Uh so this is based very very loosely on Chinese Dramas like Yanxi Palace and Empresses in the Palace, except it's very different. I'll try to explain but if you have questions ask them.
Will contain: gender abstraction, references to sex work, references to chemical and physical castration, slavery, brutality, and more. The Forbidden City is very fucked up.
This is based on an orphaned work over on Ao3 called Crimson Dream, and is more consistently updated over there.
A response to a comment I got over there:
"Essentially Harry and Draco are men, and personally identify as men, but are socially "ladies" not because they're women but because the role they occupy as "ladies" is a feminine coded one. Harry does not like being called a lady because he doesn't identify as one, which is why he doesn't like it when the Gugu called him a lady.
Prince is similarly a title Draco was given, it'll come up later but if Draco did not enter the palace as a lady he could have taken up his duties as a prince (in Qing politics this basically means a fast track to political power and frequent invites to the palace). Since being a Prince refers to the circumstances of his birth and not the direction of his career, it's one that will always stick with him (but will grow less relevant to other people)."
Glossary:
Empress (Huánghòu) - Max: 1. The only legitimate wife. Mother of the nation and in charge of running the inner palace. Only the Emperor and Empress Dowager are above her.
Imperial Noble Consort (Huáng Guìfēi) - Max: 1. Assists the Empress in running the inner palace.
Noble Consorts (Guìfēi) - Max. 2.
Consorts (Fēi) - Max. 4.
Imperial Concubines (Pín) - Max. 6.
Noble Ladies (Guìrén) - "Precious" or "Treasure" No max.
First Class Female Attendant (Chángzài) - "Often visited" No max.
Second Class Female Attendant (Dāyìng) -"promise" No max.
Female Attendant - No max. A maid who has been "favored" by the Emperor.
Gugu - Auntie, used in reference to senior maid servants (i.e. maid supervisors)
Mèimei - Little sister, used by concubines to refer to someone of a lower rank than them.
Xiunu - "elegant females", people entering the palace for bride/concubine selection.
Floating on the river were dozens of neat little paper boats. Harry knelt on the bank but his shoe platforms were unsteady on the rocks.
All around him pushed xiunu whispering wishes and blessings against the hulls clasped in their hands. Their hopes for the Selection; to honor their families, to not make a fool of themselves, to catch his majesty's attention.
Some boats glittered or shot sparks as they were released, precious magic layered between the folds. One elaborately detailed galleon zipped along, independent of the current. A steamboat puffed green smoke figures as it passed. A gingham patterned galley sailed impossibly upside down. More ships glittered soft and mysteriously, but still more were plain and unimpressive. No magic and barely recognizable as a water-faring vessel at all.
His boat wasn't much special. A simple sloop. It was a thick cream parchment, ordinary except for the sharp flicks of black writing all over. An embossed wax seal and the remnants of a ribbon sloppily stuck across the back. It held no magic other than his mother's, a simple charm keeping the pieces together where he stuck them. Harry set it in the water, his boat caught the current side-ways and began to rock it's way along the shore.
He had thought this might be cathartic - ripping up his summons missive and releasing it, and therefore any remaining doubts, to be destroyed by the ocean. It wasn't. He could feel the tension growing in his stomach like a hex.
A horn sounded from behind and Harry stepped back from the water. He tried to focus on the people crowding around him now instead of the Forbidden City's walls - seeming to grow taller and more imposing with each of his steps. This was little better, half-familiar faces around him already crowded together into groups but Harry stood alone and feeling distinctly under-dressed. An uncomfortable reminder of his and his mother's isolation.
Although the Potters were an old and respected house, Harry was the son of a commoner-born concubine. An eyesore to the legal wife, who was in charge of running domestic matters and didn't like Lily Potter existing to siphon away her husband's affections. Didn't like Harry, a threat to her own children's future.
His father's favor could protect Harry and his mother when the man was present, but James Potter rarely was - as an official for the Department of War he traveled frequently and for long periods of time.
His mother taught him what she could - no small thing given Lily Evans - but today it seemed nowhere near enough.
Grand luxuries and complicated etiquette were bred into the young men and women around him. Smiles as complicated as their brocade, hidden behind painted smiles and handkerchiefs. One girl's outer-dress a net of pure golden thread, another had tens of gemstones adorning her hair - each no smaller than the blunt end of an ink stick.
Harry's silk robe and hand-carved ornamentation had seemed extravagant this morning, but now felt rather plain and clumsy.
All the better to fail, he supposed. It didn't stop the nerves, but being silent and unremarkable was a long practiced skill at this point. He might have resented it, but he could never deny his mother anything or even fault her for worrying.
The Gugus had corralled the group into a line of pairs. They were older women, dressed uniformly with neutral faces and perfect posture. A dozen eunuchs stood behind with bowed backs.
"Honored ladies," one Gugu began, and Harry shifted uncomfortably at the address, "will be presented to the Emperor and Ministers shortly. Step lightly, speak softly, and you will come to no harm. If you are graced with his majesty's interest, your name plate will enter the palace and you will be bestowed a perfume sachet. Those who are not will be given a flower. Should any xiunu fall ill, healers await outside the hall."
She smiled mechanically. "Upon acceptance of a perfume sachet, ladies are tied to the crown and a Gugu will accompany you until you enter the palace. Imperial wizards will be called as necessary and in a fortnight, titles and rankings will be distributed." She bowed then, and the veritable army of attendants shuffled aside.
The gate opened with a great tremor, and Harry stepped into the Forbidden City.
The group moved silently but for the echo of porcelain heels against flagstone. The city might have been beautiful, his trepidation grew. Maids, guards, and officials darted off the streets and knelt to them as they passed. Harry kept his eyes strictly forward.
They stopped before a golden pagoda and, after a short whisper from the Gugus, the first 4 of the line entered. The line moved up, nobody spoke.
Standing at the head of the line now was one of the few people Harry knew. Heir Draco Malfoy, 17. He was technically a prince of the fifth rank - related not to the Emperor but to the Minister of State - but that evidently hadn't excluded him from inner palace duties.
Or perhaps it had, and this was political. The thought was discomforting to Harry; the harem was property of His Majesty the Emperor, but as his property he had the ability to lend its privileges. The extent of this largely amounted to gifting "unused" consorts for political gain or hosting diplomats for a night or two, but the two Imperial Ministers enjoyed the inner palace freely and often. The system was clever, designed to tie the greatest positions of power exclusively to the Empire, but it made for a complicated political and romantic landscape. Heir Malfoy would be 'sister' to his Uncle's lovers, mother-in-law to his own cousins - a twisted family tree best, incestuous at worst.
Three of the xiunu bowed their way out of the pagoda, each cradling a flower. Behind, two eunuchs carried a stretcher with the fourth's unconscious body. The line moved up and Malfoy disappeared from view.
Despite party tricks like magic boats and charmed accessories, true magic was rare. Non-magical "muggles" made up most of the Empire. Magical families were few, often nobility, but even most magical-born children had little power. They might brew potions or float objects, but grand feats and complicated spells were beyond the average witch and wizard.
The Emperor was different. He was the Son of Heaven, a god set to rule 10,000 years and more. His magic was so potent most mages couldn't stand it unbridled, they fell ill or unconscious from His Majesty's ire. Those less talented, like muggles, wouldn't be able to stand his Majesty's presence at all. This power was the greatest blessing of the Empire, and the biggest headache of the harem.
A significant magical imbalance between a couple, such as the Emperor and another, left the partner to be impregnated with a condition similar to autoimmune disorders - the body becoming so defensive against foreign magic that it rejects the growing signature of a royal child. The harem was filled with carriers left bereft, for a babe with no magic had little hope and never saw birth. (The palace claimed each miscarriage was sad, terrible providence - but there were other whispers too, Harry didn't dwell on these.)
The pavilion doors opened again and among the xiunu came Malfoy - shoulders tense, gaze cold, but holding the first sachet of the day.
The next four stepped forward at the Gugu's instruction, leaving Harry second from the front. The next wave, like soldiers sent as cannon fodder. The girl next to him trembled they took their places, and Harry couldn't resist a glance at her face. He had barely moved his head, but even then a flash of silver behind her shoulder caught his eye - Malfoy stepped past them quickly, but for a moment Harry could see the sachet gripped harshly in his hands.
His fingers sparked and the soft green of his sachet smoldered black in his grasp. Harry's eyes snapped quickly back front. The sun was bright today, and Malfoy was certainly adorned enough to catch the light - it must have been a sun-flare, Harry told himself, and tried to put it out of mind.
As he moved closer to the pagoda the air already grew thick and oppressive. thickening his breath and clinging to his skin like humidity in the air. He was less than 10 zhang away from the door now.
It seemed impossible for such miasma to come from a person, someone living and breathing. Could a man like that laugh, or smile? Had he ever scraped his knees as a child, calling for his mother - grubby cheeks and dirty hands? Did he get food stuck between his teeth?
The pavilion doors opened again and the Gugu ushered them forward. Harry, third in line, kept his eyes carefully trained on the shoes of the xiunu in front of him and tried his best to ignore the girl behind. Some part of him hoped for her to fall already, tottling as she was. It would be kinder to her than a life in the palace, but he admired her tenacity all the same.
They arrived. Harry could barely breathe. The girl was hyperventilating. They knelt, beginning to preform a complicated kowtow of bows, handkerchief raises, and blessings Harry could barely feel himself saying.
Each xiunu stayed bowed at the end, and Harry was thankful. His head went fuzzy for a second but when he braced his arms against the flooring the pressure was felt a little more manageable. The girl must have fainted, two eunuchs were hauling her away.
"Rise." The voice was deep and reverberated lowly, even in it's lazy drawl. "Greet their Excellencies."
Harry and the two xiunu remaining kowtowed again, less severely.
Harry's eyes had sharpened enough in the indoor lighting to catch the Ministers, each seated on a throne on either side of a series of daises which stretched up beyond his view.
"Blessings to Esteemed Lords," they all recited. To the left, the Minister of State Lucius Malfoy accepted their greeting and absently gestured for them to stand. To the right, the Minister of Magic Severus Snape simply leaned against his hand.
As he rose, Harry stopped himself from looking further. Harry knew who must be sitting there, on the dais between the Ministers - The Dark Lord, His Majesty Emperor Voldemort.
If he had a true name, Harry would never know it. He would never need to know it. You didn't directly address His Majesty. None were his equal and what his lovers called him would never be Harry's concern.
Harry's muggle cousin, Dudley, had once said the secrecy was because the Dark Lord was paranoid. That he hid his name so no-one could curse it, shaved his head so no-one might collect his person, even killed his own mother so her knowledge of him would never be known.
Dumbledore said he was lonely, grown attached to his solitude and distrustful of anyone who thought to care for him. Harry said nothing, it was very much Not His Concern.
"Presenting Marietta Edgecombe," the head eunuch called, and on the far side of the line, a young girl bowed, "14. Daughter of Francis Edgecombe, Imperial Med-wizard. Possessing of a pleasant voice, fine calligraphy, and adequate magical talent."
Below his bowed head, Harry could see the Minister of Magic's twisted grimace. The Minister of State indulged no such feelings if he had them, running through an eccentric list of benign questions - her favorite poem, optimal growing conditions of dittany, and so forth - barely letting her answer one question before asking the next.
A heavy rustle of fabric interrupted her praise for Kvass' Courtly Virtues, and Marietta halted, glancing hopefully at the dais.
The head eunuch bowed, "Marietta Edgecombe is dropped. Bestow a flower," he intoned. Her face flushed but she stepped forward to receive a large, coral peony bloom from before stepping back. The head eunuch read again from his scroll,
"Presenting Hestia Carrow, 18. Niece of Amycus Carrow, Vice-Chancellor of Scrolls at the Institute of State Prosperity. Demure of temperament, possessing of brewing prowess and superior magical talent."
The Minister of Magic seemed to take an interest. The Minister of State cocked a silver eyebrow as began his questions. Hestia smiled, a touch too sly to be coy.
Harry hoped she knew what she was doing. Boasting of potions in front of Severus Snape? Demure temperament, his left nutsack. He knew well that deceiving the Emperor carried a death sentence, being selected on embellished premises was tantamount to line theft, and neither Minister were men to interpret the law kindly.
She was doing well, though - giving eloquent, practiced answers. Then the Minister of Magic began to ask his questions. These were different, worded strangely, doubling back on previous concepts.
It was a test, everyone in the room must have been aware, but that didn't mean it was any more a test she could pass. The questions grew harder, complicated alchemical reactions and conditional ingredient properties going far over Harry's head. Hestia never faltered, needing only a moment or two before replying.
Perhaps he shouldn't have doubted her, but something in the Minister's face was growing more pinched as she answered. The Minister paused for a long moment.
"Your knowledge seems…considerable, Ms. Carrow." the Minister said. His voice lingered on the consonants of his speech, somewhere between nasal and silken and carrying a gravitas Harry'd not quite heard before.
Hestia simpered, "I was blessed to study herbs with my mother since a babe, Your Excellency."
"Indeed," the Minister considered, "you certainly know your aconite from your wolfsbane."
Harry frowned, there was something off with that statement. Hestia seemed too flushed by her victory to mind it.
"Your Excellency is wise," she bowed immediately, "I can only accept your praise."
The Minister of Magic sat back in his seat. The Minister of State grimaced, gesturing to a guard by the doorway to a side-hall. "Bring the niffler."
Hestia froze. The guard ducked out of sight. Harry was very confused.
"My Lords," Hestia started, "I-i..I have displeased you in some way." She clamored to her knees. Her breath was unsteady, face ashen. "This unworthy one deserves to die."
"Do you admit your crime?" The Minister of State asked.
"I am stupid, Your Excellency, and do not know what I have done."
He sighed, "Dispel any magics on your person, or the guard will." The illusory butterflies which had fluttered around her person quickly vanished. Harry wondered if any other glamours fell, but he couldn't see from where he still bowed, 3 paces back and away from the commotion.
The guard came back into the room. He carried a large black box and stopped in front of Hestia.
"Nifflers hunt objects of value, precious metals usually," explained the Minister, "juvenile nifflers, in absence of their mothers, are additionally attracted to objects of magical potency. Release the creature." The guard flipped a latch and the box began to thump and shake.
A dark bolt rushed Hestia. She shrieked, falling backward. Harry flinched and so did Marietta, whimpering now even as she cradled her flower - the Minister of State glanced over at them.
"It's leashed. And quite gentle." his eyes flicked back to scene. "Niffler, show me."
The blur re-appeared, solidifying into a small mole of a creature and scuttling up to the edges of Harry's vision. It held something in it's paws and a eunuch quickly transferred whatever it was onto a pillow, which he then presented to the Minister of State, who frowned, and then the Minister of Magic. He studied whatever it was for a long minute, slowly turning the pillow in his hands.
"Clever," remarked the Minster of Magic, "the earrings have memories trapped inside these bubbles. I imagine they whispered to her." He lay the earring down again. Hestia began to blubber.
"My lords, it is not-" she sniffled loudly, "I did not mean.." crying denials and excuses louder, and louder, but saying nothing of substance.
Then the air seemed to snap.
Harry's head felt fuzzy again, coming on like a headache. His vision went white. He jolted to sit upright. Silence. White static across his senses. Then a ringing. He felt suddenly quite tired, but tingling all over. Like his nerves shut down and were waking up all over again. Colors bloomed back into his vision like an inkspill. He blinked. His glasses had fractured, leaving him just as blind as without.
"-etting tired of that. Take her out."
The guards were moving, picking up Hestia's body. Stepping on blotches of pink as they hailed her away. Had she died? It was a cold thought, to set off His Majesty's temper and been torn apart by his magic, but he couldn't really process it at the moment.
Another group of guards split between hoisting out fallen servants and walking around Harry to drag Marietta off. A guard tried to grab at his arm too but even disoriented, Harry managed to shake him off.
"Your Majesty," said a voice, uncomfortably close in his ear, "this one is awake." Someone hmm'ed in the distance. The guard grabbed lifted up like a ragdoll. Once he managed to totter independently, he extradited his arm roughly.
"Presenting Harry Potter, 16. Son of James Potter, Supervising Inspector of the Northern Border. Of a tenacious manner and adequate magical talent."
One of the darker figures in front of him scoffed and Harry gave a jerky bow towards the noise.
"Tenacious indeed," muttered another of the figures.
The first one harrumphed again. "More like a handful to deal with."
The dark voice he couldn't see gave a huffy almost-laugh. A pleasant sound that resonated through Harry's body. "Either way, it seems these flowers are now unfit to be gifted."
Harry squinted around, noticing again the splotches of pink on the ground - the way they clustered on the ground and the extra body the guards had dragged out of the room. Petals then, not blood. The tray had fallen, perhaps. A shame, but it wasn't like he intended to keep his.
"Grant the lady a sachet."
What? No.
No.
He never wanted to enter the palace.
The palanquin home was hard enough - Harry curled into himself, feeling very much in disarray. The sachet he only dared to hold with a handkerchief, in case his dirty fingers stained it. He held it as far away from himself as he could, twisting his neck into the collar of his robes, but its scent - musk and patchouli and jasmine and something spicy and warm and addicting, oh Merlin - filled the space.
He hated how a bit cloth and fragrance overthrew everything. How the palanquin holders had abandoned their typical derision in front of an imperial escort. How he'd gained the respect he'd spent 16 years fighting for on a whim, like all he'd ever needed was a strong man to come take control of his life.
He hated how nice the fragrance smelled. He hated the thrill in his spine when remembering the Emperor's voice.
The palanquin touched ground and the Gugu, braced his arm as he stepped out. They'd stopped at the gates of Potter Manor. Directly at front.
Oh. He hadn't thought this through.
In front of him was the main door - a third as tall as the gates of the Forbidden City, but it still loomed above Harry. It was ostentatiously wrought with an iron stag, framed in agrimony and rearing across the red double doors.
It would be a trap to walk through it.
He turned from the doorway, walking farther to the right. His arm pulled for a moment, the Gugu lagging behind just a second.
"You are His Majesty's, Lady Potter," she half-scolded to him, "you don't have to-"
Harry cut her off, "Am I no longer my mother's son? The main gate is for the main wife and her children." the Gugu's hand tightened on his elbow, but Harry would have none of it. "I would be an unfilial son to take my honors before she had her own."
He expected more of a fight from a woman meant to be his ettiquites teacher, but as they ducked through the side-gate - a hidden thing of bare wood, half covered in bushes and vines - and she seemed softened to him. In the compound, Harry's reception was lackluster. There was only a maid, carefully tending to the courtyard's flowers. The Gugu looked around, her mouth creasing into a stern frown.
"Young girl, call the mistress of the house," she prompted, not unkindly. It was proper, of course, but Harry knew better than to expect propriety. The Gugu would learn soon enough.
The maid looked up sharply, but upon seeing Harry turned back to her work. "Mistress is out," she said simply, "as is Second Young Master." Her eyes lingered on their guest, but Harry couldn't tell if the maid even recognized her as an imperial servant. Did the young maid even know Harry'd been at the selections today?
For once Harry was grateful for his family's disrespect and only nodded to the maid before determinedly making his way through the compound.
"Gugu," Harry said as they walked, winding farther and farther away from the main residence, "You've been walking all day and I'm afraid our hospitality is lacking. I'll show you where you will be staying, so please rest as I fetch my mother to meet you."
Her mouth was pinched at the unconventional welcome but she quietly agreed. He didn't know if this would help or harm her perception of him. He was clearly being snubbed despite coming from a respectable family, a family which didn't support each-other at home couldn't be expected to support each-other at court. This made him an unattractive ally and an unstable employer. All he could hope for was this woman's pity, he supposed, and hope that she could be charmed by him.
Harry took her to a building just across from Harry and his mother's. He left her with an overly polite bow and quickly backtracked to a more populated area of the estate to flag down a maid for her - charm would rely on his own good manners and exceptional attention to her needs after all.
He found his mother by accident, unprepared for the encounter and unprepared for her circumstance - overdress folded on the patio behind her and sleeves fastened to bunch at her shoulders, Harry had first mistaken his mother for a maid. Her elbows were deep in dirty washing water, her hair roughly braided, and though she hummed softly as she worked it did not soften the general wear in her movements. He couldn't claim to be surprised. He felt himself catch on the moment, a sinking despair in his stomach. She bore her circumstances with dignity, but Harry knew such a woman was never meant to bend like that.
Lily Evans was kind and clever, well educated in magics and literature and handicraft - but the type of work given to her by the Potters wore her out and dulled her hands. He could remember when he was young she used to teach him embroidery. She didn't pick up a needle often anymore. She supplemented their household expenses, a disrespectful pittance, with woodcarving nowadays since her hands were no longer so nimble enough for finer details and her callouses prevented her from threading needles.
His eyes grew hot at the reminder of what she sacrificed for him.
"You shouldn't have to do that."
Lily waved a dismissive, soapy, hand at him, "It's not so hard, hǔ zǐ," she said, though Harry doubted the truth of those words, "Especially not with a little help, hm?"
She turned to him with a fond smile. But her eyes met his and her smile dropped.
He knew it would be like this, but it still hurt. His mother was hot-tempered and stubborn, but she had a startling sort of emotional intelligence. A talent for reading people. She must have expected many things from today. Disgruntlement perhaps, the palace was tense and full of snobs, and some measure of relief. He knew there must be something darker on his shoulders now, something incomprehensibly sad. Harry never even considered hiding it from her. She knew him, and she saw him. The desperation of his face, eyes lost and mouth tense.
She shifted to her knees before him, bowing. Her hair brushed the dirt. "Your humble servant greets honorable young mistress." Quiet, restrained, like a person Harry didn't know.
"Mum," he croaked, "don't do this."
"It's necessary," she said, and it felt like a punishment. Like cutting off the only lifeline he had left.
"Not when it's me, please," Harry crouched by his mother, trying to pull her up again, "I can't- not with me. Mum, get up."
She did, but slowly, and Harry pulled her close into him. Her voice had felt cold, but holding her now - Harry could feel her shaking frame and rapid heartbeat just as he could feel his own.
"Can we pretend?" he sounded small even to his own ears, "I know it's not the same, but just when we're alone, can we pretend this isn't happening?"
She sighed, almost sagging against him, and settled an arm around his back. "It's not so simple, baby."
He knew it wasn't. He knew, he knew. Pretending was running away, and it would just make the hurts fester, but he didn't feel strong enough for this right now and she felt so fragile in his arms. Harry felt too old and like a child all in one, he wanted to cry that this could not be his mother because Lily Evans didn't do defeat but there was no way out now and this felt an awful lot like giving up. But at the same time, if there was fault here it was his. He'd not taken the possibility of being selected seriously enough, he thought his preparations were sufficient and clearly they just weren't. It had taken only a moment to ruin them, and that moment had been defined by his stupid, stupid pride.
Keep getting back up, don't rely on anyone to help you up, stand and fight. It was evidently so deep in his bones his half-conscious body had traded his freedom for it.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Harry whispered to her, pressing his face against her shoulder, trying to make the action feel as it had before. As it would have, yesterday. "I didn't mean to, I'm sorry." He couldn't remember when his throat had grown thick with snot, or when his chest had started to heave, he just knew he was sorry, sorry, sorry, round and round in his head. The only thing he could think of.
They sat there for a while. Lily rubbing soft circles on his back and whispering kindness back to him. It's okay and it's not your fault and I'll always love you. Things he didn't deserve.
When the worst of it passed, Lily tucked his head under hers and hugged him tightly once more. The courtyard was quiet all around them, but Lily still watched hawkishly for eavesdroppers.
"You got my dress wet, you know" she said, deliberately light.
He sniffled weakly, thankful for the carefully casual tone, but mind still too foggy for banter, "I haven't cried in years."
"Not since Charles broke your favorite Go board." Lily absently agreed. Harry made a face and pulled back from her.
"Don't remind me of him. Can't you see I'm distressed, be nicer."
"You'll be distressed until you aren't, so don't linger," she said. Harsh, when everything was so new and he just wanted to grieve, but time was a luxury in short supply now. "At least you're free of him. And Lady Selwyn."
Even that didn't seem so pleasing in the circumstances. "That still leaves you with them." He felt gross, and hot, and uncomfortably vulnerable. He crossed a step to the washbasin, latching onto the topic change. "They don't respect you. Whose laundry even is this?"
"Uniforms."
Harry pulled off his overdress too, placing it less than carefully next to his mother's. "My point exactly," he said, and sat to work the washing. The water on his hands and the weave beneath his fingers at least felt real.
Lily sighed, "And yet, your Ladyship doing it is appropriate?" But she didn't push him further, just sat next to Harry delicately, rolling her wrists out in small circles.
"I'm supposed to protect you," he muttered. Harry pulled out the clothing to inspect, "I'm no lady."
"You are now."
"Right load of shite that is," Harry ignored his mother's glare at his language, it held no heat. "I'm not soft, and I don't like men besides."
The declaration was firm, and Lily didn't have an immediate answer. What she settled on felt hollow even to her own ears. "You've always known, with your circumstances, that political marriage was a possibility."
"One we've done everything to avoid."
It certainly was. She had kept her head down and quietly sent out inquiries, and Harry had spent the years studying. Swordsmanship, magic, politics, philosophy. They didn't have many connections but Harry had himself, and they had thought that would be enough.
Not enough for power, perhaps, but neither of them needed that. If Harry could have been a scholar, or a minor official, or a magician's assistant, or even an imperial guard - that would have been enough for a small house on the city outskirts. Harry could beg his father for Lily to stay there when James was working, and they could live undisturbed.
He'd been set to take his NEWTs (Necessary Exams to Warrant Talent) in a week. He'd have done them sooner, but every applicant had to be rejected by imperial selection before they could enter a government regulated industry. Hiding the truth of Harry's circumstance from an imperial doctor was already tricky, it was impossible to alter his magical signature so completely that he seemed incompatible with fertility magics.
Instead, Harry had simply made himself an undesirable wife. Being willful to interviewers, talking extensively about his love for quidditch and swordsmanship, always keeping a wild edge to himself. Evidently, it wasn't enough.
"I suppose," said Lily ruefully, "any child of mine was doomed to be attractive," her hand brushed a lock of hair from his face fondly, though Harry shot her a disbelieving look. "What? You don't think so?"
"You're stunning, Mum," Harry said, serious and indulgent to her teasing. She hummed and helped him start to hang the washing. Harry was thoughtful as they worked, "I don't think any of them saw my face anyways."
Lily startled for a moment, taking the work from Harry's hands and affixing him with a look. "Start from the beginning."
He did. It took the rest of doing laundry and most of the walk back to their courtyard to explain. It was a stark contrast to the loving exchange he craved, and he missed it, but he locked that desire away and detailed the day instead. Lily questioned him intensely, not only on the strange selection Harry had taken part in but on the smaller details that hadn't mattered before.
Who passed? Who hadn't? How many attendants waited for them? What behaviors and activities did the Ministers seem to approve of? The imperial palace was a deadly game of chess, and right now they were 3 moves behind.
They entered the side-hall as a unit, quarter hour and a cup of tea from when Harry had left.
The Gugu introduced herself to Lily as Madam Minerva McGonagall, a widow who'd worked in the palace for 15 years. She was brusque and wary, but answered their questions precisely and without judgement.
Her answers were not reassuring.
Harry's entire life was based on his yet-to-be-determined official rank. Concubines were given a yearly allowance to be spent on the upkeep of their household and assigned servants based on this rank. Privileges were distributed accordingly, namely contact with the world outside the palace.
It was common knowledge that the harem had strict regulations. The inner palace was made up of indentured maids, eunuchs, and inner-banner imperial guards - sworn to complete subservience. Guests were limited, and even then heavily escorted.
Those who entered the harem were buried there. Most never saw outside again, and those who did only saw the inside of a covered litter when they escorted the Emperor to his summer palace. His Majesty's concubines were his possessions, and never left his direct control.
McGonagall, for all her professionalism, had hesitated before she explained how far that protectionism went.
To prevent politics from entering the harem, there were no letters from the outside. If he managed a 4th rank command token then Harry could send a eunuch with money for his family, but the eunuch would bring nothing back.
His mother could die on the outside, and Harry would never know.
"There's no way?" he'd asked, and McGonagall had looked genuinely sad.
"The Emperor would have the authority to pass a message, of course. Or perhaps a high official. You could see your father when he comes to report-"
"Father reports to the Military Cabinet."
"Oh." She'd said.
That was that. Harry was sure there were loopholes somewhere, or ways to pass letters through security, but these would require power and money. His father might help but Harry didn't want his parents risking their lives just so he could receive birthday well-wishes.
"When do I leave, then?" Harry asked the Gugu, feeling rather as if they were discussing his funeral and not his marriage.
"The Department of Divination's Astronomy Tower will choose an auspicious date, but before then we have a great many things to do - I'm afraid there is less time for making memories than you'd hope."
"Are there so many things to learn?" he couldn't imagine there were, at least not in an official capacity.
"You'll have to memorize details on the rest of the harem and we'll be going over your arts - painting and instruments and such. And then, of course you realize, I'll be instructing you in the..dance." She waved a wrinkled hand dismissively.
Harry realized he'd played down many of his talents previously, but he was a fair hand at a few of the typical noble's hobbies. He didn't want to seem a hopeless cause when it directly traded-off with other preparations, but he wasn't used to the subtleties of bragging. "I can play plucked zither and erhu," he tried, "and my sword dancing is quite passable, but I'm afraid I'm not good at painting at all - I don't have an eye for aesthetics."
McGonagall frowned at him with a look which said much more than he thought it would, Harry wondered if it was really such a character flaw to be poor at visual arts. He just didn't see the appeal when professional painters could do it so much better.
His mother coughed delicately next to him, "Not that kind of dance, darling."
"Well, I don't think fan dancing should be too hard since I know swords though - it's just practice. Painting is really more discretionary so it's a bit harder to-"
Lily coughed again - seemed to dissolve into a coughing fit, really. Harry pat her on the back. The Gugu still observed him oddly, her mouth pressing more into a smile now than a frown.
"I'm missing something important, aren't I?" He smiled charmingly, but some measure of tension seemed to have broken and he hoped he could keep the energy.
Harry's Noble Mother, his father's official wife, never returned to the compound. He'd asked after her a second time once he'd left Madam McGonagall and his mother - they wouldn't tell him their joke but it was clear it was at his expense (he still thought his dancing was perfectly fine and even strict palettes had nothing bad to say about his tea service, but they laughed when he replied with as much to their ever more confusing prompts.)
She and Charles had gone to visit Charles' fiance, a daughter of the Black's branch family. Not as prosperous a match as Noble Mother Lady Selwyn would have liked for her precious son, but Dorea Black took after her second cousin Sirius and so James Potter adored her.
It had been Dorea who sent a runner at the initial hour of the 12th shí (10PM) informing the household that Second Young Master and the Mistress had spent too long viewing the gardens and would be taking the night at the Black compound.
He couldn't fault her for his family's bad behavior, really he quite liked Dorea, but delaying Lady Selwyn's reaction to his selection left Harry anxious, uncertain, and unable to sleep.
Did they know about it already? He wouldn't put it past the Blacks to have people reporting back from the palace, but even if they knew, they might not mention it to the Potters.
Harry slipped on a pair of worn, wooden clogs and pulled his sleeping robe close. It was a warm night, the crickets were out, and as Harry walked through the compound his mind whirled.
In his hands he carried the perfume sachet, still folded in his handkerchief. Harry had it tucked softly under his nose. The unfamiliar notes bled into the smells of the night, lantern smoke and freshly bathed skin. It didn't smell like home or anything quite so comforting, yet it felt...entrancing. Like the first time you hear a lullaby sung. Harry drifted away in the song of it.