Stupid Cupid

Stupid Cupid, you're a real mean guy

I'd like to clip your wings so you can't fly

I am in love and it's a crying shame

And I know that you're the one to blame

Hey hey, set me free

Stupid Cupid, stop picking on me.

Stupid Cupid, Mandy Moore

(The Princess Diaries)

Engagements are a nightmare. Especially if you're a member of the magical royal family and the country's next Queen.

Ever since Nicholas dropped to one knee, Hermione's life has been a whirlwind of interviews, press and public appearances. That's why, three days later, the princess has decided to have a lie-in. Her new fiancé has gone back to Gibraltar to tell his family the good news, and even though she would have liked to have gone with him so she could get to know them (or even meet them before the big day), she has plenty to attend to in Ballindalloch.

There won't be a lot of time for peace and quiet when the wedding events kick off in a week. Royals require countless wedding showers and cocktail parties before the big do (which traditionally is held on a Sunday). When Duke Burlington married his wife, Duchess Jessica of Cornwall, Hermione ended up spending almost a month apparating back and forth to their manor house in Hampshire. It was exhausting.

At least she doesn't have to do all of the organising herself; Queen Beatrice already has a plethora of helpers putting plans into motion, which is good. Hermione has enough to deal with as it is.

Once she's awake and showered, Hermione takes breakfast in her private suite instead of in the dining room with everyone else. If she can, she hopes to avoid everyone today. All she needs is one day alone, to be by herself, catch up on her reading and reset her mind. Then she's happy to go, go, go with the wedding plans.

Deciding that a walk might do her good, she shrinks her book so it fits in her pocket and makes her way downstairs.

"Morning, Princess," Dedalus chirps as Hermione passes him.

Damn, caught on my first move. Still, it's not his fault she isn't in the mood to socialise. Putting a pause on her mission, she stops for a quick chat. Maybe the head of the royal household will help cheer her up?

Using her brightest, cheeriest voice, she replies, "Good morning, Dedalus. How are you today?"

"Oh, you know. I can't complain. I'm looking forward to the upcoming nuptials."

Everything is about the damn wedding nowadays. There's no way she can bring herself to be excited about it. Although Nicholas is lovely, Hermione hasn't even had a chance to work out if she has any real feelings for him beyond platonic. Sure there's been small flips of the stomach and nerves about meeting him, but that's a normal reaction to a handsome man. How does she know if they're going to last the rest of their lives if he won't even kiss her?

To make matters worse, before he left to go home, Hermione couldn't rouse an ounce of interest in the ceremony out of Nicholas. There were no particular requests, no preferences over the colour scheme and every time she'd pestered him about it, he'd waved a hand to dismiss her questions.

"Whatever you want, Princess," he'd responded in a distracted tone, barely lifting his head from whatever newspaper or leaflet he'd been reading.

It had made Hermione's shoulders slump. They may be being forced into this thing, but at least she had tried to show a little bit of enthusiasm towards it. If there are going to be all these parties and shindigs, they might as well include all the things she enjoys. She has to make the most of this awful situation.

Now she thinks about it, she's kind of glad Nicholas is back in Gibraltar even if it's only for a day or two. Otherwise, they may end up having a full-blown argument before the big day.

"Me too," Hermione replies to Dedalus through gritted teeth, her grin so forced her cheeks ache with the effort. "It's going to be a fun two weeks, don't you think?"

"Oh, absolutely. I've even been allowed to order a new red carpet. Did you know it's been a hundred years or so since we bought the current one? The castle sure loves a celebration."

Hermione suppresses a sigh. This is what her life has boiled down to. All of her brilliance, her plans to change the world—which, by the way, she hasn't even had a chance to make a start on—and she's talking about rugs. Sure, there are a lot of people who have it a lot worse than her all over the world, but that doesn't stop her lament: this isn't fair.

"That's brilliant! Sounds like it's time we got a new one. I'm surprised there aren't a load of holes in the one we have! Is Tonks about?"

The short wizard places a finger to his lips as if thinking about her question. "Well, she was around here a while ago, but she disappeared towards the Headquarters. Shall I summon her?"

"No," Hermione hurries to respond. "No thanks. I'm allowed out into the grounds by myself without supervision. I promise I won't go far, but can you do me a favour?"

"What's that?"

"If anyone asks for me, can you tell them you haven't seen me? I need some time alone, if that's okay."

"Sure thing." He gives her a conspiratorial wink before rushing from his podium to open the door. Usually, she would complain and kick up a fuss. Hermione is more than capable of opening her own doors, but her bones still ache with the fatigue plaguing her since her return to the castle so for once, she allows him to fuss over her. Plus, he enjoys doing it anyway.

"See you later, Dedalus."

⁂

The hot bright sun assaults Hermione as soon as she reaches the bottom of the short set of stairs. It's been uncharacteristically lovely this summer, especially for Northern Scotland, not that she's complaining. She hates it when it's cold. But there are no clouds in the sky today, so she has nothing to worry about. Her bad mood is already melting in the heat.

She takes her time to bathe in the sun's rays, letting out a long breath as her body relaxes. Once she's feeling better, she sets off in the direction of the large lake on the west side of the grounds. Before she rounds the side of the castle, however, an elegant glittering swan crosses her path, flapping its wide wings at her. It clucks its beak once before saying, "Hermione, dear, I've been looking all over the castle for you. Please meet me on the croquet lawn."

No! The Princess groans as her grandmother's Patronus fizzles away, leaving no trace of it. Why is Hermione being summoned to Beatrice? She'd been promised a day off so she could have a little time to relax before the wedding business kicked off. Today is supposed to be Hermione's calm before the storm.

She yearns to resist, to throw a strop and shout, "Not today!" But if Beatrice has asked for her and taken the time to send a Patronus to find her, there must be something important to discuss. Hermione learned long ago there's no point in fighting the small stuff, especially where her grandmother is concerned. And who knows, maybe the Queen has put on a spa day or something for Hermione to help her chill out?

Despite her resistance, Hermione's feet guide her in the opposite direction to her original destination, although they take their time, as if in protest to her summons. As she walks, she tries to work out why she's being called to an outdoor location. It can't be a croquet lesson, Hermione spent six weeks post-Hogwarts graduation learning how to play and now she's medium okay at bashing balls around with a mallet. So what else?

When she finally reaches it, the princess' eyes widen in surprise. There's no way Hermione could have imagined the sight greeting her as she steps onto the lawn. The maze of coloured hoops has been pulled out of the short grass, and there are no mallets or balls to be seen. In fact, there's nothing on the field aside from Queen Beatrice, who waits on an iron-wrought garden chair at the furthest away edge of the green. Amelia hovers by her side with a large umbrella, protecting the Queen from the brutal sun. The shade doesn't stop the sparkle of Beatrice's tiara as she swivels her head back and forth, searching for Hermione with impatience.

It's clear the princess has taken too long to reach her grandmother.

Beatrice remains seated as Hermione approaches her. She clasps her hands in her lap, her lips drawn into a tight line. The magical surgery must be wearing off. When Hermione's closer, the Queen clicks her fingers and another chair appears on the outskirts of Amelia's sunshade.

"Take a seat please, Hermione."

There's a serious undertone to Beatrice's voice, which isn't missed by the Princess. Her stomach twists and turns. What's going on? She's not seen her grandmother this tight-lipped or serious since their showdown with the Wizengamot over a fortnight ago. Maybe she's found a loophole and she's calling the wedding off? Hermione's heart skips a beat but the snitch in her stomach calms.

Once Hermione is settled, the Queen continues, "I know I told you your Princess lessons were over once you'd graduated from school. But as I was instructing the staff to prepare for our wedding, I realised you are wholly unprepared for what's to come." Beatrice exhales a long breath, the shake in it taking Hermione by surprise. "I guess I didn't expect for you to reach this point so early in your career. But nonetheless, here we are and there are some ceremonial activities you will need to perform. Tomorrow, you and Nicholas will join me for a hearing at the royal court, but for now, it's pertinent we teach you how to shoot."

"To what?"

That's it, Beatrice has lost the plot. How did Hermione miss her going senile? The Princess has no hand-eye coordination. The only sports she's taken part in during her short life are badminton and croquet, although she plays both kind of okay. She wouldn't be asked to represent her country at a big competition or anything. But now the Queen wants her to shoot? Fire what device at what exactly? Hermione hates guns. If she didn't she'd be marrying Baron Nathaniel Wigginton from Monaco instead of Lord Nicholas.

A chuckle escapes her lips as the image of her standing on the lawn in a poofy wedding dress, a shotgun in her arms invades her brain, earning her a barbed look from her grandmother.

"Don't laugh, Hermione," the Queen chastises. "It's extremely important. Shooting a fiery arrow through the golden hoop is symbolic of you lighting your own eternal flame. It shows the world that even though you'll be married, you remain your own person with your own thoughts and feelings and that you will approach your marriage with this same independence."

"Well it's a shame the rituals don't consider that when dictating I should be married before taking the crown. Can't I use my wand and a well-placed Incendio instead?"

"No. That would be far too easy. And being married and a queen is anything but easy. Any witch can fire a charm at the hoop, but it takes someone worthy to shoot the arrow. It's a rite embedded in Muggle culture, too, and it shows we are equal with them. If you used your wand, you would be going against that."

Ugh. Grandmother had to use the equality card, didn't she? If there's one thing Hermione is passionate about, it's making sure all folks are treated with equity. So now she has to do this.

"The good news is I have enlisted the help of a good friend, Renard Mountiford. He comes from a long line of archers and his family has been teaching ours how to shoot for generations. I believe you will be in good hands. Now, off you go."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Renard appears on the opposite side of the lawn. He walks towards them, a quiver and bow in his hands. At least he's not expecting her to shoot at anything straight away. There are no targets in sight.

"Your majesty," he says with a low bow before offering his hand to Hermione. "Shall we, Princess?"

With a groan, she gets to her feet. This is going to be a long day.

⁂

As she predicted, Hermione is hopeless at archery. Lost arrows scatter the lawn, none of them venturing far away from where she stands. It's a good job Renard didn't go straight to aiming at a target or using fire.

After the last arrow thumps not more than five metres away from her, Renard grunts and pushes her arms so the bow is facing the floor. Probably protecting himself. "I think you need a break," he says in his thick French accent. "I will ask for lunch to be brought for you and will be back at two."

He mutters something about needing a hard drink as he walks away, taking the bow with him so she can't do any further damage to the grass. Hermione watches him go before slumping into the nearest chair and running her hand over her forehead. It's far too hot to be shooting arrows anyway.

It's the worst thing ever, not being good at something straight away. Although Hermione doesn't mind a bit of hard work, it's a lot easier when she's already mastered the basics. But she sucks at this, there's no way she's going to nail this skill in a fortnight. She'll probably end up shooting her new husband in the backside or killing her grandmother. Could she be sent to Azkaban for murder if she was forced to take part in the activity?

An announcement sounds out over the lawn as Dedalus informs her that lunch is on its way. She should do a freshening-up charm before he joins her, but Hermione's arms ache with the effort of holding the bow up. Instead, she closes her eyes, letting the sun warm her face and dry up her sweat a little. The breeze is cooling, and for a moment, she slips into a small nap.

But her quiet doesn't last for long.

Through the garden's chorus, someone whistles. The birds must be singing to her. This is nice. But as the song gets louder, a bludger sinks deep into her belly. That noise is not coming from any animal she knows.

A short humph breaks the song as someone flops into the chair next to her. Maybe it's Tonks, or perhaps Ginny has popped by the castle to say hi. But by the shrill continuing whistle and the strong waft of sandalwood the light wind blows towards her, Hermione knows she's not going to be that lucky.

She hasn't seen Ron since Nicholas proposed to her three days ago. It's not that she's been avoiding him, she'd hoped he'd already gone home when he left the foyer in a hurry. But in case he was still around, Hermione has purposefully avoided all areas of the castle he could be lingering in. It would cause her too much pain to bump into him.

The hurt look on his face as Nicholas got down on one knee has haunted her dreams, waking her in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Her head aches every day, and the breathlessness she only experiences when she's around Ron has followed her around everywhere. As if to add to her distress, the heavy bludger rolls around her stomach, twisting around her gut. Only this time, the ball has sharp angles, and every movement brings with it a sharp pain.

"How's it going?" he asks, surprising Hermione with the kind tone in his low voice.

What? Why is he being nice to her today? Since they bumped into each other a fortnight ago, all of their interactions have been fraught with tension and animosity. They've sniped and shouted at each other, full of cold and mean undertones they haven't used since the whole Cormac and Lavender debacle during their sixth year in school. Hermione had hoped they'd grown out of this kind of arguing, but their relationship had been built on flirty banter and now that's gone, there's only hatred left.

Ron must detest her right now. She would if she'd had to witness him being proposed to. Yet, his concern is genuine and her mouth fills with cotton wool at the thought that he might still care, even if it's only a little.

Prising one eyelid open, Hermione peers over at him. He holds a bottle of Butterbeer out for her, a small smile on his face. "Looks like you need a drink. How's archery going?"

"Thanks." Snapping open the lid, she takes a long drink from it, using the silence to consider her response to his question. Should she lie and put on a brave face? She can't exactly offload to Ron after everything that's gone down between them recently.

Finally, she plasters a grin on her face and says, "Yeah, it's going really well actually."

"Really?" He raises her eyebrows at her.

Of course, he can see right through her. The smile slides off her face and she lets out a huge sigh. But still, she can't tell him the depth of how unbearable it's gotten to be. "It could be a lot worse, I guess."

His gaze turns to the lawn. "You sure? Because it looks like you're trying to take whatever it is out on the grass."

"I'm not good at archery, go figure."

"What?" Ron says with a gasp. "There's an activity in this world that Princess Hermione Jean Granger Windsor Sherington isn't immediately good at?"

The joke comes as Hermione takes another mouthful of drink, and she chokes on it as a laugh erupts. It's the first time she's chuckled in a while, or so it feels, and she can't even do that right.

With a frown, he leans towards her, patting her back. Each impact ignites a wave of fire that radiates over her body, even through the thin material of her vest. But there's no wriggling out of it, his touch is too good and comforts her until her coughing fit subsides. His hand lingers there for a moment longer before he yanks it away, the tips of his ears burning pink.

"Thanks again," she mumbles through her tight throat. "I suck at everything."

"No, you don't. I've seen you manage to eat and drink without killing yourself plenty of times. It's only sports you're shit at. I'm not sure why Beatrice thinks that archery is a good idea. Is it true they'll be lighting the arrow on fire? What are you planning on doing, setting the whole castle alight? Why can't you use your wand?"

Hermione sighs and places the now-empty bottle at her feet. "Because it's not the proper thing to do. Something about equity with Muggles."

"Yeah, because that's something you need to prove."

"Well, I am a half-blood. I can't rely on my Muggle-born status to show I'm the same as everyone else, can I? Ugh, I hate all this pomp and circumstance, Ron. Why can't I go and get married like a normal person and have a party with a buffet and Hagrid hogging the dancefloor?"

Shit, that slipped out.

Ron stares at her, blinking once, twice, as he tries to formulate a response. What happened? They were getting on well and she had to mention the m-word. An awkward iciness creeps over them as if a Frost Salamander has made a nest under their chairs.

Finally, he averts his gaze, his voice even but quiet as he says, "Because you're a princess and you're marrying a lord."

The hurt and hate in Ron's voice makes Hermione's heart sink past her stomach and hit the floor. She had hoped he would try and avoid tackling the conversation head-on. Turns out she's not the only one who has changed since Hogwarts.

"Ron, I—"

"Forget it," he snaps, holding a hand up to stop her fake platitudes. He turns his head back to her, the same flame he ignited over her skin now burning in his gaze. If looks could kill, she'd be Avada Kedavra'd ten times over. "As soon as I saw the smarmy git apparate in for your first date, I knew he had larger plans. I'm surprised with you though."

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you're not exactly spontaneous, are you?"

"Sometimes I am!"

"When?" Ron scoffs. "With you, everything has to be planned right down to the minute detail. There's a time and a place for each of your movements, and Merlin forbid someone tries to do something outside of that plan. I'm surprised you don't shit on schedule."

His harsh words bring memories of the tail end of their relationship flooding back to Hermione and a shudder takes over her body. It had been difficult finding time to see each other, especially with Ron stuck in the States and Hermione still in Ballindalloch. It was rare for him to be allowed time off from training or missions and if he did, it would be at short notice. Every time he owled Hermione to tell her he finally had some free time, she already had a list of obligations she couldn't get out of. Of course, Ron had a solution for all of that, but…

Gulping down the lump of emotion collecting in her throat, Hermione shakes the thoughts out of her head. There's no point in flying along that path. What's done is done, and digging up old Bowtruckles will not help her current situation.

"I can't help that I have responsibilities, Ron. I thought you understood."

"Oh, I understood it. Doesn't mean I had to like it, though."

Ugh, why is he so infuriating? Jumping to her feet, Hermione slams her hands onto her hips. "And you made it very clear that you didn't like it."

Ron runs a hand through his hair and eases himself off the seat, although he makes no effort to close the gap between them. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest before saying, "Look, I didn't come here to fight with you." He grimaces as Hermione quirks an eyebrow at him. "I didn't, I promise. I genuinely wanted to share a Butterbeer with you, like old times. But I'd be a shit friend if I didn't tell you I'm worried you're jumping into something too quickly. It took us two years to even sleep with each other, Hermione. It's not like you to be so hasty."

The concern he's showing is enough to deflate her annoyance, although she doesn't relax. She can't when she's around him. Hermione kicks at a clump of grass. "It's a load of crap, the lot of it. There's something I have to do, but I don't want to do it."

"Hermione…" His expression softens and Ron takes a step forward, sliding his hand to her elbow. Goosebumps spread over her arms and her pulse races but she refuses to pull away from him. To do so would admit defeat. Plus, she's so touch-starved, so desperate for the something that frigid Nicholas refuses to give her, that she leans into it. The familiarity of Ron's touch is delicious, but it only leaves her craving more.

Licking his lips, he shifts closer. His heartbeat sounds in her ears too, pounding in unison with hers. She drops her gaze to his lips, but before she can lean towards him, to close the gap once and for all, he says, "Before anything else happens, I have to let you know I ran a Muggle background check on Lord Nicholas, but I still can't—"

WHAT THE HELL? "Ron, stop!"

Yanking her arm out of his grip, Hermione jumps away from him. It's as if the pull of Amortentia has been lifted and she tries to put as much distance between them to allow someone to park the Knight Bus on the lawn. All those lovely feelings, the almost kiss that had been delightfully warming her body are gone, and yet again, hatred fills her veins. Why is he like this?

Before he can speak again she screeches, "Nothing is wrong, okay? Lord Nicholas is perfect and we're happy together. We're getting married in two weeks." She paces away from him until the chairs and empty quiver are between them. "You had your chance with me," she spits out, "but you decided to go to America. I tried to be supportive and worked hard at the long-distance relationship thing, but it didn't work. It's not surprising. I don't know anyone who's survived it. So please, I'm asking you again to leave me alone."

Or at least leave the issue alone. Hermione's not sure she'd be able to cope if Ron were to leave her alone for good.

His face sets into a hard glare. "Fine. But I still don't trust the guy."

"Well, I'm marrying him and that's that. Now if you don't mind, I have other important wedding things to attend to."

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

Forgetting about lunch and her archery lessons, Hermione yet again storms away from Ron. She's not sure how much longer she can live like this, in her personal circle of hell. Hasn't she been punished enough for failing in their relationship? Or is this all her life is going to be from now on, trapped between her ex and her new husband? How is she going to manage to keep them and her country happy?

All Hermione knows is that she might implode before she works that out.