It's time for the big Ministry dinner and Hermione's first event as heir apparent. Will she prosper, or will she suck more than a Dementor?

Saturday 12th October 1996. 02:34 pm

Dear Diary,

As of around twenty minutes ago, it has been a week since the argument with Ron that ended our friendship for good. The following one hundred and sixty-eight hours have been the worst of my life, and that's a lot considering how much Lavender bullies me. Not to forget having to put up with my grandmother for the past month, too.

I wish I could tell you that I've used the time he and Harry have not been distracting me productively by getting all of my homework done. But that would be a lie. I also haven't put together the list of pros and cons for taking the crown, and I've only got six weeks left to make my decision.

My current state of life has caused my brain to descend into chaos, and I can't make head or tail of any of the situations I find myself in.

I am managing to stay up with my workloads, just about, but I hate not being ahead of the game like I usually am. I prefer to write my assignments the day the teachers give them to us, but every time I settle down to do so (in the library, to avoid the vile looks the others keep throwing my way), I find my attention drifting away from my school work. Luckily, my grades remain high, but the whole rush to finish a piece of work at the last minute is ridiculously stressful, and I'm sure it's the reason why my entire face has erupted into spots.

I'm not sure how the boys do it and how this way of working is their status quo. They must be driving themselves mental. There is no way I will allow this to become my normal. It's a blip, that's all.

To make matters worse, Grandmother is also being more demanding with my time. She owled me three times this week to invite me to additional princess lessons. And, of course, there was no way I could say no. She made it sound like it would be a complete disaster if I turned up at the Ministry Dinner unprepared, as if eating food with a bunch of old people will be hard.

She always makes sure I'm sent back to Hogwarts in time for rounds because "a princess never forgoes her duties to her people".

Rounds used to be my favourite part of the week—yes, even more so than studying—because I got to spend them with Ron. Even before I realised that I might have a crush on him, I revelled in having a chance to chat away with him without Harry being around (not that we mind him hanging around with us, of course we don't, but Harry can be a little broody).

I've never laughed as hard as I have when I've been working with Ron.

But now, rounds have become the most awkward event ever. Twice this week, I have followed my ex-best friend around the dark, quiet corridors of the castle in complete silence. Seriously, not a squeak passes his lips. As usual, we rarely come across students flouting the rules, mainly because nobody can be bothered to venture as far as the sixth and seventh floor, but if we do, Ron steps back and allows me to deal with it without making any input himself. Every time I've tried to break the ice with him, he grunts a one-word response at me, the kind that leaves no space for me to carry on the conversation with him, or he ignores me.

As I was waiting for him on Tuesday, I spotted that Harry had pinned the new Quidditch team to the Gryffindor notice board. I didn't even have to look at the piece of parchment to know that Harry had named Ron as Keeper for the team because Cormac was cursing to high heavens about the unfairness of not being picked. He was shouting about nepotism, which surprised me because I wasn't aware he could use big words like that.

I tried to choose the window to congratulate Ron wisely, not wanting to assault him straight away, even though I felt ridiculously proud of him. When I finally managed to gush to him about how exciting I found it all and told him well done, all he grumbled back was, "always the tone of surprise."

It's preposterous.

I even made sure to choose my words carefully to avoid any hint of surprise in my voice. I knew Ron would get it, and I didn't want him thinking that I didn't have faith in him, especially after such an outstanding performance last year.

One good aspect of our silent walks around the castle is that Ron hasn't asked how Draco is or if Lavender's suspicions are correct. I hope that's because he doesn't believe it, rather than because he doesn't care who I'm dating. Despite her best attempts to spread untrue gossip about me, it doesn't seem to be picking up. Nobody has tried to tease me about it, and Draco hasn't approached me to ask why people might be saying we're together, which is great because I can't stand that ferret.

It seems that I am invisible in Hogwarts.

I was kind of grateful when my grandmother announced that we would be having lunch together after princess lessons, and then we'd start getting ready for the Ministry Dinner because it meant I didn't have to return to the castle and spend another mealtime with only Tonks for company. Not that I mind too much, but it's kind of sad when your bodyguard is your only friend.

This morning, Grandmother revisited how to sit correctly at the table, eventually resorting to using Incarcerous to tie me to my chair. Then we reviewed which cutlery we use for each course.

After lunch, though, she disappeared, leaving me to hang around one of the many spare bedrooms in this ginormous castle. She promised me she'd be up at two, and so far, there is no sign of her or anyone else. I've been left alone to my own devices, and honestly, it's bliss. Maybe I should move here and just portkey to Hogwarts for lessons in the morning? It would save me a lot of bother from people who apparently can't stand having me around anymore.

Although, I guess I would miss the boys, even if they're not talking to me.

But to be Head Girl, you have to live in the castle and participate in student life. Getting the prestigious title is what I desire over everything else. Well, apart from you-know-who. I'm on course to get it, too, if I don't let all this princess stuff distract me from getting good grades.

Speaking of which, I should probably get on with my reading rather than spilling my heart out to you.

Until I remember to write again x

Hermione places her journal carefully down on the bedside table, which is devoid of any decorative items apart from a gold lamp with a rich, cream lampshade, then rises to her feet to explore the "guest" room further. The walls are decorated the same way as the other rooms she has seen in the castle, painted in creams and golds, with deep red carpets and bed linens. The space is vast and sterile, despite its luxurious fixings, giving Hermione a juxtaposed impression. It's like it wants to be welcoming, but something is missing. It's clear that nobody lives here, and if Hermione were to make this her permanent residence, it would need a lot of personality added before she could call it home.

She's grateful she's alone. It's been harder and harder to find topics to discuss with Tonks over the past week. Hermione can't place her finger on why, but she's sure the difficulties lie between not having Harry and Ron around to fuel their conversations, as well as her lingering self-pity, which she has shamelessly been wallowing in all week.

This whole mood needs to stop.

For one, Hermione doesn't want to lose Tonks; she'd rather have the young Auror looking after her than one of the other members of the Order. They're all a lot older. Imagine having Mad-Eye Moody following her around the school? Although most of the students in Hogwarts are oblivious to the chaos raging around them, there would be suspicions as to why he was interested in Hermione, and it wouldn't take long for the news about her royal background to slip out.

And secondly, there's no way she can get through tonight's dinner with a sour look on her face.

The young princess settles in the window seat with a heavy sigh and contemplates accio-ing her school books over when the bedroom door bursts open, causing her to drop her wand in fright.

Good job princesses aren't allowed to be Aurors; Hermione would be useless in a predicament. At least we're not at war.

Queen Beatrice bustles in, followed closely by Madam Malkin, her assistants and Amelia. Kingsley Shacklebolt enters last, closing the door firmly behind him, and Hermione is a little disappointed to see that Tonks isn't with him. She could do with the Auror's light humour to get her through the next few hours.

"Ah, good. You're still here," Beatrice states as if Hermione has any other options to spend her Saturday afternoon.

Her grandmother's eyes travel down the young witch's body, her nose wrinkling up in disgust at the light denim jeans and stripey jumper Hermione has chosen to wear today.

"Hermione, dear, I know that after your flagrant disobedience last week we agreed that you could wear modern muggle clothes, but you could at least make sure that you look a little more presentable."

The statement takes Hermione by surprise since her grandmother managed to stay tight-lipped about her appearance during this morning's princess lessons, but she puts that down to the queen wanting to make a show in front of Madam Malkin, whose look of disgust matches Beatrice's.

"I know, Grandmother, but—"

"Never mind, never mind, work on it for next week. We'll soon have you spruced up. We have a fantastic selection of outfits and robes for you to wear tonight. I have held up my end of the bargain."

"Is that why you're so late?"

Queen Beatrice scoffs. "A queen is never late, Hermione, everyone else is simply early. I decided to pop across to Diagon Alley after our lunch to double check the short-list of options for tonight. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

Madam Malkin takes the queen's words as her cue to step forward. With a flick of her wand, she magically shoves the sparse amount of furniture in the room to the sides. A privacy screen appears out of nowhere, along with a metal rail full of bagged outfits. The small mirror that hung opposite the bed is now double its size, and Hermione shrinks back from the magnification of all her perceived faults. She's sure the mirror gives her a wink as she looks away, though.

Ignoring the rolling of bludgers in her stomach, Hermione raises her chin and walks determinedly to the rack of clothes, desperate to get it over and done with. Although last week her grandmother promised her subsequent recommendations would be more fashionable, Hermione can't trust the woman yet, especially as she hasn't even known her for a month.

Or the fact she kept herself hidden for seventeen years.

Tutting, Madam Malkin takes Hermione by the shoulders and steers her away from the outfits and towards the privacy screen. "Not yet, Princess. I want the robes to be a surprise. You can't judge them as they hang all baggy off a hanger, they need to be seen on your beautiful body to be fully appreciated. Now, get behind there and strip."

Hermione squeaks, "All the way?"

"Yep! Come on now, we're all women here, apart from Kingsley and he'll step outside." Madam Malkin pauses to shoo the Auror away. "We all have the same bits, anyway. I promise it will all be worth it."

⁂

Two hours later, Hermione stands trembling behind the privacy screen, her body sagging in exhaustion. She never knew trying on clothes could be this tiring. Once each outfit is on and fastened, Madam Malkin pushes her onto a round, golden platform, where the seamstress pulls at the material, pins it into place then shrinks it down until it fits Hermione like a second skin. Then the young princess has to stand around while the others evaluate her look.

She wraps her arms around her slim body with a shudder, trying her best to ward off the stale, cold air that's prevalent throughout the old castle. Surely the family has enough money to introduce heating to the musty rooms? Or maybe they could ask Dumbledore how he keeps Hogwarts warm, even in areas with no fireplaces. She wishes she didn't leave her wand where it rolled under the bed earlier. She longs to use a charm to heat the area behind the gold canvas screens and inject some life back into her frozen limbs. She would step out and grab it, but she's painfully aware that she's naked, and her grandmother has promised her that this dress is the last one.

So far, the outfits have been horrendous. Garish, neon pink with poofy skirts, A-line dresses with balloon sleeves, a black number with a slit that travels too far past her hip bone. They're modern, at least, but they're either inappropriate for the occasion or her age.

"If this is no good," Madam Malkin says in a weary voice, "then may I suggest we revisit the pink number. Perhaps we could put a bolero on top of it, or an open set of traditional robes. Or a brooch. That would hide your cleavage, although I still say you should use an enhancing charm on what little you have and enjoy being young."

Hermione takes the bag, hanging it on the hook near the screen before stepping back to admire it. It's periwinkle, a subtle change to all the neon and animal print Madam Malkin has subjected her to. Her previous dismay lifts a little as she picks up the light, crepe material and watches it flutter back into place.

The dress is simple enough, a shift dress that looks like it might skim her knees, with a small amount of decoration that enhances the bodice instead of overpowering it. It has a round neckline, and there's no way she'll be showing off too much boob or not enough leg. It should appease everyone, including her grandmother, the most difficult person to keep happy in the world. There's even a matching jacket to cover her shoulders.

"Might as well get on with it, you don't have all afternoon," she mumbles to herself as she pulls the dress over her head and arranges the material on her body.

Beatrice gives an impatient tsk before calling, "So? What do you think?"

Slipping her feet back into the soft, bejewelled slippers her grandmother gave her, Hermione smooths her hands down over her body one last time before stepping out from behind the screen and standing in front of the waiting women. But there is no reaction from the group, only a collective silence that draws sweat to Hermione's palms and causes her heart to constrict.

"I-I guess we'll go b-back to the pink number then," she stutters, trying her best to resist the urge to wipe her hands down the material. "I like this one, it's pretty."

Not wanting to ruin her first impressions of the dress and look at the dreadful image that has shocked the rest of the room into silence, Hermione averts her eyes from the mirror to stare out of the closest window, watching the grey clouds as they float back. This way, she can also avoid the disgusted faces of Madam Malkin and her assistants.

"Oh Hermione, dear." Beatrice is the first to break the unbearable quiet in the room. Hermione's eyes flit towards the Queen, and she is surprised to see that there are tears in her eyes. "You look simply wonderful. You were right, Madam Malkin, the periwinkle is a perfect shade for the colour of the princess's skin."

The Queen places her hands on Hermione's shoulders and steers her towards the large mirror. "Look for yourself."

It takes a moment, but Hermione prises her eyes open, her breath catching in her throat as she takes in her appearance.

The material is tight, but not too much. Instead of making the princess look like a Bowtruckle, it emphasises more of what Hermione has rather than what she's missing. And her grandmother is correct—the colour flatters her pale pallor. Or is that the flush from her enjoyment of her appearance?

"Well, she definitely looks like a princess," the mirror comments.

For a fleeting moment, Hermione's thoughts drift to how Ron might react if he were to see her wearing this, but she pushes it aside. All the longing and pining has to stop. He's not interested in her. If he were, he'd want to patch their friendship up.

"It's much more beautiful than how it looked on the hanger," Hermione gushes. "Thank you Madam Malkin."

Beatrice smiles at their reflection in the mirror. "I think we'll make a ravishing pair tonight. It is a shame you haven't got a consort to bring with you, though."

"A consort?" Hermione's head whips around to stare up at her grandmother.

"Yes, that's the spouse of a ruling king or queen, but we use that term in the same way you would say a da—"

"I know what a consort is," the princess interrupts. "I didn't know I could bring anyone with me tonight."

"Oh, it's not just anyone, my dear. Of course, you can invite your little friends to the ball next month, should you wish. But any man who wishes to date a princess has to have a certain je ne sais quoi about him. Plus, there are rules."

"Like what?"

Beatrice's lips tighten in a grimace, and she remains silent for a moment before she sighs. "Well, he'll need to be patient, for a start. There's a list. Amelia, can you…"

The queen's words fade out as Hermione turns her attention back to her reflection, a wistful smile on her face as she imagines turning up to tonight's event on Ron's arm. He looks smart, in black dress robes, a crisp white shirt underneath them and a bow tie that matches the colour of her dress. But more importantly, Ron looks proud to be escorting her. It's the same impression that he has after saving a tricky goal in Quidditch.

Her shoulders droop with a heavy sigh. Although more unlikely miracles have come true, there's no way Ron would want to be her date to the ball.

It's not even worth dreaming about. You'll only get yourself worked up.

Saturday 12th October 1996, 07:45 pm

Grandmother's list of rules for a consort are wild. Seriously.

When she proudly handed them over to me, she announced that the rules weren't only applicable in the British Magical Community, but throughout the magical and muggle world, with a few obvious amendments.

But these specific requirements that any man interested in marrying me has to follow blow my mind. They're archaic and downright bloody mental, and you know I don't like to swear, so I must mean it.

I'd be better off joining a nunnery, which is what my great, great, great Aunt did after she was unable to find a decent suitor.

It's been a struggle getting any boy to show interest in me, apart from Viktor, although I'm sure he had taken one too many bludgers to the head to want to date me. Adding all of this to the mix is going to make it impossible.

In fact, I'm adding these ridiculous rules to my con's list of reasons why I shouldn't take the crown.

Being a royal is so old-fashioned.

Here is the list in its whole, unedited by me glory because, frankly, there's not a word I can add to make any of this better:

Expectations of any Royal Consort of the Prince(ss) of Magical Britain

* The consort will ask for permission from the prince(ss) before they leave the room.

* The consort will wait for the prince(ss) to finish speaking before speaking themselves.

* The consort will wait for the prince(ss) to lift their fork before lifting their own at mealtimes.

* The consort will not sit until the prince(ss) has been seated.

* The consort will rise the moment the prince(ss) rises.

* The consort will not engage in any sort of risk-taking behaviour—such as racing, either broom or hippogriff, dragon taming, duelling, Quidditch—until such time as an heir has been provided.

* The consort will not lift their wand towards the prince(ss) in anger or jest.

* The consort will give up their right, in the event of an annulment or divorce, to the custody of any children born during the marriage.

NO QUIDDITCH UNTIL AN HEIR HAS BEEN PROVIDED?!

How on earth am I going to persuade Ron to agree to that? Not that I'm assuming I'll marry Ron because, given how awful it is between us at the moment, that's never going to happen. But if not him, then any other decent muggle or magical man. I mean, I'm sure there's a guy out there who's desperate to be a part of a royal family that they'd happily sign over all of their autonomy, but do I even want a consort like that?

Waiting until I eat, waiting for me to speak first, not leaving until I've gone. Ron storms out of the room mid-argument all the time, and he definitely doesn't wait for my permission! Plus, he's highly opinionated and loves to speak his mind.

Which is why I love, no, like him.

No wonder my parents didn't get married.

All of this is a moot point anyway because Ron doesn't even think of me that way, and I'm such a freak without all the added princess stuff that nobody will want to marry me. I'm still not even sure I want to take the throne, but maybe I'll be the first princess to rule alone if I do. There's surely not a rule in our constitution that says I have to have a consort. Although, I should ask Grandmother more about that.

And when it comes to providing an heir? Well, I can always adopt. There are tons of magical children and squibs without parents.

Ugh, I better go. The noise in the foyer of Ballindalloch castle has been growing louder as I write, and there's only so long I can put off making an entrance. Dedalus has already checked three times to see if I'm ready. For the big ball at the end of November, I will enter with my grandmother, but tonight, in the ultimate test of whether I am princess material or not, I will enter alone.

I guess if I fall down the stairs, I can illegally apparate myself back to the outskirts of Hogwarts. Or die of shame. Either works for me.

Until I remember to write again x

Whilst Hermione has been writing, Tonks has made an appearance in the doorway to the guest bedroom. The pink-haired girl has changed out of her muggle clothes, as she calls them, and is wearing the elegant red robes that indicate her involvement in the Order. Her phoenix badge is displayed proudly on her chest.

"Pass it over," she says as she holds her hand out.

Panic washes over the young princess as she clutches her diary closer to her body. "I don't think I can."

"Hermione. You can't write throughout dinner. I'll keep it safe, I promise."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I've done okay with looking after you so far, haven't I?"

Hermione eyes her guardian for a second before passing the red, leatherbound diary over with a huge sigh. "I'll know if you've tried to look at it," she adds. "Anyway, I've charmed the words so you won't be able to read it."

"Of course you have. Now, off you go before you give Dedalus an aneurysm."

Hands shaking and her heart pounding an irregular tattoo against her ribcage, Hermione moves to the top of the vast, grand staircase. If it wasn't for the charmed quartet of string instruments playing Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits, she's sure the waiting guests would be able to hear the throbbing of her pulse or the gurgle of her stomach.

But the music is soothing, bringing with it pictures of Molly Weasley's face, cheeks rosy after a couple of Christmas eggnogs. It's a Weasley tradition, listening to the famous witch's music over the Wizarding Wireless Network. Despite the fact she joins in with the rest of the family's complaints, it's one of Hermione's favourite memories. It's almost enough to unravel her frayed nerves.

Almost.

The princess-to-be slides her hand over the dark oak railing before taking a firm grip of it, turning her knuckles white with the effort, which is probably a good idea since her palms are slick with sweat and could end up sending her to her untimely death. She wishes she had a friend there to support her, aside from Tonks—who isn't allowed to make an appearance tonight—and her grandmother, who is more likely to judge than support Hermione.

Even having her mother around, who is an introvert at heart and hates any sort of grand occasion like this, would be helpful as Hermione waits to make her descent.

A shuffling comes from the ground below, and eventually, the music quiets. Dedalus, who is now standing upright at the bottom of the staircase, hammers a staff against the antique parquet flooring three times. The sound is louder than it should be, rattling Hermione's bones and filling her stomach with doom. The low rumble of conversation fades away, and she can imagine a hundred pairs of eyes turning towards the short wizard in excited anticipation of what's to come next.

This is it.

Although there won't be an official announcement for another month, and she still has time to reject the crown, tonight's appearance at the Ministry Dinner will cement Hermione's position as the heir apparent, and the most influential people in the magical and muggle community will know who she is. Her invisibility will no longer help her, and she'll be thrust into the limelight, almost unwillingly.

The wizard waits until it's quiet enough to hear a pygmy puff squeak before announcing to the room, "Introducing Princess Hermione Jean Beatrice Windsor Sherington Granger, heir apparent to the throne of Magical Britain."

Hermione pauses, drawing in a massive breath before letting it out slowly as she counts to five, exactly how her grandmother has taught her. Once she's sure she's waited her allotted time, she places one slippered foot in front of the other, following the steps towards the ground floor and her waiting subjects-to-be. As she walks, she tries her best to put into practice all of the tips that Beatrice has bestowed upon her over the past few weeks, keeping her head held high, her chin parallel to the floor, and gliding, trying to make it look as if her movements cost her no effort. Her feet keep to the thick carpet, fluffy under the thin soles of her shoes so that her arrival doesn't bring with it any unbecoming noises.

It's like the world stops, and the room below her freezes as Hermione steps into her new way of living. Trips to Ballindalloch castle and princess lessons feel like a rehearsal, but this dinner is real. The pressure squeezes her from all sides, causing tension in all her joints, but she breathes through it, even though she wants to run away from it all.

A shift in the crowd distracts Hermione, and she shifts her gazes downwards as she hits the mid landing of the staircase. A sea of expectant wizards and witches look up at her, causing her knees to tremble. Various expressions fill their faces, and she can't work out what their guests think of her. Nobody brings her comfort until she sets eyes on Dumbledore and McGonagall. There's a twinkle in the Headmaster's eye and small smiles on each of the teacher's faces.

And then there's her grandmother, who Dedalus introduced ahead of Hermione. The Queen seems to sparkle, although that could be from the candles that float above their heads, reflecting in her tiara and sequin-covered dress. A look almost like pride flashes over her face, and combined with the tears earlier, Hermione almost suspects that Beatrice is warming towards her. But she shakes it off—there's no way Hermione has made that much of an impact yet. She's not done anything worthy of it.

Tonight will be her first test in a long month of trying to impress her grandmother.

Beatrice greets her granddaughter, who bows as she takes her hand. "You look beautiful, Hermione. Come, let me introduce you to our guests."

As they move around the foyer, Hermione spots the Malfoys lurking in the corner of the room. Her grandmother warned her that they might be there, eager to get a glimpse of the new princess. The Queen didn't invite them, but they're not ones to let a minor issue like that stop them from doing what they want. Scrimgeour is a sucker for their disgusting Pure-Blood charm, even more so than Fudge was.

Hermione's eyes lock with Narcissa for a moment before the older witch turns her head to whisper in her husband's ear. Hermione shudders as a wry smirk appears on Lucius' face.

"Don't worry," Beatrice whispers as she directs Hermione towards John Major, the Muggle Prime Minister. "The Malfoys are under strict warning not to tell anyone else about your identity. Everyone is. Although it's illegal to force attendees to make an Unbreakable Vow, all of our guests have been sworn to secrecy about your identity."

The formal introductions carry on for a small while. Hermione's cheeks ache with the pain of forcing a friendly smile on her face, and her fingers feel as if they may drop off. She is relieved when Dedalus reappears, this time at the entranceway to the dining room. He waits for a nod from deep inside the room before rapping his staff once more to get everyone's attention.

"Dinner is served."

Hermione yearns to join the guests as they begin to pile into the room, but she's pulled back by her grandmother.

"Don't I get to eat?" she moans, her stomach growling in protest.

"We wait for the guests to take their positions first, and then you enter. Once you're in your spot, I will take mine."

Foot tapping on the floor, Hermione lingers back as the smell of all the delicious food wafts through, further fuelling her hunger. If she doesn't eat soon, well, there'll be disastrous consequences. She focuses on the guests as they search the table for their nameplates then stand next to their chairs. There are only two spaces left; one halfway down the left-hand side of the long table and the other at the head.

"I thought friendly company might help you through, since you can't be seated next to me this evening. Amelia Bones is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and a lovely woman."

Beatrice gives Hermione a push into the room then follows her in, taking her place at the head of the table. She clears her throat, but the waiting guests don't seem to notice. Keen to help her grandmother get everyone's attention, Hermione picks up the nearest knife and taps it against the side of her crystal wine glass. It rings once before smashing into shards in front of her.

Beatrice raises an eyebrow as the wait staff rush in to sort Hermione's mistake, but the queen doesn't let the incident ruffle her feathers. Instead, she gives her guests a warm smile then raises her glass.

"Tonight's dinner is to celebrate the union of magical and muggle Governments, along with the assistance from both royal families. Thirty-six years ago, a consortium of the most important people from both communities met to deal with their shared issues and develop solutions that do not impact the International Statute of Wizard Secrecy. Now, our guild works harder than ever to maintain the peace between our communities, and it is all down to your willingness to work together.

"Today is an even more important occasion, because a new princess is in our midst, if she decides to take the crown next month. My granddaughter, Hermione."

"To Princess Hermione," the crowd croons before raising their glasses and taking a sip of their wine.

Her short speech over, Queen Beatrice takes her seat, signalling to the rest of the guests to sit down too. Hermione pulls the ring off her napkin and lays it across her lap before listening to the conversations around her.

Scrimgeour and Amelia Bones begin discussing a new law they're trying to pass, talking across Hermione as if she isn't there, not that she could make any valuable input into the debate, anyway. She has strong feelings about the existing wizarding laws, but her grandmother has warned her about voicing them at dinner. It would be rude to upset her guests tonight.

Still, she remains tuned in to what they're saying until her nameplate draws her attention away. The parchment is thick and expensive-looking, but the writing sparkles along with the cadence of the conversation around them.

Intrigued, Hermione picks it up to observe it closely and work out what kind of magic is at play, but the table glasses and decorations crowd the table. Without noticing, she catches the corner of the paper in the nearest candle.

It sets alight immediately, flushing Hermione's face with heat as she continues to examine it.

A swear word lingers at the tip of her tongue, but there's no way she'll allow it to fall out. She chastises Ron enough for his use of crude language almost every day, and there's no way Grandmother will forgive her for using expletives at the dinner table.

Instead, Hermione lets out an "Oh, blimey," as she flaps the paper around, looking for a way to put out the flame.

Panic blinds her judgement as the licks of fire dance around dangerously close to Scrimgeour's sleeve. This is it. The dinner is going to be over before it's even begun. As she's about to raise her burning hand into the air to ask for help, the words Ron shouted at her when they were in the grips of the school's Devil's Snare plant came flooding into her mind.

"Are you a witch or not?"

She grasps with the hand not holding the fast burning paper, searching under the table for her wand, which Madam Malkin cleverly concealed within her dress.

"A witch shouldn't be without her wand," the seamstress had said as she added the pocket to the inner material of the dress.

Hermione loops her fingers around it and pulls it out, extinguishing the fire with a quick Aguamenti.

"Sorry," she mumbles to the guests sitting around her as her pulse returns to normal and the flame dies out. Once the smoke evaporates, and Hermione is sure she's wholly composed, she taps her wand against the ashy remains to make them disappear before stowing it away once more.

Amelia turns to Hermione, a sympathetic smile on her face. "So, Hermione, Dumbledore tells me you're the brightest witch of your age. Which N.E.W.T's are you taking?"

The question distracts her from the mortification of almost setting the Minister of Magic on fire, and Hermione delves into her favourite subject, as quickly as the appearance of her pea and ham soup. The conversation flows freely as the pair eat, helped by knowing that Susan Bones, Amelia's niece, is in Hermione's year, giving the pair a wealth of topics to discuss.

The first course flies by now that Hermione is distracted by talking to her new friend. Pretty soon, the soup disappears, replaced by a bowl of bright green ice. The princess reaches for the next set of cutlery only to find a small gold spoon. Perplexed, Hermione throws Amelia a questioning look.

"It's a sort of sorbet," the witch explains. "Mint or citrus, by the looks of it. It's customary to serve it in between courses to cleanse the palate. Don't be tempted to eat it all, or you'll end up not being able to finish the later courses, which are usually the tastiest."

Hermione's mouth waters. Sorbet is a firm favourite treat. She helps herself to a big spoonful before remembering her manners.

"Thank you," she whispers to the Head of Magical Law Enforcement before shoving the entire lump of ice straight into her mouth.

Regret takes over as a sharp pain travels from her left jaw, radiating across her forehead before settling over her right eye. It's like someone has cast Impedimenta on her brain as the guests around her slow their actions to a snail's pace, and her body gives in to the freeze. Although she knows it won't last forever, it doesn't stop the squeak of agony from escaping her lips.

Across the table from her, Lucius Malfoy's lip curls up in a sneer. He watches her for a moment longer before shaking his head and taking his own minuscule bite of sorbet.

"Merlin, that's cold." Hermione grasps blindly for her new glass, which a wait wizard replaced moments after she smashed her first.

"Isn't that obvious?" The Malfoy patriarch states, "since it is an iced product. What are they teaching you up at that school, anyway?"

Hermione casts a guilty look up the table towards Dumbledore, who seems oblivious to the disparaging comments. Not caring if she comes across as rude, she glares back at Lucius, resisting the urge to send a rude hand gesture across the table. There is no love lost between Hermione and Draco, despite Lavender's gossiping, and that hatred extends to the rest of the family too. Wealth, privilege and classism are rife in the Upper Pure-Blood class, three topics that Hermione hates with every inch of her wand.

If she decides to take the crown, she'll add dealing with the Malfoys to the top of her list, with all the other burning subjects longing for her attention. There's no way he should be able to use his money to get what he wants. Ministry procedure should be more robust than that.

Hermione gulps at her wine, willing her mouth to return to its normal temperature. After a moment, her brain freeze subsides, and she places her spoon back down. To avoid the temptation of taking another bite, she forces her attention back to Madam Bones, who has swapped talking about studying to her favourite Muggle movies, and Hermione falls back into the familiar conversation with her.

⁂

The rest of the dinner passes by without any further incidents, and Hermione's dismay at such a disastrous beginning disappears as if her worries have been confounded away. With the help of a second glass of wine, she even begins to enjoy the experience. Although all she wants to do is talk to Amelia Bones all night and learn more about the witch's fascinating life, Hermione forces herself to speak to the other guests too.

By the time the wait staff serve the cheeseboard, the princess is exhausted. It's been a long night, and meeting new people, remembering her manners, and all the advice her grandmother has drilled into her is taking its toll. She craves her bed or the warm fire in the Gryffindor common room with Crookshanks purring away on her lap, but she knows that there's still a while before she can slip away.

Hermione picks at the lump of brie in front of her, appetite sated. She has no plans to eat anymore, but she can't help playing with the food as her fatigue takes over. A sharp cough fills her ears, and lifting her head, Hermione spots the Queen glaring at her. Beatrice picks up the final pieces of cutlery, a small knife and fork, and gestures for Hermione to do the same.

"Heaven forbid a princess uses her fingers," she mumbles as she locates her matching set.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Hermione attempts to spear a grape onto the end of her fork. Her awful aim prevails, sending the offending piece of fruit flying under the table. Not wanting to leave a mess and grateful to get a moment's respite from the glares around the table, she places her cutlery gently back on the table then slides off her place to locate the wayward grape.

Hermione crawls further under the table, quickly finding the fruit after only a second's search. She closes her eyes briefly, enjoying the strange moment of privacy until an enormous clatter above her disturbs her peace. In her haste to check what's going on, she gets up too fast, bashing her head against the table. The cutlery and chinaware on the table clatter together noisily, and the princess sees stars.

When she emerges, a dripping wet Scrimgeour greets her. An army of five waiters try their best to dry the Minister with their wands but only succeed in making the frown on his face increase in size. Confused, Hermione slips back into her chair and lifts her hand to check for any lumps on the back of her head.

Amelia leans into the princess with a smile, and speaking with a soft tone, she advises, "Maybe it's better to leave the cleaning to the wait wizards, Princess Hermione. See, they're extremely busy, and not always paying attention to their surroundings because they're so fixated on their mission to serve us. When you slipped out of the way to hide under the table, Boris tripped over you. His shock caused an outburst of accidental magic, which soaked poor Rufus."

Stomach plummeting, the princess turns towards the Minister, who gives her a grimace in response before pushing his now-lank and dripping mane of hair out of his face.

"Mister Scrimgeour, I mean, Minister, I'm sorry. But you see, I knocked a grape onto the floor, ridiculous really, given how many lessons my grandmother has dedicated to teaching me how to use a fork. And I thought I'd help clean it up, because I hate leaving jobs for other people. It'll probably be a house-elf cleaning this up and I've yet to find out if the queen pays the elves that live here a wage or not," Hermione rambles, letting her nerves take over.

The Minister refuses to reply or even acknowledge Hermione's apology but takes his seat once he's dried off, turning his attention instead to Professor McGonagall.

Hermione glances up the table towards her grandmother with a shaky sigh, hoping that she missed the entire debacle. Beatrice is red in the face, and her lips have disappeared entirely. The queen shakes her head twice at Hermione before returning to her conversation with Prince Charles.

As if tonight couldn't get any worse, she's managed to annoy her biggest adversary by accident, which will make life more challenging if she does decide to take the throne. On top of that, and perhaps, more painfully, she's upset her grandmother and let her down.

Dinner should have been so easy to survive.

It's all over, then.

Her one chance to prove her worth as a princess over, Hermione sinks into her seat, no longer interested in the elf-made wine or even keeping up appearances. Although she can hear Amelia trying to make conversation with her, all Hermione can focus on is the fact that she has fallen at the first hurdle.

There's no way she can be a princess when she's this accident-prone.

AN: Thank you so much for taking the time to read my chapter. If you enjoyed it, please consider taking two seconds to let me know. Reviews fuel my writing, and I love hearing what you have to think.

If you didn't enjoy it, then also feel free to let me know but remember to be constructive and kind. Also, feel free to drop me a message on my tumblr. My ask box is always open, and I love chatting about my stories. My betas, as always, are amazing.

Have a great week and stay safe xxx