Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters and elements from the world of Harry Potter, created and trademarked by JK Rowling. I do not claim ownership over any Harry Potter characters or the Harry Potter world. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and is not claiming to be any part of the Harry Potter canon. Thank you to JK Rowling for letting me play with the characters and not suing me for writing them into a new situation.
Light of the Moon
Chapter 13
Hermione felt a bit self-conscious walking into the antechamber to the ballroom. The heavy brocade dress she wore was finer than anything she'd ever owned, and she had a terrifying abundance of jewels dripping from her hair and from her limbs. She was particularly mindful of her posture, as Astoria had told her 'the slouching of a peasant' would be unbecoming to her new station in life. So, she tried to glide across the thick carpets with her head high and her shoulders back, thankful for the Sure-Foot Charm she'd placed on her satin and silk shoes before she'd left her rooms.
She'd carefully prepared herself—physically, emotionally, mentally—for this all-important initial presentation to Ophidian society. She knew that first impressions were key in winning support for her claim to the throne, that many would judge her ability to serve as Ophidia's Queen based on what they saw this night. Astoria had given her plenty of advice on how to navigate social events, but the most important piece of advice she gave was for Hermione to remember that she had won her new position fairly and no one else had the right to deny her.
It was this thought that ran through her mind as she'd allowed her house-elf the freedom to choose her attire. Any thought that Pheme might have misled her as to the appropriate dress for the occasion, disappeared the instant she noticed the young nobles standing in the corridor.
To a man, they were each wearing the finest dress robes of varying shades of black, grey, and green. The fabrics were clearly of the most superb craftsmanship, and they were fitted impeccably to their incredibly trim bodies. As the men laughed at a joke, the movements set their clothes to twinkling in the light, as if hundreds of tiny diamonds had been sewn all over them.
That wasn't what caught her attention, however. What caught her attention was that, surely, she must be staring at a group of the most pulse-elevating, stunningly gorgeous men she had ever seen in her life.
Each one was the epitome of grace, power, and confidence. Their fine robes did nothing to detract from the aura of strength and magic that surrounded them. One of them, with the most striking platinum hair, was indolently leaning against a marble column—a position that should have made him seem petulant or bored, and only served to make him seem dangerous, like a predator lying in wait for prey.
Clearly there was a difference between slouching like a peasant, and slouching like royalty.
A tall man with shiny, brown ringlets that looked as if they didn't dare to ever appear out of place, happened to look her direction where she'd stopped in the shadows. Though not a word seemed to pass from his mouth, the men abruptly stopped talking to glance at her.
Some of them were openly appreciative, like the dark man on whom a smile very quickly blossomed. Some were contemplative, like the man with the curly hair. Others were confused, like the two larger men who stood on the outskirts of the group and looked as if confusion was a state they were quite familiar with.
The man with the blond hair had hard eyes, sharp as steel, that seemed to bore right into her, questioning her presence.
Deciding to take the bull by the horns, she stepped towards them at a slow walk, carefully keeping her face from feeling the intimidation of meeting men who so clearly outranked her. Or had. They would soon be her subjects, she reminded herself.
"Gentlemen," she greeted them calmly, aware that there were always political undercurrents among the elite of any kingdom. She held one gloved arm out as she had seen the other women do when greeting men.
When no one moved to take it, she experienced a brief moment of alarm that she had misunderstood the custom.
As her hand hung there, unmoving, she arched one eyebrow, as if questioning their lack of response.
The dark man with the smile finally came to her side, his every movement elegant as he took her outstretched hand and brought it to his lips, his curious eyes on her face. When he lifted his head, he didn't release her hand, but held it loosely in his.
"My lady, I don't believe we've had the pleasure of being introduced." His voice was smooth, like an intoxicating rich wine that fools you into drinking too much. "I am Ser Zabini, though you are welcome to call me Blaise."
"A pleasure to meet you, Ser Zabini," she acknowledged, with only the slightest emphasis on his title.
She hesitated upon reciprocating with her name, realizing that she had not been informed as to what her new title was. She was not Queen, yet. Queen-Designate? Queen-in-Waiting? Her Highness? She knew it would be an extremely poor idea to give this man—this man with the pretty smile and the clever voice who was still holding her hand—her first name.
"I am Lady Granger," she quickly decided, aware that every moment she spent deliberating was one in which she could lose whatever impact her statement might have. The gossip in the court had no doubt preceded her, as the significance of the white flags was only too clear.
"Ah, yes." Ser Zabini's eyes lit up, while the men behind him shifted uneasily in the manner of those who have just had the subject of their conversation appear unexpectedly.
Her hand was abruptly shifted into the care of another, as the man with the curls framing his face relieved Zabini of his burden, kissing the air just above her fingers.
"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Granger," he said, and then introduced himself as Ser Nott. When his eyes came up to meet hers, she saw they were dark, but sparkled with a hint of mischief.
"Theo," he clarified, causing her to wonder if it was very common for men to give out their first names. In a lower tone, he added, "And all yours, of course, my lady," with an incline of his head that made her think she shouldn't acknowledge that comment.
Another moment he held her hand, before releasing it, and she let it fall to her side. There was no sense in forcing the others to greet her; it was clear they were undecided as to how they should act. The fact that no one was looking at the blond man, who had still not straightened his posture, seemed to indicate that they were waiting on a signal from him.
"And you, sir?" she asked him, her eyes direct on his. She did not hold out her hand.
Though he made no outward sign, she got the impression that she had surprised him with her forwardness.
He waited a moment, his delay clearly intentional, before saying, as if to a small child, "Malfoy."
Ah, the scion of the oldest and most noble house of Malfoy. He must be offended she did not instantly recognize him. She did not respond to his insolent manner other than with a slight incline of her head.
There was a silence afterwards, as everyone waited for the outcome of what was clearly going to be a power struggle.
Hermione didn't speak. She had long ago learned that the person who speaks first, loses. She would be Queen, and she would be respected. She had the luxury of waiting indefinitely for someone else to break the silence.
Ser Malfoy finally stood, and took a slow step towards her. "So, you're the Muggle-born that solved Riddle's riddle." The way he said 'Muggle-born' held a lifetime of disgust and disdain in it.
But the statement was an obvious one. If he was probing for a weakness, she would not give him one. She merely continued looking at him.
"Is it true," he asked, in a way that made her think of a serpent whispering in Eve's ear, "that you are the strongest and the smartest witch in all the land?"
It seemed a presumptuous thing for her to say. And yet, that was what everyone would be saying, and if she pretended to a false modesty now, she had the feeling it would paint her as weak in the eyes of these influential men.
"In this land, and the next," she asserted. Then she added, with the slightest hint of wryness, "Or so it would seem by the results of your master's test."
Ser Malfoy's face twisted in anger. "He is not our master, he's our King!"
Inwardly, she smiled. A direct hit to his pride. She had his number now. "Oh?" She arched her eyebrow again, her pretense at confusion lightly mocking in nature.
He sneered at her, and she noted that he was really remarkably attractive if even his sneers could make a woman's heart beat faster.
"I see the quality of this court is going to go downhill the moment our King marries a whore who calls him 'Master.'"
Before the men around her could even think to react, her wand was in her hand, and she had it pointed at Ser Malfoy's throat. "You will apologize. Immediately." She was pleased that her aim was steady, the anger that coursed through her no less effective for being channeled with discipline.
Ser Malfoy's eyes narrowed, and his lip curled with disdain. He made no move to his own wand. "Such boorish behavior. That's what happens when you give a Mudblood a fancy dress and let her believe she is the equal of real wizards."
Hermione had been expecting to deal with the ignorant and the prejudiced. She had braced herself for it, even had a taste of it with her run-ins with Lady Carrow. And still, the word cut through her, sharp and stinging.
She forced herself to wait a beat before she hexed him, to emphasize her control and the deliberateness of her actions. But before she could, she was interrupted.
"Hermione."
The voice of her husband-to-be was quietly chastising, but she recognized it by the tiny shiver that went down her back at the use of her name.
Slowly, she turned to look at him, conveying how little of a threat she found Ser Malfoy to be. She did not lower her wand, though she found herself instantly distracted.
The King was most impressive, and it took a moment for her to catch her breath. His long silver and black robes were not affixed with the same jewels that seemed to be the court custom. Instead their starkness only emphasized the strong lines of his handsome face.
Where she'd thought the courtiers in front of her had seemed dangerous and powerful, they appeared as petulant little boys playing at politics beside this regal man.
She'd found herself attracted to the young men around her, assessing their qualities and their effect in the same way she quietly analyzed her favorite research subjects. But something about the King called to her, drew her to him, in a way that was unlike anything she'd ever felt for anyone else. He was power and energy, an unstoppable force. The pull she felt towards him was that same indescribable need she felt to access her magic, to feel it wash over her and through her. The strength of her feeling at the sight of him shocked her, and she refrained, but barely, from shaking her head to clear it.
"Hermione," he repeated, his voice drawing her from her churning thoughts. "We are not so uncouth as to draw our wands in court."
His tone was deceptively mild, but she felt the sharp bite of it. With some effort, she swallowed down her irritation at seeing the annoying blond prat smirking at her after Riddle's words. Coming as they did on the heels of her recent admiring thoughts, she felt a measure of hurt in addition to her embarrassment and aggravation.
She held her wand for a moment longer before she obeyed the implicit command, though it galled her to do so. She was not Queen, yet.
By the time her wand had been stowed, Riddle had closed the distance between them to stand beside her.
One by one, he fixed each of the men with his cold gaze. They held still under his scrutiny, though Hermione could tell they were anxious to move. He did not look at her, though she half expected him to deliver some kind of reprimand for her actions.
Finally, he turned to Ser Malfoy, who had carefully schooled his features back to a more respectful expression.
"Crucio."
The word was simple, uttered without any feeling, but the change to the group was immediate.
The men quickly darted to the side as Ser Malfoy convulsed into a pile on the floor, his teeth gritted against screams that were trying to claw their way out of his mouth.
Hermione jumped back, her hands covering her mouth in horror. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. She'd never witnessed a man being tortured before, and her empty stomach threatened to revolt while a sheen of tears came to her eyes.
"Do you see, Hermione?" he said, though his attention was still on the man whose limbs were spasming uncontrollably. "There is no need to draw your wand in civilized society."
She forced her arms down and her posture back to a pretense of relaxation. Rapidly, she tried to blink back the tears. Her future husband was displaying incredible wandless power on her behalf. It was important that she composed herself, even though inside she was recoiling in disgust at the torturing of another human being, no matter how vile he was.
The moment seemed to drag out in slow motion, and Hermione opened her mouth to beg him to stop.
Riddle ended the spell before she could speak, and Ser Malfoy collapsed on the floor, panting and wheezing.
With the grace of a panther, the King knelt to the ground, his robes pooling around him. His voice was low, but Hermione was sure everyone could hear every word.
"If I ever hear you speak to your Queen that way again, Little Malfoy, I will make you wish for the bloodlessness, the elegant simplicity, of the Crucio."
Then he stood and casually adjusted his robes before holding out an arm to Hermione.
She was still frozen at the scene before her, and couldn't bring herself to take that step towards him.
He looked at her very calmly, his arm still out, his dark eyes focused on her like she was the only one in the room. With a shaky breath, she reminded herself of the need to stay unified, so she walked towards him, placing her hand on his arm. She knew he could feel the light trembles in her body, as he placed one of his hands over hers.
"Malfoy!" he called over his shoulder.
Hermione was surprised to see another man with platinum blond hair, this time in a long queue down his back, quickly stride over to them. Beyond him was a group of older men, pompous in their stiff robes, who looked with distaste at the young aristocrats.
"I am here, Your Majesty," the new Malfoy said. The resemblance to the other one was very close. It was clear he must be the father or another close relative. Though he was older, he was equally as handsome, and his face looked as if it could be equally as cold. No wonder Ser Malfoy had assumed he would be instantaneously recognized. That silver-blond hair was very distinctive. She would not be forgetting that family any time soon.
"Lord Malfoy," Riddle said. "Your whelp is in dire need of an education on manners. See that it is taken care of before he shows his face here again."
"Yes, sire. It will be done, sire." The man bowed several times before stepping back and hissing words that Hermione couldn't make out, at the young man on the floor.
As if the incident was now wiped completely from his mind, Riddle looked at the woman on his arm and said, "You look very beautiful tonight, Hermione. I'm not usually fond of scarlets and golds, but in them you seem both as warm and as fierce as firelight."
The compliment took her off guard, as her mind was still occupied with the scene behind her, where Sers Zabini and Nott were aiding the young Malfoy back to his feet.
She shook her head, trying in vain to clear it. "You are too kind, Your Majesty. May I say you are looking extremely…handsome…tonight, as well." Though true, her words lacked the conviction she'd felt only a minute ago.
His smile was indulgent as he led her away from the others. "Truly, you will turn my head with such effusive words of praise."
"I'm sorry," she apologized, her words just above a whisper, running together as she spoke quickly. "I can't—I just can't—I've never seen. . . I can't." Now that no one else was watching her, the tears had come to her eyes again. She kept her gaze up to prevent them from falling.
After a moment, he asked her, "Do you trust me, Hermione?"
She opened her mouth to reply that she did, but she couldn't make the word come out. He would know if she lied, anyway. "No."
He seemed slightly disappointed, but he nodded at her response. "I will make this promise to you. We will discuss this incident as much as you like, until you are satisfied that you have the answers and explanations that you need to be comfortable. But I ask you to wait until after the ball. For right now, for tonight, we will present you to the people, announce our upcoming marriage, and pretend as if we have nothing more pressing on our minds. Can you trust me enough to wait, Hermione? To put this aside for just a few hours?"
She didn't trust her voice, but hesitantly, she nodded. A few hours; she thought she could manage that.
He reached up to touch her face, his fingers wiping at the wetness on her cheek. The frown on his face was quite serious as his eyes glanced briefly to the knot of young men that still stood together several paces from them. She could see there was still anger beneath his calm surface, but when he turned back to her, it had gone again.
He called for her house-elf, quietly instructing Pheme to bring Hermione a Calming Draught.
She drank it reluctantly, but was glad for the steadying effect it had on her.
She barely remembered the rest of the ball.
Riddle kept her on his arm through most of it. After the initial announcement when they'd entered the hall with much fanfare, the King navigated her through the throngs of people, all of them wanting to meet her and to speak with the King.
Introductions were very formal, and Hermione did her best to remember as many names as she could, particularly the ones who gave her a genuine smile. She thought she might have recognized some of them from her trip to Vertic Alley.
One person in particular she remembered quite well.
"Dear girl, dear girl!" Ser Slughorn greeted her, kissing her outstretched hand quite profusely. "You proved yourself after all, you did! I knew you could do it! Didn't I say so? And wasn't I right?"
Hermione gave him her first real smile of the night, forbearing to mention that he'd said nothing of the sort. His enthusiasm and his pleasure in seeing her again more than made up for his faulty memory.
"You were very encouraging to me, Ser Slughorn," Hermione acknowledged. "And as the first person at the castle to greet me and show me such kindness, I owe you a debt of gratitude for the way your kind words spurred my efforts."
She said such a thing simply to be nice to the older man, but he was charmed by her words and the fact that she remembered him. Nothing would do but for her to agree to attend a dinner party he was having in a few nights. Indeed, he was throwing it in her honor and would be quite devastated if she did not agree to come.
In a bizarre sort of afterthought, he extended the invitation to the King who was still standing at her side watching their exchange.
"I regret that I am not able to attend," Riddle told him, his voice sincere. "There are many preparations for me to make." He turned to Hermione on his arm and added, "But if Lady Granger wishes to attend, I have no objection to her representing the both of us at your event."
Ser Slughorn's eyes lit up, focused on Hermione, who had no choice but to murmur her acceptance of his invitation.
Gravely, Riddle said, "And I am certain that I can entrust her safety to you for the evening. There are not many wizards, even here in Ophidia, of which I can say the same."
Hermione realized in amazement that Riddle actually liked the old man. His compliment made Ser Slughorn preen like a peacock, and he left them with many assurances of the grand time they were going to have.
Once they were out of earshot, Hermione's face must have asked the question that was on her mind. The King shrugged lightly, and said, by way of explanation, "He was one of the best Potions Masters Ophidia has ever seen. He taught me everything I know."
Intrigued, Hermione turned back to look at the man who seemed to be telling everyone in his path that the future Queen was going to have dinner at his house. He didn't look like a master at Potions.
"His memory is not what it once was," Riddle said, very quietly. "He retired several years ago, but couldn't bring himself to take up a hobby to occupy his time, so he runs the gatepost and takes considerable gratification in being the first to greet the castle's distinguished guests."
Hermione smiled at Riddle's permissiveness. In her mind, his gentle demeanor towards the elderly wizard was suddenly contrasted with the harsh treatment of the young blond noble. Her smile faded quickly at the remembrance.
For the rest of the evening, even when Riddle waltzed her quite divinely around the ballroom, the scene in the antechamber was never far from her mind.
She knew he hadn't forgotten, as he was extremely solicitous of her throughout the night. And afterwards, when he'd walked her all the way back to the Queen's Suite, he didn't leave her at the door as he usually did.
In the sitting room, with Pheme casually dismissed, the King sat on the settee and invited Hermione to sit beside him.
Still in her jeweled attire, she sat stiffly, uncertain how to begin.
"Hermione." After calling her Lady Granger all night, the touch of affection in his voice was clear as he spoke her given name. "I did promise you we could talk. Do you still wish to do so?"
She nodded, her throat tight. "I'm just—not sure where to start."
"You were quite upset earlier," Riddle observed gently. "Was it young Malfoy's words? I assure you he will not make the mistake of being so disrespectful again."
Vaguely, Hermione remembered the ugly sentiments that came out of the mouth of the beautiful young man. She'd nearly forgotten. "It is not the worst I have ever heard. And it is not as if I had not prepared myself for exactly such a thing. The prejudices of Pureblood wizards are not unknown to me."
"It is your kind heart, then," Riddle said, "that you would anguish over the suffering of your enemy."
"He is not my enemy," Hermione protested.
"For that moment in time, he was. He threatened your dignity, your emotional well-being, your standing in the eyes of others." He waited while she digested those facts. "When you allow a wizard the freedom to make those trespasses, it is not long before he progresses to much more violent tactics. I stopped him before those thoughts could even take root, let alone come to fruition."
"You tortured him," she whispered, seeing again the contorted face of a man in agony.
"I disciplined him," he corrected. "I take no pleasure in the pain of others. I do not torment men simply to watch them squirm under my wand. But from my subjects, especially those noble Pureblood families who set the example, I will have order. I will have self-control."
His voice was hard as granite, the first time she'd ever heard it that way.
"You used an Unforgiveable on him," she said, disbelievingly. In Brittania, such spells would be considered an offense punishable by execution or lifetime imprisonment.
"In Ophidia, there is no magic, no curse, that is outlawed." He gestured towards her. "Visitors are prevented from having access to damaging curses, not because of the nature of the magic, but because of the nature of the foreigner who has no loyalty to this country and its people. But we do not believe there is anything that is Unforgiveable."
"You don't feel that there are some curses, some things that are simply too evil to be used?" She pushed her point, uncomprehending of how something as obviously wrong as torture could be excused.
"Magic is not evil," Riddle said, shaking his head. "Even a tool that is created for an evil purpose is not itself evil. It is still a tool, and its use is decided by the hand that wields it. I used a tool to teach a young man a very hard lesson tonight." He looked at her face, and his eyes softened a bare fraction. "I am sorry, however, that it grieved you to see it."
She looked down at her lap—away from those eyes—at the wand she held tightly in her hand. The beauty of the intricately embroidered scenes on her gown seemed out of place when compared to the dreadful topic of conversation. She couldn't imagine using her lovely vinewood wand with its delicately carved vines and leaves to cast a Crucio on another human being. Just the thought made her shudder. "It seems quite barbaric to me."
"New ways and cultures often do," he acknowledged. "It doesn't make them wrong. Let me ask you, Hermione: In Brittania, you have much magic that is considered Dark and inappropriate for use by honorable wizards and witches, yes? Yet, with its righteous standards for ethical behavior, has Brittania eliminated crime, poverty, and disease?"
"Of course not," she said, impatiently.
"And yet, are those not rectifiable ailments of humanity?" he pointed out. "Is it not within the reach of wizards to find solutions to those problems?"
"It's not that easy. There are many complications to—"
"But Ophidia," he interrupted her patiently, "is virtually free of all of those things. There is no wizard, witch or child who must go without food and shelter. There is no one without access to potions and a healer if they need one. My kingdom is clean, safe, and people have the freedom to be happy without worrying over how they will receive those basic necessities that consume the attention of others. Not every Ophidian is honorable. But judicious use of power ensures that every Ophidian abides by the requirement for honorable behavior."
"Because if they do not, they are tortured?" she said with a touch of asperity. "You rule them with fear."
"They are disciplined," he corrected her again. "For their own good, as well as the good of the rest of Ophidia's citizens. It would be cruel if I did not use my power and allowed a lower living standard for my subjects simply because I considered myself too moral to enforce the law so strongly no one would dare break it."
The set of her mouth made it clear that she wasn't entirely convinced.
Riddle let the silence between them linger. When he spoke again, it was very gently. "If you can ever show me another way that yields the same highly successful results, I will make adjustments. As I said, I do not take joy in causing pain to others. I only do so because I know that a little pain now spares many others much more pain in the future." He considered her solemnly, bending a little to catch her eyes. When she looked up at him, he offered, "Perhaps, Hermione, you will solve that particular riddle as well and create a better of way of ruling that does not require such harsh disciplinary measures."
She hated to admit that while a part of her knew that it was wrong to use pain to motivate or to persuade others, another part of her could see that Ophidia and its citizens were healthier and happier than any other country she'd ever visited. Ophidia was a shining example of a nation that had peace and safety for its inhabitants. That was one of the reasons she was so upset to see such a terrible curse in use, and by the King, no less.
"Perhaps I will," she answered him. She resolved that one of her first projects would be to find a way to make Ophidia an example in truly ethical and moral government.
It surprised her how quickly she had adopted what would soon be her new country. She was already taking such pride in its accomplishments and its people, that it hurt her on a personal level to see the appalling dark flaw that ran through Ophidian society. It was foolish to feel so betrayed, so disillusioned.
He nodded at her answer, as if he expected no less, and with the conversation concluded, he rose to leave her for the night.
She looked up at the elegant man as he politely bid her goodnight. He was brilliant, sophisticated, refined. Even in his anger, while a man screamed in pain at his feet, he was dignified and graceful. She didn't want to believe the worst of him. She was certain that he was a man who could be a true match for her; for her visions for the future, as well as her ideals. He just needed…a partner—someone who could help him build a better world without having to compromise integrity and goodness. She was equally as certain that she could be that partner. She was going to be that partner, in less than three weeks.
As she prepared for bed, this time in a proper nightgown worthy of royalty, she reluctantly faced the fact that it was obviously not just the country that had so quickly won her loyalty. It might be the wiser choice to renounce her claim to the throne and return to Brittania, but the thought did not even cross her mind as she already considered herself committed to the Ophidian people—and the Ophidian King.
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