Hunting Hermione

by sssugarplummm

"Forgive me, Omega." What should have been nothing more than an isolated incident of primal urges hours after the Battle of Hogwarts soon becomes a sinister game of predator and prey as the Death Eater grows dangerously obsessed with the young muggleborn witch. No matter how far she runs, he will have her, no matter what, or who, stands in his way. A dark LM/HG. EWE. Eventual HEA.

8. Happy Birthday, Draco

A/N: Thank you Elle Morgan-Black and suliswrites for the phenomenal beta reading and feedback for this chapter.

---

The final spike in Hermione's fever broke late Tuesday evening after an exhaustive day that had commenced well before sunrise…consisting of Lucius rutting into her upon every available surface in his Lord's apartments. She could feel her body falling to dangerous levels of fatigue, but each time she attempted to rest for more than an hour, her arousal would harshly yank her from the restorative arms of Morpheus like a kidnapper, thrusting her into the unyielding grasp of insatiable sexual delirium that no amount of violent fucking seemed to satisfy. It was a vicious circle, navigating the raging tempest that was her heat, for the very thing that quelled her agony was the same thing that aggravated it.

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, the shining dark god in all of his terrifying beauty, was as much her divine salvation as he was her infernal damnation.

And Merlin help her, she wanted the disturbingly handsome Death Eater with the full command of her corporeal, magical, and spiritual forms.

When they'd once more destroyed all furniture in his bedroom, private study, lounge, and reception, Lucius had apparated the pair of them throughout a series of increasingly elaborate chambers outside of his Master quarters that Hermione had been far too frenetic in her desire to pay much attention to. She wanted to come. Touch me, Alpha. She wanted to hurt. Bruise me, Alpha. She wanted him to lick her–kiss my pussy, Alpha, please make it better–and bite her.

Choke me, Alpha…

Hit me, Alpha…

Rip me apart, Alpha…

Her vision had tunnelled upon Lucius's powerful body and all that it mercilessly delivered–his face, his taste, his scent, his cock, his skin, his muscles, his tongue, his hands, his lips, even his bloody hair. Nothing else in the world could distract her from her singular desire to be entirely pulverised by his assault.

Fill me up, Alpha…

Break me, Alpha…

Make me yours, Alpha…

But when the clouds of her heat receded and the storm of lust finally cleared, Hermione couldn't flee Malfoy Manor fast enough.

Just what kind of mortal debasement had she allowed herself to succumb to?

She timidly rejected his invitation to stay for another night, and declined his offer to join him for a late dinner as politely as she could manage in her rapidly growing discomfort. Awkward didn't begin to encompass the post-sex tension that was threatening to suffocate her, now that her hormones had settled.

Had she really asked–no, begged–a Death Eater to do all of these…distasteful things to her?

Infuriatingly, Lucius seemed as relaxed as ever, arrogant even, grinning salaciously as he watched Hermione trembling at the centre of his bedchamber, struggling to cover her nudity in the reclaimed dressing gown he'd vanished upon her arrival days prior.

How could he just stand there, without a care in the world? Wasn't he at all disturbed by what had transpired between them over the past several days?

He had a wife–oh gods, Draco's mum! How could Lucius be so insouciant about the marriage vows they'd broken with this magibiological madness?

Feeling herself approaching an anxiety attack–and refusing to allow Lucius to witness it–Hermione focused on Morgan Park with all of her willpower the second her body was fully concealed from his gaze. She no longer cared if she was shaming her parents with her poor etiquette by failing to properly say goodbye to her host–albeit a villainous one. She had to leave, as soon as possible, before she fell apart.

Unfortunately, she didn't move.

"Your wards?" Hermione asked the dark wizard, her panic edging into anger. She recalled reading about how biological instinct compelled alphas to erect powerful wards to protect omegas in heat–and to prevent unwilling omegas from escaping their dominant captors. But Hermione's heat was over now. Surely Lucius didn't intend to keep her.

What further use could a wizard like him possibly have for a witch like her?

Lucius languidly began to approach. "I lifted them an hour ago, my dear."

"Then…why can't I–"

"Only the Lord of the Manor can apparate within all rooms of the castle, and only those of Malfoy blood or marriage can do so within certain apparition points," Lucius explained slowly and calmly, almost as if he were attempting to quieten a temperamental child. "These are ancient wards built into the Manor itself by my ancestors–I regret that I have no control over their restrictions without a wand."

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes, not entirely sure if she believed him. Lucius already demonstrated a frightening command of wandless spellcasting reminiscent of Dumbledore himself. And with her omega magic freshly circulating within his alpha core, fortified to unknown heights by the affinity they shared, there was no telling just how much more powerful Lucius truly was. She strongly suspected he could easily adjust the architecture of the wards upon his ancestral home without a wand.

Lucius, the smug demon, was simply choosing not to.

"Then how am I supposed to leave?" Hermione asked warily.

"Are you sure that's what you want?"

She did not appreciate his patronising tone, but she was even more perturbed by the physical pull within her body that firmly rejected the mere suggestion of being away from him.

Never let me go, Alpha…

"I think…that would be wisest," Hermione answered quietly, voice wavering as his large form completely shadowed her.

The playfulness in his glowing silver eyes slowly faded as he studied her for several moments, unblinking. The serious intensity of his gaze made her feel vulnerable, trapped and cornered like a wild animal, and Hermione's fear sharply increased at the dread that maybe he was planning on detaining her as some kind of prisoner. He may have defected during the final battle, cooperating with aurors and even Kingsley in the immediate aftermath, but he hadn't once explicitly stated that he no longer supported pureblood supremacist ideals.

She desperately wanted to believe that Lucius had been sincere when he'd told her he'd protect her, that he no longer thought of her as a dirty mudblood. But she'd been in peak heat, and he'd been in a commensurate rut, and those honeyed words that had poured unbidden from his deceitful mouth had been nothing more than a result of a shared chemical reaction. Now that it was over, what exactly would be the value in keeping her at Malfoy Manor? Was he plotting something sinister in the memory of his dead master, holding a famous muggleborn witch hostage?

Tie me up, Alpha…

"Allow me to apparate you to the outer grounds, then," Lucius suggested cordially, disrupting not only her burgeoning paranoia, but also the rumbling echoes of the dreamlike omega mindset she'd barely awakened from. "You'll be able to apparate wherever you'd like on your own once we reach the southern gates."

He offered his arm and looked down at her with a small, charming smile, as if they were about to embark upon a casual romantic stroll.

With a tentative nod, Hermione folded her small hand as best as she could around his firm bicep. Seconds later, the compulsion of Lucius's magical transport pulled her out of his bedchamber and onto a long, winding and sloping pathway lined with immaculately manicured hedges bordering dense, verdant forestry.

She stole a quick glance behind her shoulder, allowing herself the briefest of moments to appreciate the arresting vision Malfoy Manor and its seemingly endless grounds presented at this distance, bathed in moonlight. The elevated dark stone edifice was as much of a royal palace as it was a militaristic fortress, constructed in the defensive motte-and-bailey style of Windsor Castle, with the breathtaking Gothic elegance of Cathédrale Notre-Dame.

"The central keep was constructed after the invasion of William I, built as a concurrent sister to Windsor Castle," Lucius explained, answering her unspoken question so precisely she wondered if he could somehow hear her thoughts. "My ancestor, Armand Malfoy, was gifted these lands for his service in securing victory for the Norman conquest."

"It's beautiful."

"How very gracious of you to find beauty in a place where you experienced such pain."

She couldn't be certain if he was mocking her or commending her, but in her exhaustion, Hermione grew increasingly suspicious it was the former.

"We both know quite well I've now experienced far more hours of pleasure than torture in your home, Lord Malfoy," Hermione said firmly. "So, please…do refrain from further demeaning my dignity by belabouring the truth of what happened here."

She released her hold on Lucius's arm with a huff and began to march towards the soaring iron gates at the base of the drive, uncaring of the way her bare feet painfully sank into the gravel. She needed to get away from him–quickly.

Hermione had taken no more than three steps before she was suddenly hoisted into a pair of powerful arms. Squeaking in shock at the sudden height and loss of physical agency, she instinctively clung to Lucius's neck in fear as he leisurely strolled down the pathway, cradling her against his broad chest as if she were weightless.

"I intended no offence, Miss Granger," Lucius said smoothly with a rueful smile. His eyes caught the gleam of the moonlight in a dazzling flicker that aggravated her insides like pixies. "I only meant to admire your forgiving heart. Many would say these haunted halls don't deserve such generosity."

Increasingly disturbed by the way the sight of his handsome, smiling face made her palpitate, Hermione forced her eyes to focus on the fine detailing in the labyrinthine merlot embroidery of his silk frock coat.

"These haunted halls? Or you?" she dared to ask.

Lucius chuckled a low purr. "If ever I were bestowed with the gift of your forgiveness, Miss Granger…I'd do well to ensure I deserve it. I'm far too greedy of a wizard to let such a benison as your favour go to waste."

Hermione wasn't sure how to respond as he continued to walk, the quiet between them broken only by the sound of his assured footfalls against crushed stone. There was something almost meditative about the way he carried her, his steady movements not unlike the waves of a calm sea, slowly rocking her into tranquillity. The earthen woods, cool waters, and heady smokes of his delectably masculine alpha scent no longer overwhelmed her receptors–perhaps because she was no longer in heat?–and instead, seemed to gently yet insistently flow through her veins like a crisp breeze, caressing her insides with the tender, knowing dedication of an indulgent lover.

She hadn't even realised just how much she'd nuzzled her face against his chest, instinctively searching for more of his scent, until she actually moaned out loud.

Hermione froze, ashamed by her lack of restraint, and when she nervously raised her eyes, the arch smirk on his face confirmed he was well aware of her struggle.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed of, little one," Lucius murmured, making a point to deeply inhale as her cheeks flamed red. "I can't resist your scent either."

He continued to look down at her periodically as he resumed his long strides, that same secret–flirtatious?–smile ghosting his lips each time they made eye contact, before Hermione anxiously looked away. When they finally approached the southern gates, Hermione was suddenly filled with a strange, forlorn sense of loss.

"I…I need to go home," Hermione said, almost to herself. Lucius carefully released her, yet she felt unsteady on her feet as burgeoning dread weighed her down.

Was this bereft feeling some kind of reaction to leaving an alpha after heat?

After all of the soaring highs of their voracious coupling, was she about to experience…lows?

Withdrawals?

"You'll inform me immediately if there's anything you need? Anything you desire?" Lucius asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Despite her trepidation, she couldn't help but smile. She may have been in the haze of her fever when she'd said it, but the words were still true: Lucius was rather charming in the absence of murderous intent.

"I'll be fine. Thank you, again. For everything."

"Before you go, you should be aware…Ms Rita Skeeter has written about your last appearance at St Mungo's," Lucius said seriously, and Hermione's heart stopped. That putrid beetle! "And unfortunately for you, that means–"

"The whole of Wizarding Britain now knows I'm an omega," Hermione concluded somberly.

Lucius nodded. "You've gone from Undesirable Number Two to Desirable Number One."

Hermione flushed as panic rose within her, and she was tempted by a fearful impulse to beg Lucius to take her back into his castle, to hide her from the world in his big strong arms. He would care for her, feed her, bathe her, and protect her–just as he'd been unfailingly doing for the last several days.

Hermione quickly banished the cowardly thought before it could take hold. She would not take solace in the dark wizard's home–she'd be an idiot for thinking she'd be safe with someone as duplicitous as Lucius Malfoy.

No, she would face this new obstacle with courage and acuity, just as she had approached all other battles for the last seven years.

She may have been an omega, a magibiological submissive, but that did not mean she was weak.

"My offer of protection has no expiry, Hermione."

"I understand…Lucius." Summoning her bravery, she looked directly into his iridescent eyes, and smiled with sincerity. "I'm grateful for everything you've done to protect me these past few days. But it's time for me to go."

He returned her smile, though there was a strange sadness in his gaze that agitated a sensitive nerve deep in her chest. "Stay safe, my dear."

And then he leaned down, and placed a chaste, featherlight kiss on the corner of her mouth.

---

The feeling of sorrowful loss only compounded as Hermione arrived back at Morgan Park, but now that she was out of Lucius's presence, she became newly aware of just how much physical pain she was in as well. It was as if an anaesthetic had been lifted, like surfacing from a morphine fog after muggle surgery, for what had previously been a distant dull throb she'd barely been aware of was now a searing, full-body devastation strong enough to bring her to tears. Her aching bones felt hollow and brittle like a bird's, her joints locked and frozen like rusted gears. Her tender muscles were practically gelatinous, weak and wibbly, and with every step forward, she recalled every last savage, violent, beastly thing she'd let Lucius do to her over the past several days.

She was out of breath by the time she closed the French doors behind her, stepping into the familiar safety of her parents' country home. Clutching her smarting lower abdomen, Hermione stumbled through the foyer and into the downstairs parlour, collapsing onto the closest settee just as her shaking legs completely gave out.

Before she fell into the sleep her battered body desperately needed, a shadowy figure rushed into the room with palpable urgency.

"Professor?" Hermione asked, perplexed. "You're still here?"

Professor Snape didn't even look at her as approached, swiftly–almost angrily–lowering to his knees before depositing an intimidating series of phials on the table in front of her in a single exact line.

"Sir? What is all of this?"

He offered her the first phial–a milky solution with a faint rose tint–still without looking at her.

"Emergency contraceptive. Drink it."

Hermione blushed, and attempted to return the phial.

"It's not necessary, Professor," Hermione said wearily. "I took a year-long contraceptive potion last August."

Professor Snape rolled his eyes, as if she'd uttered nonsense. "How is it a girl as intelligent as you can still manage to be so bloody stupid–"

Not this shite again. "I beg your pardon–"

"You share a magical affinity with a dark wizard, you daft child!" Snape interrupted harshly. "His magic counteracted the effects of the heat suppressant you begged me to make. Are you so ignorant as to assume that this would be the only potion his power could potentially influence within your body? Think, Miss Granger, think!"

Not wanting to dwell on the possibility of an unwanted pregnancy fathered by a Death Eater, Hermione seized the potion, downing it with three large gulps.

Once she finished, Snape seemed to weigh his words before wearily sighing in resignation. "The year-long contraceptive works by prohibiting ovulation. The emergency contraceptive works by prohibiting implantation, in addition to functioning as a highly effective spermicide. You can think of this as a…backup, on the off-chance your affinity with Lucius has caused your primary method of protection to fail."

Hermione chose to interpret this as his way of apologising for calling her stupid.

"How's your…internal pain?" he asked.

Hermione blushed and chewed her lip. "Well…I…umm…"

Sensing her discomfort–and appearing equally as mortified as she felt–Snape wordlessly offered her a pain potion she recognised. Once she finished, he reached for a bottle green jar and placed it on the cushion next to her.

"This is a modified version of murtlap essence. Odourless and free of irritants, I've adjusted the formula for use on…intimate tissues," the Potions Master explained tensely. "It will help expedite the healing of any…tearing you may be experiencing. I trust you do not require me to explain how to apply."

"Gods, no!" Hermione cleared her throat, tempering her revulsion at the idea of Snape discussing her intimate tissues by adding a sheepish, "Thank you, sir."

"I've also brewed you an appetite stimulant, as you'll need to rapidly replenish the nutrients you've clearly lost through your recent physical endeavours. If you take it tonight, it will derail your sleep for several hours, so I recommend eating something light now, and then taking this in the morning after you've rested."

Hermione groaned inwardly, too exhausted to think about cooking anything.

Professor Snape cleared his throat. "I noticed you have an abundance of vegetables in your garden, so I took the liberty of preparing soup for you as part of my obligation. It is waiting for you in your kitchen."

Hermione couldn't hide the abject shock on her face.

Professor Snape…cooked?

For her?

"Desist from gaping at me like a fish, lest you catch flies in your hanging mouth."

"Forgive me for finding it a bit strange that you're here, in my house, brewing for me, and cooking."

Snape appeared incensed by her confusion, but quietly released a slow breath. "I was obligated to ensure you returned unharmed."

"Why?"

"Fucking hell, whyever did the world decide you are the Brightest Witch of Your Age when you insist on repeatedly asking stupid questions. I've already explained why–"

"Because you're an alpha? Because we share some kind of a bond?" Hermione snapped, hurt and exasperated. "Clearly it's not a very meaningful attachment, or rather, obligation, considering just how much you obviously resent it."

"Merlin's balls, is it my lot in life to be continually be surrounded by self-righteous, ungrateful little Gryffindor shits–"

"Ungrateful? Ungrateful?" The adrenalin of her boiling anger propelled her beyond exhaustion, off of the settee, and up to the balls of her feet. Shaking her fist, Hermione glowered at Snape. "Nobody asked you to be here, Professor!"

"You crawled into my recovery room, uninvited, begging me to be here to assist you–"

"And what good did that do?" Hermione shrieked. "More than twelve hours of the most unimaginable pain I've ever experienced, only to be shoved right back into the arms of Lucius sodding Malfoy!"

Before she could suppress the puerile reaction, a deluge of hot, frustrated tears erupted from her eyes, and Hermione felt more embarrassed than ever. She braced herself for Professor Snape's outrage, but to her surprise, he didn't yell at her as he had when she'd cried in his recovery room. In fact, his anger seemed to rapidly deflate the longer she sobbed, not quite unlike the way Lucius had appeared on the cusp of panic when she'd wept at The Savoy.

Did her tears have an impact on alphas?

Was this the real reason why Snape had ordered her away from St Mungo's when she'd cried at his bedside while transcribing his statement the Thursday prior?

Swallowing hard with a perturbed look on his face, Snape reached between them for a phial of a familiar, tourmaline blue liquid, extending it to Hermione with a short nod.

Calming draught.

Hermione accepted the brew without protest, welcoming the sedative effects of the fragrant notes of lavender and peppermint.

Roughly scrubbing her eyes with her sleeve, Hermione ungracefully sagged back down onto the settee.

"I can't seem to stop crying lately," she sniffled.

The Potions Master slowly stood, knees loudly cracking, before carefully lowering himself onto the lounge opposite her. "It's not entirely your fault," he conceded. "In addition to all you've experienced of late, your cyclical hormones are also a contributing factor."

"But my heat cycle ended hours ago."

The faintest hint of flush appeared on Snape's chalky cheekbones. "I'm referring to your greater monthly cyclicals, Miss Granger. Your…female hormones as an omega function far more intensely than those of other witches."

Realisation finally dawned on Hermione, and for a brief moment, her face froze in a grimace, unsure if she wanted to laugh or burst into tears.

After several moments, the former emerged victorious, and she collapsed into an unceremonious heap of hysterics.

To think she'd actually been foolish enough to believe her fortune could not plummet any further…

Snape cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Miss Granger?"

"S-sorry," Hermione chuckled breathlessly, dabbing the corners of her eyes that were leaking from her laughter. "I just…well, sir, this is quite hilarious, when you think about it."

"I fail to see the humour."

"Don't you?" Hermione gasped, before erupting in an extended fit of uncontrollable giggles. This was almost as intense as when Pansy Parkinson had spiked her morning pumpkin juice with laugh potion during fourth year, which had resulted in nearly two hours of involuntary rib-crushing, belly rupturing guffaws before the cruel, painful prank wore off.

When she finally managed to speak again, she couldn't offer more than a few words at a time before fresh, manic laughter tore through her, shaking her to her core and ripping her tender abdominal muscles. "I lost my sanity…for three bloody days to my heat."

"Miss Granger–"

"Now, if we're talking about my hormones…in the context of my greater monthly cycle, as you've so put it, that means I can only anticipate further disdainful exaggerations…of the symptoms that I and…most other women of birthing ages the world over already share. Am I correct, sir?"

"Clearly the calming draught wasn't enough for you. Perhaps you'll benefit from the more potent draught of peace…or a horse tranquiliser–"

"In addition to the madness of heat, I'll probably have a veritable psychotic episode in approximately two weeks' time, won't I? Ha! Do menstrual periods for omegas include bloody hallucinations, too?"

"Miss Granger, I advise you to–"

"Between my heat cycle, coming down from my heat cycle, PMS, and menstruation, I predict that the only time of the month I won't be a simpering, crying slave to my intensified omega hormones will be, what…a few days starting this weekend? Surely you see the dark humour in it now?"

Hot tears rolled down her cheeks as Hermione shook with laughter, anger, and utter incredulity, and Snape simply stared at her warily, as if she's just sprung forth two additional heads. She knew she was probably embarrassing him beyond belief, complaining about her "woman's curses" whilst violently oscillating between laughing like a hyena and crying like a mandrake seedling, but Hermione found she couldn't bring herself to care.

She was humiliated enough, simply by existing as an omega.

Snape could surely shoulder some secondhand mortification.

When her laughter finally subsided, Hermione tenderly clutched her sore abdomen, glancing up at her bewildered professor.

"Are you quite finished with your…episode?" Instead of being disdainful, he actually sounded somewhat fearful.

"I believe I am." The mania of her laughter had vanished, and now, Hermione was reminded of how exhausted she was.

"Did he…hurt you, Miss Granger?" Snape asked after several moments.

Hermione shook her head.

"You can be honest with me–"

"Professor…it truly wasn't as awful as I thought it would be."

It was better than I thought it would be.

"You're certain?"

"Yes. I'm truly okay."

Professor Snape stood with a curt nod after several moments, straightening his voluminous black teaching robes with a stony expression on his angular features. "Then as your heat has concluded and your wards upon this property are…adequate, you are in no immediate need of the protection of an alpha. I shall take my leave of you, if you do not require any of my services further."

His abrupt dismissal almost sounded like he was intending to wound her.

Or perhaps he's trying to hide something.

"Professor–"

"Goodnight, Miss Granger."

He disapparated with a soft pop, like a wine bottle being uncorked.

Hermione regarded the remaining phials in front of her, noting with no shortage of gratitude that in addition to the aforementioned brews, Professor Snape had also included Dreamless Sleep and Bruise Balm.

Unsure of what she'd done or said to offend him–yet feeling guilty all the same–Hermione shuffled into the kitchen for a serving of soup, needing to slake her hunger before she penned a thank-you letter, and perhaps an apology, to the dour wizard.

He may have been a caustic arse, but he had indeed helped her far more than she'd anticipated.

After eating two full bowls of what turned out to be a hearty–and delicious–creamy kesäkeitto, in addition to a half loaf of freshly baked brown bread, Hermione gingerly made her way into her father's study to write the letter to Snape she'd take to the owl post in Diagon Alley in the morning.

But before she could begin her task, she'd need to do something about the sheer volume of unopened correspondence that covered the full surface area of the desk.

Professor Snape organised my post, too?

The letters were neatly arranged in more than two dozen neat piles of at least a fifty envelopes high, each, from senders she didn't recognise, and Hermione had a strong inclination the copy of the Daily Prophet that sat on her father's chair was the cause of such interest from strangers.

Hermione warily picked up the magical newspaper, steeling herself for the worst.

It took only the first two sentences for Hermione to scream in fury.

Just as Lucius had warned, Rita Skeeter had indeed outed her status as an omega to all of Wizarding Britain. Her vulgar article didn't just lower the bar of scant integrity the journal was only just beginning to recover following nearly a year of publishing Voldemort's wartime propaganda, however. Rather, Skeeter had actually managed to take that bar, and transfigure it into a shovel, digging a hole even deeper for the newspaper's freefalling editorial quality. At least under Voldemort's helm, the writers of the Daily Prophet had still attempted to craft reports and opinion pieces with some semblance of an intellectual level of discourse, even with the thinly-veiled far-right pureblood supremacist agenda contaminating all content.

Now, however, the once-respected Wizarding publication read like nothing more than a trashy scandal sheet.

…This wouldn't be the first time the unprepossessing muggleborn has managed to enrapture powerful wizards far above her station. When she was just fifteen, Miss Granger was involved in a passionate affair with Bulgarian Quidditch star Viktor Krum, who was eighteen at the time and a champion in the ill-fated Triwizard Tournament of 1994. As Mr Krum is also a rumoured alpha, is it possible Miss Granger was already using her omega lure to entrap the unsuspecting wizard, without his consent, well before she achieved her majority? Has she now affixed her ambitions to Death Eaters old enough to be her father in her predacious omega pursuits? We'll be first to report on the latest developments in Miss Granger's disturbing behaviour…

It was bad enough that Skeeter had revealed her designation, but the way the foul woman had thought to speculate on Lucius's arrival at St Mungo's was far too close to the truth for Hermione's comfort.

In time, Hermione believed she could eventually accept the world knowing that she was an omega. She could never in a million years, however, accept the world knowing that Lucius Malfoy was the alpha who had fucked her through her virgin heat. Harry and Ron would never look at her the same.

And for Skeeter to further degrade her character by including Professor Snape in her glib prattle was just…no.

With a scowl, Hermione tossed the rag into the fireplace, not wanting to gaze any further upon the clearly deliberate way the editors had thought to print her sixth-year school portrait, with Professor Snape to her left, and Lucius–along with his wife–to her right.

Just before she lost control over her tears for what felt like the thousandth time that evening, a gentle tap on the window interrupted her raving self-pity.

She opened the latch, allowing the now-familiar golden avian to glide into the room. After circling the study as if in appraisal, Mercury decided to perch upon the arm of the wingback chair closest to the fireplace with an unmistakable air of entitlement and ownership.

Hermione couldn't help but softly chuckle. The bloody bird was just as arrogant as his master.

She carefully reached for the missive tied to his leg, offering Mercury a gentle stroke upon his nearly metallic golden feathers as a thank-you for the delivery. When it became clear he had been instructed to wait for a response, his large topaz eyes staring up at her haughtily, Hermione slowly lowered into the chair as the owl settled against her for further pets, and read his owner's letter.

My Dear Miss Granger,

I consider it my solemn duty and blessed privilege as a gentleman to ensure that you have arrived home safely. Oblige me and let me know how you're faring, my dear.

I instructed Severus to provide you with a full supply of restorative tonics for your recovery from our shared activities, as he remains the preeminent Potions Master in all of Britain. If my old friend has failed to deliver, however, please let me know immediately, and I will arrange for a proper healer to care for you and any discomfort you may have remaining.

Affectionately yours,

Lucius

---

Dear Lord Malfoy,

Professor Snape indeed provided me with a robust regimen of healing potions and balms prior to his departure from my home this evening. I was unaware that this was at your behest, so I find I am now indebted to both of you.

I'm faring quite well, considering the obtrusive nimiety of distasteful communications I've received in response to the Prophet article. I regret that once again, my fearful actions have unwittingly implicated you in yet another hazardous situation between us. For this, I am truly sorry.

I am now forced to publicly defend myself since Ms Skeeter has seen fit to publicly condemn me, but I haven't yet decided just how I will respond to her inflammatory remarks. I would much prefer to do so on my own terms, as much as feasible, so might I humbly ask that you refrain from engaging in any correspondence with Ms Skeeter, or any other Prophet reporters, until I've had an opportunity to best formulate a strategy? Whilst I remain grateful for your assistance during my vulnerable time, I do not wish to shame myself, nor any member of the Malfoy family, with gratuitous salacities concerning what has occurred between us. Hopefully you are in agreement that this is the best way to move forward.

With apologies,

Hermione

---

My Dear Miss Granger,

It doesn't surprise me that a young witch as captivating as yourself has attracted such ravenous attention. You're a wise girl, but be forewarned that there are many dark wizards with harmful intent who may attach nefarious spells to their correspondence disguised as flattery. I'm certain you're already in the habit of casting detection charms upon your post, so I'll merely encourage you to remain diligent as you consider these suits.

Your written words remain as eloquent as ever, yet I detect a level of heightened distress in your tone you're doing quite well to conceal. I trust you do not need me to tell you it is perfectly acceptable to feel overwhelmed, considering the gravity of the circumstance and the vulnerable position that vile scribe has placed you in. But if I may be so bold as to offer the reminder: you're allowed to feel anxious, my dear, just as you're allowed to rely on others for assistance.

I will concede to your request not to engage in correspondence with The Prophet, however in exchange, I would like you to consider taking a meeting with a trusted associate of mine promptly on the morrow. I can already visualise your hackles rising as you read this, little kitten, so let me preemptively assure you that this individual is not, and never has been, a Death Eater, nor has she ever harboured any form of association with the Dark Lord.

Ms Cressida Barker-Bonheur of Barker-Bonheur Magical Communications covertly occupies a domain most akin to what you'd recognise as public relations in the muggle world, though her aptitude for crisis management and keen eye for strategy go far beyond when navigating the nuances of our wizarding society. I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you that I have indeed retained her services over the years to protect the public image of the Malfoy family–though she understandably distanced herself from all of us upon my return to Azkaban. The witch owes me a favour, however, and while she'll likely never work for me again, I have no doubt you are precisely the ideal client she'd wish to assist on a delicate matter such as this. I can confirm that Acting Minister Shacklebolt is attempting to secure her agency for his current campaign–just to give you an idea of what her political leanings are.

Allow me to grant you this, my dear, for your protection.

Yours,

Lucius

P.S.: As the hour grows late, and I suspect you are still experiencing unease, I have included a humble offering to help you enjoy a good night of rest.

I trust you'll feel more comfortable accepting this than the bouquet of glow roses you rejected.

---

Dear Lord Malfoy,

I am not a witch to capitulate to idle flattery, and under no circumstance would I ever grant consideration to suits such as the ones I've received. My initial detection charms revealed that more than thirty of these unwanted parcels were saturated with some form of a diffusion of Amortentia, fifty were howlers, and another ten were imbued not with magic, but by alternate emissions of a most obscene nature I shall not dignify with written specificity. In the interest of prudence, expediency, safety, and hygiene, I've decided it would be best to simply banish all of these abhorrent letters before I become further aggrieved by their actual prose.

To that end, if you would be so kind as to arrange a consultation, then I will gladly meet with Ms Barker-Bonheur tomorrow. I cannot promise that I will retain her services, but I'll welcome the opportunity to speak with her regardless. I am not too proud to concede that I am indeed in need of assistance.

I'll await further details from you. Thank you for the introduction, and have a pleasant night.

In gratitude,

Hermione

P.S.: I would have taken grave offence to your use of the word "kitten" in reference to my person, but the heavenly perfume effused by a lovely arrangement of lavender flowers and eucalyptus stems that arrived alongside your last missive promptly subdued such notions–well before I could approach an adequate threshold of outrage.

Well played, Sir. This bouquet is as beautiful as it is felicitous, and is gratefully received–this time.

---

My Dear Not-A-Kitten Miss Granger,

Good girl.

Banishing those foul letters is indeed the wisest course of action for your protection. I pity those loutish wizards so deluded as to harbouring the belief that the unsolicited delivery of any aspect of their repugnant genitalia a worthy method of courtship–though perhaps I should pity the poor witches unfortunate enough to be the targets of their pursuits even more.

Tell me–how was your meeting with Cressida this morning?

Yours affectionately,

Lucius

---

Dear Lord Malfoy,

I am late for a meeting with Harry and Ron, so please excuse the brevity of this missive. I will be able to respond in more detail when I return home later tonight (I believe you'll be provided with a debrief shortly regarding the strategy for our shared Skeeter issue), but I had to at least quickly write now and say thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for the introduction. Cressida has been an immeasurable resource.

Warmest regards,

Hermione

---

As instructed by publicist, political strategist, and crisis manager Cressida Barker-Bonheur earlier that morning, Hermione pretended not to notice the Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, Magical Mode, Hecate, and Gentlewizard's Quarterly photographers that followed her as she approached the twin mermaid sculptures pointing the entrance to Siren. The fine dining restaurant was located in the heart of the posh wizarding enclave of Vespertine Commons, an area not too far from Diagon Alley with a reputation for being an exclusive–and exclusionary–social playground for wealthy purebloods. Hermione had never before felt compelled to visit, uninterested in subjecting herself to the figurative–or perhaps even literal–flaying in the town square by blood supremacist bigots, but her current appearance was all part of Cressida's plan to help Hermione present herself with confidence and authority as a muggleborn omega in a post-war world.

A world where purebloods still retained the vast majority of power, wealth, and influence.

We both know you're more than your rare designation, Cressida had said. But right now, your hormones and sex life are all these dullards can focus on with Skeeter's rubbish. We need to reclaim your narrative, and remind Wizarding Britain that you are the Brightest Goddamn Witch of Your Age, a war heroine, and you will not be subjected to sexist aspersions, nor will you be shamed into hiding.

Despite her misgivings, Hermione had to admit her advice was cogent.

The sound of magical camera shutters firing left, right, and centre was deafening enough, but it was the rude stream of enquiry from the reporters that had Hermione clutching her wand in both fear and fury as she marched down the main avenue of Vespertine.

"Did you grant your heat to Severus Snape, Miss Granger?"

"What's the dark hero like in bed?"

"Did you wear your Hogwarts uniform?"

"Are you having an affair with Lord Malfoy?"

"Is it true Lady Malfoy witnessed you engaging in a ménage à trois at Malfoy Manor with these two alpha Death Eaters?"

"Which alpha will you bond with?"

"How does Draco Malfoy feel, knowing his classmate is having fevered sex with his father?"

Carefully schooling her features into a picture of perfect neutrality, Hermione held her head high as she stepped into the restaurant, where mercifully, photographers were strictly banned.

Cressida had warned, however, that more than likely, there would be one or two opportunistic journalists already seated inside in anticipation of her arrival.

"Miss Granger!" a voice passionately announced, his booming speech loud and exaggerated enough for the entire restaurant to hear. He was a handsome, dark-haired wizard, dressed in fine midnight blue service dress robes with a white cravat. "My name is Delmus Snow, maître d'hôtel of Siren, and I'm so delighted to be the first to cordially welcome you to our establishment. May I show you to your table? Your guests, Mr Potter and Mr Weasley, have already arrived."

Cressida had also warned that the staff of Siren would likely be overly pleasant and accommodating, capitalising on her novelty as a war heroine and an omega, despite her muggleborn status.

It was Slug Club all over again.

"Please–thank you," Hermione answered graciously.

Delmus bowed comically low, before leading Hermione through the elegant space that somewhat recalled the glowing aquamarine sea cave of Biševo, or even Grotta Azzurra of Capri. A series of subtle enchantments along the glass walls and floors provided the illusion of being peacefully submerged just below the surface of a sparkling blue sea on a bright summer day, and when Hermione glanced upward, she couldn't contain her genuine astonishment at the realisation that there was an actual aquarium suspended above the restaurant, undulating in fresh, pleasantly saline waves. The flowing waters and gracefully swimming schools of colourful fish and exotic marine creatures were contained exclusively by magic.

It was brilliant.

Delmus cleared his throat somewhere in front of her, and Hermione struggled to project an image of unwavering self-assurance as her insides spasmed with self-doubt. She was no stranger to fine dining restaurants in the muggle world, having two adventurous gastronomes as parents, but in the wizarding world, Hermione was a complete novice. She felt like a little girl more than ever, small and shy as she anxiously fidgeted with her summer dress. She felt woefully out of place as they approached a table located on a private balcony.

Perhaps this is a mistake…

"Your table, Miss Granger," Delmus announced. "Only the best for war heroes!"

The dining enclave–a lavish cavern of silk, agate, and glass–was illuminated by jellyfish enchantments slowly floating up and down the lengths of gossamer curtains, patterned with an exquisitely embroidered sea anemone motif.

Hermione's eyes caught the glint of Ron's fiery hair, and she was hit with a nauseating spike of anxiety at the sight, somewhat tempered when she quickly shifted her gaze onto Harry right beside him.

Am I…afraid of Ron?

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed, standing from the table immediately upon her arrival, whereas Ron remained slouched in his chair.

As soon as Harry wrapped his arms around her shoulders, her unease significantly diminished.

"Harry! Thank you so much for coming, I know this is awkward–"

"Let's talk…in a moment," Harry interrupted, inclining his head towards Delmus who watched their reunion with far too much interest to be polite.

Realising he'd been caught snooping, the wizard cleared his throat. "Right. Here are your menus," he said, and with a flourish of his wand, three identical antique bottles containing scrolls appeared atop the formally plated table. "Simply tap your wands once for three seconds against each of your selections, and your orders will be sent to the kitchens."

The maître d'hôtel disapparated, leaving them seemingly alone, but Harry promptly cast a Muffliato around the table before returning to his seat as an extra precaution.

Hermione slowly sat down, smoothing the modest hem of her dress to settle her nerves as she prepared herself for the harsh interrogation she knew was coming.

Ron was the first to speak. "So…is it true?" His steely tone somehow managed to convey both anger and admiration.

"Which part?"

"You know bloody well which part–"

"Ron!" Harry chastised, glaring at their friend disapprovingly. "Let…maybe let's just let Hermione speak first, yeah?"

"Thank you, Harry," Hermione answered, throwing her own glower at Ron. What right did he have to be angry with her? "It is true that I am an omega. As for the veracity of the rest of Skeeter's article, well…I think we all know she has a tendency to embellish."

She felt slightly guilty for how easily the "spin" she'd practised with Cressida flowed out of her mouth, but they'd agreed the wisest course of action was not to deny Skeeter's accusations, but rather, to offer just enough truth, with a subtle hint manipulation, to allow the logical–and favourable–conclusions to be achieved on their own–without her explicit pronouncement.

It was no surprise that Cressida had been sorted into Slytherin a few years before Lucius.

To her relief, Harry seemed to accept her explanation at face value, but Ron still looked suspicious. "What were you doing with Snape?"

Hermione took a deep breath. She'd prepared her response to this as well.

They may have been her best friends, but they were also…boys. It was her body, her hormones, her sexual activity being publicly discussed and scrutinised. Reclaiming her right to privacy would begin with her own friends.

Hermione would only provide details she felt comfortable sharing.

"I only found out about…all of this, shortly after I saw you both at the Ministry last Thursday. And yes, it was right before my first heat cycle started. I bought some books on the subject at Flourish & Blotts, and I learnt that…horrible things happen to omegas when they are unprotected in heat." Hermione paused to calm herself. "Anyway, part of my…research…led me to a potion that could suppress the cycle entirely. I thought that would be the best way to protect myself. That's why I went to see Professor Snape–only, my cycle had already started. Thankfully he was still able to brew the potion for me, along with Madam Pomfrey's assistance."

They didn't need to know that the potion hadn't actually worked.

"Bloody hell, 'Mi." Harry gazed at her sympathetically. "You must have been terrified."

"Indeed I was," Hermione conceded. "But I'm grateful for Professor Snape's help."

"I am too," Harry said. "I wish he'd let me thank him. He still won't answer any of my–"

"But what's the deal with Malfoy's father?" Ron interrupted, to Harry's visible annoyance. "Are you two–"

Hermione bristled, but carefully worded her response. "I can't confirm why Lord Malfoy was at the hospital. I certainly haven't spoken to him about it." It was technically the truth, albeit a somewhat misleading one. "Perhaps he had his own medical emergency. I don't see the purpose in speculating on it."

The boys' shoulders simultaneously relaxed, and Hermione finally felt like she could breathe easier. They bought her story–for now.

The first obstacle was done.

"Blimey…Skeeter really is a menace, isn't she?" Ron said with the familiar, dimpled half-smile that had charmed her heart to flutters not too long ago. Now, she couldn't fathom ever finding Ron attractive again. He was just so…boyish.

Was it possible that the love she'd convinced herself she harboured for him was nothing more than a fleeting girlhood crush?

"I should have kept her as a beetle in that bloody jar," Hermione said quickly, not wanting to ruminate any further on her affections–or lack thereof–for Ron. "It would have been a public service."

"I agree. But are you okay, 'Mi?" Harry pressed. "Molly brought me up to speed on wizarding designations. She said that history hasn't really been kind to omega witches. That wizards have–"

"Harry, if it's all right with you, I'd rather not talk about…violence over lunch," Hermione said, trying her best to hide the quiver in her voice.

Harry's green eyes softened with unvoiced concern, and Hermione could tell that he was perceiving far more than he was letting on.

Please don't force me to lie to you, Harry.

I can't bear it.

"You're right. We've really all had enough talk of violence this past year, haven't we?" Harry said jokingly, effectively weakening the tension that had formed between the trio.

Thank you, Harry.

"Enough talk and enough action," Ron agreed.

"Good. Because, really…I just wanted a nice afternoon with you both. It's been far too long since the three of us have been together…not fighting to stay alive," Hermione admitted truthfully.

"Promise me something, then," Harry said.

"What?"

Harry glanced at Ron, who nodded in encouragement, before returning his focus to Hermione. "These past weeks…you disappeared. We've written to you, we've had no idea where you've been…"

Hermione flushed with guilt. "I'm sorry, I truly am–"

"No, don't be sorry. I'm not…this is not…I mean…'Mi, I'm not blaming you for anything, please don't cry," Harry said urgently, and it was then that Hermione realised more blasted tears were welling in her eyes.

Are beta wizards influenced by omega tears, too?

She flicked her gaze over to Ron beneath her lashes, and noticed that he too looked increasingly disturbed by her show of emotion.

Thrice-damned bloody hormones!

Harry cleared his throat, continuing, "I just meant…we've all lost so much. And I couldn't bear it if I lost you too. Hermione…I won't pretend to understand everything about omegas and alphas, but I do know this: you're my best friend. You're my family. You've saved me and Ron's arses more times than we can ever really thank you for. We miss you."

Ron added, "And with you being an omega, and everyone knowing about it…it makes you vulnerable. So let us be the ones to protect you this time."

Hermione was momentarily speechless, finally seeing a familiar semblance of the red-headed boy who–despite his quick temper–had always been fiercely loyal to his friends and family.

This was the Ron she loved–as a brother.

A small, suspicious voice reminded her that Ron was only offering kindness as a direct response to her perceived weakness, but Hermione willfully tamped down the thought. She needed her friends.

Smiling, Hermione dabbed the corners of eyes before the tears could fall. "Since when did you two get so wise?"

Ron laughed. "You were bound to rub off on us eventually."

"Now what made you pick this restaurant?" Harry said. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Damn I love magic." Harry picked up his bottled menu, promptly dropping it in humoured surprise as the scroll within unfurled and presented itself, the printed text illuminating in a dancing aqua gleam with a playful shimmer.

Hermione and Ron both followed suit, placing a hand on their respective bottles to activate the menu charms.

Once all three made their selections, the menus rolled themselves back into the bottles.

"Well…the thing is…I've hired some help," Hermione responded carefully. "Ron, have you heard of Barker-Bonheur? Perhaps from Arthur's work at the Ministry?"

Ron frowned in consideration. "The name sounds familiar. Cressida, right? She's that political fixer who got Fudge elected."

"Exactly. She also specialises in communications. Public relations. She agreed to assist me after seeing Skeeter's article, to help put these…rumours about me to rest. She helped me write a statement that will be published in tonight's edition of The Prophet, and gave me some advice as to how I can present myself publicly. At least until all of this scrutiny settles down."

Another half-truth, but Hermione had no interest in disclosing that Lucius was the one who had made the introduction.

To her unease, Ron's expression suddenly soured.

Harry–bless him–mercifully seemed unbothered. "This Cressida sounds brilliant. I would have loved to have someone like her help me out all these years. I hate being famous for simply not dying."

Hermione laughed. "I hate being famous for my hormones."

With no shortage of bitterness, Ron added, "Well I'm famous just for being friends with the pair of you."

Hermione chuckled nervously, hoping in vain that he was being dryly humorous, but Ron's countenance was steadily darkening.

So much for that loyal brother-figure…

"So what kind of advice did she give you?" Harry asked, when Ron made it clear he was temporarily giving them both the silent treatment–and at the table, no less. Harry had grown up in a broom cupboard and still possessed more manners than Ron. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

"This lunch is a big help already," Hermione said gratefully. "Cressida said I should meet you both in a public place. Somewhere less crowded than Diagon Alley. To show that I have your support, and that I'm not intimidated in hiding. I know using our war hero fame is in highly poor taste, but in this instance…I really need it."

"I can't think of a better use for fame than protecting you. You have our support unconditionally," Harry said kindly. "Besides, all I would have been doing today is renovations on Grimmauld Place. I swear with every doxy infestation I clear, another three turn up."

"You've been spending all your time cleaning?" Hermione giggled. "How does Ginny feel about all of this?"

The mention of his sister seemed to spark Ron's interest–and disdain. "She's being a right stupid bint. One minute she's obsessed with Harry, the next she wants nothing to do with him. It's quite annoying really. Who knows what's going on in her mind."

Harry's cheeks reddened, but to her surprise, he didn't appear the least bit affronted by Ron's disclosures. He almost seemed sad, but it wasn't a look of self-pity. He was pitying someone else.

Hermione wanted to inquire if something serious had occurred, but Harry did not seem inclined to talk about it.

And that, she could respect.

If something had indeed happened to Ginny to cause whatever emotional distress she was demonstrating, then perhaps it wasn't his secret to disclose.

The arrival of their first course, silently appearing at the centre of the table alongside a pairing of white wine, provided a well-timed distraction from the unspoken difficult questions that hung in the air.

"Hermione, don't hate me. But I'm going to need you to show me how to eat this," Harry admitted good-naturedly. "You're the expert with these things."

Ron sniffed the dish, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Speak for yourself, mate. I'm not touching this rubbish."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You'll eat cockroach clusters, but not caviar?"

"It's fish eggs! It's revolting!" By the way Ron was visibly gagging one would have thought the restaurant had presented them with a pile of dragon dung. "How can you even think about putting something this filthy in your mouth?"

Ron was acting more and more childish as the moments passed, actually pouting in his distaste. If it wasn't for the way his solid yet lanky body stretched the ill-fitting day dress robes he wore–clothes that had clearly fallen out of fashion at least two decades prior–she would have thought he'd stumbled upon a de-aging potion.

"It's a delicacy," Hermione encouraged, hoping to contain her own revulsion at Ron's puerile reactions. "You might enjoy it. Just give it a try."

"Not bloody likely," Ron mumbled grumpily.

With a sigh, Hermione turned her attention back to Harry. He wasn't afraid of trying new things.

Hermione picked up the iridescent mother-of-pearl plate atop her Parisian-style place setting, layering it with three small pancakes. Harry watched her carefully, mimicking her movements. "I like to layer the blini with a small amount of crème fraîche first, before spooning the oscietra on top, like this," Hermione explained, demonstrating the common way to enjoy the hors d'œuvre.

"Do we add anything else? What about these other toppings?" Harry asked.

"I enjoy it sometimes with capers and chives, but caviar really doesn't require much else," she answered. "The flavour is quite powerful all on its own. The simplicity is part of the pleasure."

They both took a bite at the same time, and Hermione's immediate delight upon the first taste of the smooth, lustrous, buttery-savoury bonne bouche was nearly overshadowed by the joy of visualising that same reaction in Harry.

"Ron…you have to try this!" Harry exclaimed after finishing his three pancakes in quick succession, already reaching for a fourth. He eagerly prepared his next serving exactly the way Hermione had demonstrated, although this time, he added chives, lemon juice, and a drizzle of chilli oil.

"I refuse to eat it," Ron repeated surlily.

Hermione could acknowledge that caviar wasn't for everyone–it was a unique flavour, after all–but as Ron continued to lambaste each subsequent appetiser like a child–oysters are too slimy!–and then criticise Hermione and Harry for choosing to try them, Hermione began to feel embarrassed by his behaviour.

Harry, thankfully, continued to demonstrate that his boundless bravery extended to unfamiliar cuisines, happily sampling each dish under her patient instruction.

This would be so much more fun if Ron wasn't here.

Hermione immediately felt guilty for the thought, but as she watched the way Ron shovelled the smothered shrimps he'd ordered for his main into his mouth–using his hands instead of his utensils–she felt herself growing more and more disgusted by his wolfish display.

And the way he continually drained his magically refilling wine glasses was far too indulgent for lunch.

Has he no shame?

She'd known for years he didn't have the best table manners. He'd grown up in a home with six siblings, and had understandably had to fight over portions. She'd known this about him, and had long accepted it, for Ron had plenty of other fine qualities to make up for it.

So why was his lack of refinement bothering her now?

She tried to ignore the way he wiped his greasy fingers directly upon the silk table linens as he and Harry syphoned off into an excited conversation about Quidditch, but when he laughed openmouthed–and mid-chew–Hermione's disgust turned into outright nausea.

She never wanted to share a meal with him ever again…which would make her next ulterior objective for the luncheon that much more of a challenging proposition.

"You okay, 'Mi?" Harry asked eventually. "You've gone quiet."

Hermione took a small sip of the fruity chardonnay that had been paired with her scallops before answering. "Well…there's technically another reason why I asked you both here. And there's no easy way to ask this, but–"

"...Slytherin…" Ron muttered, his heightened state of inebriation apparent in his voice.

Hermione frowned in irritation. "Pardon me? I didn't quite catch that, Ronald."

"I said: you're acting like a bloody Slytherin," Ron over-annunciated. Miraculously, his words slurred even more.

Hermione's patience was rapidly wearing thin. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means," Ron snarled. "This posh restaurant. This posh food. Your posh publicity. And now another favour. This isn't you, 'Mione."

"What isn't me?" Her voice was rising, but she couldn't help it. Ron had piqued her outrage in the only way that he could, and she was rapidly approaching the furious point of no return.

Harry uncomfortably cleared his throat. "Guys…a Muffliato is only going to muffle so much–"

"She's the one prancing about pretending to be some kind of toffee-nosed pureblood just because she's an omega!"

"You arsehole!" Hermione seethed, cutting off Harry before he could speak again. "I didn't ask for my designation! All I'm trying to do is protect myself. Because thanks to Skeeter, I'm not just humiliated–I'm in danger! Do you know how many sickening letters I've received because of her words? Wizards writing the most…crude things about me, threatening me, trying to drug me through post–"

"Yeah, and I bet you liked that, didn't you?"

Harry interjected, "Ron! That's out of order, and you know it–"

"Of course you take her side. You're no stranger to raving fan mail," Ron snarled. "You two just can't get enough of being celebrities, can you? You both pretend to hate it, but it's obvious you love the attention. So why am I even here? To be the Chosen One and the New Chosen One's sidekick?"

For a brief, quiet moment, Hermione saw nothing but red.

Then, she snapped.

"Why is it always my fault or Harry's fault that you feel inferior? You've consistently refused to better yourself or work hard as long as I've known you, despite the fact that you've been given every opportunity and advantage to do so. Every time I feel confident about myself, you seem to take it upon yourself to make me feel small, from my academic achievements to my bloody date to the Yule Ball. And you're so envious of Harry that I'm honestly surprised you haven't physically turned green! You're lazy, you're entitled, you're spoiled, and you're jealous, Ronald Bilius Weasley, and now, you're pissed at barely midday! It's no wonder inadequacy has become the default state of existence for you!"

The angry words left her lips before she could take them back, and Hermione realised with immediate regret that perhaps she'd gone a little too far.

Ron stared at her in disbelief for several moments, his round celeste eyes now more hurt than spiteful, before wordlessly standing and leaving the table.

Once he was out of sight, Hermione exhaled wearily. "That was too harsh, wasn't it?"

Harry seemed to weigh his words for several moments, before ultimately sagging into his chair with an equal amount of defeat.

"I don't think it matters," Harry said. "Honestly…I've been spending so much time at Grimmauld Place because he's been acting like this for weeks, ever since I was released from hospital. Molly wants him to see a mind healer."

"She thinks he's mentally unwell?" This made her feel even more rotten. For Molly Weasley to acknowledge that her youngest son–her baby boy–was anything short of perfect was a clear sign of how dire his situation truly was.

"Maybe? PTSD perhaps?" Harry shrugged his shoulders. "All I know is, he's more quick tempered than ever. He's been a git with everyone. There's definitely something wrong–I just don't know what."

Hermione chewed her lip, unsure if now was the best time to finally tell Harry what had happened between her and Ron the last time she'd been at the Burrow. How he'd been drunk, how he'd practically assaulted her.

How he'd broken her heart, and called her a mudblood.

But she had a feeling that if she started revealing to Harry what had happened, she'd end up telling him everything that had occurred the night prior.

And Hermione was not ready for that conversation.

Recalling one of Ron's earlier criticisms, Hermione ruefully asked Harry, "Do you feel like I'm using you? Asking you to be here today?"

"Of course not," Harry answered definitively. "And even if I did feel that way, I think I more than owe it to you."

"Oh, Harry, I don't want you to feel indebted–"

"I don't, Hermione. That's the thing: I want to do this. After everything we've been through together, after everything you've done for me, do you honestly think a posh public luncheon is too much to ask of your best friend?"

"Ron seems to think I've asked you both to chop off your wand hands."

"He'll get over it eventually. He always does."

Hermione looked down at her half-eaten meal, her appetite completely lost. Harry finished his seared bass in silence, as if he somehow knew she needed a few moments of quiet to collect herself.

When they both placed their silverware at the edges of the lunch plates, the dishes instantly cleared themselves.

"So what's the other favour?" Harry asked.

Hermione's spine straightened in anxiety. "You're not going to like it."

"Try me."

"Just know that I wouldn't ask if–"

"You're stalling." Harry laughed, but not unkindly. "What is it?"

"Well, it's…oh!"

The crack of apparition lightly rattled their tabletop as Delmus reappeared in front of them.

"Pardon the interruption, Mr Potter, Ms Granger," he said apologetically. "These just arrived via owl for the both of you."

He levitated two sealed envelopes to the table before disapparating following an overextended bow.

Hermione casually glanced at the sender, and her heart began to race.

This was not part of the plan…

"Hermione? Why are the Malfoys writing us?"

Harry opened the envelope addressed to him, staring at its contents in disbelief.

"Harry, I'm so sorry, I had no idea these would be delivered here–"

"You knew they were coming? What aren't you telling me? I thought you said you hadn't spoken to Malfoy!"

Hermione began to panic, unsure if she'd be able to handle Harry's wrath and judgement too.

Speaking in a hurried frenzy, she offered as much of the truth as she could. "I'm having reporters speculating on whether or not I'm having an affair with Lord Malfoy, all because he coincidentally apparated to St Mungo's just after I left with Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey. These rumours are hurtful to me, Harry. And to the Malfoy family. Cressida thought that if I…made an appearance at…this event–and if I have you there with me–that it would do well to demonstrate to the public that nothing untoward has happened."

She nearly felt sick to her stomach with the willful omission of the fact that she'd technically already agreed to this particular request when it had first been presented by Lucius at The Savoy.

Perhaps she truly was a terrible friend.

Harry eyed the enchanted calligraphy upon the fine parchment like it was a viper about to strike.

"I swear I didn't know these invitations would arrive here–in public," Hermione added. And that was the truth. She wasn't certain if this was Cressida or Lucius's doing, but someone was definitely forcing her hand, having these invitations delivered in a place where she was already under heightened scrutiny, and Hermione did not like it. Every prying diner was undoubtedly now aware that she and Harry were currently holding requests to attend the eighteenth birthday celebration of Draco Malfoy.

Was this what Ron meant when he'd said he'd felt used?

"Okay, sorry. I get it. I really do," Harry said tactfully. "But Hermione…it's…Malfoy. His birthday."

"I know." Hermione stiffly folded her napkin. "Forget about it. You don't have to go."

"Don't be daft. Of course I'm going, if you are."

Hermione's head snapped up in surprise. "You're sure?"

"Mine is also addressed from Lady Narcissa Io Malfoy." She giggled at the dramatic way Harry spoke her name, but froze in an embarrassingly delayed terror at the impending reality of actually facing Lucius's wife.

Somehow–to Hermione's shameful regret–Lady Malfoy had been relegated to nothing more than an afterthought due to the life-or-death implications of her heat, in addition to the hunt interaction Hermione had inadvertently forced Lucius into a month prior, putting his life at risk. Now that it was over, one fact still remained: Hermione was now the other woman.

Merlin, she really was the worst kind of witch…

Harry continued, "Malfoy's mum saved me in a way. So I guess it's not just you I owe–it's her, too. I wonder what kinds of gifts we're expected to bring…"

Hermione picked up her own invitation, ears ringing in alarm as she shakily broke the blood red wax seal of the Malfoy crest.

Miss Hermione Jean Granger,

Lord Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and Lady Narcissa Io Malfoy request the pleasure of your company for a weekend of celebration to honour their son, Draco Lucius Malfoy, on his eighteenth birthday.

Festivities will commence this Friday, 5 June 1998 at the Malfoy family villa in Olimpo, Toscana, and shall conclude on Sunday, 7 June 1998.

Transportation arrangements provided by the family for guests travelling from the United Kingdom will be immediately revealed upon the receipt of your affirmative response upon the charmed acknowledgement area below.

Lord and Lady Malfoy look forward to welcoming you into their beloved holiday home as an esteemed guest for this special occasion.

_Accepts with pleasure

_Declines with regrets

---

On Friday morning at exactly eleven o'clock–the last possible departure window provided in the Malfoys' invitation–Hermione apparated to the gathering location in Wiltshire as specified. Mercifully, guests were not instructed to arrive at the Manor, but rather, a well-appointed wine tavern in a small wizarding village that was ostensibly part of the lower Malfoy lands. Elegant refreshments and aperitifs were already being served by an attentive collection of impeccably uniformed stewards bearing the Malfoy crest, but Hermione declined their hopeful offers.

Her stomach was spasming enough in both short and long-term foreboding for what lay ahead.

As the moments passed, pops of apparition grew increasingly frequent as a small handful of fellow last-minute travellers arrived for transport to Tuscany. Hermione tried to present a face of aloof self-assuredness as the well-dressed strangers eyed her with far too much interest to be polite, but it was the highly specific, condemnatory gazes from older, conservative-looking witches that made her want to crawl into a hole and hide.

Where are you, Harry?

Tightly clutching her weekend bag to anchor herself, she exhaled when Harry finally appeared with an apologetic grin on his face.

Her relief was short-lived, however, for trailing not far behind was Ron.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione asked the redhead accusingly.

Ron's cheeks reddened. "Hermione, don't overreact–"

"Overreact? Oh, you insufferable–"

"Calm down, yeah? We're not exactly alone here. We're being watched," Ron advised with an element of ill-concealed mocking in his tone.

Hermione forced a smile on her face as she casually observed the moving taxidermy mounts that had suddenly taken interest in their heated conversation, but when she addressed Ron, she spoke through her teeth. "If you are here to humiliate me, Ronald, so help me–"

"I'm not, I swear," Ron said, exasperated. "I thought about what you said the other day, and you were right–you need both of us to help you through this mess. So I'm here."

Hermione scoffed. "Nothing you're saying brings me a modicum of comfort."

"Ron, remember you said you'd apologise," Harry said, nudging their friend with an elbow to the ribs.

With clear reluctance, Ron offered, "I'm sorry for what I said, 'Mione." He paused, a slow smile forming on his lips. "And I forgive you, as well."

Merlin's flaming bollocks–

"Your invitations, please?" a pleasant voice suddenly interrupted.

The blonde female steward didn't seem to realise she'd just prevented Hermione from hexing Ron.

She eyed the trio expectantly, pausing on Harry for an extended beat. Harry blushed under the pretty witch's attention, before clearing his throat and presenting his invitation. Smiling to herself at the puzzling exchange, Hermione followed suit.

They both glanced at Ron, waiting for him to present his invitation, but he dug his hands into his pockets resolutely.

Oh no…

"I'm, err…I'm with them," Ron said lamely.

He wouldn't dare!

"Sir…this celebration is a private, strictly invitation-only affair," the steward chirped, her eyes and smile as bright as ever.

"Ron, please don't tell me you actually planned on showing up uninvited," Hermione groaned. It was certainly tasteless for the Malfoys to exclude Ron from the guest list, but even worse for Ron to attempt to gatecrash.

"You told me you were invited!" Harry hissed at Ron.

"No, I said I was going," Ron answered, as if that made some kind of a meaningful difference. "Besides, I'm a war hero too, and Hermione needs both of us to protect her from those pureblood prats. What are the Malfoys going to do? Kick me out?"

Ron turned his attention back to the steward, grinning at the witch salaciously. "Now, love, why don't you just go and talk to your manager or employer–"

"I serve the Noble House of Malfoy directly, sir."

"Right. Well…just let them know that the Ron Weasley is here, with his best friends Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. Don't you think it would be a shame for all three war heroes to miss out on an event as important as Draco's birthday over an oversight as silly as a missing invitation?"

And he had the nerve to call me a Slytherin?

A flash of rage sparked in the otherwise composed witch's eyes, her pretty smile now appearing somewhat aggressive. "I see. Very well. Just give me one moment, please."

She promptly disapparated to whereabouts unknown, and Hermione and Harry both glared at Ron.

"What?" he asked, genuinely confused as to why they were upset.

Hermione was too angry to speak, but thankfully, Harry wasn't. In fact, while he clearly disapproved of Ron's behaviour, he was still levelheaded, offering an almost calm sense of self-possession she hadn't realised he'd developed.

Merlin! Had Harry finally grasped the basics of controlling his emotions through occluding? Or was this simply what her best friend was like without the psychologically corrosive influence of a dark wizard's horcrux embedded within him?

Either way, Hermione very much liked this matured Harry.

"You know how important this is for Hermione," Harry said seriously. "She has to be seen at this party to clear her name. And I intend to stay with her, no matter what happens with you."

Hermione wanted to burst into tears of joy at Harry's advocacy. He was simply the best brother a witch could hope for.

"How can you say that, mate? You're actually okay with these snobby wankers leaving me out?"

"This is more important than us, Ron! It's bigger than our own egos. Hermione's life is in danger. These rumours about her are cruel and undeserving. She needs our support, and she needs us to be on our best behaviour."

The steward apparated back in front of them before Ron could respond. "I've been advised that the Malfoy family has confirmed that they will indeed be able to accommodate you at the Villa, Mr Weasley. Regardless of your…unexpected arrival."

Ron smiled smugly, completely missing her not-so-subtle insult. "See? I knew it would work out."

The steward's eyes narrowed on Ron before she turned away and addressed the entire tavern. "Right this way, everyone! Your carriages are ready, so if you'll please come this way…"

They followed the blonde witch down a short corridor that opened to a vast, well-manicured meadow at the edge of a dense forest. A series of massive, ostentatiously gilded carriages reminiscent of the coach gallery at Château de Versailles awaited the guests, each drawn by a pair of elegant abraxans.

Hermione would have felt intimidated by the sheer size of the giant winged horses, but they were so magnificent with their shiny golden coats, long white hair, and powerful angelic wings that Hermione found herself almost teary-eyed from the majestic sight.

Magic was beautiful.

As soon as the trio settled into their assigned vehicle–which was much bigger than it appeared on the outside–the steward's disembodied voice echoed in each coach as if they were on an aeroplane. "The weather forecast indicates there will be some strong winds as we cross over central France, but rest assured, the carriages are charmed to withstand very strong turbulence. The journey into Tuscany will take approximately two hours. So relax, help yourselves to the proffered assortment of comestibles, and have a pleasant flight. Feel free to leave your luggage within the carriage upon arrival, as the Villa's elves will deliver all of your belongings to your quarters."

Hermione nearly vomited upon the bumpy "take off" as the abraxans picked up dizzying speed within seconds. Unsurprisingly, Harry and Ron were entirely unbothered given their Quidditch experience. Hermione focused on steady breathing–and avoiding the windows–as they soared through the clouds, grateful that no one tried to speak with her as she worked on staying calm. The boys knew she had a fear of heights, after all, and wisely chose not to attempt to engage her in any kind of meaningful conversation.

She noted, however, with no shortage of disapproval that Ron pocketed the entirety of the contents of the refreshment bar–including a bottle of firewhisky.

Hermione held her breath and swallowed her whimper of fright when the sudden sensation of freefall deep in her belly indicated that the abraxans were finally landing. She gripped the silken seat cushions so tightly her knuckles turned white, and only exhaled once she was certain all movement had ceased, and they were firmly back on the ground.

Harry and Ron continued to talk animatedly as they disembarked, but Hermione was rendered speechless by the sight before her.

When Lucius had originally mentioned the family Villa, she'd assumed the holiday property would simply be an Italian version of the Manor. She'd pictured an elaborate Venetian-style palazzo, or perhaps even a more modest–for Malfoy standards–late-Renaissance country house, like the glamorous retreat mansions of Lake Como.

Evidently, Hermione should have been far more literal in her interpretation of the term, for the Malfoy family villa was precisely that–a Roman villa.

It was as if they'd travelled nearly two millennia back in time to the height of the Empire, the sprawling grounds extending as far as her eyes could perceive. The main residency was constructed exactly like the Campanian villa surbana architectural styles of ancient Herculaneum, but on a far grander scale than any of her readings on the fallen civilisation had suggested.

The villa looked somewhat like the reconstructed drawings of Villa dei Papiri, but far bigger and even more overwhelming in its opulence than she could have ever imagined. Surrounded by radiant flower gardens, dense orchards, rolling vineyards, and dark cypress forests, the breathtaking entrance façade featured long rows of columned porticos divided across four separate levels. These outer structures were further enhanced by richly coloured, intricate mosaics and frescoes depicting scenes from Classical mythology, and Hermione strongly suspected these priceless works of art had indeed been created in the early common era, impeccably preserved all this time against weather and erosion through magic.

I wonder if they're enchanted, too…

Hermione cleared her throat, briefly shaking herself out of her stupor of admiration. "I think we're supposed to go through there." She pointed to the handful of other guests who were already making their way up the main marble staircase into a wide corridor. "If I recall correctly, in ancient Roman architecture, the fauces lead directly into the atrium, with the tablinum located on the northern side of the–"

"What the bloody hell is a tablinum?" Ron asked, annoyed.

"It's like a receiving hall," Hermione recalled, too awestruck to be bothered by Ron's rudeness. "In ancient Roman villas, it would be the first location where the master of the estate would meet with statesmen and business associates. It would showcase the owner's wealth and position through art and decor. I imagine we'll have an audience with the Malfoys there, if not in the atrium itself."

"Err…'Mi?" Harry whispered. "Should I have worn my dress robes for this part?"

"No…I don't think so," Hermione replied, with nowhere near as much certainty as she would have liked. Harry had clearly taken the brief period of pureblood etiquette tutelage he'd had from Sirius Black to heart, and was smartly dressed in a relaxed set of grey linen wizarding day robes appropriate for both travel and cocktails.

Ron was dressed in denims and trainers, with a fraying jumper knitted by his mother.

Smoothing her lightweight, floral-printed dress, Hermione walked with the boys flanking her sides into the main entrance of the villa. It was even bigger up close, the moving tiled walls depicting the Labours of Hercules extending at least three storeys high. Once the demigod overpowered Cerberus, they reached the atrium, a stunning court positively flooded with sunlight that made the tiles upon the floors and walls truly sparkle. A pool of unknown depths–the impluvium–bewitched to violently rush like ocean waves without spilling over was located at the centre of the hall, with powerful columns wrapped in enchanted vines of roses, ivy, and grapes springing forth from each corner.

Hermione was just processing all of the beauty in front of her, but then, her senses completely overloaded when her eyes fell upon Lucius.

It was clear that in their brief time apart, any immunity to his godlike appearance she may have developed under his relentless attention during her heat had completely vanished. He was more handsome than ever, a deity among mortals as he proudly strode towards them with that knickers-soaking curve to his lips.

…With his impossibly stunning wife tucked fondly against his side.

"Welcome to Villa Olimpo," Lucius drawled, and Hermione gulped as the depth in his voice sent shivers down her spine.

She knew she should say something.

But unfortunately, she was dumbfounded by his presence.

Alpha…

Touch me please, Alpha…

"Thank you for inviting us," Harry replied politely, though there was a coolness in his voice that confirmed he wasn't exactly happy to be here.

She really needed to find a way to thank him properly.

"Mr Potter, Miss Granger," Narcissa said, smiling fondly down at her. The elegant witch looked like a supermodel with her lithe, statuesque figure, enviably straight golden hair, and sparkling turquoise eyes. She seemed completely unperturbed by Hermione's presence, gracious and inviting, which could only mean that she didn't know about what had occurred between her husband and an eighteen-year-old muggleborn witch. "I'm so delighted to welcome you both into our holiday home. I can't tell you how much it means to us that you're willing to celebrate our son's birthday, in addition to supporting us at our forthcoming trials. You two really are true heroes. It's an honour to have you here."

Guilt threatened to pull Hermione beneath the earth with its suffocating weight. Narcissa was a true, gracious lady, and Hermione had been complicit in violating her marriage vows.

Hermione stole a glance at Lucius, desperate for some kind of direction, but the instant they made eye contact he averted his gaze and settled upon Ron, leaving Hermione with a cold, unsettling feeling of…rejection.

"Ahh, and you've brought Mr Weasley with you. Good thing we have plenty of rooms here at the Villa. Welcome, son."

His words were perfectly polite, but the intent was clear, and Hermione was suddenly struck with a dizzying sense of déjà vu at the parallels between this meeting and their first encounter at Flourish & Blotts.

"I'm not your son," Ron grumbled.

Lucius lightly chuckled, responding only with a well-arched brow, and: "Clearly."

Before Ron could embarrass all three of them, Hermione finally found her voice. "Yes…thank you so much for having us, Lord Malfoy. Lady Malfoy."

Hermione offered the small, delicate curtsey she'd learnt in her research was the proper way to greet members of Britain's wizarding peerage.

Lucius continued to refuse to look at her.

"Oh, you darling girl!" Narcissa exclaimed kindly. "This is a celebration weekend, there's no need for all of that–though you perform a witch's genuflection beautifully, my dear. And please, do call me Narcissa."

Hermione thought she'd be sick from guilt.

Why did Lady Malfoy have to be so…lovely?

"Only if you call me Hermione," she responded as pleasantly as she could muster.

"Of course. I am so looking forward to getting to know you better this weekend. Draco, dearest?" Narcissa called, glancing behind her shoulder. "Come and greet your guests, my love. I believe these are the final arrivals."

Hermione was briefly distracted from her guilt at the reduced sight of her schoolhood bully. Lucius hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that his son was clearly unwell.

As Draco approached, Hermione noted with heartache that he was as thin as his mother, so emaciated that he looked like he would shatter at any moment. There were dark purple circles under his blue-grey eyes, and his skin was so ghostly white she could see all of the veins beneath his flesh.

It was his birthday…and he looked like he wanted to die.

He paused his laborious movements once he joined his parents, regarding first Harry, then Ron, and finally Hermione, when his eyes suddenly widened.

Blush rose to her cheeks as his gaze dropped to her newly ample breasts in a gesture so overt there was no way she was the only one who noticed. Sickeningly, she was most concerned with how Lucius would react to his son's ogling.

Where was her bloody pride?

Lucius cleared his throat, and Draco's head snapped back up to safer territories, as if he were breaking from a daze.

Weakly, he smiled at her, though there was no joy on his face.

"Granger," he said.

Hermione peeked at Lucius, whose aloof demeanour had suddenly become one of dour fury, directed entirely at his son.

Was he upset by Draco's admiration of her recently expanded cleavage?

Immaturely galvanised by Lucius's subtle show of contempt, she offered her former tormenter her most radiant of smiles. "Happy birthday, Draco!"

And she stood on her toes, placed a soft hand on his chest for balance, and planted a soft, friendly kiss on each of his freshly blushing cheeks.