A/N: This was supposed to be posted for Valentine's Day (as a one-shot, no less) but it has now completely lost the run of itself and is likely to be more of a three-part fic instead. Hope you enjoy.

They said she was blessed, on the day of her birth. Born to wealth, and consequence too (though not too much consequence, as Bess the maid was oft heard to say) and a family who were loving and generous and wise, on a gilded September evening.

If her childhood seemed idyllic, it was perhaps only the work of chance, or merely that she had been raised by those who were good and gentle in her most tender and formative years, learning patience and charity of spirit as she learnt her letters.

If she was said to be indulged, it was because to gratify her was a pleasure that would be felt throughout the entirety of the demesne, and because it was understood that spoiling her did not necessarily mean that she was spoilt. Or so said her doting father.

And, in his way, he was right.

She was as sweet-tempered as she was brimming with curiosity, eager to share and learn. As she grew, if she could not be found in the schoolroom then she was sure to be found in the farmyard, or visiting Mrs Grady; or perhaps trying her hand at ploughing a field, or ensconced in the library; or maybe bringing flowers to Old George the woodsman, or telling stories to her father's favourite horse.

And if indulging her did perhaps result in certain headstrong tendencies, her mother was always quick to check her and remind her of the value of perseverance and compromise. It was so easy for this little girl to grow, to flourish in a home such as this, cosseted and protected and loved.

Too easy, some might say.

And if the little girl was quick to learn the virtue of generosity in giving to those less fortunate, and to speak up when she saw wrongs in the world, she was quicker still to learn the gnawing agony of grief when she first encountered it in the death of her mother.

Something within the little girl, the music of her soul, which sounded suspiciously like her dear mother's voice, gave an untimely lurch and fell still. And after that, everything changed.

"Hermione! Come quickly, my love!"

Her breath caught as she heard her father's voice carry up from the hallway of their little manor. She picked up her skirts and ran down the stairs, unruly as a puppy – but without a mother's presence who was to say no?

"Papa," she cried, launching herself into his arms breathlessly as she reached the hallway where her father waited. "Oh Papa, I will miss you! Don't go, I beg."

"Little one," her father murmured, "I promise to you I shall not be gone long. I must attend to this one matter. Diggory requires it." She buried her face into the warmth of his maroon waistcoat, and tried to hide her tears. "Attend to your books, study them well and I will quiz you when I return. And mind what Bess asks of you."

She nodded, breathing in the familiar scent of orange and sandalwood and books, then lifted her eyes to his.

"Don't be too much trouble," he finished fondly, "and for Heaven's sake, don't drag the Longbottom boy into it. His grandmother will set an army on us."

She giggled at that, and he set her down before wiping away her lingering tears with gentle fingertips.

"I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, little one."

Two months, then three, and she missed him bitterly all the while. Letters arrived regularly, detailing the excitement of life at the Court with Lord Diggory, and the vast array of amusements to be found in the Great City, and Hermione pored over them endlessly.

Perhaps it was her youth, or perhaps she simply chose to ignore it, but the frequency with which her father wrote of a certain widow of his acquaintance might have given her pause. And perhaps if it had, the news of her father's engagement to Madam Vane as the fourth month of his visit waned would not have come as quite so much of a shock.

Still, she rallied quickly, for she was a resilient child, healthy and robust, and the news, when it came, of step-sisters was a great temptation to an only child such as she.

They arrived at the house in state, two carriages and a number of outriders, like a parade of colour and sound. Hermione, in her best dress, stood outside the manor quivering with excitement. As they rounded the bend and came into view, she let out an irrepressible squeak and turned to Bess and Jim, who were standing in readiness behind her.

"Can you see? They are coming, they are coming!"

"Yes, child, I see," Bess chuckled, tweaking one of Hermione's curls.

She turned just as the first carriage came to a halt in front of the manor. A footman jumped down and swiftly opened the door, and her father stepped out. Forgetting everything Bess had said about decorum, Hermione let out an incoherent shriek and flung herself into her father's waiting embrace.

"Papa you're home!"

"Yes indeed, little one," he laughed, as he hugged her tightly. "Though, I fear I may not be able to call you that much longer. How you have grown, dear Hermione. And I have missed you greatly."

"I missed you more," she replied.

"Now, little one, let me introduce you to your new mamma," he said as he turned and held out his hand with a flourish. From inside the carriage came a gloved hand, small and elegantly turned, followed by the diminutive, dark-haired form of new Baroness Granger. "May I present," her father went on, "Lady Agnessa, my wife."

Hermione bobbed a curtsey, not quite as deferential is it should have been, and looked up into the woman's face. She had dramatic eyes, large and dark, and a rosy complexion, and was really rather beautiful. She bent down to Hermione and spoke in a soft, confiding voice.

"It is a pleasure to meet you Hermione," she said. "Your father has talked of little but you since we turned to home. I know my two little girls are tremendously excited to meet you." Then she turned towards the carriage and called out, "Girls, do come out now and meet your new sister."

And one after the other, two dark haired girls, both of a similar age to Hermione, climbed down from the carriage, with the aid of the footman. They made their way over to where Hermione stood with her father and Lady Agnessa.

"Hermione," said her father, "this is Clíodhna and Romilda. I hope you will help them feel at home here."

"Of course, Papa," she nodded, smiling hopefully at the two girls.

A year passed, and the residents of the little manor quickly became accustomed to the new additions to the family. It was noted by many the efforts that Baron Granger made to ingratiate his new wife and daughters to the neighbourhood, and that he was as good and generous and noble as ever he had been. And though it was said by some that Lady Agnessa was not quite as warm or as brilliant a woman as the late Baroness, nor as sympathetic or charitable, she was largely well-liked.

Hermione, for the most part, liked her step-mother. It was strange at first, seeing her father with another woman like that. If she was troubled by it, she kept quiet for the sake of her father. Lady Agnessa was careful to be kind and solicitous, particularly if her father was present, though she was less so when he was absent. Nor was Hermione blind to the fact that she favoured Romilda, indulged and petted her, as readily as she dismissed Clíodhna.

Hermione found her step-sisters to be strange creatures, though pleasant enough. Both abhorred books, which seemed to her a mortal sin, though Romilda was particularly vocal on this matter. Romilda was an exceptionally pretty girl, who would grow into a beautiful young woman, and she knew it. Though she could be amiable when she chose it, her affected airs and artful manner only served to hint at the underlying pettiness of character which Hermione would come know and loathe so much.

By contrast, Clíodhna was quiet and moon-faced, graced with a simplicity of nature that was greatly appealing. Though she was sweet-natured and placid, she lacked the quickness of mind and cultivation of taste which Hermione so craved in a companion. She had simple tastes and a modest demeanour, which made her an ideal foil to her odious sister.

And if Hermione became rather quieter by nature, more watchful; retreating to her books and her friendship with Neville Longbottom, nobody spoke of it, save for the faithful maidservant Bess, and certainly not to the master.

However, finally, the family settled together in the humdrum sort of way these occur, into the slow-moving ebb and flow of seasonal plantings and harvestings, of festivals and feasts, and life inexorably plodded on.

Until, in the most abrupt and awful way, death came knocking once more.

The death of her father struck her in the most profound of ways, and Hermione, for the first time in her life, wanted to shut away the entire world. Once she had seen him laid to eternal rest in the cold earth, she retreated to her rooms and there she stayed for close onto a month.

Bess was the only one who could coax her to eat, to perhaps let a little sunlight and fresh air into her room, to please, Miss Hermione, for the love of your parents, just have a care for yourself.

When first she emerged from her rooms, she was too much wrapped in her cloak of grief to notice and the changes had been subtle. She saw only memories of her father, potent and real and agonising, and ever-distant memories of her mother. Of her lost family.

But slowly, too slowly, she later acknowledged, she began to hear the whispers of the servants, and see the slow erosion of the home she had cherished – the new wallpaper in the morning room, the chandelier in the hallway – and wonder how she had missed the signs all along, and if she could have changed any of it, stopped it somehow, only she had opened her eyes and really looked.

Time passed and still more changes; to the house, to the staff, to the land on which they, and so many others, depended. It took her father's death and all that followed after for Hermione to see the truth as it plainly was: that her step-mother was a vile and manipulative woman, who cared more for the appearance of her house and daughters than her duty as the lady of the house.

Of course, it was a slow process – and Lady Agnessa was careful, always so careful, to ensure that these changes occurred without Hermione's knowledge. And they were so small and incremental that Hermione thought it fruitless to rail and rage against something she could not undo. And so the anger that simmered away inside her grew hot and potent, and remained unspoken.

Until the day Hermione arrived home to find that her step-mother had dismissed three of their servants and two of their gardeners. Good, honest people who worked hard to provide for their families, all of whom lived within the borders of their land, who'd had their livelihoods stripped away as though it was nothing. And, Hermione supposed, to Lady Agnessa it was nothing – for she cared nothing for their land, or the people who depended on them.

She had done her best. She had allowed Lady Agnessa to run the house as she chose, with no complaints ever spoken aloud. She had tried so hard, for her father's sake, to see the good in the older woman... but it was fruitless. The selfishness and injustice of her step-mother's actions burned like bile in her stomach, and she could taste the angry scornful words on her tongue as she stormed into the drawing room.

"Madam, I beg a word," she began, her voice lacking its usual veneer of politeness.

Agnessa, looking rather beautiful in the golden afternoon light, turned shrewd black eyes towards Hermione.

"You've heard then, I presume," she said, her tone regretful.

"I did." She was not deceived by her-stepmother's words. "Why? Why did you dismiss them? What reason can you give that will justify such an action? You have deprived good people of gainful employment, which is our obligation to offer, as you are very well aware!"

"Yes," she sighed. "I am indeed aware of that, Hermione, my dear. However, the fact of the matter is that we will be unable to pay them all. I have been maintaining the books since Ale"- she cut off, and cleared her throat genteelly, then proceeded. "For close to a year, and our current yields are not sufficient to maintain our outgoings. The duties we paid following your father's funeral were heavier than expected.

"And so," she finished, a tight smile gracing the bow of her mouth, "we must economise."

Hermione's anger stilled for a moment inside of her, but then it surged anew as she thought of the many little changes, and how they had added up; what they had resulted in.

"Are you saying that the new carpets in your chamber, or the re-panelling of the dining room, or heavens, any number of the new looking glasses and trinkets you have scattered about the house, that they have not contributed in some way to this mess we now find ourselves in?"

"No, I don't deny that," her step-mother responded, frowning. "But most of the alterations I have made were necessary. I know how well you love this house, my dear, and perhaps that makes you blind to its flaws; however, the manor was (and still is) in need of refurbishment. Any changes I made were because they were required."

Hermione remained silent, knowing she was far from an impartial judge when it came to her beloved home, and conceding that maybe the other woman had a point.

"Now, as to the staff I dismissed," Agnessa pressed on, "I have assured them that as soon as we are able, we will be offering them their former roles here. I will have no more discussion on the matter today, for it has been a most trying day."

"Very well," Hermione murmured, turning to leave.

"Would you be good enough to run to the kitchens and have Mrs Hill send up some tea?" her step-mother asked, stalling her a further moment. "I fear I have the most frightful headache."

She looked back to where the baroness sat. The woman had brought a hand to her head and her eyes were lowered. Hermione watched her for a moment, taking in the elegant line of her profile, the fall of perfect black curls; the burgundy gown, the crushed velvet and exquisite embroidery gleaming in the marigold light of the late afternoon.

"That dress..." Hermione began, making her tone warm, amiable. "It's beautiful."

Agnessa looked up, and Hermione thought she saw a flicker of wariness in her eyes, followed by a swift flare of pride that showed itself in the hard line of her jaw.

"Thank you, my dear," she replied, her voice as smooth and saccharine as ever.

Hermione turned away from her then, making her way once more to the door, pausing only when she had reached it. She looked back a final time, meeting the other woman's black stare, hating her a little bit for what she was.

"New, isn't it?"

And without hesitating to see if her parting jibe had been received, she strode from the room.

And so life trundled on, with Lady Agnessa making further changes to the life Hermione had always known, until it no longer resembled anything she remembered from that golden, idyllic time. Childhood was long gone, and the place she loved so dearly unrecognisable.

After her step-mother continued her culling of the staff, Hermione had begun to assist the remaining servants with their work – for there was more work than hands to do it, and her step-mother and step-sisters did nothing to help. It became a common sight to see Hermione in the kitchens helping Cook with the bread, or in the gardens with Hector learning how to maintain the beds, or dusting the library. It was equally as common for her to be seen taking her step-mother to task for her outrageous spending, for her indifference to the staff, to the labourers, to those who lived on their land.

The words fell on deaf ears, and as more and more staff were dismissed; as the farmland lay neglected, as Agnessa's spending carried on unabated, and the manor fell slowly into disrepair, Hermione stopped railing against the wilful ignorance of the woman and turned her attention to shouldering the burden of keeping the manor and the lands as best she could. To keep them from losing everything.

And somehow, quite by accident, Hermione found herself in the position of being a servant in her own house. The day she realised this, she was at the great scrubbed table in the kitchen kneading bread. Her arms were floured to the elbow, her hair was tangled, and under her apron, her dress was patched and frayed.

She sighed, and fought the urge to cry, and asked herself over and over, how it had come to this.

She was in the graveyard when she met him, and it was something of an inauspicious start, as he was lively and her mood was sombre. She had been visiting her mother's grave, leaving flowers for her anniversary. She'd been gone a long time and Hermione didn't talk to her very much anymore. Not in the way she once had, when her heart had been lighter and sorrow hadn't stolen the joy from she'd ever known.

She couldn't bring herself to tell her mother how things were now; how she remained, bewildered, amid the ruins of their life. And she didn't want to lie to her mother either. So, most often now, she stood in silent contemplation.

As was her custom, she visited the chapel to light a candle for her mother's memory and to murmur a few prayers, though they were not nearly as fervent as the words she truly wished to speak, but couldn't. She left the chapel, subdued and distracted, thinking of many things which required her attention once she returned to the manor, and was dismayed when she saw that it was raining.

It was not that she disliked the rain, but its sudden appearance, falling in fat, heavy drops, was inconvenient – at best. She was expected back at the manor – not by Agnessa or the ever-shrill Romilda, but by Neville, who had offered to visit her, like the sweet boy he was. She huffed heavily, rolling her eyes at the offending mauve clouds above.

As if in response to her audacity, the rain increased in intensity, following up with an angry rumble of thunder. Naturally.

"Oh for fu"-

"Swearing in the Lord's house?" asked a smooth voice from behind her. "My ears surely deceive me."

She swung around to see a gentleman, most likely a noble – a lord, she suspected – standing by the little gate to the graveyard beneath a black umbrella, a small smirk teasing his mouth.

"I'm sure they don't sir," Hermione retorted tartly, unimpressed with his smug attempt at humour.

"And where does a young lady such as yourself learn such foul language?" he asked, ignoring her blatant rudeness, stepping further into the graveyard and closer to her.

"Dockside workers," she replied, trying not to look at him, for his handsome features and pale eyes were more distracting than she wanted to admit. "I should have thought that much was obvious."

"Forgive me," he said, bowing slightly, mockingly, and clearly enjoying himself. "I was unaware that there was port here in the middle of nowhere. Thank you, miss, for rectifying that most egregious error on my part."

"I am only too happy to oblige, sir," she said sweetly, too sweetly, as she turned to look him full in the face. "Especially for one who is so quick to admit his ignorance."

A rumble of thunder drowned out the sound of his laughter.

"And are you one of the dockside workers," he asked, "or are you simply there to offer moral support and guidance in the form of gentle words?"

"Most certainly the latter."

"I suspected as much," he replied, shaking his head slightly. Then he moved his umbrella slightly, to peer up at the sky, scowling at it somewhat, then moved it back to cover his head again. "It doesn't look like it's going to stop anytime soon," he said, referring to the rain. "I have a carriage – I can offer you the use of it, if you wish."

"Thank you, sir," Hermione replied, rather surprised by the man's offer, "but I have to decline."

Now it was his turn to be surprised.

"There will be no impropriety, if that is what troubles you. I will wait here at the chapel, while my coachman sees you home. I assure you it would be of no consequence."

"Oh dear," she laughed. "That does not trouble me. I live not far from here, and am not troubled to wait out this squall. And as it is," she added, "I prefer to walk."

"A singular creature, aren't you?" he asked, raising a quizzical brow. "Tell me, what is your name, miss?"

"Well, I am hardly going to introduce myself to a perfect stranger, am I?" she said archly. "Please, sir, consider the... impropriety."

"Ah, now," he replied, with a smirk that felt somehow approving. "I thought you said that impropriety does not trouble you. You cannot own to one thing in this moment, and then disclaim it in the next breath."

"I believe some like to call that a woman's prerogative."

"Touché."

Hermione couldn't help the victorious smile that lifted the corner of her mouth and she met his eye in acknowledgement of a worthy opponent in a swift battle of wit.

"Your name. Please." He tried once more, using what felt like the full force of his charm.

And... she hesitated. She wanted to – oh, how she wanted to – but something inside her made her pause. It wasn't that he was a stranger necessarily. It was that he was – or would have been, if circumstances had been different – her social equal.

She did not care to count her step-mother or step-sisters as her equals.

It wasn't about status, not in a social-climbing, avaricious way, but more about the life she would have led, had her father lived. As it was, he lay buried next to her mother, only feet from where they stood.

And though she wore her best dress today – one of Romilda's cast-offs that Hermione had altered and de-frilled - and her hair was neatly contained beneath her bonnet, she knew that if this man had seen her on any other day, he would have taken her for a servant and likely paid her no notice at all.

And that made her ashamed, and sad in a way that seeped into her soul a little, tarnished it.

But as she opened her mouth to answer him, a cry came ringing out from the lane beyond the graveyard-

"Your Grace!"

The man – the duke, it seemed – rolled his eyes, his expression twisting into something which resembled a sneer, and turned to address the servant who stood in the lane.

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "Another moment, Thomas."

The boy nodded dutifully and bowed, and the duke turned his attention back to Hermione.

"Your Grace?" she asked, raising a sardonic brow. "You hid that well."

He grimaced, then gave a huff of laughter.

"I must leave. Before I go, please, give me your name."

"If you give me yours."

"Of course."

"Very well. My name is..." Hermione paused, making a choice. "Lady Madeleine Ross."

"Very well," he replied, echoing her. "Draco Black, Duke of Malfoy at your service, my lady," he murmured, taking her hand, and bringing it to his mouth, brushing his lips across her knuckles in a gesture that felt astoundingly intimate to Hermione.

And for once, she had no quick retort.

She saw him smirk as the realisation of this set in, and was infuriated, but found herself riveted by the slow caress of his thumb over her fingers, the soft pliancy of his warm fingers, as they moved to entwine with hers for the merest moment.

"Your Grace!" came the plaintive cry of the servant, Thomas.

"Time's up," he said, his voice husky. "Lady Madeleine," he went on, and Hermione felt strange hearing that name on his lips. "It has been a pleasure. I do hope to see you again."

Then he dropped her hand, made an immaculate bow, and turned to leave.

Just as he reached the gate, he paused and turned back to her one last time.

"Where was it you said you lived?"

"I didn't," she replied, having (thankfully) regained her wits. "Do have a good day, Your Grace."

Then she curtsied and retreated to the safety and stillness of the chapel once more.

If she thought she'd never see him again, then she was sorely mistaken. She may have hoped for it, in her distant, dreamy thoughts that bloomed in the dim warmth of the kitchen late at night, but she entertained them only as faint wishes from a tired heart. Little fantasies and fading memories to keep her sanity intact.

But a little less than a week after meeting the duke in the graveyard, she was caught once more, in even worse circumstances than before, though her mood was greatly improved and she was happy to see him.

The day, as if in apology for the week of wet weather which had preceded it, was warm and sunny, and found Hermione sitting at the edge of a river -though really it was more of a glorified stream - and dipping her bare feet into the shallows.

"Lady Madeleine!"

She looked up as she heard the name and felt her eyes widen when she saw the rather dashing figure of the Duke of Malfoy making his way towards her, astride a beautiful dappled grey stallion she couldn't help but admire.

"Your Grace," she replied, trying valiantly to suppress a flare of panic. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"Indeed," he said, as he dismounted the horse and approached her, "I had thought to ask you the same question, my lady."

"Well, this is my locale, so I believe that the onus remains on you to answer the question."

"I am visiting an acquaintance who lives not ten miles from here," he replied, with a careless shrug.

"Ten miles?" she asked, disbelieving.

"Yes," he sighed. "I am visiting the renowned thinker, Sir Remus Lupin. He lives over by Whitley."

"Yes," she murmured, "I know of him, though I have never had the privilege of meeting him." And then, despite her resolve not to be drawn in, "What is he like? I have read his works, but I have never heard him speak. I have heard he is a most engaging public speaker."

"He is, and even more so when in the privacy of his home. I am lucky to know him well; he is married to my cousin."

"How fortunate for you," she said, with an irresistible smirk, "that you are so happily blessed with such relations."

"And not the other way round, is that it?" he surmised, a warm glint in his eye, finished with a rough bark of laughter. "You're a rascal. Or is it a gypsy today?"

And she supposed she did look something like a gypsy. Her skin was golden from all the time she chose to spend out of doors - and away from the house; her hair was unruly and unclad by bonnet or ribbons, and her plain blue dress was dusty and rumpled.

"Yes, I think so," she mused, liking the idea. "I rather feel like one anyway."

"May I join you?" he asked, stepping closer to the bank of the river. "Where are your servants? What on earth did you do with them?"

The question was so absurd to Hermione that the laughter bubbled up before she could stop it.

"What is it?" he asked her, looking rather baffled.

"Sit down," she ordered, ignoring his questions altogether.

"My, but aren't you a bossy little thing," he observed, as he joined her at the edge of the river. "Used to having our own way, are we?"

"Yes," she lied airily, ignoring the twinge of her conscience. She'd lied to him about enough already. "Now, take off your boots."

He stared at her blankly, his pale brows pulling into a frown over quicksilver eyes.

"If you're to become one of the gypsies, then you must learn to go without shoes. And if you're going to be idling here with me, then you'll feel the river under your feet while you do it."

He remained unconvinced.

"It's nice," she urged. "Just try it."

She managed to contain her amusement at his suspicious countenance, as he looked around a number of times, before beginning to remove his boots. She watched as he cautiously dipped his feet into the fierce chill of the river, warm as the day was, and laughed.

"I told you so," she said, unable to keep the smug note from her voice.

"Somehow, I suspect you rather relish saying that."

"Of course I do."

They fell into comfortable silence then, for a few, fleeting moments.

It was easier to look at him this second meeting, though it shouldn't have been. The afternoon sun only served to burnish his good looks, making his pale hair golden, and throwing his aristocratic profile into sharp relief.

She could see, as the soft wind lifted the flaxen hairs on his forehead and his eyes fell closed, the weight and worries of life easing from him, smoothing the creases she hadn't even known were there. And she wondered how it was that this man had never known even the simple pleasure of lazing by a rivers edge and feeling the cold rush of water beneath one's feet and feeling truly alive.

What kind of life had he known?

"Is this not pleasant?" she asked, because she was curious to know what he thought.

"It is, yes," he replied, meeting her eye, and she shivered. "Do you often come here?"

"When I can."

"Does no one care where you go?"

"I wouldn't say that," she said after a pause.

"Then what would you say?" he asked, splashing his feet absently into the water.

"I would say..." she paused, considering her words, for she had to be careful. "That I am obliged to live with my cousins at present. And that they care no more for my company than I do for theirs."

"I see."

"Do you?" she asked doubtfully.

"We are not duty-bound to like our family members, you know, even if we cannot be rid of them," he replied, glancing at her companionably.

"Indeed. Am I then to assume that you have family members you would rather not be connected to?"

"Do not we all?"

"Touché."

"Who are your cousins?"

She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, attempting to ascertain his sincerity. His countenance was open and she was swayed more than she wished to say by earnest expression in his grey eyes.

"Very well," she sighed. "Baroness Agnessa Granger, and her daughters. Romilda and Clíodhna Vane."

And to her surprise, the duke grimaced at the mention of their names.

"You know them?" she asked, her astonishment evident.

"I am acquainted with them," he qualified.

"So you understand my predicament."

He nodded.

"And there is no one else you can rely on? No other family?" he asked.

"No..." she answered, and it was harder to say than she had anticipated. "Not anymore."

The silence which fell between them was stained by their unspoken thoughts, patterned by the sounds of the river and the rustling of the trees, and settled comfortably over them like a quilt.

"I must leave soon," Hermione began, breaking the stillness of the long moment.

"You must?" he asked, and she suspected there was a trace of disappointment in his tone.

"Yes, indeed I must," she laughed. "You do not truly think I spend my days frolicking like a nymph in nature?"

"When you paint such an appealing image, I cannot think of anything else," he replied, his voice low and intimate.

Hermione blushed.

While it may have been true that she'd flirted and danced with some of the local lads at the Beltane celebrations, none of them had spoken to her as he just had, with slow, slumberous intent, and cloudy grey eyes.

"Think what you like," she told him, struggling to regain her composure. "I must take my leave."

As spoke she began to pull her feet from the water, clambering back from the riverbank but she was halted in her movements by his hand on her arm.

"Before you go," he began, his voice husky, and his eyes smoky with an unnamed emotion. "Before you go, tell me, can I see you again?"

And though she knew it would result in no end of trouble – these things always did; though she knew she was already embedded in a web of lies entirely of her own making; though she knew she was playing a dangerous game... there was no hesitation, none at all, when she gave him her answer.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

A/N: So if you haven't already guessed, this is inspired just a little by the movie 'Ever After'. I am just a sucker for the Cinderella trope.

I had a lot of fun writing this. I'll be taking a few days to give my other fics some attention. I've been completely neglecting them in favour of this lately, but I hope to have the next installment posted by next weekend.

Please do let me know what you think :)

-Millie x

P.S: to all my lovely readers of Dreaming of Spires, please know I haven't abandoned it. It is currently undergoing major revisions and I am hard at work editing it, and bringing it in line with the newest chapter. Please be patient, and I am so sorry for the delay. X