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Chapter Text

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 traitoroussedition—"

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.