If Draco Malfoy had been a Muggle, I feel like Eton College is just the place he would have gone to.
Prologue: In All the Wrong Places
Hermione Granger needed money.
This was nothing new; in all her sixteen years of life, she had frequently been in need of money, and only rarely had the gods delivered. She'd tried everything. She'd been a seamstress, a Thestral-keeper, a scullery maid, a washerwoman. In a moment of sheer desperation two months ago she'd even turned towards prostitution – only to discover that her bushy brown hair, slightly-too-plump figure and unfashionably tanned skin meant her worth was measured in Sickles rather than Galleons.
Naturally, she'd only found this out after her first customer had already rutted inside her. Now that she wasn't a virgin she couldn't even daydream about ever being married to a rich, handsome nobleman.
Not that she ever had. Hermione Granger knew her station in life. She was far too practical for daydreams.
She'd been born in a small village in the county of Gryffindor, the daughter of unmarried peasants Wendell Wilkins and Monica Granger. To add insult to injury, she wasn't just a peasant: she was a bastard one. It seemed that her parents had never quite gotten around to tying the knot before her birth. Now they never could, since they had tragically disappeared quite a few years ago.
Hermione had often wondered irritably why her mother hadn't insisted on keeping her legs closed until Wendell had proposed. She did love her parents, it was just that they weren't the ones who had been forced to bear the stigma of bastardry in her home village. It was her. Nobody would employ her in case her base blood somehow managed to taint them. She'd finally moved away from the village, wandering through all the counties in turn, looking for a job which either never materialised or never managed to last very long, until she'd ended up where she was right now: in Slytherin county, walking down a street in its capital of Wiltshire.
Hermione Granger still needed money.
She didn't have much left of the food she'd stolen back in Ravenclaw county. Soon it would run out, and she didn't dare steal any here – apparently the laws were strict in Slytherin. It was colder here too, and rainy, the foggy precipitation in the air soaking through her thin cloak. If she didn't starve to death she'd probably freeze at nightfall.
People hurried past her in relative silence. Hermione was in a middle-class part of the city where the inhabitants were all intent upon their business of making as much money as possible, no doubt in the hopes of sidling into the Rich Quarters of the city. She probably stuck out like a sore thumb. Her robes were much-darned and tattered, her cloak obviously shoddy; if she didn't watch out she'd probably be kicked out for loitering by some suspicious official. What to do?
With a sigh Hermione decided to retrace her steps back into the Poor Quarters. She'd rented a room there in some third-rate inn called the Hog's Head, though she hadn't been stupid enough to leave anything important from her meagre belongings in it.
Perhaps she could find some job sweeping streets. The gods knew she'd tried everything else.
It began to rain. Heavy droplets splashed into the untameable mane of her hair, trickling icily down the back of her neck. Hermione drew her hood up, for all the good that did her, and quickened her pace. The last thing she needed was to catch pneumonia.
It seemed everyone else was as keen as her to be out of the downpour, because soon she found that she was one of the only people out and about. The realisation sent uneasiness skittering down her spine. She entered the Poor Quarters – as signalled by the narrower streets, cracked cobblestones and sky-high piles of rubbish everywhere – and it was with relief that she arrived at the disgusting disembodied pig's head sign of her inn.
Hermione ran into the taproom, settling herself as close to the pathetic fire as possible. She couldn't afford to change out of her wet robes. She only had the two sets, after all, and since the other was slightly less darned, she saved it for job interviews and the like.
The taproom was almost deserted. Apart from the barman, who looked to be well over a hundred, there was a pair of figures with their faces concealed by hoods hunched muttering in a corner. Hermione was unsurprised by the clientele. The Hog's Head was evidently the sort of establishment which was frequented by those thoroughly up to no good, as opposed to being slightly up to no good, like the rest of the Poor Quarters. No wonder she could afford to stay here.
Driven by slightly bored curiosity, she proceeded to do something stupid: she listened.
Most people are aware that, when confronted with something like the Hog's Head, it is better to pretend to be deaf, dumb and blind. This was something which the barman was a master of. It had saved his life many a time. Unfortunately, Hermione was the sort of person who could not resist this manner of situation, and so her head tilted slightly to the side as she rather obviously began to eavesdrop.
The conversation she overheard was to change the rest of her life.
"… the Manor," one of the figures was saying, his voice a masculine rumble. "The duke's well protected, not to mention the fact that he's said to be deadly with the blades. Absolutely no point."
"He might be deadly with the blades, but you can't persuade me the duchess will be," the other figure argued. His voice was slightly higher in tone. "She's –"
"A Black," the man interrupted. "That lot, they have all kinds of tricks up their sleeves, and we don't want to cross Princess Bellatrix. Remember what she did to Selwyn when she discovered what he'd been doing to the Treasury?"
The other man shuddered. "Gods, don't remind me. What about the little princeling?"
"You don't know anything, do you? His spoiled little highness is down at Eton, all the way on the coast. That place is better protected than Hogsmeade. Nothing's happening to him there."
"Well then, we're back to the original plan, aren't we?"
"You mean the poison in his tea?"
"No, fool! I mean having Macnair shooting him so full of arrows when they go hunting tomorrow that his lordship resembles a pincushion!"
"That's an excellent idea," the man with the deep voice said. His cowled head lifted and swung round. "You think so too, don't you, little whore?"
Hermione gasped and jumped to her feet. "Wha –"
"Because," he continued, rising slowly, "I can't imagine any other reason why you'd be listening so keenly. Can you, Goyle?"
Hermione went weak-kneed with terror, but her formidable brain noted something immediately: she now had a name for one of the faces, and she had another name besides. She wasn't stupid. This sounded exactly like an assassination attempt on Lucius Malfoy, Duke of Slytherin, who would no doubt handsomely reward anyone who alerted him to treachery among his people…
"What do you mean?" she asked quaveringly.
Goyle laughed mockingly. "I love the ones who play innocent, Crabbe, I really do."
They advanced towards her, skirting round the edges of their table. Hermione darted a glance at the barman. No help there – he had his head firmly down, wiping methodically at a glass with a dirty rag.
There was nothing else for it. Hermione put her head down and sprinted from the Hog's Head like a bat out of hell, getting soaked through once again almost instantly with rain from the darkening sky. She spared a moment to regret the loss of her better robes, up in her room.
They'd be on her tail soon. If they had any brains at all they'd know her destination, though she frankly doubted – how stupid were they, that they had so easily given away their names? Perhaps the names were false. It didn't matter right now.
Breathing raggedly through the burning stitch in her side, Hermione ran for Malfoy Manor.
Unsurprisingly, the servant who opened a back door of the manor at her banging looked at her like something he had picked off his shoe.
"No beggars," he said. "Sorry."
He tried to shut the heavy wooden door, but Hermione determinedly stuck her foot into the gap.
"I'm not a beggar," she said. The words came out as heavy pants. Gods, but she was unfit. Why was it that no matter how little food she had, she never seemed to get thinner?
"I have important information for the Duke and Duchess," she said. "You need to let me in."
"I don't have to do any such thing!" he snapped. "Be gone with you, before I have you arrested!"
He leaned on the door. Tears came to Hermione's eyes at the pressure being exerted on her foot, but she held firm.
"Look. There is a plot to assassinate His Lordship at the hunting tomorrow. If you do not let me in, terrible things will happen. Do you understand?"
She'd caught his attention with that, she could see. Grudgingly he opened the door wider.
"You can tell the steward," he said. "He'll decide what's to be done."
Relief bubbled inside Hermione as she ducked inside the Manor. It seemed the door she'd found to knock frantically on belonged to the kitchens; her senses were instantly assaulted by the smell of roasting beef, making her mouth salivate. She swallowed with difficulty and followed the servant through the clouds of steam.
They emerged into a narrow back passageway. "Wait here," he ordered. "I'll fetch Sir Dobby."
Hermione did so. Even in this unimportant part of the servants' area, the floor was made of smooth stone, the walls draped with silken hangings. She barely had time to marvel at the Slytherins' wealth before the servant was back. Behind him trailed what she thought at first was a child; upon closer inspection it turned out to be a man, but one so short that he barely came up to her shoulder, and she herself was no giantess.
"You can return to your duties now, Bulstrode," the steward ordered.
The servant bowed and retired.
"What is your name?" he asked, when it was merely the two of them in the passage.
Hermione's fingers twisted in her robe. "Hermione Granger, sir. A Gryffindor by birth."
"I see," the steward said. She noticed that his eyes were rather remarkable, huge and palely green. "Your parents?"
"Wendell Wilkins and Monica Granger, sir. Both thought dead."
His swift look let her know that he had noted the fact that she bore her mother's surname, a sure indication of her bastardry, but all he said was, "And what do you have to tell me, Miss Granger?"
She recounted the entire conversation she had heard in the Hog's Head. Sir Dobby's indrawn breath when he heard the names Crabbe, Goyle and Macnair let her know what she needed to: that her information was useful. She allowed herself to relax slightly.
"An interesting story," he said. "If it is true, His Lordship and Her Ladyship will certainly need to hear it."
"Every word of it is gold," she promised. He gave her an enigmatic look.
"I shall let the duke and duchess decide. Come with me."
He turned and set off without looking to see if she was following. Her heart ponding, Hermione kept close on his heels.
He led her through the passageways of Malfoy Manor. Hermione saw how the furnishings became more opulent as they passed away from the servants' areas, how jewelled tapestries appeared on the walls and the floor turned from unremarkable stone to the dark gloss of expensive wood. Finally he stopped before a door and knocked.
"Who is it?" A light, feminine voice called.
"Sir Dobby, Your Ladyship," he said. "I believe I have something of great import for you."
"Come in then," the voice replied.
The knowledge that she was about to face the great duke and duchess of the realm, the powerful royal figures whose stories she had read in history books at her village school, caught up with Hermione abruptly, and she fought to remain steady as she followed Dobby inside the room with her head bowed respectfully. She, Hermione Granger, was about to meet the Duke and Duchess of Slytherin! She was about to meet royalty!
Mentally preparing herself for the awe and reverence their presences would induce in her, Hermione lifted her head. She blinked.
The Duke and Duchess of Slytherin were naked.
Lucius Malfoy was even more handsome than the stories had made him out to be; his hair fell to halfway down his back in a shining sheet of white-gold, somehow not detracting in the slightest from the arrogant, sharply masculine planes of his face. Powerful muscles rippled in his bare torso as he sat up in the immense four-poster bed. Lounging beside him, Narcissa Black was no less beautiful, her own hair a slightly darker shade of blonde as it spread out over the headboard. The only item she wore was an immense emerald collar that only drew attention to her full, milky-white breasts.
Hermione tried not to feel faint. She kept her eyes determinedly fixed on Lucius Malfoy's face as he demanded, "Who on earth is this?"
"Hermione Granger, Your Lordship," Dobby said. "She has overheard a plot regarding you." He flicked her a glance. Catching it, she began her story.
"Oh, I knew he was not to be trusted!" Narcissa cried when Macnair's name was mentioned. She turned to her husband. "Didn't I tell you so?"
"So you did, my beauty," Lucius said. His wintry-grey eyes were fixed on Hermione, who was trying not to notice as he simultaneously toyed with one of his wife's pink nipples. "Go on, girl."
Hermione concluded her tale with the names of Crabbe and Goyle and looked at the couple expectantly. Narcissa sighed.
"If you are telling the truth," she said, "I will see to it that you do not regret it. Until tomorrow when we can ascertain this for sure, you will be an honoured guest."
"Of course, Your Ladyship," Hermione said. 'Guest', she knew, translated to 'prisoner', so that if it was discovered that she was lying it would be easy for them to make her wish she had never been born, but she had nothing to fear; she really was telling the truth.
She watched in astonishment as Lucius leaned over to kiss Narcissa as though they neither had an audience nor had been told of his planned assassination.
"Come," Sir Dobby muttered. They backed out of the room, although Hermione doubted that the ducal couple had noticed, they were so caught up in each other. She remembered that they had a son – some spoiled little boy, she seemed to recall – and pitied him, if he regularly had to contend with his overly-amorous parents.
"That went very well indeed," Dobby said. "Now, Miss Granger, allow me to show to your room."
"It did," Hermione agreed, smiling.
Her life, she decided, had just taken an unexpected turn for the better.
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