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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.

Chapter Text

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 thatended 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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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 actuallandscape 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.

Chapter Text

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—"nottalking, 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.

Chapter Text

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 dotire 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, "touchyou."

"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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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 meexpression) 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.

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.

Chapter Text

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 mustbe 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'tseem 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.

Chapter Text

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 courseHermione 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.

Chapter Text

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! Classictrope 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.

Chapter Text

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 DRAGONFLOWERblog) 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.

Chapter Text

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