Draco pushed the door open and looked around the little cottage. Neville had recommended it. "Close enough to the village to walk if you don't mind a bit of a ramble," he'd said, "but far enough away no one will come out to bother you." Draco had noticed Neville hadn't mentioned that the building was also about as far away from George's new home that Neville could suggest.

Sweet Neville Longbottom, he thought as he walked into the main room. Just because he and Hermione were letting go of their public lives didn't mean either of them had quite become dense enough to not notice they were being handled with kid gloves by Neville's set. You should be afraid, Draco thought, because if anyone hurts her again I'll make what we did to Shacklebolt look like a day at the spa.

The cottage, however, was as close to perfect as he could have hoped for. It looked like something out of a fairy story with curved door frames and windows with dozens of panes and a worn wooden floor. Roses climbed over the outside walls and their scent filled this main room. He ran a hand over a solid table that sat in the center of the main room.

"We can have that removed, of course," the real estate agent said somewhat nervously. "The last owners left it but we can – "

"No," Draco said quietly. "It's perfect."

It was the antithesis of their first sophisticated flat and was a strong contrast to even their current place. He turned to the witch standing behind him in the doorway. "Get it cleaned, of course, and tell the owners we'll meet their asking price plus ten percent. I also want as much of the surrounding land as you can buy up. Get it all and send the bill to my office." He paused. "Leave the table."

The witch blinked several times and then began to burble with thanks about how she wouldn't let him down. Draco grimaced in irritation; she sounded like a bloody house elf.

He made a mental note to ask his mother to find a house elf for the cottage. He didn't want Hermione cleaning, not in her condition. He also wanted to find some kind of day nanny who could live in the village. It would have to be someone willing to undergo legilimancy, of course. He wasn't letting anyone near Hermione until he'd searched every last corner of her mind for any kind of ill intent.

He'd get it all lined up.

. . . . . . . . . .

Eustacia Parkinson handed the baby, wrapped tight in a polyester Muggle blanket, to her new parents. "She's so beautiful," the witch cooed as she looked down at the sleeping girl. "She's absolutely perfect."

"You understand the arrangement," Eustacia said again and the girl's new father looked over at the pureblood matriarch.

"We do," he said. "She'll never want for anything and no one will ever know. She's our girl now. Our magical, pureblood, perfect girl."

. . . . . . . . . .

The Muggle woman walked into the nursery and began to scream. Every parent's nightmare had come true and her baby wasn't moving. Wasn't breathing.

Crib death. Tragic, people said. No one's fault. Just one of those awful things that can happen.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise and Luna sprawled on the grass patch Blaise had included in Luna's orangerie. The landscape architect had asked why and then blushed to the roots of his hair when Blaise had commented the pavers were uncomfortable to lay on when you were fucking.

"Soft grasses, then," was all the man had said.

Now Luna lay, her hair spilling out over that soft grass and catching the light of the full moon as it poured in through the ceiling. Blaise had enchanted the oranges to all glow as well and they hung like an endless array of smaller, silver moons and lit the glass house. "I love this place," Luna said. "It's just absolute perfection."

"I would do anything for you," Blaise said, leaning up on one elbow to look down at her sated face. "A small gardening project is trivial."

She reached a hand up to stroke his cheekbones. "Have you figured out the ley lines issue you were looking into?" she asked.

"I think so," he admitted. "There's an actual old oak circle up near Neville's village, sitting right where two of the lines cross."

"Oooo," Luna looked intrigued. "We'll have to go visit it."

"You feel in need of healing?" Blaise asked and she laughed, the sound like bells in the already magical space. "Well," he said when her tones died away, "That's what that circle seems to do. It seems to give people a sense of peace. Or calm. It's some kind of place where the waters still and the very air settles."

Luna sat up. "Then we absolutely have to go. That's fascinating." She summoned an orange and began to peel the silvery skin. As each bit of rind was stripped away from the fruit it lost it's magic and faded back to a dull orange, dark grey in the night. She separated a segment and slipped it between Blaise's lips. He watched her as he chewed and swallowed. "It's good, I think, that Hermione is moving up there," she said at last. "It broke her."

"What?" Blaise asked, reaching his hand out for another slice. Luna batted his hand away and put the orange piece between her own teeth and leaned down to pass it to him. He took it from her with a throaty chuckle. "Have I ever mentioned how I adore you?"

"Once or twice," she said.

"Power does that," he said as she popped some of the orange into her own mouth.

"Makes you adore me?" Luna asked.

Blaise laughed. "No, lunar one. It breaks you. Look at Draco and Hermione. They went after power and got it but at what cost? They lost their baby, almost lost their minds." He shook his head. "They need those trees, need that respite."

"Theo and Daphne?" Luna asked, summoning another orange and beginning to peel it.

"Both trapped in a sham marriage?" Blaise asked wryly. "Theo's denying a basic part of who he is to wield power. That sounds like a pretty big cost to me." He sat up and began taking the bits of peel Luna had left on the grass and arranging them into a circle. "Of course, I don't think he exactly objects."

"Makes it even more expensive," Luna said.

Blaise sighed. "What's my cost? I wonder. What price have I paid?"

Luna took his fingers in hers. "You never wanted power," she said quietly. "You wanted a world safe from Muggles. You wanted to be able to live without fear. It was never more than a means to an end for you." She leaned forward and kissed him. "That's why we have lovely orange trees instead of oaks."

"We aren't what I'd call good people," Blaise said, thinking of Shacklebolt's body lying in pieces on his white carpet.

"No one's good," Luna said.

"Neville?" Blaise asked.

"Co-opted to the Wizengamot," she said. "We all sell pieces of our souls."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione stood on the dais in the park.

Security had given Marcus fits. Actual, literal fits and he'd needed to take an ant-seizure potion when the stress had gotten too bad. "You want to do it outdoors?" he'd shrieked at her. "How are we supposed to keep you safe?"

Her smile had been tight but she'd said, "We need everyone to see it. It has to be a coronation by the people, not by the powerful."

"You are going to be the death of me," he'd snapped. "And I mean that. If anyone looks at you wrong, Draco will use my intestines for jump rope."

"He can be a little protective," Hermione agreed and Marcus had mimed pulling his hair out by the roots.

The layers of warding and notice-me-not spells made the whole park almost glitter. Even Muggles walking by, seeing only what looked a bit like an outdoor wedding put on by a bunch of hippies, rubbed at their arms. "Feels like it might thunder," one woman said as she looked around. "So much electricity in the air."

Æthel stood with a gaggle of children from the orphanage. Every child old enough to be trust to follow instructions had a flower crown in his or her hands, each of which had been woven together from roadside weeds. They were surrounded by a group of Knights of the Lady. More Knights were scattered through the crowd and lined up to the side and behind the dais.

"Are we ready?" Theo asked. Draco nodded and, with a sharp signal, Theo waved Æthel forward. Witches and wizards clapped and cheered as each child climbed up to the dais and lay his or her crown on Hermione's head.

Each floral wreath shimmered and writhed and added to a growing silver crown that took shape.

Transfiguration, Draco thought looking at the procession. Even when the audience is filled with magicians they're still enchanted by the simple symbolism of flowers turning to that crown. And when we're done we just swap out the magically created crown for one that can't be undone or uncreated with a simple finite and she's the queen, made so by the will of the people calling her name.

"I am honored and humbled," Hermione said. "You've put such a huge trust in me as we've returned our world to the days of tradition and power and magic. Magic is greater than bureaucracy. Our world is a living one of wonders and fancies and we are all blessed beyond measure to live within its safe embrace." She reached up to touch the crown on her head. "Thank you."

"Hermione!" voices screamed from the crowd. "Lady! Queen!"

She held up her hand and Draco quietly transfigured the stick she'd had hidden in her fist to a scepter to the sound of gasps, applause and cheers.

"Our Queen!" the people yelled. "Our Queen! May she be glorious and beautiful and beloved!"

She is, Draco thought, watching her. She is.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione leaned up against the wall near the door of Harry's cell. He set his book aside and looked at her. "Nice crown," he said at last. "I take it you finally got your heart's desire and were named absolute ruler?"

She picked it off and tossed it to him. He caught it and watched as, at her finite, it faded to a handful of wilted flowers in his hands. "Sic transit gloria mundi," she said.

"Indeed," he said.

"The orphanage is finally totally closed," she said. "Every child adopted out. They're all Æthel's little minions, of course. Her round table."

Harry eyed her. "How are your own minions? Still murderous and bloodthirsty?"

"Happily married, one and all," she said. "Upstanding members of society."

"How about you?" he asked. "Happy? Murderous? Bloodthirsty?"

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowing, before she said, "You know, technically I haven't killed anyone. Draco has. Blaise has, I'm sure. Theo, without a doubt. But my hands didn't do any of that actual work."

"Seems a bit of a fine line," Harry said.

"People claim your hands are clean of Voldemort's blood because he died of his own, rebounded curse. Also a bit of nitpicking but I've certainly heard you cling to that as an example of your unblemished virtue often enough."

Harry stood up and walked toward her. "You've closed down the orphanage. You've set up your bread and circus tricks. You've ripped property away and returned it to the wealthy and, as a result, they all crowned you. Bet that felt good, didn't it? At last you weren't the side-kick. At last you were the lead story. You won, Hermione. And all you had to do was turn yourself into Voldemort to do it. Nice job." He clapped slowly, a mocking smile on his face. "All hail Queen Hermione. Dark Lady. Seller of Corrupt Dreams. Poisoner of Wells. What next, Hermione?" He stopped clapping and took another step toward her. "You took my wife. Took my child. Lost your own. What's next on your world domination agenda? Maybe you could – "

But she'd launched herself at him and had her wand, shaking, pressed into his neck. He inhaled at the jabbing pain but didn't back away. "Don't you ever talk about my son," she hissed. "I will never ever forgive myself that he died. Don't you ever talk about him to me. I will kill you Harry Potter. I will chop your body into pieces and let you rot in this basement cell." She was shaking as she held her wand into him, shaking so hard she could barely hold the wood in her hand.

"Is that what you want, Hermione?" Harry hissed back. "You want to finally become a murderer? Go ahead and do it. Kill me right now. Maybe you can use my death to make a little Horcrux for yourself. That'd be fun, wouldn't it?"

She pulled one hand back to slap him and he grabbed her wrist and they stared at one another.

. . . . . . . . . . .

A/N - Sic transit Gloria mundi = "Thus passes the glory of the world."

I got involved in a most interesting contretemps on Facebook the other day; I was told I was prissy and helplessly bourgeois for thinking it would be nice for people to respect my wishes regarding distribution of my fics. Not that I'm naïve enough, of course, to believe one can retain control of anything one has posted onto the internet but it was pretty shocking to be quite so blatantly told that no writer's wishes mattered at all to this particular group of dramione readers. It's fascinating to see the breakdown of the honor system in what amounts to a sharing economy.

Love and glittery kisses to y'all.

P.S. - The best way to ask me a question these days is on tumblr, linked from my profile. Not here.