitation!" Thibaut proclaimed, materializing beside his sister. "There will be no need for gifts, of course. Our current possessions are far superior."

"Invitation to what?" asked Luna.

"Our surprise party funeral," Hortense informed her.

"Is the surprise that you'll be alive or dead?" Luna asked.

Hortense and Thibaut exchanged a glance.

"You," Thibaut informed Luna with gusto, "are onto something."

"Anyway," Hortense continued, "we simply came by to drop off an invitation for Handsome Tom. Is His Lordship around?"

"I don't think Handsome Tom is strictly a lord," Hermione pointed out, and Hortense shrugged.

"Metaphysically? No," she agreed.

"Though, he is quite strict," Thibaut said. "Troublingly so."

"He suggested some sort of matching friendship tattoo, which naturally we declined," Hortense sniffed. "Everyone knows that's effectively a jinx on what is otherwise a perfectly meaningful relationship."

"Anyway, we're off," Thibaut said, briskly aiming himself at the kitchen. "Until next time!"

Luna stared intently at their backs as they went, suddenly pensive.

"I suspect in another realm this would be an issue," she remarked, half to herself. "A very adjacent one, perhaps."

"And in this one?" Hermione asked; because again, it was nonsense, but beguilingly so.

"Oh, probably harmless. Perhaps a bit of mild property damage, or chance of a small but passionate cult." Luna took another sip of her latte, straightening in her seat to return to the conversation at hand. "In any case, have you decided what you're going to do?" she asked, earrings tinkling as she turned to look at Hermione, who sighed.

"Yes," Hermione grumbled, reaching for her phone. "I suppose so."

"Thanks for seeing me," Hermione said, rising to her feet as Neville entered the seating area of his grandmother's house. "I realize it's… not under ideal circumstances, but—"

"Given everything, I think this is close enough to ideal," Neville said, not unkindly, though with the indication he was about as reticent about their meeting as Hermione had been. "I suppose we shouldn't waste time with niceties?"

Hermione grimaced. "If you could just tell me about your father," she said, and Neville stiffened, clearly already uncomfortable. "I tried to get into St Mungo's to see him myself, but—"

"You did what?"

Neville looked so alarmed Hermione hastily cleared her throat, backpedaling. "Well, I couldn't, I didn't have your permission, so—" She broke off, realizing it was a more sensitive subject than she'd thought, even with Blaise's warnings. "Anyway, if you wanted to, um. Just tell me your version of the story, I guess—"

"I'm not sure how much I can confirm," Neville told her uneasily. "Post-traumatic stress disorder, like my father's, can be somewhat debilitating."

He seemed… disinclined to be helpful. Still, she couldn't forget Blaise's face when he'd thought she'd given up; if she was going to do this, then she'd simply have to do it. "Let's just start with what you know, then," she said, hoping to reassure him. "Your father has PTSD, you said? From his time in the military?"

Neville hesitated, glancing quickly over Hermione's shoulder. "Can I trust that all of this will remain between us?"

"Of course," Hermione said. "I have no interest in prying, but if the error in Gilderoy Lockhart's memoir amounts to, in essence, a crime, then I imagine you can see my predicament. I'd just like to be able to prove whether his story and your father's are actually the same, or if maybe there's a defining detail I may have missed."

Neville didn't look particularly swayed. "Did Blaise tell you anything?"

Blaise had made it very clear the information was private; she hardly wanted to confess the little she did know, and simply shook her head. "Nothing, really. He just told me to ask you."

Neville looked away, and Hermione sighed.

"Look, my options are limited, Neville," she said, hoping to nudge him into compliance. "I can tell you that if you say nothing, then Lockhart's memoir is definitely going to press quite soon. It will probably sell millions of copies, and everyone will believe his story to be true. If that doesn't bother you, then there's no need to continue. I can simply step back from the project. But if, by chance—"

"My father is schizophrenic," Neville confessed, flinching, and Hermione, who had been mid-sentence, hurriedly closed her mouth, nodding. "It worsened considerably during his military service before he was honorably discharged, when I was still quite young. I was placed in my grandmother's custody."

Hermione, who knew better than to interrupt, nodded again as Neville continued, "My father once told me when I was a boy that he rescued a child around my age. I remember it distinctly—he was rarely lucid, but he described the story in perfect detail. It was as if my being that same age had sparked something sane in him, and he seemed to be perfectly clear for the first time that he was speaking to me. His son."

Neville swallowed heavily, and then confessed, "It's the only memory I really have of him as a father. I never told anyone, except—" Another swallow. "Well, in any case. Naturally, I find it difficult to believe it could have happened to Gilderoy Lockhart with that degree of detail. Perhaps it's an honest mistake?" He shrugged. "He might have seen it happen and misremembered, or perhaps embellished."

Hermione nodded. She had the sense Neville was closing up from his window of confession already, and was therefore unlikely to say much more.

"Now that I've spoken to you, I can ask him again," she said, hoping to sound encouraging. "If the story is misattributed, I'm sure he can understand my wanting to include an addendum of some sort—"

"No," Neville said quickly, shaking his head. "No, you can't mention my father. You'll have to simply remove the story."

"I—" The story about the rescue was a pivotal turning point in Gilderoy's memoir. It was, narratively speaking, the nexus on which the rest of his life would eventually turn. "I don't know if I can do that, Neville, but—"

"My father's condition must remain private," Neville said firmly. "That information is for my family alone. You've seen what they're saying about Harry's parents," he pointed out, and Hermione winced, knowing, regrettably, precisely what he meant. At its worst, public interest in Narcissa's misdeeds meant James Potter's name would never really rest.

"Yes, I understand, and I'm sure there's a way t-"

"This," Neville said impatiently, rising to his feet. "This is why I didn't want to discuss it with Blaise. Of course I have no interest in seeing my father's life misappropriated for some overstuffed celebrity's ego—why would I?" he demanded, "but I simply can't condone this. My gran would never approve, and after everything she's done—"

He stopped, and Hermione blinked.

"Done for whom?" Hermione asked, and Neville fixed her with an evasive look of warning, shaking his head.

"That's enough. Please tell Blaise not to contact me any further." He turned, heading for the door. "I'll fetch someone to escort you out."

But Hermione, who hadn't wanted to speak to Neville in the first place, couldn't help a rush of temper at the unwelcome sight of his back.

"I'm not going to be the one to tell Blaise you're lashing out because he tried to help you," she snapped, and Neville paused in the doorway, shoulders going tense. "Maybe you have no problem with lying, but I do. The truth is important to me, so if it comes down to it—"

"Are you writing this under your own name?" Neville cut in over his shoulder, and Hermione stopped.

"That's different," she said, and Neville pivoted to face her, expression grim.

"Is it?" he asked, and this time, his doubt was explicitly unkind. "You don't get to consider yourself noble for preferring the lies you choose to tell, Hermione. Your stakes are different from mine, and my hearty congratulations to you if they happen to suit your ethos."

"My lies aren't hurting anyone," Hermione retorted, furious. "All you've done is hurt people! First Pansy, then Blaise—"

"If you're angry with what I've done then be angry, but this has nothing to do with it," Neville reminded her stiffly. "This is about my father, the privacy of my family. Seeing as we are no longer friends, I am requiring you as a professional to hold yourself accountable to the wishes of your source."

He continued his progression to the door but Hermione, feeling particularly wrathful after that particularly hellish proclamation, took three steps after him.

"You broke his heart! And for what?" she spat contemptuously. "Michael Corner, really?"

Immediately, Neville spun, startling her with his proximity as he took a rapid stride in her direction.

"Stay out of my personal life," he warned, but Hermione had never cared for intimidation. Not from Prince Lucifer, not from the King of England himself, and certainly not from Neville fucking Longbottom.

"Or what?" she demanded, and Neville said nothing.

He simply walked away, leaving her behind in silence.

"You did what you could," Draco reminded her on the phone. "And much as I'm sure you hate to hear it, Neville might have a point. Your feelings about what happened with Blaise and Pansy might be getting in the way of considering this all objectively," he ventured gently, "but all you can do is your job."

"WELL," Hermione began, and then rapidly withered, falling backwards on her bed. "You're right, obviously," she growled, "but still. My work matters to me, and I don't want to have written something that's… I don't know. Bullshit."

"Admirable," Draco said wryly. "But still, there are limits to what you can do about it."

"You would know, I suppose," Hermione grumbled, now diametrically opposed to the concept of limits in general. "Does it frustrate you, how little autonomy you actually have to do the right thing?"

"What, having my father and grandfather tell me what to do, you mean?"

"Yes. I guess."

"Well, I've come to understand there are certain limitations to everything, and to everyone. Even my grandfather can't do whatever he likes."

Hermione sighed. "And why not?"

"Eh, something about tyranny," Draco replied. "But that doesn't mean you can't still try to do what's right, does it? Just because the rules are against you doesn't mean it isn't worth making an effort, I suppose. Besides," he added with a sigh, "I think you and I both know you won't be able to stop thinking about it until you sort out how to make it right."

"What I should be thinking about is my costume for Blaise's Halloween theme this year," Hermione said, though mention of Blaise set her back on the frustrating spiral of Blaise to Neville to Gilderoy Lockhart all over again. "I have to say, 'bedroom psychology' is upsettingly on brand."

"Freudian slip," Draco suggested, "and anyway, just talk to him again."

"Who him? Blaise?"

"No, Lockhart."

If only it were that simple. "He's making a habit of being impossible to track down lately. He's ignored my last ten emails. Though, I suppose he never really answered my questions so much as chattered endlessly about himself until I gave up."

"Well," Draco said, "I doubt he wants a scandal on his hands. It might be worth pointing out to him that something like this could quite easily ruin his career."

Hermione sat up, balking a little at the suggestion. "Are you saying you want me to threaten him?"

"Of course not," Draco replied with a laugh, "I'm only saying you might try to reason with him. It's not as if you're the only one who could get in trouble if it comes out that his memoir is less original than he claims. Right?"

Hermione grimaced. "Yeah, I guess not."

"Good. Unless you want to be penis envy," Draco said.

She blinked. "What?"

"Instead of Freudian slip," he clarified, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"How would I even be penis envy?"

"You're the genius, not me," he told her, leaving her to sigh, falling back against the pillows.

It took another couple of days, but Hermione finally managed to track Gilderoy down at the Chamber Club (after having asked Colin Creevey if there had been any significant sightings that day; he was surprisingly useful, at least in terms of finding high profile people in London) on the morning of Halloween. Gilderoy was sitting in one of the private rooms, animatedly detailing something Hermione hoped was less pornographic in nature than it looked when she knocked quietly on the glass door.

"Gilderoy," she said, observing the flicker of displeasure on his face as she materialized in the doorway. "May I have a moment, please? Won't take long," she added in apology to his guest, who was a small, rat-looking man with beady eyes. "I'm Penelope," she offered, and the rat-man looked up, shrugging.

"Don't care," he said asthmatically, wheezing his way out as Hermione hurried to take his seat.

"So, listen," she said before Gilderoy could interrupt, "about Frank Longbottom—"

"This again? Penny," Gilderoy said, sighing loudly, "I must tell you, all this stalking you've been doing is getting quite tiresome. I don't have any other projects for you, as I've mentioned, and while I'm very flattered by your obvious sexual advances, I really do not think it would be wise to mix business with pleas-"

"No, no," Hermione said, flustered with repulsion. "No, I'm sorry, it's just—it's not that, I simply wanted to revisit the possibility that perhaps there might have been some sort of… misunderstanding," she said optimistically, "or, if we could just go through the details of the story one more time, then maybe—?"

"Penny," Gilderoy cut in, "I really must implore that your obsession with me desist for the time being. Have you considered the likelihood that perhaps all those mental patients stole from my life story rather than the other way around?"

"Well, of course I—" Hermione broke off, frowning as she contemplated what he'd said. "I'm sorry, did you say patients?" she asked slowly. "As in plural?"

She could see immediately that she'd caught him in something. His facial expression froze, eyes temporarily darting away, before he seemed to physically discard the comment, waving a hand and leaning back in his chair.

"Don't be silly," he scoffed, crossing one leg over the other and gesturing vaguely to nothing. "I'm simply repeating back to you what you said to me, Penny."

"Actually, no," Hermione said, rendered more than a little concerned by the way he was still avoiding eye contact. "I thought it was just one story," she said, growing increasingly bothered, "but if there's more, Gilderoy, then we should really talk about reviewing the draft and—"

"May I remind you," Gilderoy cut in, his voice suddenly stark with warning, "the manuscript belongs to me, not you. You are no longer involved in the process of its publication."

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. "I understand that. I'm just concerned that if you've made some sort of mistake—"

"Tell me, how is that little non-profit you care so much about? The Transfiguration Project, is it?" he asked, reverting to his usual bouncing tone. "I understand they're looking for a profitable donor, aren't they? I'd be more than happy to offer an enticing donation. Moreover," he continued, giving her his most charming smile, "my publisher will be scheduling several public events, which will of course require venues. If Minerva McGonagall is looking for publicity, which I'm quite certain she is—"

"You did it on purpose, didn't you?" Hermione realized in disbelief, wondering how she hadn't thought to leap to that conclusion sooner. "You stole from them because you knew they weren't credible sources, so no one would ever question you." She curled a fist, frustrated, and demanded, "How many people did you steal from?"

"Now, on the other hand," Gilderoy continued, blatantly ignoring her, "it would be quite unfortunate indeed if someone were to reveal the dastardly practices of Minerva's little project. I would hate for someone like myself with so much influence to take such an unpleasant stand," he lamented, giving her a falsely mournful look. "Particularly given your ongoing concern for the organization—"

"Are you… are you bribing me?" Hermione sputtered, now unable to conceive of the idea that she'd come in here hoping to ease the consequences of an honest mistake. "You can't possibly be serious!"

"Of course I'm not bribing you, Penny dear. I'm simply incentivizing you to keep your mouth shut," Gilderoy informed her, rising grimly to his feet. "You may think you know something about me, but I can assure you, you do not. Nor do you wield any sufficient influence to combat me—particularly not, for example," he cautioned briskly, "if I happen to reveal just how many falsehoods you manufactured to sell books."

"Me?" Hermione echoed, aghast. "Gilderoy, I—"

"Think about it," he suggested, buttoning his jacket and giving her a curt look of finality. "Tomorrow morning, a very generous donation will find its way to The Transfiguration Project, no strings attached. After such point, should you decide you no longer care to maintain your reputation, I will of course have to sever myself from the organization and publicly condemn them for their gross misuse of funds—but, of course," he said, sparing her an arched look of certainty, "I do not think it will come to that, do you?"

Hermione, who no longer knew what to say, nodded dumbly, unable to conjure a word.

"Good girl," Gilderoy told her cheerfully, flashing her a glimpse of his five-time most charming smile as he passed, disappearing into the corridor.

That evening, Hermione was too unsettled to enjoy much of Halloween, failing to appreciate Theo and Blaise's costumes as their living parents/requisite halves of an Oedipal complex or Harry's furry onesie as Pavlov's dog until she had lost herself nearly twenty points for her blatant distraction. Pansy, away from her daughter for the first full evening and dressed in one of Blaise's catsuits as Schrodinger's cat, certainly wasn't much help, either.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do about this," Hermione said mournfully to her glass, having already spent the majority of the day sulking. "If the end result of me staying quiet is that Minerva gets enough money to keep the company going, is that… wrong?"

"What if Bellatrix comes by again when I'm not home? Jamie will be indoctrinated in some sort of cult for immoral women," Pansy said. "Not to mention I haven't finished plans for her christening, nor have I sorted who the godparents are going to be—"

"At least I accomplished something," Hermione sighed. "And anyway, if Neville's not willing to come forward, why should I even care whether Gilderoy's a thief?"

"I thought perhaps Narcissa, given everything," Pansy continued restlessly, "only I'm starting to think she's aiming for trouble. You don't think she's still trying for a divorce, do you?"

"Who would I even report him to?" Hermione demanded. "And who would possibly believe me if I tried?"

"Hi, just out of curiosity," Daphne interrupted, waving a hand between them and lifting a brow, "are either of you actually listening to each other?"

"What? Of course," Hermione said, distracted. "Something about the christening, right, Pans?"

"Mm, yes," Pansy replied, listless. "And that charming buffoon of yours—"

"I'm getting another drink," Daphne sighed, leaping down from her barstool and giving them each a look of disappointment. "You're both hopeless. NOTT," she called, and then groaned as Theo turned without hearing her, the handle of the fake knife in his back now facing them from where he'd angled himself towards Blaise. "Nott, does your costume extend to your ears? Get over here—"

"Hey," said Tracey Davis, sidling up to Hermione in a lace-trimmed negligee. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

"Are you a Freudian slip too?" Hermione asked her, and Tracey looked bewildered.

"A what?"

"Freudian slip," Hermione repeated, pointing to the phrases she'd pinned to her nightgown: ego, super ego, libido, aggression. Tracey looked no less confused, but she dismissed it with a shrug.

"I thought it was just bedroom things…? Whatever," she sighed, frowning after Daphne. "What's she supposed to be, exactly?"

Daphne, who took her job very seriously, had sewn sequin phalluses in a beguiling pattern onto a plain black dress. "I think she somehow managed penis envy," Hermione said, being successfully envious while looking at penises, and Tracey made a low sound of feigned interest.

"What about you?" she asked Pansy, observing the cat ears. "Didn't you just have a baby?"

Briefly, Pansy looked murderous with distress.

"I have to call the nanny," she said, rising from her seat and rushing away as Tracey shrugged again, taking her place beside Hermione.

"So," Tracey said. "What's new, I guess?"

She sipped her martini, catching Blaise's eye across the room and exchanging a lewdly telling glance with him.

"Oh, nothing really," Hermione said distractedly, trying to remember what Draco's code with Theo was for moments requiring immediate rescue. "Just… work things, that's all."

"Did I hear you talking about the Gilderoy Lockhart thing earlier?" Tracey asked, and Hermione blinked.

"Thing?"

"Yeah—the, um. The thing. The article," Tracey said, and when Hermione frowned with bemusement, she dug around in her purse for her phone. "You really didn't see it? It's wild, everyone's posting memes on Twitter—"

"What happened?" Hermione asked, growing increasingly concerned, and Tracey handed her the phone, tapping a nail on the screen.

"Apparently he stole all the material for his book from loony people or something. Can you believe it?" she said, motioning for Hermione to look at an image showing Chrissy Teigen's crying face with the caption When you plagiarized your whole memoir. "Oh, and this one, this one is hilarious," Tracey added, showing Hermione a clip of Drake dancing to an auto-tuned clip of Gilderoy's voice. "And this one—"

One left shark meme ('WRITE A MEMOIR THEY SAID—IT'LL BE EASY THEY SAID'), one Adele gif (with Gilderoy's hair flowing back as he said 'hello from a sea of lies'), and one controversy later ("Seriously, how is this dress not white? I don't see blue at all," Tracey lamented, frowning), Hermione finally had to forcibly take the phone from Tracey, looking for the source of the issue.

"Wait a minute," she said, opening the Daily Prophet article and staring down in disbelief. "Rita Skeeter wrote this?"

GILDEROY LOCKHART GUILTY OF LITERARY FORGERY!

Bestselling author, self-help guru, and four-time winner of the Women's Weekly Most Charming Smile Award (That, Hermione thought, would upset him more than anything) comes under fire as his forthcoming memoir is revealed to contain multiple instances of plagiarism.

Figured. All this time Hermione had been looking desperately for proof, but that was probably the only thing Rita Skeeter didn't need.

"Apparently she had a source," Tracey said, scrolling down in the article. "And then she went to talk to all the families of these people Lockhart stole from, which if you think about it is both really stupid and completely genius—"

"Hey," Blaise said, nudging Hermione and motioning for her to come with him. "Have to show you something." He paused to kiss the side of Tracey's neck, nipping at her ear, and then dragged Hermione away, placing her phone squarely in her palm. "You didn't tell me you spoke to him," he said in a low voice, as Hermione glanced down at the screen.

It was a series of text messages from Neville.

Delete my number

I'm serious, I can't do this

Don't call

Just tell Hermione I'm sorry

"Ignore the earlier bits," Blaise said, forcing a smile. "I just thought you ought to see the last part."

So it was him, then. Rather than chance Hermione revealing the truth about his father, Neville had chosen to expose Gilderoy Lockhart by way of the only person whose word the public would take without argument: Rita Skeeter.

"Oh, Blaise," Hermione said, glancing at the earlier messages. "Blaise, I'm so s-"

"Fifty points if you never mention this again," he interrupted, taking the phone back and slipping it into his pocket as Tracey approached them, coolly slipping her arm around Blaise's waist. "What are you dressed as, then?" he asked her, adopting his Blaise-est voice of spirited neutrality.

"Freudian slip," Tracey supplied sweetly. Blaise, to Hermione's great displeasure, rewarded Tracey with something that could only be called a kiss by its tamest definition, giving Hermione a warning look.

In response, she hastily excused herself, heading for Theo. She couldn't decide whether it was more urgent that she wash the image of Blaise and Tracey from her brain or if her time would be better spent cursing Neville's bloodline, but either way, talking to Theo usually helped.

"What's your code with Draco for when one of you needs rescuing?" she asked, sidling up to him as he was looking at his own screen. Daphne, it appeared, was elsewhere, trying to coax Pansy and Harry away from facetiming Jamie for the third time that evening. "I feel like it's some sort of hand signal, but—"

"Penelope Clearwater," Theo said without looking up, and Hermione blinked.

"What?"

"Penelope Clearwater," Theo clarified, "is who Lockhart is blaming. A little known ghostwriter who specializes in non-profit copy," he read aloud, and then glanced up, grimacing. "Well, you certainly dodged a bullet, Cali, as there's no mention of your real name," he remarked, rubbing his neck with a morose scoff of laughter. "Although," he began, and then sobered, trailing off into nothing.

"What?" Hermione said, nudging him.

Theo opened his mouth, considering it, and then shook his head, abruptly changing his mind.

"It's simple, really," he said. "We just wave over someone's head, you know, as if someone else is beckoning to us from afar, and then—"

"Theo," Hermione said firmly. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing, nothing, I just—"

"I'm in trouble," she guessed, suddenly feeling grim. "Aren't I?"

Per usual, Theo had the decency not to lie, though he seemed remorseful with the truth.

"Penelope's career is over," he pronounced without inflection, and Hermione took it like a chill, shivering unexpectedly. "I'm sorry, Cali," he told her, resting a hand on her shoulder, "but even if people could be made to believe it was all Lockhart's doing, there's no coming back from this. Penelope Clearwater would have to do an apology tour, interviews, adopt a public defense—"

"Which I can't do without revealing who Penelope really is," Hermione supplied miserably, and Theo nodded in confirmation, looking about as disappointed as she felt. They both understood without saying aloud what this meant: If Hermione wanted to be with Draco, then defending herself was not an option. Even if the work she'd done as Penelope hadn't been too controversial to start with (which Abraxas would probably rule that it was), it was certainly much worse now that she'd ended up with the blame for Lockhart's deception.

"Well," Hermione exhaled, deflating. "What do I do now?"

"Mm, will have to make sure Lockhart doesn't dig into Penelope's background too much. Unfortunately, it will probably require some help from Prince Lucifer to make sure this whole thing is dead and buried," Theo said grimly, "but I imagine, given his options—"

"No, Theo." Suddenly, Hermione's voice went ragged. "What do I do now?" she asked again, more painfully that time, hearing her own voice shake a little with defeat.

Theo must have heard it, too. He pulled her into a hug, resting his chin lightly on her head.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly, knowing better than to lie to her while she cried silently into his father's shirt.

There were positives, of course. On the one hand, the bribe was no longer a problem, which was no small relief. If Gilderoy had deposited the money the very afternoon he'd threatened Hermione instead of waiting until the next morning, Minerva would surely have lost all her remaining donors. Additionally, Abraxas' annual gala meant that Draco was coming home, both for that and for Jamie's baptism. If things were going to suck, they could at least suck less with him there.

The negatives remained, unfortunately, quite difficult to stomach. Hermione received a number of calls the following day from her clients, all expressing their sincere regret. "I hope you understand," Dr Pomfrey had fretted over the phone, "it's quite a precarious situation, and while I've so appreciated your work—"

"I understand," Hermione said dully, repeating herself several times over to Dr Sinistra and Dr Sprout, and then, finally, to Minerva, who had (thankfully) been her usual self and declined any excess sentimentality.

"I'm sure you'll think of something, Miss Granger," she said, brusque and businesslike as always. "We always do," she added, sparing Hermione half a reassuring grimace before directing her to answer Oliver's ringing phone.

"She's right, you know," Draco said later, setting down his book and glancing at her through his reading glasses. Thankfully, Prince Lucifer wasn't around to direct Hermione away on the pretense of preserving her virginity or something, as the last thing she wanted was to spend the night alone. "It's a setback, certainly, but you'll sort something out."

"It's not just the setback," Hermione sighed, leaning against his shoulder. "He's just… he's destroying everything I built, piece by piece." She burrowed a little deeper in the blankets. "I barely even got to be Penelope before Gilderoy Lockhart ruined her."

'I WAS DUPED!' CLAIMS GILDEROY LOCKHART, FRAUD, was Rita Skeeter's latest gleeful take on the subject. True, Lockhart certainly hadn't escaped his own public shaming; his career as a reputable author was over, but that hardly made Hermione feel better. He was obviously intent on bringing Penelope Clearwater down with him.

Draco hesitated, at a loss for how to comfort her. "Believe me, I know what it's like feeling helpless," he told her gently, "but the bad press does pass, eventually." He tucked an arm around her, pulling her closer, and continued, "I know you want to defend your work, but sometimes trying to fix things can accomplish more harm than good."

"But what's going to happen to my clients? To the causes I tried to help?" She knew she sounded childish and gloomy, but it was no use. "If he keeps going like this, blaming me left and right, he'll undo every tiny speck of good Penelope ever did!"

"You'll find some other way to help them," Draco suggested, though she could see he looked conflicted; knowing, perhaps, that per usual, there was very little she could conceivably do. "You'll just have to find a way to do it as Hermione Granger this time," he assured her, "who, I might remind you, is no insignificant force of—"

He broke off as the door burst open, jolting upright as Hermione burrowed lower in the blankets. True, they'd hardly been doing anything untoward, but Draco was shirtless and Hermione was braless, which was certainly enough to cause Prince Lucifer a bout of heartburn from afar.

Strangely, though, it was Narcissa who had burst through Draco's bedroom door, her blonde hair loose and wild as she stormed into her son's room.

"Mother," Draco said, jumping to his feet in alarm. "I thought you were arriving in the morning?"

"We have to go," Narcissa replied, looking at him without looking. Her blue eyes were darting wildly to the door, the windows, and then to Draco's suitcase, which she snatched with both hands and dropped on the bed beside a dumbstruck Hermione. "We're leaving, Draco, this evening. We can be out of the country within hours," she ranted, "and if we're gone before your father returns—"

"Mother," Draco repeated, half-tripping over the post of his bed to reach her. "You'll have to slow down, I can hardly understand you—"

"The one time," Narcissa said, looking up with frustration. "The one time I thought, I've done it, I've done the unforgivable, surely he'll let me go—but no," she half-screamed, slamming her hands down so forcefully Hermione leapt back, unsure what to do as Narcissa's volume increased. "He HATES her," she was shouting to neither Draco nor Hermione. "He hates her more than anyone, more than anything, and still—"

"Who are you talking about?" Draco asked, trying to coax Narcissa into something closer to tranquility. He reached out, tentatively touching his mother's shoulder. "Mother, please, if this is about Father—"

"You saw what she wrote about me, didn't you?" Narcissa demanded of her son. "You read it, what she called me? Everything she said about our family? She thought she could get away with it—she really thought I would forget, and now—"

Draco dropped his voice, still attempting to soothing her. "And now what?"

Abruptly, Narcissa seemed to recall Hermione's presence in the room, turning to look coldly at her. Her eyes, Hermione noticed, were bloodshot, the shadows beneath them darkened with either pain or fury.

"She owed me," Narcissa told Hermione flatly. "She owed me for what she did. I had every right."

It continued to be incomprehensible nonsense, but Hermione nodded anyway, hoping it might eventually become something Draco could make sense of. She wished, not for the first time, that she had Pansy's ability to translate Narcissa instead. "Yes," Hermione said uncertainly, glancing at Draco, who spared her an expression of apology. "Yes, of course you did, Narcissa—"

"She fucked my husband," Narcissa said wildly, "and then she told the whole world about it. She tried to destroy me—and for what?"

"I," Hermione began, and hesitated. "I don't kn-"

"I thought he hated her more than I did," Narcissa spat. "I thought surely he was the only one who hated her more, but do you know what he said? 'You're doing so well, Narcissa,' he said. Can you believe it? I align myself with the person I hate most and he congratulates me! He praises me! For years I do nothing wrong," she gasped, holding a hand to her mouth. "For years, I beg for him to let me out and nothing—and now—"

She turned, sobbing, to throw herself into Draco's arms, half-collapsing into them.

Hermione, entirely at a loss, mouthed, Lucius?

Draco, mouthing over his mother's shoulder, shook his head solemnly. Grandfather.

"We have to go," Narcissa said, suddenly dragging herself away from Draco. "It's time, Draco. If he won't let us leave then we have no choice, we'll have to run."

"Mother," Draco said, exchanging a look of concern with Hermione. "I… I don't think that's the best idea—"

"We'll never be free, you know," Narcissa said, swiping maniacally at dry eyes. "Your father is going to destroy me, your grandfather keeps me in a bloody cage. You and I, sweetheart," she said, reaching up to take Draco's face in her hands and abruptly switching tactics. "You and I, we're going to get away from this, alright, darling? You don't have to do this, we can go somewhere quiet, somewhere else. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she begged, looking strangely adolescent in her palpable desperation. "We could go somewhere else—just you and me, like when you were a boy? Have an Odyssey of our own?"

In the pause that followed, Hermione could see Draco's mind turning with calculation. She was certain he didn't want to refuse Narcissa or hurt her, but he also clearly didn't want to lie. It occurred to Hermione that Draco had once been a boy whose mother was ill, and perhaps his gift for diplomacy hadn't come from any formal royal training. She was saddened to think it must have come from somewhere else, watching him ease Narcissa into a chair and kneel gently at her feet.

"You know I won't abandon you, Mother," he said quietly, "don't you?"

Narcissa seemed to know what was coming. She sniffled softly, her tears less panicked and more defeated this time as she bent her head, nodding in silence.

Hermione, who could see this wasn't a moment meant for her to bear witness, slid out from under the duvet, tiptoeing to the door.

"Why don't you stay home tomorrow evening," Draco was continuing to murmur to Narcissa. "Doesn't that sound nice? You don't have to go if you don't want to, it'll just be a boring party full of stuffy old suits. You won't miss much, and then I'll tell you all about it after. We can say whatever we like when no one's around, can't we?"

Hermione glanced over her shoulder, quietly turning the knob.

"He's going to kill me," Narcissa insisted staunchly.

"No, Mother, he loves you." It sounded like something Draco had said, or been asked to say, many times before.

"No." She shook her head vigorously. "No, I can feel it, Draco—"

"Father loves you, I know he does, and I do—"

Hermione shut the door behind her, leaning her head back against the wood and contemplating something she couldn't identify, or possibly suffering a blow of everything all at once.

Was it really the loss of Penelope that was upsetting her? On the one hand, yes of course, but on the other, she was starting to suspect the root of her disappointment was something else. Being Penelope Clearwater had been safe, distant, detached. Even now, her consequences were hardly personal. Perhaps the truly difficult thing was knowing that consenting to be only Hermione Granger, the woman who would someday marry a king, meant opening herself up to what she had observed from experience wasn't necessarily a fairytale ending.

What would she do now?

Who would she be now?

She slid to the floor, waiting in silence, as gradually, the sound of Narcissa's tears from the other side of the door began to fade.

Hermione's gown for the following evening's gala was off-the-rack, made by a British designer, nothing too expensive. Daphne had warned Hermione that after the past few months of establishing herself, she had to be careful not to appear out of touch. She was, after all, still a commoner. "I'll alter it a bit," Daphne said, adjusting the bodice of what was a fairly ordinary dress: sweetheart neckline, black, with a delicately ruffled hem. "But better it be something other people can afford, hm? So you don't look too snotty."

That, Hermione thought morosely, and it wouldn't be long before she went back to being unable to afford fashionable things at all. She'd been permitted to keep the sum she'd initially received for writing Gilderoy's memoir, but given that the publishers were unwilling to release it—parts of which had somehow been distributed and were already circulating the internet, to disastrous results—she wouldn't be receiving any royalties.

She felt oddly invisible, despite knowing there would be eyes on her. Already, she could feel the inevitable outcomes; the articles she would see tomorrow about how Draco spoken to this woman or that woman but not to her, and wasn't she tired of waiting? What had Hermione Granger been doing for the past year outside of dressing marginally better and attending the odd event, appearing once or twice at Prince Draco's side? Come morning, Rita Skeeter would (again) make her out to be an ordinary girl who'd climbed too high.

Pansy, by contrast, was stepping out for her first major event following Jamie's birth, entirely refreshed and in her element. She wore a bright, cobalt blue gown that featured her already toned post-pregnancy shoulders, cinching in flatteringly at the waist. She wore her long hair in a sleek chignon, like usual, with a set of diamond earrings that had once belonged to Harry's mother.

In short, she glowed. Duchess Pansy was featured prominently among her new family, dazzling her onlookers as Hermione, the secret girlfriend who sometimes-but-not-always dressed well, tried very hard not to wish too fervently to be elsewhere.

"It's not too late, you know," came a voice behind Hermione as she lingered near the outside of the crowd, once again pondering whether it was possible to curse Neville Longbottom from afar.

"My offer, I mean," Rita Skeeter explained sweetly as Hermione spun, instantly forced to hide a scowl at the sight of her. "I could make life easier for you if you let me, dear. Surely you must have something to say about the Black sisters, hm?"

Unbelievable. The woman was relentless. Hadn't she destroyed enough lives?

"No comment," Hermione said tightly, turning to leave, but Rita caught her arm, still with that simpering smile on her face.

"You know, it's the strangest thing—it was announced that Princess Narcissa would be here tonight, and yet, funnily enough, she isn't," Rita tittered brightly. "I don't suppose that has anything to do with Bellatrix's presence, does it? I'd hate to hear the sisters are feuding again," she sighed, whimsical in her pretense, "though, I do have an obligation to inform my audience when bad blood resurfaces. It's a matter of public interest, really."

"Well, you would know," Hermione said through her teeth, and Rita smiled thinly.

"Someone like you, you must know quite a bit," Rita noted, observing Hermione with interest. "Duchess Pansy's engagement scandal, the rushed marriage… I'd say the paternity of Willow James, too, only it's quite lucky for them, isn't it? Those green eyes," she remarked, chuckling. "Must have been a collective sigh of relief in the Palace that day, hm?"

"Leave Jamie alone," Hermione snapped. "She's a child."

"Mm, well, there are of course so many other things we could discuss," Rita said, unfazed. "Truly, it's such a pity Longbottom wasn't more forthcoming, as my journalistic senses tell me there's more to gain beyond this silly Lockhart nonsense—"

"Narcissa is simply under the weather," Hermione said, "and Harry and Pansy couldn't be happier. Jamie is the perfect baby and we're all so proud of her. Now, if that's all—"

"Excuse me," came the very last voice Hermione expected to hear, finding a startling hand at her elbow. "May I? Sorry to interrupt," said Prince Draco, who nodded in genteel apology to Rita. "Are you well, Ms Skeeter?"

Rita dropped into a stunned and slavish curtsy. "Your Highness, a pleasure as always—"

"As always," Draco agreed without a trace of irony, beckoning Hermione away.

She followed, still a little numb from surprise, and he leaned over to speak in her ear as they walked. "Wanted to tell you I took care of Lockhart," he told her in an undertone, steering her with one hand floating over her lower back. "I know you generally prefer to take care of things yourself, but I'm afraid I took the liberty of making one thing in your life a little easier." He slid her a sidelong glance. "Not too cross with me, I hope?"

She opened her mouth, considering argument, and then closed it, reconsidering.

"You're talking to me in public," she remarked instead. "And in front of Rita Skeeter, no less."

"Mm, true." Draco took a sip from his glass of wine, half-smiling at her. "Pity. She'll probably think we're in love or something."

"Or something," Hermione said, suddenly feeling shy. She had rarely been photographed at these events, given her usual distance from anyone of importance, but she could see heads turning now, cameras flashing. She tried to stand straighter, imagining Pansy's inevitable reprimand of her posture, and tightened her hand around her glass, pleased she'd so far remembered not to bite her nails. "How's your night?"

Apparently she would be making awkward small talk with her boyfriend of give-or-take five years. He stifled a laugh, shaking his head. "I take it you're not upset, then?"

"About Lockhart?" She shook her head. "To tell you the truth, I'm relieved. Though, given what I know of Prince Lucifer's avoidance of addressing anything," she sighed, "I didn't really think there was anything you could do about."

"Nothing smart, maybe," he said. "But I have my moments."

In response, she felt a smile creep over her lips. "Are you saying you did something stupid for me, Your Highness?"

"Oh, every day," he assured her. "I'm more stupid by the hour for you. But the point is, you won't have to worry about him slandering Penelope anymore." He considered something for a moment, hesitating, before he shrugged, adding, "Maybe it will pass, and then you can return to work."

She had the vague sensation he deserved a reward of some kind.

"Or," Hermione said, leaning into her suspicion, "maybe my boyfriend will propose for real this time, and I'll start working for his grandfather the mob boss."

"You think?" he asked, feigning impassivity.

"Well, it wouldn't be the worst outcome," she said. "He once promised me it was a position of some influence."

"Did he? Sounds like a wonderfully supportive partner."

"That, or a compulsive liar."

"A handsome one, I hope?"

"He has his moments."

"Tell me he's good in bed, at least."

"Sure, he tells me so all the time."

He smiled down at her.

She smiled up at him.

"Pretty dress," Draco said, glancing fleetingly at her sweetheart neckline. "Will I see it again later?"

"You can borrow it at your leisure," Hermione assured him.

Elsewhere, a camera flashed; an implied promise she would see this moment again later, published within minutes and reposted across social media along with the speculation that all was reasonably well. True, it might still have the same caption it would have boasted before: she's nobody, she's done nothing, she's just a girl somehow dating a prince. Even if Draco had succeeded in silencing Gilderoy Lockhart, it was clear Penelope Clearwater was dead, along with everything she'd managed to accomplish. From now on, it would have to be Hermione Granger or nothing.

But at the moment, she didn't feel like such a terrible to be.

One thing I might have done differently? Okay, a lot of things, but one in particular: I might have been nicer to Rita Skeeter. I mean…. would it really have killed me to tell her Draco had an enormous tattoo somewhere unmentionable? That Pansy and Harry had a sex dungeon? That baby Jamie was actually some sort of faerie changeling Prince Lucifer brought back from the Underworld?

Okay, fine, so maybe it wouldn't have been that simple.

Then again, maybe if I'd bothered to try, I wouldn't be in the predicament I am now.

a/n: Okay, so next week, fingers crossed for returning to the usual day. That's my goal, but times are weird, so if I'm late again please forgive. Still here? I know the word count is criminally unwieldy, but we're making our way to the end. Thank you for reading!

36. Knots

Chapter 36: Knots

19 May, 2018
Diagon Alley

Looking to the Future

While it was expected that Prince Draco, a close childhood friend of both the Duke and Duchess of Grimmauld, would be among the chosen godfathers for Willow James, there was quite a stir when it was announced that Hermione Granger had also been selected by the couple as godmother. Baby Willow's christening was quite a star-studded affair, including a number of high profile members of related noble families. Indeed, even Princess Narcissa made a rare appearance; surely none could forget that notably, Hermione wore the now-infamous emerald earrings that had once been the world's first clue of her romance with Draco.

Given her appointment as godparent, it had become quite obvious that Hermione had successfully positioned herself to hold the role of Prince Draco's consort, and indeed, the amendment to the Marriage Law was passed shortly thereafter, making Hermione eligible for consideration. Many anticipated a proposal to take place immediately following the new Succession Act and were quite surprised when it did not, prompting much speculation about whether Prince Draco's intentions were truly as devoted as they appeared.

I suppose it comes as no surprise that I was not invited to the christening of Harry and Pansy's daughter, just as I am not (not conventionally, anyway) invited to the wedding of Draco and Hermione. Really, I imagine the greater surprise would be that I ever wanted to attend the baptism—though I did, sort of. Not as it was, of course, but as it might have been.

I am highly conscious of my footing in the multiverse. Truth be told, for a single, brief minute, I believed I was to possess that life, at least in pieces. Not with its grandeur, obviously, seeing as I am not a prince or a duke or even a friend to one any longer, but at one point I really thought I would soon have a family of my own; a child and a wife, and possibly even happiness. It's not lost on me that I wouldn't have been deserving of that particular outcome (that, along with the obvious fact that its mere existence was due to my own error to begin with), but I sometimes imagine there is a world somewhere where this little girl, Jamie, is my daughter.

True, she looks nothing like me and is not mine in any biological way, but I know I would have loved her, cared for her, as if she were. In some other world, one where Pansy still needs me and I continue to pretend her threats are a burden instead of a relief, I have a little girl who loves me. It's hard not to cling to that, in some way. In many ways, actually, because I have not been happy since I thought Jamie would be mine.

And it certainly doesn't help that, in whatever universe that is, Blaise Zabini is still in my life.

22 November, 2015
Longbottom House

Neville had tea with his grandmother every Sunday afternoon, a tradition as religious as their weekly morning service. He had only been fool enough to miss it once, on an occasion he would come to soundly resent, as it had been among the chief errors of his life. Now, the idea he might decline to attend was so unimaginable as to be damaging to his psyche. Athletes had superstitions, game-winning socks and day-of routines, and now, so did Neville. It would be tea with Augusta Longbottom every Sunday afternoon for the rest of his life, or else surely something life-altering and unstomachable would be bound to happen.

Not that they had much to talk about these days that didn't manage to turn Neville's stomach regardless.

"That little succubus is utterly shameless," Augusta said, pursing her lips at the news of Willow James' christening. Presumably she meant Pansy, not the infant the world was delighted to hear was fondly called Jamie; though, there was really no telling where Augusta directed her enmity, and Neville lacked the energy to ask. "It's as if she no longer remembers she was engaged to you," Augusta scoffed (so, Pansy, then), "much to my own dismay, less than one year ago."

Augusta liked to pretend, in retrospect, that she had always disapproved of Pansy. True, in fairness to her, she had never liked Pansy, finding some opposition to her inauthenticity (an understandable 'flaw,' Neville had always thought, seeing as Pansy's authentic self wasn't fit for elderly nobility), but her dismay over the marriage was another lie altogether. Augusta preferred to imagine she had not pressured Neville into the engagement with little, delicate drops of, "Who knows how much longer I have to live, Neville dear?" and "Would you deny an old woman the joy of seeing her grandson properly married?" before eventually taking drastic measures, resolving to levy something of an inescapable ultimatum.

In other words, it was a whimsical thought, but a false one.

"The dress is lovely, though," Augusta grumbled, eyeing Pansy's tasteful ensemble of a champagne Daphne Nott coatdress with contrasting pumps. Beside her, Harry looked unusually refined, possibly even Draco-esque. Neville forced himself not to imagine the conversation they might have had about it, which he felt comfortably certain he could call to mind. Henry, put that hat away, this is our daughter's christening not showtime at the Apollo, which would be followed by a fond but irreverent, Yes, Your Majesty, and a wink that suggested Pansy's advice would be duly ignored until she physically had bullied him into it, which she would. Affectionately, as the two of them had always been.

It tightened in Neville's throat a bit to think maybe Pansy had always quietly loved Harry, or that Harry had always loved her in some dormant, sleeping way that had only awoken once Neville was out of the picture. Would Pansy and Harry have been together sooner if not for him? Would they have never been together at all? It was increasingly painful that no matter the answer, he was no longer involved in their lives in any way.

His own fault, he reminded himself. His fault.

"She'll get what's coming to her," Augusta said irritably, glancing at Neville with a sense of … not pride, exactly, but ownership. Possession, Neville thought uncomfortably. "Nobody makes a cuckold of my grandson and gets away with it."

Another old stirring of guilt nudged at his chest. "I told you, Gran," he said, clearing his throat. "There's no reason to resent Pansy for anything. We both made mistakes."

"Oh?" Augusta scoffed. "Well, you certainly did, trusting her as you did. I warned you, didn't I? Girls like her are selfish, Neville, dear, and accustomed to taking without return. Your mother was no different."

She took a sip of her tea as Neville observed his cup, opting not to think about Alice Longbottom or where she might have been now as a result of whatever Augusta's measures might have been when his father was sent to St Mungo's. For a long time he had wondered to himself about his mother, blaming her for leaving him behind even if his grandmother had been the one to pressure her out the door. Now, though, he felt he understood her. Perhaps Augusta was right that Alice was very like Pansy, which meant she would know better than to suffer beneath another woman's thumb.

Besides, at least Alice had never gone to Rita Skeeter. She had never once revealed a family secret. If Augusta had forced Alice to leave, well, at least she hadn't brought anyone else down with her. So, was Alice Longbottom really so bad? Once, Neville had been certain she was. Now, he wasn't so sure. Even if he never saw her again, he respected her for her silence, at very least. She was diligent enough in her disappearance to limit the scope of his pain.

"Anyway," Augusta said, cheerily turning back to Neville, "you're far better off now, dear. How are things with Susan?"

Neville's tea was cold when he sipped it, which was a bit of a relief. More than once the afternoon had felt impossibly long by the time a handful of minutes had passed. This time, he felt confident it would be over soon.

"They're going well," he said.

Susan was deeply unlike Pansy, as were her friends: Ginny, and, on occasion, Astoria. They were clever girls, interesting and certainly lively, but somehow, they were deeply… normal.

Had that somehow become a depressing factor to him? Strange. Neville supposed he had once felt it ridiculous the amount of damage Pansy's friends carried around with them, all a bit selfish and prone to error as they were, but the moment they were gone he desperately missed being among them. It was comforting, existing adjacent to whatever strange thing they were, even if he had never really been part of it. Their connection to each other was unbreakable, irreplaceable; for Susan, her friendships would almost certainly come and go, while for Neville, his relationships would surely never compare.

On the topic of Lady Susan Bones, Augusta's eyes were bright; suspiciously so. "Well," she said with undertones of eagerness, "when the time comes—"

"It's not like that," Neville said, and Augusta's brow furrowed at the interruption. "Sorry, Gran," he hurried to say, "I just meant I'd like to take it slow with Susan." She gave a slow, tentative nod that suggested he explain himself further or risk a lecture, if not an outright indication of displeasure. "I don't need another disaster engagement on my hands," he reminded her. "And personally, I'd prefer if this Lockhart nonsense died down."

Predictably, Augusta's features darkened at the mention of Lockhart's name. "That old buffoon." She took another sip of her tea, shaking her head. "It was a good thing you did, telling me about him. I'd hate to see another book of his becoming an unwarranted bestseller."

Neville winced; speaking of guilt. "You do realize he's blaming his ghostwriter for falsifying his material," he pointed out to Augusta. It was an easy excuse that only a weasel like Lockhart would use, claiming a professional writer had lied for her own benefit and then insisting he couldn't specify how because they'd signed a non-disclosure agreement about the specifics of the content. "The way we went about it, Gran, he might get away with what he's done."

"Certainly not," Augusta scoffed. "He can blame whoever he likes, but public opinion is hardly a court of law. Who better to destroy, some nameless girl nobody can even manage to find, or the overstuffed author who's made a living on bribery and extortion?" At Neville's silence, Augusta remarked, "Besides, Rita says countless have come forward to air their grievances with him since the article was released." She pursed her lips, an expression uncomfortably similar to what Pansy would have done if someone were wearing too many shades of neutrals. "The important thing," Augusta concluded, "is that neither Gilderoy Lockhart's memoir nor his lies about my son will ever see the light of day."

Let it never be said Augusta Longbottom was losing her touch, or her taste for blood.

Still—"We could have done something quietly," Neville said, probably unwisely. He dropped his voice, murmuring, "We could have alerted his publisher, you know, and asked to remain anonymous. We didn't have to destroy his career, or anyone else's."

"Neville, do not mumble," Augusta said. "It's impolite."

She sipped her tea, glancing down at her Ballon Blanc.

"Well, I suppose I should be off," she said, adjusting the band of her watch and rising to her feet. "I have an engagement with the National Portrait Gallery this evening. Will you be seeing Susan?"

Did it matter what was true? He doubted it. "Most likely."

"Wonderful," Augusta said warmly, bending to sniff his cheek in something that was not strictly a kiss, but intended to express the same degree of affection. "See you soon, darling," she said, and hurried off briskly, still surprisingly agile for someone of her age.

When she was gone, Neville set his cold tea on the antique saucer and dug out his phone, hitting play on an old voicemail.

"We need to talk about what happened. No, we shouldn't talk, and do you know why? I do not require any conversation, and certainly not from you. Thank you for your consideration and might I say, goodbye forever."

Neville lowered the phone, feeling the usual numbness that settled into his lungs on the occasions, like this one, when he decided to destroy himself with melancholy. Then he raised it to his ear again, hitting play on another.

"That's never happening again, just so you know. I want to be very clear about this. Am I understood? Never again. As far as I'm concerned, last night never happened."

Another.

"You're a menace, you know that? It's no wonder I won't permit you any points, you'd only misuse them. I can't see you tonight because, as I'm sure I have mentioned, this is a terrible idea and I hate it. Listen closely: We. Are. Done."

"Jesus fuck, I can't get the taste of you out of my mouth. Anise and black coffee, it's all so terribly shitty and so quintessentially you. How are you not thoroughly revolting? You should repulse me; you're a cretin, and I loathe you. Do not call me, I have no interest in your remarks."

Neville shut his eyes, leaning his head back against the chair.

"Stay the night. No, don't. No, surprise me. No, I despise surprises, I loathe you. Erase this immediately or I shall have to deduct points. No, retracted, I will deduct nothing, none of this matters to me. Carry on as you were. Delete this."

"My sheets smell like you and I can't sleep. I know I'm going to have to do laundry in the morning but I suspect it will be easier to simply buy another bed, with all new bedding. A new duvet that doesn't have you all over it. Don't come here again, do you understand me? Purchases of this magnitude are unsustainable. It's time you manage some financial sense and stay out of places you don't belong." A pause. "I hate you." Another pause, longer. "I miss you."

They would only become worse from there.

"You could choose me, you know. I understand it's a choice I don't offer you often, but you're not here right now, so let's pretend I mean it. Temporarily, it's on the table. You could choose me. I'm just saying, scientifically the option exists. She would hate us for a while, I know, but you don't know her like I do. If we tell her, she might forgive us, and then we won't have to sleep alone anymore. Yes, your grandmother would disown you, but I have money. I have plenty of money. And Draco, Harry, Theo, they'd eventually forgive me. I can see it's you who has more to lose, but you're the one stupidly insisting you love me. I don't believe it's real or that you mean it but still, you say it is, and sometimes I want to trust you. Ridiculous, isn't it? How you've turned me into a liar—no, fine, I was always a liar, but now my lies are far, far worse—and still, I want to trust you. I fantasize about a world where I am honest, at least with you. That's it, that's my entire fantasy: just me living a life that's true, and in it, you could choose me. We could tell the truth. If you call in the next five seconds I'll take it as a sign—how about that? 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… Well. That was fun while it lasted."

"I've been thinking about your father. About fathers in general, and how we either fall into the patterns of imperfect men or we are never permitted to learn the ways in which they are imperfect. I was thinking about the story you told me last night and do you know, I feel terribly sorry for you? Living up to a hero must be impossibly painful. It must hurt you, though it isn't why I called. I called because when I think of you in pain, I feel something I am sorry to say is equally painful. It occurs to me that perhaps I feel something for you, but all it does is hurt me. I think we should end this. I think it highly likely we are causing irreparable harm."

And yet.

"Stop calling me. Don't you understand? She won't speak to me. None of them will, all because of you, and because I'm… because of this. What possible reason would there be for us to see each other anymore? You have to stay away, you owe her that. I owe her that, even if you don't—so what will keep you out? I don't miss you. Is that what you want to hear? That I never loved you? Fine, I never loved you and I never will. There, do you feel better now?" A pause, and a sharp exhalation. "You still have her and you have the audacity to cry to me? Don't you dare call me again, you cocksucking bastard. Find someone else you can beg."

"I know I said I would never call again. I said a lot of things, so you must find it difficult to know what to believe. I thought I would call and tell you the truth, but it turns out I have no more truths to tell. I already told them to you. Clearly not well enough, but you wouldn't have spent the last year in my bed if you hadn't understood something I never managed to say, and now I would say it, but we both know it would make no difference." Pause for muted, maniacal laughter. "I have nightmares where I kiss your face. I hope you taste me when you sleep. Goodbye."

Neville swallowed, the knot tightening in his throat.

"Hi, I know it's been a while. I need you to call me, it's about your father. I wouldn't have rung you if it weren't important, believe me. Ignore your better instincts and do what I ask, for once in your life. Call me back."

"It was good to hear your voice. You didn't ask, but missing you comes in waves." A pause. "I will solve this for you, somehow. I know what that story means to you. Call it a favor, if you want, but I suspect it's more of a symptom. Something self-destructive, as usual. Something I owe to myself."

"It occurs to me I shouldn't have said those things—I don't think you're a coward. No, actually, you are a coward, most certainly, but so am I. We are both cowards capable of doing brave things but you, I think, have it in you to be more. I never think of myself as good… and you know how I love to think of myself. But you, I think, possess genuine goodness. I think your cowardice is a matter of not wanting to cause pain, even though you always do. Is it yourself you're hurting now? I hope not. I hope not."

Neville glanced down at the newspaper, listing the godparents of Willow James Potter. His Royal Highness, Prince Draco of Wales, to no surprise. Hermione Granger, to everyone but Neville's surprise. Ronald Weasley, probably because the Earl and Countess of Arundel, Theo and Daphne, would inevitably be godparents to Draco's children. Fleur Delacour, a public favorite. Then a distant cousin of Pansy's that Neville had never heard of, but might have in another life.

Finally, there it was: Blaise Zabini. Close friend to both parents. School chum, the article said.

Neville slid his finger over the final name, bracing himself for what came next on the phone.

"This is my last message," Blaise's voice said, sounding hollow. It was dated a week ago. "I know you said not to call, so I won't, not anymore, but you really fucked Hermione and I thought you should hear it from me that I want nothing further to do with you. Congratulations," he said in his sly drawl, "You've managed to hurt every person in my life who matters, and I despise that I have so easily let you do it. I'm done with you, forever, starting now. Goodbye."

Then, with no voicemails left, silence.

Neville lowered the phone, eyeing the tea he should really have had someone clean up by now, only he wasn't particularly apt to speak. He rose to his feet, opting to clear the platter himself, when his phone suddenly rang in his hand.

"Hello?" he asked, half-expecting to hear Blaise on the other end.

"Oh good, I've caught you," said Susan's politely dulcet voice. "Do you think there's a chance I could lure you out for a late supper? If you've no other plans, of course."

It had been some time since Neville had last had plans. "Anything special?"

"No, no, just a little gathering. You remember Ginny's brother Charles? He's bringing his girlfriend, and I believe Michael said he would try to make it, too. Interested?"

Equally yes and no. Neville weighed his inclinations.

"Sure," he said amiably. "If you want me to come, I'll come."

"Great," Susan said, sounding pleased. "I'll send you the details as soon as I confirm."

Pansy never sent details. She took ownership of them. Blaise, on the other hand, mostly came and went as he pleased. Neville often wondered if he hadn't actually needed to have them both, one for stability and the other for balance. His second-to-last time with Blaise, angry make-up sex Neville had never intended to be the goodbye it almost was, had been a Sunday morning that turned to a near-comatose afternoon, causing him to accidentally skip tea with his grandmother. That, in turn, had prompted her to discover the bespoke shirt hanging in his wardrobe when she had looked for him at home.

All of Blaise Zabini's clothing was custom, of course; marked with his unmistakable monogram. "Propose to the Parkinson girl," Augusta had said without expression, her eyes fixed on the embroidered label, "now."

What Gran wanted, Gran usually got, one way or another. Forever and ever, amen, but it wouldn't have happened if Pansy had been there. Pansy was always very good at details, and she had never once let Neville oversleep.

"Great," he said eventually to Susan, forcing a smile, as he so often did. "Then I will see you tonight."

Charles—the only one of Ron's brothers Neville had somehow managed not to meet—was, as it turned out, not much like the other Weasleys. Entirely unlike his youngest brother in particular, Charlie Weasley was a boisterous, stocky redhead with a thick beard who wore his burnt auburn hair pulled into a loop at the apex of his half-buzzed skull. His girlfriend Nymphadora, whom Susan and Ginny called Tonks and Charlie called Dora ("Do-ooooo-ra," as he typically pronounced it, sweet-talking into her neck while she shoved him playfully away), wore her hair in a pixie cut with shocking pink tips. She also dressed a bit like Gwen Stefani.

Neither one was exactly the picture of nobility, not that those things mattered much to Neville. Mostly, it just meant that this outing, like many of Neville's outings, was not something Augusta would want to hear about.

"Have another drink," Tonks advised him, in something of a militaristic suggestion. "You look morose," she added, and Neville frowned. It was a noisy restaurant, and uncomfortably crowded.

"What?" he asked, leaning towards her.

"You look morose," Tonks repeated, winking at him and shoving the glass in his hand. "Drink until my boyfriend's hot," she instructed, and Neville blinked, unable to prevent a reflexive glance at Charlie in response. He had an arm slung around Ginny's chair, animatedly talking to his sister and Susan about something. Planes? Something like that. "You know, you're not bad yourself," Tonks remarked, as Neville raised the beer to his lips, taking a long sip to ease his palpable discomfort. "You're with Susie over there?"

"Susan," Neville said, glancing at her. She was the type to go quiet and wide-eyed when exciting things were happening, which they currently were. An attractive, heavily-muscled man was sitting next to her and talking about his work as a pilot, so yeah, she was rapt. It was kind of adorable, in a way.

"She's cute," Tonks said. Neville's attention, meanwhile, cut to the empty chair on his left, which had been reserved for Michael. "Bet she's a riot in the sack," Tonks added approvingly under her breath, toasting Susan from afar. "The quiet ones always are."

Neville choked on his beer, and Tonks slid him a grin.

"We're taking shots," she informed him, flagging down a waitress with all the subtle confidence Neville wished he possessed in public, but certainly never would. Blaise wasn't subtle, but he was the good kind of loud. The kind everyone wanted to be closer to. A flame, really, more than a flash. "You need a shot," Tonks repeated, and though Neville might have preferred to go home and abuse what remained of his sanity with old voicemails, he acquiesced.

"So," he said, attempting conversation, "how do you know Charlie?"

"Gave him my first blow job in the back of our English seminar," Tonks replied, catching Charlie's adoring look and returning it with a wink. "I'd had sex before, obviously," she continued, apparently blissfully unconcerned with Neville's reticence, "but—" She leaned closer, remarking, "Oral sex was never something I had any interest in doing until I saw what Charlie Weasley was packing."

Please, Neville implored his brain.

Please do not think about Charlie Weasley's cock.

"You know, I don't often say this about pricks, but it's really very pretty," Tonks said with a laugh. Either she was already drunk, which was certainly the direction the night was heading, or she simply delighted in scandalizing him. "You know how some cocks just… glow?"

Yes. He knew precisely what she meant, not that he felt able to admit it. Worse, he couldn't tell from this distance, but he wouldn't have been surprised if Charlie Weasley's cock was made of solid gold.

"Sounds like a religious experience," he commented, hoping to ease the tension with a bit of lighthearted humor just as the shots arrived in front of them.

"It was," Tonks agreed, clearly relishing the memory as she slid three over to Neville. "Here, take these," she told him. "You'll feel better."

He wanted to say no. Sort of. Then again, he wanted to feel as little as possible, and besides, he kind of liked the way Tonks was touching his arm. Sure, it wouldn't go anywhere between them, certainly not with Susan and Charlie sitting right there, but it was better than staring at Michael's empty chair. Or lying in his empty bed. Or listening to his voicemails again, alone.

Neville downed one shot as Tonks cheered, taking another. She placed the glass between her lips, balancing it, and tossed her head back. Neville, amused, applauded her agility, and she smiled broadly.

"So," she beckoned, setting the glass against the table with a smack. "Tell me about Susie's cunt."

"Jesus," Neville said with a shake of his head, "she's right there." Not that she was listening. Or that she could hear him. Trendy restaurants were too loud, which made him miss eating takeaway on the floor of Blaise's too-big apartment.

"Ah," Tonks sighed, lamenting something he couldn't begin to comprehend. "That bad, huh?"

"Actually, I wouldn't know," Neville said without thinking, which was a horrifying admission he wished he could take back the moment Tonks' eyes widened. "We're taking it slow," he told her. "We've only been seeing each other a few months."

"Good god, glaciers are melting faster," Tonks observed, shuddering. "The bees are dying, haven't you heard?" she added nonsensically, sliding another shot across the table to him. Her lips were glossy and moist with gin, and for the briefest, most inconsequential moment, he wanted to lick them matte again.

But, since that was a mostly unhelpful impulse, he took the second shot, and then the third one.

"There he is," Tonks said approvingly, as if she had once known Neville from his wilder days (which did not exist) and was now revisiting him for the evening. "That's a good boy," she added, and reached up, smoothing his hair back from his forehead in a slow, languid motion.

At exactly the same moment, Charlie glanced over. His smile quirked beneath his beard, and then he turned back to Susan and Ginny, continuing whatever oration he'd been in the middle of while Tonks continued toying with Neville's hair.

It felt nice. Soothing.

"So," she said. "Why the long face?"

He nearly closed his eyes, tranquil.

"Genetics," he said, and then, on second thought, "Though, it's not long. It's quite round."

Tonks unexpectedly burst into laughter, drawing the attention of the other three. "You're funny," she told Neville, and as she said it she sparkled, a bit. She sparkled in nearly the same way Blaise sparkled, undaunted by what people thought of her. He liked that about her; liked her, Neville thought. True, she wasn't as attractive as Charlie, but Charlie had a golden dick. People with golden dicks didn't want Neville. Michael's chair was still empty and Blaise's voice was in his voicemail; I'm done with you, forever, starting now.

Christ, remember Pansy?

The alcohol in Neville's system took a steep turn for the melancholy, washing over him in a disconcerting wave. He jolted upright, yanking himself from the tiny coma of Tonks' touch.

"Would you excuse me?" he said to Tonks, rising to his feet. "Just a moment."

"Sure," Tonks said, waving him off, and he made his way to the bathroom, stumbling a little as someone pushed out a chair that nearly smacked into his torso.

He slid into the small bathroom and tripped his way to the sink, bending over it. The trendy lighting glinted from the track bulbs onto his hair, prompting him to look up and see, regrettably, himself. What a mess. The same mess it always was, only slightly blurrier than usual.

Neville dug his phone out of the lining pocket of his jacket, but nothing. Not from Michael, and certainly not from Blaise. He slid it back in place, eyeing his hair. He could see the places Tonks' fingers had woven through it.

Maybe he should try to go home with Susan. She hadn't seemed particularly interested in sex with him up to this point—neither was he with her, obviously—but it could be… fairly nice, he imagined. She was pretty. Nice. The sort of girl Augusta Longbottom prayed for at night, or had possibly even manifested into being with her thoughts. Besides, Neville was decent in bed. He had a sizable dick and he was athletic enough, post-secondary school. He'd lost the baby fat long ago and even Pansy, who never gave credit where it wasn't due aside from briefly promising to spend her life with him, had assured him the sex was more than good.

The door opened behind him and he blinked, realizing he'd forgotten to lock the door. He looked down apologetically, trying to pretend he'd been doing something that wasn't strange and considering possible excuses as two hands slid over his eyes.

"Hey," murmured Tonks' voice, and Neville frowned.

"I think the ladies' room is—"

"Oh, shut up," she said, and spun him by the loops of his trousers, dragging his mouth down to hers. She tasted like candy, like melon-flavored liquor he didn't remember seeing her drink, and she still wasn't Blaise and she wasn't Michael either and she certainly wasn't Charlie but god, she tasted good. Her mouth was warm, spiced with sweetness, and her body was flush against his, heat radiating from every angle.

He pulled her closer, hands greedily on her waist until—no. No, wait, no. This had ruined his life once, hadn't it? His brain shouted for a reprieve.

"Tonks," Neville rasped, pulling away as her hands dipped under the waistband of his trousers. "Listen, I'm sorry, but we probably shouldn't—"

The door opened again and Neville staggered backwards so rapidly he hit his back on the faucet, swearing under his breath as he registered the familiar shade of red hair. "Charlie, listen," he said, holding a still-aggressive Tonks at arm's length in panic, "we were just—"

He stopped, swallowing, as Charlie turned the lock, stepping towards them. This is it, Neville thought, beginning to sweat. This was the reckoning, the tennis game with Pansy, only with a man twice his breadth. This was the moment he'd finally crossed the line; he braced himself, leaning back and wondering if he shouldn't just take the inevitable blow. No defense and no excuses. Maybe if he did, he'd finally fucking learn.

But then, to Neville's alarm, Charlie dropped down, eyeing what Neville realized was probably the beginnings of an erection.

"Dooooora," Charlie said, glancing up at her as Neville struggled to comprehend what was happening; hoping, at the very least, that Charlie had no plans to punch him in the dick. "He's barely even hard."

"What am I, your fluffer?" Tonks said, rolling her eyes. "I've only been here about a minute," she added, taking Neville's chin in her hand and giving him a dastardly look of promise as he stiffened, momentarily paralyzed. "But we've got some time, don't we?"

"Well," Charlie said, unbuckling Neville's belt. "Then it's only fair I get a minute too, isn't it?" he asked, sliding the zipper down as Tonks laughed, pressing her lips to Neville's neck.

"Hang on," Neville said, groggily beginning to piece together what was happening. "Just… just hang on a sec-"

But Charlie's mouth had slipped over the head of his cock, prompting him to a loud, unmistakable groan.

"Holy—hold on, I—"

Tonks kissed him soundly, alternating the pressure of her lips; firm and then soft, then firm again. She had her hand on the back of Charlie's neck, directing him, and Neville, slowly losing the urge to panic in favor of a heightened buzz of arousal, let his head fall back, widening his stance to permit Charlie to take him deeper until he remembered with a start where they were.

"Susan," he registered, eyes snapping open as Charlie released his dick with a pop of confusion.

"Tonks," corrected Tonks, "though, if you want to roleplay, I could get into that."

"No, no, I mean… she's outside, I can't just—" Not even with Blaise had he crossed that particular boundary, though at this point, it was amazing he had any lines of morality left. "I can't, I'm sorry, I just—"

He fumbled to zip his trousers, leaving Tonks and Charlie to exchange a glance.

"Well," Charlie said, dragging a thumb across the corner of his mouth as he rose to his feet. He slipped Neville's phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, advising, "Here's our flat, if you change your mind." He typed in the address, pausing to give Neville a pointed look. "And, for the record, I do recommend you change your mind."

Neville fought a shudder. He wasn't going to. He was sure of that. Sure, it wasn't as if the idea wasn't wholly tempting. For one thing, Charlie's mouth on his dick was clearly no amateur move; he and Tonks obviously did this regularly, and often. And it wasn't as if Neville knew either of them, and true, he and Susan were hardly exclusive. It wasn't the same as it had been with Blaise and Pansy—and besides, it wasn't like he had any other options if he wanted to spend the night with someone else—but still.

But still.

But—

I'm done with you, forever, starting now. Goodbye.

But.

Charlie slid the phone back into Neville's pocket as Tonks planted another kiss on Neville's lips. She slipped under Charlie's arm as they headed to the door, and then, inadvisably, Neville thought: Fuck it.

"Wait," Neville called after them, and they paused in unison, both glancing expectantly over their shoulders at him. "Top or bottom?" he asked, directing the question at Charlie.

Beneath the beard, he could see Charlie's mouth had quirked.

"I'm whatever Dora wants me to be," he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze, and Neville shook his head.

"Not tonight. I'm fucking you tonight," he informed Charlie, who looked noticeably surprised, and then Neville glanced at Tonks, challenging her to argue. Immediately, though, the idea he'd just been incredibly rude washed over him, resulting in a hasty, backpedaling bluster of, "Not that I won't participate in foreplay. Obviously, I'm more than happy to—"

"Stop," Charlie said with palpable derision, holding up a hand to stop him. "You already won, Longbottom, quit while you're ahead." He glanced down at his girlfriend. "Unless you disagree?"

Tonks tutted her admonishment, eyeing Neville with obvious interest. "Nonsense, Charles, you know I always enjoy a little voyeurism," she said, brushing her lips across his cheek, and then she turned to Neville, arching a brow. "Twenty minutes?"

Neville nodded.

"See you," Charlie said, donning a pair of sunglasses from nowhere (his beard, perhaps?) and laughing heartily as he and Tonks slipped out the bathroom door.

The trick to wrongdoing, particularly at the frequency Neville committed it, was to put off his sense of self-loathing for as long as possible. It would happen, eventually; usually at some panic-stricken moment in the middle of the night, which would then prevent any meaningful period of sleep. But generally, it was all just a race against time where it came to the compulsions of his addictive self and then, subsequently, his requisite self-hatred.

That evening, it took about two hours, twenty minutes, and fourteen seconds to arrive at the inevitable state of repugnance. A record, as far as Neville could tell. He could sometimes put it off for multiple days after seeing Blaise, but he supposed it was a matter of quality, not quantity, when it came to sexual partners. Not that Charlie and Tonks weren't good at what they did. They were, particularly Charlie. It was more the issue of sitting up from unfamiliar sheets that smelled like someone else's cologne to discover the two strangers he'd just had sex with were perfectly fine without him.

"That was fun," Tonks was murmuring to Charlie, who in turn was toying with her fingers.

Ah, so they were fun, then. This was a fun couple, as Neville had suspected upon seeing the beard and the man-bun and the pink hair. No problems here, just fun.

Same, he thought bitterly. Same.

Neville rose to his feet from where he'd been sandwiched between them, making his way to the bathroom. The flat certainly wasn't squalor, but it wasn't nearly the nice he was used to. A little hint of Pansy snuck into his brain, commenting on the drapes. Heinous, she said in his mind, and he looked up to eye his reflection for the second time that evening.

The bruise on his neck—Tonks' work—would be hidden by the collar of his shirt. The scratches on his back would fade shortly. He could shower away the feel of Charlie's mouth. He could have easily married Pansy. Yes, she was terrifying, and true, she would never have loved him, but at least she was different. He had never technically had a threesome with two people he'd just met before (or slept with anyone he'd just met, or had any other threesomes) but still, he had the vague understanding that what had just happened was somehow more of the same. He would have easily married Pansy, raised her daughter with relief, happily caught her cold. Any little piece of it suddenly felt preferable.

He rested his hands on the sink, leaning against it as Charlie and Tonks continued talking to each other outside the door.

"—never seen you get that into it before. Very sexy, babe."

"Well, he's a rather lovely partner, don't you think? We could work out a few kinks, host him again sometime."

Kinks. Ironically, not the fun kind. The kind where, for a second, Neville had almost let another name slip, coming much too quickly. In the end, Charlie had finished off his girlfriend himself while Neville ambiguously touched things, half-pretending to enjoy them. If he had to do the maths—he didn't particularly want to, knowing where the calculations would ultimately land, but for analysis' sake—he would have categorized himself somewhere around 45% into women, 55% men. Tonks had quite literally straddled a fine line all evening.

"I love you," Charlie murmured to her, "more than all the stars, darling."

"You silly man," Tonks sighed. "You hardly give a damn about the stars."

"I'm being poetic!"

"Are you, though?"

"Does this mean you don't love me in return? Drat," Charlie sighed, his voice muffled in her hair. "I'll have to find a new place to live."

"Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart," Tonks said, and though her voice had begun with its bright, candid quality, she softened by several degrees of tenderness to say, "I've grown far too accustomed to loving you by now to let you go."

Neville splashed some water on his face, compelling himself to be normal. To look normal, at very least. That was a thing that mattered to both Pansy and Augusta, and in some sense to Blaise, who was the king of inauthenticity. What did it matter what a thing truly was, or what it truly meant? Meaning was for suckers, or for intimacy. Blaise's greatest illusion was himself.

"I should probably be off, then," Neville said, re-entering the bedroom for his trousers and hastily donning them. "That was fun," he added, because it seemed a polite thing to say. Thank you for the hospitality of both your genitalia and your home, or something along those lines. Thank you for sharing your relationship with me for an evening but you may have it back now, carry on.

"Next time we should film it," suggested a gravelly-voiced Charlie from where he was wrapped around Tonks, which felt like mostly politeness as well. The presumption of any sort of next time felt like something the two of them would surely rethink in the morning, when they were sober and clearer-eyed.

"A novel idea," Neville agreed, making his excuses and swinging open the door to their flat, pausing only to catch the sounds of Charlie and Tonks whispering to each other, kissing between small peals laughter, preparing for sleep or some other conquest they would face with their arms tight around each other.

He stepped out into the night, opting to walk. Where? Unimportant. Not that it was an ideal time to be an obviously rich man waltzing around the dark in an Armani suit, but the idea of being inside any form of transport felt terribly constricting.

From his pocket, his phone rang. Michael? Likely Michael. Neville withdrew it from the inside of his jacket and froze, seeing the name on the screen.

He let it ring once more, then another.

Then he raised the phone to his ear.

"I thought you were done with me?" he said, aiming for an ironic tone and wondering if Blaise would know better, or if he'd hear his voice shake. Probably, definitely. Maybe. And even if he didn't, it would still save Neville the cost of admission, which even he could not afford.

On the other end, a muffled sound, like laughter.

"Hello?" Neville said, frowning.

Another sound (definitely a sound, not a voice) and then a woman's laugh of, "Blaise!"

Neville stopped mid-stride, listening.

"—don't know why you even wear these, minus twenty points for this contraption, it was clearly designed for me to die in pursuit of—"

Neville shut his eyes.

"Stop it with the points, you idiot—"

So, it was Tracey Davis again. Interesting. She had come and gone during their period of trysts, as she had before and presumably would again. Neville had asked Blaise once or twice why Tracey, to which his answer was always the same: Because with her, love costs me nothing.

"I would rather have love than sex," Neville remarked into the phone. The sounds were less a matter of laughter now, getting further and further away. "I remember your answer to that question that night, you know. I remember that it was the same as mine."

For Blaise, clothes were a form of expression, dressing and undressing. He would be unpeeling Tracey now, stripping her petals slowly.

"I didn't mean to destroy Hermione's career," Neville continued, beginning to walk again as he confessed to empty air. "I wasn't the one who called Rita Skeeter. With how cruel she was to you? To all of you?" A shake of his head. "Not even for my sake would I do something so despicable as to side with the actual devil."

Blaise would be kissing Tracey now. He was so proficient with slow, progressing kisses he may have very well invented them, which was a small but crucially important magic. Charlie had been a master of head, an indication he'd done it frequently enough, but for Blaise, the kiss was a piece of artistry. The trick, in Neville's estimation, wasn't so much his lips or tongue or anything his mouth could do, but the way Blaise would place his hands. The degree to which he would close the distance and, more importantly, the measure of distance he would leave. Blaise was so good at missing space, at shaping separation.

"That was Gran, unfortunately," Neville continued, neutrally carrying on in his admission. "And I know you question why I go along with her, but I can't explain it. I wish I could. She raised me," he sighed, "and she took care of me when no one would—and it isn't as easy as you think it is, telling the woman who gave me everything that now I'm perfectly willing to disappoint her. I have to choose my battles, Blaise."

Foreplay was Neville's preferred arena. He sometimes suspected he was the one who craved sex more, and had needed it in a way Blaise didn't. Neville had an urge to be touched, something people had so rarely done throughout his childhood, so it was as if at some point he'd sorted that he gave spectacular head (of both varieties) and then realized if he did it well enough, people came back. They always came back; maybe it was the desperation of how devoutly he did it that lured them. Neville had liked to look Blaise in the eye while he did it, which was the only time he really felt brave. He could be whoever he liked with Blaise's cock in his mouth.

"I didn't mean it when I said not to call me. Call me whenever you like, I'll always answer. I promise I will answer. I'm sorry for the things I said, for the person I am." Neville stopped again, meeting the end of the block. "Choose someone entirely unlike me," he advised after a moment, and then stopped to look at his phone, watching the seconds tick in silence before hanging up.

He waited a few more seconds, staring at his phone screen until it went black, and then tapped it again, waking it to dial another number.

Three rings, and then an answer. "Hello?"

"Where were you tonight?"

"Ah." Michael sounded like he'd been sleeping. "I wasn't feeling up for company, that's all. Are you just getting back?"

Neville hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Charlie and Tonks' flat. "Yes, sort of."

"Quite a late dinner," Michael said.

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry."

Silence.

"So," Michael said, clearing his throat over the sound of rustling, as if he were sitting up in bed. "Do you want to come over?"

It had been what Neville wanted—the reason he'd called, which both of them obviously knew—but still. Something knotted tightly in his throat.

"Does this bother you?" Neville asked. "Given, you know. Ginny. Susan."

"Why, is it bothering you?"

No, and that's the problem. "I guess so."

"Well," Michael said with a little laugh, "believe me, they have their own secrets. You're doing Susan a favor, trust me."

Neville considered this statement and its implications. He supposed Susan and Ginny had been sitting quite close together, as they often did, and in retrospect, perhaps Susan's awe wasn't necessarily directed at Charlie alone, but possibly at his sister.

Was it new information? Not really. Did he need to know more? Not particularly, no. Neville had been around secrets long enough not to need to question them.

"Come over," Michael said again, hearing Neville's hesitation. "We can talk in the morning."

Neville exhaled, the knot in his throat temporarily loosening.

"Ten minutes," he said, and hung up the phone, flagging down a taxi.

For the next month, all Neville heard from anyone was baby Jamie this, baby Jamie that. Pram of royal baby Willow James sold out online within five minutes of appearing on screen with Duchess Pansy! Oh, and did you see what Duchess Pansy wore? Tasteful, tasteless, better with her hair down no I prefer her hair up, wish she'd worn a less neutral shoe but oh well, everyone knows the King is old-fashioned. Did you see Hermione Granger running errands? Pish posh, nobody runs errands like that, she must have known there'd be cameras. She's dressing better these days but my goodness, doesn't she have a job? Rumor has it she's convinced Prince Draco to treat her and her parents for the holidays, spending taxpayer money. Royalty already, said with a scoff. Oh, look at baby Jamie, she's so sweet, looks just like her father. Isn't it marvelous they've passed the new marriage act? Will there be a royal wedding soon? Still a bit of a citizenship problem (an American, honestly, as if there aren't enough perfectly good British girls, whatever happened with Lady Susan Bones?) but surely one of them will come to their senses. Perhaps Draco will propose this month, isn't it obvious he ought to?, if he doesn't she's just a rather sad hanger-on, isn't she?, oh give the poor girl a rest, it's not her fault she's hardly accomplished anything, at least she's finally done something about her dreadful hair.

Between the lines were smaller tidbits, things Neville clung to, probably unwisely. Designer Daphne Nott set to open small brick-and-mortar boutique and couture workroom, designed by the Earl of Arundel himself—yes, son of the Duke of Norfolk, apparently an entrepreneur now, so long as the business in question is his wife—for a mix of purchasable pieces and custom designs for private clients. Gilderoy Lockhart recuses himself from the narrative of public life, claiming ongoing legal settlement and requisite NDA. Interestingly, Rita Skeeter's new royal source seems awfully chatty—what's going on in the Palace, always so notoriously tight-lipped? Surely someone should be sacked, only whose office is responsible for the leaks? Not Prince Lucius, it seems, as the Prince of Wales is noticeably absent. His health? His marriage? Princess Narcissa recently had her personal jewelry appraised, her sister Bellatrix appears to have purchased a new country home. Interesting, interesting.

Things heating up between Blaise Zabini and Tracey Davis, it appears. The two were seen canoodling (always canoodling, why was it only canoodling when it came to the rich and/or famous?) in a private booth, in a restaurant opening, at a new gallery, on the street. Fashion icons Tracey Davis and Blaise Zabini make street-style headlines in statement winter coats and scarves, in contrast to Duchess Pansy's new affinity for demure coatdresses. Yes, the coatdress is in thanks to the now sold-out look by Daphne Nott, you heard it here first! But should you lack the atelier of the royal and soon-to-be royal—we think, though what's taking so long?—women, by all means look to Tracey Davis, caught here with beau and financial advisor Blaise Zabini on a leisurely Sunday stroll. Blaise Zabini trots out the latest from Burberry for a trip to Cartier—will it be a summer wedding for the couple?

"Neville, finish your tea, dear," Augusta said, frowning as she looked up from her copy of the Daily Prophet. "By the way, has Susan confirmed for brunch next week?"

Yes, no, what did it matter. "Sure," Neville said, and Augusta arched a brow.

"Neville," she said. It was the same tone in which she said things like Neville, I did not send my only son away to be confined for the remainder of his life so that you could drag his good name through the mud, or Neville, I did not raise you as my own just so you could let some silly memoir destroy this entire family. "Surely I do not have to ask you to remember your manners?"

"I'm sorry, Gran. I will confirm with her this evening," he amended.

Augusta's lips pursed in reference to his plans. "I do wish you'd stay home, Neville. Remember, you never know who's watching," she tutted.

"Susan's going to be there," Neville pointed out. "I can't exactly avoid it."

Augusta sniffed an indication that she agreed, but didn't wish to. "Who else?"

"Ginevra Weasley, I believe."

"They're very close," Augusta noted. "Though I do wish Susan would choose better company. Is she no longer spending time with Astoria Greengrass?"

"Astoria has been traveling, as I understand it." 'Traveling' being a word for whatever she was up to with her latest international boyfriend, not that Neville had any clue, really. She was loyal enough to her sister to avoid him at all costs, ever since the time he'd had a bit too much whisky and asked her how the rest of the group was doing. "Besides, what's wrong with Ginny?"

"Oh, nothing," Augusta said, looking as though she didn't quite mean it. "Much as I cared little for Pansy, she was remarkably well-positioned. I'm afraid Susan may be losing a bit of her prestige, don't you think? I'd hate for people to speculate unfairly."

Ah yes, imagine it, unfair speculation. Not unlike releasing sordid information to Rita Skeeter, of course, but that was purely in the interest of the family.

"I should go," Neville said, feeling a festering bitterness and rising to his feet, kissing his grandmother's cheek. She, per usual, sniffed her reply. "Happy New Year, Gran," he said, and pulled away, preparing to leave.

She, however, caught his arm, holding him steady.

"You've seemed a little off, dear," she told him in a low voice. "Something wrong?"

He cleared his throat. "No," he said, aiming for brightness. "Of course not."

"Are you sure?"

"Nothing important, Gran, I'm fine."

He attempted to pull away again, but she held on. "Neville," she said, "do you know, I was the first to notice when my darling Frank's mind started to go?"

Neville froze, swallowing.

"It was so small, at first. Nearly inconsequential. Unimportant, one might say, only I knew better. I'm his mother, of course, so naturally I noticed when he wasn't himself." She paused, considering Neville for a long moment, and added, "I'd so hate to see something similar happen to you, sweetheart. It killed me to have to send Frank away—but it was in his best interest, as you know," she sighed, "getting him the help he so desperately needed."

She looked up, giving Neville a pained smile, and then slowly, she released her hold on him, fussing maternally with his collar.

"You know, you're looking more and more like your father every day," she told him, smoothing his lapel. "I'm so very proud of you, Neville, for being the man he couldn't be."

Neville flinched, then straightened.

"See you Sunday, Gran," he managed to force out, turning away with a sudden numbness.

"Oh, of course, dear," Augusta replied, calling after him with a wave.

The party was more of the same. Sometimes, Neville liked to cast the others as if they were Blaise's friends. Ginny could be Pansy, maybe, and perhaps Susan could be Hermione. Astoria, who had in fact made it that evening, made for a close enough Daphne.

Unfortunately, it only got less effective from there. Ron was… certainly not Harry, much less any of the others. Seamus made for a more destructive Theo, but not much else. Then there was Charlie, Tonks…

It wasn't easy, recreating other people from the ones who existed so unavoidably in his mind. Neville took a sip from his bottle and turned away from Charlie and Tonks, slipping into the back corridor and hoping they wouldn't see him.

"Hey," Michael said, catching him before he slid outside to the courtyard. "Where are you off to? It's freezing out there, and besides, everyone's in the dining room—"

Everyone. Which was, for all intents and purposes, no one.

Abruptly, Neville was overcome with a crippling sense of necessity.

"Mind if I borrow your phone?" Neville asked Michael suddenly. "Mine's dead."

"Hm? Sure," Michael said, digging for it in his pocket and handing it to Neville. "Everything alright?"

"Yes, yes, fine. I'll be inside in a moment," Neville told him. "Oh, passcode—"

"Right, right—here," Michael said. "No snooping, eh?"

"No snooping," Neville promised. That was the one line he never crossed. "Thanks, Michael."

Michael glanced around, inspecting for an audience, and then leaned forward, kissing Neville quickly on the mouth. "See you later?" he asked in an undertone. "Could find an empty bedroom, maybe, if we're lucky."

"In a bit," Neville agreed, and Michael nodded with a smile, slipping into the corridor as Neville made his way into the courtyard.

He dialed the number, raising the phone to his ear.

"Well, this is certainly odd," came the drawl from the other end. The background voices were relatively loud, indicating he was also at a party. "When did you give me your number, Corner? I always thought that whole thing was going to be buried in the recesses of our collective imaginations but eh, here we are, I suppose—"

"It's me," Neville said, and Blaise stopped.

"Oh," he said. "What are you doing with—"

"I knew you wouldn't answer if you saw my number. Don't hang up," Neville added, and Blaise made a low sound, like a scoff. A scoff-laugh.

"I deleted your number long ago, Neville. In case you forgot, you asked me to."

A pause. Blaise was lying, obviously. Wasn't he? It wasn't as if his phone had a mind of its own, and it had called Neville not more than a month ago. It had called him. Had he imagined it? He'd been extremely drunk that night, so perhaps he had. Fuck, no, of course he didn't imagine it, what was the more likely scenario?

No, Blaise was a liar, and so was he.

"What do you want, Neville?" Blaise asked. Not particularly patiently.

"I—" He didn't know, exactly. "I need to talk to you."

"Not to overstate the obvious, but you're talking to me right now." By now, the background noise was gone. Blaise had clearly gone somewhere quieter, which was a promising sign. He intended to continue the conversation.

Neville glanced over his shoulder, covering the mouthpiece before saying, "In person. Please."

"Why?"

"Something's happened." Jesus, as if he hadn't told enough lies, now he was inventing an emergency. Maybe Augusta was right; he wasn't well. Maybe he really, truly wasn't well. You remind me of your father—always wanting things you shouldn't, Augusta had said once, holding Blaise's shirt like a warning in her hands.

"Neville. What's happened?"

Neville shut his eyes.

"You're gone," he said, or tried to say. "You're gone. I hate it, that's what's happened."

Blaise, by some miracle, didn't mock him. Didn't admonish him.

Instead, Blaise said with a forced brightness, "Actually, I'm glad you called."

Neville's throat tightened. "No, you're not."

"No," Blaise laughed, "I'm not, but it's not not convenient." He paused a moment, and then said, "Meet me at my flat in ten minutes."

"Ten minutes?" That would be a suspicious disappearance, but he'd certainly committed worse. "Fine."

"Just to talk, Neville," Blaise warned.

"Of course."

"I mean it."

You always mean it, Neville thought, and I always convince you otherwise. "I know."

"See you soon, then."

"See you," he said breathlessly, and hung up the phone, deleting the call log.

Then he half-sprinted back to Michael.

"I have to go," he said, shoving the phone in his palm. "Something came up with Gran. Tell Susan I'll call her in the morning," he added over his shoulder, disappearing as Michael called something after him in tones of concern: Are you alright, is everything okay, Neville are you listening?

He made it to Blaise's flat in seven minutes, never stopping to breathe. He took the stairs two at a time, banging on the door twice with the soft side of his fist.

Blaise opened it. "Early," he observed, drily disapproving. He was holding a martini in one hand, clearly in the process of making it, and Neville looked from the glass to Blaise, then back to the glass.

Then he shoved Blaise inside, set the glass on the table, and took Blaise's face between his palms as he kicked the door shut behind him.

"I'm going to kiss you," he said, watching Blaise struggle to hide his surprise. "You are going to kiss me back. We're going to argue for no more than ten minutes. You're going to tell me I'm a selfish coward and I'm going to call you an arrogant prick. You'll tell me to leave, and then I'll kiss you again. You'll tell me you hate me." Something pricked at Neville's throat, knotting itself again. "I'll tell you I've always hated you and then you'll take off my jacket, my shirt. I'll kick off my shoes but you'll force me to remove yours one by one, untying the laces carefully. I'll blow you right there," he said, pointing to the spot where he would inevitably lean against the wall, his forearm holding him up while Blaise pulled at his trousers, "and it will be your idea to have sex. You'll tell me you've missed me and I'll call you a liar."

He paused, a little winded.

"I will tell you I love you while I'm inside you," he said hoarsely. "You'll say nothing in return, and you will say my name only once: at the moment I make you come."

Blaise stared at him for a second, considering him, and in answer, Neville stroked his cheeks, his temples, in a motion that was more gruff than tender; an ungentle assessment that everything was as he left it.

"Well," said Blaise, who didn't pull away, but reached blindly for his martini, taking an indulgent sip. "Better get started, then," he said, replacing the glass on the table and giving Neville an expectant look.

Then Neville exhaled, able to breathe for the first time in weeks, and pulled Blaise's mouth to his.

"She knew," Neville said to Blaise's chest, resting his cheek somewhere north of Blaise's pulse when they'd finally fallen still, both gradually catching their breaths. "Gran," he clarified, when Blaise's touch on his back indicated his confusion; a little question mark. "She knew about you. She told me I'd have to propose to Pansy after she found one of your shirts in my wardrobe," he explained, unsure why he hadn't simply confessed it sooner.

There was a pause.

Then, gradually, Blaise's fingers returned to work, tracing little runes of nothing onto Neville's back.

"Astoundingly, you might've said no," he replied, eyes closed.

That, Neville remembered. That was why he hadn't said anything when it happened.

"You don't understand. It's not that simple."

"Then explain it," Blaise said. "I'm something of a not-idiot, when the time calls for it."

It wasn't a question of idiocy or non-idiocy but rather a matter of putting it into words, which Neville already knew he couldn't. Instead, he marinated in silence, glancing at the clock.

"Do you remember," he began, tentative, and felt a rumble of Blaise's laughter.

"The first time I told you not to kiss me? Regrettably, you make a habit of forcing me to repeat myself," Blaise lamented drily. "Particularly on New Year's."

Neville cleared his throat, shifting to look up at Blaise's placidly resting face.

He'd been honest then. Maybe he could try being honest now.

"I've always known my gran's the one who sent my father away," Neville murmured. "I think she saw him as a mistake she made, and then decided she wouldn't do it again. That she wouldn't raise another bad egg." He paused. "I'm her second chance, but then I turned out to be… me."

A beat of silence.

"Tragic," Blaise said.

Neville had missed that, his cruelty. Blaise and Pansy had both possessed such a stunning capacity to wield some emotional, psychotic knife whenever the moment called for something gentle. It was part of the reason he'd secretly wanted to have them both, because at least they were never cruel in the same way.

Besides, Neville was quietly masochistic.

"I think she'd send me away like she did with him, if it came down to it," he said. "She implies it constantly, that if I turn out like my father, she'll just lock me up, too."

Blaise cracked one eye. "Could she?"

Leave it to him to consider logistics at a time like this. "How should I know?" Neville shrugged. "She did it before."

"Yes, but your father was rarely lucid," Blaise said. "You told me that yourself."

"I know, but—" Neville broke off, grimacing. "I know, but it's not as if I don't have… moments. Times I feel… broken. Abnormal." He shifted, rolling on top of Blaise, and said, "How do I know he wasn't like me when she first sent him away? He could have gotten worse over time." He reached out to trace the shape of Blaise's nose, his eyes and cheeks. "I," he corrected himself, confessing it for the first time. "I could get worse, over time."

"Ah, so you're stupid enough to believe her, then," Blaise said, sitting up and pulling Neville with him. "Is that all it is?" he asked, incongruously dragging Neville into his arms as he taunted him. "You couldn't be with me because you thought your grandmother might send you away like some unwed Victorian mother, is that it?"

The best thing about Blaise was how beautifully he sparked Neville's anger. Neville always preferred to be angry than scared, considering it a brutal favor, and he sat up with tension in his jaw, nearly wiring it shut.

"Don't mock me," Neville said bitterly, managing to grit it through his teeth. "Don't pretend as if you're not equally afraid of becoming your father. Doesn't it occur to you that you might even be worse?"

"Yes," Blaise said simply. "It occurs to me quite often, actually."

"And you're going to judge me for doing the same?"

"No," Blaise said, and pulled Neville closer, into something that was equally an embrace and a chokehold. Something they had never done, really—a hug, how dastardly—and Neville went limp, either acquiescing or permitting himself defeat.

"I love you," Neville said, hating himself through every word of it; hating that he said it so desperately, and that it was never said to him. "I love you. I wish I could undo it, all of it. I love you," he repeated, and Blaise's hold on him was so tight he couldn't breathe, and didn't want to. "Please," he begged, half-crying, half-sweating, "please, can we go back to how it was? I won't ask anything of you, I swear, I won't make demands, it won't be like last time—"

"I'm marrying Tracey," Blaise said, and Neville choked on the breath he hadn't fully taken. "That's what I wanted to tell you," he added neutrally. "I'm proposing to her quite soon, I think. Not sure when, but I know it's coming."

"But—"

Neville blinked.

Then he shoved Blaise away, wrenching himself free with enough force to bruise them both.

"But we just fucked," Neville said furiously, and Blaise shrugged. One of his falser shrugs, indicating he was suppressing something by way of forced impassivity.

"Yes, for the last time. Sorry," he added insincerely, "though, I didn't think you'd mind, considering the fact you were the one to turn me away last time. Or have you forgotten that you fucked me and then told me not to call?"

Everything Neville had ever felt or done or said with Blaise always felt like a memory from a blackout. Yes, it might have happened, conceivably, but then no, it never felt real, never like something he might have actually done. He was never himself with Blaise. He was closest to insanity like this, with him. He was most like his father in Blaise's arms.

"We're done here," Blaise said. "I told you, we're done."

"And what was this, then?" Neville snapped. "What am I, a toy?"

"A bad habit," Blaise corrected, "and one I shortly plan to cure."

The idea that he could say that, as if Neville were some sort of virus, was as disemboweling as it was mutually true.

"Even you aren't this cruel," Neville spat, hoping he meant it, and Blaise leaned forward, catching the back of his head to hold it steady.

"Actually, I can be far crueler," Blaise said quietly, pressing his forehead to Neville's. "Did you know, I've loved you this whole time? I came that night, the night I made up with Pansy, to tell you I was ready to be yours," he said with a bitter laugh, and Neville could taste it. Equal parts gin and vermouth, the flavors of Blaise Zabini's honesty.

"But you," Blaise murmured to Neville's mouth, shaking his head. "You will never be ready to be with me. I knew it then, and I still know it."

"Blaise," Neville said hoarsely, but he returned the kiss anyway, dissolving into it. "Blaise, please don't—"

"Deny it," Blaise muttered, one hand around Neville's jaw to tip his head back. "Tell me I'm wrong, that you'll choose me. Go ahead, try," he said, with an angry scrape of teeth to Neville's throat. "You can't do it, Neville. You and I both know you never will."

He wanted to. Desperately, devastatingly, he wanted to, but couldn't.

"So we're done here, then," Neville said. Blaise's hand tightened around his neck and he shoved him back against the sheets, shaking his head. "We're done here," he mumbled, and lowered his mouth, sinking his teeth into Blaise's shoulder.

"After tonight, yes," Blaise hissed in pain, shoving Neville onto his back. "After tonight, believe me, everything we are is done."

And it was, thanks to me. Sure, it sounds as if he's the one who pushed me out, but I think it's fairly obvious now that if I'd simply said no—no, I want you, please—he would have chosen me over Tracey in a heartbeat, and surely it's equally obvious I couldn't get him out of my head. To this day, I don't understand it; the way I walked out of his life without a fight. How many times had I lied to everyone else? I could have done it then, to Blaise. I could have lied to him, put him off with false reassurances of my devotion like I'd done with Pansy and Susan, and maybe things would have been different. Maybe if I'd done it, things between us would have actually been done.

But I didn't, and they aren't.

At least, not as of today.

a/n: I will be gone all of next week (I'm hiking in Snowdonia, which is not, in fact, the kingdom from Frozen but an actual real place), but I'm planning to get back to our normal schedule the following Tuesday. See you then, and thank you for reading!

37. Sartorial

Chapter 37: Sartorial

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Rise of a Princess

While the so-called 'Hermione Effect' applies to nearly everything Hermione Granger is seen wearing, using, or consuming, there are some vestiary statements which are particularly unforgettable. Whether she is quietly expressing political support or indicating she has not forgotten her humble origins in her quest for Prince Draco's heart, the evolution of Hermione's public persona has been marked by attention to detail. Some of her most beloved looks—the sailor-inspired dress and its nod to Commonwealth politics, the jauntily daring Wimbledon dress worn in attendance with Duchess Pansy, the festive tartan dress designed by Daphne Nott, and, of course, the emerald dress worn for her public engagement announcement—are surely only the first glimpses of what will be a timeless sartorial legacy.

From the charming displays of her 'normal girl' trainers and casual 'husband' shirt (a rare bit of cheek on that occasion!) to her first embrace of the classically British Twilfitt and Tattings hats, Hermione's evolution to future princess has been a remarkable journey to watch.

Let's see, where to start…

Oh, I don't know. How about with everything Rita Skeeter missed?

The Anne Shirley Dress
April 22, 2016

"I don't know, Daph," Hermione said, turning to observe herself in the mirrors of the recently completed Daphne Nott atelier. "Don't you think it's a bit…" She paused, considering her available vocabulary. "Twee?" she asked, before determining she'd never used the word before and likely never would again. "I feel like I look a bit like Anne of Green Gables. Or like I'm about to play some old-timey tennis."

Daphne was more than a little distracted, fussing with the tie on Hermione's ivory sweater dress. "That's the point," she said, frowning as she shifted the knot one way, then the other. "It's thematic," Daphne tossed over her shoulder, wandering away to sort through the earrings she'd requested Hermione bring to the shop. She had been finding less and less time to leave it, as Hermione knew, given the increasing volume of work. "You did say Prince Edward Island was having an election Draco's in the business of supporting," Daphne called, "didn't you?"

It wasn't often Hermione considered herself un-impressed with Daphne, but she still managed to be taken by surprise now and again. "Good memory, Daph," she said, newly appreciating the effort Daphne had built into the politics of styling. "Though I suppose I should expect that sort of brilliance by now."

"Hardly," Daphne scoffed, returning with a pair of medium-sized studs she held up beside Hermione's face. "I wouldn't have remembered my head this morning if I'd had any other choice. A bit of sleep tonight will be ideal."

She rejected the earrings in hand and turned away, distractedly fishing for something else. Hermione, amused, called after her, "I take it you've forgotten, then?"

"Forgotten what?" Daphne replied, eyeing a pair of ruby drops and weighing them against a second, deeply similar pair that she continued to insist were perfectly distinct.

In response, Hermione stepped back from the mirrors with a sigh, abandoning any further questioning of her appearance in favor of diverting attention from Daphne's styling to Daphne herself. She fetched the half-empty bottle of sauvignon blanc from Daphne's private mini-fridge (it was occupied by nothing else, except for a bit of clotted cream) and plucking two glasses from the counter.

"Here," Hermione said, pouring Daphne a glass, first, and then herself. "Drink this," she offered, carrying it over to where Daphne was standing.

Daphne, whose perfectly curated appearance had changed little over the years minus the thin gold band she wore on her finger, looked up with a crease in her lovely brow, brushing at the nonexistence of her stray auburn strands. "What?"

"Drink it," Hermione said, nudging it into her hand. "We have time for one glass."

Daphne clearly disagreed. "Hermione, we still have work to do," she said, disapproving, "and if I'm going to finish that piece I was working on for SPEW, I need t-"

"Tonight's your birthday dinner," Hermione reminded her, pressing the glass more firmly into her grip. "Remember?" she prompted, as Daphne winced, rapidly dejected. "We're supposed to head to yours in twenty minutes."

"Rats," said Daphne, accepting the wine immediately upon recollection. "Poor Nott," she sighed, taking a long, indulgent sip as Hermione continued coaxing her into something of a relaxed position. Like, for example, a seated one. "He's been reminding me for ages," she groaned, unwillingly permitting Hermione to shove her away from the jewelry, "but of course I told him I wasn't stupid, I certainly know my own birthday—"

"Hey, you're busy. I'm sure he understands," Hermione assured her, nudging Daphne into the decorative chair in the corner and perching across from her on the footrest. "What's Theo been up to while you've been working, anyway?"

"Honestly?" Daphne asked, cutting a sidelong glance at Hermione, who nodded. "He's been a bit… nesty."

Hermione stifled a laugh. "Nesty? Is that a word?"

"Yes, nesty, he's nesting. There's the dog, for one," Daphne pointed out.

Ah, yes, the dog. A cast-off from Theo's father's estate, the mopey-looking greyhound was one of the most tragic things Hermione had ever seen. He was typically found with his head buried in blankets while nudging Theo for warmth, or else huddling beside the fire like a Dickensian orphan.

It was impossible to forget the first time Hermione had been introduced to the Nott household's family dog. "Prince Lucius is in the kitchen," Theo had informed Hermione, who had nearly jumped at the horrifying news before realizing that Theo had never actually referred to the Prince of Wales as anything other than Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness, or, on one or two occasions, Satan's Handmaid.

Naturally, the reluctant trotting out of dog-Lucius had been both a relief and a massive oddity, though he was usually referred to as His Highness (even, and in fact most especially, in Draco's presence) or, alternatively, the Duke of Ruff-say and Lord of the Smiles. Subsequently, it wasn't particularly confusing.

"He asked me to design the dog a coat," Daphne sighed, rolling her eyes and taking an appropriately long sip from her wine. "He actually specified, 'tartan, please'—and obviously I'd say no," she remarked with a conspiratorial look of exasperation, "only I'm a bit behind in wife points."

"Wife points?" Hermione echoed doubtfully. "Not a real thing, I hope."

"Not in the sense that they exist, no," Daphne admitted, "but I have to admit, I'm not home nearly as often as I expected I would be. And," she exhaled, "seeing as he's my primary investor, it's a bit difficult to… draw the line, I suppose."

"You're sleeping with the chairman of the board?" Hermione asked, half-laughing, and Daphne gave her a brief look of uncertainty.

"You know, I'd so appreciate if you could find a way to keep him busy," she said, lamenting a little as she toyed with the chair's re-upholstered velvet. It, like everything in Daphne's shop, had been specifically chosen by Lady Nott herself, perfected down to the details. "All he seems to be doing lately is watching Jamie or fussing over the dog. I seem to exclusively come home to my husband in slippers with a rag thrown over his shoulder," she sighed, "cooking the dog supper with a nappy in one hand and a bottle in the other. I worry he's going a bit mad shut up in the house all day."

The domestication of Theo Nott had been a strange thing to watch, Hermione had to admit. "I'm happy to help you if you need it. At the very least, I can help with S.P.E.W.," she offered, and Daphne nodded eagerly. "And I could certainly spend more time with Theo, assuming Rita Skeeter doesn't determine my carousing with him to be evidence of sinister infidelity."

"Well, why wouldn't she? He's a Bad Lad, after all," Daphne said.

They managed to keep it together nearly an entire moment before coughing up laughter at the old reference to Draco, Theo, and Harry, who were now so properly docile it was hard to believe they'd ever been up to no good. (There was Blaise, too, of course, but he was hardly tame. At least not optically.)

"My god," Daphne sighed, nudging a little moisture from the side of her eyes after a few more peals of entertainment. "A bit impossible to believe now, isn't it?"

More than a little. "When was their last antic, do you think?"

Daphne shook her head. "Ages ago, poor things." She paused for a moment, eyeing her glass, and said, "How are things with Draco, then? Going well, I assume," she said, gesturing to the dress Hermione was wearing, "seeing as you're going on a mini-break so soon after the holiday with your parents."

Draco had taken all three Grangers on a skiing trip, not unlike the one he'd once intended for the two of them privatelt. Rita Skeeter had torn them to shreds, of course—HERMIONE GRANGER SHAMELESSLY ROBBING TAXPAYERS BLIND WITH OPULENT SKI HOLIDAY!—but all in all, the whole thing had been wonderfully relaxing.

"Things are quite good," Hermione confirmed, taking a sip. "Really good, in fact."

And they were. Draco was permanently in London now, and while he was as busy as he had always been, he was certainly making time for her. The trip they were taking into the countryside would be a welcome reprieve for both of them.

Daphne conspicuously eyed her glass before musing aloud, "Any new thoughts on the public engagement?"

Hermione cleared her throat, hesitating.

"I want to marry you," she had told Draco over the ski holiday, "you know I do, but I can't abandon Minerva. Things are still very touch and go," she pointed out, "and with as much as I'm doing to try to help, I can't walk away from the Transfiguration Project just yet. And," she sighed, smoothing the hair at his temples, "you and I both know I can't cross any more lines. Certainly not after Lockhart."

Draco nodded. "I understand," he assured her, looking, for the most part, as if he meant it. "There's no rush, is there?"

"No, certainly not," Hermione told him, relieved. "So you don't mind, then?"

"Of course not." He leaned over, kissing her forehead. "It's a pleasure just to date you, Miss Granger. In as much as that's a thing we're doing."

It was an unconventional progression from a secret engagement, perhaps. Then again, unconventional was precisely what they'd always been.

"Ah," Daphne said, eyeing Hermione's expression with a laugh, "so… no, then?"

"I can't leave Minerva yet," Hermione insisted, as Daphne gave her a spectacularly doubting look. "What? I can't!" Hermione protested. "She gave me a job despite not having the budget for it," she reminded a still-skeptical Daphne, who sighed.

"It's essentially the same job you were once so desperate to leave," she pointed out. "Don't you wonder if you're just a bit scared to move forward?"

The idea was ridiculous, of course.

(She hoped.)

"Scared?" Hermione scoffed. "What would I possibly be scared of?"

"Oh, I don't know." Daphne sipped her wine with pointed deliberation. "Change? Failure? Disappointment? Rita Skeeter? Feel free to stop me whenever you like," she said in an obnoxious sing-song, and at Hermione's silent eye roll, she continued, "Prince Lucifer, Nott Senior, King Abraxas—"

"Oh, please," Hermione said, with only a scarcely noticeable touch of bravado. "As if I'm afraid of a bunch of old men."

"Ah, so I missed one," Daphne observed sagely, looking as if she'd uncovered something of note. "Narcissa," she guessed with certainty, and as much as Hermione wanted to refuse, she felt something stick unhelpfully in her throat.

"I—" It was something obstructing, like hesitation. Or, possibly, truth. "It's not that I'm afraid of her," Hermione insisted, "I'm just—"

Daphne's expression was patently knowing. "Afraid of turning into her?"

"No. Of course not." Of course not. Aside from their shared love of Draco, Hermione and Her Royal Highness Narcissa, Princess of Wales, had absolutely nothing in common. "I'd never turn into her, I'd just be—"

"As trapped as she is?" Daphne supplied, and Hermione sighed, relenting. But only a little.

"You saw what happened with Lockhart," she said, still a bit prickly in her defense. "If I mess up again as Draco's fiancée, or even worse, as his wife—"

"Is it that you're afraid to mess up?" Daphne asked, frowning. "Or is it the fact that you'll never be permitted to mess up again that's bothering you," she said, and while Hermione had every intention to deny anything Daphne attempted to use as a rebuttal, she found herself unwilling to answer.

No, not unwilling.

Unable.

She eyed her glass, contemplating how to explain it; to make Daphne understand that, for one thing, the Lockhart situation hadn't even been Hermione's fault. She could have defended herself, only doing so would have drawn unflattering attention to her. She could have held him to the terms of their contract, only doing that would have meant a legal battle that would defeat the purpose of a non-disclosure agreement to begin with. That, or it would backfire entirely once Gilderoy realized who she actually was.

She wanted to believe she was lucky Draco had done something—something which, come to think of it, he was conspicuously reluctant to reveal—to make Gilderoy go away, but in reality, she wished he hadn't. She wished, privately, that she had been permitted to have the nasty, despicable scandal she had been given no option but to avoid.

Hermione had never been afraid of being antagonized before. Lockhart was the first battle she'd fled rather than fought, and she didn't love the feeling. Even defeat would have sat better with her than forfeit, only the inevitable damage to her reputation would have certainly ruled Draco out forever. Like he always said, people rarely cared whether or not something was true. It was enough to believe something was whatever Rita Skeeter said it was, and there was no doubt she would paint Hermione as a liar. At best, a controversial figure like Lady Bellatrix, and at worst, a total fraud.

"How about we talk about something else?" Daphne said gently, noticing Hermione's prolonged silence and giving her arm a nudge. "You know, Astoria's got a new boyfriend," she attempted brightly.

It was a relief to talk about something else, even if it was Astoria. "Oh? Another footballer?"

"You know, I thought so," Daphne remarked, "but as it turns out, no. She did meet him while she was off on a romp with a rugby bloke, though," she admitted with a laugh. "Viktor Krum," she explained, which Hermione faintly recognized as someone Harry had mentioned once or twice or a thousand times in addition to one of Fleur's prior flings, "but then she met one of his former teammates. Alex is a hedge fund manager, believe it or not."

"Alex?" Hermione echoed with surprise, and Daphne nodded.

"Alexander Poliakoff. Verified adult," she added with a bit of cheek, looking entertained by the thought. "I had every expectation to uncover face tattoos or a still-attached umbilical cord, but I suppose her string of post-Draco liaisons must have tired her out. To my surprise," she remarked, "he's perfectly respectable."

"High praise," Hermione commented wryly, and Daphne laughed.

"Come on," Daphne sighed, rising to her feet and setting her now-empty glass on the side table. "Let's head off to my birthday party, shall we? You know, if you make a scene, maybe everyone will go home and let me work," she added optimistically, looping her arm through Hermione's.

In reality, the dinner was perfectly pleasant. Hermione didn't make a scene, though she did agree to help Daphne with a few relevant SPEW articles (one which would be a touch political, but crucially so, in both Hermione and Daphne's opinions). Theo did not wear slippers, and Draco spent the evening with his arm around Hermione's waist, murmuring to her every now and again how much he looked forward to their weekend alone.

The weekend, too, didn't disappoint.

"Very Anne of Green Gables," Draco said upon seeing her dress, which would later appear in the tabloids beside broad, public exclamation of their little private tryst. ANOTHER LOVER'S GETAWAY!, the papers would screech. IS IT POSSIBLE PRINCE DRACO FINALLY PROPOSED? EXCLUSIVE PICTURES INSIDE!

"Well, of course," Hermione assured him. "It's an homage, you know. Prince Edward Island, et cetera."

"Ah, Avonlea," Draco registered, pleased, and while they rarely touched in public—or, indeed, in private-but-publicly-visible country gardens—he brushed his fingers beside hers, his touch briefly skating over her knuckles. "You clever minx. You should wear it to Wimbledon," he remarked.

"Oh, absolutely, old-timey tennis was definitely in my initial—wait. Wimbledon?" Hermione echoed, suddenly startled. "Am I supposed to be attending Wimbledon?"

"Oh," Draco said, patently surprised. "Didn't Pansy tell you?"

The Wimbledon Dress
July 4, 2016

"Sleeveless?" Pansy said, eyeing Hermione's dress with obvious skepticism. It was a white Temperley sundress with tiered layers, paired with a set of nude pumps Hermione wore so often these days she was beginning to think of them as just an alternative set of feet.

"What? It's hot," Hermione protested. Whatever Pansy thought, she was fully satisfied with not having to worry about sweating through the fabric. "I'm not royalty, Pans. I think I can scandalize some people with the sight of my arms without too harsh a penalty. Besides, Daphne said it was fine."

"Well, if Daphne said it," Pansy echoed, lazily doubtful. She paused to smile genially for a nearby camera, skillful as always, and then turned back to Hermione with an arched brow, remarking, "I suppose it could be worse."

Hermione was pleased to be wearing sunglasses, saving her from any rebuke for her expression. "Thanks, Pans," she said drily. "Glad to have your approval."

"I wouldn't go that far," Pansy said, but her expression flickered slightly from its public mask, extending to something like actual warmth. "I'm pleased you came along. Should be an interesting match."

It was the American Daisy Carnegie against Angelina Johnson, the British favorite. A very popular match indeed, even with Hermione's complete lack of knowledge about tennis. Pansy, who had made a point of insisting on attending the women's matches, had extended the invitation to Hermione several weeks early and, now that they'd arrived, Hermione could see why. The stadium was packed; combined with the expectations for the match, the announcement that Duchess Pansy would be attending with Hermione Granger meant the press was especially eager to be where they were.

"Arrow," was all Pansy had said when she'd initially told Hermione why she wanted them to be jointly present at this particular match, suggesting she had perhaps been on the receiving end of one of Blaise's motivational speeches as well. Pansy was always enthusiastic about supporting successful women, but had been especially so since the birth of her daughter.

"I had hoped Daphne would come along," Hermione said. "Did she tell you what came up?"

"Oh, something about clients, her profession, et cetera," Pansy said with a flick of her wrist. She was wearing a crepe wrap dress with a coordinated blazer, her hair left in precise, voluminous curls that were pulled back, half-up. Hermione's own hair was something of a continuing travesty, though she'd done her best to coax her wild curls into fashionable waves. "She was profusely remorseful," Pansy said, unimpressed, "which of course I couldn't abide. I hung up somewhere around her third verse of apology."

Hermione laughed. "So she's still on the guilt thing, then?"

"Unrepentantly," Pansy sniffed. Hermione, too, had been on the receiving end of Daphne's rushed explanations more than once, along with the frequent promises that things would surely quiet down soon. "As if that's the apology I require," Pansy scoffed. "The busier Daphne is, the more opportunities Theodore has to teach my daughter all sorts of incomprehensible behavior," she said with what Hermione suspected to be fond disapproval. "Imagine what sort of disruption his presence would be in my life if Jamie could speak beyond monosyllables."

"What's been added to the babble retinue?" Hermione asked, a bit devastated she didn't know. It was truly unbelievable how quickly human children developed, though she supposed with how much Pansy and Harry were in a constant state of rapid banter, their daughter was bound to join in.

It was rare that Hermione went more than a couple of weeks without spending time with Jamie, but it had been a particularly busy summer. After having lost Demelza to some corporate poaching (by virtue of what Hermione guessed to be a far more competitive salary than what a struggling non-profit could offer), Minerva and Oliver were particularly adamant about finding partnerships to complete their still-halted Knockturn revitalization project. As a result, Hermione was hardly ever in the office, and her weekends had recently been devoted to site visits and meetings.

Inconveniently, Hermione's previous promise to Daphne to keep Theo from melting into the furniture was also proving a more time-consuming project than she'd expected. When Theo could be convinced to leave the house, it was usually to take long, meandering walks with his tartan-collared dog in tow. He seemed to have an agitated sort of itch to him that could only be sorted by stretching his interminably long limbs, usually for more spare hours in the day than Hermione was willing to devote to such an aimless activity.

"Well, I'd hardly call Jamie conversational," Pansy said, making her way to their seats and carefully smoothing her dress. "Mostly if she's going to speak, she shrieks, usually at that ridiculous creature that's always moping around at Theo's heels. Her most recent word, tragically, was 'Nott,'" Pansy sighed, "which either means I've let her spend too much time with Theo and Harry or she's astoundingly adept at sarcasm."

Hermione hid a smile, knowing full well Pansy's neutral tone was highly deceptive. Jamie's first word, 'Mama,' had been an event meriting a shouty phone call at four in the morning, courtesy of Pansy's rare but certainly undeniable maternal excitement. Hermione had politely not informed Pansy that Harry had been using the word incessantly in Pansy's absence ever since Jamie's birth, figuring it sweeter if she didn't know.

"Is Theo over often?" Hermione asked, and Pansy cut her a look of total annoyance.

"Incessantly," she said, glancing around to survey the other members of the audience. "If Daphne doesn't have a baby soon," she ventured in a low voice, carefully keeping her expression neutral, "I suspect Theo's going to strap Jamie to that ridiculous dog's back and run off with ours."

"You think he's got some sort of… baby fever?" Hermione asked, surprised. "Seems like more of a, you know. Biologically female thing."

"Well, perhaps his childhood traumas have necessitated an opposite, psychologically unsound reaction. Some sort of acute longing for fatherh- ah, now I've done it," Pansy said, mouth tightening slightly as she spotted something over Hermione's shoulder. "I've summoned him."

"Summoned wh-"

"Ah, Your Highness, Miss Granger," came the voice of Theodore Nott the elder, unfortunately requiring Hermione and Pansy to acknowledge him formally or risk the mockery of the Daily Prophet. "How interesting to see you at this particular match," he commented, looking pointedly at Hermione as he said it.

"I love tennis," Hermione said, feigning brightness, and in return, Nott spared her a grim bit of laughter.

"I meant the nature of the match," he said, gesturing to where Daisy and Angelina would soon be appearing on the court. "An American and a Brit, hm? Difficult to choose your loyalties, I imagine," he remarked, and before Hermione was quite ready to comment that her loyalties were hardly at issue, he added, "Have you given any more thought to your renouncement?"

"Of what?" escaped Hermione's mouth before Pansy could give a small shake of her head, obviously identifying the direction of the conversation before she had.

"Ah," Nott said with relish, catching Pansy's motion. "It was my understanding the conversation would have been had already, but perhaps our young Prince hasn't quite made a decision. Explains things," he added, flicking a glance at her bare ring finger and then smiling his thin smile, sparing them both a nod. "Enjoy the match, ladies. Your Highness," he added to Pansy, offering her a curtly formal bow and making his way to wherever he was supposed to be seated.

Hermione frowned after him, disturbed. "What was th-"

"Not yet," Pansy said through her teeth, pairing it with an incongruous laugh and turning to smile dazzlingly at Hermione. "Imagine the headline," she murmured, hardly moving her lips. "Duke of Norfolk, close friend and advisor to His Majesty, colludes publicly with Hermione Granger, whereupon she immediately turns to whisper with palpable concern—"

"Alright, alright, point made," Hermione said as Pansy pointed aimlessly to the court, playing out a theatrical conversation about theoretical tennis, or possibly the condition of the grass. "Is there something I don't know?"

"Many things, I imagine," Pansy said unhelpfully, and Hermione slid her an admonishing glance. "In particular? That you and Draco have not yet had a conversation about renouncing your citizenship."

"Renouncing?" Hermione echoed. "I just assumed I could have both."

"Not if you're going to be Queen Consort," Pansy said, which Hermione supposed was probably a good point, though not one she'd considered before. "If you were in my position, fine, but you'll be the mother of the next monarch, Hermione. They should be British, through and through."

"Is that what Draco thinks?" Hermione asked, and though it wasn't in Pansy's nature to hesitate, she did seem to have traces of not wanting to answer.

"I imagine it's what he expects," was Pansy's diplomatic reply. "You've not been back to the States in some time, have you? Surely it won't cost you much to give it up. Besides, given our recent push for nationalism," she said sourly, "you can't possibly be surprised."

"Well, no, but I—" She paused, suffering a sharp jab from Pansy that meant she was probably chewing her lip, or otherwise visibly concerned. "Sorry," she grumbled, and Pansy shrugged. "I just don't understand why Draco hasn't brought it up. If it's something I'll have to do before we can be engaged, shouldn't I have heard about it by now?"

"Well, how could he?" Pansy replied smartly. "The last time he asked anything of you, you ended things with him."

It was such a blunt synthesis of a complicated situation that Hermione was momentarily stunned. Was that really what had happened? Possibly, but even so.

"Pans, I thought—" I thought you were on my side was on the tip of her tongue, though she bit it back, remembering where she was and how firmly this was not the right place for that conversation. Pansy, however, gave her a long look, possibly estimating as much.

"You still don't get it, do you?" Pansy said quietly. "This isn't personal, Hermione. This isn't me being his friend or yours, it's just what it is. There are boundaries you can push and some you can't. Do you think I enjoy wearing pantyhose in this weather?" she asked, gesturing to Hermione's bare legs. It would surely be tabloid fodder tomorrow, but by now Hermione had presumed any and all criticism of her appearance to be a foregone conclusion.

"There are rules to be followed," Pansy said, "and Draco has the strictest of them all, particularly now. Politics are turbulent," she pointed out, "and the monarchy is not as loved as it once was. Draco is a man without much freedom of choice being torn between what you expect of him and what his station demands."

What stung, outside of the obvious, was the implication that this was an intimate conversation Pansy and Draco had previously had. "So he's talked to you about this and not me," Hermione said, and it wasn't a question. She suspected it had been quite a recent conversation, too.

"He wanted my advice," Pansy said simply. "On how to broach the subject."

"And you said…?"

"Oh, naturally I advised him to wait until Nott could inconveniently accost us in a public setting, of course," Pansy said drily before turning to Hermione with an arched brow, shaking her head. "What do you think I told him, Hermione? Obviously," she scoffed, "seeing as you're just hearing of this now, he didn't listen to my advice."

Strangely, Hermione's gut instinct was to defend him. "Waiting to get engaged was my idea, Pans. He probably didn't think it was necessary to have the conversation now. And besides, his parents have been in the news more than once, which isn't helping." Narcissa's recent appraisal of her personal jewelry had lent a bit of flame to the rumors that the Prince and Princess of Wales were dividing their assets, potentially considering a divorce. Not particularly timely for any engagements, especially because Hermione struggled to imagine how such information might have even been discovered.

Pansy gave a shrug that meant she disagreed, but had no plans to push the topic. "He shields you," she said. "Unnecessarily, in my opinion, but I suppose he has his own private concerns. He protects your relationship by isolating you."

"From what?"

But by then, Daisy and Angelina had both taken to the court. Pansy and Hermione were forced to turn their attention to the match, leaving Hermione's goblin brain to toy with the conversation as it wished in the meantime.

"It's not a matter of isolation," Draco said when Hermione recounted the conversation to him later. "Just… timing," he said, with an air of having expressed a similar concept before. To Pansy, Hermione imagined, or to someone else.

"But you clearly are keeping things from me," Hermione said, and Draco shook his head.

"Renouncing your American citizenship will probably be necessary, it's true, but hardly at this precise moment," he said. "Once you and I are both ready for a public engagement, then we can move forward with your decision."

"But the decision will have to be made before the engagement, wouldn't it?" Hermione pointed out, frowning. "What if I were to refuse?"

She could see on Draco's face that was precisely why he hadn't brought it up.

"Oh," she said dully. "So you still think I could be convinced not to marry you, I take it."

Draco took a moment to collect his thoughts before saying, quite deliberately, "I didn't know whether you might oppose the idea. Asking you to change your citizenship or your faith, that's all very—"

"My faith?" Hermione echoed with surprise, as Draco cleared his throat, obviously having tripped into revealing more than he'd intended.

"My grandfather is head of the Church of England, as I will be someday," he explained. "And we have something of a minor turbulent history with the Vatican," he added, attempting one of their usual historical banters, but Hermione wasn't entirely in the mood.

"Okay, so I'm not British enough to marry you," she deduced, which Draco was in no rush to deny. "That's hardly news. We've always known that I'm not Pansy—"

"Believe me, she's not without her own problems," Draco said quickly. "She doesn't care much for being under my grandfather's thumb either, and I certainly don't blame her."

Hermione supposed there could be something simmering under Pansy's pristine surface. Doing everything perfectly was its own form of exhausting, particularly with a soon-to-be public rival poised to disrupt things the way Rita insisted Hermione was, but she wasn't quite ready to veer from the topic of conversation.

"Still," she pressed. "You didn't think I could understand what you'd need from me?"

"It's not just a matter of understanding, is it?" Draco asked, and the implied reality—I'm not convinced you'll agree to everything I have to ask of you—was, unfortunately, valid enough that Hermione couldn't conjure up the ability to deny it.

"Is this something I have to decide right now?" Hermione asked, and she couldn't tell if Draco was relieved, disappointed, or a little of both. Compromise, she thought glumly. A scenario in which both bargaining parties believe they've given something up.

"No, certainly not," he assured her. "It's hardly the right time, is it?"

If they'd tacitly agreed on one thing so far, it was that somehow, they would both know when the timing was right.

"Shall I put my shirt back on, then?" he added, gesturing to where it had been deposited pre-conversation, and the idea was such undeniable idiocy she half considered stealing his crown to teach him a lesson.

"Don't be ridiculous," she assured him, resting her hands on his hips. "Engagements can wait, Your Highness. This can't."

The Tartan Dress
December 11, 2016

"In honor of my little sister's engagement," Daphne said, holding her champagne flute aloft and turning to Astoria. "To you, Astoria," she said, eyes bright with affection. "May you and Alexander have a wonderful adventure together."

"To Astoria," the rest of the room echoed, as Astoria leaned into her new fiancé's arms and Hermione caught the motion of Theo leaning in to speak in Draco's ear.

"Less than a year of dating and already engaged," Theo commented, gesturing to where Astoria was delightedly flaunting her ring. "Do you think Poliakoff's aware he could have drawn it out for at least another half decade, or…?"

"You," Draco said with a muted groan, "are an unbearable swine."

Theo glanced back at Hermione, winking, and she sighed, gesturing for him to join her as Draco stepped forward to congratulate the Greengrass family.

"Draco's right, you know," she informed Theo, and he gave her a merciless grin. "As if Rita Skeeter isn't giving us a hard enough time without your help."

"Oh, he's fine," Theo said with a shrug. "Besides, he ought to get on with it, anyway."

"Why, so you two can live in happily married bliss adjacent to each other?" Hermione asked pointedly, and Theo chuckled into his champagne flute, glancing up at his wife.

"She looks perfect, doesn't she?" he remarked, taking a sip. "One of the charming features of seeing so little of each other is that I get to repeatedly marvel anew at the absurdity of knowing the most beautiful woman in the room chose to marry me. No offense," he added with a cheery glance at Hermione, who rolled her eyes.

"Believe me, I'm aware she wins in any given room," she said. "I'm just pleased she continues to find time to dress me."

If Daphne's continued success of her fashion line weren't enough to keep her busy, being Astoria's maid of honor certainly would. Hermione suspected Astoria wouldn't be pleased with any minimal affair, which meant Daphne's load was unlikely to lighten. More of a problem for Theo than for Hermione, though he seemed to be handling it well.

"This piece is a tour de force," Theo said, eyeing Hermione's dress with pleasure. He wasn't the only one; the dress would later put Daphne's fashion line on the map for its modern shape and perfect tailoring, plus its distinctly British charm. "You look precisely like Prince Lucius."

"I know you mean the dog, and yet I'm still not particularly flattered," Hermione sighed, glancing over her forest green plaid and trying not to recall that it had, in fact, been inspired by the coat Daphne had made for their family greyhound. "I told her I needed to look more British, so I suppose I should have expected this."

"And so festive, too," Theo said, toasting her. "You have to admit, the cut is perfection."

"Hush," Hermione told him, though, per usual, she was fairly certain he would not.

Hermione and Theo were continuing to spend an inordinate amount of time together, both because it was a busy political season for Draco and because Daphne's line was rapidly expanding. The SPEW blog, too, was particularly active around the holidays; Daphne's post about what to buy for friends, family members, colleagues, and acquaintances had gone viral.

Which wasn't to say Hermione wasn't equally busy with Minerva and the Transfiguration Project, which was struggling to move forward with one of its older projects in Knockturn. Opposition to the possibility of gentrification was so strong that the neighborhood council was voting to end all development, including the planned art installation, and Hermione was constantly having to attend last minute action committee meetings opposing the project.

Once, she'd had to inadvertently drag Theo along, after forgetting entirely that she was supposed to be keeping a promise to Daphne to watch him. In the end, canceling their dinner plans to observe the council's arguments against any further Knockturn developments had proven a bit of a mixed blessing.

"The problem isn't that they oppose development, it's the fact that this particular development is such stifling bollockery," Theo had said in his usual drawl, not bothering to whisper despite Hermione's desperate attempts to shush him. "Given the choice between this bit of… art, I suppose—which requires maintenance, by the way," he informed Hermione, still too-loudly, "and some sort of organic grocery store bullying in to increase their rents, I can't say I blame them for all this oppositional squawking, either. Why shouldn't they push for a moratorium on all development in the area?"

"Theo, please, I—"

"What would you do, then?" came the voice Hermione had most hoped not to hear, as Theo turned to face Minerva McGonagall herself. "You seem to have thoughts on the matter."

Having witnessed more than one of Theo's rants, the idea that he might speak unfiltered to Minerva about anything was, appropriately, sharply worrisome to Hermione. "Dear god, no—"

"Well, it's hardly brain surgery. Give them something they can use," Theo said, ignoring Hermione's distress completely. "There are businesses here already, aren't there? What they need is an injection of income, not the aesthetic burden of the pearl-clutching upper class," he said with oozing disparagement, despite being a primary inheriting member of just such a class.

"The Transfiguration Project is a public art organization, young man," Minerva said, frowning. "I hardly think pearl-clutching is at issue, do you?"

"Isn't it? They've hired an artist to 'revitalize' the space, but why the absurd morbidity? It isn't dead," Theo declared bluntly. "Considering the transfiguration concept, the word they mean is 'undesirable,' I assume," he said, as Hermione winced. "But there's an ecosystem in place already. If they're going to disrupt it, they'll have to do it in a way that brings people here."

"Wouldn't art do that?" Minerva countered, as Hermione struggled not to bite her nails.

"Sure," Theo said insincerely, with precisely the voice he used before getting into an argument with Daphne, usually over the merits of something outrageously niche, like whether or not Da Vinci had ever actually seen a naked woman and not simply put wigs on men. "It would bring people, fine—but only to look for five minutes," he scoffed, "and then leave for somewhere else to eat their avocado toasts. What you need is a way to bring people's wallets here," he announced, which was a comment Hermione felt certain Pansy would have considered deeply crass. "Draw in business. A venue," he said, apparently having just invented it as an option. "Somewhere that can host events, conventions. Guests would need to buy local food and beverages, plus the lessees would need to hire local services. Caterers," he enumerated, "florists, custodial services—"

"Sounds like a job for a private developer, not an arts organization," Minerva cut in, and Theo shrugged.

"Unless the venue itself is an art installation," he said, and though Hermione continued to feel some concern about the way Theo clearly had no idea who he was talking to, she was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, he might have actually thought some of this through.

"They could hire a local architect," he said. "Host a design competition, even, and let Knockturn businesses choose. Knockturn doesn't need to be Covent Garden or Diagon Alley," Theo added with a sniff of distaste. "It doesn't need to be anything at all. It can be something that's both everything and nothing."

A bit unnecessarily cerebral, as Theo's ideas often were, but clearly, something about the statement had stuck with Minerva.

"An open venue," Minerva murmured, turning it over in her mind. "Something that can be everything and nothing."

"Talk about transfiguration, am I right?" Theo said with a laugh, apparently amusing himself with his own wordplay. "Make it over into one thing one day, another the next. A wedding hall, a conference auditorium," he said, waving a hand. "A market for basket weavers and rare exotic jams. It doesn't define the place because it has no definition."

"Interesting," Minerva said with a pensive frown, and Theo shrugged again.

"Well, it's been a pleasure or something, but my friend Cali and I have plans to go see a small baby now," Theo said, nudging Hermione's arm and gesturing evasively to the time. "That, and Prince Lucius needs to be walked. He hates to be left alone too long, it reminds him of his time in the war."

"Prince Lucius?" Minerva echoed.

"I'd have used his full title, but I'm short on time," Theo replied airily, meandering away before waiting to see if Hermione had followed.

That had been the previous week. Minerva had since pressed Hermione repeatedly for details about Theo, including his business acumen. "I don't know if he has acumen, exactly," Hermione said with a frown. "He's only ever invested in his wife's clothing line."

"You mean Daphne Nott, I presume?" Minerva asked, and then shouted, "WOOD!"

"Yes, I'm here," Oliver barked in reply, bounding in with an electric scooter that he would later crash tucked under one arm. "You rang, Minnie?"

"Do you have the folder on Theodore Nott?"

"What, the Duke?"

"No, the younger one."

"Ah, right—" Oliver disappeared, then reappeared with a remarkably meticulous file in hand, flipping it open and reading aloud, "Only son of the Duke of Norfolk, partner and financial backer for the couture line Daphne Nott. Graduated with double firsts from Hogwarts University in English Literature and History of Art, with a speciality in architecture—"

"Theo did what now?" Hermione said, startled.

"—increased Daphne Nott sales by… my goodness, is that a number? And all during this year, too—well," Oliver said with glee, "that's certainly not unremarkable—"

"Well, Daphne's very good at what she does—but hang on, hold on, stop," Hermione said, cutting Oliver off before he could continue and turning to Minerva, bewildered. "Why are you researching Theo, exactly?"

Minerva gave Hermione a grave, unsettling look. "Miss Granger," she said, removing her glasses and looking more exhausted than usual at having to explain herself. "Are you unaware that your friend… Theo," she said, sounding positively dismayed at being forced to use a diminutive for the man/dog owner in question, "is one of the wealthiest men in this country?"

"I—" She wasn't unaware, no, but it was easy to forget. "Well, of course, but—"

"Miss Granger, even I am not above admitting I cannot take this project further without help," Minerva said, fixing Hermione with a pointed look. "I would do all of us a disservice by not considering what he could potentially bring to the table as an investor."

She paused, eyeing Hermione for a moment.

"Do you doubt him?" she asked, and while Hermione's first instinct was to suggest Theo might lack the experience necessary to invest in a large-scale public development, she paused to consider it.

"Theo has… a fascinating eye," she admitted, recalling Fleur's thoughts on the matter. She had once remarked to Hermione that Theo made an effort to see things that others didn't. "He interprets things in a very interesting way, and it doesn't limit him."

The 'it' in question was usually reality, which was its own form of questionable, but Minerva seemed mostly unbothered.

"Discuss it with him," she advised. "See what he says."

"No," was what Theo said when Hermione broached said discussion.

"But why not?" Hermione insisted, displeased to be met with such reflexive refusal. She'd gone so far as to prepare a powerpoint presentation on the subject, and was a touch miffed it was apparently not even going to be viewed. "You clearly enjoyed telling her what to do at the meeting!"

"Yes," he agreed, "but as you know, I'm hardly interested in the details. What do I care about whatever it was that I said?" he asked, scoffing lightly under his breath. "My focus is my wife, thank you, and I have no particular interest turning my attention elsewhere."

"But—"

"Now, if you'll excuse us, Their Highnesses and I are otherwise engaged," Theo informed Hermione, wandering away with his tartan-coated dog in tow and Jamie tucked under one hand, her two bottom teeth on proud display in a series of spirited babbles. (By then, she had progressed to calling Hermione 'Herm-ow-ninny,' which Hermione considered close enough.)

Now, three days later, Theo cut Hermione off before she could ask him again.

"Stop," he said, apparently having learned to read her mind. "I'm not interested in a job, California. Look at me," he said, gesturing to… nothing relevant, as far as Hermione could tell. "Do I look like someone who aspires to a profession? I already have my hands full securing appearances for Greengrass as it is."

"That clearly doesn't take up enough of your time," Hermione said skeptically, but Theo, true to form, wasn't listening.

"A pity Jamie isn't here," he said. "I'd rather have her improperly singing the alphabet while untying my shoes than talk to Greengrass' father one more time about his investments."

"I'm sure, Theo," Hermione said, already exasperated with losing his attention, "but if we could just—"

"I just don't understand the pleasure of seeing money increase," Theo remarked, raising his glass absentmindedly to his lips. "Isn't there far more pleasure in watching something develop? A wonder Blaise can stand it. Oh, look, Prince Lucius will love those," he said, catching sight of some sort of meat pie going by on a platter and disappearing as Draco nudged Hermione, materializing at her side.

"Still not into the idea, hm?" Draco guessed, and Hermione shook her head, fighting a scowl. "Well, he can be quite stubborn. The trouble with Theo is you can't tell him to do anything," he sighed, "you merely have to let him dismiss you outright or see if he comes around on his own."

True, but unhelpful. "How do you think he's doing?" she asked, turning toward Draco, who shrugged.

"Always hard to tell with him. His natural state is typically a bit restless." He contemplated Theo's back for a moment before adding, "Though, I do think it's quite possible he's ready to put down roots, et cetera. Harry tells me he spends quite a lot of time with Jamie." He glanced at Hermione. "Has Daphne said anything to you?"

"About children?" Draco nodded. "It's…" Hermione hesitated. "Not promising."

"I think there might be something wrong with me," Daphne had recently whispered to Hermione, pulling her aside during one of the Sunday cream teas at Grimmauld Place. Notably, Pansy had asked Daphne to hold Jamie while she took a phone call with her press secretary, presumably about her upcoming public engagements.

It was the first time Hermione realized that, unlike the rest of them, Daphne rarely held Jamie at all. Initially she thought it was because Daphne was particularly busy, having less time to spend with the baby than the others, but when Daphne confessed the avoidance was actually quite purposeful, Hermione somehow managed to be both surprised and unsurprised.

"It's not that I don't love Jamie," Daphne had confessed, looking pained by what seemed to be a long-withheld admission, "because of course I do, but—"

"Daph, you don't have to love babies just because you have boobs," Hermione pointed out, and Daphne grimaced.

"It's just… Nott's so good with her," she admitted. "I suppose he makes me feel a bit inadequate. I thought for sure he'd loathe it, being made to talk to a toddler all the time when you know as well as I do he can't stand boredom, but I think he's a bit of a, well. A nurturer," she said, and winced. "Unlike me."

Protesting that it wasn't true didn't go particularly far, as Hermione expected it wouldn't. All that was clear to her was that if Theo wanted a baby, Daphne clearly did not.

"Well, I'm sure they'll sort it out," Draco said, drawing Hermione's attention back to the subject at hand. "That, or we'll all finally have something new to bet on when it comes to them."

"But don't you think it could become a strain?" Hermione asked him. "If one wants children and the other doesn't," she clarified, "and particularly with Daphne so busy all the time—"

"I'm sure there will come a right time," Draco said.

Hermione paused for a moment, hesitating, and then turned to speak to him more privately, drawing him slightly out of earshot from the rest of the party.

"Anything new from your grandfather?" she asked.

"Aside from Brexit?" At her grimace, he continued with a sigh, "Astoria's engagement means our relationship's been back in the press." That much Hermione already knew; the old headlines about Draco's 'misconduct' with Astoria had resurfaced, much to her chagrin. "And my mother's refusal to join us at Christmas is, unfortunately, a missed opportunity to put rumors of their separation to rest."

"So," Hermione sighed. "Not the right time, I take it?"

He reached out, toying with her fingers for a moment.

"I could propose now," he suggested. "Would be a refreshing take, wouldn't it? And besides, who could say no to you in this dress," he remarked, smiling at her festive plaid. "You're practically wearing our flag."

"Too bad nobody will even know," she grumbled. "Daphne finally talked me into one of those fancy blowouts, too. I nearly look like I can keep up with Pansy, don't I? Or at least not sweep her chimney," she lamented, and Draco laughed.

"Well," Draco said, "you never know. Maybe someone will let something slip."

The 'Normal Girl' Trainers
May 20, 2017

"Well, this is… a look," Blaise remarked, glancing down at Hermione's sneakers as if she'd shown up in galoshes. "Or a lack of look, I suppose."

Hermione groaned. "Look, after the tartan dress photos leaked, I've had to wear more normal things. Apparently I've started to 'try too hard,' if Rita's opinion on the subject is to be believed." (After this particular outing, the headlines would read: HERMIONE GRANGER TRADES HER TRUSTY NEUTRAL PUMPS FOR COMFORT! ROYALS, JUST LIKE US!, which was evidently what Daphne had insisted was a necessary reaction in a text message sent between cake tastings and dress fittings.) "Besides, since when is a football game cause for high heels?"

"Don't ask Pansy," Blaise advised, gesturing to where she was wearing a pair of espadrilles with her summer sundress. It was a comparison to Hermione's artfully fitted (she hoped) skinny jeans that would ultimately both cost and earn her publicity points, depending on whether people found her to be unpolished or relatable.

It was another group outing, this time on behalf of sporting queen Ginny Weasley. Harry, who remained a close friend, had procured them all tickets, forgetting what it meant on the occasions his two social circles came together.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked Blaise, gesturing to where Neville was sitting with Susan Bones. "I can't imagine you two are going to speak to each other, but—"

"Ah, minus ten for worrying, New Tracey, but plus twenty for sincerity." He flashed her a thinner version of his irreverent smile, adding, "Besides, Old Tracey's around here somewhere, in the event I find myself thirsting for sentimentality."

"You should probably stop calling her Old Tracey if you're planning to marry her," Hermione pointed out. "Just a thought."

"Eh, she knows what she's getting into," Blaise countered with a shrug. "It's my primary reason for affection, in fact, that she's so very clear on having low expectations."

It was—or was clearly intended to be—a joke, but being who she was, Hermione grew enormously concerned. Catching her expression, Blaise shook his head, admonishing her with wink of, "Minus fifteen, New Tracey. You mustn't fret so often or we'll both wrinkle before our time."

"Blaise—"

"Darling, much as I treasure your concern, I hardly think it's worth the fuss," Blaise said. He, like Pansy, was predictably overdressed in a royal blue suit, and Hermione's look of pity was greatly emphasized by her reflection in the mirrored lenses of his aviators. Regrettably, she guessed she could stand to turn it down a bit.

"Have you given any more thought to the… well, you know?" she asked optimistically, watching his expression fail to change as she danced into a different subject. She didn't want to discuss the ring so close to where Tracey could be listening, but still. Blaise had informed her over a year ago that he'd bought it, and she'd heard no further news of it since.

"More thought to Theodore's financial portfolio? Yes," Blaise said. "I've concluded after extensive research that he does, indeed, have sufficient expendable income."

"Blaise," Hermione sighed.

He spared her a mirrored glance. "Hm?"

"What exactly are you waiting for?" she asked, exasperated she even had to clarify the question, and Blaise, to her dismay, chuckled outright.

"An interesting choice, you broaching that particular subject," he commented, giving her a pointed look. "Or is there some reason that you, too, lack a—"

"Financial portfolio," she supplied quickly, deciding that was going to be their euphemism for the day. "And yes, I know it's a bit counterintuitive that I should have to ask," she said, grumbling a bit at the admission, "but it's just not the right time, that's all."

"Well, there you have it," Blaise said, shrugging. "If it's a good enough excuse for you, New Tracey, why should I require any further explanation?"

"I—" Unfortunately, he had a point. "Well, as long as you're happy, I suppose."

She couldn't prove it, but she was almost certain that beneath the glassy lenses, Blaise's eyes had flicked momentarily to Neville and back.

"You know," Blaise said, "now that I think of it, the trainers are a good choice. Refreshing," he said, reaching out to pat her knee. "Makes you a bit of a cheeky normal girl instead of a dastardly pretender to the throne."

"Do I get points?" Hermione asked.

Blaise considered it. "Yes," he said. "Five."

"Five?" Ridiculous. "Come on."

"Fine. Eleven."

"Eleven, really?"

"I agree, eleven is a travesty," Draco said later, having been absent for an international summit. Predictably, the interview conducted after his appearance began with the subject of climate change and ended with demands about his parents, his mysteriously forthcoming (or not?) nuptials, and whether or not he was fussed about Harry's growing popularity thanks, to his marriage to Pansy.

"Well, I haggled him up to seventeen," Hermione said, "though I certainly think I deserve more."

"You'll get there," Draco offered reassuringly. "Personally, I liked the casual look."

"Certainly better than pantyhose," Hermione scoffed without thinking, and caught Draco's wary expression at what she might have been implying. "No, sorry Draco, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine, I understand. I ask a lot of you." He rose to his feet, unsettled, and glanced over his shoulder at her, either consciously or unconsciously putting distance between them. "How's the situation with the Transfiguration Project?" he asked her neutrally. "Any better?"

It didn't seem worth trying to return to the conversation about his grandfather's expectations just yet; she knew he wasn't ready to discuss it. "Minerva actually followed through with Theo's idea for a design competition," Hermione said, standing to join him as Draco pretended to look at his bookshelf, mind clearly elsewhere. "I found architectural plans for something similar to his suggestion on her desk the other day. I mentioned it to him, actually, hoping it would encourage him to be involved—you know how he hates when people interpret his concepts incorrectly—but nothing, so…"

She trailed off, noticing that Draco's mind was clearly still fixed on her previous complaint.

She stepped forward, resting her cheek against the blade of his shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him, letting him gradually lean against her, and attempted to explain.

"It's hard," she told him softly. "Giving up so much. My name, my country, my upbringing. All the things I used to define myself with."

She felt him swallow, one of his hands rising to rest on top of hers.

"I know bare legs should be the least of it, but it still feels like such a hardship," she admitted with a muffled laugh. "The only one that's small enough to really feel. The rest of it just makes me go a little numb. Do you know what I mean?"

He hesitated.

And then, "If it's too much—"

"It's not too much. But it is… a lot. A lot all at once." She exhaled deeply, more forcefully than she intended, and when he turned to take her in his arms, she felt a strangely mixed sense of relief. "I can't decide whether I'm glad you're giving me time to adjust to the idea," she admitted, "or if I wish you'd just make demands so I don't have a choice."

Draco stroked the notches of her spine, comfortingly.

"Well, if it comes down to patience or possible resentment," he said, "I think I'll take the waiting."

She was grateful, despite some strange, morbid wish that he'd bullied her into it somehow.

"Unless, that is," Draco murmured, "you can think of a reason for me to be in a rush."

Later, she would consider that if it was meant to be a sign, she'd blown right past it.

"No," she assured him. "I'm happy as we are."

The Husband Shirt
July 30, 2017

"Oh god," Daphne wailed. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's really not your fault," Hermione said with a laugh, taking the phone from Daphne's hand and letting the screen go dark on the headline: HERMIONE GRANGER SENDS SUBTLE MESSAGE TO RELUCTANT PRINCE DRACO WITH MISHA NONOO 'HUSBAND' SHIRT… IS IT A SIGN SHE'S GROWN TIRED OF WAITING? "So what if it's called that, Daph? Rita Skeeter needs to stop reading into everything, I swear—"

"I really thought it was just a white shirt," Daphne continued lamenting, clearly not remotely at ease despite Hermione's attempts at reassurance. "I thought 'oh, what lovely hardware on the buttons,' and it didn't even occur to me to think what the design was called—"

"Hey," Hermione said soothingly, or in a fervent attempt to be. "Really, Daph, it's fine, I honestly thought it was funny—"

"It's not," Daphne said, half-gulping it. "I haven't seemed to get anything right lately—first this," she said, "then the mix-up with Astoria's reception gown, and I swear, I—" She broke off, giving Hermione a teary look of desperation. "You should have seen what a mess Theo and I were last night," she said, dropping to a whisper. "Everything was off, it was revolting, and then halfway through I actually cried, and—"

"Cake?" Harry asked brightly, appearing at Hermione's elbow, and Daphne promptly gave an alarming sound that may have been a sob, pivoting away and disappearing into Harry and Pansy's country house as Harry stared after her, bewildered. "Huh," he said, handing the plate to Hermione. "And here I thought passing my birthday along to my daughter would rid me of the annual party curse."

"She's just a bit… stressed," Hermione said, grimacing as she portioned herself a bite of Jamie's buttercream cake. "She'll be fine, I'm sure. She just needs a nap." And an orgasm, by the sounds of it, though Hermione thought it better not to suggest that to Harry, of all people.

He gave a listless indication of agreement, shifting to sit beside her on the garden table he and Pansy had set out for the party. "Understandable. Nott seems a bit out of sorts as well," he said, gesturing to where Theo and Draco were in deep conversation across the garden. Lucius, Prince of Dogs and Lord of the Smiles was nearby with baby Jamie, huddling pathetically beside her in the sun. "Trouble with the disaster twins?"

"I think it might be a matter of procreation," Hermione said. "That's the last I heard, anyway."

Harry shrugged, shoveling a large piece of cake into his mouth. "More babies, I say," he said around the bite of pastry. "Though, I'm not entirely sure the world is ready for a third Theodore Nott, what with the first two being such polarities of difficulty."

"Is the Elder Nott on your case, then?" Hermione guessed, and Harry gave her a look that suggested they were about to have a long, frustrating conversation, starting now. "I really thought the two of you were going to get away with not having to deal with him."

"I thought so myself," Harry admitted, wiping at his mouth with the napkin Pansy had ordered with Jamie's name embossed in the corner, "but considering the way things are going, it's been a bit frustrating to sit quietly. It's one thing to take orders in the Army," he said, green eyes cutting to hers with a look of grim defiance, "but having the power to influence things and doing nothing with it is…"

He trailed off, mouth tightening.

"Displeasing," he finished, which was as much a Pansy statement as Hermione had ever heard.

"I never thought of you as the political type," she commented, and Harry turned to face her, shaking his head.

"I'm not. Or I wouldn't be, if it were up to me. But doing nothing is—"

He stopped.

"Displeasing?" Hermione guessed wryly, and Harry chuckled.

"Yes," he said, taking another bite of cake.

In the silence that followed, Hermione pieced something very surprising together.

"Sounds like that alleged feud between you and Draco is real," she guessed, and Harry said nothing, merely chewing his cake in silence. She frowned, nudging his arm. "But you've been perfectly fine every time I've seen you, haven't you?"

"We're not feuding," Harry said, in a way that wasn't at all convincing. "Draco's simply taking his grandfather's side. Or, at the very least, not taking a side at all," he said with palpable disapproval, "which is worse."

"Draco's not an elected politician, Harry. I don't really think he can comment freely on anything controversial," Hermione said, carefully schooling her reply, and Harry scoffed aloud.

"No, he can't, because he's more concerned with the preservation of the monarchy than he is with changing times. You do realize it's possible your children may no longer have a throne to inherit, don't you?" Harry said, prompting Hermione to blink with surprise. "That's what's worrying Abraxas, in the end. That's all it comes down to. Prince Lucifer is extremely unpopular, and Draco's still young," he remarked darkly. "They can certainly remove the monarchy during his lifetime if public approval remains low."

Hermione, who didn't know what to say, opted to say nothing. It wasn't as if she wasn't aware that Prince Lucius and King Abraxas both opposed anything shaking the monarchy's codified protocol for that exact reason. Draco had never had to express his concern directly for her to understand that she was, in almost every possible way, a risk to the very institution they represented.

"I know you wrote an article," Harry said in an undertone.

Hermione turned sharply. "I'm sorry?"

"Pansy left Daphne's blog up on her computer," he said, and Hermione bristled. "You think I didn't know that Brexit post was you?"

Calling it a 'Brexit post' was an immediate misnomer, in Hermione's opinion. It was merely a question and answer piece about the election, and it was over a year old. "It wasn't a politically driven article," she insisted.

"Actually, it very much was. It certainly would be if people knew you wrote it," Harry pointed out, and Hermione grimaced. "And really, why shouldn't you discuss the motivations behind it? Or the tone of politics, even when it comes to culture? It does have an impact on everything. You shouldn't be limited and neither should Draco," he said, and uncomfortably, Hermione began to see where the friction was coming from.

"You have different roles," she began, but Harry cut her off, setting the plate aside.

"We certainly do," he agreed. "He's going to lead this country and I'm not. So which of us is more important?"

"I just meant—"

"I want more for Pansy," Harry said, surprising Hermione once again into silence. "She has things to say, you know. That speech she gave at the opening of the children's hospital last month? She wrote that, delivered it perfectly. She deserves a voice," Harry said, sounding frustrated, "and instead that's being wasted on Draco, who talks constantly in public and still says absolutely nothing—"

"Harry," Hermione warned. "That's not fair."

"Maybe not," he said, insincerely. "But I'm getting a bit tired of what's supposedly fair. Aren't you?" When she said nothing, he continued, "What's fair about Draco having the privilege that he does because he was born to it? He should set the tone for future generations. Should my daughter be more privileged than other children simply because of her blood?" he asked Hermione, who was trapped in an extremely inconvenient place of both agreeing with him and trying desperately to avoid it. "If Draco's going to profit from his birth, he should at least stand for something that benefits others. If he wants to claim divine right, it calls for more than theatrical diplomacy."

From across the garden, Draco turned, catching Hermione's eye. His ears must have been burning, she thought, sparing him a small wave she hoped looked innocent enough before turning back to Harry.

"What exactly do you want me to say?" she asked him, and Harry shrugged, nudging his knee into hers.

"You forget, this royalty thing is a job," he told her. "You marry him, you get everything that comes with it. You're his coworker," he pointed out. "You're the face of a company that is capable of much more than wearing jewels and pretty dresses."

It didn't feel like a slight, even if it could have been. It felt more like a reminder of something she hadn't considered in that context before.

"He listens to you," Harry said conclusively. "He doesn't listen to me, but he listens to you."

Hermione eyed her empty plate, unsure what to make of that.

In her silence, Harry leaned over, kissing her cheek. "Just something to think about," he said, and removed her plate from her hands, carrying it back into the house as Draco headed towards her, watching Harry disappear with obvious suspicion.

"I can't imagine that was pleasant," Draco said, settling himself where Harry had been. "Though, I did have to have a very long conversation with Tracey earlier about her plans for the wedding," he sighed, "so that might have been worse."

"You know, it's funny," Hermione said, deciding to remain on the topic of Tracey. She wasn't sure she wanted to recap her conversation with Harry just yet. "I do sort of understand why Blaise likes her."

Draco's brow furrowed with surprise. "Yeah?"

"Well, she doesn't really feel the need to be one of us, does she?" Hermione said, shrugging. "When she came with Theo and me to that neighborhood Minerva's looking into—"

"Last week, you mean? I didn't know you brought Theo."

"Well, I keep trying to convince him to get on board with the Transfiguration development sites, to no avail," she sighed as Draco nodded sympathetically, "but anyway, it occurred to me that she's not really like Fleur or Neville, you know? She doesn't care if we like her. Sometimes I think she doesn't even want our approval," she said, gesturing to where Tracey and Blaise were wrapped in each other's arms, standing beside the table piled high with gifts for Jamie. "It must be refreshing, for him. Something to give him a reprieve. It's almost like he lost too much when he nearly lost us," she said sadly, "and now he isn't willing to have something if it's going to hurt too much to have it gone."

Draco slid an arm around her, pensive for a moment.

"It can be hard," he said. "Being afraid to lose something." He paused, and then, "Being afraid, in general."

They sat for a few minutes in silence, watching Jamie toddle to Pansy in her pink dress with one hand on Prince Lucius' tartan collar. Jamie seemed to have found a bit of mud to play in, Hermione noted, observing the stains on her dress and on the dog's paws, but Pansy didn't admonish her daughter for the mess. Instead, she ignored it entirely, picking Jamie up and allowing her spotless white Emilia Wickstead to suffer the consequences.

"Funny how afraid we are for things to change until they do," Hermione remarked, watching the woman who had once been so convinced she'd be a terrible mother and marveling a bit how things turned out.

In response, Draco turned to look at her, gauging her for something.

"Sorry Astoria stole your birthday," was apparently the thing he went with. "If it helps, I'm sure we can get her back for it."

An odd thing to say, but a successful one.

To her relief, Hermione tilted her head back and laughed.

The Twilfitt and Tattings Hat
September 24, 2017

"Vengeance is ours," Draco announced, showing Hermione his phone screen. "Pictures of us from the ceremony are all over social media."

"Well?" Hermione asked, feigning suspense. "What's the verdict, then?"

"Your hat is unanimously divine," he replied with a grin, sliding his phone back into his pocket and tapping the ribbon detailing atop her head.

Astoria's wedding was, predictably, a grand affair, taking place on the very weekend they had all made a tradition of heading back to Nott Manor. Whether that particular plan was coincidental or not, Hermione found she was happy for Astoria. She seemed radiant enough, though it was even better news that Daphne, who would finally have something removed from her overflowing plate, had managed to make it to the altar upright.

It was another collision between Blaise and Neville, though Hermione watched, hawk-eyed, the entire ceremony and observed neither eye contact nor occasion for conversation. Blaise and Tracey sat comfortably beside each other instead, chattering away to anyone who expressed congratulations on their recent engagement. As for Harry and Pansy, the two were more affectionate than usual. Later, pictures would circulate of Pansy's hand resting warmly on Harry's knee, further cementing the pair as beloved fairytale figures.

The only questionable factor was the tension between Theo and Daphne, which did not resolve itself until a strange moment en route to the reception, held at a so-called 'house' that was more like a castle, from the ceremony at the church. The four of them were making their way through the small courtyard of the venue from the private car when Theo suddenly paused Daphne with a touch to her elbow, keeping her back before she could enter.

"Greengrass. Before we go in, can we talk about something?"

Hermione caught a flash of panic on Daphne's face and frowned, pulling Draco to a halt.

"Can't it wait?" Daphne hissed, looking… afraid, Hermione thought. An odd reaction. "We just have to get through the reception, Nott, and then you can tell me whatever wild realization you just had in the car—"

"Actually, it's not that, I just wanted to ask you something. I know the timing's not… ideal, shall we say," Theo said, with a little bit of awkwardly manufactured cheer, "but now that the wedding is essentially over, I just thought—"

"I don't want a baby," Daphne blurted loudly, and Theo blinked, startled.

Hermione, unsure whether Daphne was going to need any sort of emotional support, opted not to leave, glancing up at Draco with confusion. He, too, seemed equally concerned, frowning a little as Daphne continued to rant.

"I know the wedding is over, Nott, and I know you want to start a family, but I just… I'm not ready. And I don't know if that means I'll never be ready," she went on, cutting Theo off before he could speak, "but it certainly means not now, and I can't make any promises. What if I never change my mind?"

"Greengrass," Theo said, blinking. "I wasn't—"

"I know I'm not the wife you thought I'd be," Daphne flung at him, rapidly dissolving to what Hermione considered one of her more pitiable breakdowns. "And I know I'm not around to keep your life exciting the way it was in the beginning, but it's—but I just… I'm just so close to having something I never believed would be possible for me," she said tearfully, suddenly dragging a hand to her temples in distress. "I wake up excited about my work, about my clients, about everything in my future, and I can't stop for a baby right now. And I don't know when I'll be ready, and Theo, if you can't wait for me, then—"

She broke off, chin dropping as Theo stared at her in continued disbelief.

"I know," she said, quietly fighting tears, "I know that it must seem like nothing is about you right now. That it's all a matter of what I want, or what I need. But you have to believe me," she begged, glancing up with a pained look of desperation. "You have to know, I wouldn't be standing here without you. I asked to use your name for a reason, Theo," she said, struggling to speak, "because I couldn't be standing here, doing this—being this—without you. And I know I owe you so much more for that, but I—"

"Hang on. Greengrass. Stop."

Theo took three long strides forward, snatching Daphne up in his arms with so little warning that even Hermione gasped a little, watching him give Daphne a look of total, unambiguous fixation.

"Daphne," Theo said, "I was just going to ask you if you wouldn't mind that I've been working on California's little Transfiguration Project."

Hermione blinked, and so did Daphne.

"What?" Daphne asked, still looking a bit shaken from being pressed so abruptly against him.

"I drew up some architectural concepts. A market, plus a convertible venue. I had some design thoughts," Theo said neutrally, "and when I realized there was no possible way that McGonagall woman could do it without my help, I started doing it myself. Blaise looked over the funding, by the way—he says it's all there," he added, as Hermione reminded herself she would really have to pay more attention to the strange things Blaise said from time to time, even if that included an offhanded reference to Theo's financial portfolio. "I just wanted to know you'd be alright with my working on something else. I'll be a primary investor," he said seriously, "so this is a financial decision. Certainly not one I could make without you."

"I—" Daphne stared at him. "You want… to run a company?"

"I'd like to be a primary investor in a not-for-profit arts organization, yes," Theo clarified with a shrug, "but sure, close enough—"

"So… all that about wanting to watch things grow, and nurturing development," Daphne said slowly, "that was… about a company?"

"Again," Theo insisted, "it's a not-for-profit arts organiz-"

"Nott, my god, I thought you were going to leave me," Daphne exhaled, suddenly half-collapsing in his arms. "I've been so terrified for weeks," she said, voice muffled into the lapels of his jacket. "I really thought you were going to tell me I wasn't enough for you anymore, and I just—"

"Daphne Nott," Theo scoffed quietly, tilting her chin up to look at her. "I'm your partner. This thing we have? We built it together. Which means," he added, taking her face in both hands, "I give you permission to take more than you give from time to time. I know you're good for it in the long run," he said in his usual drawl, and Daphne let out a gulp of a laugh, "and I know that someday, I might ask the same of you, just like I know without a trace of doubt that if I ask, you'll give it. Because we're partners," he repeated. "Because I'm your partner, and you're mine."

Daphne's eyes shut, a little glint of relief flashing on her cheek.

"Theo," she said, and whatever would come next, it would be only for him.

"Come on," Hermione whispered to Draco, pulling him away.

She tugged him after her, lost in thought as she traversed the courtyard arch into the outer corridor, contemplating everything Daphne and Theo had said. The first thing that occurred to her, surprisingly, was a sense of a burden being lifted. If Theo was on board with the project, then she could stop worrying about Minerva.

What else was there? Citizenship? Religion? Pantyhose?

Rita Skeeter?

Suddenly, it all felt irrelevant.

All that was left, in fact, was the one thing she had so adamantly denied to Daphne she even felt.

Fear.

"What if I fail?" Hermione asked aloud, and Draco paused, turning to face her in the corridor.

"Fail what?" he asked.

"You," Hermione said.

He observed her quietly a moment. "You think I'm not afraid of that?"

She shook her head. "No, I think you are, and that's a problem, too." She drew him aside, permitting themselves a private moment. "If you need something from me, anything at all, Draco, just ask. Whatever it is, however big or small, I promise I won't resent you, I won't abandon you. I won't leave." She stepped forward, taking his hand, and told him with as much deliberation as she could muster, "I'm here with you, Draco. I'm your partner, so ask."

For a second, he stared at her.

And stared.

Later, she would remember her heart racing when he shifted slowly to lower himself in front of her, on bended knee for the second time. She would remember, specifically, the feeling of synchronicity, when the 'right time' they'd so aimlessly wandered towards would strike them both with clarity, chiming like a chord rung true. She would recall the slight ringing in her ears, and the way the setting sun made the stone beneath their feet look golden. The vines in her periphery would curl out in tendrils from her memory, blossoming improbably on a warm September night in her mind.

"Hermione Granger," Draco said, reaching into his pocket. "Will you renounce your citizenship for me?"

For a second, she thought she might laugh. It came out like a coughed up sob instead.

"Yes," she half-hiccuped, nodding firmly. "Yes, I will."

"And will you convert to the Church of England?" he said, very seriously.

She sighed, trying not to roll her eyes.

"Yes," she said, "fine. That, too."

"And will you, until your death," Draco said, gravely solemn, "promise to support British athletes in the Olympics?"

"Draco," Hermione growled, and in response, he held up the box from his pocket.

The same one he'd shown her on an occasion that felt like a thousand years ago.

"You know, I've just been carrying this around with me, waiting," he informed her, eyeing the box in his hand. "I never really knew what I was waiting for, but I get it now." He looked up, grey eyes finding hers, and said, "I promise not to be afraid."

Hermione held her breath.

"I promise not to fear failure," he said, "but to be brave with you."

He snapped the box open.

"Holy fucking shit," said Hermione, "that diamond is the size of New Zealand."

"Just for the record, you'll have to stop swearing," Draco said apologetically. "Try, I don't know. Holy forking shirts," he offered, looking as if he considered it to be quite the clever suggestion.

Not that she could appreciate it at the moment.

"Draco," Hermione sighed, "are you going to ask me?"

"Well, I can't actually give you the ring now," he said. "Poor taste, I think, to waltz into someone else's wedding reception with this sort of news. Unless you happen to carry around some sort of conveniently long chain on which to host it temporarily? That would be fine, I imagine—"

"Draco," Hermione groaned.

"On second thought, perhaps my instincts were off," he mused, glancing around at where he was kneeling. "Oh, and we can't tell anyone until at least tomorrow," he added, suddenly perturbed. "Not until I tell my grandfather, and—my god," he realized, suddenly going pale. "What have I done? I have to ring Helen immediately—"

"Draco!"

"Does a third proposal seem reasonable?" he asked, frowning. "I can always just—"

"DRACO," Hermione shouted, "FOR FUCK'S SA- ah, sorry," she sighed, catching herself. "That's going to be hard to get used to, so sorry—"

He, however, looked perfectly amused.

"Finally tired of waiting, I take it?" he asked. A bit smugly, in her opinion.

Though, in fairness to him, it had been something of a wait. It had been a good road, and a worthy one, but certainly an altogether overlong one.

"So, so tired," she told him. "Suddenly exhausted, actually."

He smiled, and so did she.

"Please," he said. "Fucking marry me, Hermione."

Later, Rita Skeeter would comment that Hermione's red dress looked particularly rumpled in the leaked pictures from the reception. It was if it hadn't been properly ironed before she'd gotten in the car, Rita would spitefully declare, not even stopping to question if, in reality, Hermione might have simply gotten on her knees in the middle of a stone walkway, all to kiss the man she loved.

"Yes," Hermione said to Draco, because of course she did. Because of course, of course, of course.

Yes, yes, yes.

The Emerald Dress
October 16, 2017

Now this one, I think, is a story I'll have to save. As you can probably guess, this one is one of my absolute favorites.

Even with the unnecessary violence.

a/n: Thank you to those of you who nominated this story in the Granger Enchanted Awards! It's an honor to know you enjoy my work, and I am very grateful to you for reading.

38. Family

Chapter 38: Family

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Engagement of the Century

There can be no denying the global excitement surrounding Prince Draco's announcement of his intended marriage to Hermione Granger, who looked radiant with pleasure upon finally taking her Prince's arm before the public eye. Both Hermione and Draco expressed their joy at being able to openly profess their love at long last, and indeed, the broadcast that followed attracted over twenty million viewers worldwide, indicating the tremendous popularity attributed to the couple after such a long, devoted courtship.

Oh, was our courtship long? Hm, I hadn't noticed, Rita, thank you for reminding me. She's also not being particularly specific, but the 'over twenty' in question was twenty-nine. Twenty-nine million people watched me fumble through my attempts not to accidentally describe Draco's penis while on camera. Twenty-nine million, and then there were the countless others who casually scrolled through Instagram plus the ones who not-so-casually dug up my old school photos and posted collections of suspected improvements to my face (and hair, and clothes, and teeth—though who among us has not benefited from extensive orthodontistry?) throughout the years.

While speculation continued that perhaps King Abraxas and Prince Lucius retained some doubts about Hermione as Prince Draco's bride, the Palace was quick to put such rumours to rest with a glowing statement of congratulations. Still, as the wedding approaches, there are many eyes on the royal family—some staunchly supportive of the American Princess, while others remain wary about her fortitude surviving the pressures of public life.

When it comes to public pressure, 'survival' certainly feels like the right choice of words. Fortunately, I had plenty of other things to worry about before attempting any measly fortification.

September 25, 2017
London, England

"Draco Wales, did you say? The Draco Wales?"

After noticing Hermione's not-so-covert agitation about all the steps required in order to reveal their betrothal (a word Pansy had once used unironically and which Theo had then adopted for relentless, fervent use), Draco had been the one to suggest they tell David and Helen first, hoping the Grangers' particular method of receiving weighty news would dispel Hermione's anxieties about speaking to Prince Lucifer and King Abraxas.

Predictably, the process of informing Hermione's parents about their engagement was about as solemnly received as any personal information had ever been. Still, it was a relief, in a way, that while their engagement remained a secret to the public until they spoke with Draco's parents, she could at least express it to someone. That David and Helen would then have to keep the announcement and their subsequent visit to London a secret was less comforting, though they were doing an excellent job of not remotely acknowledging the impending stress of the situation.

"Yes, Mom, Draco Wales, you may have met him once or twice. Anyway," Hermione continued, ready to swear them to silence, "we just wanted to tell y-"

"Draco," Helen said very seriously, directing her attention to him. "We need to discuss something very serious at once."

"By all means," Draco said in his best prince's voice, "do proceed."

"I refuse to be Nana. It will have to be Grandma or a fight to the death, no alternatives."

Hermione groaned, determined to set the conversation back on track. "Mom, listen, it's just that with all the leaks to the press recently—"

"To be honest, I suspect my mother would prefer to be called Narcissa if it were up to her," Draco remarked, still unwisely indulging conversation with Helen. "Or Grandmother, or perhaps even Grandmamá—"

"You're joking. What is this, English royalty or something?"

"Mom," Hermione barked, nudging Draco forcefully into silence and addressing her parents. "You're going to have to keep this to yourselves, okay?" she implored them. "Really, I mean it. No telling Grandma, even, and—"

"It occurs to me suddenly that we'll have to meet your parents, Draco," David said, choosing an unfortunate time to chime in with his opinion on the matter as Helen eagerly agreed. "I don't suppose your father is a cycling enthusiast, is he?"

"Hm, not so much an enthusiast as a fervent avoider, no—"

Hermione buried her head in her hands, sighing, as David and Helen continued bombarding Draco with questions.

"My god, are we going to meet your grandfather?" (Jesus.)

"Well, I can't imagine you'll be able to get around it, truth be told—" (A disaster waiting to happen, surely.)

"I saw a picture of Hermione's curtsy once—remember, David?—no, in the checkout line, I showed you—anyway, is hers any good?" (Hermione considered interrupting but to what end, exactly?)

"It is, actually, and I'm sure she'll be quite happy to teach you—" (More likely Pansy would, but that was close enough.)

"Marvelous. It's about time we put her to work aside from all this world-saving she's been chattering about since she was in primary school—" (Sigh, a thousand times sigh.)

"A very solid base, actually, the world-saving aspirations. I should really thank you for that." (Sweet of you to humor them, Draco, but let's move it along, shall we?)

"I believe her initial career choice was president-astronaut-ice cream shop owner, wasn't it? I'm not quite sure where to place Queen Consort on the list comparatively. Is it higher or lower?" (Thirty minutes into the FaceTime call and this was where they had arrived, honestly.)

"I have to imagine it's on par, wouldn't you?" (There would, at least, be ice cream. Presumably.)

"Well, thrilled as we are for you, Draco, I do have one thing to say on the topic of marriage," Helen announced, sobering enough that Hermione managed to pause her internal narrative, re-focusing purely out of curiosity. "It is nothing to enter into lightly. I hope we can count on you to invest without restriction in our daughter's enduring happiness."

"I promise, there won't be a day that she questions my affections," Draco said, glancing at Hermione beside him. She smiled, tightening their interlaced hands, and nodded as he turned back to her parents. "I will care for your daughter's heart for the rest of my life."

Hermione leaned her cheek against his shoulder, touched by the sentiment. "Draco, that's such a lovely—"

"Yes, yes, her heart as well, very lovely indeed," Helen interrupted. "But I am, of course, speaking of her other needs."

There was a brief, temporary pause.

"It really cannot be understated," Helen insisted. "Can it, David?"

"No, it cannot. Certainly saved us from dire marital conflicts more than once," David replied cheerfully.

"Like we always say, children, the two most important factors in a committed relationship are trust and lubric-"

"Mother!" Hermione erupted, and beside her, Draco quickly smothered a laugh into the back of his hand. "Your grandchildren are going to be British royals!" Hermione barked, tossing her hands in the air and nearly smacking Draco with the impact. "Perhaps it's not too much to ask that there be no discussion of lube on the occasion of our engagement?"

"Hermione, I simply—"

"Have you even thought about the realities of this?" Hermione demanded, as David and Helen exchanged a glance that read, much to her irritation, she's doing it again. "A year from now, you'll both have to refer to me by a title. Have you realized that? I won't be able to visit you without some sort of grand to-do," she ranted, "and unless the King of England decides he'd rather send me to the Tower than let me marry his grandson, my own wedding will have to include foreign dignitaries, seeing as they're now my casual family friends!"

It was madness, really, that her parents could so easily overlook the way things would now undeniably change—if they were even allowed to. She broke off into something of an abrupt, cliff-edge halt, which was followed by a moment of contemplative silence.

She wondered, momentarily, if perhaps her parents were making the same calculations that she had.

"Well, as long as we're all clear on the lubrication topic," Helen said, shrugging. "Are we?"

It appeared that wasn't the case.

"Oh, indubitably," Draco assured her.

Hermione groaned, giving up.

"Though, on the subject of clarity," said David. "What exactly is an ascot?"

Hermione supposed that was the most normal version of a serious conversation that she was going to get. She couldn't recover from the idea that telling Prince Lucifer—and worse, Narcissa—about their engagement was sure to be some other kind of disaster, and though she figured she ought to be grateful Helen and David were capable of such a distressingly reasonable reaction, she couldn't help continuing to fidget with nerves.

By contrast, Draco was so calm he practically radiated serenity. "I'm so pleased you asked," he replied, giving Hermione's knuckles a reassuring kiss and delighting in relaying the intricacies of aristocratic day dress.

To Hermione's relief, she didn't have long to wait. For as tranquil as he seemed to be amid everything that needed to be done, Draco's sense of purpose was directed to logistics. He had arranged a visit to Malfoy Manor within hours, offering her the simple (too simple? Perhaps even 'famous last words' simple?) reassurance of, "Everything will be fine."

"And if it isn't?" Hermione asked, continuing to fret. "If your father refuses to allow it?"

"He's the Prince of Wales, not the universe," Draco said, as if they had not collectively been referring to him as a satanic figure for the last seven years and, in fact, most of his entire lifetime.

Hermione spoke very little, finding her intestines in knots. She expected Lucius to be displeased, sure, but the mystery of Princess Narcissa was quite another thing altogether. She found herself fixating on the idea that perhaps, out of everyone, only Narcissa would be able to worm herself into Hermione's head, or else into Draco's sense of certainty. If Lucius opposed the marriage, Hermione doubted Draco would be bullied into changing his mind.

If Narcissa opposed it, on the other hand…

She glanced at Draco as he looked out the window, equally contemplative.

Yes, Hermione thought, it would be Narcissa whose final word on the subject could make or break something they'd been building for what felt like their entire adult lives.

Unhelpfully, neither Narcissa nor Lucius made an effort to make anything easier. They sat in silence as Draco spoke, his hand in Hermione's, the sound of his voice moving in and out of her head in an odd form of hypnosis. It wasn't until he stopped talking that the hazy ringing in Hermione's head slowly cleared, and she was able to piece two things together.

One: that they were standing in the same room she had first met Narcissa all those years ago, at which point the words get out while you can filled the vacancy of silence.

They'll break you, Narcissa's voice said in her mind, they'll take everything from you, they'll either turn you into something lifeless or they'll rob you of everything you are—

The second thing, which Hermione didn't notice until after she had forcefully shoved Narcissa's warning away, was that Lucius and Narcissa seemed to have been fighting even before her arrival with Draco. There was an energy that had been in the room even before they entered that Hermione registered, but was unable to place until she did: that remnants of argument floated throughout the the room, reflected in Lucius and Narcissa's postures.

"Well," Narcissa said, after several beats of silence. Lucius, who didn't look surprised by the news even if he didn't look particularly overjoyed to hear it, did not shift his gaze from his son, despite Draco having long since ceased talking.

"If you're going to go through with this," Narcissa said to her son, and then to Hermione, brandishing the conditional as if they had come into the room less than sure of their decision, "then you'll need to be certain nothing is going to come out against her. No secrets, no surprises."

She glanced at her husband, asking spitefully, "Isn't that right, Lucius?"

Lucius said nothing.

They had definitely been fighting.

Draco stole a quick glance at Hermione, reassuring her with a nod before turning to his mother. "I know everything," he assured her. "Even the bad things."

"Like what?" Narcissa asked neutrally, with another quick-but-invasive glance at them both. "We should all be prepared. Now that we're going to be family," she added, turning a pointed look of speculation at Hermione.

"Mother," Draco began tentatively, catching the passive accusation, "I don't really think it's—"

"It's fine." Hermione cut him off with a shake of her head, turning to Narcissa. "If you think I haven't told Draco what skeletons are in my closet, believe me, I'll do it for you now," she said, hoping to achieve Narcissa's own degree of frankness. "In fact, I'm happy to. I have nothing to hide from him or from you."

She caught the motion of Lucius' gaze flicking briefly to her, somewhere between surprised and expectant.

"Hermione," Draco said, reaching for her. "You really don't have to—"

"No, I want to. Your mother's right," she said firmly, still fixed on the obstacle she had always suspected Narcissa would be. "You want to know everything I've done? Here it is. I wrote the article you told me not to," she said, and she could see on Narcissa's face that their first interaction hadn't been forgotten by either party. "In fact, I kept it from Draco for over a year because you told me I'd never be allowed to publish it if he'd known. I also kept the fact that I wrote anonymously for a blog for years. I wrote about politics," she said pointedly, watching Narcissa's pale brow arch. "I even wrote about Brexit."

Beside her, she heard Draco quietly clear his throat, anxious.

"You want to know what else? I had a career as a writer. Secretly," she clarified, with a helpless laugh that time. There was something amusing about it, reliving her first conversation with Narcissa in some warped, retrospective rearview. "The ghostwriter in the papers, Penelope Clearwater? That's me," she said, and caught Lucius' attention snapping up, brows furrowing as beside him, Narcissa's mouth thinned.

Hermione glanced again at Draco, steadying herself. It would need to be said, however Narcissa reacted.

Now or never.

"I was involved in the Lockhart scandal," Hermione admitted, confessing her dirtiest sin and feeling it leave her system with relief, even if Lucius would admonish her for revealing it to Narcissa after the fact. "Though, I didn't know Gilderoy Lockhart was a verified fraud until it was too late," she hurried to explain, "and when my source reported it to Rita Skeeter before I could, I didn't know how t-"

"Why didn't I know about this?" Lucius cut in, his voice low and angry.

He wasn't looking at Hermione. Narcissa, however, hadn't looked away.

Which meant, unfortunately, that Hermione was forced to conceal her look of surprise at becoming aware that Lucius hadn't been informed.

"You know there's a leak somewhere in the Palace," Lucius was admonishing Draco, rising to his feet to address his son in his usual tyrannical way while Draco, still at Hermione's side, set his jaw, resolute. "If this had somehow gotten out—"

"I took care of it," Draco said.

"You say that, but if something had—"

"I told you, I took care of it."

"And how," Lucius began in a contemptuous drawl, "could you possibly be sure that this wouldn't have landed in the hands of Rit-"

"Because there isn't a leak," Draco cut in, rebuking his father in neutral tones as Hermione glanced at him with surprise; there was a leak, as far as she knew. How else had pictures gotten out? Details? The fact that someone close to the royal family had been sharing private information was undeniable, even to her.

"There's not a leak," Draco repeated, his tone slightly less combative that time. "Nor is Lockhart anything to worry about, because he's been taken care of. By me," he clarified firmly.

Lucius went rigid with fury, his jaw too tightly wired to speak.

Hermione, meanwhile, pieced that information together at the same moment that Narcissa, catching signs of trouble, rose to her feet.

"Explain," she beckoned her son, who looked relieved at being able to turn to her.

"I tried to reason with Lockhart," Draco said, not looking at Hermione. "After he first started accusing Hermione under her pseudonym, I thought I could salvage her career. But he knew as well as I did that I am not permitted the resources of my grandfather, or my father," he said, shooting Lucius a frustrated glance, "and we both knew that if I told anyone what had happened, they would happily throw Hermione to the wolves if it meant I could no longer marry her. You expected her reputation to be spotless," Draco accused his father, "and he knew that. So, when he tried to extort me, I told him I would feed him information that the press would be willing to pay for instead. It had to be true to pay off," he added, this time looking apologetically at his mother, "and I'm sorry about the things I had to give him. I'm sorry if it hurt you, giving him insight into our lives like that, even if it was nothing especially important. But it had to be done."

It was Hermione who interjected, finding herself more than a little shocked by learning what 'taking care of it' had meant. "But Gilderoy, he thought I was—"

"The moment I intervened there was no question who you really were. He threatened to 'accidentally' let it slip—he said that even punitive damages from a contract violation would still be less damaging to him than the scandal it would cause for us, and he was right. He could have always made it worse for me than I could have ever made it for him." Draco gave a grim, disheartened laugh. "Trust me, he's not as hapless as he seems."

Learning the truth of Gilderoy Lockhart's manipulation infuriated Hermione, paralyzing her for a moment. She felt certain she could see the conversation playing out; the way Draco had probably been lured into the trap of thinking himself properly informed until the moment Gilderoy's false pleasantries suddenly evaporated.

Yes, the more she thought about it, the more she could see what had probably happened. Draco had probably thought he could reason with Gilderoy; maybe even show sympathy or consideration for his feelings, precisely as she had approached him once. It would be quite unfortunate indeed if someone were to reveal the dastardly practices of Minerva's little project could so easily have been repurposed for I'd hate to see your marriage ended before it even began, Your Highness.

"You—" Hermione swallowed. "You sold him information to keep him quiet?"

Draco nodded. "Photographs, occasionally. Scheduling details from Dobby, tips about where we might be at certain times. Descriptions of private events that made it sound as if he had been there." He glanced up at his mother, who was watching him in silence. "You wanted your divorce," Draco said simply. "So I tried to make it look inevitable."

Narcissa blinked, astonished.

Beside her, Lucius seemed to shake with rage, the very air between them beginning to tremble.

"You sold our private lives to Gilderoy Lockhart?" Lucius said through his teeth, rising to his feet and meeting Draco's eye. "You went behind my back?"

But Draco, Hermione was surprised to see, didn't show an ounce of hesitation in response.

"I gave him trivial details," Draco said flatly. "I revealed nothing of importance and I'd have done it again, Father, easily, if it meant ensuring Hermione's privacy the way you refused to do so many times."

"Are you listening to yourself?" Lucius raged, color rising in his cheeks. "You sold out your family!" he snapped, and in response, Draco shook his head.

"Is this still so difficult for you to understand? Hermione is about to become my family. In fact, she always has been," he said staunchly. "She's the family I choose—and unlike you," Draco warned his father, his voice taking on an edge of spite, "I won't let anything stand in the way of what she and I have built."

For a moment, the room was deathly quiet. Even Hermione could hear nothing but the sound of her own heart pounding, unsure whether to be overwhelmed by the proclamation or fearful of its repercussions, or both.

Then, before she could regain the presence of mind to speak, Lucius had made a full-bodied lunge for Draco, surprising him so fiercely that both men had toppled to the ground before either Hermione or Narcissa could have done anything to prevent it.

"HOW—DARE—YOU—"

"Lucius," Narcissa snapped, and Hermione lunged out of the way, narrowly missing the piled motion as Draco attempted to wrestle his enraged father into submission. "Lucius, for heaven's sake," she growled, "get ahold of yourself this instant, there's no need to exert yourself so childishly—"

"I HOPE YOU LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO SEE YOUR OWN SON TURN HIS BACK ON YOU," Lucius shouted at Draco, attempting to hold his son in something of an amateurish chokehold until Draco, losing his patience, had thrown him onto his back, shoving him down. "Don't you dare ask any favors from me when your own son resents everything you've done!" Lucius snarled, and Draco, red-faced and equally angry, pinned his father's shoulders to the ornate carpet on the floor.

"I choose her," Draco spat, a handful of uncharacteristically out-of-place blond strands falling into his eyes as he held his father down and then, abruptly exhausted, released him. "That means something to me," he mumbled, falling to a seat beside a limply unresisting Lucius. "You were always a prince first, Father, and a far better son than me, but I can't live your life. I can't repeat your mistakes."

He looked wearily at his father's face, searching him for something. Acceptance, most likely.

"I love her," Draco said, shaking his head. "I'm going to marry her, Father, because she's the woman I love, and because she makes me better. Because if I'm going to follow in your footsteps and succeed, then I need her at my side. Can't you understand that?" he implored Lucius, who said nothing. "If you can't see that she's the right choice for me, then at least understand that. That she's the right choice for this country, for this family."

He leaned his head back, pausing for a moment, and then gave Lucius another long glance.

"Please," he said, so quietly it would have been inaudible if not for the hollow silence in the room.

Please, from one prince to another.

For several pulses—Hermione's heart suddenly much too loud to be in the room—Lucius said nothing, did nothing, made no conceivable response. He merely closed his eyes, contemplating something in misery.

Then he sat up slowly, and Draco shifted to help him.

"Father, your heart, be careful not t-"

Lucius pulled away, struggling to drag himself up with one hand against the leg of an antique side table as Draco waited, temporarily suspended in his attempt to help.

Then, with a last glance at his wife, Lucius exited the room in silence, slamming the door shut behind him as Draco, who had scrambled to his feet in his father's wake, was left to wince, then straighten.

"Well," Narcissa said, sliding an arched look of disapproval at Hermione. "That was quite a spot you put him in."

"Mother," Draco sighed, but Hermione shook her head, stopping him again.

"Don't pretend you think this has been easy for me," she warned Narcissa, suddenly a bit riled up by the idea of playacting. "For years I avoided this because I wanted to have a voice—the voice you warned me would be robbed from me if I chose Draco. I fought a life with him, in spite of everything—in spite of how much I loved him," she said, turning to make sure he knew. That he understood, in some way, that whatever he had sacrificed for her, it hadn't been in vain. If marriage to her had somehow cost him the meager scraps of his father's love, then he would have all of hers, unrepentantly.

"Once upon a time there was nothing more important to me than my voice, and now, if being silent is what it takes for your family to consider me, I'm happy to give it up," she said, facing Draco as she continued to address Narcissa. "So if you think you're going to scare me off or stop me, Narcissa, believe me—"

She reached out, lacing her fingers with Draco's, and stepped closer, facing him.

"Believe me," she said, "I am not the kind of girl who frightens easily."

They had promised to be brave together, for each other, and for once, Hermione really felt it. That he was not only her inevitable future—the result of some undeniable chemistry that had begun when they met by chance—but the future she had chosen, too. That for everything he stood for, she would stand beside him, and vice versa. That from now on, she would make no decisions alone, or suffer any isolated pains. He would carry her burdens with her. She would be the other half of his convictions.

They were getting married.

They were getting married, and that meant something.

It meant that from now on, they would always find a way forward. Together. And—

"I'm afraid you're quite mistaken," Narcissa said, waking them from their moment of contemplative pre-marital bliss. "For some reason you're under the impression I would try to stop you? But I am hardly the petulant fool your father is."

She took a step forward, sliding a ring from her finger, and handed it to Draco.

"For you," she said, and then, catching the furrow of Hermione's brow, she added with a bitter laugh, "Oh, no, this isn't my engagement ring, don't worry. That's cursed. No, this," she said, closing her son's fingers around it. "This is what your father gave me when you were born, on the day he loved me most. The day we became a family."

She paused, her fingers still resting over Draco's hand, and slowly, the chilled smile she so often wore gradually warmed to something like fondness, or nostalgia.

"Never mind your father. He'll come around. And as for this ring—I treasure it," she told Draco solemnly, patting his hand with brisk, maternal certainty, "and now it's yours."

Draco cleared his throat, somewhere between grateful and anguished. "Mother, I… I already have a ring, but—"

"What, some ordinary diamond? Don't be silly," Narcissa scoffed, though Hermione wanted to persist the ring was hardly ordinary, considering it could house a small colony of fugitives. "She ought to have something meaningful, darling, not some apathetic cluster of lifeless rock. After all, what are we if not our traditions?" she sniffed. "Just a house that requires remodeling and a few dynasties of pretenders, I imagine."

"I… suppose," Draco said carefully, and turned to Hermione. "Unless you'd prefer to—"

"No," Hermione said, shaking her head and reaching out, taking a startled Narcissa's free hand. "No, this means something to me. Thank you," she said, expressing the sentiment with a surprising immensity, and though Narcissa secured a mask as expertly crafted as Pansy's, Hermione felt sure she saw some infinitesimally small, barely perceptible evidence of appreciation.

"Have someone bring some tea," Narcissa said, releasing them both abruptly. "What with all this unacceptable misconduct, I'm feeling rather parched."

"So, where's the ring?"

"Being expertly recrafted," Draco said, "with some amateurish assistance."

"Mine, he means," Theo loftily confirmed, apparently choosing to skate over the aforementioned amateurism. "My assistance."

"What?" Pansy demanded, glaring at him. "You were allowed to help with the design but I wasn't?"

"Why, Lady Seven-Names," Theo drawled, "I cannot possibly imagine the cause for your surprise. Where is our arbiter to take points?"

"Minus ten," Blaise confirmed, arm slung around Tracey, "as surely Her Grace should have known her own fine tastes would exceed even that of a prince's means."

"He's not wrong," Draco said, though Pansy wasn't having it.

"Since when does anyone trust your taste in anything, Nott?"

"Well, since I've become a highly sought after patron of the arts, I imagine," Theo replied, stealing his wife's glass of wine and smugly toasting Pansy with it.

It had been a relief to meet the others at Nott Manor for a weekend away, in something of a miniature engagement celebration after Narcissa assured them that, provided Abraxas lent his support, they would ultimately have Lucius' approval. Lucius, who had not come out of his room for the rest of their stay, refused Draco's requests to speak to him, and they'd gone to Theo's estate in something of a collectively unsettled mood.

Luckily, joining their friends was enough to nudge them out of their funk. For one thing, it was distinctly fascinating to see the way they'd all morphed and changed since they'd first begun the practice. No longer were Theo and Daphne at odds, nor Harry and Pansy in competition with their respective significant others. Something in Hermione's chest went slightly tight at observing Daphne taking a well-deserved nap on the stuffy furniture with her head in Theo's lap, or watching Harry and Pansy attempting to coax Jamie away from her canine conspirator Prince Lucius and into a highly necessary bath. The reminder of how far they'd all come was enough for the knot in Hermione's stomach to loosen, finally permitting her the chance to breathe.

The engagement hadn't been much of a secret among their friends, seeing as Draco had told Theo who had told Harry who already knew because he'd been informed by Pansy who had also told Blaise who had already heard it from Daphne, who had been informed (in tandem with the aforementioned Pansy) by Hermione in whispers while loitering around the toilets at Astoria's reception. In fact, within perhaps twenty minutes of the proposal, all of them had already known. Somehow, they had all tacitly agreed not to discuss it as a group until Draco and Hermione arrived, revealing that only Tracey and baby Jamie (who nodded solemnly, green eyes wide but largely uninformed) were hearing it for the first time.

Tracey's reaction to the news—a dainty scoff of "Finally"—had set off the long-awaited outcry of congratulations, including a slowly thawing interaction between Draco and Harry (which, as Hermione learned from Draco after a brief but intensive investigation into his Lockhart-related antics over the past year, had not been an intentional leak on his part but rather an unavoidable conclusion after the two were visibly uncomfortable with each other for so long). It was the first place Hermione was able to actually enjoy her engagement instead of stressing about it, and even the knowledge that it would probably be the last wasn't enough to ruin the moment.

"Well, it's been said that a single man in possession of a great fortune must be in want of a wife," Daphne remarked. "Pity it wasn't also explicitly stated he would take his sweet time going about it."

From Draco, with a sigh: "Ah yes, wonderful, I'd so hoped this would happen, carry on."

From Harry, nudging Draco in the ribs: "In fairness, it's also been said that 'the sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new,' so there's that."

From Hermione, with a fond lean towards Draco: "Well, if we're just quoting first lines of novels, then I'd like to add that it was a very great pleasure to burn."

From Blaise, groaning: "Boring, minus ten. Duchess Pansy, your take?"

Pansy, neutrally: "It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York."

Blaise, with delight: "Marvelous! Plus fifteen."

Theo, in a drawn-out proclamation: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair—"

Pansy: "This is the saddest story I've ever heard."

Draco, with a grave nod: "Call me Ishmael."

Blaise, with glee: "Lolita, light of my fire, fire of my loins—"

Tracey, interrupting: "Is this a game? Or is it just nonsense?"

Harry, toasting her: "Is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy?"

Daphne: "If this turns into karaoke, I will never forgive any of you."

Theo, with a dismissive wave: "Carry on, friends. She said the same thing when I asked for my grey coat last week and yet here she sits, amuck with pardon despite her violent assertion the garment was green."

Daphne, exasperated: "It is green!"

Theo, with a pointed sip: "Darling, you simply cannot change me. Tragically, I am what I am."

Draco, sympathetically: "It's true, I've tried to change him many times and he nearly always comes out worse."

Theo, wiping moisture from his eyes: "Thank you."

Pansy, with an irritated sigh: "Have we perhaps lost track of the point?"

Hermione, to Pansy, with pointed innocence: "You mean the one about how I'm about to end up with the job I'm unqualified to hold?"

Pansy, who had been teary upon hearing the news of Hermione's engagement, charging her with never telling a soul upon pain of death and insisting such an event had never occurred: "Yes, that's the one. The apocalypse is nigh and call me Cassandra, but none of us are even mildly concerned."

Blaise, sagely: "An excellent point. It's all there in Genesis, isn't it? Plagues, locusts, June weddings—"

Draco, exchanging a glance with Hermione: "May, I think."

Theo: "Oh, well good, Taurus season should be perfectly fine. Everyone knows what happens during Gemini."

Tracey, frowning: "What happens during Gemini season?"

Theo: "An acute sense of weirdness and a morbid longing for another life inside ourselves."

Tracey, doubtfully: "Is that… science?"

Pansy, with a scoff: "Please, it's not even statistics."

Blaise: "Which, as everyone knows, is the con man of math. Ten points!"

Harry, as a musing aside: "It's also Draco's birthday."

Theo, nodding solemnly: "So you can see how this would be troubling news for everyone."

Draco, with a shrug: "None taken, thanks."

Hermione, sighing: "Well, everyone seems to have handled this news rather well. Are there any additional remarks?"

From Jamie, who had been quietly playing with her food: a wordless shriek of glee as Prince Lucius licked her nose.

Harry: "She says she's very pleased for you both."

Pansy: "Don't put words in her mouth, Henry."

Daphne: "Hair extensions."

Hermione: "I… what?"

Daphne: "They'll photograph better. Make it look fuller, et cetera."

Hermione, frowning: "Well, I'm not sure if—"

Pansy: "No, she's right."

Hermione: "I mean—"

Blaise: "I'll give you fifty points."

Hermione, bemused: "Is my hair really that bad?"

"Of course not," from Daphne, at the same time as, "Yes," from Pansy.

From Draco, with a glance at Hermione: "I say you do whatever you want, so long as you don't look too terribly different."

Pansy, with a scoff: "Please, I've been trying to change her for years. It's not happening."

Hermione, with a sigh: "Sweet of you, Pans."

Daphne: "Have you given any thought to the dress?"

Hermione: "Me?"

Daphne: "Would you prefer I ask Pansy?"

Pansy, opening her mouth: quickly silenced by a kiss from Harry, which was followed by his smile of perfect innocence.

Hermione, frowning: "Well… I guess I thought you'd design it, Daph."

Daphne: "There are other designers in the world besides me, you know."

Blaise, with a stroke of an imaginary beard: "She would need someone British, though, wouldn't she?"

Daphne, turning skeptically to Blaise: "Oh, so now you have thoughts on this?"

Blaise, indignantly: "Minus ten for the implication I would not!"

Harry, with a weighty sense of admonishment: "He isn't wrong, Daph. Nor is he ever, might I add."

Blaise, delighted: "Plus twenty to Prince Harry!"

Draco, in an undertone to Harry: "He really buys it every time, doesn't he? Unbelievable."

Harry, in an undertone back to Draco: "Oh, are you not enjoying the sensation of coming in second?"

Draco, with a slyly innocent response: "Well, imagine the terrible responsibility of being first. Everything to lose, don't you think? The enormity of the position would be positively grueling."

Harry, with a subtle smile: "Not to mention the rigor of competition."

Draco: "The effort of having to maintain such a faultless reputation, you mean?"

Harry: "That, or having such a dastardly handsome rival for attention."

Draco, rolling his eyes: "Must keep you up at night."

Harry: "Explains my dickish behavior, I imagine."

Draco: "Ah, so we agree?"

Harry: "I've lost my place in the metaphor. Am I you still, or am I me?"

(Hermione: riveted observation as elsewhere, Blaise, Daphne, and Tracey argued the merits of contouring.)

Draco: "I suppose it depends whether or not you would forgive you."

Harry: "Me as me, or me as you?"

Draco: "You as me and me as you."

Harry: "Dizzying, as ever. Perhaps easier to agree to mutual forgiveness?"

Draco: "Mutual? That would mean I'd admit to doing something wrong, which I never do."

Harry: "You as me?"

Draco: "Me as you."

Harry: "Well, perhaps you as you are worth a concession or two."

Draco: "May I quote you on that?"

Harry: "If you do I shall firmly deny it."

Draco: "Even so, you concede?"

Harry: "Me as me? It seems inevitable I should concede."

Draco: "Inevitable? Possible, perhaps even plausible. But inevitable?"

Harry: "Yes, in that I have no control over my feelings on the matter whatsoever."

Draco: "Would your wife be able to enlighten me on the subject?"

Harry: "I imagine she could, though you'll be hard-pressed to get her to do it."

Draco: "Perhaps you could summarize?"

Harry: "In sum: yes."

Draco: "Marvelous."

Harry: "Splendid."

Draco: "More wine?"

Harry: "Please."

Hermione, staring between them with bewilderment: "What on earth just happened?"

Pansy, making a face: "Something revolting."

Theo, with equal repulsion: "And right here on the table, where we eat—"

Blaise, pleased: "The ending was a bit excessively sentimental, but overall I enjoyed it."

Tracey: "What?"

Jamie: another shriek, this time something that seemed to be a mix of actual words and additional incomprehensible babbles.

Pansy, nodding sagely: "She's right. You're both soft summer princes."

Harry, loftily: "Please do not put words in our daughter's mouth, Pansy."

Daphne: "No, even I heard that one, she's right."

Theo, to Hermione: "Will it be strange for you, marrying a man who's just promised his devotion so flagrantly to another?"

Tracey, with a shake of her head: "For the record, any of you marrying any of the others is practically incest already."

Hermione, glancing around the room at her dearest, strangest friends, four of whom were already married: "Well, in the sense that we're all each other's family, then yes."

Blaise: "That is what incest means, New Tracey. But ten points for the intended sentiment."

Tracey, with palpable confusion: "Are you actually taking that as… a compliment?"

But by then, they had all raised their glasses.

"To Hermione and Draco," said Daphne, smiling across the table. "May they always be the weird ones and the lucky ones."

"To the commoner who bedded a royal," Pansy added airily, "much to the detriment of society."

"Hear, hear!" Blaise exclaimed, taking a long sip from his glass.

"And to you, our family," Hermione said (with a roll of her eyes at Pansy), "which is, for whatever reason, the one we chose."

"Lack of better options, I expect," Harry said.

"Funny you should say that," Theo informed him, earning a smack to the gut.

"Mildly related, I'm concerned you've all taken what I said to a troubling degree of misinterpretation," Tracey commented, which they mostly ignored.

"To us," Draco concluded, rising to his feet to deliver the toast properly. "To the rest of our lives together. And, most especially, to you," he said, turning with a smile to Hermione, "for deciding to spend your fall term at Hogwarts all those years ago, and for all the strange and wonderful things that came after."

She smiled up at him, rising to her feet to slip under his arm as the others raised their glasses.

"To us," she agreed, and kissed her prince; consenting, for the time being, to live happily ever after, even if it was just for now.

Not that it was really that simple. The next few days were a whirlwind of preparation, from the highly secret arrival of David and Helen Granger in London to the endless preparations imposed on Hermione by Daphne, Pansy, and, strangely, Prince Lucifer's aide Dobby, who had apparently been temporarily displaced since it was discovered he had helped Draco pull off some of his Lockhart-related sleight of hand. Daphne, who still insisted on making sure Hermione's hair looked as bouncy and jubilant as her engagement news itself, had also chosen an emerald green wrap dress for the occasion, insisting it be something moderately affordable from an accessible British label.

Pansy and Dobby, meanwhile, were charged with ensuring Hermione's manners and mannerisms, along with refining something of a pseudo-script for the post-announcement interview, which was to be covered by—of course—Rita Skeeter. For once, Hermione didn't argue with Pansy's methodology; the last thing she wanted was to be trapped by something that Rita said, implied, or even thought about saying or implying. Hermione sat without protest as Pansy fussed with her hair, her nails, her posture, and her pronunciation of certain words.

Not that it was easy to manage perfect obedience. "This is all a bit fu-" A sigh. "Fracking ridiculous," Hermione amended, once Pansy had made her practice the word 'always' (which was hell on the California accent she hadn't even known she had) at least forty times.

"Fracking remains an altogether unpleasant topic," Pansy said, jabbing a perfectly manicured finger into the area of spine between Hermione's shoulders to force her savagely upright. "A marginal improvement to your vocabulary, but still hardly ideal."

"Personally, it was the facial expressions I always had trouble with," came a voice behind them as they all turned, startled, to find King Abraxas with his hand poised to knock against the open door frame. "A moment, Miss Granger? Pansy," he added in greeting, as she hurriedly curtsied.

"Sir," she said, "a pleasure, as always."

Abraxas looked amused, even a bit doting as Pansy and Dobby were quick to vacate the room, leaving Hermione to curtsy to her future grandfather-in-law.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing you until later, Your Majesty," she admitted, pleased now that Pansy had made her practice so many curtsies in a row. She'd certainly been given enough instruction from Daphne to last a lifetime, but the forced repetition came in handy now that Abraxas' unexpected presence had her wobbly with nerves. "I thought Draco and I would be speaking with you this afternoon?"

"We will, but I thought I'd see you alone for a moment." Abraxas leaned against the desk of Draco's study, idly considering her. "So," he said. "I imagine you don't require me to leave you with any particular warnings as to the realities of your position."

If she weren't already as tense as possible, she might have gone rigid. As it was, no change. "No, sir."

"Some advice, then." He cleared his throat, contemplating his hands. "Perhaps you don't know this, but I've always required members of my family to keep a journal. Somewhere to put your thoughts and feelings. Helps," he added. "When it seems there is no place for your authentic self, a blank page can sometimes do the trick."

Hermione, unsure what to say, nodded silently.

"Draco keeps one," Abraxas said. "Lucius, too. I believe Harry and Pansy do, as well. Certainly young Theodore."

They had never mentioned it to her before, but she supposed they wouldn't.

"I'm sure I could start," she said, and Abraxas nodded obligingly.

"You know, I was wrong about Pansy," he remarked, crossing one leg over the other. "I thought she would be… different."

Hermione, who wasn't sure what that meant, cleared her throat. "Sir?"

"Well, I suppose I saw her as something harmless, possibly even unremarkable. As it turns out, she's poised, graceful, eloquent. Easy to admire, and she is, widely so. She's a credit to this family, and to the monarchy itself." His smile faded slightly. "I do hope I will be wrong about you."

Hermione blinked, startled. "What?"

Abraxas rose to his feet, regarding her silently. "You will not be surprised to learn that my friend Theodore considers you a threat, I imagine."

The mention of the elder Nott certainly did nothing to ease Hermione's misgivings.

"I regret to tell you I believe he's quite right. He likes you, of course, as do I," Abraxas said, "but you are… unpredictable, which means you are—"

"Uncontrollable." Hermione's mouth tightened. "You think I'll be like Bellatrix?"

"My god, no, I think you'll be your own form of trouble," Abraxas assured her with a shake of his head, "and believe me, at this point I fear the outcome of a second Narcissa far more than I fear a second Bellatrix." He paused. "I often wish I had not pushed so hard against Bellatrix, truth be told. As it turns out, she's far easier to manage than I thought."

The little whisper of rumors, the talk of Bellatrix's retirement to some private country home, resurrected like a warning in Hermione's head, along with Narcissa's voice: They'll break you, they'll take everything from you, they'll either turn you into something lifeless or they'll rob you of everything you are—

"Pansy married a reckless boy and made him a man overnight," Abraxas remarked, interrupting Hermione's thoughts. "You, my dear, are marrying a prince. What will you make of him, I wonder?"

The implication was infuriating, made more so by the knowledge that losing her temper would prove him right.

"Draco is responsible for his own behavior," Hermione said tightly. "If Harry changed, that was never Pansy's job."

Abraxas shrugged. "I'm not here to determine your obligations, Miss Granger. Only to warn you that I have expectations for my grandson, and for you, as well. You make no secret of considering our practices antiquated, do you not? Write it in your diary," he advised, apparently unfazed by how patronizing he sounded. "Conspire among your friends, I don't care, but if I am going to regard you as a valued member of this family—" Something, Hermione thought grimly, that Narcissa was clearly not. "Then I will expect you to behave appropriately in return."

Abraxas strode to the door in her silence, unbothered by her lack of response. She curtsied numbly, eyes fixed on the floor, but he paused to glance over his shoulder, regarding her a final time.

"In the end, Bellatrix could be bought," he commented. "You have proven time and time again that you cannot."

Hermione said nothing.

"For what it's worth, I do admire you," Abraxas said. "It is not lost on me that of everything in the world that could matter to you, it is my grandson above all. Your sacrifice is noble and it does not go unnoticed."

She lifted her gaze. "But loving him isn't enough for you, I take it?"

The corner of Abraxas' mouth twitched, satisfied.

"I'll see you with my grandson this afternoon, Miss Granger," he said, and slipped out the door, leaving her behind in contemplation.

16 October, 2017
Clarence House

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE DRACO OF WALES AND MISS HERMIONE GRANGER ARE ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED

The Prince of Wales is delighted to announce the engagement of his son, Prince Draco, to Miss Hermione Granger.

The wedding will take place in the Spring of 2018 in London. Further details about the wedding day will be announced in due course.

Prince Draco and Miss Granger became engaged in September on a private holiday in Northern England. Prince Draco has informed The King and other close members of his family. Prince Draco has also sought the permission of Miss Granger's parents.

Following the marriage, the couple will live in London, where Prince Draco will uphold his various patronages at The King's request and continue his service with the Royal Air Force.

"Well, that's done, then. Grandfather's approved, Father's sulking in silence, the entire world's been informed… and now we just have to deal with Rita Skeeter," Draco said, setting the phone screen down and kissing the top of Hermione's head. "Any ideas?"

"Actually," Hermione said, glancing up at him with a hazy sense of fruition, "I kind of think I do."

Ultimately, Hermione would associate the date of October 16 with a blinding sensation, as dazzling in her memory as the green of her dress and the glints of flash photography, and with all the foreign marvel of the sparkle on her finger, displayed prominently where her hand rested on Draco's arm. The new ring, a combination of Narcissa's gift and the ring Draco had purchased, featured the massive oval-shaped emerald in the center of a nest of smaller diamonds, blinking from every conceivable light source whether Hermione moved or stood perfectly still. It was outrageously heavy, consisting of more carats than she properly knew how to process, and she couldn't help staring at it, feeling like its existence on her finger and the implications of owning it were impossible to ignore.

Hermione was relieved once again that Pansy had been unrelenting when it came to punishing her bad habits. Remembering to smile through her nerves was difficult, particularly when it came to their televised interview. What Rita Skeeter called 'the world's first proper introduction to Hermione Granger' felt less like a neighborly welcome than it did stripping her naked and parading her in front of a crowd of millions—theoretically, of course. In reality, her emerald green dress that morning was stunning but constricting, and either the new extensions that kept her hair in falsely enviable curls were starting to itch or some other nameless anxiety was manifesting from her scalp.

"As we all know, Clarence House released the official announcement of your engagement early this morning," Rita said, beaming falsely at Hermione before turning to Draco. "Clearly your father is overjoyed. Is it fair to say His Majesty is equally pleased with your choice of such an… unconventional bride?"

"Oh, I'm sure he prefers it, in fact," Draco said with a laugh, ever the showman. "My grandfather is incredibly fond of Hermione." He reached over, placing a hand on her knee. "In fact, he congratulated me on the wisdom of my choice a number of times. He is, as we all are, greatly admiring of her cleverness and courage, and he expressed great joy and, admittedly, very little surprise in learning our intentions."

I am so very happy for you, Draco, Abraxas said upon being informed, enveloping his grandson in an embrace so warm Hermione was concerned she'd imagined his visit to her in some kind of wide-awake fever nightmare. What a marvelous choice you've made in this delightful young woman.

"Mm, of course," Rita said, clearly uninterested in hearing any more of Hermione's alleged qualities. "We'd all love to learn the story of your meeting," she went on, eagerly awaiting any sordid details. "You will agree, I'm sure, that much of what the public knows about your relationship has been kept under proverbial lock and key."

"Ah, not much to tell, I'm afraid. I was drawn to Hermione right away, and I hope she'd say the same," Draco said, exchanging a lighthearted glance with Hermione, who was becoming increasingly certain her smile was starting to look a bit insipid, "but we were definitely friends first. In fact, we first bonded over our mutual love of medieval literature, if I recall correctly."

"How quaint," Rita said, turning to Hermione. "So it was his book smarts, then?"

Hermione bit back a Theo-esque comment about the girth of Draco's intellect. "Yes, definitely," she said instead, resting her hand on Draco's. "I've always been very fond of Draco's mind. I guess it's strange to say, but I do love his book collection."

Books. That seemed safe. And appropriately dull. And, most crucially, did not reference or even hint at anything having to do with Draco fucking her for the first time in the bathroom of a college bar.

Forking. Whatever.

"Ah yes, our pensive prince," Rita said with a touch of boredom, clearly surmising as much. "And when did you know it was love, then?"

"Oh, I don't know if I can pinpoint an exact moment," Hermione said, glancing at Draco. "In some ways it seems like I always knew, and in other ways it just… snuck up on me. After a certain point, it seemed inevitable."

"And for you, Draco?"

"For me?" he echoed, scouring Hermione's face briefly and turning to Rita. "Well, there was a time I didn't feel I could be myself, I'll admit, and Hermione showed me otherwise. I believe I fell in love with her the very moment she promised to be my friend."

Hermione blinked, surprised; aware, the way Rita couldn't possibly be, that he was referring to their very first meeting. Specifically, to the kiss in the Slytherin common room that should never have been a kiss, and yet was only the first in a lifetime of unavoidable collisions.

"Well," Rita said, no less bored. "Is it true, Hermione, that you had a picture of Prince Draco from a magazine displayed on the wall of your dorm?"

Just like that, the moment of sentimentality between them was shattered. "What? No," Hermione scoffed, remembering at the last moment to regain her sense of perfectly manufactured decorum. "I mean, no, I just—"

"I believe she had several dozen pictures of me," Draco said, covering her slip with a bit of light banter. "Wallpapered the room with it, didn't you?"

"Now that you mention it, yes, just pictures of you and books, that's all—"

Stay, Draco had said the night they'd told Abraxas, taking her hand in his office when they had a moment alone. I want you here with me tonight, so stay.

But I thought I couldn't stay overnight?

We're engaged, he reminded her. Soon to be married. We don't have to hide anymore, he promised her, taking her face between his palms, and we don't have to keep any secrets. Maybe just one or two, he mused, pulling her close and sliding his hand under her dress, maneuvering her back against his desk as she inhaled sharply, his fingers sliding the lace of her underwear aside.

It had been two hours behind the locked door of his study, him on his knees with her thighs on either side of his head and then his back pressed into the floor, the cheap red marks from expensive green carpet now covered by his jacket and her skirt. Just one or two secrets, what would eventually count among one or two thousands if they were lucky, all belonging to the whisper of space between them.

Every private detail of their lives moving forward would belong to them both. The issue of their former secrets was, as far as Hermione was concerned, simply a matter of tidying up old messes.

Just one thing, Narcissa had said, pulling Hermione aside after the disaster that was their announcement. Lucius wouldn't speak to them again following his tantrum—he and Draco had only communicated through a very nervous Dobby since—but Narcissa would insist on having a moment alone with Hermione. It was the thing that lingered in Hermione's head, determining the rest of her decisions up to the announcement of their engagement.

Be careful who you choose to tell your story, Narcissa had said. Be cautious who you entrust with your truths.

A simple warning. Elegantly crafted.

Decide who tells your story.

It had sparked an idea in Hermione's head, which had grown to a plan, which, with Draco's help, had evolved to a certainty.

"Rita," Hermione said when the televised interview was over, pulling her aside. "I wondered if I could ask you a favor. You don't mind, do you?"

Rita looked devilish with pleasure as she followed Hermione. "Taking me up on your offer, are you?" she asked in an undertone, to which Hermione managed a smile. Now that the cameras were off, things were much, much easier to enjoy. Even better, Draco had let her borrow his study for this particular project, which was a space they were soon to share. She'd always liked it there.

"Actually, I wanted to introduce you to someone." She opened the door, ushering Rita inside and fighting a smile as the latter fell to a dead stop, noticing the unmistakable head of hair waiting at Draco's desk.

"Gilderoy," Rita said darkly, and Gilderoy Lockhart rose to his feet, feigning his usual buoyancy. It flickered only once, upon seeing Hermione's face, and then returned to normal.

"Rita, darling," Gilderoy said, leaning forward to kiss a stunned and hilariously furious Rita on the cheek. "Such a delight to see you again!"

"Oh, do you know each other?" Hermione asked, feigning surprise as if she and Draco had not stayed up half the night looking up every instance of Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart butting heads in public. "I thought I'd have to introduce you! Gilderoy is of course my dear, dear friend," Hermione said, as Gilderoy gave her a blank look, plainly confused about her intent. "We met at Harry's birthday party some years ago—well, it feels like ages. What was it, five, six years ago now? Surely you were there, weren't you?"

Rita's attention volleyed doubtfully between Hermione and Gilderoy.

"Ah, but how could I have missed it!" Gilderoy said, stepping successfully into the trap Hermione had set for him. "Yes, as I'm sure everyone knows, Prince Harry and I are terribly close," he said, predictably Gilderoy-ing the story. "My goodness, it must have been the year we all had that marvelous gin tourney, wasn't it? Or no, perhaps it was the Royal Ascot—"

"Absolutely, who can forget? In any case, we've known each other intimately for ages," Hermione concluded, turning to Rita, "which is why you'll need him, I'm sure, in order to write the book."

"The… book?" Rita asked, frowning. "What book?"

"The book, Rita," scoffed an equally uninformed Gilderoy. "Aren't you listening?"

"Well, you said yourself that people are going to want to hear the story behind my relationship with Draco," Hermione commented. Best to let Rita think it was her idea, in her opinion. "Why let someone tell it based on speculation? No," she said with a sighing shake of her head, "better that we provide someone access to family and friends who know the story, don't you think?"

The word access practically had Rita salivating. "An official, sanctioned biography, you mean?"

"Yes," Hermione said with a nod. "Approved by the Palace."

That sent a little flicker of opposition across Rita's face. "With oversight, then?"

"Oversight," Hermione agreed, "in addition to exclusive interviews, private family pictures… and, of course, close personal sources for collaboration," she said, with a gesture to Gilderoy. "Hence the introduction."

"But I can't include Gilderoy Lockhart's name," Rita said, repulsed. "His credibility's been dragged through the mud!"

"By you," Gilderoy muttered, which Rita promptly ignored.

"That, and I certainly don't collaborate," Rita informed Hermione, lips pursed. "So unless you're willing to offer me—"

"All the royalties," Hermione cut in, and immediately, Rita's mouth snapped shut. "I'm sure you can determine the details with your publisher, but it's not as if Draco and I plan to profit from this in any way. We simply feel it would be best that we prevent any terrible lies from circulating," she said, smiling sweetly at Gilderoy, "and choose someone who can portray our upcoming marriage in a positive, compelling way."

She could practically see Rita's stomach hurting at the idea of treating the subject with any positivity or even decorum, but even Rita could not deny the paycheck. An unauthorized biography, even with the freedom to slander Hermione all she wished, would surely not distribute so widely as one sanctioned by the Palace.

"I imagine there might even be film rights, certainly international distribution. Perhaps even some recognition from the royal family," Hermione said. "Damehood, perhaps?"

That, she could see, had certainly sealed the deal. Even the mere whiff of possibility to become Dame Rita Skeeter was clearly enough to convince her.

"Lockhart will have to be involved anonymously," Rita said firmly, cutting a sidelong glance at him. "Money and that's it. Are we clear?"

Gilderoy's mouth opened, which Hermione deftly intercepted.

"Oh, Gilderoy, it would be such a favor to us," she implored, cutting off any reply of indignation. "You do know how dearly Draco thinks of you, don't you?"

She could see him struggling between his need to argue and his compulsion to align himself with someone, anyone, of celebrity. Fortunately, his ego won out (as it always did) in the end.

"It's true, I have been quite a confidante to our young Prince," Gilderoy declared, unable to keep himself from confirming it. "Shall we discuss details later, then?"

Rita gave Gilderoy a ball-shriveling glance that seemed to be some version of my people will call your people before narrowing her eyes and turning to Hermione.

"If it's a book you want, I'll write you a book," Rita said in a low voice, "but don't expect me to believe we're suddenly friends now."

"Oh, I just want the world to know the truth behind our love, Rita," Hermione said, playing up a look of girlish injury. "Is it such a crime?"

Rita gave her an impatient glance, and then a sigh.

"I'll be in touch," she said gruffly, giving Gilderoy a final glance of skepticism before nodding to Hermione, who walked her to the door.

"Until next time," Hermione called after her cheerfully, turning back to the office to find that Gilderoy, having recovered from his episode of surprise, had lurched over to her side.

"I see what you're doing, you know. I can always tell her later," Gilderoy cautioned. "Don't forget, I can still destroy you with what I know."

"Ah yes, right," Hermione said, smiling. "Like this, I imagine? 'Well, little does anyone know, Prince Draco's future wife was in fact my personal ghostwriter!'" she mused, out-Gilderoying Gilderoy himself with the jaunty imitation. "I'm sure you've heard about the orphan I saved as a war journalist? I'm positive I've mentioned it before! Oh, and let us not forget that it was I, of course, who invented the Toaster Strudel—"

"I can bring you down no matter how many lies you tell," Gilderoy said in a low voice. "You're not safe just because you've got that ring on your finger."

"Oh, but Gilderoy, you silly goose, why would anyone believe you?" Hermione replied sweetly. "I'm quite popular with your readership demographic, you know," she mused, "and a washed-up celebrity con artist who plagiarized his own books would be precisely the type to try to bring down the future Queen of England, wouldn't he? At least, I'm sure that's what Rita Skeeter and her constituents would believe," she said, knowing full well that even if he tried, Gilderoy Lockhart couldn't string enough truths together in a sentence to make Rita Skeeter believe blond was his natural hair color, much less that they had ever conspired.

To Hermione's private exuberance, a red-faced Gilderoy couldn't quite sputter out a response.

"What is it, Gil?" she asked neutrally, channeling the countless nights of answering messages sent to Penny as she feigned confusion. "Surely you're pleased with the news? After all, I couldn't think more highly of you, so you really shouldn't consider this a misfortune," she said, finding his particular brand of cheer quite easily accessible now. "I'm simply incentivizing you to say as much as you'd like to your own detriment."

He glared at her, furious. "If you think this means you've won—"

"Ah, there's that award-winning smile," Hermione said approvingly. "What was it, four times? I think that's what Rita said, wasn't it?"

In response, he merely let out a wordless yelp of frustration, pivoting away as she waved him out the door, rolling her eyes and falling into the chair in the corner.

Within minutes of Gilderoy's unceremonious exit, Draco had joined her, stepping into the room and smiling.

"Well," he said, shutting the study door behind him. "How did it go?"

Hermione glanced up, sparing him a look of what she hoped was reassurance. "Worked, believe it or not," she said, rising to her feet. "Did you have any doubts?"

"Certainly not," he told her, taking her in his arms. "In you? Never. Though I wish I were clever enough to have put a stop to this sooner myself."

"Well, you have me now," she reminded him. "We handle our shit together."

He arched a brow, and she sighed.

"Our… shirts," she amended, and he laughed. "We handle our shirts together. From now on."

She reached up, brushing his hair back from his temple. They let a smile pass between them before he leaned away for a long look at the ring on her finger, drawing her knuckles to his lips.

"And so it begins," he said, twisting the emerald around on her finger and eyeing its shine in the light until they both looked up, satisfied.

"And so it begins," Hermione agreed, lifting her chin for the kiss he would happily give her.

Well, I seem to have mentioned once or twice that this book of Rita's is full of lies, haven't I? Honestly, I'm not sure what I really expected when I made the request. Some parts of it were deliberately misled, true, but most were just the result of Rita's delightful personality, so maybe I should have known what I signed up for when I thought it would be the answer to my problems. I knew it was a snake when I picked it up but, then again, I had every intention of setting the snake back down until everything that's happened to me over the last twenty-four hours.

For the record, I was mostly right when I considered the consequences of what might come from letting others in to see my secrets. Unfortunately, the operative word there is 'mostly.'

I guess it's no surprise that hubris is a bench.

a/n: Sorry I wasn't able to provide a link to those who asked (time got away from me), but I heard today this story won Best Love Story in the dramione category of the Granger Enchanted Awards! Thank you to those of you who voted. I'm so happy to know this monstrous story is loved.

39. Icon

Chapter 39: Icon

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Makings of an Icon

While there has been some controversy about the nature of Princess Narcissa's enduring mystique, there is no denying the unmistakable presence of the Princess of Wales in popular culture. As the woman who will follow in her footsteps begins to take her place in the public eye, it is quite natural to speculate what Hermione's legacy will be. Hermione's first public appearance at Draco's side following the couple's official engagement announcement has prompted many to compare her quite favorably to the woman who will be her future mother-in-law. Narcissa has been beloved for decades, both for her sense of style and for her early devotion to charity while at her husband's side. Hermione's sartorial expressions certainly have similar echoes of Narcissa's signature sophistication, but the question of how Hermione will ultimately step into the spotlight remains to be seen.

Despite their very different backgrounds, both women will undoubtedly hold a permanent place in the public eye, for better or for worse. Even with Narcissa's disappearance from the public sphere in recent years, it's clear the world simply cannot get enough of the glamorous women of the Royal Family. There can be no question that Hermione will live a life of constant exaltation, whatever role she ultimately takes.

I think what Rita wanted to say at the end there was 'well motherboarders, I guess we're stuck with this bench,' but as you can see, she preferred to write an entire book of subtweets instead. Probably the result of my unreasonable guidelines—'try to avoid slandering me for your own amusement,' 'attempt not to flagrantly lie,' etc etc—but we're getting to the end of all this now, so maybe it's best I not linger too long on Rita Skeeter herself.

To tell the whole story, we still have to zoom out, just a bit.

December 25, 2017
Sandringham House

It wasn't as if life was different, exactly, following the announcement of their engagement. Hermione had been Draco's girlfriend for years, whether publicly acknowledged or not, so the presence of photographers that followed everywhere she went remained the same. The ongoing flash of cameras, hardly some new evolution, felt scarcely distinct from before. Her treatment from the press had changed very little, at first (Helen continued to send pictures of the US Weekly covers touting the American Princess and her royal fairytale while the Daily Prophet quietly fretted over the grubby commoner's rise to prominence), so, for all intents and purposes, Hermione had not expected any new sensations. She had been all but engaged to Draco for longer than she cared to admit, and highly doubted a ring on her finger would suddenly cause some unrecognizable shift to her psyche.

Until, that is, it truly, decadently did.

"You look beautiful," Draco said, admiring her openly at the foot of the steps in Sandringham House before they walked over for Christmas Day mass. "Are you ready?"

It's against royal protocol, squawked Rita. Never has a member of the Royal Family been publicly invited to spend Christmas with the King before marriage!

"Not sure," Hermione said, giving him a wary smile. "Think they'll hate me?"

"Of course not," he assured her, offering her his arm. "I'm quite confident they'll love you."

His optimism was very him, of course, which Hermione took at first to be a severe miscalculation of what she suspected to be certain doom. Narcissa had skipped Christmas at Sandringham again, either by her own choice or someone else's, and Lucius, as far as Hermione had heard, had not taken the news of Hermione's expected presence particularly well. Not that it was enough to worsen the rift between father and son any further than it had been; outside of necessary public appearances, Lucius hadn't spoken to Draco since being informed of the engagement, and he did not attempt it upon learning of his son's request that Hermione be invited for the holidays. As far as Hermione had heard, the only outcome had been a paraphrased message from Dobby, indicating that the Prince of Wales was 'disheartened to hear their usual family Christmas would be unexpectedly disrupted.'

Sandringham as an official guest of King Abraxas was run on a meticulous timetable, which was as unfamiliar to Hermione as the rest of her newly royal-adjacent life. She had never quite understood the demands on Draco's time before—foolishly believing, as she had, that spending a few days with one's grandfather could be expected to be restful—and learned very quickly the level of protocol involved in being a guest of the King. Several dress changes were involved, leading Hermione to feel she'd brought enough clothes to survive an extremely swanky nuclear winter, and even her arrival with Draco had required choreography to bizarre and tedious perfection. They arrived before Lucius, something that was ostensibly expected, and met Abraxas for tea at precisely four in the afternoon. A whirlwind it was not; from the moment Hermione arrived with Draco every step was precisely planned, with a textbook of tradition available (should citation be necessary) to explain the resounding significance of every spare breath.

Naturally, Hermione assumed she was doing poorly. She half expected her walk to the Christmas Day service at Draco's side to be met with projectile cabbages or some other classically English expression of mob-related malcontent.

Despite all her preparation—protocol from Pansy, fashion from Daphne, and a little guidance here and there from the resident princes ("Just don't fall down," suggested Harry, as Draco nodded, apparently finding that to be perfectly sufficient advice)—Hermione discovered she had not been adequately schooled in, of all things… adulation.

Our future Princess looked absolutely stunning in a burgundy wrap coat, said a new blog, earnestly titled From The Bay to Buckingham. Unlike DRAGONFLOWER, this blog seemed to exist exclusively to cheer about anything Hermione did, said, wore, or looked at. Is it just me, or did it seem to be an homage to Princess Narcissa's first Christmas with the Royal Family? Her ring looked beautiful—and she also wore Narcissa's emerald earrings to match!

It would seem The King is positioning Hermione Granger to replace the Princess of Wales as the most prominent female member of the Royal Family, speculated one article from British Vogue. Given Princess Narcissa's troubling behaviour in recent years, it's no surprise Hermione is putting her best foot forward, and to quite commendable results.

A flawless first appearance from the woman who will be Queen, remarked another article. Hermione, who typically played a game of public opinion Russian roulette by even opening the internet to begin with, was shocked to still be finding streams of admiring commentary; typically, there were only one or two before she came across some criticism. While Hermione has been known for her sometimes brazen steps outside protocol, it is a relief to find her quietly observing royal practices with a smile on her face. And there can be no denying the obvious affection between the American and her Prince!

Hermione is finally coming into her own, concluded another source. Her welcome from the Royal Family seems to have brought new warmth and confidence to her appearances; already, one can see the difference between her relaxed posture over the Christmas holiday when compared with the photographs taken for her engagement announcement.

Only one voice seemed to point out the disconcerting.

With no sign of Narcissa once again, it seems quite clear the Princess of Wales is being forced out, wrote Rita Skeeter. The Palace's efforts to mold Hermione into a more tolerable source of public interest seems directly correlated to Narcissa's continuing fall from The King's favour, and indeed, there can be little doubt this bit of sleight-of-hand—magically replacing one woman with another—will successfully fool many among the Royal Family's captive audience. Clad in her absent mother-in-law's jewels, Hermione's royally sanctioned appearance at Sandringham sent a clear, unassailable message: This is to be a new era of expectation.

"Ominous," Daphne remarked, reading over Hermione's shoulder. She and Theo had been invited along for the Boxing Day 'sporting' events, though Hermione hesitated to find much 'sport' in the hunting that continued to exist as an aristocratic recreation, despite it being 2017 (though, she reasoned, it did render her medieval expectation to be hit with rotting produce somewhat less outrageous). Harry and Pansy, who had arrived with Jamie shortly before Hermione and Draco, were also in attendance, while Blaise and Tracey, not quite the same level of nobility, remained in London.

"I don't suppose you're panicking over this, are you?" Daphne asked, unsubtly checking Hermione for damage.

"Not especially," Hermione said. "It's certainly not the first time Rita's stirred up some—" She broke off, catching the motion of Pansy's brow. "Shirts," she grumbled, and Pansy nodded, patting Hermione's hand absentmindedly as she raised her cup of tea to her lips.

"Still, a fake rivalry with Pansy that can be easily disproved is one thing, but suggesting you're conspiring with Abraxas to replace Narcissa is a bit mean-spirited," Daphne remarked with a frown, spreading a bit of cream on her scone. "I don't suppose she's been any nicer since the book, then?"

"Who, Rita? Hardly. Though, I suppose I can't really blame her," Hermione said, shrugging. "We obviously weren't going to send her anyone actually important, so I can't imagine she's having much fun with Slughorn."

"My god, not that old fool," Theo said, falling into the seat beside Daphne with a mopey dog-Lucius at his heels. "I'm loath to consider what happens when he and Gilderoy Lockhart occupy the same room, much less the same planet. Explains the climate crisis," he deduced with a shudder. "Not sure how, exactly, but it feels like the right answer."

"I thought you were supposed to be hunting with Draco and Harry?" Daphne asked him.

"Please, Greengrass," he said with a scoff, reaching for her scone, "as if anyone in their right mind would give me a gun."

"Theodore has a point," Pansy said with another sip, "both about his own ineptitude, which is boundless—"

"Thank you," Theo said, spearing some jam with a knife.

"—and the disaster of using Slughorn as a source. Surely Rita will know he's not the intimate access you offered her," she determined, giving Hermione her usual look of doubt.

"Well, it's not as if the book can turn out badly," Hermione said. "She still has to have it approved."

"Yes, but what the Palace will approve and what's actually true are completely at odds, are they not?" Pansy prompted. "You of all people should know the truth is far too unpalatable to print. Prince Lucius would never allow even a shred of it."

"I'm sure it won't change much either way," Hermione said, seeing as she doubted that anything, good or bad, would make Lucius come around to speaking terms. "And besides, what do I care whether anything in the book is true? It's enough to have a bit of peace from her constant assault of criticism, isn't it?"

"Not that you're the only one in the news," Daphne said, now skimming the latest headlines on her own screen. "There's something here about Neville and Susan getting engaged," she read with a frown as the others collectively made a face. "Oh, and the Transfiguration Project's breaking ground on a new development," she said, surprising Theo with a sharp poke in the shoulder as he choked on a bite of scone. "Look at that, Nott! You're in the papers for something other than your debaucherous bachelordom."

"And so unfairly, too," coughed Theo, who was currently permitting a shivering Prince Lucius onto his chair, gradually burying his lap beneath awkwardly folded dog limbs and designer tartan. "After I worked so hard to cultivate this faultless image of seduction and gravitas? Unacceptable," he lamented, stealing Daphne's cup of tea.

"I don't suppose you've told that McGonagall woman about your engagement," Pansy said, turning to Hermione. "She won't be in the book, will she?"

"Actually, she heartily refused," Hermione replied. "Something about 'This is the first I'm hearing about you and Prince Draco, Miss Granger,' so as far as I know, she's currently making dodging Rita's phone calls a premiere Olympic sport."

"Ah, so this book will be almost entirely nonsense, then," Theo judged, looking as if he approved. "It's unfortunate there won't be an entire chapter featuring Helen's marital advice or Draco's secret life as a Batman impersonator," he sighed, "but, regrettably, I suppose we all must align to His Majesty's unreasonable expectations."

"I think Abraxas was pleased with the idea," Hermione admitted. "I was initially worried he'd react the way Lucius did to my being here against protocol, but I think he's starting to warm to me? He at least seems pleased with my decision to have Rita write the book, and he's been… oddly welcoming, actually," she said, thinking of the way he had greeted her with a smile, making a point to neither exclude her nor force her into any of the scheduled activities. "Maybe he's come around since telling me I was going to be a disaster."

"Well, asking Rita to write the book was a rather neat solution to your little public approval problem, which surely Abraxas can appreciate," Daphne observed. "After all, she can hardly eviscerate you once it's been released, or how would she possibly sell books?"

"It's not as if she's left me alone quite yet," Hermione pointed out, careful not to get ahead of herself. "So far I'm still the colonial upstart I always was, just slightly better dressed."

"Eh, the speculation that the book will be a scathing tell-all is a promising campaign for initial sales. Eventually she'll have to put her vitriol to rest," Theo said. "I assume she'll shift her focus elsewhere once she's exhausted her primary means to cause trouble."

Pansy, Hermione noticed, was unusually quiet, staring off over the house's grounds as she contemplated something in silence.

"You don't actually think I'm forcing out Narcissa, do you?" Hermione asked, nudging her. "It's just another of Rita Skeeter's ridiculous rumors, that's all."

To her dismay, Pansy didn't answer right away. Instead, she carefully poured herself another cup of tea, stirring in some sugar, and then leaned back, dark gaze traveling a long distance to reach a waiting Hermione.

"I expect Abraxas rather hopes you'll find it comfortable to exist in his approval," Pansy said.

Hermione blinked, expecting more, which Pansy did not provide.

"Oh, she's just being morose," Daphne said in a delicate sing-song, noticing the tension and rushing, with obvious pretense, to 'casually' intervene. "Should we talk about your dress again later?" she asked Hermione, steering her back to more diverting topics—or to what was more diverting for Daphne, anyway, since Hermione had little to contribute with regard to crafting an iconic wedding gown. "I've asked Fleur to come to London next week," Daphne said, patting Theo's hand and rapidly resolving Hermione's internal wave of apprehension. "I'm hoping she'll have some thoughts on the materials."

The thought of Fleur visiting was a welcome distraction. "Really? We haven't seen her in ages!"

"Well, she's apparently just wrapped some appearances for Dior," Daphne said, wryly shaking her head over Fleur's enviable lifestyle, "so she can finally spare a few moments for us peasants. You'll be around, won't you?" she asked, turning to Theo and retrieving her cup of tea from his hand. "I know you've got some deadlines coming, but I thought if the situation arose…"

"I'll make time," he assured her. "After all, what is time if not a myth?"

"Well, that doesn't comfort me nearly as much as you think it does," Daphne informed him, "but thank you. And as for you," she said, turning back to Hermione, "are you absolutely sure you want me to design your dress? Because you should really have something more established. Like Dior, for example," she clarified emphatically. "They've done excellent work for Fleur this year—"

"Ah yes, Fleur, who, like me, definitely has the body of a human woman and not some sort of universal daydream brought to life," Hermione drily agreed.

"—or Givenchy," Daphne continued, ignoring her. "They have an English creative director, and there's always—"

"Daph, don't tell me you're nervous," Hermione cut in, half-smiling as she watched Daphne fumble to a halt. "Who better to design my wedding gown than the person who knows my body better than anyone else?"

"Sorry, what was that?" came a voice behind them, revealing a playfully bemused Draco with a laughing Harry at his side. "Just wanted to clarify that remark, Miss Granger," Draco informed her with a kiss to her cheek, "lest you reveal to our close friends and hateful enemies how improperly I satisfy you."

"Please," Hermione sighed, taking his hand as he rested it on her shoulder. "Even with your breadth of knowledge—which is preeminent," she acknowledged, prompting him to nod with apparent satisfaction, "I doubt you could design my dress for me as well as Daphne could."

"Well," Draco said, observing her with a pensive glance, "if I were to try and choose a silhouette—"

"Oi, offer and acceptance have been made!" Theo scolded Draco from beneath his pile of huddled greyhound. "If you're in the business of poaching high profile clients, you'll have to submit an application for consideration like the rest of us."

"Whatever happened to reasonable expectation of corporal punishment?" Draco asked rhetorically, kicking a bit of mud from the heel of his boots. "You've all gotten much too comfortable. Someone will have to be convicted for treason or I shall be forced to find all new friends."

"He said that the first time when we were six," Theo remarked loudly to Daphne, "and yet the date of my inevitable trip to the gallows remains curiously undetermined."

"Scheduling conflicts," Draco assured him, though Hermione had gotten distracted, noticing Harry where he'd crouched beside Pansy's chair.

"You're quiet, wife," he observed, taking one of Pansy's hands and toying for a moment with her fingers. "You've scarcely even mentioned how roguish I look in my sporting garb."

Pansy cast him a skeptical glance. "Roguish?"

"Admit it, Lady Seven-Names," he said. "You like me most with a bit of rough."

Her smile quirked for half a second, then furiously stilled.

Harry rose, touching her cheek with his thumb before taking her chin in one hand, giving her a scrutinizing glance.

"Good?" he said.

She nodded.

"Shall we go see our daughter, then? She'll be awake by now, I expect."

Another nod.

"Good." Harry kissed her lips, setting her teacup on the table and replacing it with his hand. "Come on, then. We'll see you in a bit," he told the others, who had been continuing to discuss the merits of beheading Theo versus permanent institutional confinement.

"Pansy's a bit odd," Draco observed as she and Harry left, glancing between Hermione and Daphne with curiosity. "Anything to report?"

"Nothing I understand," Hermione grudgingly confessed, turning to Daphne. "Do you?"

"Well—" Daphne hesitated. "I suppose it's nothing," she eventually determined. "I'm sure it will pass."

That, Hermione thought, was nearly as ominous as Rita Skeeter's implications.

"If you say so," she murmured, just before Draco too-spiritedly suggested they all get changed for supper.

Fleur's visit to London in early January was the highlight of a moderately stressful time; not psychologically taxing, for once, but physically and mentally draining. Taking on a royal schedule was daunting, a bit like orientation for a new and deeply demanding job. Hermione's days were broken down by Draco's personal staff nearly to the minute, executing demands that she be in one place or another whether or not she was publicly visible at any given time.

During the weeks following Sandringham, Hermione was present at Draco's side for one major public appearance: an annual press event honoring a foundation that provided organized efforts for mental health services. Despite the fact that Hermione spoke very little and was only invited to comment regarding Draco's devotion to the cause of mental health in general, the articles that followed were largely a slew of praise, not only for her clothes and her hair but for her, quote, 'quiet dignity' on the subject. Praise for Draco's speaking engagement, too, was resounding, indicating that his natural inclination to be more outspoken on stigmatized topics than his father was an attribute met with far-reaching approval.

Requesting that Dobby set aside time for her to visit with Fleur and Daphne was immensely satisfying, even with Hermione's silent hope that a continually out-of-sorts Pansy wouldn't be present. She was relieved, upon entering Daphne's atelier, to find only Daphne, Fleur, and an open bottle of champagne, both women looking up from a large, almost architectural drawing of plans for Hermione's gown as she entered.

"Ah, there she is, the bride!" Fleur exclaimed, cheeks flushing with excitement as she opened her arms for Hermione. "How are you? No, no need to tell me, I can see that you look radiant," she answered herself, holding Hermione at arm's length. "I can't believe it's finally happening—and the ring? Ah, perfection," she sighed, holding Hermione's finger up to the light. "Beautiful, dazzling, flawless—"

"She's drunk," Daphne told Hermione with a roll of her eyes, earning herself a swat on the shoulder from Fleur.

"Hush," Fleur said, and then a lofty, "Tipsy, maybe," before dragging Hermione's arm half out of its socket, pausing beside the workspace where she and Daphne had clearly been sketching for a couple of hours. "Though, I prefer to think of it as unbridled enthusiasm. Do you like?" Fleur asked, pointing to the four separate designs they'd been working with. "With sleeves, of course, we're agreed on that, and I said it should at least photograph pure white rather than ivory—"

"Ah yes, for my virginity," Hermione drily agreed.

"—and Daphne thinks lace, but I think possibly something more modern? A bateau neckline, for example," Fleur continued, pointing, though before Hermione could say anything about the design, Fleur had wrapped her in another embrace, sighing happily. "Oh, ma cherie, you are thriving," she said, still pink-cheeked with delight. "Are you enjoying your new life?"

"I… yes," Hermione said, trying not to laugh as Daphne threw up her hands apologetically, gesturing again to the bottle. "Yes, Fleur, I'm very happy, thank you—"

"Good, excellent, good. Never mind Pansy, she will come around," Fleur added, and Hermione blinked, jarred a little by the tangential comment as Daphne chose that moment to hastily shove a glass in her hand. "She's just so used to you being the… comment dite-on… the rebel, you know? But she'll understand soon, she'll see. Now, if you do choose lace," Fleur continued, turning back to the drawings as Hermione frowned over her shoulder at Daphne, "I think I like this one, Daphne's first design. It's beautiful, no?" she said, flashing Daphne a look of approval. "A nice marriage between modern and classic, just like you and Draco—"

"What was that about Pansy?" Hermione asked, but Fleur was busy shuffling through lace samples.

"No, actually, now that we have you here, I do think Daphne's instincts are right—lace suits you," Fleur said, distractedly turning her attention to fabrics. "We don't want to overwhelm your figure with something too heavy, naturally—"

"It's really nothing," Daphne said in Hermione's ear, referring to Fleur's little slip of commentary. "Really, Pansy's just being stubborn. Don't even think about it."

"Hard not to, seeing as it keeps coming up," Hermione muttered back, taking a sip of champagne. "Has she talked to everyone but me?"

"No, she just… well, you know how Pansy is—"

"Hello?" came a voice, and the three of them spun from their various positions around the room to find Theo making his way up the steps to Daphne's private workspace, someone else at his heels. "Oh good, you're all here," Theo said, wandering inside and reaching to sneak a look at the designs until Daphne shoved his hand away. "This is Bill," Theo added over his shoulder, gesturing to the tall redhead who was ducking his head to enter the lofted studio. "He's my financial counterpart at Gringotts—Bill, my wife, Daphne," he said, gesturing to her, "and of course the future Queen of England, so please do bow with appropriate reverence—"

"Oh god, please don't," Hermione assured him quickly. "And does he mean that you're working with Minerva?"

"He means I'm the Transfiguration Project's banker, so yes," Bill confirmed drily, extending a hand to Daphne. "We were just finishing up a meeting that ran overlong when Theo said he needed to check in with you, so I hope I'm not imposing too obtrusively. Theo told me all about you," he added to Daphne, smiling before turning to Hermione. "Oh, and sorry," he said, shaking Hermione's hand and turning to Fleur, "I didn't catch your—"

He broke off, blinking, as Fleur looked up from the fabric she was holding.

"—name," Bill concluded, recovering with only a slightly fumbled cough. "I'm… Bill. Weasley," he said, as Hermione frowned, wondering how many people were possibly in the Weasley family. "And you're, um. You're—"

"Single," Fleur said, flashing him a smile that was precisely as lovely as it was carnivorous. "You can call me Fleur."

"Over dinner, I hope," Bill said, holding her hand significantly longer than he'd held either Hermione's or Daphne's.

"And again at breakfast," Fleur replied, as Hermione exchanged a look with Theo, who looked positively delighted.

Daphne, meanwhile, elbowed Theo in the ribs. "Your meeting went on so long you had to check in, hm?" she said, gesturing to Bill with a doubtful look. "Can't imagine why—"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Theo told her, trying again (and failing) to see her sketches of Hermione's dress. "What, really?" he demanded, petulant with insistence when Daphne admonished him with a glare. "After all my good work today?"

"You can't just throw two wildly attractive people in a room and call it work," Daphne informed him. "This," she said, waving a hand to where Fleur and Bill were staring wolfishly at each other, "is just basic science—"

"Which isn't technically something I've ever claimed to understand," Theo replied hotly, "so we're back where we started, Greengrass!"

"Well, anyway," Bill said, managing to tear himself away from Fleur long enough to turn, dazedly, to Theo. "Should we, ah. Continue our…? Plans," he finished, frowning. "Our, erm. The conversation we were in, uh—"

He frowned with concentration, turning to look at Fleur, who smiled up at him.

"Bed with," he finished, and blinked. "I mean—"

"We all know what you meant," Daphne said with a roll of her eyes, giving Theo a scolding glance. "And you do realize you interrupted us, Nott—"

"Oh, you don't need me," Fleur assured her, now making a point to plainly admire Bill's bicep. "Tell me," she commented, folding back his sleeve (without any protest from him) and running a finger along the line of his forearm, "what else do you keep under here?"

She'd somehow managed to zero in on a series of boldly illustrative tattoos through the material his shirt, glancing up at him with a smile of triumph.

"Oh, I'm happy to show you," Bill told her at a murmur, and unsurprisingly, Fleur's smile broadened.

"Wow," said Hermione, observing with amusement. "This is…"

"Is this how she got you?" Daphne asked Theo.

"Well, I was pining over another woman," he reminded her, "so tragically, it required even less work."

"Ah," Daphne said. "Pity."

Theo winked at her, turning back to Bill. "Shall we?" he suggested, waving a hand expectantly out the door. "My wife is correct, as ever, that we've rudely interrupted. I imagine we should leave the ladies to their brilliance," he remarked, and Bill, who looked as if a construction crane would be required to separate him from Fleur, managed a fumbled step in Theo's direction, nodding.

"Bye," Fleur said, giving Bill a wave that would probably ruin his life as Theo turned to bid farewell to Daphne.

"You've got this," Theo assured her, tugging a dazzled Bill back towards the stairs. "You're an icon, Greengrass, all on your own. Oh, and Cali," he called to Hermione, "before I forget, could y-"

But Daphne had suddenly leapt forward, taking Theo's hand and yanking him back to kiss him the way Hermione had forgotten Daphne could kiss him; with her fingers twisted in his hair and dug into his jaw, hips flush against his for the span of several seconds before reluctantly releasing him, parting from his lips with a slow, breathless look of gratitude.

Theo took a step back, looking approximately as gobsmacked as Bill, and returned his attention to Hermione with a puzzled frown.

"Well," he managed, clearing his throat, "could you, ah… feed the dog, please? Or something," he said, before appearing to dismiss the idea entirely. "Or, you know. Whatever."

"Sure," Hermione said, amused.

Theo nodded, the two of them disappearing down the stairs as Hermione turned back to Daphne and Fleur, who were wearing matching looks of satisfaction.

"So," Hermione said, eyeing the sample in Fleur's hand. "Lace?"

The simple nudge was all it took.

"Lace," Daphne and Fleur confirmed in unison, returning to the sketches at hand.

Among the everyday normalities that had become a thing of the past was walking. Now, Hermione mostly got from place to place with the aid of the royal family's security team. Along with having a private car for transportation, Hermione was also freed from the burden of closing her own car door (something she forgot at least once, rendering her a despicable plebeian once again for a brief episode of Rita scoffery) and was assigned her own personal Dobby: a lively, high-voiced, British-themed Kristen Chenoweth of a woman named, of all things, Winky, which was probably some sort of nickname, though Hermione was too fearful of being wrong to ask.

Hermione grew a new appreciation for Draco's unfailing patience after learning just how often the palace staff could call her on any given day. Typically, she woke to a call from Winky informing her of her schedule, and then fielded several more at an interval of no less than every two hours as things developed and plans either changed, might be changed, or strictly could not change, along with things that, as Winky would trillingly repeat, "So sorry Miss, but must be done." Aside from deciding what color the table linens should be and whether or not she preferred to vow to obey Draco in all things (a quick decision, actually, as she resolutely did not), there were the increasing duties of being a future working royal. Patronages were lined up for her perusal—Would she like to support early education? Or would hospitals be her pet project? Did she or did she not give a damn about starving children?—and on top of all that, there was Daphne, who would cryptically call to mumble things like, "Poppies? No, never mind," and then, alarmingly, hang up.

It was a relief to find the time to pay a visit to Minerva, intent as Hermione was on staying committed to the Transfiguration Project's work. This time, with her schedule being semi-public knowledge, the crowds outside the office were positively massive. Hermione paused to wave to Colin Creevey—who, she spotted, had finally purchased a new phone screen—before making her way inside the old haunt that had once been her place of employment.

Inside, courtesy of both Theo's eye and presumably some of his money, the relatively open floor plan had been parceled up into a series of low-walled, bustling cubicles. When a quick scan of the office showed Minerva's desk to be vacant, Hermione approached the office belonging to Oliver Wood, Chief Fundraising Officer, knocking on the open door frame and interrupting said Fundraising Officer from what appeared to be a series of weighted push-ups, with one of the smaller interns reading aloud from an email while balancing on Oliver's back.

"That's enough, Coote," Oliver barked upon spotting Hermione in the doorway, leaping to his feet the moment the intern had removed himself from Oliver's spine. "Ritchie Coote, Hermione Granger," Oliver informed the intern, who gave Hermione a low, dignified bow. "Grab Peakes, would you? I'll need him to report back on this month's figures. Oh, and have him bring the board," Oliver called, smiling incongruously at Hermione and ushering her inside, where he pulled up a chair for her beside his standing treadmill desk.

"Board?" she echoed doubtfully, taking the proffered seat. "You're not paddling your employees, are you?"

"Nonsense. Have to build up a strong core," Oliver scoffingly informed her, lying on his back in the center of his office and looking placidly up at her. "To what do we owe the pleasure, Granger?"

She opened her mouth, pausing her reply as another intern wandered in with something that looked like a large foam rectangle.

"Hermione Granger, Jimmy Peakes," Oliver said, as the intern gave her a nod and settled himself on his knees beside Oliver. "Harder this time, would you?" he said to the intern. "Hit me like you mean it, Peakes."

"Is this…" Hermione trailed off, watching as the intern, Peakes, smacked the board into Oliver's stomach mid-sit up. "Is this like, legal?"

"What? Of c- oof, of course," Oliver said, leisurely continuing his set. "Obvi- balls, obviously, Granger, I remain com- ah, committed in every conc- harder, Peakes! And start reading, would you?—conceivable way," he continued, "so—"

"For the month of January, we saw a 30% increase in annual donations with intent to renew," Peakes said in a dull voice, reading from his phone screen as he smacked the board into Oliver's abdomen at continuing intervals, "and we have a reasonable expectation for f-"

"Hi, yes, sorry to interrupt," Hermione said, leaning forward to pause whatever it was that was presently happening, "but I just came by to see Minerva. Is she around, or…?"

"Oh, you're here for Minnie? No, she's out for the day," Oliver said, pausing with confusion, which did not keep Peakes from smacking into his abdomen once again. "PEAKES," Oliver bellowed, and then turned to Hermione with a frown. "Though, it is Tuesday," he said thoughtfully, "so if you'd like me to try to reach her, I could probably triangulate her location based on what I've come to observe as her weekly samosa cravings."

"She's really not around? But we had a meeting scheduled," Hermione said with a frown, reaching for her phone and finding a series of messages from Winky. "Oh… for fork's sake—"

There was a yelp from somewhere outside as three men suddenly rushed into the Transfiguration Project office, barring the main office's doors. Hermione, unsure whether this was part of Oliver's usual workout or if something actually traumatic was happening, blinked with surprise as a particularly large man shoved into Oliver's office.

"Miss Hermione Granger," he said, "you're coming with me."

He was wearing full black except for a badge, bearing what Hermione recognized from having been around Harry so much was a Royal Army seal.

He was also, much to her dismay, holding a machine gun.

"Excuse me?" she asked, and might have gasped, only Oliver was remaining unexpectedly calm.

"Flint," said Oliver, frowning up at the man from his position on the floor. "What on earth is this?"

The man looked down, temporarily caught off guard. "Wood? What are you doing here?"

That was evidently the wrong answer. "Oh," Oliver scoffed, "so that's just brilliant, isn't it? Because if you'd come to visit me even once then obviously you'd know this was my bloody office, wouldn't you—"

"I told you," the man exasperatedly retorted, "I had familial obligations—"

"What, for the last half-decade?"

"No, I was—look, I'm not here for you, arsehole—"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you not see my bloody name on the door, dickhead?"

"I'm at work, Wood, I'm hardly concerned with your feelings at the mom-"

"Um, excuse me," Hermione interrupted, clearing her throat. "That's… that's a gun," she pointed out, and the man gave Oliver a final glare before returning his attention to Hermione.

"Right," he confirmed. "Good work, Miss Granger. Now, if you'll come with me—"

"What? Like hel-" She broke off, uncertain whether this was an appropriate time for cursing or if the rule applied to potentially life-threatening situations, too. "Like heck I will!"

The man lowered his gun with a sigh, stepping over Oliver to approach her.

"It's part of your security training, Miss. Did His Royal Highness not mention this to you?"

"Uh," Hermione said. She vaguely recalled Draco mentioning something about Special Air Services, though she clearly hadn't been listening at the time. "Well, um—"

"I'm Officer Flint of the Royal Army SAS," the man told her, displaying his badge for her perusal, "and you'll have to come with me, as you're being kidnapped."

"This," Oliver scoffed, "is amateurish to the highest degree."

"SHUT UP, WOOD," Flint barked over his shoulder, turning back to Hermione. "You're going to come with me, Miss Granger, and then we're going to review in detail what to do if you're ever abducted, as well as how to respond if one of your rescuers is shot. Have you ever experienced live ammunition before?"

"I—" Her head spun. "What?"

Flint sighed. "My apologies for this," he said, and bent down, throwing her over his shoulder with both alarming and impressive ease before rising to his feet, making his way to the door. "We'll be airlifting you from the roof," he informed her as she struggled to see through the curtain of her hair, "and from there, you'll be transported to a secure loc-"

"Not going to say goodbye?" Oliver drawled after them.

"Oh, for fuck's sake—I WILL SEE YOU AT HOME," Flint shouted, returning to a reasonable volume as he continued carrying Hermione out of the office, flanked now by the two other officers. "Anyway, as I was saying—"

"How exactly do you know Wood?" Hermione asked him, head bobbing a little with each step he took.

"We've been inadvisably together since university, largely for reasons I will never understand or be able to explain," replied Flint gruffly, suddenly heaving her from his shoulder and setting her incautiously upright. "Can you walk from here, Miss," he asked, steadying her, "or are you still in shock?"

"Oliver has a… boyfriend?" she echoed, dazed.

Flint arched a brow. "You didn't think there was any possible chance a woman would date him, did you?"

She considered it. "Well, no," she confirmed, "but—"

"Up the stairs," Flint said, pointing with the butt of his rifle. "Unless you'd like to be carried?"

"Did you say I was going to shoot a gun?" she asked him.

"No," he said, "I implied that I was going to shoot a gun at you. You'll have some artillery training later."

That, Hermione thought, was probably going to be no stranger than anything else she'd been put through so far.

"Alright, then I can walk," she grumbled, turning to make her way up the stairs as the three Army officers trudged along behind her.

"You might have warned me I was going to be kidnapped," Hermione whispered to Draco as they seated themselves for the morning's church service; it was another in a string of memorial celebrations on behalf of the Commonwealth. "I will tell you right now, I did not particularly care for the experience. Nor do I really aspire to be surrounded by so much active gunfire again," she added with a shudder, "or to watch Dobby and Winky play dead—"

"Warning you might have defeated the purpose of the training, don't you think?" Draco replied, turning to look at her. He gave her a small half-smile, surveying the ensemble she wore that From The Bay to Buckingham would later praise for its homage to old Hollywood glamor, and raised his program to cover his mouth, remarking at a murmur, "For what it's worth, I look forward to taking that dress off you later."

Hermione blinked, startled.

"Draco," she said, "we're in church."

"Or you can leave it on, if you prefer," he said, flipping the pages and pretending to point to something near the Archbishop's name. "Why wait for a bed when there will be a perfectly good chaise in the parlor beside the formal dining room?"

"I—" Hermione could feel her cheeks reddening, tightening her legs together and wishing she hadn't been so intently schooled not to cross them. "Did you have something specific in mind?"

"Well, I thought first I would sit you down, slide your knees apart." He reached over, resting one hand briefly on her knee for emphasis. "Kiss my way up your thigh," he said in her ear, his voice now so quiet she had to strain to hear him, "and then… What kind of knickers?"

Jesus fuck. "Nude lace."

"Perfect. I'd lick you through them, of course. Slide your hips forward, part your thighs wider until you're struggling to breathe quietly—because of course there will be guests in the next room, which you can't abide. You'll say my name, intending to admonish me, but despite your best effort, I'll make certain it's a moan. I'll take the knickers off you then and there." He inspected the program in the light, turning to smile at her. "Then I'll put my mouth on you," he said, "and make you c-"

"Your Highness," interrupted a voice on Draco's other side as Hermione squirmed. "A word?"

"Certainly," he said, shifting in his seat to begin a conversation as Hermione thought desperately of Theo's dad's balls, or something of grotesque equivalence.

Across the church, Harry and Pansy had taken their seats. Harry gave a little wave, smiling at Hermione; beside him, Pansy offered something of a pleasant nod, adjusting her hat and leaning in as Harry said something in her ear.

Hermione frowned, observing Pansy's continually strange demeanor. It wasn't as if she'd been impolite to Hermione; if anything, that might have been an improvement. For the last month Pansy had been treating Hermione like a stranger—or worse, an acquaintance. Someone to whom she owed only the superficiality of her most simpering kindness.

"Careful," someone warned beside her, and Hermione jumped, failing to notice until that precise moment that Prince Lucius (the human one) had taken his seat. "You look distressed," he clarified, glancing at her, and then his grey gaze shifted briefly to his son.

It was the first time they had spoken in months despite seeing each other so frequently at these events. More often, Winky passed along messages to Hermione when they needed to interact. Given everything, Hermione rarely managed the time to ponder how much communication had been lacking, though it had crossed her mind once or twice that Draco, who had previously spoken to his father several times a day, no longer mentioned the existence of any such interaction.

"Thank you," Hermione said hesitantly, and considered saying more, but Lucius had already nodded, dismissive.

"You're welcome," he said coolly, picking up his program and scanning it in silence.

It did not particularly shock Hermione that people began coming out of the woodwork to find her, much like they had when it was first discovered that she was Prince Draco's girlfriend. She wasn't especially alarmed to hear from distant cousins or childhood friends—finding it harmless, if odd—but she quickly discovered there were limits to her state of placid unsurprise.

For example, the day Lady Bellatrix Lestrange came to visit was especially unpleasant, and if Hermione had not been entirely certain that Rita was using Bellatrix as a source for the still in-progress book, she might have slammed the door in the woman's face.

"What are you doing here?" she muttered, unwillingly waving Bellatrix inside. "I've only got half an hour, so—"

"I know," Bellatrix said, sweeping past her, and Hermione sighed.

"Did you bribe someone for my schedule or something?"

"Oh, Dobby's always been frightened of me," Bellatrix replied, inspecting Hermione's flat with obvious disapproval before turning to face her. "In any case, as I told him, I'm merely here to offer you my hearty congratulations. I have to be honest, I didn't actually think this day would ever come," she said with a little laugh, "but I suppose I have always foolishly hoped we might share more than our propensity for trouble."

Hermione set her jaw. "I know the truth, you know. That Lucius proposed to you," she said, as Bellatrix quickly masked a look of surprise. "I also know you rejected him and made yourself a victim."

"Hm." Bellatrix wandered into the kitchen, peering into Hermione's refrigerator. "Well, you always did seem to think you understood everything." She pulled out a bottle of wine, inspecting it. "Being engaged to a prince hasn't improved your taste much, I see," she noted, removing the cork and hunting through the cupboards for a glass. "Have a drink with me," she suggested, pulling out two stems and turning to Hermione. "It's the least you can do," she remarked with a laugh, "now that you're family, isn't it?"

Hermione sighed impatiently, folding her arms over her chest. "What are you really doing here, Bellatrix?"

"I told you," Bellatrix replied, pouring a glass, "I wanted to express my immense pleasure that you and my nephew are soon to be wed."

She smiled brilliantly, offering the glass to Hermione.

"To the House of Malfoy," she said, "and to you, who have so willingly taken my darling sister's role."

Hermione set the glass on the counter with a scowl as Bellatrix took a sip, shuddering.

"Terrible," she ruled. "As I suspected."

"So this is about Narcissa, then?" Hermione asked, interpreting her earlier comment, and Bellatrix fixed her with a look of disapproval.

"Not everything I do is about my sister," she said. "Surely by now you can see that I did not steal her husband, just as I did not force her into a prison of her own making. She chose to fall in line the way that I did not—and now, of course, you are doing the same. Brava," she said, raising a glass to Hermione once again. "To history repeating."

Bellatrix drained the glass, making a face as she deposited it in Hermione's kitchen.

"Well," Bellatrix said, dabbing at the side of her lipstick. "I can see you're quite busy. Now that we've had this little chat, I suppose I'll just be g-"

"No," Hermione interrupted, suddenly furious. "You came to my house to do what, exactly? Just to torture me?" she demanded, as Bellatrix's smile went thin. "Surely you already know I wouldn't do anything to help you even if you asked."

"I don't need your help," Bellatrix scoffed. "Don't you see, Hermione? You foolish girl. You're trading everything away," she said, her dark eyes suddenly sharp with irritation. "When I gave up a prince, what did I gain? Wealth. Status. Freedom. And all without even losing him from my bed."

"You also destroyed a marriage," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "You tore a man's life apart!"

"Yes, and…?" Bellatrix prompted, arching a brow. "No one has ever silenced me."

To that, Hermione couldn't fight a scoff. "Abraxas paid you off! It's the very definition of silencing—"

"Did he?" Bellatrix mused, inspecting her nails. "Or, alternately, do I now have an expansive manor home in the country to luxuriate in whatever I desire, which the King of England himself provided to me as a gift? Imagine the scandal if I ever said anything," she said, feigning a lascivious tone. "My goodness, to keep my mouth shut he'd have to very well make me a Marchioness, wouldn't he?"

The idea that anyone could be so free from any trace of conscience was positively dizzying.

"It's you I'm concerned for, really," Bellatrix continued, observing Hermione's silence with interest. "When it came to Lucius, who got the better end of the deal, hm? My sister is Princess of Wales and I'm a publicly despised widow, but what has it really meant, in the end? I am wealthy, permitted to say whatever I wish whenever I wish to. Narcissa is alone and unloved, bitter and resentful, thoroughly trapped by her own ambitions. Just another intelligent woman swallowed up by an institution of upper class male privilege, all who'd sooner bury her than let her live."

Bellatrix paused, removing a pair of sunglasses from her purse and inspecting the lenses. "I simply hoped," she said, blurring away a speck of dust, "that you would see what you've done."

She placed the sunglasses on her face, expressionless now except for the reflection of Hermione's look of startled dismay.

"Congratulations, Hermione," Bellatrix said. "Now that you've said yes to Draco, you'll never have to say another word."

She turned away, advancing to the front door, and Hermione, perhaps unwisely, called after her. "At least tell me one thing." The words fell from her tongue without much premeditation. "Did you ever even love Lucius?"

Bellatrix came to a stop, back still turned to Hermione.

"Did you honestly love him?" Hermione pressed her. "You were with him for years. Your letters to him, his letters to you…"

She trailed off, swallowing. Maybe what she wanted was for Bellatrix to confess that it had never been love; to prove, somehow, that the two of them were different. That Bellatrix was wrong about her, because she and Lucius had never been what Hermione and Draco were.

"I don't believe you truly hate Narcissa," Hermione said with a shake of her head, "or even that you wanted to cause her pain—but you came back to Lucius."

She hesitated, unsure if she should continue, but she'd already started; why stop?

"You already had money," Hermione pointed out. "You had a husband who let you do whatever you wanted, and you had your sister's heart to break. For as calculated as you are, there was no benefit to your affair."

Nothing except to have him again, which seemed entirely too human.

It was silent for several seconds. Bellatrix's attention turned upward for a moment; she angled her chin over her shoulder, giving Hermione a look she couldn't read.

Then, to Hermione's immense surprise, Bellatrix let out a little laugh, chuckling to herself as if the whole thing had been some kind of delightful joke.

"Why on earth should I tell you?" she said, her laughter gradually fading to nothing. "I think I'll let it haunt you instead."

And then she walked to the door, passing through it without another word.

The phone rang nearly five times before Hermione finally heard an answer, though she supposed she was lucky she got one at all.

"Hello?"

"Pans, don't hang up."

She could hear Pansy's eye roll through the phone. "I'm not a child, Hermione, I don't need to be informed how the telephone operates."

"I just," Hermione began, and hesitated. "I know things have been… off, lately."

She glanced down at the article in the Daily Prophet, which had covered Hermione's most recent appearance. It's a pleasure to see that after much controversial behavior in the past, Hermione Granger has come into her own as a member of the Royal Family. While there has been much speculation that Hermione—whose progressive opinions have come to light several times over the years—would be reticent to conform to the rigid practices of royal protocol, she has instead embraced her role as Prince Draco's consort, finally anchoring a family that has been besieged by scandal for decades.

"I don't know what you mean," Pansy said. Lyingly.

"Pans, come on. You're not even going to be sarcastic with me or something?"

"Sarcasm is a low form of art, Hermione, you know this."

Hermione grimaced. If Pansy wasn't going to say it, she'd obviously have to.

"Fine," she said, and guessed, "You're upset with me."

"Nonsense." Lies.

"Is it because I haven't defended Narcissa?" Another guess.

"Don't be ridiculous, Hermione. I know perfectly well you have no reasonable means to do so."

Pansy's neutral tone on the subject reminded her, briefly, of how Draco used to insist there was nothing he could do to prevent the press from invading her privacy.

Hermione sighed, raising a hand to her temple.

"Pansy," she said, "please."

It was quiet for a moment on the other end.

"You have always been the wrong person for the job," Pansy said, and though Hermione opened her mouth to protest that my god, she'd certainly heard that enough to last them a lifetime, Pansy continued, "I suppose I didn't realize until that was no longer true that it was my favorite thing about you."

Hermione blinked with surprise, her grip tightening around the phone.

"I understand I'm being rather unreasonable," Pansy said. "But I suppose I'm simply adjusting poorly to seeing you be so…"

She trailed off.

"Silent," she said, and Hermione shut her eyes.

For several seconds, they both said nothing.

"I have done such a poor job of telling you how much I value you," Pansy said. "Not only as a friend, but for the example you set for my daughter. For the woman that you are, and for the way you so furiously refused to be everything I insisted you should be. I am aware, of course, of my hypocrisy," she conceded drily. "Though, I suppose I thought you would find my lack of criticism on the subject to be a relief."

"No, actually," Hermione told her. "I hate it."

To her surprise, she heard Pansy laugh.

"I suppose you may already know this about me," Pansy said, "but I sometimes struggle to express my feelings."

"You don't say," Hermione remarked.

"What did I say about sarcasm, Hermione? In any case, I'm sorry," Pansy sighed. "I suppose I've set unrealistic expectations for you, because of course I've always known you could never simply remain as you were. I've been the one telling you for years that Abraxas would never accept you unless you changed, haven't I?" she asked, and it was strange, Pansy being so sympathetic. Bad strange, because it still wasn't the Pansy she knew, and certainly not the one Hermione wanted. "Anyway," Pansy said, still excessively polite, "I imagine I'm the one who owes you an apolog-"

"I like it," Hermione said, and Pansy stopped.

"What?"

"I like it," Hermione repeated, grudgingly confessing. If she wanted Pansy to be honest, she would have to be the one to start. "I like being liked. Finally having approval," she clarified. "I like how it feels. It's been… comfortable," she admitted, "and I thought—" She broke off. "I guess I started to like how it felt to be what Draco's family wanted me to be, because nobody ever believed I could do it."

"Ah," Pansy said, and paused. "Well, I suspected as much."

Tentatively, Hermione smiled. "Admit it," she said. "You're pissed."

"At this hour? Hardly."

"No, you're—" Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're angry, Pans. You saw me getting comfortable being their prize show pony and you were disappointed I let it happen. Right?"

"Well," Pansy said. "Prize is a bit of an overstatement."

"Oh, come on, Pans," Hermione sighed, bolder now. "You spent your whole life being told how to behave, who to be and how to look, and then I came along and I was absolutely none of it, wasn't I? And that frustrated you at first," she estimated, "but then you watched a prince fall for me anyway and you thought, 'Well, shut the front door, if she can do it'—"

"Oh, bloody Christ, fine," Pansy snapped, as Hermione smiled triumphantly on the other end. "You're not just nothing like me, Hermione, you're entirely unsuitable in general! You always have been," she ranted, "and I thought I would resent it, seeing you find happiness in spite of every qualification you lacked—until I realized you found happiness because of it. And now, it's as if you've forgotten completely why Draco fell in love with you to begin with! Yes, the press approves of you now because you've allowed them to make you over from seductress to damsel," Pansy scoffed, "but what does that prove in the end? I thought having you for a public figure would give my daughter the freedom to be nothing like me," she said, sounding frustrated. "That she could grow up in a world that did something differently, but instead, you're just—"

"I'm sorry, Pans," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry I let you down, but if I'm going to be me, then I need you."

"What? Don't be ridic-"

"No, I do," Hermione told her. "I need you because unlike everyone who works for Prince Lucifer, you never lie to me. And frankly? You are precisely the model your daughter needs," she added, "because Jamie is lucky to have a mother who knows exactly what kind of bravery it takes to stand for something when it would be so, so much easier to fall in line."

She could hear Pansy grumble something like concession on the other end of the call, then clear her throat.

"Pans?" Hermione stifled a laugh. "You still there?"

"I have to go," Pansy said, her voice a touch gravelly. "I cannot simply be at your beck and call, Hermione, and I am presently otherwise engaged."

Finally. She was back. "Something in your eye, Pans?"

"Yes. My allergies are horrific. Pollen this season is a nightmare."

"Right, of course," Hermione said, deciding their conversation had probably been more than Pansy could handle in one sitting. "See you soon?"

"Well, you have some sort of dress to wear, do you not?" Pansy sniffed. "I can't leave the details to you and Daphne or… my god," she said with an audible shudder, "the entire thing will be positively Shakespearean."

"Comedy or tragedy?"

"Both, Hermione, always both—"

"Well, I have a fitting tomorrow morning," Hermione said. "I'd love you to come."

"That's rather short notice."

"I'm aware."

"I will make an effort to clear my schedule."

"I thought you might."

Hermione paused, smiling.

"Thanks, Pans," she said, and Pansy gave a heavy sigh.

"Yes, well, I love you, though I shall deny it profusely should anyone ask," she replied, and promptly hung up the phone.

The day that Rita Skeeter's book was supposed to come out in March, Blaise arranged some sort of elaborate celebration, deciding to make the occasion worth marking. It was a 'come as your favorite Hermione' party, which was obviously a troubling prospect, but prior to the event Hermione opted to pay a rather overdue visit rather than fuss over a theme she doubted anyone would actually participate in.

"What are you doing here?" Narcissa asked, looking up with a brush of irritation as Hermione knocked on the door and slipped inside the sitting room. "I wasn't informed you'd be visiting."

"I know, I'm sorry. It's… a bit impulsive." She wandered into the room, hesitating beside the sofa where Narcissa had been reading. "May I sit with you for a bit?"

Narcissa considered her, frowning, and then set her book aside. She neither welcomed Hermione's presence nor opposed it, it seemed, though the sofa was plenty large enough without her making room.

"Well," Hermione said, clearing her throat and taking a seat at the opposite end from Narcissa. "Rita Skeeter's book is coming out today."

"Ah," Narcissa scoffed, "yes, that. I saw the title. Draco and Hermione: A Royal Love Story," she recited, and sniffed her disdain. "The women should win a Man Booker Prize for creativity alone."

Hermione was about to say that prize was specifically for fiction when she realized the book, too, was probably close enough to fictional it might have been a joke on multiple levels. "Well, I wanted to come see you before it was released."

"Why?" Narcissa turned her cold blue eyes on Hermione. "You think I've never encountered lies about myself before?"

"No," Hermione said, "but I just…" She trailed off, sighing. "Look," she ventured uncomfortably, "I understand that you don't like me. I'm probably not what you wanted for Draco, and I understand that, too. But that doesn't mean I don't care about you." She looked up at Narcissa's guarded expression, finding it impossible to read. "You and I may not get along, Narcissa, but you're Draco's mother. He loves you, deeply. And I know the press wants to believe I'm replacing you, but the truth is no one could ever replace you, and certainly not for him."

She took a deep breath, hesitating.

"I'm sorry I haven't done enough to protect your legacy," she said. "You're an icon, a role model, and if I've somehow failed to—"

"Stop." Narcissa rose to her feet, suddenly agitated.

"Narcissa," Hermione said, frowning, "I'm not trying to upset you. I honestly just—"

Narcissa turned sharply, cutting Hermione off with a long, unsettling stare.

"You gave me my son back," Narcissa said. "Did you somehow fail to notice?"

"I—" Yes, it seemed she had. "What?"

"When you entered Draco's life he and I had not been permitted to speak to each other for several years." Narcissa's tone was flat, matter-of-fact. "Lucius kept him from me, as did Abraxas, believing I was dangerous. And Draco was a boy who knew no better than to simply do as he was told."

Hermione, who wasn't quite sure how to respond, opted not to.

"However you and I may feel about each other, Miss Granger, I am heavily in your debt," Narcissa said, her tone unchanged. "My husband and father-in-law fed poison to my son and you, however you did it, brought him back to me."

Her gaze slid to Hermione's.

"No other woman would have done it," she said. "Any woman who wanted Draco for his money or his crown would have taken it without a care for his relationship with me. I have been surrounded by snakes my entire life and you are not one, and have never been one."

She leaned down, picking up the copy of the book she was reading, and handed it to Hermione.

"Here," she said, placing it on Hermione's lap. "Draco's favorite."

Hermione glanced down at the copy of The Odyssey, running her fingers along the embossed lettering of the cover.

"Narcissa," she said, swallowing, "I can't take th-"

"I have plenty of others."

Narcissa strode to the door, not waiting for Hermione's response.

"Narcissa," Hermione called after her, hurrying to her feet. "Are you okay?"

She turned with impatience. "What?"

"Are you—" God, was there a better way to say it? No, probably not. "Are you okay?" Hermione repeated. "I mean really, are you? Because if there's something you need, anything at all, I just want to make sure that—"

"I'm not sick," Narcissa snapped, her expression contorting.

Hermione hurried to unstick her foot from her mouth. "No," she said with horror. "No, I'm… I'm so sorry, I didn't mean that, I was just—"

"Someone will see you out," Narcissa replied coldly, the sound of her heels echoing like the pulse in Hermione's ears as she disappeared into the long corridor.

Much to Hermione's dismay, the others had opted to come in costume. Daphne, traitor that she was, came dressed as Hermione during finals (complete with leggings, wild hair, cup of coffee, and signature claw-clip) while Theo showed up with Hermione's Cleopatra costume pulled none-too-discreetly over his boxers, with Prince Lucius (the dog) dressed decoratively as an asp. Harry wore Hermione's old Stanford crewneck while Pansy arrived in a perfect replica of her Anne Shirley dress. Fleur, who was now dating Bill and frequently making trips to London, had opted to wear a version of the green Dior, practically blinding everyone in the process. (She, unsurprisingly, made it look much more glamorous than Hermione ever had; Hermione made a point to ask her to never wear it in public, lest there be a horrifying WHO WORE IT BETTER? spread that would yield depressingly unanimous results.) Even Ginny was there, joined by her brother Ron, the two of them wearing versions of winter outfits Hermione had worn in public: i.e., several piled-on coats.

Blaise wore Hermione's engagement dress—which was still sold out, thus proving he had incredible foresight and had probably received a tip from Daphne prior to the announcement—while Tracey wore… jeans. Hermione frowned, trying to remember if she actually owned those jeans before realizing Tracey had simply foregone a costume.

Draco, who had arrived before her, was wearing the same too-tight Hogwarts t-shirt he'd put on the day he'd tended to her projectile stomach flu. "Oh, disappointing," he judged, kissing the top of her head. "What is this, current Hermione? What a dull choice," he lamented, earning himself a shove.

"Did you all go into my closet?" Hermione demanded of the group, which was met with a variety of responses that ranged from guilty to positively gleeful. "Never mind, don't tell me," she sighed, reaching out to steal Theo's glass of champagne. "I do not want to know."

"Well, now that everyone's here," Blaise said, distributing copies of Rita Skeeter's book to the group, "I suppose we can begin. Shall we do a read-along, or—?"

"Oh, please," Daphne scoffed, flipping open the book and immediately making a face. "We all know this is total rubbish," she said, diving into what looked to be a paragraph about Hermione's recent fashion choices.

"I, for one, have no plans to ever read it," Pansy said, frowning at Hermione's glassy smile on the cover, "and as far as I know, Henry's never read an entire book in his life."

"Sweet of you," Harry said, "and also, correct."

"It's not my genre of choice," remarked Draco, feigning solemnity as he skimmed the table of contents. "I loathe a happy ending, and I can only assume I'm dreadfully out of character."

"Oh, don't spoil it," Fleur admonished him, perching on Bill's lap.

"Yes," Theo agreed, "no spoilers. How else will I be expected to absorb the allegorical complexities? For example, take the titular soft summer prince," he mused. "Uninspiring male lead, victim of parental microaggressions, or simply a cotton ball wearing googly eyes?"

"I can't believe how many people showed up to celebrate something this unbearably stupid when we can never manage to schedule a reasonable Sunday brunch," Hermione said, giving Theo a shove and turning to Blaise. "Did you really invite all of our friends just so we could celebrate a book that none of us even have plans to read?"

"Hm?" said Blaise, looking up from where he'd apparently begun poring over chapter one. "Oh, yes, ten points for failing to notice, New Tracey."

"This really is everybody you all know, isn't it?" Tracey remarked, leaning on Blaise's shoulder as she took a sip of her champagne. "Well, except for one, I suppose," she determined, and then ventured thoughtfully, "Whatever happened to that Neville Longbottom you lot used to spend so much time with?"

Across the room, Harry erupted in a series of hacking coughs.

"I believe he's engaged to Lady Susan Bones," Blaise replied, not looking up from the book. "I imagine the wedding will fill the society pages just as soon as Draco and New Tracey here have finally finished shouting about their love from the proverbial rooftops."

"Ha," said Ron, which was such a surprising interjection that nearly everyone looked up. "Oh, you haven't heard?" he asked, exchanging a glance with Ginny. "Susan and Neville broke up."

This was news to Hermione; not that she'd looked much into it. "They did? I thought they got engaged."

"Nope. Susan leveled up," said Ginny, with a tiny, telling half-smile. "Or so I've heard."

"I'm sorry," Theo said, choking on his wine. "What?"

"Neville and his grandmother had a whole row about it," Ron informed the room, observing the way the others (minus Fleur and Bill, who were a bit enraptured with each other) were staring at him with surprise. "You really didn't know? No one's heard from him in weeks," he explained, frowning. "Last I heard he was disinherited, though, I suppose knowing his grandmother, the whole thing's been fairly hush-hush."

It was Pansy who registered this news first. "Augusta cut him off?"

Beside Hermione, she noticed the color had drained from Blaise's face.

"Well, I assume so," Ron said uncomfortably, "seeing as I believe he told her he was gay."

There was a brief, startling pause as the book fell from Blaise's hands.

"Ouch," said Tracey, dodging away as the corner of the book landed on the exposed portion of her foot. "Blaise, be careful!"

On either side of him, Hermione and Tracey unintentionally locked eyes over Blaise's frozen expression.

"Sorry," Blaise said, shaking himself and retrieving the book from the floor. "Did you see this?" he asked, holding it up to Hermione and rapidly returning to normal. "She actually says your courtship was 'a love that grew from chaste and humble roots'—"

"And to think," Theo drawled. "In reality, there ought to be some sort of commemorative plaque over the toilets at the Hog's Head."

Immediately, the spell of awkward silence was broken.

"To chastity," Harry said, raising his glass, "which may or may not be a river in Egypt."

"I, for one, cannot wait for the film adaptation," Daphne added, "in which Hermione will surely be played by a glasses-wearing virgin with straight hair."

"One hundred points to Rita Skeeter for her revolutionary undertaking of the world's most riveting love story," Blaise said, slipping an arm around Tracey's waist and reassuring her with a wink, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "May she besmirch our names for generations to come."

"Hear, hear," agreed Draco and Hermione, tacitly confirming they would both be staying up late, contentedly reading Rita Skeeter's rose-colored lies to each other well into the early hints of dawn.

Hard to believe this book came out a mere two months ago, and now, the result of a sequence of events eight years in the making, everything's come down to… this.

As the kids say: Yikes.

Looking back, I'm pretty sure at least some of what happened next was my doing—or, alternately put, my fault. Though, in my defense, it was mostly an accident. After all, my face has always expressed the things even I don't have the nerve to say.

a/n: Just as a timely aside—if you've read my books, particularly Lovely Tangled Vices and One For My Enemy, you know I love a good villainess… there's something so delightful about writing a woman whose motives are shamelessly opaque. In any case, thanks again for being here. And amid all this royal news, too!

40. Parallel

Chapter 40: Parallel

19 May, 2018
The Penthouse Suite at The Rosier Hotel

Draco and Hermione: A Royal Love Story

By Rita Skeeter

While many of us here in Britain have been captivated by the blossoming romance between His Royal Highness Prince Draco of Wales and his American sweetheart, Miss Hermione Jean Granger, very few are privileged to know the true story about how the young couple met. A fairy tale from the very beginning, it was love at first sight when Draco took notice of Hermione, the daughter of hardworking American parents eager to give their only child the education they had both been denied by curses of circumstance. At the time, Hermione had risen to the top of her class at Stanford University in sun-kissed, tropical California, and was granted acceptance as a foreign exchange student to Hogwarts University. Needless to say, the effervescently pretty Hermione, along with several would-be hopefuls who'd learned of Prince Draco's enrollment, was lucky enough to come across the dashing young royal in her classes—though her academics were, of course, her primary concern.

Both fastidious, intensely dedicated students, Draco first caught sight of Hermione's luxurious silken curls in his English Literature class at Hogwarts, and from there, a whirlwind courtship between two intellectual equals began. It is said by their peers that Draco was enamoured with Hermione from the start, and as anyone close to him would be quick to confess, the prince has known with absolute certainty from the moment he laid eyes upon Hermione that she was meant to be his wife, his confidante, and ultimately, his Queen.

I imagine it goes without saying, even for me, that this book is complete and total rubbish. I had never opened it before today, largely because I have better things to concern myself with (i.e., almost anything I could concern myself with), and now I wish I had never opened it at all. The idea that Hermione Granger is being called 'effervescently pretty' (which is, on the scale of lies: bald-faced) or that this 'love at first sight' bollockery makes for a preposterous fairy tale rather than the unceasing nuisance it actually is renders the whole thing single-handedly responsible for the collapse of reputable journalism, probably. It's a complete and total farce as it is—gratuitous bread and circus for the modern, brainless age—and somehow, among all the possible falsities on which to dwell, the most ironic thing about this book…?

That I'm not even in it.

24 March, 2018
Diagon Alley

For the autumn term of 2010, Tracey Davis temporarily suspended her education at Hogwarts University in favor of venturing abroad for a semester at Stanford, a place where it did not snow and where the quality of academics was not overtaken by the presence of an inheriting prince. Which was not to say Tracey hadn't been enjoying her time at Hogwarts; she had, but there was something to be said for true, unencumbered immersion. Specifically, a cramped flat shared with a stranger from a highly mystical part of the United States called the Deep South whilst delving into one of the global hotspots for biotechnology, something Tracey had developed an interest in while exploring the prospect in one of her courses on speculative literature.

It was a hurricane of a four-or-so months, mostly spent in labs or studying for exams. In the end, Tracey determined that she was more interested in the business side than the science side of tech and returned to report to her father, who controlled the country's preeminent communications conglomerate, that she planned to pursue the development of nontraditional streaming methods in media. He advised that she complete her studies in literature—believing, as he did, that business acumen was learned while on the job—and promised her a position in his own company in London after finishing her schooling.

Her mother, Theresa Davis neé Rosier and the granddaughter of one of Britain's most iconic hoteliers, was disappointed to hear Tracey would not be following her maternal lineage into the hospitality industry, but had been pleased to know her daughter (named for herself, though obviously Tracey preferred the less-fussy diminutive) had at least settled on a reputable path for her future.

Naturally, Tracey had not expected to discover that over the course of the same four months, someone had taken over not only her spot in the Slytherin dorms, but also what appeared to be her entire life. It wasn't that Tracey had been especially fond of Daphne, who was a bit of a try-hard, albeit not nearly as unbearable as Pansy Parkinson. (Old money aristocracy was, in Tracey's mind, positively loathsome, having gone to boarding school with enough posh girls touting more money than talent to last a lifetime.) She certainly hadn't been lusting after Prince Draco, either. She had been surprised, of course, that he showed no interest in her, having clearly not done his research about her financial origins, but once he'd started dating Daphne's sister Astoria, it had become quite clear how the Prince preferred his women: polished, snotty, and perpetually out of reach.

Except… then Tracey met Hermione Granger, who was about as unlike Lady Astoria Greengrass as a person could possibly be. Hermione's American accent, which Tracey had slightly adjusted to over time while living in Palo Alto, was positively grating, rendered even more oppressive once Tracey discovered Hermione almost never stopped talking. She was relentlessly annoying, always the first to raise her hand in class and so brutally opinionated that Tracey spent most of her time Britishly wincing, and while Hermione was a nice enough girl ('inoffensive' perhaps a better word? 'Nice' was a stretch), she was certainly nothing to look twice at.

The idea that Draco had shown no interest in Daphne, classically and undeniably beautiful, or Pansy, who at least had terrific tits, in favor of Hermione Granger was truly, inconceivably dizzying. Tracey had a better grasp on genetic engineering than she did on the inexplicable romance between the American and the Prince (which they both pretended, unconvincingly, did not exist) and Tracey assumed, as did everyone else in her year, that the two would eventually split.

They didn't, of course.

Which, for the record, was not the problem.

Despite the fact that Hermione Granger had swooped in and snatched up the foothold Tracey had previously occupied, it wasn't that Tracey envied her. After all, had Tracey been the one to catch Draco's eye, she would have been painted the commoner upstart grasping at an antiquated throne, nevermind her wealth or the opulence of her parents' home in London. Tracey had no interest in a life of celebrity, having already taken care not to fall (as her parents had successfully avoided) into any such traps, so it wasn't envy, neither of the 'secret' romance nor of the abominable clique, which everyone else in their year collectively loathed. Tracey also took no interest in being counted among the others—like Theo Nott, who was either a skinny idiot or a skinny genius and who needed to shut up either way, or Blaise Zabini, who was certainly attractive but could have only had a magic wand for a dick and four extra hours in the day to explain how much sex he was inconceivably rumored to have—so it wasn't that, either.

It was more… irksome, really. An irk, that even after another year and a half at Hogwarts, Hermione never seemed to acknowledge that her acceptance into Prince Draco's uppity crew of beautiful wrecking balls had been the result of Tracey's decision to take her place at Stanford. Worse, Hermione didn't seem to understand that while the others had no knowledge of who she'd been before she arrived at Hogwarts, Tracey certainly did. Hermione's roommate had been relieved of her absence, indicating that Hermione had never understood how little she was tolerated among the students who had firmly alienated her in her journalism courses; she also had no friends at Stanford, as far as Tracey could tell. Hermione had abandoned her former life with little to no sacrifice or loss, but what if Tracey had never decided to leave? Perhaps Hermione Granger wasn't particularly fond of hypotheticals, but it seemed an odd speculation to never seem to make, instead acting as if Tracey's existence made no difference either way.

Moving forward in time, as Tracey generally possessed a pressing momentum that was reluctant to dwell on the past: After Hogwarts, Tracey moved to London, hatefully into the same building as Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini, resulting in her first one night stand with Blaise after a fight with her father about how the baseline media job he'd procured for her was little more than a glorified apprenticeship. "Learn to pay your dues," ranted Elliot Davis, at which point Tracey, who had no theoretical issue with paying dues so long as reality did not mean she would be forced to hunt through poodle feces at the megalomaniacal whim of some production coordinator's recalcitrant dog, had hung up the phone. She had planned to head for one of the neighborhood's pubs until she'd been interrupted by some unrepentant stomping from the flat above her own.

Long story short? Blaise Zabini's cock was precisely as magical as rumor suggested. Longer story even shorter? Sex continued, and progressed, and continued. Mostly out of spite, though there was a certain inability to backslide to the incompetency possessed by the horny aspiring entrepreneurs (read: dickheads who fell on a scale of 'lacking prowess' to 'here exclusively for blow jobs') who were much, much too available to the daughter of Elliot Davis and Theresa Rosier.

Tracey had managed to cut it off with Blaise entirely once, when she'd finally been promoted and begun doing some production work of her own. Blaise had been distant and unreliable at the time, and the inevitable breakup (or whatever you could call eventually dragging yourself away from the bedsheets of someone you know to be wholly repugnant, at least with regard to any conceivable future the two of you might have) had felt like the right thing to do once Tracey was finally making strides in her professional life.

Within a year, though, she discovered a much more somber Blaise in a Diagon pub, bumping into him once again by accident. Realizing that he had become surprisingly successful of his own accord (and that his dependency on the other members of his friend group had pleasantly diminished), it occurred to Tracey that perhaps a lifetime of fantastic sex with a wealthy, albeit eccentric, man was hardly some dystopian outcome.

That venturing a serious relationship with Blaise would finally put a stop to the men her father consistently shoved her into dates with was an added plus, as marrying into nobility did not appeal to Tracey the way it did to Elliot. "What does it matter how many executives reject your proposals when a name like Goyle or Longbottom could secure you a far better future?" he had asked, inanely, just before Tracey knocked on Blaise's door and delivered him something of an offer.

"Let's make it work," she said, "for real this time."

Blaise considered it a moment.

"Does it matter what either of us has done while we were apart?" he asked, and she paused.

"No," she eventually determined, figuring it was better for them both not to know. "So," she confirmed, "you and me?"

Blaise had smiled. "You and me," he agreed.

Tracey wasn't surprised when her life was, very shortly, once again occupied by the lunacy that was Hermione Granger and Prince Draco, who could not seem to decide whether they were madly in love or paralyzingly fearful of commitment or both. Pansy Parkinson, a nuisance even on the best of days, had rushed into some incomprehensible marriage to Prince Harry after unceremoniously breaking her engagement to Neville Longbottom, somehow tricking the rest of the country into believing an accidental pregnancy (which was clearly out of wedlock) was a miracle and not, as it actually was, the very sort of thing that had gotten other women cast aside and disavowed for centuries. At least Daphne and Theo, juvenile idiots who fell somewhere between mildly entertaining and enormously wearisome, had finally admitted their feelings for each other after years of denial so mind-numbingly stupid Tracey found it difficult to believe either one could manage the complexities of running a business, much less both.

Still, it was worth it for Blaise, who was different than he had been. Tracey was unable to understand how she'd been sucked into the orbit of someone as diametrically her opposite as Blaise Zabini, but in the end she fell asleep every night beside him knowing it was undoubtedly love. He was affectionate, continuously inventive in a way no other man was or would even think to be, and though he came with the additional baggage of six people Tracey might have happily done without, she found contentment in sharing a life with him, accepting his eventual proposal with pleasure. Where Tracey's ambitions were lofty to the point of rendering her tightly-wound, Blaise was a soothing presence, rarely taking himself seriously and always willing to help her retreat from the pressures of her life. They were a good match, if an unlikely one, and Tracey had learned enough about business to make an investment that promised prosperous returns.

Though, she also understood that every good investment came with risk, this one included. There was Rita Skeeter, a constant presence that even Tracey's parents took care to avoid ("Are you sure you want to marry one of the Bad Lads?" Theresa had asked her daughter nervously, speculating that perhaps Tracey would not care to have her personal life blasted indiscriminately across the Daily Prophet the way Blaise was so lazily accustomed to ignoring). There was also Prince Draco, who seemed as politely uninterested in Tracey as he had always been. Worse, there was Pansy, now frustratingly a duchess, who continued to be Blaise's closest friend and, despite being noticeably more tolerable since becoming a mother, was still among the most irritating of Blaise's priorities. There had always been some piece of Tracey that suspected Blaise would have chosen Pansy if she'd ever been available to him; despite how happy Pansy clearly was with Harry, Tracey was never quite sure that Blaise couldn't avoid being half, if not entirely, problematically in love with his best friend.

Somehow managing to still be slightly worse, though, was Hermione Granger—who, aside from being the reason Tracey and Blaise had taken their damn sweet time planning their own wedding so as not to be swallowed up by the American's extravagant affair, continued to be the pin around which much of Tracey's life unpleasantly revolved.

Take, for example, the book party Blaise had thrown, ostensibly in celebration of Hermione despite her greatest achievement being that she had successfully managed to delude a prince by virtue of having no conversational filter. From the outside, Tracey could see the appeal; ah, of course, boy beholden to more rules and expectations than anyone on earth fortuitously meets girl who speaks her mind without an ounce of premeditated thought or adherence to convention; naturally, she magically knows nothing about him despite his immense and international fame, so he falls deeply and changes his life accordingly, at which point her refusal to bend to his desires (Anne Boleyn-ing him with everything shy of faux-virginity) thus ensnares him ever more tightly.

A tale as old as time, really.

It worked because it was a trope that usually worked, but when it came to Hermione Granger specifically, there had always been something especially annoying that Tracey couldn't quite abide.

Like, for example, the way Hermione always looked like she knew something Tracey didn't.

"Ouch, Blaise, be careful," Tracey said when Blaise dropped that stupid Rita Skeeter book on her foot, bending down to massage the point of impact and rising back up to find Hermione fucking Granger with one of those looks on her face, wide-eyed and troubled and impossible to ignore.

Blaise, then, had snatched the book up and continued Blaise-ing, as he was wont to do, securing his usual persona of spectacle while Tracey stared unrepentantly at Hermione, who, likewise, continued Hermione-ing.

Tracey waited until she could get Hermione, who was a horrific liar, alone. A bit difficult, seeing as Draco rarely left her side (such a trial, being so beloved by a prince) but Tracey eventually managed to sidle up to Hermione as the latter fetched herself a drink.

"So," Tracey said, startling Hermione into nearly dropping her glass, "I take it you know something about this?"

"Hm?" Hermione said, furiously skirting eye contact. "Know something about what?"

"Please." The effort Tracey reserved to prevent herself from simply shaking the truth from Hermione's twitching grimace was exhausting. "Blaise isn't some sort of romantic comedy heroine. He doesn't just have clumsy little accidents, does he? You know something," she guessed, and watched Hermione's eyes sulkily rise to her own before adding, "Is there something I need to know? Something about whatever happened between Neville and Pansy, perhaps?"

"I really don't think it's any of my business," Hermione said, and while Pansy had stamped out quite a few of her nervous tics, they weren't completely eradicated. Presently, Hermione was fussing with her hair, which Tracey wasn't stupid enough to believe was real. It didn't go from that to THIS overnight; at least, not without massive amounts of professional help. "I'm sure if you just asked him—"

"Oh, like you asked Draco when things were bothering you?" Tracey replied, which was perhaps a touch snide, if she were being honest. She observed Hermione's mouth pursing with disapproval and relented, through gritted teeth, "I just thought since you are typically the most… moral," she determined, watching guilt rapidly manifest on Hermione's face, "of the group, that perhaps you might understand my concerns."

She could see Hermione struggling not to answer, which for Hermione was concession enough.

"Please," Tracey said. "I know it's something."

"No, it's—" Hermione moistened her lips. "It's nothing, really. There's nothing to say. Really, there's nothing," she exhaled, forcing a smile.

The whole exchange was positively infuriating. "Are you sure?"

(Read: Did Hermione really think she was so smart that everyone else was completely brainless?)

"Yes. Yes, definitely."

Lies, surely. Another second and surely media darling Hermione Granger would start to sweat from every one of her royal-approved pores.

Unfortunately, Tracey didn't quite have the patience for that.

"You know, on second thought, you're probably right," Tracey amended, shrugging. "I should probably take it up with him. How's the dress coming, by the way?" she asked, daring Hermione to complain that her priceless haute couture gown was in any way lacking.

"Oh, it's… a lot more work than I thought," Hermione said faintly, as Tracey managed to remember at the last second that perhaps goading a fellow bride was not the most productive use of her time when there was something else afoot.

"I know, right?" she said instead, sparing Hermione a smile and pivoting around, identifying the remaining targets.

There was Daphne, who was usually quite weak except when it came to her close friendships, at which point she became a vault. There was always the small possibility she could be vengefully tricked into confessing something over a vindictive drinking game but, inconveniently, she seemed to harbor no ill will at present. Harry was a bit of a loose cannon, likely to put his foot in his mouth if asked, but he was almost always less informed than the others. In terms of most to least secretive, Draco and Theo were twin ends of the far spectrum from Hermione, which left…

Tracey grimaced, heading for where Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Grimmauld stood alone in the corner, checking her cell phone.

"Hi," Tracey said, and Pansy looked up, dark eyes narrowed. Rightfully, Tracey permitted. It wasn't like the two of them had ever been friends. At worst they were rivals for Blaise's affections, at best they competed for his loyalty.

"What?" Pansy asked impatiently, clearly in peak form.

"You all know something I don't," Tracey observed, watching Pansy's face fail to betray even a trace of Hermione's hesitation. "Just tell me, is it something I need to push?"

Pansy's mouth lined thinly.

"I know you don't like me," Tracey pointed out, and Pansy scoffed something like quiet affirmation under her breath. "But I also know that if anyone's going to be fair to me, it's going to be you." She leaned closer, adding, "I know you won't jeopardize Blaise's happiness, even if it means getting rid of me. And I know you have something of a kink for honesty."

"It's a lifestyle, not a kink," Pansy replied, but seemed to soften just enough to turn an irritated glance at Tracey. "It was while you were apart," she said after a moment, not looking particularly pleased about it. "It's in the past. If you feel the need to dig it up, that's your choice, but you'll need to get it from Blaise, not me."

That was all but confirmation. "And is it something I should dig up?"

Pansy was silent a moment, thinking it over in a way Tracey had not seen her do before.

"A prior version of me would say no," Pansy determined. "I imagine for the majority of my life I might have preferred not to know most things. I suppose anything can be made more tolerable, or at least easier to accept, the less you know about it."

Lucky for her, Tracey thought. "And now?"

Pansy's dark gaze slid to hers.

"I suppose it's a matter of whether you'd rather feel something than nothing, even if that something is pain. Now if you'll excuse me," she sighed, tucking her phone away and aiming herself in the direction of away, "I need to make sure my husband has not gotten into too many questionable antics, and additionally, I would like to exit this conversation."

"Fair enough," Tracey said, waving her away and turning to observe Blaise in his ridiculous Engagement Hermione costume. It was one thing, Tracey thought, to be with someone who seemed entirely outside himself unless he was actively being someone else, and another to be with someone who intentionally kept things from her. The question, of course, was how much of the latter she could conceivably stand.

He caught her eye and wandered over, the Rita Skeeter book propped under his arm.

"You look particularly calculating, my little abacus," he observed, offering her a sip of what seemed to be an absinthe cocktail. "Dare I ask?"

"Whatever happened between Neville and Pansy?" Tracey asked, watching Blaise's hand tighten around his glass at the mention of them. "Aside from the obvious fact that she hated him, I mean."

"Can't two people simply call an end to a hugely public betrothal without cause for speculation?" Blaise joked, which wasn't particularly helpful.

"Did you sleep with Pansy?" Tracey asked, losing what little patience remained that evening, and Blaise choked a little. "Ah," Tracey said, taking that as a sufficiently damning sign. "Is that all, then?"

"All?" Blaise echoed with a doubtful scoff, turning to look at her. "Would that be so easily dismissed if I had?"

She considered it. So he'd reacted to the news about Neville with… guilt? Presumably so, if he was the reason for Neville and Pansy's split. Made sense, really, that this particular group would be both vaguely incestuous and deeply self-sabotaging.

At the thought of it, Tracey was overcome with a wave of complete and utter exhaustion.

"Blaise," she said, "I think I've always made it quite clear I find your friends exceedingly tiresome. If one of you was the cause for another's failed engagement, that does not surprise me in the slightest. I simply hope you'll manage to keep your misdeeds from souring our engagement," she warned, "as I've wasted enough of my time as it is. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," Blaise replied, sweeping a glance over her. "Or did we not agree the past was the past?"

His hand slid down to the waistband of her jeans, promising all sorts of ill behaviors for later. Unfortunate, really, that Blaise was so very compelling, and that Lysistrata-ing any scenario would always come at an unredeemable cost. Tracey, who had to go into the office early the following morning (on a Saturday, no less), had to admit she was crucially unconcerned with whatever Blaise and Pansy might have done three years ago compared to what Blaise would do with her that evening.

"Just… don't make a fool of me, would you?" she told him, locking his hand in place and looking up to be sure he was listening; which, gratifyingly, he seemed to be. "And don't settle for me, either. Let it be me you want now," she said, "regardless of what you might have done before."

"Oh, I want you." He tilted her chin up, inspecting her. "Shall we retire to the bedchamber, my lady?"

"Don't do that," she sighed, removing herself from his grip, "but if you mean do I want to have sex, then yes."

"Marvelous," he told her, kissing her forehead before announcing to the room that they were all politely requested to leave immediately, or else subject themselves to the unholy debauchery of his choosing.

Tracey and Blaise had arranged for a June wedding, which had again been a small but unavoidable irk, as it would most likely be among Hermione's first outings while bearing the HRH title. "It'll be private, controlled—really, a best case scenario," Draco had said while expressing his gratitude to Blaise, perhaps overlooking the fact that Tracey had not particularly wanted the headache of securing a venue that could accommodate the requisite 'privacy' restrictions; in fact, she had required a high degree of groveling from Blaise in order to agree. "Not to say she couldn't handle a more public event," Draco said with a laugh, "but a friend's wedding really is a bit of a lob as far as first appearances go, isn't it?"

While Hermione and Tracey were handling the stress of wedding planning simultaneously, it obviously went without saying that one merited far more assistance and concern than the other. Never mind that Tracey had an actual job and no private staff, of course. Hermione certainly didn't, nor did she keep herself from discussing her bridal trousseau repeatedly in Tracey's presence.

"There's just so many rules," Hermione said to Daphne, now apparently finding it exceptionally traumatic to dress herself. "Things were so much easier when I spent all my time concerned with spreadsheets and adverbs instead of being a princess."

Said the woman who had an entire team of people planning a wedding for her, Tracey thought. The one thing Tracey felt Hermione had a legitimate right to complain about was her pre-wedding diet, considering that Tracey herself hadn't eaten any cheese or bread in weeks even without having to worry about the whole wedding being broadcasted globally. Somehow, though, Hermione had managed to guiltlessly spread some brie on her piece of toast and continue living her life, robbing their single inch of common ground.

"What a trial it must be," Tracey murmured under her breath, prompting Hermione to look up from her toast with a frown.

"Sorry, did you say something, Tracey?"

"Hm? Oh, only that it must be difficult," Tracey said, pairing it with a smile in lieu of pointing out that she, out of everyone, knew precisely what it was to be marrying a man for love despite thoroughly despising everything he came with; which, for Hermione, was a collection of tiaras and the occasional public speaking engagement, and for Tracey was a quietly mandatory Sunday brunch with her fiancé's female friends. She flicked a glance at Pansy, who at the very least looked similarly disinterested. "Do you have a stylist as well?"

"I do," Pansy said coolly. "Though I, of course, required fewer drastic lifestyle changes following my marriage."

"Pans, your wedding was—" Daphne broke off, glancing at Tracey and quickly looking away. "Private," she said, which Tracey felt was a charming euphemism for 'rushed' or 'suspicious.' "I hardly think it's comparable."

"I imagine not," Pansy replied in her usual bored tone, which Tracey observed with a little thrill. It wasn't often she had someone to conspire with among this group, even if it happened to be the woman her own future husband had slept with.

Tracey had come around to the idea of their past rather quickly, actually, realizing that if Blaise and Pansy had slept together and still ended up with other people, then clearly the issue had been resolved. Harry had recovered from his idiotic crush on Hermione, and likewise, Blaise had now recovered from Pansy. If anything, knowing the truth had been a weight lifted from Tracey's shoulders, and she found a considerable amount of glee in knowing Pansy's failed engagement had clearly been so messy she'd slept with not only Blaise, but Harry, too.

What a relief she wasn't so perfect after all.

"I don't know if I could forgive it," Theresa remarked when Tracey met her for dinner that evening. While Tracey and her father had been at odds over her career at Charm UK (the subsidiary of the Spellcast Communications corporation where Elliot Davis sat on the board of trustees) she and her mother remained as close as ever. "Are you sure you can marry a man who still spends all his time with his ex?"

"If there was chemistry there before, it's definitely dead now," Tracey assured her mother, who seemed to be in agreement that was a minor improvement. "I'm certainly not worried about him being in love with her anymore, which is comforting."

"And if she's in love with him?"

"She isn't," Tracey said, confident in that. It was obvious to anyone who looked that Pansy was wildly in love with Harry and actively pretending not to be, just as Tracey was fairly sure Pansy was concealing another pregnancy; probably to avoid stealing Hermione's thunder, if she had to guess. "Anyway," Tracey sighed, picking up her cocktail and returning to the initial subject of conversation, "enough about them. Has Dad said anything about escorting me at the wedding?"

Theresa sighed, shaking her head. Like always, they'd booked a private room tucked away from the main dining area, sharing an aperitif and some conspiratorial reflection on the imbecilic men in their lives. "He's going to do it, sweetheart, I promise," Theresa assured Tracey. "I'm sure he'll be done with his tantrum soon, and then he and I will have a very long, highly punitive chat."

"Is this still about Christmas?" Blaise and Tracey not being invited to Sandringham House despite Blaise's friendship with Draco had been a massive disappointment to Elliot, resulting in what had gradually become a silent standoff between father and daughter. "Or is he genuinely cross I'm not giving up my career to be some nobleman's wife?"

"Your father's very stupid, dear," replied Theresa, who had been born rich and was probably growing richer by the minute thanks to her ceremonial advisory position at Rosier Hotels. Theresa was always far more skilled at keeping out of the media's eye than Prince Draco's family had ever been; presumably, that was why Hermione was always complaining while Tracey was rarely recognized in public.

Theresa was also the reason Tracey wasn't especially bothered by her father's opposition to her wedding. Elliot was a powerful man who had become that way by virtue of marriage to a wealthy woman. That he aspired to the egoism of noble blood wasn't particularly compelling compared to Theresa's far more reasonable belief that partnerships were crucially more important.

"I love the man, but I'm afraid he's frequently overcome with idiocy. Though, speaking of," Theresa said, returning to a subject Tracey was loath to reconsider, "when will you stop banging your head against the media communications wall? You despise production and it's high time you admit it. If you would just give hospitality a chance—"

"Mum, no," Tracey said for the millionth time. "I continue to have no interest in running hotels for rich people."

"But you'd have power," Theresa insisted. "You're a Rosier, which means—"

"It's in my blood, I know, I know," Tracey supplied with a grimace. "Can we not do this again please, Mum? I've been working at Charm for six years. It'd be a bit of a waste to throw that away just because nobody cares about my opinions on streaming, don't you think?"

"Well—" Theresa sighed, recognizing the usual signs of defeat. "The hotel industry is impacted by the sharing economy as well, you know," she said, attempting one final go at it. "AirBnB is just as much a disrupter for hospitality as Netflix is for media, and if all you want to do is revolutionize an industry, then—"

Tracey arched a brow, and Theresa pursed her lips.

"Fine, fine," she said, gradually giving in and appearing to uncover some more desirable change in conversation. "Have you gotten any details about Hermione's dress yet?"

"I'm fairly sure I have an idea," Tracey confirmed. "It sounds like it has a lace overlay, maybe a ballgown? Certainly sleeves." Her own gown, an off-the-shoulder design by Emmanuelle Malkin, was as purposefully unlike Hermione's as Tracey could think to make it. "You know Madam Malkin's design will be sleeker than anything the Palace approves for Hermione."

Theresa hummed her agreement. "Well, so long as you're happy," she said, just as a waiter approached with the house specialty rack of lamb, paired with a mint chimichurri they both loved. "Remember, if it's a matter of expense—"

"Spare none, I know," Tracey said with a roll of her eyes. "Really, Mum, I'm not interested in competing with Hermione. Blaise and I have plenty between the two of us to cover the wedding costs without your help, and if I wanted to be more famous I'd simply…" She waved a hand. "Star in a porno or something."

"That would probably be effective," Theresa agreed, tucking her blonde hair behind one ear. "You have a lovely figure for pornography."

Tracey paused. "You're joking, right?"

"Would you prefer I thought you'd be rubbish at it? Your figure would be lovely for nearly everything—although, don't overdo it on the sides," Theresa advised, arching a brow as Tracey reached for some couscous. "Thanks to Hermione, your wedding pictures will almost certainly be trending on every social media platform. Which, coincidentally," Theresa added, nodding with approval as Tracey carefully limited the contents of her spoon, "is the driving source of marketing for the company this sum-"

"Mum," Tracey warned, and Theresa smiled.

"See? Your grandfather would call that natural authoritarianism," she said, which Tracey ignored in favor of returning to her reasonably portioned dinner.

As if wedding planning were not a busy enough season already, it was an exceptionally active spring. By the time the second of May arrived, signaling the annual Slytherin dorm reunion from their class at university, it was one month until Tracey's wedding to Blaise and approximately two weeks in advance of Draco and Hermione's wedding.

"I can't believe you continue to attend this without me," Blaise remarked, lifting his head from where he'd strewn himself leisurely across their bed. "Why exactly have none of us ever been invited to these reunions?"

"Because," Tracey told him smartly, placing a kiss on his forehead, "nobody else liked you."

"That's impossible," Blaise scoffed. "Are they somehow not aware I've taken points from each and every one of them for daring the indecency of exclusion?"

"That may have something to do with why they don't like you," Tracey said, shifting through her jewelry box for a pair of earrings. Her emerald ones, which she had owned long before Hermione had made emerald earrings some sort of political statement, were out of the question. She located a pair of diamond studs and placed them in her ears, glancing over her reflection. "There," she said, frowning a little at the way her blonde waves weren't quite as lustrous as they might have been; dieting was a bitch that way. "Is that good?"

"You look almost too perfect, actually, considering it'll be wasted on the plebs," Blaise assured her, coming up behind her to admire her reflection with his hands on her waist. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me instead?"

"What, for dinner with the same people you always have dinner with? That's all you, Zabini," Tracey informed him, letting him trace a few kisses along the side of her neck. "I'd rather not have to sit and listen to Hermione fret about whether or not Prince Lucius is attending the wedding. Honestly," she sighed, turning in his arms, "this cult of yours is in desperate need of family counseling."

"Oh, I agree," Blaise said, giving her a kiss on the mouth before she nudged him away, already late without him persuading her to a pre-dinner jaunt of recreation. "Well, I'll miss you," he told her with a sigh, tugging her back to him for a quicker—but still unhelpfully compelling—kiss. "Your sanity is always deeply refreshing."

"Well, it can't all be guillotine jokes and treason," Tracey reminded him, permitting herself a lingering glance (he was very, very handsome; perhaps unfairly so) before aiming herself out the door. "See you later!" she called over her shoulder, making her way out of their flat to flag down a taxi toward the usual meeting place in Diagon.

It was a fairly intimate group, given that not everyone had moved to London after university. About a third of their class had ended up in Edinburgh or Glasgow while another quarter went somewhere further, like Paris or New York, but those who came around for the pub meet-up every year were fairly close-knit. Tracey spotted Millicent Bulstrode just inside the door and happily embraced her, spotting Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle just over her shoulder.

"The usual suspects?" Tracey asked, waving to Crabbe and Goyle before letting Millicent lead her to the bar.

"Well, I've only just arrived, but I think I saw a few extras this year," Millicent said, sliding a pint glass over to Tracey. "That's Padma Patil over there… wasn't she in Ravenclaw? Oh, and there's also—"

"Michael," Tracey said with surprise, recognizing Michael Corner. He'd been in the Ravenclaw dorms as well, but had bounced around socially. He and Tracey had been on a few dates in the past before discovering they weren't exactly a match. "I haven't seen you in ages," she said, standing on tiptoe to give him a hug as Millicent excused herself, heading for Adrian Pucey and Gemma Farley. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, Padma invited me," Michael said, gesturing to wherever she was. "She's been seeing Terence Higgs, remember him? Anyway, she didn't want to be the lone bird among snakes, it seems," he said with a chuckle into his Guinness. He glanced around for a moment, looking back at Tracey with surprise. "You're not here alone, are you?"

"Actually, I am," Tracey said, and Michael frowned.

"Oh, I thought… hm. Well, good for you," he said, shrugging it off. "Better you're not with Zabini. Truth be told, you're too good for him," he added before Tracey could clarify that she wasn't alone-alone. "Personally, I have half a mind to light both him and Longbottom on fire." Michael took a sip of his beer, remarking with a scoff, "I think I might have actually done it if I'd seen either of them tonight."

"I—" Tracey broke off, unsure where to begin. "Longbottom?"

"Showed up at my flat last week. Can you believe it?" Michael demanded, and seeing as Tracey was evidently supposed to know what he meant, she shook her head. "Dickhead goes missing for bloody months, right? Shows up out of nowhere and starts apologizing. And before I can even tell him I don't bloody forgive him and things can't simply go back to how they were before he left—right? Because I'm not a fucking fool!—he interrupts to tell me he doesn't want to go backwards, he just wants to give me closure. Me," Michael scoffed, "as if any of this was ever about me!"

"Right," Tracey said, obscuring her ongoing confusion. "Go on."

"So I say 'am I just a fucking step in your rehab, Longbottom?' and he says to me—I kid you not, he actually said this—he says he thinks the only person he ever really loved was Zabini," Michael spat, "and that I deserve someone who'll love me better than he can—as if I could possibly not already know that!—and then, and then, he has the bloody nerve to wish me well, as if I was supposed to just say 'namaste' and help him find his fucking zen—"

"He loved Blaise?" Tracey asked, her breath quickening, and Michael drained what remained of his pint.

"Right?" he said nonsensically, setting his glass on the counter with a smack. "With how selfish they were it's impossible to believe either of them capable of loving anything, isn't it? Which I'm sure you know all about," he added with a scoff. "When did Zabini finally come clean, then?"

"About… Neville Longbottom, you mean?" Tracey said, and Michael nodded.

"The thing is, I think we all knew Zabini was fairly evenly split, right? About fifty-fifty, as far as the whole sexuality-gambit goes," Michael said, which was not, in fact, something Tracey knew. "At the very least we suspected, so when Neville tells me he and Zabini were lovers for, I don't know—a year," he estimated, and Tracey blinked, suddenly reconceiving what might have happened between Blaise, Neville and Pansy, "I'm not terribly surprised. I mean sure, the proposal to Parkinson was a bit unsettling to learn about—though, off the record, she and Greengrass make an excellent team, I won't lie to you—but when I asked Longbottom what the fuck that had to do with anything he just gives me some bullshit line about how he knew right then Zabini would never conceive of a future with him, still expecting me to care that he's in my fucking flat—"

"Hang on, stop," Tracey said, shaking her head. "You're telling me that Blaise and Neville used to sleep together," she said, struggling to process this, "and then Blaise… proposed to Pansy, but then…?"

She reached for her glass, desperate for anything to make the last ten minutes make any sense, when Michael's eyes widened, noticing her engagement ring for the first time during the exchange.

"Oh god," he said, face paling. "You're still engaged, you… you didn't know any of it, did you?"

Tracey took a long drag from her glass, shaking her head.

"Jesus fuck," Michael exhaled, raising a fist to his temple. "Fuck, Tracey, I'm so sorry—"

"Just tell me what happened," Tracey said, feeling strangely, unnaturally calm. Almost serene, really, as if all of her emotions had somehow become a reflective surface that contributed to an uninterrupted numbness.

Michael proceeded to rapidly explain everything he knew, including the background on his fight with Neville. Apparently the two had been seeing each other, pretending to be dating Ginny Weasley and Susan Bones respectively, until one day Ginny and Susan decided to come clean, persuading Neville it was for the best. Alright then, Michael thought, assuming that meant Neville would finally be free to take their relationship public. Instead, immediately after telling his grandmother, Neville disappeared without breathing a word to Michael, showing up two months later to explain he'd needed some time alone to decide what he really wanted. It was Blaise, Neville said, not Michael, but he wanted Michael's forgiveness (which he did not receive) or at least Michael's understanding (also a no) or, at the very least, the sense that he had been honest for once (which Michael had not enjoyed). When Michael had pointed out (rather spitefully) to Neville that he could not have Blaise even now, Neville had simply shrugged and said it was the punishment he deserved for being a coward for so long by refusing Blaise to begin with.

Which led them backwards, at which point Michael revealed to Tracey that the reason he had thought he was in a relationship with Neville was because the latter had confessed to him some weighty emotional truths: that his affair with Blaise had been the happiest time of his (obviously very pathetic) life, and thus his biggest mistake was letting Blaise believe they were better off apart. Tracey, meanwhile, ordered three more drinks, waving away anyone who approached them and probing Michael with questions.

"So Neville cheated on Pansy? With Blaise?" A nod. "And then she… got pregnant, I presume?" Another nod. "With Harry's child?" A shrug, which seemed to mean 'I assume so.' "Which Blaise didn't know, so… he proposed?"

"Dizzying, isn't it?" Michael said with a darkened laugh. "Honestly, with as much as we know about all of them, they're lucky we're not shameless enough to go to the Prophet. I swear, I nearly dialed Rita Skeeter the moment Longbottom left, I was beyond furious. I mean, for one thing," Michael scoffed, "at least Zabini picked you. Neville just used me—"

At that precise moment, something clicked unfavorably in Tracey's mind.

"They all knew," she realized, suddenly remembering every expression in the room when Neville's name had come up at Hermione's ridiculous book party. "Every single one of them." The look on Hermione's face in particular flashed through her head again, lingering there. "Jesus," Tracey exhaled, reaching for her drink, "they all knew, and they just sat there and watched me ask about it like an idiot—"

"That whole group of friends is a toxic cesspool," Michael muttered, as Tracey shook her head, still impenetrably numb. "As if it wasn't enough being trapped in that four-year game between Greengrass and Nott, but then to get roped in by the others, too—"

It seemed Michael wanted to commiserate with her. She didn't blame him for that, but she wasn't there yet, either.

"I have to go," Tracey said, suddenly rising to her feet. The pub suddenly seemed hot and cramped, and the last thing she wanted to do was answer questions about her engagement or her wedding. "I just…" She swallowed heavily. "Sorry, Michael, I just have t-"

She cut herself off, not bothering to complete her thought, and pushed through the crowd, heading for the door.

"Hi—hi, Tracey! Tracey Davis!" came a voice outside the pub, and Tracey turned reflexively, blinking into a camera flash. "Lovely reunion," said a youthful photographer, waving to her as he snapped another picture. "Where's Hermione Granger tonight, Tracey?"

"I don't know," Tracey replied dully, folding her arms over her chest as another flash went off.

"Is it true they call her New Tracey, Tracey?" A little flick of annoyance tapped the mirrored surface of Tracey's feelings, bouncing off somewhere in her stomach. "Is that some sort of inside joke between you? Tracey… Tracey! What's it like being among Hermione's close friends?" Another stone, this one almost enough to crack: We're not friends. Clearly we were never friends. "Do you have any thoughts on the Prince's upcoming nuptials, Tracey? Will you be part of Hermione's bridal party?" She blinked through another too-bright flash. "...Tracey! TRACEY!"

She forced herself down the street, only half-hearing when Michael jogged after her and then slipping quickly around the corner, disappearing into the crowd.

It took a while for the fog to clear. Unlike when she'd thought she discovered a history between Blaise and Pansy—which had felt revelatory, even illuminating, making Tracey feel clever and possibly stable compared to the rest—this discovery had left her with the hollow sense she'd never really understood anything. If Blaise could betray Pansy—if he could undermine Pansy's marriage, and sleep with Pansy's fiancé—then what sense did the world even make? He loved Pansy more than anyone, and the knowledge of what he'd done turned to a dull roar in Tracey's ear, ringing against the surface of her thoughts.

Before long it was time for Draco and Hermione's rehearsal, which was something Tracey might have bothered being annoyed by if not for the fact that she hadn't quite recovered from her conversation with Michael. Instead, she kept asking herself the same question over and over—do I actually know who I'm marrying?—and repeatedly wondering if anything had actually changed.

She had gotten past it when it was Pansy.

Why was knowing Blaise had actually been with Neville in the past somehow any different?

That she was acting strangely seemed not to go unmissed. "Trace, you're being a bit weird," said her mother, after she had canceled Sunday dinner for the second week in a row. "Is this about your father? Call me back, sweetheart. Let's discuss it before you wind up in one of your moods."

"You're a bit thin," remarked Madam Malkin during what was supposed to be her penultimate fitting, frowning as she circled an expressionless Tracey. "I thought you only planned to lose five pounds? This must be closer to one stone. Are you planning to wear an additional bustier, or should I make adjustments accordingly?"

"Paul at Charm rang me this morning—what's this I hear about you refusing to budge on the live sports campaign? You can't go telling my executives how to run their quarter production budgets, Tracey," ranted her father, who had called her for the first time in weeks. "Just because you don't agree with something doesn't mean you bloody well get to mouth off to the men I hire!"

Tracey had requested the afternoon of the rehearsal off, as it was going to be an effort to make it through London traffic to pick up her gown in time to make the dinner. When her supervising production manager refused, she simply removed her Charm UK badge from its usual place in her pocket and placed it in his hand, taking the photographs of her parents and Blaise from her desk and leaving without further commentary.

She had chosen a green dress for the occasion, as Hermione Granger did not own a patent on the color, and more importantly, it made Tracey's blonde hair look especially bright. She fixed it in a French twist, deeming her appearance satisfactory but only removing herself from the bathroom when Blaise called out to her that it was time to go.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" he asked, not for the first time.

He looked concerned, which was comforting. Concern looked especially handsome on Blaise; it concentrated his brows in a way the emphasized how polished he was, making his jaw and cheeks especially pronounced.

"I quit my job today," Tracey replied. She did not look at her engagement ring; she had recently begun to wonder whether it had been purchased for her or for Pansy, which was an unproductive thought.

"Well, that's good," Blaise said. "You hated your supervisor, didn't you?"

Tracey nodded.

"We'll be fine," Blaise assured her. "If it's money you're worried about, we have more than enough. You can take your time finding something you prefer."

A comforting thing to say. Concern and comfort. Blaise Zabini would make a very supportive husband.

"How do you feel about it?" he asked her.

"A bit like my father's going to kill me," she said, adding, "Mind if I leave my mobile at home in case he calls again?"

Blaise gave a genial shrug. "Fine with me," he told her. "I'll be right there, won't I?"

Yes, she thought.

Yes, he would. She would make sure of it.

She was… pretty sure she wanted to make sure of it.

"Sure," she said, and the two of them got in the car, making their way to the rehearsal at Westminster Abbey. She'd heard a variety of noise about Hermione and Draco spending their night together at his London base, Clarence House, and some incautious whispering about whether or not Prince Lucius had been seen in the days leading up to the wedding. Naturally, though, Tracey ignored it, casting a bored glance over the headlines that suggested Narcissa had come to London alone and focusing instead on her wish to simply see the wedding over and done with.

"Is there… something else?" Blaise asked later, once the rehearsal run-through had concluded (Hermione looked the blushing bride, surprise surprise; Tracey fidgeted in silence from afar, having no part in the ceremony) and they were headed from the Abbey to Buckingham Palace. He leaned over in the backseat of their private car, his hand splitting the distance between them. "If I'm being honest, I'm not entirely sure this is about your job."

Tracey fixed her attention out the window. "Going to take points for my heinous opacity, are you?"

She thought he'd laugh, but he didn't.

"No," he said. "I never want to take points from you."

It struck her as a nice thing to say.

Perhaps even sweet.

She turned slowly, looking at him.

"What happened between you and Neville?" she asked, and Blaise's lips parted, then paused.

"Tracey," he began, and she shook her head.

"I already know everything. Michael Corner told me all the sordid details," she added, catching his flinch. "I just… I want you to tell me why I shouldn't be furious," she remarked with a bitter laugh, "or why you had to do it, or why it was him, or why you let me believe it was something other than what it was—"

"I told him it was over," Blaise said firmly. "That it was going to be the last time, and it was. I wanted it to mean nothing and I swear, I never contacted him again, it was just the one time and then he and I never even sp-"

"One time?" Tracey asked, blinking. "Michael told me you were together for months, even years."

"Yes, but then I—"

Blaise stopped, catching himself, and Tracey saw it.

She saw the look on his face that meant if she let him, or if she gave him an out, he was about to fucking lie.

"One time," she echoed, "while we were together, you mean? Not like before, when we were on and off," she clarified, watching him swallow. "One time after I said 'let's do this for real' and you said 'okay'—one time after that?"

She watched his tongue slip between his lips.

"Tracey, I—"

"It's a fucking yes or no question, Blaise," Tracey said, feeling a little piece of rubble, some tiny burst of rage, bury itself in her sheen of apathy. "Did you sleep with Neville Longbottom after you and I were already together?"

There was no escaping it. Even he seemed to have noticed.

"Yes," he said, his throat obviously dry. "Yes, I did. One time."

"When?"

"New Years. Two years ago."

"Two years…? Blaise, Jesus." The car pulled up to the private entrance at Buckingham Palace, pausing there as neither Blaise nor Tracey made any attempts to exit the vehicle.

Tracey turned brusquely to Blaise, suddenly wishing him to pay for his crimes with brutal, no-holds-barred honesty, which was perhaps the thing he hated most in the world.

"Did you love him?" she asked.

He winced, but nodded. "Yes."

"Have you contacted him since he came out?"

A shake of his head.

"Tell me the truth."

"I am."

The tiny fissure in her heart cracked a little more. "How can I possibly believe you now?"

"I don't know. But I'm telling you the truth."

The crack broadened to a crevice. "Did it hurt you, finding out he came out?"

"Yes."

"Good." She wanted to cry, or to scream. "Is it because you wanted to go public and he wouldn't?"

He inhaled sharply, exhaling, "Yes."

"And now you could be with him."

"No. I'm with you."

"You mean you're obligated to me," she said bitterly.

"No, I'm with you. I love you."

"More than you love him?"

The question slipped out nearly by accident; if she had managed to stop herself, she might have wondered in advance if she really wanted to know. But she had asked, and Blaise had opened his mouth, and in the single, cardiac-arresting moment he didn't speak, Tracey Davis realized two things at once.

One, that Blaise wanted very badly to say yes.

And two, that no matter how fervently he might compel himself to say it, it would be, without question, a lie.

Whatever pretty surface remained of Tracey's heart promptly and with violent discord shattered to tiny, infinitesimal slivers, becoming damage so damningly pronounced she knew it would very shortly escape containment.

"I have to go," she said, shoving her door open so hard the footman jumped back, and Blaise scrambled over the seat to follow her.

"Tracey," he said, his voice an unnatural timbre of pleading as she realized she'd left behind her mobile phone, cursing herself for her lack of foresight and weaving back through the arriving cars. "Tracey, wait, please—"

"Tracey!" Hermione exclaimed, catching her from where she had been greeting her parents. "Are you alright?" she asked, frowning, before looking up to find Blaise chasing after Tracey, obviously identifying the context of her flight.

Hermione fucking Granger, the woman who had filled Tracey's spot in the Slytherin dorms and changed the course of both their lives forever, met Blaise's glance and turned to Tracey with a look of legible hesitation, pity branded into her forehead as if she was piecing it together, as if she knew, when Tracey remembered, abruptly, that she bloody did know, and that no matter how much fake hair Hermione wove into her frizzy curls or how many princes she married, she was still the woman who had fucking known the whole time just how despicable—how shameless—how unforgivable—Blaise's betrayal had been.

"You should have told me," Tracey said, her voice shaking, and Hermione's cherubic eyes blew wide.

"I wanted to," she said hastily, dropping her volume and pulling Tracey aside. "Believe me, I did, but it wasn't my place, and—"

"You don't know what your fucking place even is!" Tracey spat at her, tearing free from her grasp. "You're just some nobody who got lucky, aren't you? So who cares if my heart breaks!" she ranted, feeling tears start to spill and furiously blinking them back. "So long as you get your prince and your friends and your happy ending, what else is there?"

"I'm so sorry," Hermione half-whispered, the color gone from her cheeks. "Tracey, please, I—"

"Don't bother," Tracey seethed, taking off at a near sprint somewhere (anywhere) Hermione Granger wasn't until she collided blindly with someone by accident, inhaling a lungful of toxically overpowering Chanel perfume.

"Did I just see you running from a little squabble with Miss Granger?" said a falsely too-high voice, followed by a red-painted cheshire smile. "Tracey, isn't it? Davis by way of the Rosiers? Not to mention the very reason our little princess-to-be has all of us fawning over her," tutted Rita Skeeter, adding a facetious sigh. "You know, I was ever so surprised when I learned you didn't want to speak with me. You might have been a fascinating perspective on the book—imagine, the girl who lived a parallel life!" she said with a punchy, needlessly enunciated ha-ha-ha-ing of delight. "I suppose it's no surprise Miss Granger wanted you excluded from the narrative, is it? Even I can't blame her for wanting her love story to feel like something more than luck. Without you there's really no her, is there?"

It was the last straw.

… dizzying, isn't it? Honestly, with as much as we know about them…

Suddenly, the fog of hurt feelings and lost futures dissipated into nothing but empty rage.

"Penelope Clearwater," Tracey said, and Rita blinked, surprised. "Spew, that blog. The article in the Hogwarts journal. Ever wonder what those things have in common?"

"You don't mean," Rita began, and stopped, eyes narrowing in calculation. "She wasn't—did she—"

Tracey shrugged, pivoting in the opposite direction. "That's your job, not mine," she said, heading back to find Blaise making a beeline for her.

"Tracey, please," he panted, breathless, "let's just talk about this, okay? Just… let's just get through this dinner, and then—"

Suddenly, Tracey realized why it had been so much worse that it was Neville instead of Pansy.

Because it had been bad enough coming in seventh on the list of people Blaise Zabini loved without learning there was even further to fall.

Tracey strode past him without a word, spotting their driver and lowering herself into the leather backseat.

"Drive," she said, shutting the door before the footman could reach her.

The driver turned over his shoulder. "Where to, Miss Davis?"

She considered it. The flat she shared with Blaise was out, obviously, but she could have always gone bigger anyway.

"Call the Rosier hotel," she decided after a moment. "Tell them Theresa Rosier Davis would like the penthouse."

"Yes, Miss," the driver said, and Tracey closed her eyes, the car pulling away from the Palace and heading towards what felt, for the very first time, like pure, unadulterated luxury.

The truth is I don't hate Hermione, but I certainly don't like her, either. I'm closing the book on all of this, literally and metaphorically speaking, by choice this time instead of sidelined obsolescence.

If I'm being perfectly honest, which I now have plans to do, this whole thing has been a relief.

For the first time in eight years, I personally look forward to not having to hear about whatever happens to Hermione Granger next.

a/n: Next week we will jump slightly backwards in time to cover everything Tracey skipped; though, fair warning, it won't post until Thursday or Friday (May 23 or 24) as I'll be out of town early next week. In the meantime, I think a new nottpott will start posting this Thursday, May 16, in Amortentia. Keep an eye out for Death of a Con Man, which is a new Disney AU. Thanks again for reading!

41. Calm

Chapter 41: Calm

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

As the Wedding Day Approaches

As this book releases in advance of Prince Draco's forthcoming nuptials, London already finds itselfs abuzz with what will be the biggest royal event since the wedding of Prince Lucius to Princess Narcissa. Given the scope of celebration—which, indeed, far exceeds our fair nation's watch—many across the globe will soon be formally introduced to Hermione Granger in her official capacity as a working royal. Despite what may seem to be Hermione's predominance in the public eye, many of the Palace staff will attest that thus far in their courtship, Prince Draco has tried in earnest to shield his bride-to-be from excess media spotlight. Says one anonymous source, "What I have been most struck by over the past eight years is how devoutly he has been willing to protect her."

It's quite obvious that Prince Draco's intentions stem not only from his devotion to his bride, but also from his experience following the intense scrutiny of his parents, particularly with regard to his enigmatic mother, Princess Narcissa. While it is perfectly understandable that Draco might undergo considerable efforts to insulate his beloved to some extent, one does wonder how things will change once Hermione takes on the difficulties of royal life on her own.

Oh, does 'one' wonder, Rita? Well, then I suppose let's just kick this baby bird out of the nest, shall we?

April 27, 2018
Clarence House

"To our forebears? On behalf of…" Draco trailed off with a grimace, squinting at the screen of his laptop and moving two words around, then switching them back. "Or do you think 'forebears' is the problem?"

"What I think is that you're overthinking it," Hermione said with a yawn, resting a hand idly on his shoulder before dropping a kiss to the top of his pale, ruffled head. "Though, if the question is does 'forebears' make you sound stuffy, I suspect the answer is yes."

"All I can think about now are bears," Draco said, frowning into space. "Is this what happens to everyone when I speak?"

"You're clearly delirious," Hermione told him, giving his arm a nudge. "Even Rita had something nice to say about your last speaking engagement."

"Yes, well, that's because she's decided mental health is my pet issue, hasn't she?" Draco sighed in something of a mocking imitation, permitting Hermione to lead him to his bed before collapsing, limbs outspread, on top of it. "Which, by the way, she keeps insisting must be due to some scandalous secrets I must be keeping about my mother," he muttered. "Very Freudian of her, really—"

"Well, she's allowed to be right about some things," Hermione said, and then, because she'd obviously said something crazy, she hurried to add, "You know, one or two, here and there."

Draco gave something of an indecipherable groan, rolling onto his stomach and burying himself face-first in the duvet.

"There, there," Hermione said, nudging one of his splayed arms aside and climbing in beside him, patting his head. "She's hardly had much to say about Narcissa recently, has she? She's already so busy as it is, what with speculating about my gown or my uterus or you and your father and your princely feud."

"Which, by the way, is utterly ridiculous," Draco informed the mattress before looking blearily up at Hermione. "It's a rule, you know, that heirs can't travel together. A simple matter of safety, securing the throne, not succumbing to violent overthrow by our friends and rivals in the event of catastrophic loss, et cetera."

"Ah, right," Hermione drily agreed. "That's the only reason you've been traveling separately, I'm sure."

"As far as she knows? Yes," Draco replied curtly. "My father and I are—"

"Perfectly fine? Draco, I'm not the Prophet," Hermione reminded him, and he gave her something of a half-sulking, mostly-tired glance. "I think you and I both know his non-answer about attending the wedding is a bit of a problem."

"He'll be there," Draco sighed, returning his face to the sheets and saying, "He'd never disappoint Grandfather," or something probably similar.

Hermione knew better than to press the issue. Admittedly, she had the same suspicions Draco did; that Lucius was being difficult in advance of the wedding to demonstrate his reluctance to accept its existence, but that he would ultimately never disparage the family by committing some public display of opposition. That his ongoing temper tantrum might have been damaging only to his son seemed the least of Lucius' concerns at the moment.

Outwardly, the entire family appeared to be doing fine. Narcissa had been spotted multiple times in London, even taking residency in Clarence House once or twice when Lucius was elsewhere; Abraxas was in good spirits; Hermione was now appearing regularly at Draco's side, reliably (thanks to Daphne) at her sartorial best. When they were present in tandem with Lucius, the worst Rita could possibly say was that interactions between father and son 'lacked warmth,' but any look back into the archives would reveal Lucius' stiffness even on his best days. For the most part, it was a strange sort of silence that had Hermione simultaneously relieved and deeply afraid that the calm would lead, in some way she couldn't yet envision, to a storm.

Wedding planning, too, had mostly settled down as the day approached, leaving Hermione with little more than meticulous details. All she had left were one or two final fittings with Daphne, plus small fires here and there, like which diplomatic guests, late to reply to their invitations, couldn't be seated near each other. In general, all that remained for Hermione to be concerned with were the minutiae. Drinking wine in public so as to make sure people knew she wasn't pregnant, for example. Choosing an all black outfit to carry with her on every international trip, which was apparently required in the event of King Abraxas' death. (A gloomy talisman, to say the least, though Daphne cheerfully assured her that should Draco need to suddenly don the title Prince of Wales, Hermione would look poignantly well-tailored in her devastation.)

Lately, Hermione's daydreamy moments of worry and contemplation had been mostly steeped in domesticity. Where would they live? How soon would they have children? It felt both very small and heighteningly massive. She now found it oddly stressful to do something as small as observe Draco playing with Jamie.

"Ah, Mignonette!" Draco would say when he saw her, opening his arms to the child who was frighteningly Pansy and Harry's miniature and tossing her in the air, both parties equally flushed with delight.

It left Hermione, who had never particularly craved motherhood, with the foreign realization that perhaps she wanted to see the scene play out again—only this time, with a little blond girl, or maybe a frizzy-haired, grey-eyed boy. Was that bizarre? Was it normal? A life that had once felt so cramped and stifling and small had begun to call to her, leaving her to wonder if maybe her grand ambitions had shrunk.

Had Pansy been right about her? Was being comfortable—wealthy, titled, and fully in love with her future husband—enough to make her drowsy? Make her weak?

Draco lifted his head, inspecting her.

"You've gone somewhere," he observed. "Looks troubling. Prince Lucifer again?"

"No, not Lucifer," Hermione assured him, sliding down on the pillows as Draco crawled up to reach her, one hand finding its way to the exposed bone of her hip. "Why, were you thinking about your father?"

Draco gave a lying shrug, bending to kiss the bone of her clavicle. "Just lamenting my night away from you," he said, and Hermione laughed.

"What, the night before the wedding?"

"Yes," Draco groaned, peeling back the collar of her shirt and dropping lower. "I've gotten entirely too used to having you with me."

"I doubt one night apart will cause much damage," said Hermione. (In retrospect, she had never known what she was talking about, and certainly couldn't have known then.) "Besides, imagine what Rita would say if she knew we were together the night before our nuptials—scandalous," she tutted.

"True," Draco said, beginning to undo the buttons of her top. "I can't wait to lose my virginity."

Hermione laughed, sliding her hands under his shirt to run her fingers down his back. "Should you be doing this, then?"

"Probably not," he replied, pausing to look up at her. "Should I stop?"

"What, for the sake of the realm?"

"For the sake of the realm," he replied solemnly, "and the blessings of Christendom."

"Probably a good time to roleplay, then," Hermione suggested. "That's a loophole, right?"

"If it wasn't before, it is now," Draco agreed, looking solidly convinced. "Maybe I could be some sort of ruthless politician with a devil-may-care outlook and a rugged sense of justice? In which case," he determined, "you would be my up-and-coming speechwriter, who sees through my mask of false confidence to rid me of my disillusionment and return me to the man I used to be."

"This seems highly specific," Hermione observed, "and also very much as if you're still trying to convince me to help with your speech."

"Does it? Strange," Draco said. "And here I thought it a very straightforward and perhaps even tired bit of trope. Perhaps, instead," he murmured to the length of her torso, "we can be on opposite sides of a magical war?"

She wriggled lower, catching his ribs between her thighs. "Am I, by chance, a guerilla heroine who's been recently captured and forced to write the speeches for the Dark Lord?"

"Why," Draco lamented with a huff, "are you simply presuming I would occupy the dark side in this sex-based hypothetical?"

"You're literally the product of centuries of imperialism," Hermione pointed out. "Not to mention the inheritor to an actual empire."

"Oh." Draco shrugged. "Well, then yes."

He returned his attention to his descent into her nethers, prompting her to sit up with a sigh.

"Draco," she said. "What's the deal?"

"I should probably change my name to something more appropriate," he pondered aloud. "Within the hypothetical, I mean. Perhaps some sort of anagram? If, that is, you use it alongside the House of Malfoy—"

"Lord Coma Fay," Hermione said, "perhaps you might consider expressing something more relevant to the topic?"

"Coma Fay, really? I was leaning 'Mayor of Clad,' though I appreciate your effort at titling—"

He permitted himself to be rolled onto his back as she shoved him with a sigh, swapping places.

"Hey," she said, hair falling into his face. "What's the deal with this speech?"

"Hm?" he said, brushing it back. "Speech, you say?"

"Draco."

"It's actually 'Your Mayorship' now."

"Are you going to tell me," she sighed, "or am I going to have to force it out of you?"

"Oh, subversion," Draco said, apparently delighted. "Though, fair warning, I bruise like a peach—"

She sighed, dropping to give his recalcitrant mouth a long, exhausted kiss, or so she suspected. He slid a hand around her cheek, fingertips darting along her jaw,, and broke away with another kiss, then another.

"Fine," he said. "Only because you asked so nicely."

She arched a brow, waiting.

"It's not about the speech," he admitted.

"MY WORD," she gasped. "IT ISN'T?"

"Well, I do want your help," he sighed, "but no, it's… more a matter of my father."

Hermione sat up. "This," she said, "is completely unexpected news to me. Go on."

"You can't blame me for finding it stupid," Draco said, ignoring her unsubtle mockery. "You'd think by now I'd be used to my father making threats, or arbitrarily disappearing from my life until I listen—"

"Actually, I think the disappearance is new, isn't it?" Hermione asked him, giving him a nudge with her foot. "The Prince of Darkness was always on your case, as far as I know. I have to imagine silence is confusing."

"Well… it is confusing," Draco said, looking particularly wounded. "I thought I'd prefer it to the alternative, but it's been months now. And if he's really not going to give an answer about the wedding—"

"You think he won't go?"

"Of course he'll go, but that's not the issue, is it?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"It's not," Draco gloomily confirmed, and at his expression of mild trauma, Hermione fought a laugh, beckoning him closer. He sighed, dragging himself up the duvet to collapse against the headboard beside her, tucking her under one arm. "I suppose I thought he might manage to come around," he said, kissing the top of her head. "But it seems the more praise I get from the press for my work, the more he resents me."

"Well, you're more like your grandfather than he is. To the public, anyway."

"Am I?"

"I'd say so. And more popular, too."

"That's his own fault," Draco said with a frown. "And when it comes to my mother—"

Hermione rifled quickly through her own observations of Narcissa, who, in perfect contrast to Lucius, had seemed in fairly good spirits recently. By all accounts within the private channels of the Palace, Narcissa had been transformed by the promise of Draco and Hermione's marriage, agreeing to behave herself in public and submitting with what Hermione would even call docility to ensure she was part of her son's wedding.

"Well, nothing," Draco said, retreating to non-answer, and Hermione shook her head.

"Go on," she told him, and he sighed.

"The truth is that I'm feeling a bit guilty," he admitted. "I believed my father and my grandfather for so long when they told me she was ill, and now I wonder if she hasn't been right all these years about being… well, captive." His expression turned solemn. "I suppose I'm starting to wonder how much my father influenced me, while at the same time wishing he was still around. It sounds," he began, and grimaced. "Well, it sounds mad, I assume."

"You were in a difficult position," Hermione assured him. "You had no reason to believe they were lying to you, and certainly not at that age. Besides, it's not a crime to miss your father."

"Isn't it, though? Seems a bit odd to suddenly long for my contract with the devil," Draco reminded her, "don't you think?"

"Things are changing," Hermione said with a shrug. "It's a lot of change at once, and your father certainly isn't helping. Even if it's good change," she clarified, glancing up at him, "you can't expect to feel nothing."

To her surprise, he gave her a wistful smile in response, lips quirking up in something that might have even been laughter.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said. "It's just… well, it's just so worth it, isn't it? Having you. Starting a family with you." He tightened his arms around her. "Seems silly to think I'm letting my father continue to plague me when I'm getting precisely what I wanted."

A warm thought. Quite warm.

This close to him, it even seemed a bit…

Hot, really.

"Well, I suppose I'm what you wanted," Hermione said. "Unless you were expecting a virginal bride, that is."

"Oh?" he asked, letting her pull away to straddle his hips while he beautifully feigned ignorance. "Miss Granger, you can't possibly mean what I think you mean."

"Oh, but I do," she told him, sliding his shirt up his torso and pausing with her hands on his chest, watching her nails dig into his skin. "Shall I teach you?"

"Are you the seductress speechwriter?"

"Sure," she said. "And you're the innocent prince who's never so much as dared to glance at his royal penis."

"Scandalous," Draco said, feigning shock.

"I know," Hermione agreed. "You did say you wanted subversion."

"Still. Totally unexpected."

She shifted his trousers down, sliding her tongue over him with a murmur of, "Quite."

"I do believe something strange is happening to me, Miss Granger," he said, with a flattering touch of awe. "I had no idea I could become so—"

"Don't say engorged," she warned, popping her head up.

"I wasn't going to say engorged," he said, frowning. "Were you thinking engorged?"

"I mean, it's in the same word family as 'forebears,' so—"

"Hm. A valid point."

"Why, what were you going to say?"

"Well, it's my first time," he reminded her defensively. "I've no idea what to say."

"You know, the whole 'defiling a virgin' fantasy might be totally baseless," Hermione noted. "Maybe we should both be experts at our craft instead."

"Or," Draco suggested, "you could tell me precisely how you want it and I, your hapless love slave, will simply follow instructions."

A compelling option. She glanced down from where she remained above him, considering it. "Is that what it's like to be prince?" she asked him.

"For the most part," he said with a shrug. "That and some public speaking. And some hats, when required."

He sat upright, pulling her into his lap, and then determined, lips against her ear, "You know, come to think of it, it's about time you get used to your new title, Your Highness."

Hermione shivered, letting his hands slide under her shorts.

"I'm doing you no favors by putting it off," he mused, his thumb stroking lightly over her clit. "I should be asking your permission, helping you adjust. May I touch you, Your Highness?" he asked, withdrawing his hand when she gasped, keening a little beneath his touch. "I'd hate to be too forward."

She gripped a handful of his blond hair from the back of his head, rolling her eyes. "Really?"

"Really. Ma'am." He bit lightly on her ear. "May I?"

"You—" She sucked in a breath, the tip of his tongue finding its way to her neck. "You may."

"Excellent." He shifted her, lifting her around the ribs with one arm to tease the slit of her cunt with his fingers, stroking her with the head of his cock. "Perhaps Your Highness would like to inform me how she wishes to have her evening gratification?"

"Is that an official royal term?"

His lips were pressed between her breasts when he laughed. "More of a convenient euphemism. Does Her Highness disapprove?"

His fingers pulsed around her, dipped inside her, darted out.

"You may continue," she managed, head falling back as she swallowed. "Though, is this productive? You do have a speech to write."

He eased her legs apart, guiding her until she felt him slide inside her with painfully deliberate slowness.

"I consider pleasing my future Queen to be compulsory, as with my other royal duties," he said, inhaling sharply as she let out a quiet moan, probably pulling a little too tightly on his hair. "Does Her Highness disagree?"

"Disagree? No," she said, easing slowly into a rhythmic pace. "Though, I should think whoever you are in this scenario could do with taking on a little more of the work."

"Oh?"

He flipped her on her back, graciously accepting her constructive criticism.

"Impressive," she said, running her fingers over the lines of his abdomen. "I think I'm taking to royalty quite nicely."

"You do have a natural aptitude," Draco agreed, slowing down as she sank her heels into his backside. "Very commanding," he added, a little groan slipping out as she angled his head to the side, leaving tiny scrapes of her teeth along the side of his neck.

"Are you a prince still, or a love slave?" she asked. "I'm unsure how to address you."

"It's a fairly careless improvisation," he acknowledged regretfully, her fingers tracing the thin film of sweat that began to cover his shoulders. "Under the circumstances, I think I'm both."

"Well, then—" She propped herself up on her elbows, wrenching his head to one side. "Your Highness," she murmured, "you'd better fuck me harder or, narratively speaking, there'll be hell to pay."

He sat upright, yanking her hips up and towards him, fingers digging into her skin.

"It is my sincerest pleasure to obey as Her Royal Highness wishes," he said, at precisely the moment she let out a gasp.

"You two," Daphne said through a mouth full of pins, "are such honest to god nerds."

It was time for Hermione's penultimate fitting, which meant the pins were mostly being used for tiny, finicky adjustments. She impatiently bent her knees, trying not to go lightheaded from how long she'd been standing there while Daphne fussed with the placement of the lace overlay on her bodice.

"What, you and Theo don't roleplay?"

"We do, from time to time," Daphne acknowledged, "but we don't usually progress straight from sex to congratulating each other on how many adverbs we managed to cut from our speeches."

"Don't be ridiculous, Daphne," Pansy said from her chair, rolling her eyes. "That's not what they do."

"See?" Hermione said, waving a hand to Pansy. "Thank you, Pans—"

"Hermione's never managed to cut an adverb in her life," Pansy concluded, taking a sip from her bottle of Perrier. "If anything, they congratulate each other on how many adverbs they can fit into a single sentence."

"Thanks," Hermione repeated drily, as Pansy made a tiny hand motion of yes, yes, you're welcome. "Is that all, or do you have any additional comments about my sex life?"

"Hm? None at the moment," Pansy said, "though I suppose it's worth noting that Henry and I do not engage in play-acting of any sort."

"What, never?" Daphne asked, amused. "I assumed your costume affinity extended to the bedroom."

"Oh, certainly," Pansy agreed. "Fortunately, we are better in bed than anyone we could possibly emulate, so the pretense is, if anything, discouraging."

"Would you call that sexual hubris?" Hermione asked, twisting around to commiserate with Daphne.

"Don't move, Hermione, or I'll stab you on purpose—but yes," Daphne agreed, "it's certainly hubris."

"Well, the stabbing is highly appropriate, then," Pansy said.

"Not for me," Hermione growled, as Daphne jabbed her somewhere beside her spine. "Ouch—"

"Roman senators is definitely a concept," Daphne said thoughtfully. "A little Blaise-ian, though, don't you think?"

"Oh, I guarantee Blaise has done that one," Pansy said, making a face. "Though I'm loath to consider whether he or Tracey was playing Caesar."

"On the contrary," interrupted Hortense. "It's my understanding that historically, the pretty one prefers the forum to the empire, or else extends his historical kinksmanship to the Medici. By my calculations, he nearly always prefers to play the Pope."

"Jesus balls," Hermione gasped, accepting the pinprick of warning from Daphne in favor of not toppling over at the unexpected appearance of Draco's cousin, who was advancing up the stairs and seating herself on the arm of Pansy's chair. Alarmingly, Pansy herself remained unperturbed, instead offering her glass of Perrier to Hortense, who withdrew from her purse a small cocktail umbrella.

"No, no, you're confusing that one with the other one," said Thibaut, who was apparently also present. "Betwixt the two of them, it can be very disorienting."

"What, do you mean the loony one?"

"Well, I certainly don't mean Handsome Tom," Thibaut supplied. "Everyone knows he prefers to play a maniacal dictator in bed. Papal loveplay involves considerably different costuming, though the Venn diagram of similarities may well be a circle."

"Oh, too true," Hortense sighed fondly. "Either way, he has such an appetizing propensity for madness."

"Are you noticing this?" Hermione asked Daphne, who shrugged, making a small adjustment in the placement of her pins.

"It happens," she said, as Hortense, alarmingly, returned her attention to Hermione.

"Are you in need of some bedroom theatrics?" Hortense asked, grey eyes expressing something akin to unsurprise. "Understandable. Might I suggest something from my abduction kit?"

"Should I… ask?" Hermione said warily, but Hortense was already wrenching open her purse, removing items one by one.

"The abduction kit," Thibaut supplied, perching on the opposite arm of Pansy's chair. "Do you not carry one around?"

"One never knows when one might need it," Hortense advised, having removed a loosely knotted amount of rope, a vial of something bright purple, a small jar containing at least 4-7 (hopefully false) teeth, and what appeared to be several rolls of blue painter's tape, all of which she placed in Pansy's lap.

"Why," Hermione sighed, "would anyone need an abduction kit?"

"Well, if you have to ask," Thibaut scoffed.

"Hush, Thibaut," Hortense told him, pulling out a tube of lipstick that Hermione couldn't decide whether or not she was disappointed to discover was, indeed, a tube of lipstick. "Not everyone is blessed with high profile enemies."

"Hermione has almost no vendettas," Pansy offered in apparent commiseration, and Hortense frowned, staring into space for a moment.

"Well, I just can't imagine what that would be like," she determined, and then replaced the lipstick in her purse, pulling out an enormous ring of keys before frowning. "Did I leave the stove on?" she asked Thibaut.

"Unlikely," he said. "Though, it's possible the basement door's unlocked."

"Well, how much damage can he do, really," Hortense said. "Basile's home."

"I hardly think Basile's capable of chaperoning. Isn't he anemic?"

"I doubt that has anything to do with the horcruxes."

"Isn't Basile your… dog?" Hermione asked with confusion, and Hortense and Thibaut both looked at her.

"This dress," Hortense observed. "Is it what you intend to be buried in?"

"No," supplied Pansy, who had uncovered a copy of Vogue from Hortense's purse and was flipping through the fashion editorials. "I believe she intends to wear it to the dentist."

"Oral surgery?"

"In white? Hardly. Annual cleaning, at best."

"Good," Hortense said approvingly. "Anything else would be exceptionally morbid."

"Done," Daphne said, finishing with her pins and spreading out Hermione's train, eyeing it. "I'll get the veil," she added over her shoulder, and then, to Hortense, "Are you here for your fitting as well?"

"Well, it's certainly not a kidnapping," Hortense sniffed.

"Yet," added Thibaut. "And only because we might have either left the stove on or set the vampire loose. Otherwise, who knows."

"Wait a minute, what?" Hermione asked, struggling to turn over her shoulder without pricking herself. "You're designing a dress for Hortense?"

"Oh, it's a favor for Prince Lucifer," Daphne supplied with a disinterested glance, returning with the cathedral veil in hand. "Apparently the Prince of Darkness is concerned his preeminent cousins may opt for something inappropriate if he doesn't specifically request something on their behalf."

"You talked to Lucius?"

"Did you say vampire?" Pansy asked Hortense.

"Of course not," Hortense said, scoffing. "Thibaut did."

"I thought you knew," Daphne said, frowning as she began loosely compiling Hermione's hair into some semblance of a messy chignon. "Didn't Theo mention it to Draco?"

"We're not technically the same person," Hermione reminded her.

"He's also anemic," said Thibaut, as Pansy frowned.

"Is that relevant?"

"That's what I said," Hortense exclaimed.

"Oh, well, it was a request from Dobby, technically," Daphne said, folding the veil over the hairpiece and considering its placement. "I didn't think it was particularly noteworthy."

"A personal favor to the Prince of Wales isn't noteworthy?"

"Compared to the vampirism, it's really not much of an issue," Hortense informed Pansy. "Though, if he has conquered death, he's not even the first person in the house to have done it, is he?"

"At this point, it's just redundant," Thibaut remarked.

"Do you like the poppies?" Daphne asked, folding the veil over to show it to Hermione. "I thought, you know, what with Nott calling you California for so long, it might be a nice touch."

"It's beautiful," Hermione sighed, momentarily distracted as she looked at it, "but hang on, about Prince Lucifer—"

"In fairness, I don't think it's the conquering of death that concerns me so much as the excessive use of third person," said Hortense. "That, and at what point are there too many snakes in the house?"

"—do you even know if he's coming?" Hermione asked. "Has he asked you to design anything for him?"

"No," Daphne said, fanning out the veil. "But why would he? I don't do much in the way of menswear, and I believe he has a preferred tailor."

"How many snakes, exactly?"

"Well, just the one, really, if you don't count the cursed locket. Which, really, can be quite charming company on a quiet Tuesday evening."

"Too many snakes," Pansy advised, licking her finger and turning the page. "And you should probably count the locket."

"I just don't know if I should interfere," Hermione said, wistfully eyeing her reflection. "I just feel constantly as if I'm in an unsavory position lately."

"Oh, with Tracey, you mean?"

"The thing is, there's so many kinds of curses," Hortense said. "It seems rather close-minded to simply jump to conclusions."

"Yes, but also with Draco and his parents. At what point am I obligated to step in?"

"You know, I think I did leave it on," Thibaut said thoughtfully. "But as far as cauldrons go, I don't see it doing much."

"Maybe you're worrying prematurely," Pansy remarked.

"I agree," Daphne told Hermione. "You can't fixate so much on things that haven't even happened. It's not as if Prince Lucifer would ever defy Abraxas like that, and it's certainly not our job to interfere with Blaise and Tracey."

"You only say that because you don't like her," Hortense said. "But you'd miss her if she were gone, you know."

"Eh, I've known nicer snakes," Thibaut said. "I could certainly do without this one."

"I just hate feeling so powerless," Hermione lamented, watching Daphne adjust her veil in the mirror.

"You're not powerless," Daphne said. "There's a difference between influence and meddling."

"I've told him that at least a thousand times," Hortense said, "but he really insists. At this point, there's been so much sanguinary grandstanding that even Basile's begun to feel nauseated."

"You'd think… why would he care, right? It's not his blood—but no," Thibaut sighed. "He seems to find the whole thing personally offensive."

"Well, can you blame him?" Pansy said, accepting the piece of gum Hortense offered her. "It's difficult to get out of the carpet. Though, you could try salting it."

"I know, I know, you're right—"

"Have you given any thought to Abraxas' advice about keeping a diary?" Daphne asked. "It might help you keep from bottling everything up, you know."

"I haven't, no," Hermione admitted. "I've always tried, but I lose interest in it so quickly. It feels a bit pointless, I guess, talking to something that doesn't talk back."

"Sounds like you're not doing it right," Thibaut remarked.

"Oh, just try not to worry so much, would you?" Daphne said, smiling at Hermione's apprehensive reflection. "Look how beautiful you are, how lovely your life is. Enjoy the moment," she advised, resting her hands on Hermione's shoulders. "You're marrying the man you love, and that's a rare and wonderful thing."

"You look a bit ill," Thibaut said to Pansy.

"Might have something to do with all the blood talk," Pansy replied.

"Well, my dear," Hortense sniffed, "I simply can't think how to horrify you less. You've seen the drape options."

"Careful," Hermione remarked to Pansy with a laugh, resting her hand on Daphne's and shaking her head. "If you look that revolted at the wedding, Rita Skeeter's probably going to announce to the world one or both of us is pregnant, Pans."

"I can't imagine why anyone would think something so ridiculous," Pansy said with a half-retching grimace. "Aren't there other things to discuss in the world besides whether or not a woman might be pregnant?"

"I certainly can't think of anything," Hortense replied, removing a small silver diadem from her purse and placing it beatifically on Pansy's head.

"You look nervous," Abraxas said.

"Do I?" Hermione echoed, suddenly very conscious of her teeth. "Can't imagine why."

The King of England smiled thinly, beckoning for her to follow as he and Theo's father exchanged a glance, heading towards something Hermione troublingly assumed were dungeons.

"Though, just out of curiosity," she ventured, tentatively following them both down a set of narrow stairs, "in terms of, you know, where, exactly, we're going—"

"Theodore?" Abraxas said, glancing at Nott, Sr. "You had something to say before we continued, I presume?"

Interesting. Hermione paused her idle chatter, deciding that even if Draco's grandfather was doing the most (locking her up for treason, condemning her to a quiet murder, having her impersonated by a sea witch… the possibilities, in her mind, were endless), it was probably worth it to see Nott's face contort in a grimace that meant he was being admonished.

Possibly even scolded.

"Yes," Nott slid through his teeth, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Hermione. "It has been brought to my attention that I may have…"

He appeared to choke on his next words.

"Misjudged you," he concluded, and Hermione blinked.

"And?" Abraxas prompted, clearly enjoying himself.

"And," Nott gritted out, "I hope that your future endeavors mean we will be able to work amicably in the future toward a united front in our mutual respect and admiration for the sovereignty of this great nation."

He expelled it like a toxic breath, concluding with a grimace.

"Huh," Hermione said. "Interesting."

This time, Abraxas slid her a prompting glance. She, unlike Nott, pretended not to comprehend it.

"May I ask what brought this on?" she asked, a little giddy about her opportunity for torment as Nott's face shadowed with loathing.

The truth was that Hermione knew precisely well what had brought it on. The previous week's event, which had been the speaking engagement for which Draco had been so anxious the week prior, had gone off without a hitch.

Well, the opposite, really. It had gone off with one very big, extremely noticeable hitch, if you wanted to call it that.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is an honor to be here today to discuss with you the importance of education in the lives of young people," Draco said, reading the speech he and Hermione had written together from the screen of a teleprompter while she stood in her usual position behind him. She had been wearing a trench dress designed by a biracial, up-and-coming designer Daphne had found who specialized in gender-fluid clothing. "This task force, which will be dedicated to raising awareness of the difficulties facing young people while highlighting those organizations who have devoted themselves to engaging with students in various fields, is of special importance to myself and my family. The difference these organizations make, particularly for young women from underrepresented communities—"

He broke off, falling to a dead halt, and looked up into the crowd.

Behind him, Hermione could see the front row of observers begin to whisper to each other. One, a correspondent from the Daily Prophet, was almost certainly reaching out to Rita Skeeter amid Draco's overlong pause, typing frantically and sneaking (not particularly sneakily) a picture of the prince's unusual break in composure.

"My apologies," Draco said, abruptly remembering himself and glancing over his shoulder to Hermione, who gave him a small, encouraging nod. "I've just realized something very important, and I'm afraid I can't continue."

Hermione was careful not to let her smile fall, though she could hear Dobby scurrying around in a panic somewhere out of sight.

"I believe most of you are familiar with my future wife, Miss Hermione Granger," Draco said, and immediately, the crowd's whispers rose in volume, cameras flashing once again as Hermione struggled not to frown with confusion. "Perhaps some of you have heard I'm getting married in a couple of weeks?" Draco joked, ever at ease with his audience, and the press correspondents laughed heartily in response. "More relevant, I'm sure, and something you may not read in the coverage of our wedding, is that she and I wrote this statement together. You see, I was struggling a bit with something at the time; I worried I wouldn't get it right, and now I understand why."

He glanced over his shoulder again, smiling this time.

"It's because I'm not the person to deliver this address," he said, still looking at her for a moment before turning back to the microphone. "In this day and age, with so much demanding our attention, it's not enough to simply point to an issue or a cause. It's about giving that cause a voice—the right voice."

Astoundingly, he took a step back from the podium, beckoning for Hermione to join him.

"Miss Granger is not only the inspiration for much of my interest in this area, but she is also a passionate advocate herself. A proponent of advancements in science, technology, and the arts, she is a woman of tireless efforts in community organization and civic engagement. Ladies and gentlemen," Draco said, setting a hand briefly on Hermione's lower back and guiding her to the microphone, "Miss Hermione Granger."

To everyone's surprise—including her own—Draco took the few steps away from the podium to fill the place she had been standing. Hermione, understandably taken aback, had glanced back at him, and he merely shrugged, beckoning to her: Go on, you do it, you know the words.

She glared, and he smiled.

Later, the cover of the Daily Prophet would show Hermione Granger, a woman of unremarkable birth, giving a speech to a room full of aristocrats while surrounded by a sea of kings' portraits. She would never be entirely sure how the photographer managed it, but the photograph, taken at the moment she had begun reading the speech she and Draco had written, showed a little gleam of light on her hair that gave her a low, radiating glow.

The future of the British Monarchy, read the caption. Miss Hermione Granger praises advocacy task force for education programmes, calling for increased efforts on behalf of women and girls pursuing careers in historically male-dominated industries.

Is it possible the upstart American has found her stride? wrote Rita Skeeter. The Hermione Granger we have known up to this point has been relatively silent, but today gave voice to generations. While I would have willingly praised Prince Draco for his dedication tothis worthy cause if he had delivered the very same words, even I have to confess to a moment of surprising emotion. Watching a woman advocate for other women in a room where so many have stood silent before her seems a relatively small thing, but for so many young girls, who will now see a face like their own at the forefront of a cause instead of standing behind her future husband's, it eclipses everything.

Nott's little throat-clearing sound of reluctance dragged Hermione back to the moment, and back to her feeling of satisfaction. Maybe she couldn't get everything right, but she could certainly do something.

She wasn't some carbon copy of Bellatrix or Narcissa. She was herself, and she had proven for the first time that she was valuable—even to a man who judged her by what the tabloids wrote about her.

"Yes?" she prompted, as Nott gritted his teeth around what she giddily hoped was a serving of crow.

"Your speech," Nott managed. "It was… well-received."

"By whom?" Hermione said, feigning innocence. "You, I presume?"

"I—" Another swift glance from Abraxas delivered Nott to a scowl. "Yes," he grunted perfunctorily. "It was very well-delivered. An excellent strategic move by Draco," he added with feeling, and Hermione, temporarily out of Abraxas' line of sight, rolled her eyes.

Fine, whatever. She was about to have a lifetime of proving him wrong, so she didn't have to settle for a single moment of satisfaction. She'd make him eat his words until the day he died.

"Very gracious of you, Sir," she said, and Nott, finally delivered of having to spare her such effusive praise, made a gesture to Abraxas that indicated he would have to spend the next several minutes in silence, probably draped over a fainting couch.

"Yes, very gracious, Theodore," Abraxas said with a chuckle, making a small motion to a pair of guards and beckoning for Hermione to follow. "Now, let's see, I was hoping to have another set of eyes, but—"

"I'm right here," came Narcissa's voice, followed by a curtsy to Abraxas and a glare at Nott before she turned, expressionless, to Hermione. "I'm late," she said in apparent explanation, though it seemed more like an obvious fact.

"I've asked Narcissa to stay at Clarence House until the wedding," Abraxas informed Hermione. "I imagine you may find her presence useful."

"It should be known the wearing of a tiara is positively ludicrous," Narcissa said. "Its sole purpose is to express wealth and ownership by one's husband."

"That being said," Abraxas attempted gently, but Hermione had already begun indulging her confusion.

"Tiara?" she echoed, surprised.

"Surely you didn't think Draco would let you go without one," Narcissa said briskly, as the guards propped open the door to what Hermione was now piecing together must have been a secure vault. Narcissa swept forward, beckoning for Hermione to follow. "Naturally you'll have to receive Abraxas' approval, which is why, I presume, Theodore is here," she said, glaring again at Nott, "but I would be remiss if I permitted you to select one without someone of taste being present."

In an intensely cinematic moment, Narcissa had slid open a drawer containing a series of blinding diamonds, followed by another, and a third.

"These are out," Narcissa said. "Too ostentatious."

"Agreed," said Abraxas. "If I may rule out the kokoshnik styles, too?"

"Naturally," Narcissa sniffed.

Still, she permitted Hermione half a glance inside the drawers.

"Oh, totally," Hermione said weakly, a little dazzled by the ornamental twists and turns and the glittering diamond bars as Narcissa promptly shut the majority of the drawers, beckoning her attention to the next.

"These are your conceivable choices," she said, pointing to the final remaining drawer. She gestured to one with a centered diamond brooch, her expression indicating some conflict. "This one is lovely, but a bit… much."

"Not this one," Hermione said, looking wistfully at the tiara. It was beautiful, but she could hear Pansy's voice in her head: Do you want to look like a small child playing dress-up, Hermione? "Maybe something that won't overwhelm the, um. The lace?"

Narcissa gave a curt nod of agreement.

"Pearls?" she asked, directing Hermione's attention to a tiara that hung with them.

This time, it was Blaise in Hermione's head: Are pearls really ever appropriate for someone under the age of forty? Asking for a friend. Me, I'm the friend. No? I thought not, moving on—

"Maybe no pearls," Hermione guessed, chewing her lip. "This one, with the emeralds?" she asked, pointing to it.

"An option," Narcissa said, shrugging. "Emeralds are a family emblem."

As if Hermione weren't already perfectly aware she was being absorbed into Draco's family. She was currently standing with her future husband's mother and grandfather, wasn't she? Her own mother, much to her sudden lamentation, wouldn't even be there until a week before the wedding. Helen, like everyone from Hermione's pre-Draco life, had no say in the dress, the jewelry, the wedding party, anything.

The little piece of a younger Hermione who had dreamt of her wedding as a girl suddenly reared up in protest.

"I want something that feels like me," Hermione said firmly, and for the first time, Narcissa's mouth seemed to indicate something like approval.

"This one," she said, crooking a finger for Hermione to follow and maneuvering to one of the other areas inside the vault. "I, of course, wore a tiara belonging to my own family, so I did not have this particular issue. You'll want something understated, I think. Something… quietly distinct."

She nudged open a drawer that contained only one tiara. Given its size, it was almost mistakable for a necklace, placed beside a series of other types of jewelry: a bracelet, some earrings, a brooch. It was perhaps a little forgettable compared to the blinding nature of the other jewels, though Hermione had a feeling Narcissa had intentionally saved it for last.

"Here," Narcissa said, glancing at Abraxas before removing the tiara from its little cushion of velvet and holding it out for Hermione's perusal, letting the delicate diamonds flash in the light. "This one is… how old, Abraxas?"

It seemed a question she'd thrown to him for ceremony; Hermione doubted Narcissa ever asked a question she didn't already know the answer to.

"A little over half a century," Abraxas said. "My father gave it to my mother, though she preferred to wear more elaborate jewelry."

"It has never been publicly worn," Narcissa told Hermione, proving her prior suspicions correct. Surely Narcissa had already known every detail about the item well before she'd plucked it from its case. "Unappealing, I'm sure, since you won't have Rita Skeeter speculating about whether I gave you permission to use it, or if it's some sort of homage to me. I imagine the lack of intrigue would make it a dull choice."

It took Hermione a moment to realize what Narcissa was doing. She bit her tongue on the response I don't need intrigue when she realized that… of course.

Of course. On a day that would be about Draco and Draco's family—when even the ring so famously on Hermione's finger belonged, in part, to the woman who would become her mother-in-law—this would be one thing from which the Princess of Wales was wholly, completely unconnected.

Narcissa was doing her a favor.

"So I'd be the first to be photographed wearing it?" Hermione asked, tentatively craning her neck to take in the tiara's details before Narcissa made a face of impatience, instead arranging Hermione's hair and resting it carefully atop her head.

"Yes," Narcissa said. "Just you."

Just you.

The tiara was small, understated. Nothing too showy or grand. At first glance it hadn't looked like it belonged with the other opulent jewels, but upon closer inspection it was beautifully crafted, skillfully made, and shone just as brightly. Its beauty was in its intricacy, in its complexity, and Narcissa had clearly chosen it for her.

Hermione bit back something she assumed was going to be an embarrassing display of emotion, forcing a smile.

"Does it look right?" she asked, adjusting it slightly.

Narcissa scoured her face for a moment, scrutinizing her, and then, after an impossibly long time, she reached out, tucking a loose lock of hair behind Hermione's ear the way that Helen might have done.

"It'll do," said Narcissa.

Some embarrassing displays of emotion couldn't be helped. Tearfully, with a mix of gratitude and relief, Hermione managed a smile.

"Are we done?" Nott asked gruffly from behind them. "How long does it take to pick a diamond?"

Hermione ducked her head, wiping discreetly at her eyes.

"We're done," Narcissa confirmed, plucking the tiara from Hermione's head and turning to Abraxas. "You may inform Lucius my rooms are adequate," she said, handing the tiara to him and then turning without further comment, pivoting away and trotting out of the vault with her Chanel suit perfectly intact.

Helen and David arrived in London to great and spectacular to-do, garnering photographers from the moment they set foot in the airport.

"My word," Helen told Hermione, collapsing onto the loveseat in their room at the Goring. "Is this what your life is always like?"

"Nearly always," Hermione confirmed. "It's probably best if Dad doesn't go for any bike rides in all that cling-fitting spandex, just in case the press gets wind of it."

"Nonsense, David keeps it tight," said Helen, which was something Hermione immediately scourged from her brain as Draco and Theo entered behind them, chatting with David.

"—bears pointing out you're joining our family, too, doesn't it?" David was saying to them. "I've never had a son before and now look, I've got two—"

"I'm only marrying Draco, Dad," Hermione reminded him, turning over her shoulder.

"That's what she thinks," Theo said, earning him a side-swipe from his wife, who happened to materialize from the doorway with Pansy and Harry at that precise moment.

"Sorry we're late," Daphne sighed, enveloping Hermione and Helen in her usual rush of perfumery and elegance as Pansy, wandering in beside her, offered David a smile that might have been closer to an invitation to admire her teeth, and Harry fell onto the loveseat beside Helen, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

"Where's Jamie?" Helen asked him, and was quickly answered when a little swarm of toddler entered the room with a shriek, one hand tugging a doubled-over Blaise.

"Oh, there she is," said Harry. "Sometimes she just blends into the upholstery, you know?"

Jamie launched herself into Theo with something that was more of a tackle than an embrace, wrapping her arms around as much of him as she could reach from her minimal height.

"It continues to evade me how this one," Theo said, with a wave of reference to the little girl clinging to his leg, "is permitted to go wherever she likes, and yet I'm forced to leave my perfectly well-behaved emotional support animal at home."

"He's not an emotional support animal," Daphne said. "He's basically our very quiet roommate who can't use the toilet without help."

"Every time you say that, it damages my psyche a little more," Theo informed her, undertaking several attempts to reach Helen while Jamie refused to release him. "A little help from one of her caretakers, perhaps?" he asked, turning to Pansy.

"Fascinating," David said, holding Pansy's chin in one hand and scrutinizing her canines. "And you've really never had braces? You must be genetically very gifted."

"I'm aware," said Pansy.

"Never mind," Theo sighed, as Harry winked, still lounging comfortably beside Hermione's mother.

"Jamie, it's very rude not to greet your guests," Draco said, scooping her up from Theo and presenting her, Lion King-style, to Helen. "Have you said hello to Hermione's mum, Jamie? You've met her before on Mummy's phone, remember?"

"No," said Jamie.

"Well, that's fair if you don't remember," Helen said, tapping Jamie's nose. "We met when you were onl-"

"I met her on MUMMY'S COMPUTER," Jamie shouted, throwing herself to the floor and then sprinting over to her mother before stopping, alarmed, at the sight of David.

Blaise, falling beside Helen on the sofa that now had minimal space for its occupants: "This is all going swimmingly, minus the time we allowed Pansy and Henry to combine their propensity for trouble. If I'd known their progeny was a possibility, I'd have done a better job of keeping them in separate rooms."

Harry: "Jamie's really quite shy, actually. No surprise you lot bring out her dark side."

Helen, while fondly watching Jamie untie David's shoe from where she was sitting on the floor: "I love that precious angel and she could never do anything wrong, ever."

Draco, equally fondly: "Agreed."

Hermione, with a pensive frown: "I'm starting to get the feeling we're all collectively raising a child who will one day become exceptionally difficult to control."

Harry, with a shrug: "I came to terms with that reality a long time ago."

Helen, turning to Blaise: "Where's your lady friend, Blaise?"

Blaise, with a shrug: "Oh, I didn't think Tracey would enjoy this much. She's been a bit stressed lately with work."

Hermione, who observed a hint of reservation from Blaise: "How goes the wedding planning?"

Blaise, cheerfully ignoring what he clearly knew to be her intentions: "Well, seeing as they do not involve the Archbishop of Canterbury, the details are a bit more straightforward. How goes the very public feud between the Prince and Princess of Wales?"

Harry, with a stifled laugh: "Subtle."

Blaise: "Hm?"

Helen, sympathetically, to Draco: "Oh, honey. Is that still going on?"

Draco, with false brightness: "Well, when Blaise says my parents' 'feud,' he is of course referring to their marriage in general."

David, who now held Jamie on one hip as she showed him her front teeth: "What is the deal with them, exactly?"

Hermione, hesitating: "Draco, you don't have t-"

Draco, waving a hand: "No, no, it's fine. I think it started with my father sleeping with his former mistress who is also my aunt, which began a series of retaliatory affairs by my mother, which then led to what was either a psychotic break or the worsening of an existing condition—"

Pansy, nudging him: "You know she wasn't quite right, Draco."

Hermione and Daphne: A silently exchanged look of surprise that 1) Pansy had not brought up her mother's friendship with Narcissa yet, and 2) that she was speaking against Narcissa at all.

Pansy: "As you know, my mother was her closest friend—"

Theo, with obvious relief: "There it is."

Pansy, continuing without acknowledgement: "—but it's true, Draco, there was always something a bit off with your mum. No need to rewrite history just because you feel guilty now."

Draco, hesitating for a moment: "Well, whatever might have been wrong before, she seems perfectly fine now. But my father, on the other hand, is being resistant for entirely unknown reasons. Shame, possibly. Or simply that he doesn't want the bad press that would follow a divorce."

Helen, who had previously told Hermione that US Weekly was speculating Lucius and Narcissa had already divorced in secret and that Narcissa was currently having a dalliance with either Brad Pitt or Chris Martin from Coldplay or possibly both: "I'm sure everything will be fine."

Daphne, brightly giving Draco's shoulder a nudge: "Let's just get through this week, shall we? I'm sure most of the trouble can wait until after the wedding."

Harry, with a laugh: "Polite, really, for it to hold off."

Helen: "Well, better this than something else Rita Skeeter might accost you with, right?"

Blaise: "I shudder to think what else."

Helen: "You're not pregnant, are you?"

Draco, Hermione, and Harry: "What?"

Helen, with a shrug: "I'm just checking boxes. Seeking out possible tabloid landmines, et cetera."

Hermione, enumerating on her fingers: "No pregnancies, no drug scandals, no sex scandals—"

Draco, with a nod: "No scandals of any kind."

Hermione: "We're practically pristine. You know, minus me and all the things I've done."

Draco: "And the mere existence of my parents."

Hermione and Draco, in unison: "Everything is fine!"

"Sounds that way," David agreed, having made quick work of befriending Jamie and squeezing in beside Helen, Blaise, and Harry with the toddler in his lap. "What exactly do we have to do for the rest of the day? Anything?"

At that precise moment, Hermione's phone buzzed in her pocket, followed by a ring from Draco's phone.

"Hello? Oh, Winky, hi—"

"Dobby? I told you, I'll be there in twenty minutes—"

"Balls," Harry said, glancing at his screen. "Pans, did y-"

"Five minutes ago," Pansy said, holding up a message on her phone. "Daph, can you t-"

"Hang on—hello?" Daphne said, answering her phone. "I told you, I need it pressed today, she's coming in for her final fitting and I need to finalize the stitching on the veil—"

"Wood, I'm going to need you to stop yelling," said Theo, frowning. "Where are you?"

Blaise glanced down at the screen on his watch, frowning. "That's Tracey," he said, smacking a kiss to Helen's forehead. "Have to run—"

"Take my car," Draco called after him, still on the phone with Dobby. "Harry, can we—?"

"Yes, car's downstairs," Harry confirmed, rising to his feet to look for his wife, who was already halfway out the door.

"You've got Jamie, Henry? Ring the nanny—"

"Why? David has her!"

"You're fine, right?" Draco asked David, shifting to address a wide-eyed Jamie as she blinked up at him. "You're good here, aren't you, Mignonette?"

"Yes," Jamie replied, with the serene sweetness she could conjure whenever she felt up for it. Presumably, she had identified David as someone she could newly wrap around her little finger, which he almost certainly was.

"Wonderful, we won't be long. Hermione?"

"Coming," Hermione called, turning to follow without thinking the moment she hung up with Winky.

Then she stopped as she reached the doorway, pivoting quickly to rush back to her parents.

"I'm so happy you're here," she told them, wrapping her arms around them with relief and taking a moment to feel… well, everything.

Just to feel, really.

"Love you," Helen murmured in her ear, David kissing her cheek as Jamie gave her hair a small tug, indicating with babbling protest that she was squished just before Hermione turned and ran out the door after Draco.

"Ready for all of this?" Draco asked, toying with her hair. It was their final night in Clarence House before they went on their honeymoon, after which they would temporarily linger before moving into their own apartments in one of London's palaces. Hermione's flat, which she'd kept through the month of May despite hardly setting foot in it for days, was currently in boxes, the majority of her things packed away and labeled for either their trip or their eventual move.

"I'm feeling strangely calm about it," Hermione admitted, twisting in his arms to look up at him. "Probably because it's mostly out of my hands at this point."

"A comforting feeling, really." He kissed her forehead, eyes already falling shut. "I find the lack of control to be unexpectedly relaxing."

"I know. And I usually have trouble with that—"

"Yes, I'm familiar."

"—but I guess," Hermione continued, ignoring his extremely valid and thoroughly unhelpful side commentary, "it doesn't really seem worth it to worry at this point, does it? Things are coming together, finally." It left her like a wistful sigh. "They feel… good, I think. They feel right."

"Between us, you mean?"

She shook her head. "No, we've always felt right. It's more like… everything else. Everything outside of us."

Draco nodded. "Well, I think I should tell you to just enjoy it," he advised, yawning. "It's my understanding that nothing really gets easier. The difficult things just become more worth doing the longer you go along."

True. And things would definitely be different. She'd probably be a duchess soon.

She'd be a mother, a statesman.

A princess, and someday a queen.

A wife was just the beginning.

"And to think," Hermione murmured, soothing herself with the rhythm of Draco's chest; the way it rose and fell, steady and peaceful. "All this," she said quietly, "just because I was in the right place at the right time."

His arms tightened around her, pulling her impossibly close.

"Seems like a possible oversimplification of the facts. Though, I believe Margery Kempe would consider that divine right," he advised, and she nudged him away with a laugh, the two of them now fully drowsy with warmth.

It was a whirlwind of a week, unsurprisingly. By the time Hermione finally finished her last run-through at Westminster Abbey, she was helping her parents out of their private car with a palpable sense of relief. All she had left was one dinner. Sure, there would be one night to get plenty of sleep, and then the beautifying and headache of wedding preparation would begin in the morning—but until then it was just one dinner, and then she would spend her last night apart from Draco before she never had to sleep without him again. (Logistics notwithstanding, of course. Theoretically, it would be different. Everything would be different.)

It seemed highly doable, until it very rapidly didn't.

"Stay calm," Daphne said, catching Hermione's arm and pulling her aside, "but Narcissa just arrived alone."

"Doesn't mean much, does it?" Hermione asked, stifling the instant rush of concern and meditating for a moment on Draco's advice: just enjoy it. "I mean, Lucius could just be, you know—"

"At Malfoy Manor," Daphne said with a wince. "Maybe. Possibly."

"What?" Hermione asked, startled. Amazing how easily just enjoy it faded away, replaced with rapid indignation. "But that's hours away, why would h-"

"Calm, calm. Breathe in," Daphne said quickly, flailing a bit in her attempt to keep Hermione relaxed. "Yes, good, and out—"

"Where's Pansy?" Hermione asked, not entirely soothed by Daphne's frantic breathing exercises.

"Oh, she's…" Daphne glanced over her shoulder. "Well, she was right behind me, but I think she's a bit under the weather—"

"Is Draco here yet?" He'd had to miss the final run-through at Westminster, but was joining them for dinner along with his grandfather and what Hermione had previously expected to be his father.

"He just messaged me, he's on his way."

"Oh, good—my parents followed us from the church, right? Or did they stop at the hotel first?"

"Arriving now," Daphne said, pointing to where the car had pulled up and then, hesitantly, pausing Hermione another moment before she could leave to join them. "Have you seen Blaise and Tracey?"

"What? No, not yet," Hermione said, frowning. "Wasn't Blaise with Theo? I thought they were right behind us."

"He was, but then—"

"Greengrass," Theo called, materializing behind them. "A word?"

"Hand on one second, Nott—"

"Just go," Hermione assured Daphne, giving her hand a squeeze. "I'm just going to get my parents ins- oh, no," she exhaled, spotting Rita Skeeter's unmistakable platinum hair. "I didn't think she'd get here so early."

"Was she really necessary?" Daphne asked, making a face.

"Well, it's a courtesy, really—and at least if she's here, she can't do as much damage from her little cave or grotto or wherever demons usually live."

"True, true. Oh no, is that Hortense?"

"Probably," Hermione said with a shudder. "Troubling, isn't it?"

"Yes, deepl-"

"GREENGRASS!"

"For heaven's sake—I'm coming, Nott," Daphne said over her shoulder, rolling her eyes. "See you in a few minutes," she said, departing as Hermione made her way over to greet her parents.

She was cut off, though, by the sight of Tracey Davis launching herself from her private car.

Hermione recalled with inconvenient timing the moment of Blaise's accidental slip at the book party those few weeks earlier, when Tracey had caught her eye and frowned with obvious suspicion. Not for the first time, Hermione wondered if she hadn't committed some sort of terrible sin by staying silent.

She realized in her moment of contemplation that Tracey, who had remained sort of an unremarkable fixture amid the chaos of wedding planning, had gotten quite thin; probably thinner than she'd intended. She hadn't been eating much, a subject Hermione hadn't been sure how to broach, and at the moment she considered it, she felt a nudge of unexamined memory: that Tracey had looked out of sorts all afternoon.

"Everything alright?" Helen asked, frowning at Hermione's expression as David helped her out of the backseat, and Hermione shook her head, asking her mother to wait for a moment while she approached an obviously fleeing Tracey.

"Tracey! Are you alright?" she called, pausing her, and then stopped, catching sight of Blaise over Tracey's shoulder.

She knows, he mouthed, looking breathless and pained, and in the same moment, Tracey's eyes narrowed with recognition, witnessing the reaction that must have spread plainly across Hermione's face.

"You should have told me," Tracey said in a low voice.

A voice, Hermione registered with dismay, that was shaking.

It's not your business, Pansy had said. You told me about Blaise, I know, but it's not your job to tell Tracey.

I love her, Blaise whispered in Hermione's mind. I love her, and I can't tell her, because she loves herself enough to know that she should leave me. She'll know I don't deserve her, no matter how much I beg her not to go, and if she knew everything—

What do you mean everything?

"I… I wanted to," Hermione admitted, hurrying to pull Tracey aside. "Believe me, I did, but it wasn't my place, and—"

"You don't know what your fucking place even is!" Tracey spat at her, tearing free from her grasp. "You're just some nobody who got lucky, aren't you? So who cares if my heart breaks!" she ranted, and beneath her anger, Hermione saw something familiar: a woman who was struggling not to cry, because she shouldn't. Because her emotion was weakness; because it was unwelcome; because it had no business here. "So long as you get your prince and your friends and your happy ending," Tracey gasped, "what else is there?"

"I'm so sorry," Hermione managed to say. "Tracey, please, I—"

But she was gone, tearing from Hermione's grip as Hermione was left to wince in silence, turning back to find her parents observing her with twin looks of concern.

"Well," Hermione exhaled, beckoning them inside. "That's…" She shook her head. "That's a problem I can't fix. Shall we?" she said, feigning brightness. Just enjoy it! "Just have to get through dinner, get through the night, get married—"

"You make that sound very simple," Helen observed. "Will it be?"

"Oh, sure," Hermione said, like an idiot. "Why not? Come on, you two should sit with Narcissa, she's somewhere inside—"

She led her parents into the palace, aiming for the State Room. Luckily, David and Helen had already been introduced to the royal family earlier that week, and had mostly gotten their excitement, their awkward curtsies, and their ascot-related questions out of their systems. By now, the grandness of the room (and its overuse of chandeliers) had lost just enough of its awe that David could prevent himself from taking pictures.

Hermione passed Rita Skeeter as she went, noticing the journalist's eyes on her and deciding, with a grimace, it was best if she handled the situation early. She seated her parents and made her way to Rita, who wore a crimson, feline smile that Hermione prayed was more trustworthy than it looked.

"So," Rita said. "Should I call you Your Highness, or will Hermione do?"

Hermione fought an eye roll. "As you know, Rita, I'm not technically married y-"

"Or," Rita cut in beatifically, "perhaps I should call you… Penelope Clearwater?"

Something launched itself into Hermione's throat.

"Who?" she managed to ask, but to her dismay, Rita's smile broadened, revealing that she'd had her cell phone tucked under her arm.

"My god, you may as well broadcast it to the room," Rita remarked with a chuckle, gesturing to Hermione's expression. "I admit, I didn't quite believe it at first myself, but having re-read the articles—oh, and these blog posts," she said, gesturing to her screen as Hermione caught the Spew logo and winced. "As if the piece you wrote under your own name wasn't troubling enough—"

"Speculation," Hermione said through her teeth. Not even just enjoy it could drive her to use full sentences.

"Ah yes, isn't it just?" Rita said, looking delighted that Hermione had been the one to say it. "And what, pray tell, excites the public more than speculation? Why, all I'd need is a fairly basic linguistic analyst to confirm these were all written by the same person," she mused, tapping her mouth with feigned thoughtfulness. "Say, perhaps, a literature professor? One like Horace Slughorn," she proposed, as Hermione struggled not to grimace, "who would almost surely identify all of these as belonging to his most beloved student?"

"It won't do anything," Hermione warned. "The wedding is tomorrow, and there's nothing you can d-"

"Oh, there's plenty of time for marriages to fall apart after a wedding," Rita said, adding a delicate, bell-tone of a laugh. "My goodness, look at the Prince and Princess of Wales! Only a matter of time before the constant scrutiny of your controversial ethics and your radical opinions means you're kept out of sight, away from the press, and—"

"Draco and I are not Prince Lucius and Princess Narcissa," Hermione cut in firmly.

"Hm," Rita breathed, "so he's never shown you any doubt, then? Not a shadow of it?" To Hermione's distress, a little image of Draco lamenting the loss of his father slid its way into her brain. "Maybe there's nothing yet," Rita conceded to herself, half-smiling, "but my goodness, how would your marriage suffer, my dear, if your mistakes forced you back into the shadows of a highly conservative monarchy? Everyone knows you're willful, as headstrong as Narcissa, and history does love to repeat itself—"

"You couldn't have stumbled on this yourself," Hermione interrupted, unwilling to hear whatever came next. She didn't want to believe anything could come between her relationship with Draco, but hadn't Rita managed it before?

Just enjoy it. She wanted to, only her stomach was turning with memories of how she'd felt when she'd been hidden; remembering how small she'd felt, how insignificant, how lost.

"Yes, well, such a pity something's come between you and Miss Davis," Rita sighed, as Hermione grimaced, cursing her lack of foresight. Would she have really cared whose right it was to tell the truth about Blaise and Neville if she'd known that failing to do so would mean Tracey giving away her secrets? At the moment, she was thinking probably not. "You know, when Lockhart initially suggested you were hiding something, I thought my god, what a buffoon, why would a woman bound for the throne of England do something so idiotically reckless? But of course," Rita exhaled with a laugh, "of course it would be you, who has never belonged here at all."

"Is that all this is?" Hermione said, hoping not to draw attention to their argument but feeling color rise in her cheeks regardless, Narcissa looking over briefly from across the room. "You want to punish me, is that it? Because I don't deserve to be here?"

"My dear, if I want to punish you, it's only because I do it so well," Rita assured her, shrugging. "Do you genuinely think this monarchy has a place in the modern age? Of course not," she tutted, tucking her phone back into her pocket. "If writing about this family hadn't produced my summer home in Cornwall or secured my right to have extremely decadent taste, I'd be the first to suggest we do away with them altogether so I can begin working on the next great English novel. But the truth, Miss Granger, is that this institution is little more than a cult of celebrity, and among the rich and famous, happy endings do not sell," Rita remarked, as Hermione felt her mouth tighten. "I have no opposition to you personally. Does it bother me that you've climbed beyond your means? It doesn't thrill me, obviously, but it hardly keeps me up at night."

"Then why—"

"Your happiness gives me… oh, about a month, maybe a year of news coverage," Rita said, smile falling away mid-calculation. "Possibly until your first child is born, but if your husband remains loyal to you, then what is there to say? Princess Hermione ages well, enjoys cheese and sunlit holidays on the beach, fulfills life aspirations and practices mindfulness along with daily yoga? Of course not," she scoffed. "If you're not pregnant or Draco hasn't strayed by this time next year, then the real work begins," Rita mused, as Hermione struggled to keep from doing something inadvisable; like, say, lighting her on fire. "Could Hermione Granger have infiltrated the monarchy to force her radical agenda?" Rita posed, salaciously adopting the exact voice Hermione might have used to mock her. "Is Hermione Granger a compulsive liar who deluded a family and ensnared her prince with falsehoods?"

Hermione blinked away the headline COLONIAL UPSTART STRANGLES JOURNALIST WITH PALACE DRAPES AT REHEARSAL DINNER and struggled to regain her composure.

"I won't let you do this," Hermione said tightly. "I'm smarter than you think I am."

"Oh, I hope so," Rita said. "I'd rather not have the ashes of another failed royal marriage on my hands, but if that's what it takes…" She trailed off, shrugging. "My kitchen could use some updating. Oh, and congratulations, by the way," she added, batting her false lashes at Hermione. "As of this morning, your book has me at the top of the bestseller list for the tenth consecutive week."

Then, to Hermione's disbelief, Rita gave a brilliant smile.

"Do enjoy your nuptials," she offered sweetly.

Hermione turned away, seething as she went.

"Hey," Draco said, half-jogging over to her and sweeping his hair from his forehead. He had all the markers of running late, cheeks flushed and hair not quite as slicked back as it usually was, breathless when he reached her. "Sorry, sorry," he exhaled, "the city is positively gridlocked—is everything alright?"

Just enjoy it, just enjoy it, just enj-

"We'll survive anything," Hermione forced out, swallowing, "won't we?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Narcissa's pale brow furrowing.

"What?" Draco asked, taking her shoulders and gesturing her aside. "Is everything—"

"Everything's fine," Hermione said quickly, breathing hard. Rage? Fury? Sadness? Desperation, maybe. It seemed marrying into this family meant none of this would ever end. She would constantly feel hunted down, judged, criticized, and as much as he was worth it, nobody would ever know the truth.

She wasn't hurt by Rita. She wasn't afraid of her, either. She wasn't even angry at Tracey.

She just understood for the first time that nobody, ever, would understand the truth about who she really was, or how deeply she loved, or how much it had cost her to make this choice, and that had knocked the wind out of her.

But it was Draco who helped her catch her breath, lifting her chin to meet her eye.

"Of course we'll survive anything," he assured her, touching her cheek. "I promised you a lifetime, didn't I?"

"Yes. I know. I know." Hermione tucked her face into his palm, closing her eyes. "I just—"

"You have nothing to worry about. Nothing to be afraid of. I'll prove it to you for the rest of my life." He pulled her in close, resting his chin on her head. "I love you," he promised her, and she sighed, going a little limp in his arms.

There were probably easier loves. Smaller ones, surely, but easier ones. Loves where she could say things like I can't do this, I'm not enough, this wasn't what I wanted.

But this love was the one she chose, and she would choose it again, over and over, whether Rita Skeeter threatened them or not.

"Is there any chance your father decided to show up?" she asked too-optimistically, curling her hands around his elbows.

She felt him shake his head.

"Oh," she said, regretting that that, too, would be yet another thing for Rita Skeeter to witness, but he pulled away, dismissing it with a shrug.

"Draco," interrupted a voice behind them, and they both jumped at the sudden appearance of his cousin Hortense. "Have you seen Narcissa?" she asked impatiently. "I followed the usual scent of gardenia and barely suppressed mania, but I'm afraid I've found myself empty-handed."

"No, no, that would be more of a jasmine," Thibaut corrected her, materializing on her other side. "You're thinking hysteria."

"Her name is Daphne, Thibaut, that one's her sister."

"I'm sure my mother's around here somewhere," Draco sighed as they continued to argue, nudging away from them and gesturing Hermione to the center of the room, where their friends, family, and a handful of extremely important strangers were currently sitting. "Come on, forget my father," he told her firmly. "We're here to celebrate our wedding, aren't we?"

Just enjoy it. Hermione managed a nod.

"Good. Then let's celebrate," he advised her, giving her hand a squeeze before leading her back to the dinner.

With Draco by her side, things were easier. She pushed Rita Skeeter out of her mind, trying to center herself in the moment. If anything was going to go wrong, it would be well into the future. For now, she simply had to worry about getting married, which she'd already practiced doing twice that week alone. The dress was finished, with even Daphne's fussy-perfectionist seal of approval, and was already waiting for her in her hotel suite. Everything, Hermione thought, was simply about getting from tonight to tomorrow.

One foot in front of the other. Just enjoy it. One step at a time.

She was relieved she didn't have to wait long for the evening to be at an end. Abraxas excused himself fairly early, bidding farewell to their guests with Draco following in his wake. The absence of the King of England meant the end of any event as far as most guests were concerned, so Hermione corralled her parents and sent them back to the hotel, promising to invite them up to her suite as soon as she'd returned.

She'd hoped for a moment with Blaise, who had done little but glance apprehensively at his cell phone all night, or at least talk with Pansy, who was usually helpful when it came to plotting against possible enemies, but by the time she'd left her parents, only Theo remained.

"Greengrass is just having a final chat with Winky about the details," he told her, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. Then, after a moment's pause, he added, "Knock, knock."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not Draco."

"Well, it was worth a try," he said, shrugging. "Everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's f-"

"Oh really, everything's fine?" he echoed, blatantly skeptical, and she sighed. "Did Rita Skeeter get to you?" he prompted, arching a brow. "You've looked a bit out of sorts all night. Conversely, last I saw her, she looked entirely too euphoric."

"Well, she's…" Hermione shook her head. "Nothing," she decided. "There's no point talking about it right now."

"Ah. Makes sense." Theo gave her a small smile, tipping her chin up with one finger. "You know, Cali," he mused, "you're marrying my best friend tomorrow."

"You married mine, didn't you?"

"Oh, I know," he assured her, "but I thought I'd put it in perspective for you."

She managed a smile, and he released her.

"There's nobody else for him, you know," Theo said. "All his life he just wanted someone to want him for who he was."

Her heart filled a little. "I know."

"And you really fell for him. Blond smuggery and all."

"Eh, there was some other stuff."

"Please, California, my virgin ears," scoffed Theo, and once she managed a laugh, he seemed to have accomplished his mission, gesturing her to the door. "Shall we?"

She swept a glance around the room, sorting out who was left. "Let me just say goodnight to Narcissa," she said, frowning. "Have you seen her?"

Theo shook his head.

"Go ahead," Hermione said. "I'll just say goodnight and meet you and Daph outside."

"Yes, Your Highness," Theo said with a wink, turning away and leaving Hermione to wander in search of the Princess of Wales.

"Narcissa?" she called, peeking into the corridor. "Are you here?"

She heard a muffled reply from around the corner, following it to one of the palace's ornate bathrooms.

"Narcissa," she said with a frown, nudging the door slightly ajar. "May I come in? I just wanted to say goodn-"

She cut herself off as Narcissa's face appeared in the doorway, startling her half a step backwards.

"Is anyone with you?" Narcissa asked bluntly, peering over Hermione's shoulder.

"Hm? No," Hermione said, frowning. "I was just—"

"Good."

Narcissa shoved the bathroom door open, yanking Hermione inside so sharply she stumbled.

"Holy… shirt balls, Narcissa, I just wanted t-"

She broke off, pulse quickening, and looked down at what Narcissa had been concealing behind the door.

"Narcissa," she croaked, and blinked. "What," she attempted again, and stopped.

From the floor, a tied-up Rita Skeeter—whose arms were bound with rope, Hermione registered with alarm, something that would be extremely difficult to procure unless one had access to, say, an abduction kit—sat on the marble floor, propped unconscious against the bathroom sink.

"Motherboarding hellforks, what did you do?" Hermione gasped, but like usual, Narcissa appeared to have neither the time nor patience to deal with her concerns, instead giving Hermione a look as if she were the one acting crazy.

"Someone," Narcissa said, "had to do something. I saw her threatening you." She picked up a roll of tape, roughly apportioning herself a piece. "She destroyed my marriage, Hermione. She ruined my life. Now she's going to do the same to yours? To Draco's? No. No, I don't think so," she said neutrally, tearing at the tape with her teeth.

"But…" Hermione stared down at Rita, entirely unsure what to do. "Narcissa, you can't just—"

"You might want to call a car," Narcissa interrupted coolly, bending down to place the strip of tape over Rita Skeeter's red mouth.

"What? Why—"

"Because," Narcissa said, expressionless. "Rita and I are going to take a little drive."

Well, Rita, what do you think now?

You wanted to see how I handled a problem, and… surprise!

As you can see, I've got one.

a/n: Sorry for last week's delay, but we're off and running. Reminder that Death of a Con Man (nottpott, background dramione, Anastasia AU) is currently posting in Amortentia. See you next week!

42. Voice

Chapter 42: Voice

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Promise of the Future

As Hermione prepares to marry Prince Draco, I am quite sure we can all confess to curiosity about how her story will end. How did a girl from a small town in California rise to prominence as the future wife of the world's most celebrated monarchy, and what does the future hold in store for whatever she does next? I suspect only Hermione herself knows. The world can only watch, and wait, and wonder, as the grandest Royal Wedding in recent memory takes shape before our very eyes, beckoning us to witness the spectacle that marks the culmination of Draco and Hermione's fairytale romance for our times.

Coincidentally, I'm coming to the end of my actual story now, or at least the end of the parts I already know. Which is mildly terrifying, seeing as whatever happens next has a very strong possibility of being disastrous. Calamitous, even, and that's not a word I use lightly.

Though, I guess before I keep going, I should probably explain how I got here, first.

May 18, 2018
Buckingham Palace

"Narcissa," Hermione said, trying very hard not to panic as she glanced between the Princess of Wales and the unconscious journalist at her feet. "You can't be serious."

In reply, Narcissa gave her the look Pansy typically used when she was telling Hermione not to make thoughtless comments, or to stop biting her nails.

"Are you going to help," Narcissa replied, bending to heft Rita upright with a shoulder beneath one of her loosely-tied arms, "or are you just going to stand there gawking?"

Under the circumstances, she hoped standing there gawking was a genuine option. "I—"

Nothing. The only thing that came to mind was that there had to be something shy of kidnapping; surely some other option existed on the table, aside from being an accessory to a highly questionable and very real crime. "Look," Hermione managed, "I'm sure if we just get someone from Palace security in here, or if we tell Dr-"

"Why, so I can be locked up again? Brilliant suggestion, Hermione," Narcissa replied, coolly brushing a loose hair from her cheek. "And what do you suppose Abraxas will do when he hears I've abducted a high profile journalist, hm?"

In fairness, Hermione wasn't aware Narcissa had any knowledge of what she was doing, and was unsure whether it was good news to discover that she had. "I'm sure that he would, um. Well, he's—" Hermione flailed a little mid-stammer, watching Narcissa wait impatiently for her to arrive at the inevitable conclusion.

Regrettably, none of the outcomes she spun in her panic were ideal. Regardless of what happened next, even Hermione could see that Narcissa would not walk away from this unscathed.

"Look, you just… you can't just do this!" Hermione stammered, a last attempt at clinging to what remained of the sanity in the room, and Narcissa straightened long enough to give her a scrutinizing glance.

"I do not require your assistance," Narcissa informed her, unfazed. "I'll not see my son's life ruined, nor watch his heart be broken over anything this woman does. If that means I'm punished for it, so be it," she said, with a little shrug of haute couture. "But believe me, Miss Granger, I will not allow you to stand in my way before I've done something to ensure his happiness."

She returned her attention to Rita, struggling to lift her up from beneath her right arm, while Hermione's mind unwillingly projected the scenarios that would follow. Surely Narcissa would be caught, one way or another, and if that were the case, Rita would surely skewer all of them in the press. (Unless Narcissa's plan was murder, in which case… nope, not even Hermione's mind would go there without misfiring.) Even with the best case scenario of a royal cover-up—MAD PRINCESS OF WALES flashed briefly behind Hermione's eyes before she hastily dismissed it, assuming massive amounts of bribery and/or extortion would precede any such PR disaster—Abraxas would never permit Narcissa loose from the royal family's handlers again. As far as Hermione could predict, Narcissa would be censured, trapped in her marriage and kept away from her son like she'd always been, and Draco would be devastated.

Worse, how could Draco possibly argue with the consequences after finally learning his father had been right about Narcissa all along?

Hermione groaned aloud and rushed to take Rita's other side, helping Narcissa drag her unconsciously to her feet. "Do you have any sort of plan?" Hermione hissed, and Narcissa, who was either genuinely unsurprised by Hermione's acquiescence or perfectly trained not to show it, didn't even bother with a sidelong glance.

"Yes," she said. "I told you. We're calling a car."

To Hermione's astonishment, Narcissa began walking without any further instruction, Hermione hurrying to follow as she continued holding up Rita Skeeter's left side. Rita's head lolled counterclockwise and then fell forward, her hair sticking briefly to Hermione's lipstick as she struggled to make her way through the bathroom door in Narcissa's wake. Either fortunately or unfortunately—Hermione couldn't tell whether the spasms she suffered near her intestines were due to disappointment or relief—the anticipated uproar at seeing the Princess of Wales supporting a tied-up Rita Skeeter had no visible effect on the security guards, all of whom Narcissa strolled past without hesitation.

"Your Royal Highness," said one of the guards near the doors, bowing as she approached him. "Do you require any assistance?"

"A car," Narcissa said. "We're craving a bit of fresh air."

Hermione marveled that Narcissa could lie (or not lie? Was that the plan?) so successfully the guard didn't blink, not even bothering to glance at Rita or Hermione. "Shall I request a driver for you as well, Your Highness?"

"Just the car, thank you."

Hermione blinked, twisting under Rita's weight to clumsily face Narcissa as the guard disappeared, ostensibly keen to obey. "Are you planning to drive somewhere in particular, Narcissa?"

"Me? Of course not," Narcissa replied. "I don't know how."

"But—"

"You're going to drive," Narcissa clarified.

Somewhere in the back of Hermione's brain, the word 'accessory' upgraded to 'accomplice' in the midst of their rapidly escalating felony trial.

"But—"

"You're going to have to make up your mind, Hermione," Narcissa informed her with a sniff of disdain, striding forward as one of the valets pulled a car around. "Either you plan to help or you don't."

"Your Highness?" asked the valet, opening the town car's back door. "You requested a car?"

"Yes, thank you," Narcissa said, sending him away with a flick of her wrist. He scurried off, evidently blind to the fact that two people, one considerably less conscious than the other, were currently being held against their will. "Well?" Narcissa prompted, gesturing Hermione to the vacant backseat.

Hermione grimaced, and then sighed, lowering Rita in through the open door before nearly colliding with Narcissa upon retreat.

"Wrong side," Narcissa observed with disapproval, arching a brow. "Eight years living in the United Kingdom and you still don't know where to sit?"

Hermione bit her tongue on the variety of reasons this was an absolutely maddening thing to say. "I've never even driven on this side of the road before!"

"Well, you're a clever girl, aren't you?" Narcissa remarked snidely, opening the passenger side door and taking her seat with enviable grace. "You'll figure it out."

Hermione fought yet another groan, hurrying to the other side of the car and climbing in. She had removed her phone from her purse to text something—what, she had no idea—to Draco, or to her parents, or to… someone, when Narcissa reached over, removing the cell phone from Hermione's hand.

"Narcissa, I was just going t-"

Without a word, Narcissa disposed of the phone by tossing it with a surprisingly impressive arm from the passenger side window, rolling it back up and then directing Hermione's attention to the steering wheel.

"But," Hermione sputtered, "I just have to tell someone where we're g-"

"Drive," Narcissa said.

"But—"

Behind them, Rita gave a small snort from where she was facedown in the car's leather seats. At the sound of her muffled groan, Hermione jumped, startled.

"Is she waking u-"

"Drive," Narcissa repeated.

Hermione started the car without another moment's hesitation, determining that the time to turn back was already well in the rearview.

"Jamie's fast asleep," Harry said, bounding down the stairs of Grimmauld Place to the informal sitting room on the first floor, which he and Pansy typically used when they were alone. "How's it going down here?"

Pansy gestured from the sofa to her feet. Blaise was sprawled on his back with his head propped on one of the cushions, sipping gin through some sort of coiled straw.

"About as expected," she said, and immediately turned a dull shade of chartreuse. "If you'll excuse me," she informed Harry with a nauseated look of grandeur, exiting the room with her usual grace and departing to the nearest toilet.

"You know," Harry remarked aloud, falling into the sofa where she had been and addressing the intruder on his floor, "you might have seen this coming."

Blaise replied with a disenchanted slurping sound from his straw.

"You're right," Harry said. "No need to take points, I'll see myself out."

Blaise fluttered a hand dismissively in answer and Harry chuckled, rising to his feet and meandering through the corridors to find Pansy emerging, unsettled, from one of the smaller bathrooms.

"It is," she said with a little gag of repulsion, "so much worse this time."

Harry paused to observe her in the low light from the corridor, half-smiling to himself. Her hair had fallen from its dramatic chignon, tumbling in haphazard waves in front of her face. It was always much curlier when she was pregnant, which she despised, but Harry found it charming. She was sporting one of her lovely post-vomit afterglows, cheeks flushed with a bit of sweat clinging to her forehead, and she'd half-unzipped her gown, leaving it loose around her waist.

"You," he told her, "are so fucking beautiful."

She gave him an exhausted look. "Shut up, Henry."

Two strides had her in his arms. Funny how that was all it took; the woman was prickly by nature, self-proclaimed difficult to love, and yet a few steps here and there whenever he wanted would manage it every time. Life was cheeky that way, playing games with all of them as it wished. Gratifyingly, the irony that was their marriage did not escape him.

When had he actually fallen in love with her? Somewhere between always and a moment very like this one, if he thought about it long enough. She'd had less 'morning' sickness with Jamie, but it had been a similar sensation of seeing her undone that had first alerted him to the truth: that he wanted to see all of her, in all her glorious indecencies, forever.

She leaned against his shoulder, collapsing just a little in his arms from exhaustion and probable dehydration, and bizarre as it was, he reveled in it. No one but him was allowed to see her this way, and he had earned that. If fighting for her love had been more difficult, then it had been more rewarding, too. He'd watched her pretend all evening her feet weren't hurting in her Louboutins, that her breasts weren't swollen and her back didn't ache, knowing she'd come home to him; that once they were alone, he would peel away all her layers of pretension to reach the hidden sweetness at her core, coveting it like a secret. As if he hadn't loved her enough just for being the mother of his daughter.

"If you'd like," he said, stroking her wild hair, "I can be the one to stay up with Blaise."

"Don't be ridiculous." She mocked him with a scoff, as if she weren't the one with her custom evening gown gaping open, slunk halfway down her waist. "You're no help at all, Henry, it'll have to be me. And what if Draco needs you?"

He stifled a laugh. "For what?"

"I don't know," she said. She softened for a moment, reaching up to parse her fingers through his hair. "Go to bed," she told him. "We'll be fine. You get terrible shadows under your eyes when you sleep insufficiently," she added, "and given the pomp and circumstance tomorrow, I simply won't stand for it."

She stroked his cheek, looking fond for half a second, and then gave him a firm directive to the stairs.

"One thing before I go," he said, pausing her, and she made an irrepressible sound of annoyance.

"What, Hen-"

He picked her up by the waist, carrying her back into the bathroom, and sat her roughly on the lip of the sink, bunching the fabric of her gown and ducking beneath it.

"Henry," she sighed, squirming a little as her back must have hit the faucet behind her. "I hardly think this is—"

The rest was lost to a sigh, as he knew it would be. If there was one thing he enjoyed most about Pansy's pregnancies, it was how positively insatiable she became. He slid his tongue beneath her underwear and caught the sound of her gasp somewhere above his head.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "Once, and then you're going to bed."

He slid out from under her dress, pressing a kiss to her unsuspecting lips and smiling his usual smile of satisfaction.

"Sure," he replied insincerely, and resumed his patronage of her knickers, sliding them down her legs and resolving to make sure he disobeyed at least twice with his head securely fastened between them.

Of all the things in Hermione's mind as she drove, only one was particularly useful.

Should things go wrong, Miss Granger, I want your assurance you will come to me.

It was time to call Prince Lucifer on his bluff.

At that time of night, the drive to Malfoy Manor was about two hours; manageable enough, if not for Hermione's fear that Rita might wake. She gave a few snorts and huffs, drifting in and out of her coma-like sleep and terrifying Hermione each time, while Narcissa did little outside of staring out the window.

"There," Narcissa said at one point, indicating Hermione's exit. Hermione gratefully accepted, turning left and glancing at Narcissa, whose expression remained unchanged.

"You know where I'm going?"

"I've been trapped there for years," Narcissa replied tightly. "I should think I know how to find my cage."

Hermione, despite her best efforts, hardly knew how to respond to that.

"Where were you planning to take her before I arrived?" she asked, unsure if she really wanted to know. At the moment, it felt close enough to casual conversation.

Narcissa shrugged. "Doesn't matter where, does it? I suppose the Manor is as good a place as any."

"Did you have a plan, or…?"

"Aside from repaying her in kind? Not particularly." Narcissa stared out the window, gazing into darkness. "I suppose you think that's mad."

Hermione hesitated.

"Actually," she said, "I'd be lying if I didn't say I'd considered it myself."

Narcissa turned to her, half-smirking. "Oh?"

"Well, I thought about lighting her on fire," Hermione clarified, and then, realizing who she was talking to, hastily added, "which we should not do, just to be clear—"

"Witches don't burn," Narcissa said.

Hermione started to laugh, and then stopped herself.

Narcissa slid a glance at her, rolling her eyes.

"You're too high strung," she said.

Hermione didn't point out that was probably because there was a woman passed out in the backseat of a car she may or may not have stolen but either way, was definitely driving without a valid license or insurance.

"If you know where we're going, then I assume you know Lucif- Prince Lucius is going to be there," she said, deciding it was better to broach the subject now than to wait and see what happened when they arrived. "What are you going to do if he tells King Abraxas?"

In the following moments, Hermione observed two things. One was what Narcissa said aloud, which was, "I think it's fairly obvious he owes me enough to keep his mouth shut." A fairly straightforward answer, considering the source.

The other thing, however, was the look on Narcissa's face, which Hermione had recognized before and was finally able to place. It was the look she'd seen Narcissa give in private at least twice when she was looking at her husband; specifically, a look of longing, which was quickly obscured by something else, by nothing. Smoothed out and replaced, with only a moment's blemish to let Hermione believe something else had ever occupied it.

It occurred to Hermione that this might have been what Narcissa wanted all along: her husband's attention. Was it possible that this was all an elaborate cry for help?

Not that she had long to wonder.

Over the years, Hermione had learned to recognize the importance of symbolism in the British royal family. For example, she had learned that when Draco traveled, his presence at a royal residence was usually signified by his Royal Standard; a version of his father's with four quadrants, the most prominent of which featured a green snake on a silver field. Draco's also had a raven from the Black family crest, an homage to his mother. Lucius, as the heir to the throne, had a far grander Standard, with a Prince's coronet in the center. It was easily recognizable; even from afar, and even to Hermione.

And it was especially easy to see when it was absent.

They had scarcely pulled into the private road when Hermione noticed the Union Flag in place of the Prince of Wales' Standard, stomach twisting as she registered that Lucius was not, in fact, in residence.

"Maybe he just didn't want the press to know he wasn't in London for the wedding," Hermione hurried to say, turning to Narcissa, but it was already too late. A little glint of mania flashed from Narcissa's blue eyes, sparking to undeniable fury.

"Well, that was Helen and David," Daphne said, hanging up the phone and rejoining Theo in their bed, frowning to herself. "I guess Hermione told them she would call after dinner, but they haven't heard from her. I rang her myself, and nothing."

Theo's brow creased in thought. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," Daphne confirmed, and the thought gave her an inexplicable wave of panic. "You don't think—"

"No, I don't," Theo said, correctly assuming the trajectory her usual neuroses had taken. "Is everyone so sure she's already back at the Goring? We didn't see her leave the Palace."

"I suppose that's true," Daphne sighed, and then caught the expression on his face. "What?"

"Hm?"

"Nott," she warned under her breath. "You're making that face like you know something."

"Me?" he scoffed. "I've never known anything in my entire life, Greengrass. I thought for sure you'd be the first to attest to that."

"Nott," Daphne repeated, concerned, "if something's wrong—"

"What could be wrong that you could possibly fix?" he retorted, shrugging. "The woman has a village's worth of bodyguards."

"Who, Hermione?"

"No, I meant—well, yes," Theo said. "Doesn't she? Anyway, if it'll make you feel better, I'm sure we can inform Dobby or Winky, but I highly doubt there's anything you can do."

Daphne reached for her phone, sending a message to Winky. They had already been in almost constant contact over the past few weeks; what was one mysterious 'Hermione is missing' among the thousands of texts about the dress?

"Still," Daphne said when she was finished, reaching to set her phone back down, "I'm just not sure if I sh-"

Theo cut her off with a needy kiss; the grabby kind, with both hands in her hair, clinging to the sides of her face. Daphne, surprised, let the phone fall just shy of the nightstand, ignoring it when it clattered to the floor. From the bed near the fireplace, dog-Prince Lucius looked up briefly, then yawned, returning to the ball he'd curled into with a loud, melancholy sigh while Daphne returned Theo's kiss, breathless.

"What was that for?" Daphne asked when they parted, running her thumb over the bones of his cheek.

"Eh, nothing," he said. He'd twisted over her somehow, pressed up against her like they were the same pair of idiots they used to be, still desperate for each other after so many years in denial. "Just thought you needed to get out of your head a bit."

"Did I?" she asked dizzily, and he nodded.

"That," Theo said, "or perhaps the prospect of Draco's wedding is making me a bit emotional."

Daphne swept a glance over him where he was propped on his elbows above her, shirtless with one leg slipped between hers. "This is you being emotional?"

"Well, I was channeling it into something productive," he said, nipping haughtily at her jaw. "I suppose for a moment I envisioned a world where I didn't have you, and it made me a bit… disgruntled."

"It appears I should disgruntle you more often," Daphne said approvingly, letting him kiss her neck.

Theo paused, leaning away to look at her.

"Would you have done anything differently?" he asked. "Knowing how our story ends. Does that change anything?"

Daphne traced the shape of his dark brows with the tip of her finger, contemplating him.

"Feeling nostalgic, Nott?" she asked.

"Just curious, I suppose."

He kissed her finger, and she sighed.

"You know, I don't think you'll want to hear it," she admitted, "but I don't actually think I'd do anything differently. Even if it means having you sooner, I don't think so." She pressed the pad of her thumb into his cheek, affectionately molding him beneath her fingers. "I might not have learned to value you," she reminded him. "We might have dated and broken up, stumbled around, toxifying our dependence on each other. You needed Fleur, and I needed to be alone. We might have never figured out who we were apart before choosing each other."

She leaned forward to kiss his brows, his temples, the corner of his half-smiling mouth.

"I might have needed you more than I loved you," she murmured to his lips, "and I think that would have been a terrible mistake."

Theo tightened his arms around her. "So even though I always knew it was you," he said, loftily mocking her. "You'd still do everything the same, knowing how it ends?"

She rolled over him in the bed, letting her hair fall in a curtain around his face before she kissed him.

"Who says this is where it ends?" she said, straddling his hips and catching the sound of his indelible laughter on her tongue.

Hermione had scarcely finished tying a drowsily waking Rita to one of the Green Room's high-backed chairs before Narcissa was halfway through a glass bottle of transparent liquid, which Hermione was certain was not water. Narcissa stumbled, accidentally (or perhaps not) slapping Rita's cheek as some of the liquid sloshed onto Rita's dress.

"Good, you're up," Narcissa declared with half a laugh. Hermione, upon noticing that the Princess of Wales was not exactly her best self once she discovered Lucius' absence, had clearly been correct in her hasty warning to the house's staff to stay away, claiming Narcissa needed her rest.

The bottle fell from Narcissa's hand, shattering to the floor beside Rita's chair as she and Hermione both jumped, startled. Narcissa, however, merely laughed, picking up another glass bottle (dark liquid this time) and proceeding to fall backwards against the sofa. The liquid, probably whisky, spilled onto the emerald Edwardian sofa cushions, and after a moment's frown, Narcissa leaned over, pouring a shot's worth of alcohol into a spiral pattern on the rug. "There," she said triumphantly, raising the bottle back to her lips. "Always hated that rug."

"Narcissa," Hermione said, hoping nobody else in the house had heard the shattering of glass and stepping carefully over it. "Listen, we should really talk ab-"

"I bet he's fucking her right now," Narcissa said, a throaty-something that was too ominous to be a laugh escaping from her lips. "My sister, she's a… what's the word?"

She glanced expectantly at Hermione.

"Seductress?" Hermione guessed optimistically.

"Whore," Narcissa corrected with a grimace, pouring a little more of her whisky into the floorboards. "She always has been. That was her way to get Mother's approval, you know, being… popular. Easy to do, the way she did it," Narcissa said, and hiccuped, kicking off her shoes and rising to her bare feet as Hermione glanced at Rita, who was staring narrow-eyed around the room with confusion.

"You know," Hermione said, carefully steering Narcissa away from the broken glass on the floor, "maybe we should go somewhere else. To a different room, maybe—"

"No, let her hear it," Narcissa said, waving a hand to Rita and shrugging so wildly she nearly dropped the second bottle. "She almost had it right, you know. Did you know that?" she asked, directing the question at Rita. "You have it right, you awful witch. You're terrible," she accused, brandishing the bottle at Rita's face, "but you're not stupid. You're just… the worst."

She swayed slightly, and Hermione caught her arm.

"Narcissa, I don't think—"

"The truth is I knew," Narcissa said, collapsing in a heap on the floor and taking Hermione down with her. "I knew he loved her," she clarified, turning a bleary glance to Hermione. "I'm not stupid, you know. Rita and I," she said with another hiccup, "are not stupid."

Narcissa pointed to Rita, offering her the bottle. "Want?"

Rita made a muffled sound through the tape across her lips.

"Well, you can't have any," Narcissa said, changing her mind and sipping from the bottle herself before turning back to Hermione. "As I was saying," she continued, as Rita made another series of outraged sounds, "I knew h-" Another hiccup. "His father was never going to ap-" Hiccup, followed by a pause. Narcissa held her breath for several seconds, then exhaled. "His father was never going to approve of Bellatr-" Another hiccup, and then a loud, sweary shout of, "CUNTS."

She took a long sip from the bottle, shaking her head.

"Abraxas was never going to choose Bellatrix," Narcissa managed, turning her attention back to Hermione. "She was… you know what she liked? She had sex, is what she liked. Sex." Another hiccup. "Loads of it."

"Narcissa," Hermione said, growing a bit concerned that Rita was clearly listening. "Are you sure you want t-"

"I was a bloody virgin," Narcissa continued, ignoring her. "Regret that more than anything, really. I thought, men like virgins, right? Easy. But… no. Nope." She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "Whatever tricks Bella had, he wanted them. He still wanted them. Wants them." Abruptly, she stopped, her eyes filling with tears. "Don't listen to them," she said, turning to Hermione again and blinking them back. "It doesn't matter if you look right, look the part. Doesn't matter what you look like at all." She shook her head, returning the bottle to her lips. "If he doesn't want you, you can't change his mind."

Hermione winced. "Narcissa—"

"They're mostly gay, you know. My alleged adultery accomplices," she said in a mocking tone to Rita, who had probably coined the term. "They're gay. Don't print that," she added with a jab of her finger, pursing her lips. "Or do," she sniffed, "seeing as their horrible wives know anyway. Do you know how many times I tried to sleep with someone who wasn't Lucius?" she scoffed tangentially, turning back to Hermione. "I may have managed it a couple of times, but it doesn't matter, they don't taste like him." She shook her head, raising the bottle back to her lips. "None of them taste like him."

She sobered for a moment. Not literally, but just enough for Hermione to think she could gently remove the bottle from her hand.

Not so. Narcissa slapped Hermione's knuckles, giving her a warning look.

"I caught him in bed with her," Narcissa growled, yanking the bottle close to her chest. "I saw him with her, and somehow, I still don't know whether I hate him or want him. I just want to be away from him," she snapped, incensed all over again. "Maybe if I get away, he'll stop—" She broke off, swallowing, and glanced down at the bottle. "Disappointing me," she finished, her voice small and thin.

"Narcissa." Hermione slid closer, watching Narcissa flinch away. "I just… I think we should put this away," she said, reaching for the bottle, "and if you want to talk, I'm happy to list-"

Narcissa cut her off, rising to her feet and stumbling forward, the bottle raised to her lips again as she wandered over to the window; the same window, Hermione realized, where she had been watching Draco during the birthday party where they'd first met.

Hermione winced, watching her go, and accidentally met Rita's eye as her attention shifted.

To her dismay, even beneath the tape, she could see that Rita Skeeter was smiling.

It was with a mix of feelings that Draco wandered through Clarence House toward his rooms, striding past his father's empty office after parting with his grandfather. He lamented not seeing Hermione off, or better yet, changing his mind entirely and suggesting she scrap the silly concept of a premarital night alone. Unfortunately, she'd made it clear they ought to do one thing traditionally, if only because it was logistically simpler. He smiled to himself at the thought of something so quintessentially her, then felt a little unexpected burst of sadness, or possibly nostalgia. He paused in the corridor and glanced around the house where, tomorrow, he would no longer live, and probably no longer be welcome.

A little tightness filled his throat and Draco leaned his head against the wall, contemplating better things. Brighter things. Like Hermione in a wedding dress, taking his hand, the two of them finally a team. In private, his grandfather had hinted that evening at the gifts he would save for tomorrow; a new title, a new house. True, there would also be a new batch of international tours to politicize the marriage and use the positive press to their advantage, but that was a small cost, little more than minutiae. Draco thought of all the nights he'd spent alone, the countless hands he'd shaken while waiting for his mobile phone to buzz in his pocket with a message from her. He thought of the times he'd almost lost her and considered replacing them, rewinding the sequence of events and recording over them with memories of her laugh, the smell of her hair, the way she felt beside him in bed, but at the last second, he opted not to. Better that he never forgot the way life had dulled without her. It was one way to secure himself in the knowledge he'd never take her for granted again.

He slid his phone from his pocket, checking to see if she'd replied to his message wishing her goodnight. She hadn't, but that didn't mean much. She was busy, most likely, having agreed to spend the rest of the evening with David and Helen. He hardly needed to intrude on that.

He did, however, have a message from Dobby. Miss Granger has not yet left the Palace, it said, and Draco frowned, about to send a questioning reply when he heard a small, throat-clearing cough.

He looked up to find his father standing in the corridor, wearing his usual travel suit. A man beholden to the dominance of habit, the Prince of Wales. Always highly predictable until he wasn't.

"You'll have to forgive me my tardiness," Lucius said. "I'm afraid it took longer than I had hoped to come to my senses."

Draco pushed himself upright from the wall, facing his father, and contemplated what to say.

When nothing arrived, Lucius spoke for him.

"You have to understand," Lucius said, approaching Draco with one hand in the pocket of his tweed blazer, "I worry about you."

"Father," Draco sighed, disappointed already. "If this is about Herm-"

"No, no, it isn't," Lucius said, cutting him off with a shake of his head. "For once, Draco, this is about you and me. About me," he corrected himself, adding a small grimace. "I admit that I haven't always been a role model for you, and not everything I've done has been… easily explained."

Draco waited, sliding his phone back into his pocket and saying nothing. It was a tacit indication that he was listening, which was all he felt his father really deserved at the moment.

"I love your mother," Lucius said, and when Draco reflexively opened his mouth to argue, Lucius cut him off with, "Listen to me, please. I have loved her irresponsibly, carelessly. Cruelly, at times. Condemn my actions if you wish, but don't belittle my truths," he cautioned, and when Draco conceded to listen, Lucius' mouth set itself in a grim line. "I love her, and I loved Bellatrix. I wanted badly for Bellatrix to have loved me—though, if she did, then perhaps that's where my deficiencies take root. I was young when I met her," he reminded Draco. "Young, enraptured, careless. I was astounded by her, by her intelligence, and by the way she was my opposite—so defiantly in rebellion, refusing to be contained."

He paused, grey eyes meeting Draco's, and said, "But if I learned anything about love, real love, then it was from your mother. Because she did it unselfishly. She loved me when I didn't deserve it. She did everything I asked of her, rose above all my expectations for her, and when she needed me, I didn't listen." He swallowed, briefly tormented. "I have betrayed her a thousand times, a thousand ways, and there is no apology I can make that will heal the wrong I've done; but I've always thought the least I could do for her was to protect the thing she loves most—you."

Draco blinked, surprised.

"I thought Hermione would be like Bellatrix," Lucius explained. "Impossible to please, always forcing you to turn your back on what you love, relentlessly challenging you until you become some other, more twisted version of yourself. The version of yourself who harms those around you." A deep breath, and then, "But I should have known that your story and mine were not the same. Your life is not mine to rule, nor your choices mine to make. Hermione has all of Bellatrix's fierceness with the ardor of your mother's loyalty, and even if she did not—"

Lucius broke off, reaching out to place a hand on Draco's shoulder.

"Even if she did not," he said, his voice softening more than Draco could remember having heard it, "I have a son who is steadfast and determined, honorable and brave. If I have asked too much of you, it is only for knowing I have a son who makes a far better man than his father—which is something I have tried so desperately and failed to be. Whatever Hermione really is, and however she chooses to love you," Lucius finished, "it makes no difference. She is your choice, and that is all I need to know. I would be a fool not to trust your judgment."

Draco bent his head, bringing one hand to his mouth in silent contemplation.

They were politicians, but still. It was rare they spoke things so effectively to one another.

"You missed dinner," Draco managed to say, voice breaking, and felt the low vibration of his father's laugh.

"I know, and I do apologize. Traffic entering the city was a nightmare."

Draco nodded, still eyeing his shoes.

After a moment, Lucius cleared his throat again, addressing the silence.

"You should sleep," Lucius advised. "Tomorrow will be a long day."

It was Draco's turn to speak again, he knew, but he couldn't quite conjure anything to say.

"There will be plenty of time for us to talk tomorrow," Lucius said, answering for him. "And if not then, then the day after, or some time after that. I will not be going anywhere."

Draco lifted his eyes gratefully, nodding in reply, and Lucius' hand tightened on his shoulder.

"Sleep well, Draco."

"Goodnight, Father," he replied, resting a hand briefly over Lucius' knuckles, and then he pivoted away, the house suddenly filling with warmth as he went.

"Do you remember what I told you?" Narcissa asked Hermione. She was lounging half-upside down in one of the armchairs, leisurely eyeing the ceiling with one eye closed. "When we met, and you were telling me about that article you planned to write?"

Hermione glanced at Rita, who appeared to be mentally jotting everything down.

"Yes," Hermione admitted, and she did. You can't have a voice, you foolish girl, and certainly not a critical one. You can only have the voice they give you, and believe me, silence would be just as good. "I remember." She scarcely, if ever, forgot.

"Good," Narcissa said, suddenly struggling to lift her head from the chair. "They'll break you eventually, you know. Oh, she'll make it worse," she added, glaring blearily at Rita, "but the thing you'll hate most is you'll always find a reason to let them do it. For me it was jewels, gowns, prestige—the prospect of my mother finally having to admit I was better than her favorite," Narcissa spat, venomously splashing more liquid onto her dress. "For you it's Draco, and possibly you find that noble," she judged with a scoff, "but it doesn't really matter what it is, does it? Love anything in excess and it will corrupt you eventually."

Narcissa rose to her feet, meandering around the perimeter of the room with clumsy, barefoot steps that looked, from afar, like an exotic, troubling dance.

Hermione, noticing that Rita's look of devilish enjoyment had only intensified, crept forward, peeling the tape from her mouth.

"Well," Rita said, wincing as the adhesive pulled free before returning to her prior amusement, "this is… enlightening, to say the least."

Hermione hushed her, glancing over her shoulder to be sure Narcissa wasn't paying attention before giving Rita the most threatening glance she could manage. "What will it take to shut you up?"

"Oh, my dear," Rita said with a darkened laugh, "we are so beyond bribery at this point. You think I can be paid to be silent after this?" she demanded, gesturing to where her arms and legs had been bound. "The Princess of Wales lured me into captivity, restrained me, kidnapped me—and then, with the help of her future daughter-in-law, attempted to silence me, as if there were possibly a price high enough after everything I just heard? You absolute fucking fool," Rita snapped, her true colors finally revealing themselves within the depths of the too-long night. "I will destroy you. I'll destroy this whole family. I'll start by making sure your wedding never takes place, and th-"

Hermione quickly shoved the tape back over Rita's mouth, rising to her feet with a grimace. That was about what she expected, and she paced for a moment in distress before remembering one of the Manor's most antiquated features.

The prehistoric landline, which was carefully framed by Georgian architecture on the wall.

Hermione checked that Narcissa was still distracted—she was, having begun to play a surprisingly lovely melody on the piano—before darting over to the phone, dialing the first number she could recall (a miracle in itself; thank god for Flint and his zealous abduction training).

Two rings, three. Hermione kicked herself as she glanced at the clock. Surely at this hour no one would be aw-

"Hello?"

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Pans, listen, I—"

"Hermione. Listen to me carefully," came Pansy's measured voice. "You are not, under any circumstances, to interrupt my sleeping patterns, nor are you t-"

"I need something," Hermione interrupted. "Can you help me?"

"I feel as if I'm not being clear, which is of course preposterous. What could you possibly need at this hour?"

"Oh, just a favor," Hermione said weakly. "But it'll have to be you."

"Hermione, may I remind you that for one more night, you do not outrank me, and while I applaud your instincts I must nevertheless ins-"

"Narcissa kidnapped Rita Skeeter," Hermione said, deciding expediency was her most practical option. "I'm at Malfoy Manor and she's spilling all her secrets, and Rita's threatening to destroy both of us and the entire royal family the moment we let her go."

There was a long, silent pause.

"Well," Pansy sighed. "You might have said so to begin with."

"Help me," Hermione hissed, as Narcissa banged loudly on the piano's keys, startling Rita so abruptly she nearly toppled to the side where she was bound in her chair. "I came here to find Prince Lucifer, but he's not here."

"He's not? Where on earth is he?"

"I don't know, but I need you to find him and bring him," Hermione pleaded desperately. "I think at this point he's the only one who can calm Narcissa down."

Pansy considered it. "That's either a terrible lapse of judgment on your part or a very correct assertion," she murmured to herself, not bothering to confirm where her suspicions fell. "What did Draco say?"

Hermione hesitated. "I… haven't told him."

Another dull pause.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I called you first, Pans!"

"What," Pansy exhaled, "could possibl-"

"This is his mother we're talking about," Hermione reminded her, pained. "Even if he could help, I don't want him to see her like this. I—" She broke off, glancing again at Narcissa, who had abandoned the piano in favor of taunting Rita, offering her the bottle of alcohol and then snatching it away with a laugh. "I just can't," she slid between her teeth, and Pansy sighed.

"Well, even if I do handle this for you, I'll still have to say something to Draco," she warned. "I'm going to have to get in touch with him, Hermione, and that's non-negotiable."

"Just—" Hermione considered it, dizzied by the prospect of how to condense all of this into a single message. "Tell him… tell him I'll see him tomorrow. No," she amended, observing as Narcissa began plucking books from the decorative bookshelf and tossing them over her shoulder, "just send him this, verbatim: Odysseus, I'll be there when you arrive."

She could practically hear Pansy frowning through the phone. "Is that an Abba lyric?"

"Pans!"

"Right, yes, fine. Though, one thing," she said, and Hermione winced, recognizing the sound of Pansy's forthcoming instruction, which was a tone that typically did not leave room for argument. "You need to leave."

"What?" Hermione demanded. "I can't just—"

"If you want to marry Draco tomorrow, you need to go," Pansy said firmly. "Whatever happens next will be a scandal, Hermione, and you'll need to get as far away from it as possible."

"But—"

"Go back to the Goring. I'll send my own staff to sneak you in if that's what it takes, but you have to leave, and you have to go now," Pansy repeated. "I will take care of the situation myself when I arrive. Do you understand?"

The prospect of relinquishing control was never Hermione's favorite thing. "Pans, I really don't think—"

"In eight years, have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?" Pansy interrupted.

"I—" Hermione grimaced, chewing her lip. "No."

"Have I ever let you down?"

"No."

"And have I ever given you any indication that anyone else's happiness is more important to me than yours and Draco's?"

Hermione wanted terribly to argue, but conceded, "No."

"Then go," Pansy said. "I'll be there soon."

Then she hung up, leaving Hermione to watch Narcissa collapse onto the emerald green sofa. Her perfectly manicured fingertips grazed the whisky-soaked carpet as she hummed out a girlish sigh of exhaustion, finally falling asleep.

"Where are you going?" Blaise asked groggily, lifting his head from the toilet. Pansy, who had been doubled-over above the sink when she answered Hermione's call, turned to give him a bleary look of displeasure.

"You're not going to remember that this happened, are you?" she asked him, struggling not to sink back to the floor. "I will literally have you beheaded if you tell anyone what you saw from me tonight."

Blaise shrugged. "I will almost certainly remember nothing beyond dinner," he informed her with a salute. "Twenty points to my memory for being a conveniently flighty hound."

"You," Pansy reminded him gruffly, "are going to have to deal with this mess eventually."

"Which mess?" Blaise asked, retching quietly in a way that prompted Pansy to gag, fumbling with the screen of her phone to reach Harry's contacts at the Palace. "The time I fucked up my life and the lives of everyone around me, or the time I was briefly convinced I could successfully wear salmon? Be specific."

His Royal Highness arrived at Clarence House late this evening, came the reply, and Pansy gave a brief sigh of relief, returning her attention to Blaise.

"You messed up," she informed him. "Get your house in order, Zabini."

He lifted his head, squinting at her. The bottle of gin beside him was long empty.

"How, exactly?"

"I have no idea," she assured him, and he nodded.

"Twenty thousand points," he told her.

"For what?"

"Existing," he replied.

"Marvelous," she said, holding up her phone. "Say it again?"

"I think," Blaise mused, "maybe it would be best if I just married Hortense. Or," he amended spiritedly, "alternatively, if I simply flung myself into the sun."

"Not that," Pansy said. "The bit about points."

"Hm? Oh yes," Blaise said. "Twenty thousand points."

"To whom?"

"To the Duchess of Grimmauld," he declared, lifting his empty bottle and toasting her before letting it collide with his teeth, "for pure panache."

"Wonderful," Pansy said, hitting stop on the recording and placing the phone back in the pocket of what she regretfully acknowledged were trousers designed for leisure. Hatefully, Hermione had invaded her life in more ways than one. "I'll be back tomorrow at some point. Tell Henry to plait Jamie's hair in the morning," she added, "so it's not a hopeless mess before she arrives at the Abbey."

"Henry?" Blaise echoed. "He braids?"

"Yes," Pansy said. "He has very deft fingers. Excellent fine motor skills."

"I knew it," said Blaise, approving.

"Yes," Pansy agreed, turning to leave.

"Thirty thousand points to Prince Harry," Blaise called after her, and Pansy paused.

"That doesn't count," she said, "does it?"

"Hm?" Blaise said, slowly melting until he lay face down on the floor.

She considered it, then shrugged, heading quickly out the door and making a call as she hurried to Clarence House.

To her relief, Lucius was already waiting for her when she arrived. "How bad is i-"

He broke off, frowning.

"I've never seen you like this," he remarked, pausing (regrettably) to observe her recreational hippie-trousers and the sweater Daphne had forgotten once in her room about nine years ago, the victim of a particularly noteworthy tryst.

"You look… ill," Lucius added suspiciously, and Pansy sighed.

"Yes, I know, I'm feeling a bit under the w-"

"You're pregnant," Lucius guessed, sounding unexpectedly pleased with his detective work, and before Pansy could argue, he said, "It's unmistakable. Narcissa looked precisely the same way when she was carrying Draco," he remarked, shaking his head with something that might have been nostalgia as he beckoned her to the car. "Speaking of my wife, have you heard anything new?"

Pansy blinked, a little trapped in one of her wandering thoughts, and then rushed to follow in his wake.

"No, Sir," she said. "Only that she and Rita are at Malfoy Manor."

Lucius nodded grimly, opening the passenger door. "We'd better go alone, then," he said, dismissing his valet and ushering her inside. "Thank you for coming to me," he added.

"It was Hermione's request," Pansy said, but could hardly focus. She pulled out her phone, selecting Harry's name and struggling to type amid her demonically racing thoughts.

Don't worry about me if you wake up and I'm not there, she said. Just taking care of something for Hermione. I'll explain in the morning.

She paused, thinking for a moment as Lucius started the car.

Henry, I think it's a boy.

I suppose that's foolish of me to say, she amended, heart fluttering, but even so, I think we're having a boy.

Then, conclusively,

I love you.

Then she tucked her phone in her pocket, painting on a mask of emotionless calm as Lucius fixed his attention on the road before him.

The sky was already beginning to lighten by the time Hermione set out from the Manor, making her way back to London. So much for a good night's sleep, she thought grimly, stifling a yawn as she pulled out of the private road and back into time and civilization. She doubted she would need help staying awake for the rest of the drive; adrenaline or something like it—stress, probably—coursed through her limbs, buzzing alongside her pulse.

Could everything she had built over the last near-decade really fall apart in a single night?

After about an hour of driving, the sun slowly peeking up over the rolling hills of the English countryside, the subtle vibration of fear started to fade from Hermione's thoughts, just enough for other things to process. There was only so long she could replay the worst case scenarios in her mind; instead, the silence began to appeal to her, and unlikely as it was, her mind treated her to the first real moments of peace she'd had in weeks, possibly months.

Maybe even years.

Hermione realized it was the first time she had been alone—truly alone, rather than caught in a place of temporary seclusion between comings and goings—in ages, and it occurred to her with a little tingle of surprise that it was also, perhaps, the last time she would be alone for quite a while. Was it luxury, the peace that came with solitude? Were moments like this, which were impossible in the life she'd chosen, the real reward for human existence?

It popped into her head that she could take this car anywhere she wanted. It didn't have to be London, or the Goring, or Westminster Abbey or Buckingham Palace or anywhere else under the watch of the London Eye. Once she arrived back where she'd been, the future was out of her hands. Marriage or no marriage, it would belong to someone else once she returned. From now until forever, it would always be someone else's job to tell her story.

The thought deflated her, depressed her. The idea of disappearing became enormously appealing, even tantalizing. She could rent a tiny flat in Rome instead, learning to make pasta and spending her days looking at art. She could adventure in the Amazon, getting lost in the canopy of trees. Okay, so practically speaking she could no longer expect to return to true anonymity, but there were still a million versions of her life that were less cinematic, less accursedly grand than the one she was in. She could do a better job of teaching literature than Horace Slughorn, couldn't she? She could certainly write a more worthy book than Gilderoy Lockhart. She could reinvent herself whenever she liked, as often as she wished to, if she made any other choice but the one she was choosing. She could leave the mania of the Prince and Princess of Wales behind her and slip into obscurity, living a pleasantly boring life as a village witch deep in the woods.

Inevitably, Draco crept back into her thoughts in flashes, little sunspots of memory. She saw him sprawled out with her on the Nott Manor lawn, pulling her in for a kiss. In his Batman mask, dancing for the first time in his life like he had nowhere to be and no one to please. In his most princely suit, facing a nation who respected him, supported him, revered him. She saw him in the future, in his grandfather's insignia while wearing his grandfather's crown, and thought of the song God Save the King, knowing that for him, she would gladly sing every word of it until the air in her lungs gave out.

By the time she reached the outskirts of London, she felt a mix of sadness and exuberance; some sensation that was part melancholy, part joy, all of it still shivering beneath a looming blanket of dread. She was leaving the past behind her, moving forward. What that would be, she had no idea. She was beginning to surrender, however unhappily, to the idea that she might never know. It was a strange thing, faith. Incalculable and unpredictable and probably doomed to destroy her marriage (via Rita Skeeter, anyway), so was it really still worth doing? Worth believing? Even if it meant she'd never have another moment like this one, driving alone into the city that had just begun to open its tired eyes?

Hermione gave herself a few lurid beats of time to indulge her own hesitancy, her teetering of mistrust in her future, thinking that surely there was something she could do to uncloud her mind, or un-obscure her judgment. Even if she deserved nothing else for her mistakes, she wanted to possess a moment she didn't need to share with anyone; a brief period of wondering if maybe everything she'd done and felt had led, in some way, to something she could try to believe in.

She pulled into the Goring's private entrance and stepped out of the car, taking a long, deep breath of uncertainty and inviting it, whatever came next, to ravage her or redeem her, whatever it chose to do, so long as she could have this one moment of absolute, uncontested truth.

Maybe there was something she could do to make it last.

Blaise woke to a little nudge from someone's foot, opening his eyes to find that the room, whatever room it was that was not his bedroom, was spinning.

"Oi," Harry said, holding baby Jamie in his arms. "What's this?"

"What's this," echoed Jamie, who had her head tilted in a perfect imitation of her father. She wore a meticulous crown of plaits above her disapproving expression, and she looked, for a very unsettling moment, exactly like Pansy.

Blaise struggled to sit up, and then rapidly abandoned the effort.

"I need a minute," Blaise managed, trying to draw moisture to his mouth, and Harry shrugged.

"Breakfast in fifteen," he advised, turning to Jamie. "What shall we make for Uncle Blaise, sweetheart?"

"Ice cream," she said, and then, after another moment's contemplation, "Tacos."

"Good idea," Harry trumpeted with approval, stepping over Blaise's leg and heading into the corridor as Blaise called out something in incoherent gratitude—"Points," he managed, waving his hand ambiguously—and fished around beside him, looking for his phone.

He took hold of it and propped it up, checking the time overhead. It was nearly seven, though it felt far more ungodly an hour than that, and he slid open the screen, checking the damage.

There were fourteen calls to Tracey, no surprise there. He was pleased to note he hadn't appeared to have left any voicemails, and she clearly hadn't rung back. He sighed with relief, opening his messages, and then bolted upright at the sight of the one he'd sent, suffering the immediate retribution of a loud, ear-ringing wave of nausea.

need to talk it's impRtant you bloody ducking bastard fcuk fCk ducking shut i love you i hate y

Below his incoherent message, much to his dismay, was a response.

Meet you at the usual pub in Diagon. Eight o'clock.

Blaise swore aloud, pressing his fingertips to his throbbing temples.

By the way, Neville had said, concluding sometime around two in the morning, if you decide to bail, it doesn't matter, I'll come to you. I'm done with running.

You're right, Blaise. It's been long enough.

I guess this brings me… pretty much to the present. I mean sure, as we speak, I am definitely waiting to hear from Pansy about Rita and Narcissa, and if I'm being honest, then yes, I have spent the last couple of hours hiding from everyone and ignoring the calls to my room while scribbling furiously to get this whole story out. I think Daphne was right about journaling, in the end. Sure, I'm writing to no one and therefore the 'you' I'm addressing isn't actually real (and, as far as I know, you're not going to come to life and possess me), but at least I got it out of my system. At least now that I've laid everything out, I can finally understand how I got here. Maybe I can finally appreciate how far I've come.

Even if it's all about to burn to the ground, metaphorically speaking.

I'll admit, when I started writing this I was full of doom and gloom, sitting in my wedding dress like some kind of frizzy Miss Havisham and lamenting the possible loss of my future. Now that I've worked through everything, though, it's starting to look a little bit clearer. True, I have no forking idea if this wedding is even going to take place, and yes, I'm scared, and sure, I have no clue what's coming—but hey, isn't this book proof I've already been through worse?

I once thought I'd lost the love of my life only to find him again; to rebuild our past into something better, stronger, truer. How many times did I question myself or fight with my best friends—and how many times did I believe a chapter of my life was over?—only to turn the page to something new and different, more determined than before? Maybe there's no such thing as having the perfect life, or the most complete one, or even the right one. Maybe the real question is how you put yourself back together when everything falls apart. If today everything collapses, will I be able to stand again? If I walk out of this room, out of this hotel, if I face down a monarchy while Rita Skeeter destroys my good name, if my life as I know it ceases to exist, if I have no choice but to start over—can I do it? Will I be able to persevere? Am I that resilient?

If there is one thing that finally writing all of this down has taught me, it's that getting to be who I am now—a person that so many strangers will be quick to judge or scrutinize or envy—it hasn't been the result of perfect choices. It was a whole bunch of falling downs and getting back ups and climbing and reaching and plummeting and learning to stand on my own two feet. Failing, in big ways and small ones, all so that one day, I would remember how it felt to rise up.

If I've learned anything from this, it's that there are gaps in life. There are times when there won't be enough… enough you, to sustain the things you thought you wanted. But there's also no way to try to fill those gaps as desperately as you feel you need to; at least, not without driving yourself crazy in the meantime. So I will feel weak again, I know, many times. But at the end of it, I will still be here.

In the end, my voice will still be mine to choose.

I am resilient; I know that now. If whatever happens next calls for the upper limits of my strength, then so be it. I've been through enough to know that whatever happens, I won't be alone, and for that I will come back stronger than before. When I open that door, whatever waits for me on the other side will not be too big for me to handle. It might be terrible; it might feel like the end of the world while I'm in it, and almost no matter the outcome, I understand that it's probably going to hurt. But it will not be bigger than me.

So, that's it, then, I guess. Time to set the pen down, at least for now, and start to move forward. It may not be particularly beautiful or especially wise—and it's certainly not, as Rita Skeeter claims, a fairy tale—but it is wholly, unequivocally mine. This is my life, my story, and it's all true, even if it isn't perfect.

This is the commoner's guide to bedding a royal, and for better or worse, it will always be my favorite book.

a/n: I am so sorry, but I have one more extended trip this summer (back to Iowa, where I had BETTER NOT get stuck in another snowstorm or so help me I will riot) and, rather than tease you with the false hope that I might manage to get my shit together under severe time constraints, I'm going to have to skip the week. I will be back with the rest of Hermione's story on June 18. Once again, I cannot thank you enough for reading.

43. Ascend

Chapter 43: Ascend

"Greengrass, you're going to have to—"

Theo wisely broke off before advising his wife to calm down, recognizing that particular choice of words had not served him well in the past.

"Daphne," he amended, catching her arm, "I'm sure Cali's fine."

Unsurprisingly, Daphne rounded on him in frustration, eyes wide with the unholy look of vehemence she so thoughtfully reserved for him.

"Have you lost your mind?" she demanded. "Harry's just told us Pansy's run off to Malfoy Manor!"

"Yes," Theo sighed, having been present for the entirety of the phone call along with this, its subsequent hysteria. "And…?"

"And," Daphne supplied in what he suspected was a rather unflattering imitation of him, "nobody's heard from Hermione since last night!"

"Well, Pansy must have heard from her, don't you think?"

"Yes, which is worse! If she's called Pansy, then that means—"

"It's probably dire, yes," Theo conceded with a sigh. "Point taken, but still—"

He broke off as his own mobile phone began to ring in his pocket. "You see? There's Draco now," he said, hitting answer. "Now, listen," he assured Daphne, who still looked radiantly fretful, "I'm sure she's just at the Goring, so let's all just stay c-"

"Nott," Draco said, sounding impossibly dire. "Something happened with Hermione and my mother last night."

Theo, who had observed Hermione staying behind at the Palace for Narcissa-related purposes, had already come to that conclusion. "Marvelous. Anything else?"

"My father showed up last night too, only to turn around and go back to Malfoy Manor early this morning. Apparently my mother's there."

A bit weirder, but still. "And?"

"Well, he's… he's just told me something very, well." Draco cleared his throat. "I probably shouldn't discuss it now. In any case," he said, amending his Tone of Distress to his Prince Voice, "I'm afraid I'm going to need to trouble you for a cocktail."

"You can't possibly want a cocktail at this hour," Theo said, scoffing. "With the amount of eyes on the Goring?"

"What's he saying?" Daphne hissed, jabbing Theo in the ribs. "What is it?"

"Just one second," he told her, watching her glorious scowl turn murderous and knowing he would pay for that dismissal later. "Draco, truly," Theo muttered, returning his attention to his mobile phone, "I can't even begin to explain how difficult a task this will be."

"I know," Draco said, sounding very firm and thus, like someone who did not, in fact, know how difficult a task it would be.

"You're supposed to be getting married in a matter of hours, in case you've forgotten."

"Yes, Nott, I'm aware. But I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

Damn it all, he really wouldn't. Theo chewed lightly at the side of his thumb nail, considering their alternate options.

"You're sure a message won't suffice?"

"Theo." Draco had said it in his most luxuriantly intimate timbre; something of a reflect on our friendship in silence, Theodore, lest I be forced to do something foolish such as confessing my burdensome affections to you aloud, like animals. "I take care not to inconvenience you too often or too painfully, but I'm afraid this is a matter of utmost sensitivity. I would not come to anyone else."

Balls.

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well, you know who we need, then, don't you? The prince of strategy and flagrant noise-making, as it were."

"That's the thing," Draco said. "I can't get seem to get ahold of him."

Neville was relatively unmissable. It was, after all, much too early for anyone else to be in a pub, particularly on the morning Prince Draco of Wales was set to marry Hermione Granger.

"I imagine it doesn't require my saying so that I have places to be," Blaise grunted in pseudo-greeting, nudging his sunglasses up on his face to massage the aching channels of his eyeballs before letting the lenses collapse back down, askew. "You have fifteen minutes."

Neville, fuck it all, looked more than good. He'd recently had a haircut and a shave and smelled like whisky and orchids. No, Blaise reminded himself, the whisky was him. It was currently emanating from his pores. The orchids, then, could have been anything.

"Coffee?" Neville asked, sliding it across the table to him. Like always, Neville's hands were distracting, his nails as cleanly manicured as Pansy's. Little crescent moons of meticulous care, agonizing perfection. Outrageous.

"Yes, fine," Blaise replied, raising the coffee to his lips and eyeing Neville from across the table, glancing beneath the rim of his glasses and over the lip of his mug. "So, you wanted to talk?"

"You're hungover," Neville observed, neither amused nor unamused.

"Yes." The coffee turned ashy in his mouth. "Tracey broke things off last night."

"Ah." Neville at least had the decency to pause, permitting the statement to settle. "Well, I admit," he said, leaning his head back against the booth, "I had my guesses."

If it wouldn't have pained him greatly to do so in his weakened corporeal state, Blaise might have gotten angry about that particular remark. About what in particular, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was Neville's knowing tone. Possibly it was the fact that Neville was calm while Blaise so brutally wasn't. Maybe it was the notion that Neville's mouth was precisely the shape Blaise remembered and fucking bollocks it all—great, heaving, trollopy cock it all—he still wanted him. In the span of a single night he had loved and lost and, heavens almighty, he'd drunk his weight in remorse; but still, even with the haze of alcohol and the heartache that was entirely his doing, Blaise still wanted to leap across this table and taste the man who'd caused it all, just to see if that mouth had ever been as worthy as he remembered.

Lacking the energy to indulge either his rage or his inadvisable impulses, Blaise simply waved a hand, indicating in as dismissive a manner as he could conjure that Neville should cease wasting both their time and, for fuck's sake, speak.

Neville seemed unsurprised. "I imagine you've heard that Gran and I had something of a falling out."

Blaise forced down a swallow of black coffee, staring at the porcelain of his cup and wishing he'd ever learned to prefer it this way.

"The phrase 'too little, too late' comes to mind, I'm sure," Neville continued. "I know how much you loathe my fondness for idioms; too common for you, but still, it bears mentioning."

"Then what do you want?" Blaise muttered. He couldn't quite decide who retained the right to be angrier between them, but seeing as he could claim no moral high ground with Tracey, he was stubbornly taking advantage now.

"You," Neville said.

He took the cup from Blaise's hand, depositing a lump of brown sugar and stirring it in, clockwise and then counterclockwise. "However," he remarked to Blaise's infuriated silence, "I recognize that we, as a unit, are somewhat… destructive."

He set the spoon down, glancing up.

"I am available," Neville said, shrugging. "There is no longer anything to keep me from you. If that isn't the case for you, I'd like you to tell me. I have what I would call fond aspirations for a life in which I finally move on from you; perhaps even settle down with someone who isn't quite so…" A pause, and a long glance. "Exacting."

Blaise said nothing.

"I need you to let me go," Neville continued. "Have me, all of me, or cut me loose. If you don't," he added, tapping his manicured fingers lightly on the table, "I'm afraid I'll be in love with you for the rest of my very unremarkable life."

"This," Blaise said impatiently, "is a terrible time for this conversation." He took a sip from his cup, loathing how much sweeter it tasted. "Your timing is, as always, irreconcilably flawed."

"Yes," Neville agreed. "This has occurred to me as well."

"I've just lost my fiancée."

"Yes."

"And no one has heard from you in, what is it? Months?"

"Yes."

"Me included."

"Yes."

"I have a wedding to attend today. A rather important one."

"Yes."

"And yet," Blaise said, gritting his teeth, "knowing all this—"

"Knowing all this," Neville supplied for him, "I continue to be sitting here, in love with you, wishing I weren't." He glanced at his watch, observing it for several seconds, and then glanced up at Blaise. "My allotted fifteen minutes have nearly elapsed," he commented, "so, if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer you use the time remaining to tell me to move on with my life. Admit you never loved me, should you wish to, and then inform me that you have no desire to ever speak to me again. That should take about two minutes, if you do it as vitriolically as I imagine you wish to," Neville remarked idly, "and then you should probably dress for the ceremony."

If he were anyone else, Blaise might have given Neville points for fastidious timing.

Instead, as he often did, he decided to be cruel. Or candid.

With Neville, he was never entirely sure which was which.

"Do you honestly think it was ever love between us?" Blaise asked him, peering with enough intensity to let the sunglasses slide down his nose. "Or was it, as I suspect it was, only selfishness this entire time? Just two cowards, taking from each other and from everyone else," he muttered darkly, "and then dressing it up, giving it a pretty name."

"I don't know," Neville replied. "Probably."

"Probably what? Which one?"

"Blaise." Neville's voice was dull. "I don't have the energy for a battle of wits with you. For all that I've done, I apologize. It was never my intention to harm you or anyone else, and I imagine I have enough guilt to last me the rest of my life whether what we had was real or not. So just tell me to go and end this, or—" He broke off. "Just end this, if that's what you want," he amended, "and let's not bother with the analysis."

Blaise's mouth tightened. "So. Still a coward then, I see."

"Is that what you think?"

"Isn't it obvious? Or are you not, in fact, waiting for me to be the one end it?"

"Perhaps you misunderstand my intentions." Neville leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. "If I wanted, Blaise, I'd have had you in my arms by now. I wouldn't have waited through your song and dance of pretending you don't care; I wouldn't have even waited for you to sit down. I'd have taken you home and fucked you through the morning, knowing the timing was wrong. Knowing you have friends whose approval I need in order to truly love you. Fully aware you've only just ended a relationship with someone else. I'd have asked you nothing about what you wanted and taken exclusively for myself without regard for the consequences, just as we have always done. So if that's what you consider the brave option, then yes, fine, I'm a coward, and you'll be pleased to know I'm embracing it." He paused, glancing down at Blaise's cup. "Though, I prefer to think of it as telling you that, for once, either we will do this right, or we won't do it at all."

Blaise dug his nails into his palm, fighting the rush of old feelings. New ones, too. The little bits of softness, the gaping of old wounds, that were stung by the bitterness of knowing the man in front of him wasn't the same one he'd loved before.

Even worse—that this man was, quite possibly, a better one.

"I'm in no position to choose anything right now," Blaise said, annoyed to the imperfect quick on the loathsome fingers of his destructive, indelicate hands.

"True," Neville said.

"Just because I can't repair what I've done to Tracey doesn't mean I can erase the years I spent planning a life with her."

"I know."

"I can't just—"

"I know, Blaise, I know."

"No, you don't," Blaise snapped, head throbbing. He brought a hand to his temple, massaging it gruffly. "You can't just—"

"Fine, you're right. I don't know," Neville supplied listlessly, "because unlike you, I've never loved anyone else. And I don't fault you for that; I envy you. I wish you happiness, wherever you find it and whoever you find it with. I hope your life is full of love and my god, Blaise Zabini, if it were up to me, you'd live a lifetime with more of it than you could carry—but I'm not like you. I don't have room for anyone else while you're taking up so much space in my head. So," Neville said, rising to his feet, "either you let me go, or—"

"Blaise," came a voice behind them, and Blaise blinked, turning to find Theo heading for him like the too-tall, weedily unavoidable missile that he was. "Steve needs us. Oh, and here, by the way," he added, tossing Blaise the mobile phone he must have left at Harry's.

Blaise fumbled, nearly missing it as the phone fell into his lap. A pity he was too hungover to deal with one of these problems, much less both. "What does he need?"

Theo glanced at Neville, then back at Blaise. "A cocktail."

"Jesus, Nott," Blaise growled, rubbing his temple again and glancing down at his screenful of missed calls. "I don't know your bloody code—"

"He needs to get into the Goring," Theo clarified, looking miffed at having to do so, "now."

This information did not remotely help Blaise's headache. "What?"

"The Goring, he needs to get in," Theo repeated. "I've been led to believe the two of you have your methods for staying under the radar."

The last thing Blaise wanted to do at the moment was operate a motorbike, but that was clearly the least of his concerns. "What, with everyone watching Clarence House?" he scoffed. "You're mad. You're both mad. Minus ten points each."

"Vetoed," Theo boomed in answer, prompting Blaise to wince, and then glower.

"It's not completely mad, is it?" Neville interjected, choosing a terrible time to be helpful. "You just need to send someone out in Dr- sorry, Steve's," he amended, as Theo arched his brow in warning, "car. Just send a decoy straight to Westminster," Neville advised with a shrug, throwing a handful of coins onto the table. "You and Steve should have no problem leaving in secret if they're all looking at something else."

"You still need someone approximately his height and build," Blaise pointed out, pressing down on his eyelids again beneath his sunglasses. "Someone who'll look enough like Steve behind tinted windows."

Rather troublingly, Theo glanced at Neville, observing the blond hair and regal posture that had been drilled into him as militantly by Lady Augusta Longbottom as it would have been by Prince Lucifer himself.

"Say, Neville," Theo commented in his most musical, mischief-managed sort of tone, "I don't suppose you've given any thought to attending a wedding this morning, have you?"

Pansy dragged herself up from the sofa, observing (unfortunately) the slightly sallow tone her coloring had taken from the mirror opposite the spot she'd attempted to briefly lie down. The more Pansy considered the ill-effects of this pregnancy to her hair and skin, the more she was confident this particular baby was a boy. Clearly, the patriarchy had a habit of draining women right from the start.

Pansy struggled to sit up, retching once before making a hasty lunge for a nearby bin, immediately vomiting what little she'd had to eat in the past few hours.

"So," Rita cackled from her perch in the chair, "you're clearly pregnant, then."

Pansy slid a loathsome gaze to Rita, wishing she hadn't been explicitly tasked with keeping her alive while Lucius and Narcissa had locked themselves away for what was now approaching two hours. If her instructions had been any less thorough, they'd all be done with this nonsense by now.

"Believe me," Rita assured her with a laugh, "it's the least of what I've learned so far. Promising, though," she remarked, musing idly. "Think what I could do with that information—royal wedding derailed, secret pregnancy. Oh, and you did arrive here alone with Prince Lucius, did you not? What a beautiful coincidence," she sighed contentedly. "That, along with all the speculation prior to your Jamie's birth?"

Pansy, losing a battle between her faultless breeding and her sleepless night, spat loudly into the bin, setting it down on the ground and turning to glare at Rita.

"You will not," Pansy warned, "come between me and my husband. And if you even breathe your vile rubbish in the direction of my daughter, I will do far worse than kidnap you. Are we clear?"

"Ah, threats now, excellent," Rita judged with a click of her tongue, chuckling. "You know, there's very little I can do when it comes to Prince Draco—but you," she breathed, flushed with pleasure at the thought of it. "You and Prince Harry are perfectly fair game. The spare royals, with all their secret depravities and their lies—"

"Lies," Pansy echoed, struggling with her fury. "After everything you've printed, you have the nerve to call us liars?"

"Oh, but aren't you?" Rita said, tilting her head. "You can't really expect me to believe your marriage to Prince Harry wasn't a cover for your inopportune pregnancy. And we all know Prince Harry, do we not?" she added with a scoff. "The only person in the royal family with a worse reputation is you, my dear, and you won't always have a baby to use as a shield for your misdeeds, will you?"

It occurred to Pansy to argue. Her little demon brain whispered to her that if Rita Skeeter's chair were dragged slightly closer to the window, perhaps a fall could be reasonably explained away.

But then again, impulsivity was not her game.

"You do realize your threats against Hermione mean you're interfering with Prince Draco's wedding," Pansy commented, rising slowly to her feet and concealing her phone behind her back, and Rita gave a loud, unrepentant scoff.

"To that common little psychopath? I could do far worse than destroy her wedding," Rita sniffed. "The Princess of Wales is obviously deranged, and as for Miss Granger—"

"So you'd interfere with a marriage sanctioned by King Abraxas himself?"

"Interfere? I could do more than interfere," Rita warned sharply. "Prince Lucius proved it himself when he refused to speak to me just now—one word from me and the entire marriage is clearly off. The King would have no choice but to retract his approval, wouldn't he? Any other option would be an embarrassment to the whole family, not to mention a scandal for the monarchy itself."

"Quite a stressful thing," Pansy observed. "Particularly given King Abraxas' age."

"My god, the man is positively ancient," Rita muttered, making a face. "And, if the rumors are true, Prince Lucius' health is no better."

"You know about his heart problems?"

"I know everything there is to know about the royal family," Rita snapped. "Do you doubt there is anything which occurs in the Palace that doesn't reach my ears?"

"So you know, then," Pansy mused. "That a scandal like this would be… rather stressful, wouldn't it. Perhaps even quite threatening?"

Rita's eyes narrowed haughtily. "Do you really think I don't know when I've levied a threat?"

Perfect.

And, for a final flourish—

"You know what else is interesting," Pansy remarked, half to herself. "Nobody ever did sort out who the leak was in the Palace, did they?"

"The Palace has leaks all the time," Rita scoffed. "Do you have any idea how easy it would be to find a source for anything I wanted to say? Everyone can be bought, Lady Parkinson."

And if they couldn't be bought, Pansy thought, then they could certainly be… persuaded.

"Actually, it's Potter," Pansy corrected, "and under these circumstances, I should think it obvious you're to call me Your Royal Highness."

"And what circumstances are those?" Rita asked doubtfully, as Pansy raised her phone to her ear.

"Henry, sweetheart," she said, "remind me. What is it Nott's always blathering on about?"

"Why, love," came Harry's cheerful voice, "I believe the word you're looking for is treason."

Harry waltzed through the private entrance to Clarence House, whistling a little as he went. He wondered why it was that some men found intellect in women so off-putting; in his opinion, having a clever wife was a rather flattering feather in his cap. Sure, she bordered on demonic at times, but there was something to be said for a woman who possessed a fair hand at devious plotting, along with a working understanding of English jurisprudence.

Besides, it had been so long since he'd gotten to be a decoy. All in all, a very good day.

"Ah, there you are," Harry said, spotting Neville looking exceedingly uncomfortable in Draco's red Guards' uniform. "Thanks for this, Longbottom. You wear the Guard of Honour well," he added, clapping a hand on Neville's shoulder.

Neville, obviously startled by Harry's pleasant mood, gave him a questioning glance. "I didn't think you'd be so pleased to see me."

"Well, I think the time for wanting to punch you has passed," Harry offered genially, leading him to the car. The plan was simple; let people see blond hair and princely decoration already sitting in the vehicle while Harry, who was quite obviously Harry, entered the door with some showboating on the public-facing side, prompting everyone to fill in the blanks that Prince Draco of Wales was on his way to Westminster Abbey to be married. "After all," Harry assured Neville, "you and I might have been in each other's places, wouldn't we?"

Harry didn't forget that there existed some alternate universe (and with such minor alterations, too) where Neville was the man married to Pansy while he himself carried on mindlessly leaping from woman to woman, unable to grasp what was missing while his daughter grew up in someone else's care.

No, the time to resent Neville had come and gone. Truth be told, Harry had never spared a thought for him at all from the moment he'd started waking each morning with Pansy beside him. Neville would probably never understand what his presence in Harry's life had been worth.

"You know, I suppose all this is a lesson in gratitude, in a way," Harry remarked once he'd climbed into the car, gesturing for the driver to move. "After all," he said, turning to Neville, "I suppose you did have every opportunity to tell Rita Skeeter everything you knew, didn't you?"

Neville looked sheepish. "I might have done more than I did to help you, too."

"Well, we all might've done things differently," Harry said, shrugging. "Doesn't mean it isn't worth mentioning that you could have betrayed us and didn't."

He could see Neville was relieved, or at least less bothered.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask what's going on," Neville said, looking contemplative, "but…"

"To be honest with you," Harry said, "I hardly know myself. Fortunately, the women seem to have it fairly well in hand."

Daphne had pounded at least fifteen times on the door by the time Hermione appeared in the frame, looking flushed and also, not particularly sane.

"Oh," she exhaled, "it's you."

She turned, walking away, and Daphne frowned as she went, observing the scene one detail at a time. The most obvious bits and bobs of oddness were the countless sheets of hotel stationery, all of which seemed to be covered in a slightly messier version of Hermione's already quite messy handwriting. The Rita Skeeter book, Draco and Hermione: A Royal Love Story, had been deposited face-down on the floor; Daphne, curious what Hermione had been up to, bent to pick it up, observing the series of underlines and scribbles in the margins that seemed to cover the majority of the pages.

The other, possibly more pressing thing to take stock of was Hermione, who was wandering around her hotel suite in her wedding dress, her hair piled high on top of her head while her bare feet trailed over the carpet.

"Um," Daphne commented, glancing around the suite. "Should I just tell your mum you lost your mind, or…?"

"Hm? Oh." Hermione's cheeks flushed slightly, noticing Daphne's eyes on her gown. "Yeah, I, well." She swallowed, admitting, "I wasn't sure I'd get to wear it."

"Oh, Hermione." Daphne sighed, stepping forward to pull her into a hug. "You mad bride."

Hermione gave a muffled laugh, resting her forehead on Daphne's shoulder. "It's been… a really long night. A shirty night. A really forking shirty night, in fact."

"You do realize everyone thinks you're dead," Daphne pointed out, "don't you?"

"Somehow, I think only you thought that, Daph."

"Well, if that's the case, it's only because I love you most."

Hermione pulled away, smiling unconvincingly. "Have you heard from Pansy yet?"

"Yes. Well, Harry," Daphne amended, "but I've been given strict instructions not to worry you via proxy. Oh, and I've also come to tell you Draco's on his way," she added, as Hermione blinked, startled. "Nott's taking care of the security details as we speak."

"What?" Hermione asked, immediately panicked. "But he can't possibly, there's photographers all over the hotel—"

"Yes, yes, we know. More importantly, though, that means we have less time to get you ready." Daphne pulled away, frowning at Hermione's hair and then at the empty room. "Shouldn't about a million people be here by now? You ought to be having your hair done, at least."

"I… sort of refused to let anyone in," Hermione admitted, wincing. "It was a bit depressing, really, carrying on as normal without knowing whether Rita Skeeter was going to destroy me before the wedding even arrived."

"Hermione," Daphne sighed. "Were you really just going to sit here alone until you heard from Pansy?"

"Well…" Obviously, the answer was yes.

"You foolish girl. Don't you know we'd never allow anything to spoil this?" Daphne asked her firmly, leading her to the bedroom of the suite. "Now, take that off," she instructed, "or I'll have to murder you for getting makeup on the lace. Yes, yes, I know," Daphne sighed, pausing Hermione before she could argue, "you took lessons for weeks to be able to do your makeup perfectly, I'm aware, but still—this is couture, not some sort of peasant smock. And besides, I think it's time we called in reinforcements," she added, reaching into her pocket for her phone.

Hermione's eyes widened. "But I don't w-"

"No professionals," Daphne assured her, rolling her eyes. "What do you think this is, my first day? Well, not a conventional professional, I should say," she amended, and raised the phone to her ear. "Helen? We need you upstairs, please."

And to Daphne's immense satisfaction, Hermione's smile broadened, finally set at ease.

"You're being quiet," Blaise observed, glancing blearily at Draco. Or so Draco assumed Blaise was doing, given the times he'd encountered this particular dehydrated version of his usual friend, though it was difficult to tell through the helmet. "And, might I add, suspicious."

"Is being quiet always so suspicious?" Draco countered.

"No," Blaise said, shrugging, "it just happens to be in this case."

"What about you?" Draco asked him. "You're being equally quiet."

"Minus ten for deflecting," Blaise replied. "And I'd watch your step, Your Highness, or I'll tell the others you're in danger of losing your precarious lead."

As Pansy had thoughtfully sent him a video of herself all but winning last night, Draco doubted now was the time to quibble about points. "I'm not deflecting," he said instead, deflecting-ly. "You're the one who met your ex for coffee this morning, are you not?"

"Who told you that?"

"Oh, you know. Read it in my morning agenda."

"Criminal. This is what concerns the empire? Dobby ought to be sacked."

"It was Harry, actually."

"Well, even worse. Prince Henry is a notorious rake," Blaise advised, "who shouldn't be relied upon for sensible news."

"Marvelous hair, though, for a scoundrel."

"Excellent hair, debauchery or no."

"I would even venture lustrous."

"As you should, though certainly no further."

"Was it good?"

"This morning? Outstanding. Exceeded expectations."

"I meant the coffee."

"Drive," said Blaise, pointing to the traffic light, and Draco sighed, taking off again as they made their way to the Goring.

The bikes, funnily enough, were Theo's. He'd never ridden them, given that he couldn't and, more importantly, shouldn't, but after watching Draco get in trouble more than once for taking his own recognizable motorbikes out and about, Theo had made the purchase of not one, not two, but four bikes, all distinctly un-distinctive. Someday, Draco was really going to have to thank him for his paranoia.

Luckily it was less than a mile; perfectly walkable via direct path through his grandfather's house, had Draco ever been the sort of person who could walk places without unnecessary gawking and pointing, or had his grandfather's residence not been a palace presently surrounded by potential gawkers and pointers. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case, and was unlikely to ever be the case, which meant that a simple task like visiting with his fiancée in advance of their wedding without arousing mass public suspicion was exceptionally more difficult. Particularly when the conversation they were about to have, which was itself the result of a conversation with his father, was so dreadfully important. So much so it was causing him to sweat a bit inside his helmet.

Daphne and Theo met them by the side door, Hermione's father beside them with a hotel key.

"Is this something you kids always do?" David asked the moment Draco and Blaise disembarked their respective vehicles. Unlike Daphne, who appeared to have absorbed some of Hermione's usual anxiety, and Theo, who was trying very hard to communicate with Draco via silence, David looked fresh-faced and delighted. "It's very exciting."

"We try to save it for special occasions," Draco assured him, permitting Daphne to take his arm and give him some firm instruction.

"Now, she's all dressed up, so you'll have to talk to her through a door. We'll leave you your privacy, of course, but I won't have you ruining this. You won't be ruining this, will you?" Daphne demanded, pausing Draco before they reached the elevator. The hotel had been cleared out, probably by Theo, which had been a relief until it meant there was nothing to stop a surprisingly strong Daphne from giving his arm a good wrench, jabbing forcefully into his helmet. "Tell me you're not going up there to break my best friend's heart."

The idea momentarily froze Draco's pulse. "Wait, she doesn't actually think—"

"Well, she hardly knows what to think, does she?" Daphne huffed. "All any of us knows is that you insisted on seeing her in private before the ceremony. And may I remind you, Draco Wales, that if any of the press found out you were here, they'd certainly presume the same!"

"Daph," Draco said firmly, "it's nothing like that. It's just… private, that's all."

"Well, is the wedding going forward or not?"

"I… well, I—"

"Draco," Daphne hissed. "If I have to murder you right now, I swear, I'll do it. I won't even need a murder weapon, I'll just… curse you. I'll do it with my mind, I'm that cross with you—"

"Greengrass, come on." Theo coaxed her out of the way, beckoning for Draco to get in the elevator. "Go on up," he said, nudging Blaise in after him. "Just—" He broke off, catching the elevator door before it shut and lowering his voice, brow furrowed with concern. "You won't hurt her, yeah?"

"Theo." Draco shook his head. "It's not her I'm worried about."

Theo blinked, concerned, but reluctantly removed his hand, letting the elevator door shut as Blaise turned to Draco, expression still unreadable through the polarized glare of his helmet.

"What the fuck have you done?" Blaise asked, and Draco smiled weakly.

"There's still a chance she'll call it off, mate. I just… I don't want to talk about it with anyone else before I know."

Blaise was silent as the floors ticked by.

Then, to Draco's surprise, he muttered, "He wants me to choose him."

Given how little time they had for conversation, Draco tried not to hesitate.

"Then choose him."

"What," Blaise said drily, "and chance destroying everything all over again?"

"Well, you're older now. Wiser, in theory."

"In practice, however, very doubtful."

"Do you love him?"

"God, yes," Blaise said, repulsed, "almost as much as I hate him."

"Well," Draco replied smartly, "excess or death, as they say."

"My god," Blaise groaned. "How does one even assign sufficient points for such sublime depravity?"

"Abundantly," Draco predicted. "And with panache."

The doors opened to the top floor suite and Draco stepped out, Blaise catching his arm at the last possible second as he went.

"Not everyone is you and Hermione," Blaise said, sounding moderately tormented by the thought, or perhaps still by dehydration. "You two make each other better. Some people make each other worse. Not everyone who has love deserves it."

"Sometimes it's not about what you deserve," said Draco, who felt he had learned that lesson better than most.

Blaise released him with an uncertain nod and hung back, clearly intending to wait outside while Draco and Hermione spoke privately. Draco, steadying himself, took a step forward, knocking lightly on the doors of the Royal Suite.

"Hermione," he said. "It's me."

Hermione Granger, notorious commoner and seducer of princes, was standing behind the door of the suite's master bedroom, listening to her mother permit Draco entry to the room. To her immense relief, Helen did not take the opportunity to monologue at length about the importance of lubricant. Hermione couldn't tell if it was better or worse, actually, that even her mother, steadfast in every way, sounded a little bit nervous.

She listened, curling and uncurling her still-cramped fingers (focusing on applying eyeliner to her waterline was a difficult motor skill after so many hours spent scribbling her thoughts) as Draco's stride grew closer, pausing on the other side of the slightly cracked door.

"Hermione?" he said.

She caught the shadows of his shoes, listening to the sound of his breathing.

"Hi," she told him, and then, finding that underwhelming, she added, "I… may have made a bit of a mess last night."

It was a relief to hear him laugh, even faintly. Even through a door.

"Can I—" Draco stopped, clearing his throat. "I don't have to see you, but can we…?"

"Touch?" she guessed.

"Yes." His exhalation was filled with relief. "Please."

She considered it. "Stand on the other side of this wall," she determined, knocking on the particular wall she intended. "I'll stay on this side, and we'll—"

"Yes, right, okay." She heard him shift around, placing his back to the wall. His footfall was heavy, clad as he probably was in full motorcycle regalia. "Okay, I'm here."

She opened the door, aligning her back with her side of the wall, a mirror of him. She slid her hand behind her, reaching for his, and he caught the flutter of her fingers.

"I have to ask you to do something," he said.

She fought the urge to laugh, or possibly cry. "Another thing? I'm still working on the last thing you asked me to do."

"Yes, another thing." He sounded tentative. "I'm afraid it's rather important."

"Well, go on, then." She wasn't sure how much more waiting she could take.

"It appears my father has had a rather… unconventional idea." She heard Draco give a tentative swallow. "Pansy's successfully threatened Rita enough to scare her into silence about last night specifically, but the problem isn't exactly resolved. She still knows too much about our family, and my father doesn't believe my mother's mental health can take any further… damage." A pause. "He's decided further action will be necessary."

What would it be? A public apology tour? A delay of the marriage until Hermione had proven herself worthy? She hated to find out what torture the Prince of Darkness had in mind for her.

Still. "Whatever I need to do to make this right," she promised him, "I'll do it."

Draco's fingers tightened around hers.

"Actually, it's rather more… something I need to do," he said. "But I can't do it without you, so I'm—well, to tell you the truth, I'm—" He broke off, leaning his head so heavily against the wall she imagined she could feel it. "I'm rather afraid," he confessed reluctantly.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat.

"Draco?"

Silence.

Then, in a slightly smaller voice, Draco murmured, "He's abdicating."

Hermione blinked.

"He's… what?"

"Well, he's giving up his claim to the throne." Draco cleared his throat. "He says he'll do it whether the wedding goes forward or not. He's been thinking about it for a long time, apparently, but wasn't sure my mother would agree. He's asked her to… well, to stay with him, it seems. To work on their marriage in private. He knew it would take some effort to convince her, but…"

Hermione, who'd spent the entire last night getting to see Princess Narcissa's many secrets, knew better. Narcissa was in love with Lucius, and probably always had been.

Maybe Lucius had finally sorted out how to love her back.

"She did agree, as it turns out," Draco continued, "and now he plans to give up his title and his entire royal income, essentially retiring from public service to live with my mother as private citizens." The more Draco spoke, the more he seemed mechanical, as if he were reciting from a dossier. "My grandfather knew," he added softly, "but told my father he would only accept the renouncement of his title if I agreed to succeed him."

Hermione's free hand rose to her mouth. "But that means—"

"That I would be invested as Prince of Wales. Very soon. Sooner even than our honeymoon soon. And—" Draco broke off again. "Hermione, my grandfather is eighty-three years old. I'm… I'm not even twenty-eight. I'm currently at least ten years younger than every other head of state, so how could I possibly take his place? It was supposed to be my father, then me, and I'm—"

She laced her fingers through his, giving his hand a pulse of pressure.

"I thought this would happen incrementally," Draco said, sounding increasingly panicked. "I thought it would happen in steps. First I would ease you into royal life, then we'd have some years to ourselves, then children, and then—however many years later, in some very, very distant future—someday, I'd ascend the throne. I had it all planned out, and now—"

"Oh, Draco." Hermione severed his rambling with a sigh, shaking her head. "Keep your eyes closed, okay?"

"What? But—"

"Just keep them closed."

She walked around to the other side of the wall, half-smiling as she took in the sight of him.

"Hi again, Bruce."

She reached up, struggling a bit with her gown and veil to reach his helmet, and removed it from his head, taking his face in both hands.

A pity she'd told him to keep his eyes closed. She would have given almost anything to see that familiar grey gaze fall on hers, but for now, this would have to do.

"Draco," she said, touching his cheek as his hands blindly found her waist. "You can't honestly tell me you're afraid I'll refuse."

His mouth twisted up slightly, wryly. "I didn't want to make assumptions."

"Oh, you idiot prince. You stupid boy." She'd have kissed him if she hadn't wanted to get lipstick all over his face. "Do you really think, after all we've been through, I could possibly be anything but willing to handle whatever comes our way? After all that, you'd think I'd be used to surprises."

He gave a low laugh, leaning into her palm. "Well, when you put it that way."

She ran her thumb over his jaw, his lips, fondly tracing the shape of him.

"You're never going to feel ready, Draco," she informed him, and his mouth quirked, a little wince of half-humor at what was so disastrously true. "You could be your father's age and still not feel ready. But you're not alone, are you? You have us, all of us. And you have me." She swallowed, her throat going a little tight. "Whatever happens, you'll always have me."

His hands tightened on her waist, his eyes still forced shut as he pulled her into his arms.

"Careful," she warned him, giving a wobbly laugh as she struggled with her gown. "Veil. Train. Et cetera."

"God, I can't wait to see it." He exhaled, burying his face in the side of her neck. "I can't wait to see you, truly. I'm just so very desperate to be married to you, Hermione, you wouldn't even believe it. You'd simply change your mind on the spot and decide I was a very soft summer prince indeed."

"Draco, we all know that." His shoulders shook with silent laughter, and she slid her fingers through his hair, suppressing a smile. "Though, for what it's worth, I'm relieved you wanted to talk to me about it first."

"I couldn't just… surprise you with it," he told her. "It would have felt unfair."

"True," she admitted. "And I wasn't quite expecting to be—"

"Hermione, Princess of Wales?" he supplied.

"Holy shirtforks." She shivered at the prospect of it. "Yeah, I completely see what you mean about not feeling ready. It doesn't sound real at all."

He laughed, pulling away with his eyes still closed.

"So," Hermione said, "Pansy really threatened Rita Skeeter with treason, then?"

"Well, she has a very good argument for Rita conspiring to influence the crown. In addition to intent to commit regicide, by virtue of her threat to my father's fragile health."

Hermione arched a brow. "Sounds like a stretch, doesn't it?"

"Oh, it's absolutely a stretch," Draco said, amused, "but Rita, it turns out, frightens rather easily when the threat of life imprisonment is involved. Personally, I think the more sensible plan was Pansy's backup accusation of unlawful surveillance," he said with a shrug, "but I suppose her instincts were spot on. Treason's got a better ring to it, anyway."

"Surveillance?" Hermione echoed. "What, like… bugging?"

He shrugged. "Why not? I'd be surprised if she hasn't tried already."

"I bet Bellatrix would agree to be a witness against her just to watch the whole thing burn," Hermione grumbled. She probably would, too, being the chaotic demon that she was.

"Oh, almost certainly, I agree. Either way, Rita's been rather effectively silenced, and to sweeten the pot, my father offered her exclusive rights to the renouncement story. Provided she says nothing about what happened with you and my mother last night, an article will be released as a Daily Prophet exclusive first thing Monday."

So all was taken care of, then, it seemed.

Except it… wasn't.

Hermione pulled away for a moment, thinking, and Draco, still struggling not to open his eyes, frowned at her distance. "What is it?"

"Well, it's just—" She hesitated, half an idea forming in her brain. "It doesn't really solve the Rita problem, does it? Even if she doesn't specifically say anything about what happened last night, she still knows too much. She can still ruin us somehow, or try to, later down the line."

Draco nodded, wincing a little. "There's no doubt she'll require quite a lot of hushing. My grandfather isn't particularly thrilled about it, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"Well, the reason she can't be hushed is because she's the sole source of royal gossip, isn't she?" Hermione said. "Which will only be cemented by her releasing this article. People will continue to believe everything she says about us, just as they've always done." The problem, whatever it was, still nagged at her to be solved.

Expectantly, Draco's mouth twitched. "I can see you've caught on to something, Miss Granger. Go on."

"I'm just thinking… what if we create another source of information?" Hermione mused, stepping away to clarify her scheming as she paced. "Rita's article will run Monday morning with details, but what if we leak it to someone as a rumor first? Specifically, someone who is already a very natural leak?"

"You can't be serious." Draco was already laughing, shaking his head. "My god, you really are brilliantly unhinged, aren't you?"

"No, listen—don't laugh, this is a real idea!—we can fix this, here and now!" Hermione exclaimed, shushing him. "Just tell Gilderoy and he'll, I don't know… tweet about it or something. Everyone will see the tweet, say 'well that's bloody mad, isn't it, Reginald?' and—"

"I love you, Hermione, but your accent really hasn't improved, please don't do that in public—"

"—and then Rita's article will come out, proving him right. Then," Hermione continued excitedly, "from there, we'll start feeding both of them information. Sometimes truths, sometimes lies. So if Rita Skeeter says one thing, Gilderoy Lockhart says another—frack, maybe we'll even tell Luna Lovegood things from time to time," she decided, feeling triumphant. "If one or the other is wrong as often as they're right, people will no longer automatically believe anything Rita says—or anything anyone says, for that matter. They'll just come to believe that half the time, anything the press says is complete and utter bollocks!"

Draco was fully smiling now. "Bollocks, hm?"

"Sorry, it's…" She frowned. "Balderdash?"

"Balderdash. Interesting." Draco raised a hand, running it over his mouth. "You know, you might really be onto something."

"Might be? Draco, please," Hermione scoffed. "It's the obvious solution, and now's the perfect time t-"

"Hermione." Helen's voice came tentatively from where she'd been waiting in the other room, emerging into the living area. "It's nearly time, sweetheart. Are you two…?"

"Us?" Hermione glanced over her shoulder at Draco, who waved blindly to something approximately fifteen degrees away from where Helen was standing. "Oh, we're great, Mom. Just having a bit of honest conversation. Plotting vengeance, you know."

"Can it wait?" Helen asked. "You've got the rest of your lives to do that, you know."

God, how blissfully true that was. Hermione turned, looking at Draco, and fought a smile at the sensation of having him there, by her side. At knowing he had her back.

Hang the lipstick. What did it forking matter, compared to this?

She forgave herself her more reckless impulses and rushed into his arms, sending him against the wall with a tiny 'oof' and lifting onto her toes, catching his parted lips in a kiss that thrilled her, calmed her. Promised her a thousand more like it, and a thousand more after that.

"Just open your eyes," she sighed, conceding. "I'd rather you see me like this, anyway."

His brow knitted with concern. "Isn't it bad luck?"

"Oh, come on, Draco, we don't need luck. It's us." She kissed him again, reveling in it. "We're bigger than luck."

He cracked one eye, tentative.

Then both eyes fluttered open, taking in the sight of her where she waited, smiling, in his arms.

The dress had an ivory satin bodice with a lace overlay, tucked in at the waist and padded slightly at the hips, giving it a Victorian shape with an almost 1950s sweetness. It was a perfect mix of contemporary and traditional, the likes of which only Daphne could so effortlessly accomplish. Better than the gown's obvious beauty, in Hermione's opinion, were its secrets; the little details she got to know, which others would spend the day puzzling out: the embroidered flowers from the Commonwealth mixed with the California poppies; the design of what Daphne had dubbed "Helen's lace." The silhouette, which would surely influence wedding gowns for generations over, would be well-suited to nearly any body shape, but it was perfect for Hermione. It was demure and soft, while still fashionable and modern. A touch of vintage, but timelessly beautiful. The emerald engagement ring glittered from her finger; the snake ring, sewn into the bottom of her dress, was wrapped in a bit of blue silk. The veil, held in place by the tiara of Narcissa's choosing, was long and elegant, floating around Hermione's furiously tamed hair—for which she had employed witchcraft, prayer, and several tons of hair product.

As satisfying as the effect was in the mirror, it still somehow managed to look best reflected in Draco's grey eyes, which were wide with astonishment.

"You look," he began, and Hermione made a face.

"Really, don't, I just—"

"Hermione." He took her face in both hands, bending his forehead to hers. "You're right," he said softly, "this is much, much better."

Just the two of them, as they had always preferred it.

That time, the kiss between them was gratitude. It was the admission of I can't believe my luck. It was the comfort of you, only you, for always. And it was precisely the saccharine rush of super trouper lights are gonna find me, shining like the sun.

Smiling, having fun.

Feeling like a number one.

"Thank you," Draco said, his voice a little ragged with sentiment, and from behind them, Helen snapped her fingers, summoning the heir to the English throne like a dog.

"Well, come on, then, Your Royal Highness," she said, resolutely spoiling the mood. "Chop-chop, unless you plan to be late."

"Oh, balls. Alright, see you," he told Hermione, roughly pressing a kiss to her forehead and darting out of her room, the ringing sound of "BLAISE, GET THE BIKES" emanating from the elevator door.

Just like that, the pleasant chaos of Hermione's life re-erupted.

"Ready?" called Daphne, poking her head inside the door. "The car's downstairs."

"Yes, nearly," Hermione said, glancing around. "Mom, go ahead with Dad and Daphne, Winky's down there somewhere… Where's Pansy? And Jamie?"

"We're here," came a thinly impatient voice. "Now move with some expediency, you colonial diva, or I'm going to have to—"

Hermione came barreling forward, throwing her arms around Pansy with a sigh.

"Thank you," she said, ignoring Pansy's growls of protest. "Really, thank you."

"Yes, yes," Pansy grumbled, though for a moment, Hermione was sure she'd tightened the embrace. "Come on, then, you've taken long enough—"

"Just one thing, though, Pans." Hermione turned her head, whispering it in Pansy's ear. "You were wrong, Lady Seven-Names."

He's a job, and you're unqualified to hold it.

How very, very far they'd all come.

"Yes, fine, so you're a treasure, what of it," Pansy retorted, nudging her away as Hermione grinned, feeling a brief tug on her skirt that meant a tiny, floral-wreathed Jamie was indicating her presence from somewhere near the floor.

"Mione," Jamie said solemnly, "Daddy told me Mummy's got a baby in her tummy."

Hermione glanced up, stunned. "She's got a what?"

But by then, Pansy was already out the door, shouting over her shoulder for Hermione to move with a sense of urgency, please, before the whole thing became an unrepentant calamity.

The schedule was so militantly planned it was nearly laughable. 1020 the wedding party would leave the Goring for the Abbey, arriving at 1027. 1042, Narcissa and Lucius would arrive from Clarence House, presumably shocking everyone when they did so arm in arm. 1045, King Abraxas would arrive from Buckingham Palace. Those were the royal guests, of course, which didn't include the ones who were less noteworthy, albeit still hugely important. Minerva McGonagall and Oliver Wood, for example. Fleur Delacour. Luna Lovegood. Hortense and Thibaut, who were stopped by security and immediately asked to turn over their belongings, just in case. Even Lady Sooz had received an invitation, and Hermione had grand plans to shake her hand, making up for cursing her so many times in silence. Neville Longbottom, a last minute guest who had filled Tracey Davis' last minute vacancy, was somewhere inside as well, probably awaiting Blaise's confession that it wouldn't be today, and probably not tomorrow, but maybe in a few weeks, when his better judgment and his heart could mutually conceive of reconciliation. Horace Slughorn, unfortunately, would have to watch from home, though Hermione had no doubt he would happily assure himself his invitation had only gotten lost in the wretched post.

At 1045, Hermione got in a Bentley with David and Helen, which brought her to now, having revealed the gown and stopped, waiting, for the procession to begin. At 1215, she and Draco would leave for Buckingham Palace. At 1325 he would kiss her on the balcony, observed by millions across the globe. 1330 would host a royal fly-past, followed by an intimate lunch for six hundred.

But right now it was 1055, and in a matter of minutes, Hermione would walk through those doors and lock eyes with His Royal Highness, Prince Draco Lucius Abraxas of Wales, and she would finally, finally marry him.

A little shiver flew up her spine in anticipation, and Daphne reached over, squeezing her arm.

"Nervous?" she asked.

"Daphne, please," Pansy said from her other side. "Do not encourage her."

"Encourage her to what, feel?"

"To emote unnecessarily, yes."

"Pans, honestly—"

Hermione rolled her eyes, pulling both women into her arms.

"You know, in a weird way, it's like we're all getting married," she remarked, watching them both groan with repulsion. "I'm joking," she assured them with a sigh.

"Well, desist immediately," Pansy sniffed, as Daphne pulled a face of agreement. "Nothing's changing, really."

"Sure. Only everything," Hermione said, "which is, essentially, nothing."

"True," Daphne contributed. "You'll have more tiaras, though."

"And more rules."

"Rules are good for you," Pansy said. "You're unbearable without them."

"Earrings," Daphne added. "More earrings, also."

"Yes, though I think 'jewelry' is something of a time-efficient catch-all—"

"More security, ideally," Pansy scoffed, reflecting on Hermione's evening with an expression of distaste. "And fewer abductions, I would hope."

"That's really not a guarantee," Hermione said, and to her relief, Pansy chuckled.

Then, abruptly, Pansy began to cry.

"Oh, no," Hermione said, alarmed. "Daph, how does that song start again? Can you hear the drums, Fernand-"

"No, no," Daphne barked at her, panicked, "that'll only make it worse—"

"It's just hormones," Pansy informed them both, sniffling furiously while Daphne coaxed her away from Hermione's gown. "It's this wretched boy!"

"Aren't they all," Daphne said soothingly, smoothing a hand over Pansy's shoulders as the latter straightened, briskly discarding her own unnecessary emotions.

"Well, anyway. Shall we?" Pansy said, nudging Daphne as if it had somehow been her fault to begin with, and Daphne exchanged a knowing glance with Hermione, both shaking their heads.

"See you down there," she mouthed, giving Pansy a sharp nudge in the ribs and winking over her shoulder at Hermione as the procession began.

Hermione already knew the schedule. It was 1100 now, which meant it was time for Daphne and Pansy to traverse the aisle, joining Theo, Blaise, and Harry on the other side. At 1102, approximately, Jamie would be next, along with a gaggle of royal-adjacent children, two of which were carrying Hermione's veil. Around 1105, Helen and David, each on one of Hermione's arms, would pause halfway down the aisle, permitting her to walk the remaining distance to the altar alone, where by 1106 she would clearly see Draco in his red military uniform, his pale hair gleaming, forehead slightly sweaty from changing in such a hurry and swapping clothes with Neville. At perhaps 1145 she would even say things to him; things like I promise and I will and I do, and then he would say them back to her. Somewhere around 1200 he would kiss her, more ceremonially and with less intimacy than they'd had in her hotel suite, but it would be the kiss that meant they'd bound their lives together; woven them like a tapestry, tied together in a bow.

Then, somewhere around 1215, she'd be back where she was standing now, only she would be his, and he would be hers.

Suddenly, Hermione could no longer stand the wait, linking arms with her mother, first, and then her father.

"Ready?" Helen asked her, half-smiling, half-teary. David, who had already started to cry, wiped furiously at his eyes; saying nothing, but fondly echoing the sentiment.

It was a bigger question than the single word implied, Hermione suspected. Not just an are-you-ready for a wedding, or even an-are-you ready to walk this aisle alone, but an are-you-ready for everything? For happiness, for joy? For challenges, for struggle? Are you ready for everything that happens next? For the crown they place on your head, for the expectations they place on your existence? For the country they want you to lead, for the person they want you to be? For the man who waits for you; for the prince whose life, whose love and whose loyalty, is promised so delicately to yours?

Are you ready for all the things you can never possibly be ready for?

It was a very big question, in fact. The biggest, really.

But if Hermione had ever been sure of anything, it was, without question, this.

"I'm ready," she said, and took her first step forward, warming herself in the glow of the Abbey's golden light.

19 May 2018

HRH PRINCE DRACO OF WALES WEDS MISS HERMIONE GRANGER

His Majesty The King is pleased to announce the marriage of his grandson, His Royal Highness Prince Draco of Wales, to Miss Hermione Granger. Miss Granger wore a gown designed by Daphne Nott, a close friend of the bride and groom, while Prince Draco wore the frockcoat uniform of the Irish Guards' Red.

Full details of the wedding and the couple's future plans will be revealed in due course.

GILDEROY LOCKHART, 5-Time Winner of Women's Weekly Most Charming Smile
gilderoylockhartofficial

EXCLUSIVE NEWS: my close & prsnl Palace srce says HRH Prince L. to ABDICATE in favour of son Prince D., who is mrryng H. Granger TODAY Westminster Abbey. SHOCKING NEWS! CAN U BELIEVE? :-D

10:42 AM - 19 May 2018
87 Retweets 50K Likes

20 May 2018

TITLE ANNOUNCEMENT FOR PRINCE DRACO AND HERMIONE GRANGER

The King has today announced that the titles conferred upon his grandson Prince Draco and his new wife Hermione Granger will be announced forthwith. His Majesty The King expresses great joy for his grandson's marriage and requests The Royal Family's privacy be respected during this time of celebration.

Further details will be revealed in due course.

GILDEROY LOCKHART, 5-Time Winner of Women's Weekly Most Charming Smile
gilderoylockhartofficial

HMM, y no title anncmnt? Waiting for Prince L.'s ABDICATION, PERHAPS?

12:45 PM - 20 May 2018
120 Retweets 137K Likes

RITA SKEETER, Bestselling Author and Royal Correspondent for the Daily Prophet
RitaSkeeter

To everyone tweeting me for confirmation of gilderoylockhartofficial's nonsensical claims, please be patient. Nothing has changed. I remain the utmost source of accuracy for all things Royal News.

7:45 PM - 20 May 2018
320 Retweets 685K Likes

21 May 2018

HRH THE PRINCE OF WALES TO RENOUNCE SUCCESSION

The King has today announced that his son, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, will renounce his claim to the Throne and be succeeded by his son, HRH Prince Draco of Wales.

THE FOLLOWING STATEMENT IS ISSUED BY THE PRESS SECRETARY TO THE KING

The King has announced today that his son, His Royal Highness Prince Lucius Armand Abraxas, Prince of Wales, has chosen to renounce his claim to the Throne to serve his obligations to his family, effective immediately. The happiness and prosperity of the people of the United Kingdom are of the highest importance to His Royal Highness, and with the full support of His Majesty, Prince Lucius intends to pursue his resignation from public service as the course of action most suitable for the Throne.

Prince Draco thus becomes His Royal Highness Prince Draco Lucius Abraxas, Prince of Wales, and Miss Hermione Jean Granger will become Her Royal Highness Hermione, The Princess of Wales.

Further details will be revealed in due course.

GILDEROY LOCKHART, 5-Time Winner of Women's Weekly Most Charming Smile
gilderoylockhartofficial

. RitaSkeeter WE KNEW IT. WHAT ELSE R U HIDING?

7:45 AM - 21 May 2018
210 Retweets 401K Likes

RITA SKEETER, Bestselling Author and Royal Correspondent for the Daily Prophet
RitaSkeeter

We mustn't listen to the noise. If you'd like the truth behind today's #RoyalResignation, please see my latest article in the DP.

7:48 PM - 21 May 2018
230 Retweets 442K Likes

GILDEROY LOCKHART, 5-Time Winner of Women's Weekly Most Charming Smile
gilderoylockhartofficial

. RitaSkeeter ur article is BOLLOCKS. RT if u agree

8:14 AM - 21 May 2018
991 Retweets 723K Likes

DAILY PROPHET, The UK's Top Source for Breaking News
ProphetOnline

THREAD: Today's fascinating article by our very own RitaSkeeter features EXCLUSIVE interviews with Prince Lucius and Princess Narcissa. "It became apparent that my primary obligation was to my family, and especially my wife."-Prince Lucius

—"I understand there is some confusion, but I have complete faith in my son and daughter-in-law. Narcissa and I could not be happier." -Prince Lucius, RARE INTERVIEW. AGAIN, RitaSkeeter EXCLUSIVE. ONLY FOUND IN TODAY'S DP.

—SEE ALSO: In-depth coverage of the #RoyalWedding, PLUS new revelations from the Duke and Duchess of Grimmauld. Will it be another #RoyalBaby this summer?

9:15 AM - 21 May 2018
340 Retweets 342K Likes

DRACO AND HERMIONE, Official Account of the Prince and Princess of Wales
MalfoyRoyal

Times change. We're changing with them. Thank you to everyone for your support and kind wishes. Let's get started!

#OurFirstTweet

9:30 AM - 21 May 2018
576K Retweets 1.2M Likes

FIN

a/n: Balls almighty, what a ride this has been. Thank you for sticking with it… all half-a-million words of it. I am very, very thankful for those of you who have shared your love of this story with me. We're all such different people now from where we started. Special thanks to aurorarsinistra, without whom I would have accomplished significantly less.

Edited 3/3/2020 to add: The sequel to this fic, The Princess's Guide to Popular Statecraft, is currently in progress. Find a preview here as chapter 45.

Some things: reminder that the playlist for The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal is available on Spotify, and I delight to inform you, it is full of bops. As always, if you enjoyed this story, I would be immensely grateful should you wish to leave a review or recommend to any friends/groups/blogs; it's always nice to know my work has been appreciated, and please know that I am incredibly indebted to you for your support. If you enjoyed the story AND you're curious about my original work, you can find my books at olivieblake dot com. My latest, The Lovers Grim, volume III of my fairytale collections, will be available this Friday, June 21.

Lastly, an introduction to my next WIP: Divination for Skeptics.

The latest in magical advancements is an enchantment that reveals the bearer's romantic compatibility with another person. Effectively eliminating uncertainty from dating, the charm can tell you whether or not you've found The One with a precise, Hermione Granger-approved calculation of traits and preferences. It's a foolproof method of predicting relationship happiness. It's also, for Hermione, positively dreadful news. Dramione, post-war, soulmate AU.

We're back in the Potterverse for this one (for the record, it includes a pairing I considered using in this universe but didn't, which is an extremely vague statement that probably doesn't help) and is now available for you to follow, should you wish to do so. I've left a little preview here as chapter 44. Hope to see you there!

As ever, it has been an honor to put these words down for you; I sincerely hope you enjoyed the story.

xx, Olivie

44. Divination for Skeptics Preview

Divination for Skeptics Preview

a/n: And now, for something totally different—a preview of my new WIP, Divination for Skeptics.

Diagon Alley, London
14 March, 2001

Hermione spotted Harry at the front of the room, slunk so low in his chair with his arms folded that he appeared, from a distance, to be napping. She rolled her eyes fondly, nudging aside one of the other press correspondents and falling into the empty seat beside him, poking him awake.

"Ouch, bloody Christ, I—oh, it's you." He sat up, yawning. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" she retorted, fussily moving his arm aside and inspecting his badge, which read EVENT SECURITY. "Security?" she echoed, scoffing aloud. She raised a brow in reference to the exceedingly tame audience, which consisted of no more than twenty other journalists and reporters. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Harry replied with a reluctant indication of agreement, settling the badge back against his shirt—which was, per usual, atrociously wrinkled. Hermione glanced around, confirming that no one from Witch Way was watching before casting a quick, silent charm, pressing the fabric smooth and then, after a moment's hesitation, tucking the tails neatly into his trousers.

Harry scarcely noticed, raking a hand through his unruly hair and turning to her with a frown, glancing narrow-eyed at her own press badge. "This is what the Prophet has you covering?" he asked, surprised. "I thought you were a Ministry correspondent."

An unpleasant reminder, but it had been bound to come up. "Recently, I've been… reprimanded," Hermione confessed, lowering her voice. "It appears Minister Shacklebolt didn't care for my last exposé, or so my editor informed me when he banished me to the meaningless swamp of—" She broke off, repulsed, before admitting, "Human interest pieces."

Harry chuckled. "Well, you did specifically say that anyone who agreed with the Wizengamot's plan for modulated creature reform had fewer convictions than a mimbulus mimbletonia and the frontal lobe of a decapitated spider."

"So?"

"So, I assume Kingsley didn't care for it," Harry mused, "seeing as he authored the bill."

"If he wasn't prepared to handle criticism, he shouldn't have gone into politics," Hermione replied, pursing her lips. "And anyway, we were talking about you, not me. What's a war hero and star Auror doing supervising an unremarkable press conference?" she asked him, considerably doubtful. "I can't imagine there will be any assassination attempts. Or even mild havoc."

Harry shrugged. "Crowd control is part of the job," he replied, sounding as if he'd been recently reprimanded himself. "Apparently it's the best place for my particular… enthusiasm."

Hermione winced. The last time Harry and Ron had been on duty in Knockturn, Harry had caused something of a highly public scene, chasing and disarming a man he thought to be under the Imperius curse who, it turned out, was merely intoxicated, and on his return from what a less polite person might call a brothel.

That, and he had also been the son of a prominent and none-too-pleased Warlock.

"I think Harry just gets a bit worked up, that's all," had been Ron's subsequent commentary to Hermione, revealing their supervisory Auror had evaluated Harry in the incident report to be, quote, 'unproductively paranoid.' "A Dark Lord was after him for most of his life, wasn't he? And nobody ever suspected anything back then, so I guess it's not that surprising that he overdoes it sometimes, really. Either that, or he's just bored," Ron added conclusively around an overlarge bite of sandwich, at which point Hermione prompted him to chew, for heaven's sake, with his mouth shut.

Ron's final thoughts on the matter were that Harry would get used to it, eventually. "S'easy," Ron said, referring to the daily functions of a newly-minted Auror. "Which is probably what he hates."

Hermione wasn't surprised to hear Harry wasn't adjusting well to civilian life. Adherence to authority was a difficult thing to re-learn (or, in Harry's case, learn), particularly after everything they had been through.

"Well, still. It's quite a good experience, isn't it?" she asked him in reference to his event security post, pitching her voice to its most optimistic. "Maybe they just think you're well-suited to spotting trouble before it starts, hm?"

Harry gave her a doubtful look. "Thanks, Hermione," he said, "but I don't think—"

Above them, the lights dimmed.

"Oh, hush, it's starting," Hermione said hastily, nudging him with relief and conjuring her quick-notes quill.

a/n: In which: Hermione obsessively consults a spreadsheet. Theo repeatedly gets himself arrested. Harry works too many night shifts. Draco tries to be left alone; fails disastrously. On the bright side, they're all in agreement that this is 100% George Weasley's fault.

The full first chapter, should you choose to pursue it, is available to follow now. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

45. Sequel Preview

Sequel Preview: The Princess's Guide to Popular Statecraft

a/n: Hi, me again! In case you haven't heard, I have begun writing the sequel to this fic: The Princess's Guide to Popular Statecraft. Below is a preview of the opening chapter, the entirety of which is now available in my profile. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: A Lady Will Find a Compromise

DAILY PROPHET, The UK's Top Source for Breaking News
ProphetOnline

ROYAL FAMILY IN CRISIS! Fmr Palace source cites Hermione Granger's difficulty; terrorizing staff, refusal to appear at State functions, forcing a rift between Prince Draco and Prince Lucius
— "I made a terrible mistake!" Exclusive coverage of Prince Draco's heartbreak and regret!
— King Abraxas 'very disheartened' as tension mounts; how Draco and Hermione have 'lost all perspective' while The Firm struggles to stabilize floundering public approval
— Just WHO is advising the soon-to-be Princess of Wales? Inside the staffing nightmare and costly renovations at Kensington Palace

3:25 PM - 30 Jun 2018
810 Retweets 689K Likes

Well, as you can see, everything's going swimmingly. Ironically it isn't not, minus all this about me being some sort of Antichrist—which you'd think would be nothing new, and you'd be right. Though even I sometimes find myself grudgingly impressed by the Daily Prophet's necromancy when it comes to reinvigorating the same dead horse.

Before we get into my latest assault on Britain's constitutional monarchy and/or the apocalyptic disintegration of the Commonwealth, I think it's important to focus on the good. True, the abdication of Prince Lucius (the man) incited something of a broad institutional crisis, but he, at least, is happy, having decided to give up his claim to the throne in favor of loving his wife, reasserting his health, and working towards resolution with his father. Narcissa is also happy, having recently been reunited with her previously estranged husband (and also having escaped prosecution for the abduction of any insidious celebrity journalists, much to my considerable relief). Pansy and Harry are happy, being deeply enamored with their precocious daughter and newly thrilled for the impending birth of their son. Theo and Daphne are happy, one being deeply invested in growing the Transfiguration Project while the other expands her massively successful business. My parents are happy, having recently stepped back from their dental practice in favor of taking a sabbatical to travel the world. Blaise is Blaise, which means we think he's happy, though we won't know for sure until he tells us or we die, whichever comes first. Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart are currently too distracted by their ongoing social media rivalry to focus on destroying our lives; Luna Lovegood is somehow one of the sought-after political pundits in the U.K.; Prince Lucius (the dog) is starting to regrow the small patches of fur lost to a recent skin infection; Hortense and Thibaut are wanted for war crimes (I assume, anyway—with them, no news is ideal news); and of course, Draco and I are happily wedded, and blissfully—revoltingly, according to Pansy—in love.

All's well that ends well, as the poets say, and they're not wrong. Or they wouldn't be, anyway, if our wedding had actually been the end.

But love is tricky, isn't it? It's not exactly something you do alone, for one thing, and it's also—even with the best intentions—somewhat blind, which might be why I left out certain pieces of the story until now. In my defense, it wasn't so much failure to notice the existence of any simmering turmoil as it was having no reason to suspect any of those things would ever become my problem. After all, how was I to know that one of my friends had some foregone family history that might suddenly pop up with the arrival of an old vendetta? Or that the politics of the country I'd left behind might somehow bleed into my personal life? Or that I was going to have to be someone's employer, much less in need of an entire household staff?

Love is beautiful, and it isn't just blind; it's also really forking stupid. So, seeing as we've got a lot of ground to cover in terms of all my so-called misbehaviors, let's just jump right in.

June 5, 2018
Clarence House, London, England

"I suppose one might be wondering what a new wife does for her husband on the occasion of his twenty-eighth birthday," Hermione said aloud, surveying the still-covered furniture in the house she was to occupy temporarily for the next unknown period of time. "Difficult enough without consideration of the fact that one's new husband is the soon-to-be formally invested Prince of Wales, and therefore already in possession of most giftable items—"

"And certainly not aided by any other facts," contributed Theo, adding offhandedly, "And is it Draco's birthday again? I swear he just had one last year," before falling onto a peach-colored chaise and stretching luxuriously outwards, ankles dangling below the edge.

"Oh, he did, but just the one," said Hermione, before adding in an afterthought: "And remind me why you're here again?"

"Because I'm Draco's emotional support animal," said Theo. "And also, Daphne's not home."

"Right," Hermione said. "Just checking."

"I told you you didn't have to get me anything," said Draco with a heavy sigh, entering the room behind them and pulling Hermione in with one arm. He kissed the top of her head soundly, adding, "Marrying me was plenty—and besides, I think at this point I'm rather stupendously in your debt."

"You do make an excellent point about that," Hermione agreed, leaning into his shoulder. "I can't say I ever pictured my honeymoon being punctuated by daily conference calls with your father and Dobby. Nor did I suspect we'd be moving in with your parents."

"Well they're not actually here, and it's only temporary," Draco reminded her, looking moderately racked with guilt. "Just until our rooms are finished at Kensington Palace, I promise." Then, with his hands gripping remorsefully at her waist, he added quietly, "You don't regret it, do you?"

Silly man. "Not even a little," Hermione said, twisting around to face him. "Not for a moment."

"Well… hold that thought, would you?" Draco sighed, lifting her chin with a finger. "And give me a solid five seconds of affection before I'm forced to ask something else of you."

"Oh, happily," Hermione agreed, at which point Draco pulled her into his arms and kissed her as shamelessly as he might have done if Theo were not plainly there to witness it. (In fairness, Theo was busy pretending to read something that purported to be a very old and probably quite valuable edition of the Bible, which Hermione was intrigued to discover had not spontaneously crumbled to ash in his hands.)

Since the wedding, Hermione and Draco had come to establish a rhythm in which bad news was preceded by a five-second romantic interlude. True, it worked most obviously to Draco's benefit to soften her up before announcing something newly unsavory, but over time it was proving to be mutually beneficial. Generally speaking, a brief foray into the love that had lured her here in the first place was enough to remind Hermione that there were worse career choices to make, whatever the subsequent bad news happened to be.

"So," Draco said when they parted, smoothing a curl behind her ear, "remember how much you loathed those calls with Dobby?"

"Oh no. Do we have another one?" she guessed, grimacing. It was certainly no secret that while her new family was in the best shape it had been for decades, it was also politically in crisis. Ever since Lucius' decision to renounce his succession to the throne, there had been renewed public outcry from several anti-monarchy journalists and MPs. What was the purpose of maintaining a system of primogeniture when the role of stewardship could be so easily declined? Hermione could practically recite the contents of certain pro-Labour articles in her sleep; in fact, she wouldn't have been surprised if she learned that she actually had been. Already, Draco had picked up a habit of stress-induced, systematic teeth-grinding that now required him to wear an absurdly unsexy (albeit intensely endearing) mouthguard at night.

That was the odd charm of marriage, wasn't it, knowing that? Threaded adoringly alongside the fault lines of their union was the privilege of intimacy with him, the granular details of what he truly was, the problems that kept him awake that were also, willingly, hers. To everyone else, Prince Draco was a rich man in a navy suit who offered photographs and gave speeches; his position in the world was, to many, the result of class prejudice, archaic tradition, and very, very little else. To Hermione, however, he was the sometimes half-unintelligible boy with bleary, tired eyes, her favorite companion, who cared about his country and his family's legacy so much he nearly broke his teeth every night just to keep them safe. Her husband, simultaneously the Prince of Wales, was a man who adored time with his goddaughter and displayed unfaltering self-possession in all circumstances and who leapt at the chance to fetch Hermione a glass of water if she even hinted at being thirsty. That some might not think him deserving of every privilege in the world the same way she did was… politically reasonable. But it was also incredibly distant.

Hermione couldn't honestly say whether she would have thought much of the monarchy if she had followed the path she'd always intended to take. What had she thought of King Abraxas before marrying into his family? She struggled to remember, given everything that had come to pass, but she suspected that an alternate universe Hermione might not have batted an eye if she discovered the United Kingdom had suddenly done away with kings and queens altogether. Sometimes, secretly, Hermione's biggest source of stress was that she couldn't disagree with some of the arguments: the monarchy was a vestigial organ, a foregone source of governance that existed primarily to bloat public funding and to persist in celebration of a baseless hierarchical tradition. Do away with the aristocratic class, by all means! Democracy would always bear more fruit—or so another version of Hermione might say, had she not also hypocritically salivated over her wedding tiara.

But since she so dearly loved the man who would have sacrificed everything to fulfill the duties he was tasked with from birth—and because she really didn't want some grand institutional failure to come down like a guillotine on his beautiful blond head—Hermione figured she ought to join him in his fight to keep his family's reign alive. At the very least, she certainly owed it to him not to point out that maybe, possibly, the reason so many people took issue with his family was because they were a teeny, tiny, little eensy bit… right.

Luckily it wasn't about right or wrong; not anymore. She'd chosen her side when she chose to be Draco's wife, his partner, and now she was also his colleague, the newest member of the British Royal Family and suddenly (depending on the day) both its favorite scapegoat and its only hope. True, at times Hermione was still considered too radical, too common, too aloof, a mere distraction from its deep systemic failures—but on better occasions she was a fresh perspective, a thinking woman, an inspiration to new generations of women and girls.

There was never any telling which it would be on any given day, or which of her qualities might be called upon to dominate the narrative. So to say that even a phone call with Dobby might disrupt her newly-wedded bliss for any number of reasons was really quite a forking understatement.

"Do you want the terrible news first, or the bad news?" asked Draco, dragging her back to the point.

"Mm, terrible news first," judged Hermione.

"Oof, this Job guy," commented Theo nonsensically, turning a page. "Yikes."

"Well, thank you for that marvelous refresher on the importance of perspective, Theodore," offered Draco wryly, "but more to the point, our first formal State visit after the ceremonial investiture has been scheduled for August."

"Oh," said Hermione, surprised by how harmless 'terrible' had turned out to be. "That's not so—"

"It's with President Bagman," said Draco.

"—ba- fork no," she said, belatedly registering the name of the American president for whom she had resolutely not voted two years prior. "No. No. Are you joking? No, Draco Lucius Abraxas Wales, absolutely not, not a chance—"

"As for the bad news," Draco continued, clearly attempting to rid himself of all his burdens at once, "Dobby and Winky will be remaining on staff with my mother and father, which means we will actually not be hearing from Dobby much further and will, in fact, be needing a new chief of staff as soon as humanly possible. You will also need your own staff, ideally someone from the peerage, obviously a wom-"

"I am not sitting in a room with Bagman," Hermione cut in frankly, before retreating with sudden alarm to, "Wait, a whole new staff?"

"No, no, not an entirely new staff, or at least I very much hope not. We're good people, we don't, I mean we haven't—Nott, any assistance?" Draco stammered in a panic, sounding a lot like he was flinging a very hot potato across the room.

"You know, I hate to be predictable, but I think Satan makes an excellent point," replied Theo, crisply turning a page.

"Okay, thank you Theo, very helpful as ever—look, Hermione," Draco said, seizing one of her hands in what appeared to be a fervent attempt at reassurance. "I was really hoping to find a way out of dinner with Bagman, believe me, but perhaps there's a way to see it as a possible… advantage?"

Hermione's mind was reeling far too distractingly to produce anything sensible. "How on earth could there be an advantage?"

"I—" Draco broke off, wincing. "Well, I—"

"Here's a thought," Theo said, glancing up from his apparently very riveting text. "What if you tried considering that divine wisdom is simply… hidden from human minds?"

"Are you having some kind of delayed religious awakening?" asked Hermione.

"Of course not, I'm much too far gone," said Theo curtly, snapping the book shut and rising to his feet. "Anyway, I'm off. Dinner at ours later? Excellent. Good luck with the renovations, by the way," he added, resting a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "I hear your new neighbors have a certain… joie de vivre," he mused, and then smacked a kiss to the side of Draco's ear, strutting out of the room and whistling as he went.

"Wait," said Hermione, frowning. "Wait, did he say—? Wait. Wait." She blinked. "WAIT—"

"Right, so," attempted Draco, staring mournfully after Theo as if he hoped the latter might suddenly change his mind and come back. "I suppose it's possible I may have… neglected to add there was actually calamitous news in addition to the bad and terrible. But it's a palace, isn't it?" he offered Hermione in a desperate Hail Mary. "There's so many rooms—so many rooms, truly. Enough to stage a revolution over, I promise—"

Hermione glanced over at Draco as he stumbled to a halt; she looked, specifically, at the crispness of his fading sunburn and the newly sun-bleached tips of his hair. She recalled the mindless euphoria of their holiday, the delight of waking each morning to sit down to breakfast with him. The way he'd made her come four times in the span of ten minutes yesterday, an episode of magnanimity in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable afternoon.

Very confusing, really, to be so annoyed and yet so helplessly attracted to one's somewhat frustrating coworker. She couldn't say she'd ever experienced that specific sort of annoyance with Oliver, and certainly not with Minerva.

"You might have told me all of that sooner," she grumbled.

"I know." He looked away. "I had my suspicions about some of it, but I only just got off the phone with my grandfather and—" He sighed. "It doesn't help, I'm sure, but most of it was news to me as well."

She considered him again, optimistically recounting the bounty that had been their recent nuptials. Not that the sex hadn't been good while they were dating, but there was something different about it now. A certain… freeing sensation. He had promised himself to her, body and soul, and now there was something newly primal in it—in the ownership factor, the indebtedness. The joining of souls, the melding of lives, the braiding of two fundamentally disparate experiences. Sure it was mildly terrifying, the idea that nothing they did could possibly sever themselves from the other, but it was exciting, too, wasn't it, that everything they did from here forward was inextricably bound?

He's a job, Pansy's voice said in her head, and protest as you will, but neither of you are any good at it.

"Can anything be done about it right now?" Hermione asked him.

Draco shook his head, somewhere between guilty and relieved. "No."

"Then let's not," she suggested, taking his hand and tugging him down to the peach-pink chaise to delight for the time being in their mutual ineptitude.

a/n: In which: a classic tale of newlyweds vs. in-laws gets messy. Media scrutiny continues, an unexpected arrival resurrects a dead family feud, and new fears turn a political tide that even a monarch is helpless to stop. How to move forward with your new life without forgetting where you've been? A guide to international diplomacy, maintaining a stiff upper lip, and doing some actual good in the world.

The full first chapter, should you choose to pursue it, is available to follow now. Thank you for reading, and hope you enjoy!