Five
Horologium
Darkness releases Hermione from its shackles, but its grip is slow to fade.
Everything is too bright.
Her eyes burn and her throat stings. Her lungs cry for air. The steady throb at her temple matches her heart's beat.
As the brightness ebbs and her surroundings settle, Hermione wonders if her mind and eyes are conspiring to play tricks on her sensibilities.
She is still in the castle, but this is not her bedchamber.
The mattress is far too plush, with pillows softer than fur. The cool breeze is soothing from the large, open window, quite unlike the small one in her guest chamber. Bold fabrics drape across the dark, wooden bedposts and the ornate, gold flaked ceiling. Everything is elaborately decorated to the tune of excess vanity.
Her hazy descent into the conscious world is disrupted by the recollection of one voice.
She crash lands into a reality where even the softest linens cannot soften the blow with the memory of a chestplate at her back and lips at her ear.
With the weight of two words.
My queen.
Hermione bolts upright, immediately under siege from nausea, which she forces into submission by pinching the bridge of her nose.
She opens her eyes to a most welcome sight.
Harry.
A throat clears from the foot of the bed.
A woman watches. She is dressed in an intricately woven gown, far finer and more fashionable than the other Ladies of Court. Small and dainty, her fair skin is striking against her black hair and bright eyes.
The set of her shoulders reminds Hermione of sparring with her mother.
This Lady is ready for battle.
"You are awake." Her voice is of a higher, nasally pitch, and edged in a politeness that raises Hermione's suspicion. "I was sent here to attend to you. I am the king's sister, but you may call me Pansy or Your Grace. Do not call me Your Highness. I prefer the title of Duchess, despite my lands no longer existing."
Hermione has only heard of the last Parkinson, a royal of sacred blood and appointment.
Princess Pansy Parkinson's presence is far larger than her slight stature.
Winky appears with food; it might as well be spoiled for what the sight of it does to Hermione's stomach. A bucket materialises in front of her just in time for her to be sick.
"After the war he waged with the council for his right to choose, this is who Draco has chosen?"
Hermione is too busy heaving to vocalise her offence. Harry speaks on her behalf. "She is my sister and the smartest person I know."
"You mean woman." Pansy sounds full of contempt. "The smartest woman you know."
"No." His words are inflamed by indignation. "I mean person. You do your own sex a disservice with such remarks."
Hermione has never heard Harry speak like this. It is usually her defending him against those who mistake his kindness for weakness or who inexplicably wish him dead. She grapples with this change in their status quo.
"Your Grace, the king brought her to this room, returned to Court, and announced his intentions," Harry says. "Just as he asked you to attend to her, he tasked Sirius and I with sending word to our parents."
"Then you best be off."
Harry does not flinch. "I will not leave without your word."
"Where is my brother?"
"That I do not know. Draco took his dragon and left his guards. He did not inform anyone of his destination."
"Of course." Pansy's sigh is one of unquestionable exasperation. "Draco flies about as if he were not shot out of the sky mere days ago."
"You know your brother takes his role as king literally. He believes he can do as he wishes."
Pansy rolls her eyes. "Idiot."
"He has left a mess in his wake. The Court is up in arms over his declaration. Those who have not had their audience are upset and refuse to leave until their daughters are seen." Harry stands and rests a hand on Hermione's back. "My sister is vulnerable and wandless. Without me here she will also be alone in a pit of snakes. I cannot leave her without an ally. I won't."
Hermione tries to speak but ends up vomiting.
"You could go and Lord Sirius can stay," Pansy suggests.
"I cannot break this news to my parents alone."
"You and I both know what Draco faces within these walls and beyond."
"Just as you know what I face, Your Grace."
She scoffs. "It is not enough of a reason to stick my neck out and fight the Court in support of her."
"But Draco is. He has chosen my sister as his wife. I know not why, but I will be damned if she ends up like the others."
Hermione's stomach gives her a moment's peace. She uses it to catch her breath and pull her head from the bucket. Harry offers a cloth to dab her mouth.
"If you sought to protect her, you never would have brought her here."
"And disobey the summons?" Harry scoffs. "If anyone were to have discovered our disobedience, my family would have been endangered. More than we already are. I thought he would choose a more advantageous match, but he did not and—" Harry exhales. "You know what it is like to lose someone."
Pansy looks away, hand on her chest to steady herself, but when she turns to them, her eyes are cold. "Do not use my past to elicit empathy."
Hermione pockets the information. All of it.
Her questions are innumerable, but the main one, the most important: How is their family in danger?
"Very well, what might I use to earn your help?" No different now than when they were children, Harry's frustration makes him restless. "My sister was not bred and groomed for this life. She cannot navigate politics, dangers, or duties—"
"Enough." Pansy waves a hand and looks at Hermione for the first time. "Lady Hermione, if you would like my help, you must accept my criticism."
The corners of Hermione's eyes pull tight as irritation spikes. "I do not want either."
"Hermi—"
"No, Harry." Hermione grimaces at the distaste in her mouth and the attitude of the woman before her. "If you are my only option to learn how to navigate Court politics, I will teach myself."
Pansy looks affronted. "I may not use the title of princess but I have been crowned as such. You are not yet queen and are thus below my station." Her eyes narrow to match Hermione's. "I suggest you remember yourself."
"I know exactly who I am," she sits straighter in bed, glare pointed in challenge. "I know what I will and will not tolerate from you or anyone. My lack of knowledge or understanding of life at Court will not set a precedent for disrespect."
Contempt shifts into curiosity. "I see."
Hermione gives the bucket to Winky with an appreciative smile. "You may go."
"Milady is too kind." The little elf vanishes.
After ignoring Pansy's raised brow from the exchange and Harry's singular focus on the Duchess, Hermione thinks about how to proceed. She touches her throbbing temples. Teaching herself is not impossible, but how? What she needs to know is not found in books.
Hermione closes her eyes.
What would Vasades do?
The answer wears the irritated face of a Duchess.
Pride is a bitter potion and Hermione must swallow a dose.
She needs allies. Who better than the sister of the king?
"Your Grace." Hermione smooths the sharpness in her voice. "Though I am not…"
Queen.
More than a title and duty, it is a life Hermione does not want, one she has not chosen.
Reality seizes her by the throat and clenches tight, robbing her of air.
The gravity and consequences sink into her skin.
Weariness weighs on her.
Fear steals her peace.
Heat leaves her too warm.
Hermione's rising panic is culled by Harry's hand in hers.
Stone by stone, she rebuilds her resolve.
"I may not be queen." This time her voice does not quiver. "I do not know why the king has selected my hand, nor do I know why our brothers wish you to guide me. Perhaps we are not so dissimilar, but I would like to discover this for myself. I make no apologies for my words and neither do you. Going forward, I would like us to start anew."
Surprise washes over Pansy's face.
"Will you help me?" Hermione feels… vulnerable, something she is unused to, even in the most trying of times. "Not for any reason except your own free will."
"Yes." A smile appears where none was before.
Armed with a list of items Hermione must have from home, Harry leaves with a bemused Sirius to deliver the news. Hermione rests until Pansy returns over an hour later with a slight flush to her cheeks.
"I have handled the ire of the Court. For now." She exhales then frowns. "Surely you are not lounging about." Pansy waves her hand to open the rest of the bedchamber's windows. "Up. There is much to do."
Hermione gets to her feet. Sore legs and an aching back leave her miserable and dizzy until the sea breeze fills her lungs. Like butterflies against her skin, soft and ticklish, the salty air rejuvenates her.
"Turn."
When she does not move fast enough, Pansy gives an impatient huff and steps behind her, forcing Hermione to stand straight. When the bodice strings of her gown loosen, it allows her to breathe easier, which leaves her pliant while Pansy works to undress her. The dress pooling around her ankles is a freedom like no other.
"Your gown is not charmed," Pansy says. "Given the combination of stress and the weight of your garments, it is no mystery why you fainted."
"I have not had a need to charm my clothing."
"You do now." Moving to stand in front of her, the Duchess draws a wand with elegant etching and light wood. The gown vanishes with a flick.
Hermione is fascinated.
It is the first time she has seen a woman carry a wand.
"Warming and cooling charms are essential, as are extension charms," Pansy prattles on. "It is also wise to add a permanent shield charm. I will have the elves weave magic into your existing wardrobe. It will not protect you from everything, but anything helps."
She is learning there is no difference between Court and war.
"How—how is it that you can carry a wand?" Hermione asks. "You are not the head of a noble household."
"Technically, I am, though my duchy no longer exists. This is why I prefer the title of Duchess, as princesses are not wanded until they become queens. My choice grants me freedom until it is my turn to wed." She smiles at her own cunning, but notices how closely Hermione stares at the chestnut wand. "It was my father's. He gave it to me before he and my mother were murdered by Voldemort during his quest to prevent the birth of a Chosen One."
Hermione tilts her head. "I have studied many history texts. They name Prince Longbottom the Chosen One."
"History is oft written from the victor's perspective." Pansy summons three gowns with a silent spell. They land on the bed in a tidy row. "But there is more than one way to record history. Sometimes those who lived through the events may wish for the future to know the truth. What do you think about the blue gown?"
"It is nice." Hermione does not look, nor does she care when her curiosity is roused like this.
"I do not care for the colour." Pansy lifts her gaze to Hermione and frowns. "Your complexion suits each. How fortunate you are to not look like a corpse when someone dresses you in yellow."
"Orange makes me look like I have Spattergroit." Self-deprecation earns her a smirk, the comradery she needs to keep Pansy talking. Hermione's senses hum in anticipation when she steps closer to the shorter witch. "How many Chosen Ones were there?"
The Duchess moves to the next gown. "My parents knew of at least two. I have been betrothed to one—Prince Neville—since I was a child. We are to marry upon Queen Augusta's death, or at her whim, I know not which. King Lucius adopted and named me Crown Princess when my parents were killed to maintain that alliance. It is partly why the Longbottom Kingdom does not engage with the Malfoy's realm war."
Partly?
Hermione needs time and space to digest what she has learned.
"You will get your own wand when you are queen for longer than a year, but it is not well-known that I carry one. I wish to keep it that way."
"Of course."
Pansy clasps her hands together. "Come, you need a bath."
Clean, and with her mouth no longer tasting of bile, Hermione feels far more willing to compromise on a gown.
There is a knock.
Hermione makes herself decent, tightening her robe quickly, before Pansy waves the doors open. Two women enter, escorted by guards who close the door behind them.
"You both are late." Pansy huffs in disappointment.
"Forgive our tardiness." The blonde sounds so unapologetic it makes Hermione smile. "We were gathering rumours from the frantic Court. They know everything about our future queen."
"Or so they think." Hermione folds her arms.
The brunette gives her an appraising look.
"I believe introductions are in order. This is Lady Daphne." Pansy points to the blonde who curtsies formally. "She will be one of your Ladies in waiting. The rest we will select today when you meet the candidates."
"I need no Ladies."
"Yes, you do." Pansy glares. "They are your attendants. They will accompany you everywhere, assist in dressing you, and handle correspondence. Those you trust most will become your eyes and ears around the palace."
Hermione looks at the second woman. "Are you to be a Lady in waiting as well?"
"No, this is Astoria, Duchess of Havia." The woman does not bow upon introduction. She merely stares until Daphne clears her throat. Then she inclines her head. "She will assist in keeping you alive in Court."
Hermione is surprised to discover they are sisters.
The women share eyes of the same shape and shade of blue, and wear exquisite gowns that complement their figures. This is where their resemblance ends. Down to their hair colour and temperament, they contrast like sweet apples and bitter oranges.
Daphne is warmth.
She wears her blonde hair loose, with a flower artfully placed above her ear. Outside of easy smiles, her features make her look closer in relation to the king.
Astoria is chilly.
Beautiful with long, dark hair, she is almost too thin—a side effect of a blood malediction—but she radiates composure and strength.
The only reason Astoria is not a Lady in waiting is because of her recent marriage to the Duke of Havia, Theodore Nott, one of the king's ten advisors. Hermione needs to like her—especially given her role—but Astoria's presence instinctively leaves her on edge.
As does the woman's visible contempt.
"Draco announced that he will marry her as soon as possible." Astoria does not look pleased. She eyes Hermione as if she is a contamination of which they should rid the palace. "I was able to convince him to wait a fortnight. There will not be enough time to prepare her for anything."
"We will have to do what we can," Daphne says simply. "You know why he will not wait."
Astoria and Pansy wear matching grimaces, but Hermione remains silent.
She does not know.
For the nobility, marriage is a political necessity, not a luxury, and certainly not a union that requires love.
Their union is unconventional. Controversial.
No matter her parents' beliefs, Hermione is not their natural daughter and comes from a common bloodline. Muddy. Many will find her not fit to be queen despite her technical qualification. That she comes with no political advantage is worse.
Two paths exist.
Hermione can prove that she is unfit and end her betrothal.
This will grant her freedom.
Or she can prove them wrong.
This will end with her as queen.
Hermione has contributed much in her life to the betterment of people, but a quiet, ambitious voice whispers what she can do for the people as their queen.
Winky appears when Pansy calls, bowing demurely.
She is no longer the chattering elf she is when they are alone. Quickly, Hermione sees why.
"You are to dress Lady Hermione up to meet her appointed Ladies." Although not abusive like others can be to their elves, Pansy is dismissive in a way that makes Hermione grind her teeth.
"Yes, Your Grace." Winky approaches her. "Mistress is—"
"Do not take forever." Astoria's voice is cold.
Winky trembles.
Hermione whispers, "Thank you kindly, Winky."
The house-elf's lip trembles but she does not cry. She manages a smile and snaps her finger to begin the transformation. It is not long until Hermione stands before the three women dressed in teal. Winky applies the requested charms to her gown and is dismissed without praise, but grins again upon Hermione's approving nod.
"I see why Draco picked you." Lady Daphne's smile grows. "Your thoughts are loud."
"You can hear me?"
Pansy chuckles but no one answers.
"From a young age, we are trained in Occlumency." Astoria's lack of complaint is as good as approval of Hermione's appearance. "You need to learn. Quickly."
"I should have nothing to worry about." Hermione does not back down. "You all might be trained, but I see none of you have familiars. Only the king, and he told me he would teach me."
All three women look at each other, then her.
Hermione frowns. "I am right here."
"What do you know of Legilimens?" Astoria asks.
"Enough to question how Lady Daphne can hear my thoughts."
The woman in question grins and whistles.
A bowtruckle sits up in her hair and waves its tiny branch hand.
"This is Elm, my familiar. Many people have familiars they cannot hide, but there are more of us who can hide theirs in plain sight. I can hear you, but only if I wish to listen. You have already unconsciously tossed me from your mind. Draco said you did the same to him."
Hermione is puzzled. "How have I done this without knowing?"
"I can see flashes, fragments of what look like recent memories." Daphne's grins fades and Hermione feels something cool pressing against her mind. It differs from the king's invasion. It is softer, but still the pressure is present. "But when I try to look deeper you—" Her focus shifts. "There, you have pushed me out. Perhaps it is your will or innate knowledge."
How strange.
Hermione turns to Pansy and Astoria. "Do either of you have familiars?"
"No, just Daphne, which is just as well. I don't need to hear your thoughts." Pansy is at an armoire, scanning its contents until she finds a vial. "You wear your heart on your sleeve and speak as if you have Veritaserum in your veins. I do not know if this will be to our benefit or detriment." She offers the vial to Hermione. "For your pain."
After uncorking it, she subtly sniffs the contents. True to her word, it is a pain potion, but that does not make her accept it. "I am unharmed."
"I am aware you did not hit your head when you fainted. Draco caught you." She does not take the vial back. "But your legs are likely still sore and this will provide you comfort. Perhaps a sip of Calming Draught will help your nerves during the selection process."
Daphne sulks and Elm settles back into her hiding spot behind the flower. "I will need one, too, if I must suffer through pretending to like people."
Hermione chuckles.
"I suggest we continue dressing Lady Hermione." Astoria looks her up and down. "There will be little anyone can say about your figure, but your hair is a mane at best. Perhaps we should call Winky back to—"
"I prefer my hair as it is, but will agree to a single plait."
Daphne volunteers, summoning a chair with a sharp wave of her hand.
Pansy does the same with the platter of smoked meats, cheeses, and fruits, leaving it to hover in front of Hermione. "This is to hold you. Draco said you yelled something about preferring a cell just so you can sit and eat in peace."
The brush in Daphne's hand stops. "You actually said that to him?"
"I did not yell." She frowns. "I had been standing there for ages and—"
"You could not hold your tongue?" Astoria cocks a brow.
"No." Hermione peers at the food, barely able to stomach it.
While Daphne begins what feels like an intricate lone plait, Pansy stares in disbelief then her expression turns thoughtful. "Your best attribute is your mind. You command respect, regardless of who it is, and you do not cower. Draco does not understand what he is getting himself into by selecting your hand, but I am most entertained."
"Did you speak to each of his wives?" Hermione asks.
"No," Pansy replies. "My friendship with Millicent soured over the years. The other two cared little for anything beyond killing my brother for reasons that were wiped from their memories."
"Millicent was manipulated, just like the others. Twisted over a long time." Daphne sounds torn. "We played together as children and she threw me in the dungeons for weeks whenever I disagreed with her. I do not condone what she did, but as one of her Ladies, I bore witness to her descent."
"Part of her hatred for you was due to me, but also whoever was in her ear. Millicent tried to have us killed during the coup." Astoria touches the comb that keeps her dark hair up. "Little do they know, I am never unarmed."
Pansy clears her throat. "She does not know about the depth of Draco's problems."
Hermione grows more curious by the second.
Inferi sightings, unicorn murders, assassins, missing soldiers, and people in the woods.
What more is there? What else is possible?
It is far too heavy a load for one person—even a king—to carry.
"He is a fool for choosing an outsider." Astoria folds her arms with visible irritation. "You will need to learn if you wish to stay alive. You are replaceable, but Draco cannot die without issue. It will throw the kingdom into chaos."
"One would say you stand to gain from his death." Pansy glances at her. "With your husband being on the council."
She rolls her eyes. "Theo would rather tinker in his lab than be king."
"I do not understand what you are discussing," Hermione says.
"Order of succession. If Draco is killed without an heir, the next king of the Malfoy Kingdom will be selected from the Royal Council in The Walk of the Qilin. Only those with Sacred Blood can participate—Weasley, Nott, Flint, Avery, Rosier, and Black. All who sit on the council, due to either appointment or nepotism, are eligible."
"Why is this a problem?"
"Unlike the other Sacred Kingdoms, the Malfoy Kingdom has never been ruled by an outsider," Pansy replies. "When the Selwyn family fell, the war between the nobles nearly destroyed everything before the Zabinis conquered all. We have far more noble families due to conquest, and they are hungry for power. If Draco dies, this kingdom will see bloodshed unlike anything we have ever known. Everyone, both within the kingdom and outside, will wage war to rule. None of those who are qualified are strong enough to hold this kingdom together."
"As queen, it will be your duty to keep him alive," Daphne says.
"I am certain he can defend him—"
"No," Astoria interrupts with a glare. "He needs an heir. Sooner rather than later. Preferably more than one and before we discover who is behind these attempts on his life."
Hermione blinks, not at all prepared to think about heirs. "It might be easier to uncover who does not wish him dead first."
Daphne stops while Pansy and Astoria look at her with varying degrees of disbelief. Daphne is first to resume plaiting. Astoria is so offended on the king's behalf that she storms out, but not before offering cold advice. "He is not what you think. Do yourself a favour and learn him."
Stunned silence remains in the wake of her departure.
Hermione almost apologises but the remaining two start to laugh.
"Ignore Astoria, she is protective of him." Pansy shakes her head. "Finally I see why Draco chose you, even if he is not truly conscious of his reasoning." Pansy's smile fades. "He does not need a warm body to bear heirs. He needs a queen with an incorruptible mind who will challenge him in ways that make him sharper. You are not ideal, but you are better than the Council's choices."
Daphne finishes her plait, and while it is technically what she asked for, it is far more intricate than anything she is used to. Oddly, there are no mirrors in this chamber, but she takes Pansy's nod as approval.
"Now that we are ready, let us begin interviewing your Ladies."
After an exhausting afternoon and evening selecting her new Ladies in waiting, Hermione questions every choice that has led to her waking in this very room in the middle of the night. Kicking off the blanket, she stares at the dark ceiling, restless beyond measure.
She cannot sleep.
The walls are closing in. The sound of sliding stone and tapping makes her heart pound relentlessly.
It is hard to breathe.
She scrambles out of bed, grabs her trusty bag, and dresses in the most inconspicuous gown she can find. Hermione means to leave—to flee. To where? She does not know, but she cannot do this. She cannot stay here, give up everything, and become queen.
She cannot.
Hermione closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths to calm herself down. When she is ready, she sheaths her dagger on her waist and slowly opens the door to her chambers, ready with an excuse to dodge her guards.
But they are not present.
Odd, yet she cannot complain.
Hermione flees down an adjacent corridor, the dull glow from the orbs lighting her path. When she turns a corner, she runs into a firm body so hard the force takes her off her feet.
She looks up. "Lord Flint!"
"Lady Hermione."
He offers his hand. When they touch, a spark shocks her palm. He apologises as he helps her to her feet. His hand is so clammy Hermione subtly bunches hers in her dress to dry it. There is a faint scent of—
"Why are you out of your chambers?"
"I was going for a walk," Hermione says. "The moon is high, and I could not sleep. Why are you out?"
"My duties are best completed at night. Should I summon your guards?"
"No," she replies sharply, wincing when he narrows his eyes.
"Do not tell me you were running." Marcus makes a small noise in the back of his throat. "Not only will the king find you, but where will you go? You cannot return to your life now that you have been chosen."
His words make her shoulders sag as every shred of flighty senselessness vanishes. She knows he is right.
"You need to accept your fate." Lord Flint's voice lowers slightly. "There are positives to becoming queen."
"Let me guess: you think jewels and gowns and power are what I desire?"
"I think I know you better than that."
"You do not know me at all, Sir."
"I could."
Hermione recoils, giving the man a careful look. "State your business, Lord Flint."
"I have none."
"Then do not stand here and spin the lie that as queen I will be able to control my destiny." From the pit of her stomach, anger rises, mixing with her lingering unease. "You see the benefits, but I see shackles. You see the title, but I see the truth. I will no longer be myself. I will be a womb, a tool, a scapegoat, and an avenue to manipulate in order to obtain the king's favour."
"You can find allies who do not see you as an object, but as a queen." He shifts and she takes a careful step back. "You are a fearsome woman. I bet you can compel many to answer your call, should you need it. The Princess has chosen your ladies, allow me to help choose your friends."
Hermione takes a careful breath. "Why?"
"I am not surprised you were chosen." Flint's dark stare chills her. "I saw your potential the moment I saw you."
"I care not for flattery."
"Facts are not flattery," he says earnestly. "You and I are similar. We see the world for what it is and seek to make it better. Freedom and equality for all by righting the wrongs of the past and building a better future. I see a world where this is possible."
Hermione is inclined to agree, but there is a flaw in his design. The world he seeks can only be created atop grounds coated in spilled blood.
That is not what she desires.
"You are right in some ways," she says. "I cannot run, but I do not need help choosing my friends, not even from you. I bid you goodnight."
Each step of her departure is unnaturally heavy. Thoughts plague her mind. A chill like death fills the air, but Hermione forges on. When she turns the corner back to her chambers, five of the king's knights are gathered outside her doors.
"Pike. Search the—" Sir Goyle sags in relief. "Lady Hermione! Are you harmed?"
The other four turn suddenly.
"Harmed?" Hermione shakes her head. "Not at all, Sir. I—"
She notices the blood.
The bodies of her guards, their faces swollen and disfigured, eyes open in shock. She steps back.
"Corner and Boot, take the bodies to Snape." Goyle steps between her and the grim sight, noticing her obvious discomfort.
The two draw their wands and leave with corpses floating behind them. Hermione is alone with two knights and far more questions. "What happened, Sir—"
"Goldstein." The man next to Sir Goyle steps forward and bows. "I do not believe you have met all the knights. This is, as you know, Goyle, and that is Wood." He points at a tall, kind-looking man.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"It is ours."
"A juvenile acromantula was released into the palace," Wood informs her. "Your guards were bitten and died before we could administer an antidote."
"We secured the beast and questioned it, but it did not know how it came to be in the palace and claimed to have bitten the guards out of fear when they attacked. It has been released back to its home. I—" Goldstein pauses and looks at her in increasing confusion. "Why did you leave your chambers?"
For the second time, Hermione does something she lacks the talent for—bending the truth. "I was out for a walk to clear my head."
None appear to believe her but they say nothing.
Only the promise of her parents' and Ginny's impending arrival keeps Hermione's mood positive through a long first day of getting to know her selected Ladies.
A knock on her chamber door sours what remains of it.
She turns in time for the king to make his entrance. The same man who has been gone since announcing his intentions.
Dressed in a fine turquoise tunic, breeches, and boots, he looks more like a king than she has seen him thus far, save his riding gloves with sharp talons. The house-elves leave after bowing, and the guards shut the door when he lifts his hand.
It is not proper for them to be alone, but nobody goes against the king. Hermione considers demanding that he leave, for the sake of needing an escape for her own frustration, but his composure tempers her.
For now.
Twice, King Draco opens his mouth to speak, then changes his mind. After scanning the room, the furniture, and peering out the open windows, he extracts his wand from its holster and casts a spell she hears Father use when he wishes to speak to Mother without interruption.
Or extra ears.
"I see you have recovered."
Hermione brings her hands together. "I have, Your Majesty."
The king walks to the window that overlooks the sea. The distant mountains are a backdrop to beauty. "Do your new chambers suit you?"
What a peculiar question.
"I—it is comfortable, but the decor and furniture are too rich for my tastes." All the gold in the room may appeal to a Niffler but not anyone with good sense. "I prefer my guest chamber over what is clearly the chamber of one of your dead queens."
His fist clenches at his side before he brings it behind him. "That would be in poor taste if it were true. My character—"
"I know nothing of it or you," Hermione snaps with diminishing patience. "Except that you have selected my hand in such a manner that my wishes no longer matter."
"You know more than that." His voice is low, barely a whisper, but it pierces the quiet, above the shush of the sea and the swoop of flying animals. "Should you choose to, you will find out more."
King Draco reaches out the window just as the setting sun is blocked by black scales. His fingers graze his dragon's scales as it flies past.
Curiosity brings her to his side.
The dragon makes a second pass, but Hermione does not try to touch. She watches it fly high above the invisible wards and towards the horizon, black against the backdrop of colourful brilliance. Hermione sighs wistfully, but the pervasive silence leaves her realising one thing.
She is now under observation.
"My mother stayed in this chamber during her betrothal. She found the sea calming." When she turns to him sharply, Draco's gaze has returned to the horizon, his eyes on his familiar. "If it does not suit you, then you are free to return to the guest chamber."
Chastened by the truth, Hermione bites the inside of her lip. "I-I will remain here."
They stand together, tracking the dragon when a gust of wind teases his hair. She catches him brushing it from his eyes, irritation marring his features. It leaves her with a mixture of emotions she does not like.
The king leans against the stone wall beside the window, angled towards her. She wishes to notice anything other than his proximity, but finds she cannot. He is distracting when near.
"My advisors are keen to meet you over dinner tomorrow. Some approve, but the majority are prepared to show me the error of my choice. Astoria has made it very clear that you are not well-versed in the ways of the Court."
"I am not."
"Neither am I. Much has changed in my absence."
His honesty is intriguing. "Your Majesty—"
"Draco."
She is hesitant to extend the same courtesy but does so for the sake of parity. "Hermione."
"Very well, Hermione." Each syllable of her name is dragged out a fraction too slow. Like he is testing the way it sounds.
A spark makes her belly clench.
She does not say another word.
"Pay attention to everything and everyone. It will be to our mutual benefit. We both stand in the same fire."
"You were born to withstand the flames. I was not," Hermione notes. "I would not burn if you chose another."
"Perhaps, but I did not choose you for your ability to navigate Court. You answered my questions." Draco does not meet her eyes, leaving Hermione to wonder what all he hides. "Furthermore, you are unconnected to my enemies. Percival Weasley and my cousin, Sirius, speak highly of you. According to Potter, there is no problem you cannot solve."
And Draco has many.
"Harry speaks too highly… and too much."
"It is not uncommon to talk of home when we are not fighting." Which means he knows stories from their childhood. "From the way your brother speaks of you, I thought you might be… more."
"More?" She does not like how that sounds. "More what, exactly?"
"You are both naïve and wise." His backhanded compliment makes Hermione's hackles rise even higher. "Also you do not lie, which is unnatural, but I suppose you have never been in a position where you needed to do so in order to live."
"Then perhaps I will not make a proper queen."
"All teachers start as students."
She shakes her head in disbelief. "You really will not change your mind?"
"No."
A slow exhale escapes as the last flicker of her fight on this matter burns out. "What is it that you want me to do at the meal tomorrow?"
"Observe. We will speak after. I am certain my sister will keep you busy until then."
Hermione thinks the conversation is over. She moves to leave his side when Draco stops her with one question.
"Are you finished running?"
Flint.
It is not a betrayal but it stings like one.
"Are you going to punish me?" Hermione asks.
"For running?" Draco tsks. "I could. Flint thought a tour of the dungeons would humble you, but I think… it is not a crime to not want to marry the king."
"He suggested a tour of the dungeons?" Anger warms her face. "To show me where I may end up if I do not relent."
"There are those who would suggest worse."
"As if I am an animal that needs a reminder of my place." She glares at him and notes his surprise when she boldly steps closer. "Is that what you think, Sire?"
"I think you will submit on your own terms. This is why I do not command. Instead, I ask." Grey eyes hold hers. "And now I am asking. Again. Will you run?"
"No." Hermione squares her shoulders. "Against my wishes, I will stand in the flames with you."
"Then I offer you this." Draco opens the hand that has been curled into a fist all along. "A declaration of my intent."
There are two rings.
A smaller one for her and another for him.
A whisper of magic and his riding gloves vanish.
She looks at him then back at his open hand.
A king wears rings that speak of power and status, but there is a space on his left hand that is empty. He places his own ring there and after several long looks, Hermione offers her hand for him to place its match.
It fits perfectly.
She does not ask how.
"Millicent believed being queen gave her certain… liberties with my mother's jewellery. I hid them before I left for war." A whisper from his lips makes the engraved Malfoy crest on the band flare to life before fading. "I left to retrieve them from my aunt."
"This is your mother's ring?"
"Yes." Draco does not release her hand. "It has not been on another hand."
The simple contact and the sentiment that comes from being given a ring the king values enough to protect leaves Hermione subdued and curious. "You recognised me from the meadow."
"I was already there when you arrived," Draco says without hesitation. "You looked familiar. It was when I learned your name that I realised why. I have seen your younger self in Potter's memories."
"What?"
Draco suppresses his amusement by looking away. "During Occlumency lessons, I would see more than your brother wanted, which angered him."
The rising bubble of humour vanishes when Draco tilts his head in observation of her. This unknown feeling grows from a spark and thickens the air. He touches her pendant with warm fingers that feel like cooling flames.
"The Deathly Hallows." His thumb brushes over the symbol. "You wore this at the summons."
"It is my family's crest."
He stares at her closer. "Yesterday, when I asked about your family—"
"You did not ask about my family." Hermione shakes her head. "You asked about my…"
She frowns, struggling to hold on.
There are questions in his eyes that he does not yet ask.
"I-I recall being at the end of your wand. Your test, I now realise. Our entire conversation was an assessment of me."
"That you passed."
Draco's gaze returns to the window. He appears to ponder something. Hermione watches him to find the answers she seeks, but all she can do is wonder how long it will take to learn him.
"Did you tell stories?" The question hovers in the space between them, not dissipating, only waiting.
His demeanour changes. "What?"
"I—you said that it is not uncommon to speak of home while at war." Now that she is resolved in her fate, she can feel the flicker of desire to know him. "What stories did you tell?"
Draco appears as off balance as she has been during their short acquaintance. He begins to release her hand, but she does not let him go.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because I do." Hermione is a mixture of stubborn impulsiveness and bold impertinence, but now both leave her linked to a man by their joined hands and shared breaths. The world beyond this room and what is to come no longer exist as they shamelessly observe the other.
A force draws them closer.
What will happen when they collide?
"Tell me," Hermione implores as she brings a hand to his jaw. Hesitating. Hovering. Retreating. "You chose me. If you cannot be honest with me—"
"My father was a tyrant who could never decide if he loved me or resented me." Draco struggles to find the words. "But there were moments when he was not so mad, when he saw me as his son and not…" Wistful loneliness ripples beneath his surface. "I-I spoke of those times."
Hermione is speechless.
"The day grows late." Discomfort makes him look younger. Vulnerable. "I must go."
Only when Draco is gone does Hermione finally breathe.
Horologium constellation lies in the southern sky. Its name means "the clock" in Latin and represents inevitability, time, etc.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed the update!
1. Having a dragon familiar in this world isn't uncommon.
2. more clues, new characters, questions, shadiness, betrothal rings!
3. **Just a note, Jaxx and I are taking next week off. Covid and the flu got us down.