Chapter 2: Focused

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Meeting of the Minds

The woman the world now knows as Prince Draco's future wife was once a charming and voraciously studious young ingenue who could easily boast (but would never, of course) of her countless academic achievements. Widely considered the brightest student of her age at both Carondelet High School and Stanford University, it's no surprise she was an outstanding addition to the Hogwarts Department of English Literature.

"Hermione was an absolute treasure to have in class," trumpets Hogwarts fellow Horace Slughorn, "and it was exceedingly obvious from the start that she and His Royal Highness shared a common undeniable thirst for knowledge. They sent me a postcard this Christmas, by the way—I always tell them there's no need to continue thanking me, naturally, it's so kind of them of course but still, completely unnecessary—I mean really, I had nothing to do with their courtship outside of the initial introduction and oh, maybe the occasional amiable urging to share their respective talents here and there, but did that have something to do with their marriage? Well, who's to say, really. They seem to think so, obviously, but of course I'm just a humble academician. In any case, I've never known anyone to be so focused on their studies as the Prince and the future Princess. I suppose their falling in love was inevitable, but I certainly couldn't have predicted it at the time! Though I did, obviously. Hence their continued gratitude—which, of course, I hardly need!"

I truly don't even know where to begin identifying the most ridiculous thing about this. It's a long trucking list. On the one hand, there's the idea that Slughorn had anything to do with our relationship, which he most certainly did not. (The postcard he mentioned—if we actually sent one, which I don't know that we did—was probably one of the standard ones issued to a horrifyingly long list consisting of nearly everyone we've ever met. That, or something he purchased in a gift shop.) I'm not actually sure Slughorn could even tell you who I was, truth be told, until they put my face all over the bloody internet. Even then, I'm surprised he noticed it was me. I never saw him do anything but drift half to sleep during his own interminably self-congratulatory lectures.

Then there's the idea that Draco and I had some sort of academic affair, which is a close contender on the list of most audacious statements. Believe me, I'd love it if that were true. Wouldn't that be romantic? I'd love to think Draco was studying in the library, or devotedly taking notes, and then one day some sort of light from the heavens shone down on my perfect, glossy curls—but that's definitely not what happened.

Focused on our studies? I wish. I think at the time, I would have given absolutely anything to be focused on something other than him.

August 31, 2010
Hogwarts University

"Oh, this is perfect," Daphne sighed as she took a bite of slightly-burnt toast, pausing to rest her head against the back of her chair with a whimper. "You had the right idea going home early, Hermione. I'm always foolishly neglecting sleep and then looking like death in the morning as cosmic punishment—truly, there's no karma so swift."

Privately, Hermione thought that was a rather absurd thing to say; though, as with all things Daphne did, it was charmingly so. In reality, Daphne had done little more than wash her face before heading out the door that morning and still, her skin was positively flawless. Hermione suspected she could use Daphne's natural glow as a flashlight the next time she was looking for something in the dark.

Hermione, on the other hand, had tossed and turned for hours and then woken up (to no conceivable relief) at three in the morning. By that point, her mind had been bustling with thoughts of Draco's kiss until the sun had risen—which, she told herself firmly, was probably just another delightful result of jet lag.

"Did you sleep well?" Daphne asked kindly, and Hermione grimaced.

"Well enough," she conceded, figuring it best not to get into it. "What about you? How was the rest of your night?"

"Oh, you didn't miss much," Daphne assured her. "Just Theo being a bit of a prat, as always, and Blaise being… well, Blaise—"

"Don't neglect to tell her I was being my usual charming self," came a voice behind them as Harry slid into the vacant chair on Daphne's right, leaning over to kiss her cheek. "Morning, Daph. And Hermione," he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek, too, which delivered Hermione momentarily to clumsily-handled misjudgments about the placement of her hands. "Missed you last night," Harry murmured with a wink, half-smiling.

"Oh, ignore him," Daphne sighed, reaching out to jab a finger into Harry's arm. "Turn the charm down, Harry, it's only breakfast. I'd hate for us to have to abandon our morals when we've only just gotten our eggs."

"Well, that's what I get for missing dinner," Harry said spiritedly.

"How'd you find us, anyway?" Daphne asked him, reaching for another piece of charred toast. "Thought you'd still be bunkered down with Theo and Blaise."

"Ah, well, you know me; military training. Bit of an early riser, you understand. Actually, I was stopping off to talk to Draco before I left," Harry explained, as Hermione coughed, suddenly struggling to swallow her ambitiously large forkful of eggs, "but he's in a rush to go somewhere—Kensington for something or another, I expect. Told me he'd seen you two sneak off early."

"Did he?" Daphne said, frowning. "Odd. He didn't say anything."

Hermione gradually managed to swallow, wondering if Draco's silence might have been her fault. She hadn't said anything to him when she'd left last night, after all, and maybe he thought the whole thing had been a mistake. Maybe Pansy had even told him it was.

Either way, they'd agreed to be friends, but they certainly hadn't said best friends. Draco was under no obligations to say hello if he was otherwise occupied.

Right?

"He was in a hurry," Harry assured Daphne. "I'm sure it was nothing personal. That, or he didn't want you to see his morning hair. A travesty," he clarified, turning to Hermione. "Not everyone pulls off rumpled nonchalance with quite my level of expertise."

"It's not genetic?" Hermione asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Well, maybe it is, but Draco and I aren't biologically that similar," Harry assured her. "He's only my cousin by way of adoption."

"Harry's parents died in a plane crash when he was just a boy," Daphne explained, and reached over to rest her hand briefly on his, brushing her thumb against his knuckles with something that was both comfort and reassurance. "A national tragedy."

For a moment, Harry's facade of roguish impertinence faded, leaving something strained and exposed underneath. But just as quickly as it had arrived, he was back to his usual joviality, sparing Hermione a sly, everything's-just-fine sort of grin.

"My godfather raised me until he passed away a few years ago," Harry explained, "and when he had no other children, I inherited his title. Sirius is Narcissa's cousin," he added offhandedly, conspicuously eyeing Daphne's plate of eggs.

"Narcissa?" Hermione asked, and then blinked, abruptly remembering the royal wedding her mother loved to nostalgically reminisce about from her teenage years in the eighties. "Wait, Princess Narcissa?"

"Yes, Draco's mother," Daphne confirmed, sliding her plate over to Harry as he cheerfully commandeered her fork. "She's, um." She glanced at Harry, who pointedly shoveled a bite of eggs into his mouth and shrugged. "Nobody actually knows, but people sometimes say that she's—"

Daphne broke off, delicately clearing her throat. "Well, the press is never kind," she finished uncertainly.

"That, and the Black line is positively famous for madness, I'll say that much," Harry supplied for her. "Prince Lucius dated Narcissa's older sister first, actually, and of course that ended in an absolute implosion. Two wildly public personas, and from two of England's oldest families?" He and Daphne exchanged a knowingly conspiratorial glance. "Suffice it to say Abraxas was furious, and Lucius' people were doing damage control for months. Really, it's no surprise Prince Lucifer is always keeping Narcissa locked u-"

"What," came a clipped voice behind them, "do you think you're doing?"

Hermione turned to see Pansy waiting there, arms folded. "Harry," Pansy warned, and to Hermione's surprise, he gave something of a sheepish grimace.

"Pans," he sighed, "I wasn't—"

"You have questions about Draco's mother?" Pansy cut in, falling into the seat beside Hermione and fixing her with a challenging glance. Unfortunately, while Hermione had been hoping not to step any further onto Lady Pansy Six-Names' sullenly possessive toes, it seemed that was relatively impossible to avoid.

"I—no," Hermione assured her. "I just—I didn't mean t-"

"To pry?" Pansy prompted scathingly.

"Oh Pans, relax," Daphne sighed, shaking her head and giving Hermione a comforting glance. "Harry brought it up. And besides, it's not as if we don't all have questions about Narcissa," she added, as Harry raised his fork in agreement, sparing Pansy a not-too-subtle, See? "Not even Theo or Blaise know anything about her, and I certainly don't."

"The Princess of Wales is a very private person," Pansy said, sliding her dark gaze to Hermione. "My mother is her best friend," she offered stiffly as Hermione reached for her coffee, hoping to permit her own eye contact to land elsewhere. "They grew up together—like Draco and I did," Pansy added, as if anyone at the table might have managed to somehow forget.

"Well, you say private, the rest of the world says reclusive," Harry reminded Pansy. "Can't fault them for speculating, can you?"

"Mm, well, speculation hour is over," Pansy said firmly. "Certainly don't let Draco hear you talking about her. You of all people should know how sensitive he is about the whole thing," she said to Harry, before letting her gaze cut once more (disapprovingly, which seemed to be one of her three primary expressions outside of 'disdain' and 'conceit') to Hermione's.

"I really wasn't trying to pry," Hermione told her. "I just don't know very much about the monarchy, that's all."

"Certainly can't fault her for that," Daphne pointed out, nudging Pansy with her foot beneath the table. "This is anthropological research."

Pansy cleared her throat. "Well, in that case, King Abraxas is well on his way to becoming England's longest reigning monarch—"

"—which, to be clear, is making the Prince of Darkness rather anxious," Harry cut in, grinning at her. "Naturally, that results in a series of neuroticisms he then passes onto Draco, making our Prince one of the more uptight people in existence. Present company notwithstanding," he assured Pansy, who rolled her eyes.

"Draco is under a lot of pressure," Pansy said simply, "but he handles it. He's a working royal. It's his job to be a public figure."

"Yes, quite," Harry agreed, "which is why I do my part for the crown by being vastly more public." This time, he turned his cheerful smile on Hermione. "The only chance Draco ever has to breathe without the press hounding him is when I'm the one doing something interesting."

"By which he means stupid," Pansy supplied, "and careless."

"That was implied," Harry assured her.

"Well, that clears it up," Hermione said, though in truth, she was closer to twice as curious now, considering what she'd overheard between Lucius and Draco the night before. What could have happened to Narcissa that Lucius would be so vehemently opposed to discussing? If Daphne didn't know, then she certainly wasn't going to find out anytime soon.

"Are you looking forward to term starting tomorrow?" Hermione asked instead, and Daphne groaned.

"Not so much," Daphne admitted. "Though I've managed to sneak in a drawing class, which my mother is going to loathe." At that, Harry flashed her an approving smile, and Daphne rolled her eyes. "Stop trying to lure me to rebellion, Harry. It's truly unhelpful."

"Rebellion?" Hermione echoed. "What's rebellious about a drawing class?"

"Ah, well, my mother finds my interests in the arts to be…" Daphne paused. "What word would you two use?"

From Harry, optimistically: "Unrealistic?"

From Pansy: "Mm, no. Vulgar."

"What?" Hermione asked, aghast. "But—"

"The acceptable areas of study are somewhat limited," Pansy informed her. "University isn't necessary for public duties," she clarified with a gesture to Harry, who looked immensely pleased with himself, "but if one is going to go, then the options are generally history, literature, classics; things of that nature. Things are slightly less strict for someone like Daphne," she added, waving a hand in her direction (Daphne, meanwhile, pulled a face at Hermione, mimicking Pansy's lofty perception of her rank), "but her parents are something of a unique situation."

"Mostly in that they're dreadful," Daphne supplied, and Hermione fought a laugh, managing to nod soberly instead. "Ideally, I'd love a career in fashion," Daphne continued, "but it's rather frivolous in my parents' view, if not a bit distasteful. So, I sneak in drawing and sometimes anatomy when I have spare credits."

"And she's magnificent at it," Harry contributed proudly, as Daphne's cheeks flushed a beguiling shade of pink. "Did a series of portraits last term. Pansy's never looked more lovely, in fact," he said. "Or as convincingly human."

"What'd you do with that, by the way?" Daphne asked Pansy.

"Burned it," said Pansy, stoically raising her cup of tea to her lips.

"No, she didn't," Harry growled, shooting Pansy his own (much rarer) look of disapproval. "It's in safe-keeping, Daph. Promise."

"Well, it's really nothing," Daphne said, though Hermione thought she looked a little wistful at the mention of it. "Just some silly school project, that's all."

"I'm sure it's not nothing," Hermione said, just as another chair scraped out from beside hers.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," said Pansy, as Blaise casually draped himself between her and Hermione. "How did you get here?"

"First of all, Hogsmeade is only so big. Secondly, minus twenty points for the pretense in bemoaning my arrival," Blaise informed her, reaching for her coffee, "but plus five for the early morning savagery."

"Plus five?" Daphne echoed doubtfully.

"I like to know where I stand," Blaise said with a shrug. "Daddy problems, you know how it is."

"Blaise's mother is a wonderful scandal," Harry told Hermione, leaning over to speak to her. With Blaise at her side, she had no choice but to scoot closer to Harry, prompting her to learn (without less opposition than she might have preferred) just how crisp his cologne smelled. "She's been widowed seven times."

From Pansy: "It's not a scandal, it's a crime."

From Blaise: "Well, minus thirty points for murder accusations."

From Daphne: "I like your mum, Blaise! She's very stylish."

From Blaise, knowingly: "Well, that's what happens when you're draped in the wealth of seven husbands. The subsequent wardrobe is thoroughly unimpeachable."

Harry, chiming in: "Also does great things for the skin, I hear."

From a scoffing Pansy: "And what would you know about skin?"

From Harry again: "That I keep mine youthful with reckless indiscretion."

From Blaise: "But in a pinch, blood sacrifice will do."

From Daphne, with a nudge: "Allegedly, of course."

Blaise again: "Oh yes, too true. Ten points to Greengrass."

"What's with the points?" Hermione asked him.

"It's a game," Blaise said. "Everyone's playing, and I'm the omnipotent referee."

From Harry: "It's pronounced 'self-important,' actually."

From Blaise: "That'll be minus twenty, Your Highness."

Harry: "What? What for?"

Daphne, guessing: "Irreverence?"

Harry, to Daphne: "Blaise doesn't know the meaning of the word. Last night Theo got fifteen points just for telling Blaise his shirt looked like it belonged on an erotic kangaroo."

Blaise, with a shrug: "He wasn't wrong."

Daphne, with a scoff: "Yes, but was he right?"

Pansy: "Probably a question of irrelevance, then."

Blaise: "Poor wordplay is what it is."

Harry, heaving a great sigh: "Some of us have off days, you know."

Pansy, sniffing: "We know."

"So who's winning, then?" Hermione asked, daintily raising a strip of bacon to her mouth.

Daphne, Pansy, and Harry, in unison: "Me."

Collectively: "What? No, you aren't."

In perfect harmony: "YOU WISH."

"You're all deeply in the negative, actually," Blaise said, opting to confer with his imaginary notepad, "which I suppose means—" He glanced up, locking eyes with Hermione and arching a brow. "The new Tracey Davis is winning by default."

"Is she?" Harry asked, snaking his arm around the back of Hermione's chair and nudging her shoulder.

Jasmine, she determined unwillingly. Mostly his scent was comprised of woodsy, masculine things, but beneath it there was a hint of jasmine. It was a familiar smell; comforting, in a way, despite the strangeness of his proximity.

"Can you still win the throne by right of conquest, do you think?" Hermione posed in reply, ignoring her ill-timed observation in favor of winning over the expectant nobles. "Asking for a friend, obviously."

"Generally frowned upon since World War II," Daphne assured her, "but I doubt the United Nations is going to step in without a formal invitation to the conflict. You know how terribly entitled supranationalism can be."

"Yes, and furthermore, I like where your head's at," Blaise said, leveling a piece of bacon at Hermione. "Tentative points. I like a woman who keeps an eye to conquest."

From Pansy, brusquely, before Harry could speak: "Do not."

From Harry: nothing, though his smirk was hardly reassuring.

"Well," Hermione replied, thoughtfully finishing a swallow of coffee, "I have to say, for me the game is very simple. If I find myself losing, I'll simply declare my independence from its sovereignty."

There was a brief silence as the others looked to Blaise, waiting.

"On behalf of king and country," he proclaimed gravely, tutting his disapproval at Hermione, "I'm afraid I must detract twenty points."

"Ah, balls, now you're down here with the rest of us," Harry lamented, and as Hermione caught Daphne's laughing eye across the table, she thought maybe he was right.

Maybe in some respect, she was—or at least, would be—one of them.

The night before term started, they had something of a party in the common room. Nothing too outlandish, Daphne assured Hermione, but still—something to occupy them upon their return, at least while it was still quiet.

A few more people had moved back into the dorms (a girl named Millicent, and a pair of thick-shouldered boys referred to as the unit of 'Crabbe and Goyle') but it was obvious they weren't considered part of the core group. Harry had returned to London by then, bidding Hermione farewell with a jubilant kiss on her hand, but Pansy, Daphne, Blaise, and Theo were their usual charming (or in Pansy's case, dismissively abrasive) selves, tucked into a corner and musing about oddities like a quick-tongued nineties sitcom. That they had permitted Hermione into their little circle was immensely flattering; she suspected she owed the immediate welcome to Daphne, who was undeniably beloved (and also masterful at a Pimm's cup). It made Hermione grateful to Daphne in ways she felt she couldn't possibly put into words—which was probably why she hated keeping the secret of what she'd done.

"Where's Draco?" Theo asked, as Hermione fought not to choke on her gin. "I thought he was planning to be here tonight."

"He told me he was," Daphne said with a delicate frown. "Can't imagine what's keeping him. He has class in the morning, doesn't he?"

"Yes," Pansy confirmed crisply, sparing Hermione a warning glare (as if she'd needed one) reminding her to silence. "And I'm sure he'll be here by then. He has—"

"Duties, yes, yes, we know," Theo groaned. "We also know him, Pans."

"Not all of us," Pansy murmured into her Pimm's cup, as Daphne rolled her eyes.

"Well, he sounded like he wanted to be here," Daphne said a sigh, "so maybe he's just, I don't know. Running late."

Just as she said it, the ancient common room door burst open, revealing Draco's silvery head in the frame. He was fumbling with the keys, hastily freeing them from the latch while switching his cell phone from one ear to the other.

"—yes, I know, I've only just arrived—may I have a moment to breathe, please? Hold on a second, service is terrible down here and—Daph," he mouthed to her, gesturing with an apologetic frown, "I can't again tonight. So sorry."

In response, Daphne pantomimed a frown, mouthing the words next time.

Draco nodded, his gaze traveling briefly to land on Hermione's face. She smiled at him, offering a small wave, but by the time she'd reacted he had already aimed himself up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Right, yes, I know, I'm sorry," he said in a low tone into his phone, "I've had that on the books for months, I just didn't realize it was going to coincide with the start of classes—"

"Well," Pansy remarked near Hermione's ear, sounding horrifyingly pleased. "Hope you didn't have your hopes up."

Hermione stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, and pointedly stepped closer to Daphne, who seemed to have caught traces of their interaction.

"Everything okay?" Daphne said quietly.

He barely looked at me, Hermione didn't say, because of course she was only the naive American, wasn't she? She didn't actually belong here. She was a temporary visitor, and all of them would forget her in a blink the moment she was gone—as easily replaced as the mysterious Tracey Davis.

"Everything's fine," Hermione told her, less firmly than she would have wanted to, and Daphne reached out, giving her hand a squeeze. "More than, I promise. This is delicious," she added, gesturing to her glass, though Daphne seemed to see through her overly ambitious attempt at reassurance.

"Don't worry, you'll settle in soon," Daphne said.

Maybe it's best if I don't, Hermione thought. Better I not get attached and start missing aristocratic friend groups and kisses I should never have had in the first place.

But was it really the kiss she was missing? For a moment she'd seen a glimpse of a person—a man, not a prince—who had let her in somewhere close, somewhere vulnerable. Surely she hadn't imagined that, had she? But what if none of it was real, and that was all just something he said? Some speech that worked on every silly girl? She was hardly that wide-eyed and dupable.

It couldn't have been nothing, could it?

Still—"Oh, I'm sure," was what she offered instead. All things considered, lies required significantly less explanation.

"So, are you excited for school?" her mother had asked over Skype (at midnight, as they hadn't quite gotten the time difference right), and at the time, Hermione had found it supremely easy to say yes.

"I did come here for the academics," Hermione reminded her mother, and Helen laughed.

"Of course you did, honey," she said, "but still, it's got to be more fun going to class in a castle, right?"

And it was. Hermione had woken up that morning to begin one of her favorite traditions: the first day of school. The new pens, the fresh notepads, the textbooks that still smelled like textbooks and not like late nights of spilled coffee and institutional library air—it was the sensation of a fresh start, and Hermione was in a positively chipper mood by the time she and Daphne parted ways after stumbling to the Great Hall for coffee that morning, bidding each other luck before heading to their respective classes.

The first class of the day was a literature course exploring confessionary narratives, which was highly niche in a way Hermione found appealing to her more historically-minded interests. She'd annotated the syllabus, making some cursory notes on each of the works they'd be studying, and had already begun the first reading assignment by the time she walked in the door fifteen minutes early. School was easy; school she was good at, and books she understood. She'd been warned that the Hogwarts curriculum was rigorous, but she doubted it would be any more challenging than Stanford. All in all, she hadn't been particularly worried.

Until she realized Draco was in her class.

He was impossible to miss; not because of his hair or face or clothes, all of which were already becoming familiar to Hermione, but because of the number of heads that turned towards him as people settled, gaping, into their seats. For a moment Hermione sat up straighter, thinking she might beckon him to sit in the vacant spot beside her, but he merely ducked his head and turned into the opposite aisle in the room, taking a seat somewhere behind her.

Hermione swallowed, trying to manage something other than bemused disappointment as someone barreled in to take the seat beside her.

"Thank god," Theo sighed, falling into the seat on her right. "I thought I was going to have to sit through this rubbish alone, and frankly, this is the sort of hellscape I like to have company in. Just to be sure other people are suffering equally," he assured her, and she stifled a laugh.

"Draco's right there," Hermione told him, gesturing with a pen behind her as Theo turned with a furrowed look of surprise, spotting him in one of the other rows. "Though I appreciate you joining me, in any case. I certainly don't know anyone else."

"Well, why didn't he sit with you?" Theo asked, frowning to himself. "Odd. Though I suppose he does sort of come and go," he remarked, waving a hand and digging into his messenger bag for the syllabus and his laptop. "Doesn't always make it to every lecture, so I doubt he bothers finding any sort of permanent seat."

"Oh?" Hermione asked, feigning disinterest.

"I'm sure he's not avoiding you," Theo said, and paused. "That's not what you were thinking, was it? Because I'm quite sure it's not true."

Actually, it had been exactly what she was thinking, but by then, class was starting, and any thoughts of Draco would have to wait. The professor, a rotund and pompous man called Horace Slughorn, was insisting they admire a rare piece of art a previous student had sent him from some sort of archaeological dig, and Hermione was grateful to put the Draco issue to bed. So what if they weren't going to see much of each other? She'd gone to Hogwarts to go to Hogwarts, so this, right now, was precisely what she'd come for.

"We're going to start with Saint Augustine," Slughorn was saying jovially (by then, Hermione half expected him to claim the historical figure as some sort of close personal friend), "and move right along to Margery Kempe—"

"Oh, balls," Theo muttered. "Not that mystical trollop again."

Hermione stifled a laugh, turning her head to obscure it with a cough, and in the same motion, she caught a glimpse of Draco's silhouette again, watching him bend pensively over his notes.

He was focused, she reminded herself, and exhaled, intent on doing the same.

She could focus, too.

Even if it was on a mystical trollop.

Within a few days, Hermione had nearly forgotten all about Draco, who seemed to come and go without pause, only ever bustling in on his phone before disappearing behind the door of his room. To everyone else, this appeared to be normal behavior. Eventually, Hermione came to realize Draco's presence in their friend group was more often a topic of discussion than any real thing. He was almost mythical—every now and then someone would make some sort of reference to something Draco liked, or had liked, as if he were some sort of ghost—and after a while, she stopped wondering where he was. Instead, she got comfortable with a routine, studying with Daphne, Theo, and Pansy (sometimes Blaise, when he could deign to pay attention) in the common room or the library after class.

Inevitably, though, the weekend came around again, and while Hermione might have liked another quiet night joking from time to time over their respective assignments, it was obvious the others were going vaguely stir-crazy from being cooped up with their books.

"Hog's Head?" Daphne asked, nudging Theo as they walked into the Slytherin dorm.

"Why are you asking me?" Theo retorted. "Aren't you seeing Michael Corner these days? Or is pen-lending always such a sensual exchange?"

Hermione and Blaise exchanged a furtive glance. "Minus ten points for blatant jealousy," he murmured to her, and she arched a brow.

"Only ten?" she asked.

"I'd say more, but I like to give Theo the benefit of the doubt," Blaise assured her, sniffing. "It's all that aristocratic inbreeding floating around in his blood. Clouds his better judgment."

"—hardly think you have any right to stalk me," Daphne was saying, having rounded on Theo by then. "What do you mean sensual? He needed a pen, Theodore, and considering I'm not a prolifically underachieving peon, I had one, so one thing led to another—"

"Oh please," Theo scoffed. "Has he never heard of computers? And besides, I have never once been in possession of any writing implements, and yet when have you ever lent me one?"

"I'm trying to teach you to be more responsible," Daphne informed him irritably. "It's like Pavlov's dogs. I'm conditioning you."

"First of all, I'm not a dog," Theo said. "I'm completely incapable of learning new tricks—and second of all, stop trying to change me, Greengrass," he added brusquely, lifting his chin to glare down at her. "My personality's already fully formed!"

"Yes, you're right, you're totally beyond hope," Daphne snapped. "I don't know why I bother. So are you coming to the Hog's Head or not?"

"Of course!" Theo gritted furiously.

"Then I'll see you tonight," Daphne retorted, storming up the stairs as Hermione passed Blaise an amiable, what-can-you-do sort of shrug, following after her.

"YOU CERTAINLY WILL," Theo shouted back much too late, pivoting sharply in the opposite direction. "Come on, Blaise, she's impossible—"

"Minus five points," Blaise drawled, loping after him with a final eye-roll in Hermione's direction, "for ill-conceived antagonism and total, unseverable delusion."

"Well, I've done worse," Hermione heard Theo mutter in reply as she turned into the corridor after Daphne, realizing the other girl was already speaking to someone else.

"Oh, no," Daphne was saying, as Hermione realized with a jolt she was talking to Draco. "Really? I'm so sorry, Draco. I know Astoria can be quite a handful—"

"I just don't think she quite understands the pressure I'm under, and—oh, hello," he said, blinking as Hermione materialized in the corridor. "Hi, I, um. How are you?" he asked, running a hand through his hair.

In a total rarity, Hermione realized that for once, she was the less awkward party. "I'm doing well," she assured him, sparing a smile. "Everything okay?"

"Oh, it's just—" His gaze cut away, drifting somewhere near his shoes. "Just a very busy week," he mumbled, "and I'm afraid I've fallen rather behind."

"Oh, it'll be okay," Daphne said. "If you want, I can talk to Astoria for you. See if maybe I can't convince her to be less…" She trailed off, grimacing. "Insistent?"

"No, no, I can take care of it myself," Draco assured her. "I just—I have a paper due Monday, and I have to be back at Malfoy Manor with the Prince of Darkness for a press thing this weekend—one of those centenary things. Honestly, things are always turning one hundred—"

"The Slughorn paper?" Hermione asked, as Draco looked up, startled. "Is that the one you're talking about?"

"Yes, actually," he said slowly. "Have you finished yours?"

In fact, it was the assignment she'd been hoping to work on that evening prior to Daphne suggesting they all go to the Hog's Head. She'd started it, of course, but knew perfectly well it could use another layer of polish.

"Well, no, but I was going t-"

"Hermione," Daphne interrupted, glancing between Draco and Hermione with a curiously indeterminable expression on her face, "weren't you just saying you were going to work on that tonight?"

"Oh, well, I'd considered it," Hermione admitted. "But if you were planning t-"

"Were you really?" Draco asked, his entire countenance brightening. "You wouldn't want to stay back and work on it with me, would you? I do hate studying alone," he said with a grimace, as Daphne gave him a suspiciously sympathetic nod. "Though, on a Friday night, my god, how positively banal—"

"Oh," Hermione said, hesitating. "Well—"

"You were just telling me you'd feel so much better if you got it done early—right, Hermione?" Daphne asked, turning to flash Hermione a very pointed glance.

"Er, well, yes—" What are you doing? Hermione mouthed at her the moment Draco's attention shifted elsewhere.

What does it look like? Daphne replied emphatically, jerking her head to Draco, who was shuffling through his pockets for his phone.

"Ah, yes, wonderful, she's already calling for the fourteenth time—hello, Astoria?" he said into his phone, flashing Hermione and Daphne a grimace. "Yes, right, I did check my schedule, actually, and I'm rather not free tonight—please," he whispered, covering the mouthpiece of his phone to flash Hermione a pleading glance. "Please, would you mind? I'm sure it's not at all what you want to do tonight, but—"

"It's no problem," Hermione assured him. "I'm happy to help."

He gave her a beatific smile of relief. "Excellent, I'll come fetch you tonight, then, and—yes, Astoria, I'm still here," he said into the phone, giving Daphne's shoulder a nudge in gratitude before heading back to his room. "No, it's for class, Astoria. You know, the thing I do from time to time that you find such a terrible inconvenience? Yes, that—"

"What was that?" Hermione demanded, rounding on Daphne, who gave her an innocent smile.

"What? You said you wanted to work on your paper," Daphne reminded her, turning towards their door. "Didn't you?"

"I don't like him," Hermione told her, and amended the statement hastily. "I mean, I wasn't—I just meant—"

"Hm? Oh, of course not," Daphne replied with an idle sing-song, her grin widening mercilessly as she opened the door, beckoning Hermione inside. "I just thought, you know, what better way to aid the crown than to identify resources to ensure my future king's academic success?"

"He's dating your sister," Hermione grumbled, falling down on her bed as Daphne perched next to her, giving her shoulder a reassuring pat.

"Yes, and I love my sister," Daphne said firmly, "but the last thing that girl needs is a crown, much less access to the royal treasury. And Draco's my friend," she added, slightly more sincere that time, "so I can say with certainty they are not a very good match, even if it were in any way real."

"I think his father disagrees," Hermione said, and then sat up, frowning. "And anyway, how did you even know—"

"That you like him?" Daphne prompted. "I don't, of course. As I said, this is entirely a question of loyal service to my country. And nevermind what Prince Lucifer thinks," she added, shrugging. "It's just one evening of studying, isn't it? Hardly a matter for the Prince of Wales. Or darkness."

"That's true," Hermione said, realizing she was getting ahead of herself. "We're just going to be studying, that's all."

"Right," Daphne said, sparing her another blissful smile. "Of course. What salacious thing has ever happened in the Hogwarts library, after all?" she added insincerely, with an air of someone who knew better, and Hermione arched a brow.

"Michael Corner, really?" she prompted, as Daphne made a face that wasn't entirely demure. "You do realize you're positively torturing Theo, don't you?"

"Well, if he's going to be difficult, he deserves it," Daphne said curtly. "And anyway, Theo's not—" She hesitated. "He's just… it's just a joke that got out of hand, that's all," she finished, before turning pointedly to her closet, rifling through her dresses. "It's not a real thing."

"Mm," Hermione permitted doubtfully, as Daphne pulled out an emerald green dress and eyed it. "He'll like that," she said, and Daphne whirled around, glaring at her. "What? Two can play this game," she pointed out.

"You," Daphne said, brandishing a finger at her, "had better wear nice knickers tonight. No excuses."

"Sounds extremely ambitious," Hermione sighed, rising to her feet and nudging Daphne aside. "Wear the green one," she suggested, "with…" She bent down, finding a pair of Daphne's strappy pumps. "These."

Daphne nodded approvingly, picking up the shoes and tossing them near the bed.

"Excellent choice. And for the record, ambition will get you everywhere," Daphne murmured, before letting out a melodic laugh, delighting in Hermione's heavy sigh.

Draco rapped on her door just after Daphne and the others had trooped out, Pansy flashing Hermione a warning grimace before disappearing in a contemptuous whirl of Burberry. Draco's knock was, oddly, just like him; formal, neat, and with a little lift at the end, as if there might have been something hopeful and sincere lounging on the other side.

"Hi," Hermione said, pulling the door open with a whirl. Daphne had insisted on her removing her customary ponytail, but outside of that unnecessary attempt at vanity, she'd gone with a pair of yoga pants and a trusty oversized crewneck for the evening.

Draco, meanwhile, was wearing a pair of trousers and a sweater that must have been a supremely buttery cashmere—not that Hermione intended to find out. "Hi," he agreed, gesturing into the hallway. "M'lady," he offered, sparing her a grin. "I was thinking the library."

Hermione shoved aside Daphne's commentary. "Sure," she agreed, stepping into the corridor to fall into step with him.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Most of the castle had been emptied of students, all of them going out to the taverns in Hogsmeade or else making their way to Edinburgh or somewhere more exciting for the weekend. Occasionally, Hermione caught people taking notice of her (or more accurately, her companion), but she was content to walk in silence until Draco cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," he said in a low voice. "I know I should have said so sooner, but it's rather difficult to get you alone."

"I—why should you be sorry?" Hermione asked, treading delicately. "We're friends, Draco. Nothing to apologize for."

"True, but I haven't exactly been a good friend to you, have I?" Draco said with a grimace. "You're new here and I'm not, and I've done nothing to make it easier for you. I'd have sat with you in class," he added hastily, brow furrowing as he spoke, "but you never know who's talking to the press, and really, the last thing you need is to become the subject of excessive scrutiny—and I've been wanting to talk to you outside of class, but when I haven't been bouncing back and forth between here and Malfoy Manor, you've been having such fun with Daphne and the others and I didn't want to interrupt, and really, my father is just—"

"Draco," Hermione exhaled, pausing to face him. "Really. It's fine."

And it was. In an instant, the heaviness of wondering what his absence had been about lifted from her shoulders, and she barely remembered why she'd ever had any doubts. Still, it was a very good example of what he (and Pansy) had always said, wasn't it? He was a working royal. He didn't have time for romance, and he was right, really, that she didn't either. After all, he had a point—she had plenty to occupy her time. She had the very great benefit of a normal, happy life, which was something he must have longed for.

"We're friends," she told him, conjuring what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "We'll be friends whether you sit with me in lectures or not."

He nodded, looking relieved. "Still, I can't thank you enough for helping me," he said, gesturing to where his laptop and notes were tucked under one arm. "I like to think I'm not a total idiot, but it can be somewhat challenging during weeks like this one. My work tends to suffer when my attention is split between public appearances and schoolwork."

"I doubt Slughorn's going to give you any less than an A star," Hermione told him, and he made a face.

"Yes, but that's the trouble, isn't it? I'd like to think I've earned things, but I never really know, do I? Even if something is earned, people still assume it's been given to me," he said, deflating slightly. "Still, I'd hate to give up trying."

Hermione blinked. "That's…" she began, and paused. "Draco, that's very admirable of you," she managed, and he looked up, frowning.

"Really? Because it feels positively daft," he muttered, "or at least a bit ungrateful."

"Why?" she insisted. "Plenty of people would be content with half-assing everything if they thought they could get away with it. You have every reason in the world not to care whether something's earned, and you do. It's nice," she said, as he gave her a sheepish look of gratitude. "I think it says a lot about you."

The corners of his mouth quirked, supporting the promise of a smile.

"You're nice to me," he noted. "You don't have to be, you know."

"Well, I'm sure there'll be plenty of opportunities to be a dick," Hermione assured him. "I sort of have high standards. This paper's going to be excellent," she said firmly, "or I'm not letting you go to bed."

He grinned, gesturing for her to continue through the library doors. "Perfect," he ruled as she slipped inside, the two of them making their way to the tables near the stacks where they'd be successfully out of sight from prying students.

To her surprise, Draco was a remarkably good study partner. He was mostly very focused (unlike Theo, who could be counted on to find absurd things on the internet at regular half-hour intervals that would set them all off track) and only interrupted her editing to pose interesting questions that ended up improving her initial analyses of the text. He had a unique way of viewing the world; not only as a prince, but as a Brit. His instinctual responses to autonomy of the self and morality were fascinatingly foreign, and before she knew it, she and Draco had been discussing Augustine's confessions until close to midnight.

"I can't believe you've let me go on about inner turmoil for half an hour," Draco said, rubbing his eyes with a grimace. "Haven't I bored you to tears yet?"

"You listened to me talk about religion for forty-five minutes," she reminded him, giving his shoulder a nudge. "How quickly you forget."

"Yes, but that's interesting," he said. "You're interesting. I'm—"

"Thoughtful. And thorough," Hermione said, and smiled. "And deeply in turmoil."

He made a face. "God, don't tell anyone. Can you imagine? 'Melancholy Prince Contemplates Meaning of Life at Disturbing Length, Murders Woman with Relentless Moaning'—"

"You give yourself entirely too much credit," Hermione told him. "Murder? Hardly. A coma, maybe."

"You're too kind," he said, giving her a penitent bow, and she struggled not to giggle at the expression of total solemnity on his face.

"Ah, I'm starting to come a little unglued, I think," she said, struggling to drag her attention back to her laptop. "Come on, back to work. Have to finish the draft at least before I let you go."

"By all means, keep me all night," Draco told her. "It's a pleasure to be doing something that isn't simply running through my daily schedule in my head while wondering how I'm going to fit it all in."

"Don't you have to leave in the morning?" she asked him.

"Yes," he said with a shrug, "but who cares?"

"Pansy will be deeply upset if you have dark shadows under your eyes in any of your pictures," Hermione noted. "You know how dearly she cares about your reputation."

"True, and Harry's always making me look bad whenever he's standing next to me. He's so unrepentantly cheerful," Draco lamented grumpily. "He always looks so bloody rested. It's the knavery in his genes, I imagine. Scamps all over his bloodline."

That time, Hermione's giggle was unavoidable. Draco gave a weakly suppressed chuckle as well, eventually succumbing to a laugh, and then both of them dissolved in helpless fits of howling as delirium seemed to gradually take hold.

"I—honestly," Draco exhaled between peals of unsuccessfully withheld laughter, "have not laughed this hard in such a dreadful amount of time. I think I've gone a bit mental, really."

"'Crazed American Reduces Prince to Madness,'" Hermione suggested.

"'Prince Who is Only Trying to Live His Life Chokes to Death, Blames Saint Augustine.'"

"'Shameless Yankee Tears Apart British Monarchy, Blithely Destroys Insomniatic Royal.'"

"'Corpse-Resembling Prince Looks Terrible in Public, Blames Liberal Californian, Alludes Problematically to Catholicism in Tasteless Remark.'"

"'Liberal Californian Responsible for Collapse of the Western Economy, Brazenly Claims 'Wait, he's a Prince'?'"

Draco collapsed in a fit of laughter, doubled over in his seat, and Hermione wiped at the moisture pooling in the corner of her eyes. "Stop, it's—if you don't stop, I won't stop—"

"Oh, my stomach hurts," Draco managed, heaving a breath and then bursting into laughter again. "My god, what have you done?"

"What have I done?" Hermione echoed, fanning herself as she struggled to catch her breath. "I wasn't doing anything, you started this—"

He looked up at her from where he'd folded over in his seat, eyes bright and bold and unapologetically on hers.

"You're right," he said simply, curling a hand around his mouth and tugging breathlessly at the edges of his smile. "It's my fault."

She blinked.

Suddenly, it wasn't quite so funny.

"What?" she asked hoarsely, swallowing.

"It's my fault," he said. "I like you too much." He paused. "I like you."

"Draco," she exhaled, "I—"

"No, no, it's—" He shook his head. "I'm sorry. We're friends, I know. It's best, really, but I—" He trailed off, running a hand through his hair and smiling guiltily at her. "I'm not exaggerating; you do know that, right? When I say I haven't laughed like this in ages. I haven't laughed," he exhaled sharply, "in ages, and you make me laugh. You make me laugh, and I like you."

He shook his head, returning to the screen of his laptop. "Honestly, every time I speak, I swear, you just reduce me to the saddest possible version of myself. Truly, I'm supposed to be some sort of worldly man of talents and instead I just say the stupidest th-"

He broke off with a muffled gasp of surprise as she leaned forward, taking hold of his chin and turning him towards her. She pressed her lips to his and after a moment of shock, he returned her kiss with vigor, with fury, with a sense of why didn't I think of this sooner? that was mixed with a sigh of relief. He shot forward to slide one hand around her waist, pulling her half into his lap, and she didn't resist, slipping one hand around the back of his neck and locking him in place; keeping him there. It was more breathless than the first time; more hasty, less artful; but the sensation of being disastrously ignited was still undeniably present, tapping up the entirety of her spine with a desperate, defiant shiver.

His arms were steady around her, holding her close, and for a moment, she let her fingers wander over the shapes of him; traced the bones at the back of his neck down to his shoulders, grazing lightly along his clavicle. His breath quickened, pulse leaping beneath her touch, and she drew her hand down the length of his chest, hovering lightly to rest her palm flat against his sternum. She paused there for a moment, feeling him take a breath, and then his hand rose from where it had been possessively curled around her hip, fingertips brushing with an inconceivable gentleness over hers. She drew back, swallowing hard, and as his eyes floated open, fixing again on hers, she blinked, unsure how to explain what had just happened.

"Sorry," she managed, her voice half a whisper.

"Why?" he asked hoarsely, brushing his thumb carefully over her lips. "I should have done it."

"But—" She cleared her throat. "We should be studying."

Reality sank down on her like a wave, numbing her head to toe before flooding through every limb. He was still a prince. She was still only here temporarily. He couldn't even speak to her in public, could he—so what was she doing?

"Right," she exhaled, rising stiffly from his lap and returning to her own chair. "So. Augustine."

Draco blinked, but nodded. "Right," he said, glancing down at his screen and shifting in his seat. "Right, yes. Good shout."

She nodded. "Back to work?"

"Back to work," he promised her, and they turned back to their screens, rigidly facing away from each other.

After a few minutes, though, she glanced up from yet another dangling preposition to find his grey eyes were fixed somewhat longingly on the line of her neck.

"Sorry," he said quickly, looking back down, and she felt her cheeks heat.

"It's fine," she said, and turned back to her laptop, trying to remember what she'd been reading (that's supposed to be 'on,' not 'of,' she recalled, tapping the keys and making the correction, and then unhelpfully, he was looking at me, wasn't he?)

She fought it, but eventually, it happened. After a moment, she felt the unavoidable twitch of a smile.

Ridiculous, isn't it? A common thirst for knowledge, Rita proclaims with thundering certainty, and a devotion to academia which can only be shared by two such focused, determined people.

HA. Sure. I mean yes, maybe there were some academics involved, but as much as that seems a truly serendipitous way to classify a romance, it really seems circumstantial at best. The truth is, Draco and I always had a distracting amount of chemistry. It was what kept us going, really—when we wanted to be together, yes, but also when we didn't. It seemed like there was always something magnetic between us, something unbroken and irrepressible, and it kept us in this constant cycle of drifting apart and inevitably returning, always finding ourselves drawn to each other again.

Even when—especially when—we really didn't want to be.

a/n: Hope you are enjoying! Is this what people want? I don't know, but here it is. A reminder that my latest fairytale collection, Midsummer Night Dreams, is now available (olivieblake dot com), and if you are a Paradox reader, that will update later this week.