"Lord Merriwether," said Luna, smiling down at one of three miniatures in her hands. "He has such a kind chin. I wonder if it is where he keeps his secrets."

"Miss Lovegood," said Ms. Randolph, her voice strained with the effort of unleashing this rebuke for the third time in as many minutes, "if we could focus on—"

"But why should we?" said Luna, holding Lord Merriwether up to peer down upon them all. "The attributes of his estate are only of immediate, material concern, but what of his humor, his voice? Can he make a clever joke, can he actually ride a horse, the proper way?"

Hermione rolled her eyes as Ms. Randolph swelled. She'd had enough of this cat-and-mouse. "He has five thousand a year, a younger sister he will have to support since she is ill and unlikely to wed, and is more drawn to spending time in his small country estate than he is in town. He is of reasonable, though not startling, intellect, as he attended Eton and Cambridge but cannot hold a political opinion to save his life, and has a particular fondness for pear tart."

An echoing silence followed this speech. Ms. Randolph stared at her in equal parts shock and reluctant admiration, while Luna gave her a simple, but knowing, smile. "Well," Ms. Randolph said eventually. "It appears that someone has been paying attention."

"Of course I am paying attention," Hermione said, managing to keep the edge out of her voice. "We've been studying these for hours." She ached for a good novel.

Ms. Randolph had marched into her bedroom at only a few minutes past seven, flung a dressing-gown at her, and said, "Blue Room. Ten minutes. Be ready to work."

And work they had. The past four hours had been a non-stop parade of court etiquette, dancing practice, and, finally, an attempt to memorize the personal history of each and every eligible bachelor within fifty miles.

"It's a good thing you have," Ms. Randolph snapped at her now. "I was warned you were unprepared for the demands of social life here in London, but the situation is far worse than I expected. If I'd had a week with you before your presentation, we might have whipped you into reasonable shape, but we will have to make the best of what we do have. You're a quick learner, at the very least."

Hermione took a deep, careful breath, not betraying an inch of the anger seething under her skin. Quick learner, she thought bitterly. You think this challenges me? I can name every bone in the body. I can name every visible constellation in the night sky, no matter the season. I can perform Euclidean geometry in seconds, I can write mathematical proofs without batting an eye. I can recite most of Shakespeare's soliloquies and nearly all of his sonnets. I can debate you on the finer points of Classical philosophy and tell you exactly what Jefferson got wrong. I can tell you the most important events of Roman history, conjugate French and Latin verbs, and write a hundred-page paper on modern poetry, all while you gape at me and try to remember, precisely, why you tried to take the upper hand.

"In the meantime," Ms. Randolph went on, oblivious, "you know enough to get through today. But you must remember all we have reviewed, Hermione — memorizing personal income will only get you so far, especially when a gentleman expresses a wish to dance."

Dancing. Not her strength. Unlike Luna, she lacked the ability to float over the ground, keeping each turn of her head and each lilt of her arms perfectly attuned. But at least she didn't fall over or injure herself.

"Now." Ms. Randolph nodded at Luna. "On to the next, please."

"Dean Thomas, the Marquess of Reading," said Luna, holding up the portrait of a handsome, if lanky youth. Hermione felt an odd flutter of pride — like her, he too had darker skin, and unlike her father, he wore his hair a little longer, several inches above his scalp. But it was tidy, combed, and it made him look rather rakish. She could almost hear Ms. Randolph's frown. "A bit of a cad, apparently," said Luna, "but he has an estate in Berkshire and a good income — four thousand a year. A good education — Harrow and Cambridge — a sister married to a Prussian noble, and a particular interest in athletics. He plays polo, he wrestles, and he hunts. A life with him would never be boring, I am certain."

"Indeed," said Ms. Randolph, with some reluctance. "Perhaps we should focus on the cream of the crop." She crossed over to Luna's couch and picked up the basket of miniatures. She spent the next few minutes sifting through them, making little noises of approval and disapproval, slowly building two piles of faces. "There," she said at last, putting aside the basket of rejects. "I think you should keep an eye out for these gentlemen in particular at the ball this evening. They are the strongest prospects, to be sure, and well worth the attentions of two such high-ranking ladies." She handed each of them a pile of miniatures and stepped back, almost glowing with satisfaction.

A small part of Hermione wanted nothing more than to trade her pile with the basket, but, she thought, perhaps I've tested Ms. Randolph's patience enough for the morning. So she sat back, took a breath, and started looking through her cards.

She knew all of them already, of course, and, in truth, they meant very little to her. For all her faults, Ms. Randolph did have a keen eye — she'd left out anyone over five-and-thirty, and all of the men were of excellent backgrounds and reasonable appearance. As Hermione looked over the flat, frozen faces, she sifted through all the facts she could remember about each of them. At least, that was what one part of her mind did — the other part started scrolling through Prospero's soliloquy.

Ye elves of hills, Hermione thought, feeling the words echo down through her fingers as she flipped from Lord Finnegan to Lord Wetherby, brooks, standing lakes and groves—

She smiled, her fingers pausing on the next card. "Luna," she said. "I see your kind chin and raise you a set of dimples and a warm gaze." She held up the card and turned it around so that the wide grin of Neville Longbottom, the Earl Cadogan, faced Luna.

Luna smiled in return, then tilted her head to one side. "You are correct. He looks quite happy, frozen in aspect though he is."

"What do you think?" said Hermione. "Custard tart or fruit?"

"Fruit," said Luna at once. "And two sugars in his tea." Then, to Hermione's surprise, she reached forward and took the card, brushing her thumb across the line of Lord Cadogan's jaw. "It's a shame," she said, even though her tone said the opposite, "that he be saddled with such a unique moniker."

"Not a name to be sneered at," Ms. Randolph chimed in, "though a fresh arrival, to be sure. A strong prospect, ladies, but his ascendancy is new and therefore not quite as stable."

That pricked Hermione's interest. "Really? How did he make his fortune?"

Ms. Randolph sighed a little, as if loath to admit it. "He is something of a natural scientist by hobby, Miss Granger. He patented several new plant hybrids, I believe, and profited handsomely from it. He is now quite the businessman and purchased his title just last year."

Hermione could see why Ms. Randolph hadn't wanted to mention Lord Cadogan's interests. Luna's eyes were quite aglow.

"But," Ms. Randolph hastily added, "he is sure to be the talk of the town, if only for the sake of his appearance. Every young lady within a mile of him will do her best to snatch him up."

"Indeed," said Hermione. "Who could blame them, at eight thousand a year?"

Luna was still smiling. "Such money," she said, "for one so unconcerned with it."

Every part of Hermione wanted to point out that there was no way for Luna to know such a thing, but she held her tongue. She went back to the faces in her own hands, feeling as if she were playing some elicit game of faro, then reached the last card and paused as a pair of brilliant green eyes stared up at her.

She did not remember this gentleman. In fact, she was certain she had never seen him in the dreaded basket, nor even heard his name. Harry Potter, Duke of St. Godric's, she read, rolling the Christian name through her mind. It was almost a common surname, but there was nothing common about this man.

His face was thin, square, with a sharp jawline and a chin to match. His portrait was somewhat strange — unlike the others, it was dim, almost blurred, leaving nearly half his face in shadow. He had a straight nose, dark, thatched hair that looked like it had never seen a comb, and, somewhat to her surprise, he wore a pair of round, gold-rimmed spectacles that rested low on the bridge of his nose, enough to reveal those startling green eyes. His mouth, which was narrow, with a romantic plushness to it, was pulled into a slight grimace, as though he were uncomfortable with even a sole painter's scrutiny. His body, what little of it she could see — shoulders, some of his chest — was alive with energy, and she almost expected him to leap out of the painting, his hand hot and insistent on hers as he grinned and said, "Shall we escape?"

Hermione shook her head as if to clear it of cobwebs, trying not to blush. Quite apart from every other absurd aspect of such a fantasy, this man would never grin. He did not seem capable. But his moodiness was not broody, or self-indulgent — he simply did not like attention, or scrutiny. And that was something Hermione could understand all too well.

For a brief, frightening moment, she realized she was doing exactly what Luna had done. Alarmed, she dropped the miniature, and it landed on the cushion with a faint thud.

"It appears Hermione is quite taken with one of our prospects," said Luna, not even glancing up from Lord Cadogan's miniature. "She nearly flung him across the room."

"I did not," Hermione muttered, but it was too late — Ms. Randolph came over, standing behind the sofa to look down at the abandoned miniature.

"Ah," said Ms. Randolph, giving them a smile that was both astonishing and frightening. "Very good instincts, Miss Granger. He is perhaps the most sought-after of them all."
"Is he?" said Luna, with only the faintest hint of interest. "Why?"

"A Duke, Miss Lovegood, is the best prize a young lady of any rank could hope to win, especially when he is as young and handsome as this one. And this Duke has a particularly affluent estate, and no family to share it with."

"No family?" Hermione echoed, feeling a pang of sympathy.

"No. Supposedly, that is why he keeps so much to himself — one can hardly remember the last time he appeared in London, except on very official business. It is quite a shock that he is attending the season, at all." Ms. Randolph turned to her with a glimmer in her eye. "Why, Miss Granger — has our notoriously reclusive young Duke managed to capture your interest?"

Hermione was saved from a reply by a knock at the door. "Good morning," said the Earl as he walked in, then he looked at the girls in surprise as they jumped up from the sofas and curtsied. "Heavens, are you still at work? You aren't even dressed."

"We were just finishing, my Lord," Ms. Randolph replied. "It is time for the ladies to begin their preparations."

"Preparations?" the Earl repeated, frowning. "Are they not joining me for a spot of tea and a hot breakfast?"

Hermione's heart leapt at the idea — they had only been given a small meal of tea, bread with butter, and fresh fruit, and her stomach was almost empty. But her heart fell just as quickly as Ms. Randolph shook her head. "No, sir," said Ms. Randolph. "We haven't the time, I'm afraid."

With that, Hermione and Luna were ushered upstairs and into Luna's room, which was larger than Hermione's. Their dresses were laid across the bed, along with their corsets and other accessories. The vanity was covered in every hair and beauty tool imaginable, and in the middle of it all, Lisette and Mattie stood ready, smiling.

"First," said Ms. Randolph, with the air of a conductor stepping onto their podium, "Miss Lovegood's hair and Miss Granger's dress, then you will switch. I'm afraid it will be all hands on deck for Miss Granger's hair, and we do not want to risk knocking it out of place when she changes into her gown."

If Luna heard the sneer hidden beneath those words, she did not acknowledge it. She clapped with delight, squeezing Hermione's arm. "The season is truly starting!"

Hermione tried to smile. If it was an act, Luna was quite the performer. "Yes, it appears so." And with that, she stepped into Lisette's welcoming arms, already dreading the coming day.

"I can't do this," she whispered to Lisette as she went behind the changing screen. She shrugged out of her dressing gown and nightdress, then reached for her chemise. "Lisette, I can't do this. I don't know why I ever thought I could—"

"Yes, you can," Lisette hissed back, slipping her hand behind the screen. In it was a raisin scone, and Hermione snatched it from her with surprising speed. "You will see, once you have your audience with the Queen, everything will—"

"—fall into place?" Hermione whispered back through a mouthful of scone. She chewed furiously, her mind awhirl with a low-burning panic. "It isn't that simple — look at Luna. She will surely be the most popular debutante of the season, I won't have any chance of escaping notice—"

"Why should you?" Lisette pressed, her hand reappearing behind the screen. This time, it was half a ham and butter sandwich on brown bread. Hermione had no idea how Lisette had managed to hide it in her apron. "You are a beautiful woman, ma chère."

It took Hermione a few moments to finish inhaling her food. She swallowed thickly, then said, "Because. I am not here to marry. I am here to survive."

Before Lisette could reply, Hermione marched out from behind the screen and squared up with her gown, summoning what was to be only the first of many bouts of courage.

"Stop fidgeting," Luna whispered. She herself was as still as a statue, ethereal in her pale, radiant beauty. Lisette had brushed only the softest hint of rouge across her cheeks, making her look windswept, demure. Her hair, gathered and twisted back into a simple, high bun, glowed above her like a halo.

By comparison, Hermione felt like a clot of earth. She could hardly breathe in her corset, which dug painfully into her ribs, and her hair, though deftly braided into a half-crown that cascaded in a long, intricate plait down one side of her neck, was heavy. At least she looked more like herself, or as close as she could get, given the circumstances.

Lord, she thought, glancing at the other young ladies behind her, what fools these mortals be!

"Come now, my dears," said Lord Devon, his voice low beneath the dim chatter of the crowd, "the best way to tackle an enemy is to square up to him, head-first."

Luna let out a quiet, musical chuckle. "How droll, Papa."

It would be a lot easier, thought Hermione, if I had a sword—

But she didn't have time to say it, because there came a loud thud from the other side of the double doors, followed by a ringing proclamation:

"The Lady Luna Lovegood and Miss Granger, presented by the Earl of Devon."

Her heart skipped a beat, but there was no time to process it, because the doors swung upon and her instincts took over. Hermione stepped into the room and began to approach the throne at its opposite end, where the Queen sat in all her glory, staring down at them.

When you walk into the hall, came Ms. Randolph's voice, clear as a bell in her head, you cease to be human. Every pair of eyes in the room will be watching you, expecting you to glide without a hint of mortal clumsiness, to hardly make a sound as you whisper across the floorboards—

Whisper! Hermione thought frantically, suddenly becoming aware of her shoe pinching her pinky toe, and the dozens of courtiers staring at her and Luna like— Glide!

Do not plant your weight on your heels. Walk on your toes, if possible. Keep your chin up, your neck elongated but not stretched, which will appear unseemly, and whatever you do, do not look Her Majesty in the eye—

She could feel Luna beside her, moving with all the grace and ease expected of a young lady. Hermione's next step faltered and wobbled, but she recovered just as they reached the throne. She sank into her deepest curtsy, dropping her gaze to the pale wooden floor.

Complete silence. Then—

"Lord Devon." The Queen gave him a stately nod. "As always, a pleasure to see you."

"The pleasure is all mine, Your Majesty," he replied, straightening from his bow.

"And what a delightful young lady you bring with you today." The Queen shifted, her dark eyes flickering over Luna. "Come closer, my dear."

Luna rose from her curtsy, offering a small, becoming smile as she took a step closer to the throne. Her gown and gloves looked creamy, peachy against her lily-white skin, and her eyes were twin globes shining a deep, clear turquoise in the sunlight.

The Queen remained seated, but she reached for Luna, taking her hand. "Yes," she said. "The spitting image of your mother. Perhaps, I think, even more striking."

Luna beamed.

Then the Queen's attention shifted, and Hermione's heart skipped another beat when those dark eyes fell on her. Why? she had the capacity to think as her thighs burned from holding the curtsy. Why is she—?

"Miss Granger." The Queen looked her over, impassive. "Such a shame your father could not join us this afternoon."

The Earl cleared his throat in a quick cough. "Indeed, ma'am. He assured me it was perfectly appropriate to present his daughter on his behalf—"

The Queen flitted this remark away with a wave of her hand. "I am aware that he was called away. It is of no importance."

Hermione noticed that she did not mention it was to tend to her husband.

"Child. Please, stand."

She did, and she met that dark, piercing gaze head-on. Her heart either restarted or stopped beating entirely.

"I have heard much of you from your father. And your mother was once a dear friend of mine." The Queen's gaze narrowed. "Your father has told me of your education. And it so happens that your old tutor, Mr. Al-Hakim, has been to court."

Hermione had no idea what to say to this, so she remained silent.

"You are quite the mathematician, I hear. And an authority on Shakespeare."

Heat flooded Hermione's body, and a cold sweat broke out on her lower back. The Earl nodded at her, and she knew then that she had to say something. "That is correct, Your Majesty."

Then. Just the barest flicker of a smile. "How unique. I do like a young woman with a mind of her own. You got some of that from your mother, you know, along with her looks." Her attention drifted back to Luna, and she leaned forward.

"I think," said the Queen, raising her voice loud enough that it rang through the hall, "that I am in the presence of a few precious gems." She looked at Luna. "A Diamond." She turned her head to look at Hermione. "And a Sapphire."

With that, she sat back in her throne and gave a nod. "Thank you, Lord Devon."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Lord Devon gave another bow, then he led Hermione and Luna out of the limelight and into a side hall, where, her head spinning, Hermione slumped against the wall, only vaguely aware of Luna grabbing her arm.

"Precious gems, Hermione!" Luna whispered, her excitement electric. Her father gave her a rare grin. "What an honor!"

"Yes," Hermione managed, her imagination filled with that piercing, dark gaze. "An honor."

Several hours later, Hermione stepped onto yet another gravel drive and stared up at the enormous manor house. It was easily twice the size of the Lovegoods' and surrounded by numerous gardens and porticos. Each window gleamed orange in the rapidly-falling dusk, and from within came the strains of an orchestra, followed by a cacophony of laughter and exclamations of delight.

She took as deep of a breath as she could, her body straining against the corset, steeling herself as two more carriages rolled up to the house.

Luna's hand, light on her arm. "It will be wonderful, I promise." She glanced at Hermione. "And even if it is terrible, I swear I will tell no one if you sneak away to read whatever work you have stashed in your petticoat."

Heat flooded Hermione's cheeks. "You are a true friend, Luna."

"As are you."

Lord Devon stepped forward, beckoning to the house. "Come along, my dears. We might as well walk straight into the lion's mouth."

The interior of the house was even more ornate and overwhelming. Hermione stared at the portraits, the furniture, the decoration, absently cataloguing the various exits in case she needed to make a quick disappearance. And then, a prickle of unease crept up her spine, because, for the first time in her life, people were staring at her.

This was not to say that people had never stared at her before — they certainly had, but for a different reason. Before, they had regarded her with expressions of surprise, disgust, mingled with apathy and irritation. But now… these people looked at her with envy. With spite.

Hermione tried to take a breath, wishing Lisette were here. But Luna had noticed as well; she, too, was receiving these looks of jealousy. She met them with a placid, almost unsettling smile that brooked no protest, and Hermione did her best to copy it, her heart thudding in her ears.

"Luna," she muttered as they passed from the foyer into a room decorated in pink and gold, "why are they—?"

"Something to do with the way we shine, I think." Luna flashed her a sudden, cheeky wink.

"Pay no attention, ladies," the Earl murmured, then he paused beside a table covered in what looked to be scraps of paper. "Aha!" He handed them each a scrap, and Hermione realized that they were actually cards, with a piece of ribbon attached. "For your intrepid suitors. And what luck, I don't believe the dancing has started yet."

"Yes," Hermione managed, staring down at the dance card, wondering if the earth would swallow her at some point soon. "How lucky."

"I hope there's pudding," said Luna. "It encourages lightness of the feet, you see."

Before Hermione could even begin to reply to that, the Earl approached a cluster of people — their hosts, Hermione suddenly realized. "Lord and Lady Johnson! An honor, as always."

Hermione felt a flicker of surprise as she took in the couple before her. Like her and her father, these people were black. Lady Johnson wore her hair in a high, elegant twist accented with gems, and Lord Johnson's beard was neat and trim. They had guarded but friendly faces; Hermione realized that, like her, they were always ready for the worst.

Lord Johnson inclined his head. "Lord Devon, a pleasure. The ton is quite abuzz about your daughter. Seems she caught the highest level of praise from our dear queen."

Lord Devon waved an airy hand in dismissal. "You flatter us, sir. My daughter, Lady Lovegood, and Miss Granger, who I present on behalf of her father, Sir Ian Granger."

Hermione and Luna curtsied as Lord and Lady Johnson inclined their heads. "A pleasure," said Lord Johnson. "May I present my own daughter, Miss Angelina Johnson."

He stepped to the side, revealing a tall, striking young woman with simple hair and remarkable cheekbones. She looked exactly as Hermione felt — as if she'd rather be anywhere but here. But she curtsied, a quick bob in place, before turning away with a scowl.

In spite of this chilly reception, Hermione took an instant liking to her.

Lady Johnson cleared her throat, then smiled. "My eldest, Daphne, is married to Lord Cawdor, and my second eldest is married to Sir Dashwood of Kent."

Aha, thought Hermione. Poor Angelina. She, too, would be expected to make such an excellent match.

"Do enjoy yourselves," said Lord Johnson. "There is plenty of food and drink, and I am told the orchestra is quite unequaled."

As they passed into the next set of rooms, Hermione realized that people were staring at Luna even more than they were staring at her. But Luna seemed not to care in the least; she simply floated along, and as they at last came to a stop just outside the ballroom, the crowd shifted. Suddenly, there seemed to be more young men nearby than was physically possible, and Hermione fought the urge to recoil from all the faces she had memorized.

"Lord Devon," she managed. "I find myself quite parched." And with that, she turned tail and hastened to the other side of the room, where a table of refreshments groaned under its own weight. People looked away as she passed them, and she hoped they didn't notice that she was flushed, unnerved.

The punch was sweet and ice-cold, much to her relief. As she sipped it, she felt her heart slowing, her corset loosening. Just as she began to look over the food, a shadow fell over the vol-au-vents.

"Miss Granger, I presume?" came a lilting, chilly voice.

Hermione looked up and found herself facing a cluster of young women. At the front stood a short, buxom woman with honey-blonde ringlets and a sharp nose. She was flanked by a pair of twins who looked on with wide, dark eyes that instantly reminded Hermione of the Queen. "Yes," she managed.

The young woman looked her up and down. "Miss Brown," she said, and Hermione guessed it was an introduction. Her gaze was sharp, ruthless. "I do not believe we've ever had the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"No," Hermione said. "I am new to court."

Miss Brown smiled, but there was no warmth to it. "Precisely. A fact which, I think, you would do well to remember." And with that, she turned and walked away, the twins on her heels.

"Pay little heed to her," came another voice. Friendly, amused. "Her mother is a heavy-handed cow, and your Royal reception this afternoon left many of your peers feeling quite… overlooked."

Hermione glanced at her new companion. A tall, thin young woman with a shrewd expression and a simple dress. "Indeed, Miss—?"

"Miss Bell." She inclined her head. "You will find, I think, that you are the object of much envy. Do not be afraid to return fire with equal persistence. And if I were you, I would be wary of any… demonstrations of friendship."

"Indeed." Hermione took another breath. "Then what is this conversation, Miss Bell? A declaration of war?"

Miss Bell gave her a small, enigmatic smile. "For that to be the case, Miss Granger, I would have to have a passing interest in the opposite sex." She dipped into a brief curtsy. "Excuse me. I found a hiding spot in the garden and have to claim it before someone else does." Before she left, she glanced over her shoulder, at the room and everyone in it, and added, "Feel free to join me, if you need fresh air. Behind the southern trellis, near the fountain."

"Thank you," Hermione managed, feeling a rush of gratitude. And for a moment, that was all she wanted to do — hide herself in the garden, stay there until the sun crested the horizon and she could declare the day over — but then she turned, and saw Lord Devon beckoning her back to where he and Luna were standing. Well, she could only see him — Luna was obscured by a thick crowd of suitors. Their eagerness was… tangible.

Hermione swallowed a groan and knocked back the rest of her punch. To war, she thought.

Only a few heads turned as she rejoined Lord Devon, much to her relief. She slipped in beside him, watching as Luna smiled and spoke to every single one of the young men, regardless of what Ms. Randolph would've called their 'eligibility factor.' Hermione found it impossible to shake the image of a cluster of panting dogs begging for attention.

And then—

"My Lady."

A pause. Then the crowd parted, the young men looking disgruntled as a very familiar face surfaced from the sea of admirers. The Earl Cadogan stepped forward, his miniature not doing his smile justice, his dimples on full display. He was practically aglow, and Hermione could tell that he was blushing as he looked at Luna, all but breathing her in.

She glanced at Luna. Luna was still smiling, but now, she was radiant, glowing from the inside out as she offered the Earl her hand.

"Father," Luna said. "Won't you introduce us?"

Lord Devon cleared his throat, and Hermione swore he knew exactly what was happening. It was obvious to everyone with a pair of eyes. "My Lord, this is my daughter, Lady Lovegood. Dear, this is the good Earl Cadogan."

"Lord Cadogan." Luna bent her head like a swan. "An honor."

"I can assure you the honor is all mine, my Lady." Lord Cadogan produced a pencil. "Might I request a dance?"

"Certainly, my Lord." But when she lifted her card, her smile disappeared. "Oh, dear, it seems to be quite full—"

"Ah." Lord Cadogan appeared to be somewhat on the back foot — clearly, this had been his only idea. "Perhaps another—"

"But there is plenty of time between dances," said Luna, looking up into his face once again. Her frown had disappeared, and Hermione was quite certain that the rest of the world had fallen away from Luna's periphery. "And in the meantime, my Lord, you may escort me into the ballroom and make pretty commentary about the pictures."

Lord Cadogan's face broke into a grin. Ms. Randolph had been right — he was quite handsome. "I would be delighted, my Lady." He made an aborted movement, as if to offer her his arm, but then he stopped, glancing over his shoulder. "Good God, where are my manners! I do apologize, ladies, allow me to introduce—"

Lord Cadogan reached behind him, grabbed onto someone, and pushed him to the front of the crowd. The man stumbled, barely catching himself before he fell over. "My very good friend, the Duke of St. Godric's!"

The Duke straightened, tugging his jacket back into place with a poorly-concealed scowl. His glasses flashed in the candlelight as he glanced at Luna, and when he turned his head, he met Hermione's gaze.

Green, she thought, her mouth going dry and her lungs squeezing shut. Very green.

After what felt like a short eternity, the Duke broke eye contact with her and glanced at Lord Devon. "A pleasure, my Lord," he said, his voice deeper, richer, than she'd expected. And it had an undeniably sharp edge. It seemed as though the Duke did not want to be introduced to anyone at all.

"Your Grace," said Lord Devon, inclining his head as Luna and Hermione both dipped into a curtsy. "An honor. I believe I know your godfather, Lord Black."

A muscle twitched in the Duke's jaw. "There are very few who are not acquainted with him."

"Prongs!" said Lord Cadogan loudly, clapping a hand on the Duke's shoulder. "Come, we must accompany the ladies into the ballroom!"

"Oh, must we?" The Duke glanced at Hermione again, just a fleeting look, and his voice was as dry as a bone. "I am sure they have a keen enough sense of direction."

There was a loud thud as Lord Cadogan's shoe met foot, and the Duke restrained a grimace. Lord Cadogan merely grinned, but there was a manic edge to it. Hermione fought the urge to laugh. This was absurd. This was—

"Certainly," said the Duke, a beat late. "Ladies."

Luna immediately fell in step beside Lord Cadogan, slipping her hand into the crook of his proffered elbow. Within moments, they bent their heads together, chatting quietly, and Hermione allowed herself a soft, singular smile as she and the Duke likewise made their way towards the ballroom. Everyone was staring, she noticed, in open surprise and revulsion. The Duke and the Unknown? What scandal.

The Duke was mere inches away, but the space between them felt like miles. He had not offered her his arm, and his gaze was fixed on the back of Lord Cadogan's head — planning his death, she guessed.

They passed into the ballroom, where the orchestra was playing a light, jaunting tune. The dancing had yet to begin, but the room was already packed, the air stifling. Hermione fought the urge to yawn. She would, soon enough, if the Duke did not—

"Are you a Lady Lovegood as well, then?" the Duke said suddenly.

Hermione blinked, then realized that they'd never finished the introductions. "No, Your Grace. A Miss Granger, though I suppose Luna is indeed like a sister to me."

"Granger," the Duke repeated. They were carving a slow line into the crowd, and the guests parted around them like water. The mothers were watching him like hawks. He glanced at her, and God, those eyes— "Your father is Sir Ian Granger, the Royal Physician?"

Two surprises, now. "Yes, Your Grace."

"I wasn't aware he had a daughter." Another flinty glance. "You are not French?"

She smiled. "No. But my mother was."

It took a moment. Then a third glance, but this time, he lingered. Hermione fought off a shiver. "I am sorry," he said, his voice quiet. "For your loss."

Yet another surprise. Hermione wondered if this conversation would ever become predictable. "Thank you, Your Grace."

He looked at her for another moment, and where his gaze was piercing, his face was as rigid as stone. Expressionless. Then, he looked away. "We seem to have become part of the décor."

Hermione followed his line of sight, then smiled at the image of Luna and Lord Cadogan standing together, utterly absorbed in one another. It was impossible to tell what they were talking about, but it did not matter. "Indeed. But a minor complaint, in the scheme of things."

"Is it?" He did show just a flicker of surprise then, but then it was gone. "I assumed an enthusiasm for the first ball of the season. For dancing, for drinking."

"An assumption without proof, Your Grace."

Another shrewd look. "How, then, shall we divert our attentions?"

Hermione let out a sigh, trying not to grin. In spite of his abject rudeness, he could play along quite well. "You could make a passing comment about the wallpaper or the portraits. Then, I could say something about the dresses, the shoes, the violinist's wig—"

"Which, I believe," said the Duke, "is about to sit up and recite Marlowe."

"He that loves pleasure, Your Grace, must for pleasure fall."

"So he must." Then he glanced at the orchestra. "I am afraid that if we do not move now, we will be flattened by the most eager heels in all of London. And you, surely, must surrender to some heavy-footed suitor or other."

Hermione's heart leapt into her throat, but she managed to shake her head. "No, Your Grace." And she held out her blank dance card as proof.

His gaze, again. Cutting right through her. "I see," he said, but then before he could say anything else, Lord Cadogan was clapping a hand on his shoulder and saying—

"Come on, Prongs—"

And then, to her absolute astonishment, Hermione found herself pulled onto the dance floor by none other than Luna herself, her face shining with delight. She managed to school her expression into something other than horror, stumbling into line beside the other young ladies, and there was Luna's hand again, squeezing hers, and the Duke's eyes, meeting hers across the crowded floor, and then the music, the music—

Later, Hermione remembered very little of this excruciating moment. It was a reel, of course, because it had to be the dance that made her the least comfortable, but she didn't fall, or knock into anyone else, as a few other ladies did. The Duke only looked her in the eye twice, not that she was counting, but she was more aware of his hands on hers, warm and firm through the fabric of her elbow-length gloves, and he gripped her with a surety that was breathtaking, overwhelming—

The music ended with a bang, and the room erupted into cheers. Luna was laughing, and she truly was a Diamond, then, in that brilliant moment, when she seemed to reflect every light in the room and magnify it tenfold. She had the attention of everyone in the room, and Hermione could practically hear the gentlemen counting down the dances until they'd have a chance to snag her.

From across the floor, Hermione met the Duke's gaze. He was looking at her, his hair even more tousled than it had been before, his chest heaving a little, and she felt the moment stretch between them, gossamer-thin. But before she could even begin to imagine what would happen next, a hand seized the Duke by the shoulder, and he turned—

"Prongs! Heard you'd come up to town, you old beast—"

It was Lord Finnegan, she realized, even as she fought off a wave of dizziness. She could only watch as Lord Finnegan steered the Duke off of the dance floor and into a crowd of other young gentlemen, who greeted him with a shout of delight.

A recluse, Ms. Randolph had said. But a recluse with plenty of friends, apparently.

"Miss Granger?" Another young man appeared in front of her. He had piles of blonde hair and a wide smile. "May I—?"

"Apologies," she managed. "I require… fresh air."

And with that, she turned and left the dance floor, doing her best to melt into the crowd.

When she was little, Hermione developed a talent for hiding in plain sight. This talent served her all too well when her mother's relations came to visit, or when she had no inclination to attend a tea party. It was instinctual, but after all those wonderful years in France, she was out of practice, and it also went against one of Ms. Randolph's dearest maxims—

Do not find yourself unsupervised, unaccompanied, or in any way unattended. A great heave of the bosom. Your virtue must be beyond question.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the figures flickering on the lawn below her. She was perched in the corner of a wide window-seat on the second floor, looking down upon the garden, the fountain, the party. She'd kicked off her shoes, and was steadily making her way through the small pile of vol-au-vents she'd managed to secret from a refreshment table. Her well-loved copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream lay open on the seat beside her, half-lit by a cluster of nearby candles.

If only, she thought, I'd found a way to get out of a corset without aid.

She could hear the music — the orchestra had been playing for several hours now, and it seemed, finally, to be on its last legs. Perfect timing, since she could see the pale, pinkish fingers of Dawn stretching along the edge of the horizon. Soon, she'd have to find Luna, and Lord Devon, who was no doubt asleep on a chaise somewhere, or lost in the library.

But she still had a few moments to herself. She chewed, looking out at the few remaining stars in the milky indigo sky, and thought about the Duke.

He'd been brusque, unfeeling, careless, offering only an attempt at politeness and decorum. The kindest description of his behavior would be rude, and yet. He'd said sorry, about her mother. And danced with her.

When he was forced to, Hermione reminded herself, rolling her eyes again as she brushed stray flakes of pastry from her lap. No, the Duke was hardly worth any consideration, let alone another moment of her sympathy. It was clear that he loathed crowds and hated attention, which was most unfitting for a man of his status, his wealth. But perhaps that was why he behaved as he did, cold and indifferent, only mildly entertaining the conversation of an acquaintance — he was, in reality, quite far above it all. He had every freedom; why should he concern himself with this, the only diversion sure to end in shackles?

Perhaps he was lonely, Hermione thought, before she could stop herself, but she dismissed that explanation almost as soon as it had surfaced. It was clear, from the brief moment she had seen them together, that the Lord Cadogan was somehow responsible for the Duke engaging with the public tonight. There had been a forced hand quite literally behind every moment, dealing some form of repayment, perhaps, or an old favor. No, she was certain that Cadogan had something to do with it. What else would force the Duke into the light of day when, according to the entire ton, he preferred to slip through the shadows?

With a sigh, Hermione stood up and put on her shoes. It was not a simple task; her skirts were rather larger than she'd thought, and she nearly fell. Scowling, she grabbed her gloves and her book, pausing to tuck it back into the hidden pocket of her petticoat (which came courtesy of Lisette and her thimble). Best to end this night before it ended itself.

She made her way back through the darkened house, paying little heed to the quality of the furnishings, the paintings. She'd snuck up here via a small staircase tucked in beside the kitchen, and she retraced her steps with ease, making note of everything she'd seen on her way up. The orchestra had stopped, and the loud rumble of voices rose like a tidal wave to greet her. Something clenched in Hermione's stomach, but she forced herself to continue onward, slipping down the shadowy, hidden staircase like a ghost. A golden beam of light illuminated the doorway to the ground floor, and she braced herself as she neared it, and then—

She collided head-on with someone tall, dark, and broad. She stumbled, heard something drop to the floor, and nearly fell over herself, but then a hand, warm on her bare elbow.

"Miss Granger." The Duke stared at her, and somehow packed outrage, surprise, and confusion into those two short words. A brief, electric moment, then his hand disappeared and he stepped back, the golden light cutting his face in half. He looked like a sprite, alien and ethereal.

Mortified, she could hardly meet his gaze. "Your Grace. Please forgive me, I did not realize that you were—"

He bristled and looked away. "Not at all. It was I who surprised you." Then, in the space of a moment, curiosity seemed to get the better of him. "What were you doing?"

Hermione's heart thudded in her ears. "Taking the air."

"On the second floor?"

"Yes." She tried to take a breath, embarrassment still hot on her face.

A beat passed, then another. "Indeed," said the Duke, and she could've sworn she heard amusement simmering beneath the word. "Well, I must take my leave—"

"Goodnight, Your Grace." She bobbed a quick curtsy, desperate to flee. She did not like this, this feeling— unsettled, wary… yearning.

He took another step away, but then his foot bumped into something on the floor with a soft thud. They both froze, and in that moment, Hermione's hand flew to her petticoat pocket, which suddenly felt very, very light.

Her mouth dry with horror, she could barely watch as the Duke bent down and plucked her book from where it lay on the floor. He held it out, and when she met his gaze, she was shocked to find the corners of his eyes crinkled, as if he were smiling.

"I believe," he said, "that you dropped something."

She couldn't breathe. She took the book from him, mute.

He inclined his head. "Goodnight, Miss Granger."

And with that, Hermione fled.

I'm sure my use of a certain nickname is scandalizing some ppl but rest assured, all will be explained.

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