Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth
- A Harry Potter Fanfiction -
Summary: Can an overthrown queen and a blacksmith apprentice mend together a kingdom riven by civil war and torn by a ruthless king?
Warnings and Disclaimers: All Harry Potter names, places, and related indicia are copyright to JK Rowling. Only the plot and writing style are owned by the author of this story.
Author's Notes: Originally written for a fanfiction site that housed only HP fics (and written under the same pseudonym), I have decided to post it here, at ffnet, simply because it is easier for me to archive all my stories in one place. Funnily enough, this story DOES NOT contain slash, and can be properly classified into the Adventure/AU genre.
1
The Weight of a Crown
She was furious, that much was obvious. Anyone in her shoes would have been, being summoned like a common petitioner—a peasant!—when she deserved more than just that. She deserved much more.
By the Grace of the Light, Ginevra Molly Weasley ter' Malfoy, Queen of Atalanta, Bearer of the Crown of Truth, Head of the Weasley House, deserved to be treated with the respect that came with her title. But here she was, half – running with sweat trickling down her back, answering the summons of the king. And it grated that she actually ran to answer the summons. Ran! Only her reined anger and her stubborn pride kept her from stopping and wiping the sweat from her forehead with her bare hands. So he thought he could make her obey his every word, did he? The Queen of Atalanta scowled, barely suppressing a growl in her throat.
The handmaiden of the Queen, hard put in keeping up with her lady's quick pace, almost winced at the sound coming from her Majesty. Hermione Granger was used to the Queen's famous temper that was fiery at best, explosive at worst. Sometimes, "explosive" did not even cover it; but she saw the queen this angry only once, and Hermione shivered at the thought. A good thing Queen Ginevra was not holding a sword right then, or she would have thought the formidable woman was going into battle like some of the famed queens of legend.
Be that as it may, the queen still looked as regal and as beautiful as Hermione imagined queens of legend supposed to have looked. She did not think it was the Crown of Truth, nestled in the queen's long red curls that gave her the aura of power. Nor was it the impressive gown of cream colored silk slashed with green at the sleeves and hem, the narrow waist and front embroidered with thread-of-gold flowers and studded with pearls, intricate lace spilling from her wrists and covering her neck. It was just her; the queen's presence in a room made you feel like you were staring at a mountain too high and too large for you not to notice. Hermione had seen ladies of noble birth consciously arrange skirts and hair when the queen passed by, and shot her a withering look when they were sure she did not notice. Jealousy, in Hermione's opinion, and she told the queen so, but Queen Ginevra only laughed, saying that ladies who were jealous of her ought to be throttled by their necks for them to see sense. Hermione could not understand that, until now, but it did not matter.
What mattered was that the queen was angry, and no good ever came from angering the queen. Hermione moaned inside, praying that whatever happened, she was not going to end up in prison, or worse, on the headsman's block. Things like that usually happened to handmaidens of legendary queens. And if Queen Ginevra did not match them in beauty, or in their extraordinary deeds, she was sure to be called legendary because of her temper alone. Hermione quickly added a prayer that the queen would not let her cutting tongue lash out, too.
As they rounded a corner, the queen stopped so suddenly Hermione squeaked when she almost ran into her, and heaved a loud sigh when she stopped a foot away, hands thrust forward at air. She automatically arranged the train of the queen's dress and stood five steps behind her, eyes downcast, trying to calm her rapid breathing from their long, 'brisk' walk all the way form the queen's quarters.
A rustling sound in front of her told Hermione the queen was preparing herself, taking deep breaths. Before she could risk a peek upwards, the sound of the queen's voice made Hermione jump.
"Announce me, Hermione," she said, her voice smooth and cool as ice. "They will know how to respect the Queen of Atalanta even if it means shoving the title down their throats." Hermione saw the queen's face, smooth and composed, her chin slightly raised, and only those who knew where to look could truly say she was angry. Her eyes were like twin furnaces of blue fire. She did not need to be told again, not when her Majesty was in a temper, and she bobbed a quick curtsy before she approached the trumpeter not too far from them, his head almost touching the ground with his elegant bow. From the nervous looks he darted towards the queen, Hermione was sure he knew it was best not to let the queen wait further. He nodded once, pulled a length of velvet cord in the corner, and the great double oak doors covered in gilt swung open slowly.
Hermione hurriedly took her place behind the queen with her head bowed as the sound of trumpets washed over the slowly increasing murmurs of voices and the swish of silk inside the Grand Hall. Even from her position Hermione could see lesser nobles—those nearest the door—started to bow when they realized who was coming.
As the trumpets faded, the voice of the announcer was loud and clear; unusual for such a stick of a man. "She comes! She comes! The Crown of Truth, Queen of Atalanta, Ginevra Molly Weasley ter' Malfoy comes to the Grand Hall!" He bowed once and backed away, giving way for the queen. Hermione could not help but catch her breath.
As the queen crossed the threshold, the Grand Hall that looked full of nobles swiftly backed away, creating a large space of carpeted floor that led straight to steps leading to the two thrones at the far end of the room raised above the heads of the nobles for everyone to see. Even though she had been employed in the palace for almost seven years now, the sight of the Grand Hall always took Hermione's breath away.
The room was well named, in her opinion. Gilt framed ceiling rose almost twenty feet above their heads adorned with intricate frescoes of an azure sky and great white birds none knew the name of, supported by six marble pillars on both sides, and the walls of polished white stone shone brightly under the hundreds of candles that hung from two great crystal chandeliers. The floor was of polished stone, too, although the middle was carpeted in the softest red velvet. That was where the queen was standing now, at the door-end of the Grand Hall, looking as if she intended to walk straight as an arrow through the raised platform and through the wall, as well, and expected the wall and throne to give way. But from the way her eyes blazed and her chin was raised, she seemed ready to walk through two walls, the throne, and the king himself. Hermione stifled a chuckle under her breath, and managed to look like she was just stifling a mild cough. The latter thought was typical of the queen; she had never let the king gain enough ground to bend her to his will, but enough to show that she was a dutiful wife as well as queen. In front of the nobles, at least. Vaguely she wondered what the queen was going to do, after being summoned here. If the torn bits of parchment that remained of the summons were any indication, the king would be lucky to be left sitting on his throne with his limbs intact when the queen was through with him.
Ginevra kept her hands on her skirts to keep them from shaking with anger. The moment the doors into the Grand Hall were opened, she knew something was wrong.
The Grand Hall was never this full before, not on an ordinary day like this. She stopped counting heads when she reached one hundred. It seemed her husband had called every man and woman who had titles even to a small estate here. And all of them were eyeing her warily, avoiding her gaze. That was normal; she was used to people wavering in her gaze, but today… Lady Lavender Brown, a strong supporter of her father, averted her gaze, licking her lips nervously. Odd. As she let her gaze roam the Hall, those she acknowledged her friends and supporters of her family avoided her gaze. Some of them wore sickly expressions on their faces that lacy fans and silk scarves could not hide. Something was definitely not right, and she intended to wring it out of her husband the moment she could lay her hands on his neck. The very thought made her itch to run all the way across the room, and hang dignity and title altogether!
Gracefully, with all the dignity and pomp of a queen her rank and power, Ginevra crossed the length of the Great Hall with her head held high. She was not sweating anymore—thank goodness she had not forgotten to tuck a handkerchief inside her sleeve—and she was sure her hair was properly arranged, thanks to Hermione's able hand, bless the young woman. If she wanted to make the king remember she was crowned queen of this bloody kingdom, she had to use all the advantage she could have.
The Crown of Truth on her head seemed to weigh heavier now than ever. It was made of thin gold and silver wire entwined with diamonds and pearls, and tiny swords made of beaten gold with the blade turned downward showing above her temples. The Crown of Truth symbolized the Atalantean Queen's highest duty: to uphold truth, and to be a beacon of light to illuminate it even in the darkest of times. Lady Justice's right hand, so to speak. A heavy burden to be shouldered by any woman, but previous queens had proven their worth by carrying that burden on silk-draped shoulders without sweating a drop. Ginevra intended to do the same.
Custom dictated that when the King held court while the Queen arrived, she had to speak the ancient formula and bow at the foot of the dais. Eyes flashing, Ginevra stood stiffly at the bottom step of the dais, looking up at the king seated on his golden throne engraved with eagles and hunters along the legs and arms. Her voice could have been frosty enough to make winter seem warm.
"The king wishes to speak with his queen. Here I am." Murmurs rose among the nobles, clearly noting the fact that she had no intention to bow to the king. Let them loose their heads over it, Ginevra decided, wishing she could snort. But queens did not snort. In public. Instead she gave a light laugh, her voice sweet as honey. "I would have sent a letter to say I would come in the afternoon, but I was doing nothing but talk and embroider with Hermione, so I decided to come now." There, just enough volume to carry through for twenty paces, and light enough to show she was not ruffled. Looking up with the most innocent smile she could muster, Ginevra studied the king's reaction.
With the Crown of Honor on his head and the silver-mounted black scabbard and blade at his hip, Draco Malfoy certainly looked like the king of Atalanta, although his presence carried just as much weight as Ginevra's. He was a dangerous man. Very dangerous. Dark gray eyes reminded Ginevra of cold steel, his smooth and handsome face wore a knowing smile, and he looked down at Ginevra as if he was amused by the games of a child. The thought made Ginevra wonder how she could have survived being married to him for three years. And it made her anger seethe.
Not once, noble women gazed admiringly at King Draco; he was after all—Ginevra admitted grudgingly—very handsome. With platinum blonde hair that was naturally held back in soft waves and barely touching the sides of his neck, he made women's hearts flutter and men look like thugs, even though they were dressed in fine silks. Ginevra knew that to assume Draco was only good for his looks would be hanging yourself by a noose; his face hid a deft and cunning mind, and a hunger for power that made her blood run cold. Not for the last time she considered relinquishing her throne and let those simpering cows who call themselves "ladies" squabble over who gets the crown first, and not for the last time she stamped the idea down. No matter what, she would not leave her people in the hands of a cold-blooded tyrant. And her family; they would not be safe anymore if she just—
"Ah, queen wife, I am glad you came as soon as you are able," Draco smiled even wider. He made the words "queen wife" sound like "servant". He stood up and gave her a bow that seemed almost a nod, and went down a few steps just short of a head above Ginevra, so he was still looking down on her. He held out his hand. "I was just about to announce something very important."
Ginevra did not hesitate to take his hand and smile back. Coolly. "It seems you mean to say something more than just an announcement, husband." She placed as much space between them as their joined hands would allow, Draco leading her, so that it seemed like he was a servant escorting the queen to her throne. Draco did not seem to notice it, however, and the smug smile on his face never wavered an inch. The dark green silk coat he wore was impeccable, trimmed in silver leaves and vines at the cuff and collar, a large gold banded ring mounted with a large emerald on his left finger, engraved with his house insignia, a serpent entwined around a dagger with the point down. Like Ginevra, he was Head of his House.
As she settled down on her throne—this one silver, engraved with flowers and trees all over the arms and legs—Hermione dutifully came to her side, arranging her skirts, which left her free to study the faces staring up at them. Mentally she made a list of Houses that supported her on the throne, and another list that supported Draco. To her irritation, the former list was comparably shorter than the latter. House Weasley was one of the three most powerful bloodlines in the kingdom, one of the three that had the right to the thrones upon one of which she now sat. One was House Malfoy; the other was all but erased from memory now, since the tragic incident almost twenty years past. As expected, when one House crumbles, other smaller Houses would come gobbling up what remained to become powerful themselves, but not as powerful as Weasley or Malfoy. Still, if they got over their minor squabbles and worked together, they would have to be considered very carefully…
The crown felt heavier today, Ginevra decided, and it was not just because of her imagination. She could feel the three years of struggle that had passed, of trying to overcome the power that Draco had suddenly possessed over the other nobles, and Ginevra knew she was feeling the strain. Her arranged marriage with Draco was entirely political of course, and imperative; her neck would have hanged from the gallows three years ago, along with the necks of all her family, if she had not agreed to marry Draco. The thought still galled her, even after all this time. But there had been no choice; even if she stubbornly refused to wed Draco he would find a way to force her, and veiled threats about her family had done it. Damn the man! She gripped her hands more tightly in her lap, but nothing showed in her face. What the bloody hell was he up to now?
Raising a hand casually for silence, Draco waited until the murmurs in the Grand Hall subdued before he spoke. "My fellow Atalanteans," he began gravely, his face suddenly solemn, "I have found, to my great shock and disappointment, a group of rebels set to destroy our hard-earned peace." Gasps of shock from the nobles. Ginevra barely kept her eyebrow from raising. Rebels? Now why would anyone in Atalanta rebel against the kingdom—
Draco nodded slowly, as if to share in their disappointment, but Ginevra was not buying any of it. "Yes, I understand; quite distressing. But what distresses me more, is that one of those captured rebels is someone I know very dearly." He gave Ginevra a pitying look. "He is even dearer to my queen wife."
Ginevra could not help but look confounded. She tilted her head and furrowed her eyebrows slightly before she could think. "Husband, what—"
Draco snapped his fingers, and a large man in dented mail and armor emerged from behind the king's throne, his helmet carried casually in one arm, the three white plumes of the Sword-General hanging limply from the top. Draco's man through and through, Ginevra had not personally liked Gregory Goyle, nor did she like him better when her husband appointed him the general of Atalanta's army. To Ginevra, the man was as stupid as he was big, and Gregory Goyle was huge.
"Your Highness," he bowed low, the white plumes on his helmet almost touching the floor. "We captured the rebels during a secret meeting last night. All of them pointed to one man as their leader." He gestured to two soldiers standing below, behind the king's throne, and a few moments later they were dragging someone along between them, a dirty sack covering his head. More murmurs from the nobles, and Ginevra saw one or two ladies faint on the spot.
The captive had his head hanging limply, bobbing this way and that as the two soldiers dragged and pulled him up the dais, stopping only two steps from the top. Clearly the man had not been treated kindly; dirt clung to his once-fine cloak of fine dark blue wool, and several ivory buttons were missing. There was also a tear on the left sleeve, and his boots were gone, leaving the man barefoot. Ginevra could see scratches on the soles of the man's feet. When they pulled off the sack, she wanted to faint, too.
She did not notice she had stood up until she was already holding up the man herself, shock written all over her face. "Father?" she asked faintly, then recovered herself by repeating her question. "What…what have they done to you?"
"G…Ginny?" Her father's voice came out a faint croak. This close, she could see his lips were cracked and dry, and there was thin line of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. He looked up in agonizing slowness, his eyes trying to focus. His left eye was swollen, and his hair was disheveled. Ginevra's eyes spun around to her husband's.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. Now she knew why there were so many nobles at court today. "My father is not a traitor to the kingdom, and he is certainly not a rebel to be treated like this!"
Draco sighed, shaking his head in a gesture of pity and helplessness, yet Ginevra saw the faint smile of satisfaction on his face before it faded like mist on sunlight. "Queen wife," he began, "you must understand. He was found last night by Atalantean guards in a secret meeting, plotting to attack the castle." He looked at her with a flat expression. "You know the punishment for treason, Ginny."
Ginevra bristled. "Never call me by that name," she said coldly, standing straight. "Release my father." She glared daggers at the soldiers standing beside her father. When they did not move, she snapped. "Release him, you fools! Or do you dare disobey me?" Her voice thundered across the Hall, and the soldiers leapt to obey, mumbling apologies as they hurriedly cut the ropes that bound her father. Arthur Weasley crumpled on the dais, too weak to stand, but Ginevra held herself from rushing to his side. She could tend to her father later; now, she had to be queen.
"You go too far, Draco," she said, eyes flashing. They agreed…he agreed, damnit! Her family should have been safe, they should have been—
"No, queen wife," Draco replied, and this time his cold stare was directed at her, and she shivered from fear. "I did what was necessary. But you…" his voice trailed off, and his face changed into a sad, forlorn expression, although his eyes never changed. "How could you? You have betrayed the kingdom and contrived a plan to rebel against me? Why?" He stepped towards her and took her hands in his, kissing them softly.
Ginevra's face paled, and she tried to pull her hands away. Draco's grip was like iron. She could see him smile against her hands, but when he looked up again, he looked almost pitiful. It was amazing how he could pull it off without a sweat. "Wh…what are you talking about?" she asked, her voice wavering. She knew what he was planning, what he was already doing, but she could not think of anything else to say. Ideas quickly filled her head, but she cast them aside. She could not leave her father here, nor could she let the kingdom be ruled by a lying snake. She cannot run! She was the queen! That last thought gave her an ounce of courage. It was small compared to the rising panic inside her stomach, but she held onto it tightly.
"General Goyle," Draco said, his voice not quite hard, but his eyes shining with malice, "tell them what you found last night."
General Goyle bowed low, and produced a crumpled note from inside his helmet. Even at that distance Ginevra could see her seal waxed at the bottom, and what she only considered a nightmare started to engulf her like quicksand as the large man read the letter that was written in a hand quite similar to her own.
"Father, I have considered your invitation, and I am now accepting it. I will supply the rebel forces with everything they need: money, food, and weapons, and above all information. Wait for my next letter; there I will tell you the best moment to strike. Burn this letter afterwards, and keep yourself safe. Always, Ginny." The General folded the letter and tucked it back under his helmet. He gave Ginevra a cold smile of satisfaction before wiping his face of any emotion, staring straight ahead.
The ground seemed to sway, and Ginny gripped Draco's hand for support. She stared at his eyes for a long time, wondering how her own husband could destroy her like this.
"Why…?" her voice was a mere whisper now; her entire body felt cold and weak, and it was all she could do not to faint. "Why did you do this?"
Draco lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Because I can."#
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