Chapter 4: Ghosts

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Royal House of Malfoy

For the past seventy years, King Abraxas has been England's longest reigning monarch, beloved by his own people and by international leaders around the globe. But where Abraxas has long been admired—married to his wife Adelaide for thirty years without so much as a breath of scandal until her death in 1998—Prince Lucius, Draco's father, has had a rather different relationship with the public. Prince Lucius married Lady Narcissa Black when she was only twenty years of age (the Prince himself being nearly ten years her senior) after a very public string of flawed relationships, including one with Lady Bellatrix Black, Narcissa's eldest sister. The subsequent marriage to Narcissa, a popular and highly fashionable young woman, was ostensibly to assure the public their Prince of Wales could be trusted to stabilize the monarchy. Aptly, the wedding was one of the grandest events in recent memory. The marriage, however, would later be plagued by scandal, leading to Narcissa's eventual self-imposed retreat from public life.

While one can only speculate about the role Lucius and Narcissa's marital struggles played in their son Prince Draco's development, it's clear the expectations for his behavior were deeply influenced by the obstacles of his father's younger years, which perhaps explains why his subsequent engagement would be met with both riotous joy and tangible relief. It's been said that upon hearing the news Draco would be marrying Hermione, Lucius threw his arms around his son and wept, declaring Draco the worthy and beloved heir he and Narcissa had so dearly hoped he would be. While there has been some speculation that Lucius and Draco were not particularly close (with some going as far as to say the two 'avoid each other like the plague, only certainly don't print that, that's off the record, but I'm just saying—the two of them are constantly fighting, it's antagonistic to the highest degree—though, again, don't tell a soul I've said it'), it is widely believed that they have come together in their agreement that Hermione Granger is the best thing to have happened to their relationship.

Uh, pause. I was there when Draco told Prince Lucifer we were getting married, and he definitely did throw his arms around Draco—but believe me, there was no weeping. Not at first, anyway, at least by my recollection. Though, to be fair, I don't think I realized Lucius was tackling Draco until they'd both hit the ground, and by then, I was just trying to get out of the way.

But, obviously, that's a story for another time (as is the person who almost certainly gave that outrageous quote about Draco and Lucius), which is fine. I have plenty of Prince of Darkness stories before we even get to that part, and believe me, I wish I could say that was the only one that ended in tears. Or medical attention. The point is, Lucius wasn't happy about me. He still isn't happy about me. I hope it's not too bleak to say he'll never be happy about me, but…

Let's just get to the story, shall we?

October 17, 2010
Hogwarts University

"Don't bother," Hermione murmured as Theo sat down beside her, obviously sparing a questioning glance around the room despite trying (not very hard) to hide the motion. "He isn't back yet."

Which, in fact, was something Hermione would have known even if Slughorn had not announced to the class that 'his very close pupil, the Prince' had requested some of his lectures in advance, which of course Slughorn was 'only too happy to give, though it isn't favoritism, let that be known, I'd do the same for all of you, without doubt,' in a statement that was both irritating and almost certainly false. But, as Slughorn had mentioned it, the rest of the class (minus a predictably tardy Theo) was already fully appraised as to Draco's continued absence.

"Balls," Theo muttered, glancing at his phone. "I still haven't heard from him, either." He paused, drumming his fingers on the desk without even bothering to feign intent to take notes on Slughorn's lecture. "This can't be good."

"You said he typically comes and goes," Hermione pointed out, and Theo grimaced.

"Yes, but usually not without warning," he clarified, "and certainly not with how unpleasant the Prince of Darkness is surely behaving."

"Why on earth would his father be so upset about this?" Hermione asked him. She kept her voice low so as not to disrupt the lecture, though Slughorn was hardly teaching. At the moment, he was telling them all about a vacation home he had once temporarily occupied, which Hermione gathered, vaguely, had belonged to a Greek prince before she'd simply abandoned her attempt to pay attention. "Lucius can't honestly think people believe Draco's some sort of man-whoring slimeball all of a sudden, can he?"

"Well—" Theo hesitated. "It's more that history is repeating itself, I suppose. Which is none of your business," he informed her, ambushing her with a finger of warning. "Don't ask me any more questions unless you want Pansy to spontaneously appear and curse us both into oblivion."

"Is this about Draco's mother, then?" Hermione asked knowingly, raising a brow, and Theo gave a brief huff of a sigh.

"Did I not just say—"

"How did you meet Draco, by the way?" Hermione pressed, knowing Theo well enough by now to be comfortably assured persistence was key. If she asked enough questions, he gradually caved; that, or she'd just get Daphne to ask him, and that would expedite the process. "You grew up with him, right?"

"My father is friends with King Abraxas," Theo supplied with a nod. "They were schoolmates at Eton."

"Your father?" Hermione echoed, surprised. "But King Abraxas is—"

"Old as the hills," Theo confirmed, "as is my father. Well, more aptly, my father is perhaps a few years younger than the hills, but the general concept stands. My mother was considerably younger," he clarified with a subsequent gesture to himself, "hence the genetically reasonable progeny you see before you, not to boast."

Hermione stifled a laugh, glancing up to make sure Slughorn was still droning on about his wealthy patrons (which he was). "So, you were—"

"A built-in chum for the young, sheltered royal," confirmed Theo. "Practically a brother," he recited airily, "and one probably selected from among dozens of far more eligible noble sons, on the basis of there being no conceivable danger he might overshadow the Prince's accomplishments."

"Ouch," Hermione said, wincing. "Sounds like Rita Skeeter's work."

"Right on the first try," Theo said, tapping his nose. "Were Blaise here, he would award you twenty points for your keen ear."

"He probably would have left the conversation by now, actually," Hermione disagreed, which Blaise had definitely done many times before, "but thank you, I appreciate it. What problem does she have with you?"

"Only that I'm criminally unremarkable," Theo replied, "which I imagine is her most punishable crime. She's called me, on several occasions: an unrepentant loner, a weedy sidekick, 'the saddest of Draco's bad lads,'—"

"What?" Hermione demanded, abruptly furious on his behalf. "What on earth does that mean?"

"Oh, the Bad Lads," Theo joked. "You haven't heard of us?"

"Uh," Hermione said, and he chuckled.

"It's mostly me, Blaise, and Harry," he said, "so, actually, congratulations. You're rather intimately familiar. Harry is the wild one," he clarified, "Blaise is the cheeky one, and I'm the sad one. We were all at Eton together, and, you know…" He flapped a hand disinterestedly. "In all honesty, yes, the three of us did misbehave from time to time. But better we were seen misbehaving than let Draco take on all the scrutiny himself."

"I—" Hermione paused, recalling Harry and Theo's practiced charade of drunkenness for the benefit of the cameras the last time they'd been out; clearly, they were accustomed to covering for Draco, and did so without hesitation. "But none of that is true," Hermione said uncertainly, frowning a bit. "You sacrificed your own reputation for his because, what—because he's the Prince?"

To that, Theo fixed her with a long, discerning stare.

"Because he's Draco," he corrected her, his voice fiercely low. "Prince or not, I'd do whatever he needed, whether he asked for it or not. In fact, he'd never ask," he clarified firmly, "and that's precisely why I have no problem doing it. He was my friend my entire life when he didn't have to be; when he could have been friends with anyone. Rita Skeeter isn't the only person who finds me underwhelming, but Draco never once put me aside." He paused, and finished, "Comparatively, then, my reputation is unimportant."

Theo looked away, staring into nothing, and a very strange thought occurred to Hermione.

"Theo," she said, "you didn't actually need to go to university, did you?"

He glanced at her. "Hm?"

"You didn't need to go," Hermione noted, tapping her pen against her mouth. "You certainly didn't need to go to the same school Draco went to, did you?"

"Mm," he said impassively, and she felt a sudden rush of warmth on his behalf.

"Oh, Theo," she crowed, and he rolled his eyes. "You're not the sad one. You're the sweet one, aren't you?"

He grimaced. "Please," he said, sounding pained, "do not tell people that. It will crush me. Blaise will take all of my hard-fought points, and truth be told, I've only just resurfaced from a crippling deficit."

"You're not actually keeping track, are you?" she asked, amused, and he gave her an immensely stern look of disapproval.

"Of course I am," he said. "I have two entire points, and I covet them."

"Noted," Hermione said, stifling a laugh. "But anyway," she determined, shifting in her seat, "you said you haven't heard from Draco?"

He shook his head. "No, and I shudder to think how he's doing isolated with the Prince of Darkness." He paused, toying with something, and then asked offhandedly, "What are you doing this weekend?"

"Nothing," Hermione said, "but also, if you're thinking of something mutinous, count me out. I doubt Draco wants to see me right now."

"False," Theo countered. "I'm sure he'd be immensely relieved to see you."

"Maybe so," Hermione permitted, hoping he was right while also clinging to something resembling rationality (recalling, as she so frequently did, her own lack of messages from Draco), "but still. I'm not going to be part of this."

"Well, come on, you've hardly gotten outside the castle," Theo reminded her disapprovingly. "So, what if you came to stay the weekend at mine? My father and I live out in the country, which is rather lovely this time of year. If you wanted, you could ask Daphne to come," he added slyly, which Hermione suspected had been an integral part of his plot all along. "If, that is, she's not busy with that hapless goon Michael Corner—"

"She's not seeing him anymore," Hermione assured him, once again smothering the urge to laugh at his expression of exuberance at the news. "She never was. Not really."

To Hermione's understanding, Michael was a fling that had kept Daphne occupied for a few weeks until he wanted something more than a few hurried minutes in the restricted section. She had told him very firmly she wasn't interested in a relationship, and evidently they hadn't spoken since. When asked why Daphne hadn't simply admitted this was because she already had feelings for Theo, her reply was "these feelings you allege are entirely of your own invention, Hermione Granger, and furthermore, were they in any way real, they would be totally impossible and probably friendship-ruining, as Theo and I would never work and probably call it off within a week, so you can just take your judgy face off and leave it on the side table until we need it for Pansy"—or something to that effect.

"Oh," said Theo, looking gleefully relieved, "terrible, terrible, what a tragedy, I was rooting for him. But, that being the case, if she's available—"

"I'll ask," Hermione said, shifting uncomfortably, "but if I do, you have to promise me this has nothing to do with Draco. I really, really don't want to just… accost him," she said, grimacing. "If he wanted to see me, he would say so."

"Ah, yes, well," Theo began leisurely, "as I can see that you and your five entire minutes of knowing him have vastly more experience than myself and my mere handful of decades—"

"Two," Hermione said. "Two decades, Theo—"

"—I will gladly acquiesce to your request," he supplied, grinning, "and promise this has nothing to do with Draco. After all, it can't hurt to get out of the dorms for a weekend, can it?"

That was true. Hermione and Daphne were both going a little stir-crazy. Just the other day, Daphne had flung out the idea of abandoning society and escaping to the woods, and Hermione wasn't entirely sure she was joking.

"Where exactly do you live?" she asked Theo, who shrugged.

"Oh, you know," Theo said. "Just a little place out in the country."

"You bloody liar," said Daphne, as they stepped out of Theo's private plane onto the manicured lawn of the Nott family estate. "You call this 'a little place in the country'? Are you mad?"

For her part, Hermione wasn't entirely sure she could speak. She'd thought as they were flying over the landscape that it had been a hallucination. Needless to say, expansive was an understatement. As was grandiose. And impressive.

"That's my house," Theo said, pointing a bit away to something for which 'house' was a terribly inaccurate descriptor. The building (or series of buildings, difficult to tell from a distance) was a beautiful white building atop a flattened hill, featuring a series of rounded turrets and towers around the perimeter that ended with a graceful set of stairs into a lush green series of gardens.

Daphne glanced around, shading her eyes. "And what's that?"

"What's what?" Theo asked, in a tone that made Hermione highly suspicious.

"The castle, Theo," Daphne groaned, sounding exasperated as she gave him a shove, pointing to what was, in fact (rather unquestionably) a castle, the ivy covering its walls visible from where they were standing. "Is that yours, too?"

"Hm? No, of course not," Theo said. "That's a royal residence."

"Oh," Daphne said, as Hermione rounded on him, furious.

"Are you joking?" she demanded. "I told you—"

"What?" Theo replied, swatting her away. "So my house happens to be right next to Prince Lucifer's hellish country castle. What am I supposed to do, move?"

"He's not there, is he?" Hermione asked tentatively, straining to remember what Draco's last public appearance had been. "I mean, last I saw, he was in London with his grandfather, so—"

"So no, he's probably not there," Theo confirmed, gesturing for them to follow as he led them to a waiting towncar. "And I'm not going to make you see him, okay? My goodness," he said, sniffing with displeasure. "It's almost as if I haven't offered a lovely gesture by inviting you ungrateful sirens to my home, only that can't possibly be right—"

"Hush," Daphne said, permitting him to gallantly take her bag while opening the car door for her. "You'll ruin it the more you keep talking."

Theo pantomimed a zipper across his mouth, unable to prevent a smile.

"Charming silence it is," he assured her, winking at Hermione before gesturing her into the car.

Theo's house wasn't any less nice inside, though it had something of a foreboding and antiquated air to it. Most of the art on the walls consisted of broody landscapes of the actual landscape outside the windows, giving the whole house something of a surreal mysticism; as if they'd fallen through the looking glass into yet another looking glass. Hermione, whose entire country of origin was newer than some of the art on the walls, was relieved to see that Daphne, too, was tiptoeing through the house, hardly daring to breathe too long on anything.

"My family's a bit more London posh than country wealthy," she murmured to Hermione in explanation. "I'm absolutely terrified to touch anything."

"Well, if it helps, not everything in the house is priceless," Theo cheerily assured her, startling her with his apparently keen hearing (or, more likely, fixation with every word she said). "Some things are more tawdry than others."

"I assume you're talking about yourself?" Daphne asked him, and he shrugged.

"Well, as my father would say, 'if the shoe fits, just buy it, you idiot, we haven't got all day,'" Theo determined, leading them both up a grand set of stairs before gracefully changing the subject. "By the way, you two don't mind sharing a bedroom for the weekend, do you? Only because I'd hate for one of you to be totally defenseless."

"From?" Daphne asked, arching a brow.

"Oh, I don't know. Being murdered by a vengeful ghost," Theo suggested casually, "of which I imagine there are several dozen floating around. Lots of violent deaths in the family," he added, gesturing idly to a wall lined with portraits. "Hazards of being shitty for so many generations."

"Any beheaded victims we should know about?" Hermione asked him.

"Oh, one or two, but certainly no beheadings which occurred indoors," Theo sniffed. "We're not animals. Severed heads remain outside where they belong."

"Good to know," Hermione murmured, exchanging a muted glance with Daphne. "And did you have plans for us for the weekend, or will it just be high tea all the time?"

"Well, it's that or shoot clay pigeons," Theo said. "Only those two things, though."

In reality, Theo had planned something of a picnic for them, proving that he was not entirely inept at hosting. Since it had cooled off considerably from the heat wave by then, they loaded an ancient bicycle down with blankets and sent Theo ahead with it, leaving Hermione and Daphne to casually follow in his unsteady wake (unsurprisingly, he wasn't a strong cyclist). The Nott Manor gardens made for beautiful and leisurely scenery, so they took their time. From several feet away, they watched Theo gradually topple over from the bicycle before he pulled out a bottle of champagne, popping it open and taking a sip before attempting to wrangle the blankets.

"He's ridiculous," Daphne sighed, rolling her eyes as she watched him. "I don't know why I agreed to come here."

"Nobody believes you, you know," Hermione reminded her. "And just so you know, if anything does happen between you two this weekend, I promise, I won't tell anyone. Especially because it means I'll lose the bet."

"Oh, stop," Daphne groaned, giving Hermione a shove. "First of all, that bet is a sham. Secondly, I wouldn't do anything with him for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that Pansy would win—"

"She would?" Hermione asked, surprised. From afar, Theo had given up on unloading things altogether, having instead falling to the ground with the bottle of champagne in hand. "I would have thought she'd find the whole thing 'trivial and banal,' or whatever she would say about it."

"That sounds right," Daphne agreed, "but no, evidently she's convinced we'll get drunk enough one of these days to find each other more appealing than—I don't know. Being alone, I suppose, but anyw- ah, speak of the devil," she grumbled, digging her phone out of her pocket. "Her ears must have been burning. She says—"

Daphne paused, blinking.

"Nothing," she said, typing something rapid in response and shoving her phone back in her pocket. "Just, um. Telling me she'll win if I sleep with Theo tonight, which obviously we already knew, so—"

"Oh, no you don't," Hermione said, reaching for her phone. "Give me that—"

"Excuse me," Daphne said, swatting at her. "Hands to yourself, please—"

"What is it? What'd she say?"

"Absolutely nothing," Daphne insisted, pulling from Hermione's reach. "And anyway, all of you need to get over this nonsense. Nothing is going to happen between me and Theo, ever—and do you know why?" she asked, fixing Hermione with a stern glare and holding her at arm's length. "Because relationships are complicated, and worse, non-relationships are more complicated. All that 'is this going to happen?' 'Is it going to last?' 'What would we be if we slept together?' All of it, the whole thing, it's exhausting," Daphne determined, finally giving Hermione's still-reaching wrist a loud, final smack. "So, none of that. Theo and I are friends. Possibly even nemeses. Understood?"

"What are you two fussing about?" Theo called out to them, having now used the still-folded picnic blanket as a pillow. It propped his head exactly high enough for him to bring the bottle of champagne to his exceedingly smirky mouth, though not a breath higher. "I've had to start without you."

Daphne gave Hermione a silent look of warning, and she sighed, conceding.

"We noticed," Hermione said, nudging the blanket out from under his head and spreading it out over the grass instead. "What'd you pack?"

"Looks like—" Daphne dug around in the basket. "Half a loaf of bread, some cheese, and…" She trailed off, reaching around. "At least two more bottles of champagne."

"No," Theo corrected, sitting up just long enough to admonish her. "One of them is whisky."

"Oh, good," Hermione said. "And did you bring glasses?"

"Nope," Theo said cheerfully. "Why, did you think I was going to share?"

Daphne and Hermione exchanged a glance.

"You most certainly are," Daphne informed him, snatching the champagne from his hand as Hermione gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs, the two of them high-fiving once they'd wrestled it free. "Now," she said, giving the bottle a sniff, "what are we drinking to?"

"To our supreme youth," Theo said, "and irresponsible choices. And to the slow trudge towards mortality," he added on a whim, "which, as you know, continues unabated."

"To the saddest 'Bad Lad'?" Hermione suggested as an alternative, nudging Theo again as he mumbled his opposition.

"To Theo's ghastly ancestors," Daphne determined for them. "May they head to Theo's room and not ours, should they find themselves in the mood for headless vengeance."

"I accept," Theo said, reaching for another bottle and wrenching it open, "though, for the record, Greengrass, you'd miss me if I were obliterated by familial ghosts."

"Presumptuous of you," Daphne sniffed, taking a long swig from her bottle.

"Well, Hermione would miss me, then, even if you wouldn't," he determined, turning to her. "Wouldn't you?"

"Oh, like crazy," Hermione agreed, reaching for Daphne's bottle, "particularly if meant I wouldn't 'accidentally' be brought to a massive mansion next door to Draco's family castle without even a hint as to where we were going."

"Well, some families have ghosts," Theo said, "and some have castles. It can't be helped. And anyway, I did a nice thing," he reminded her, before glancing at Daphne. "Didn't I? You did say you wanted to get away, and look," he clarified, gesturing around them to the gardens. "Here we are—away, precisely as you desired."

"Don't pretend you did any of this for me," Daphne sighed, giving him a shove.

"Well, so true," Theo agreed, sitting up to rest his arms around both their shoulders. "Why pretend, after all? I took you both here to languor in the countryside—and, of course, to have some help operating the ghostbuster equipment."

"Did you really grow up in that house?" Hermione asked him, glancing at where it cast a shadow from afar. "Seems… not very child-friendly."

"I read a lot of books," Theo said in answer. "It's why I'm so socially maladjusted."

"But you had Draco and Harry, didn't you?" Daphne asked, taking the bottle back from Hermione. "And Pansy?"

"Well, Draco split his time, of course, and Pansy lived in London," Theo said. "I only saw her on holidays and the like. Harry spent most of his time with his godfather, who my father didn't particularly like, so—" He shrugged. "It was me by myself, mostly, until Eton. I mean, there was primary school before that, but I didn't quite get on with anyone." He smiled weakly, not quite looking at either of them. "I suppose nobody ever really wants the weedy one with the morbidity complex for a friend, do they?"

"Theo, that's—" Daphne paused, swallowing her sip of champagne and then letting her hand float down, resting on his arm. "That's not true. And anyway, children are little idiots," she determined, pulling out of his reach the moment his gaze slid down to where they'd touched. "I bet not a single one of them had the proper foresight to realize they could be sitting on a picnic blanket right now, drinking champagne, if they'd just not been little twats about it."

"Why, thank you, Greengrass," Theo said, sweeping her a bow with one arm. "That's almost too kind of you."

"You're right," Daphne replied loftily. "In that case, I retract everything."

Only by then, Daphne was smiling at Theo, and he was smiling back at her, and Hermione was (silently, of course) pretty sure she could stand to lose a bet to Pansy if it meant the two of them could finally admit something in words to match the looks on their faces.

"Share," Daphne commanded after a moment, pointedly nudging Theo, and he handed her the bottle. Their fingers brushed, briefly, and then Theo cleared his throat, ducking his head as Daphne turned back to Hermione. "So, anyway," Daphne said. "Tell us what you were like in school, Hermione."

"Honestly?" Hermione demurred, making a face.

"Yes," Theo agreed, "and do try to put it in terms we understand."

"Ah," Hermione said, and tilted her head, considering it. "In that case, I was a bloody swot," she said in a horrendous imitation of Pansy, leaving the other two to choke on their respective swallows of champagne.

Hermione had almost forgotten about the mysterious text message from Pansy until she wandered back into the study later that night, where Daphne and Theo were having a whisper-shouted argument that seemed to be increasing in urgency. She caught a hasty exchange of the words 'not my fault' and 'of course it's your fault, you did this on purpose, you unsubtle goon' before a particularly violent gesture of silence from Daphne.

At that, Hermione sighed, wandering over to them to take the bottle (as being indoors did not, apparently, necessitate glassware) from Daphne's hand. "So," Hermione began, as Theo and Daphne both glanced guiltily away, "Is this foreplay, or do I need to intercede?"

She took a dainty swig, expecting a laugh of protest from Daphne, which didn't come. Instead, Daphne glanced anxiously at Theo.

"Well?" he asked her, gesturing to Hermione. "Are you going to tell her?"

"Hm? Tell her what?" she replied innocently.

He growled in disapproval. "Greengrass—"

"Nothing," Daphne said again, glaring pointedly at him. "It's nothing. Isn't it?"

"Well, that's what I said," he retorted, "and you apparently disagr-"

"Oh, come on," Hermione cut in, glaring disapprovingly at them. "This is about Pansy's text, isn't it? Was it about Draco?" she demanded, leveling the bottle at Daphne before rounding on Theo. "Because you said—"

"Well, if Greengrass knows something from Pansy that she hasn't shared with you, then it's almost certainly none of my business," Theo cut in, shrugging. "Is it?" he prompted Daphne, exuberantly throwing her under the bus.

"I—" Daphne hesitated. "I definitely don't know anything—"

"Oh, don't wordplay us," Theo scoffed, theatrically replacing an unlit cigar in his mouth.

"Okay, look, it's nothing. It's just that Pansy—" Daphne glanced at Hermione, who gave her a threatening look of you'd better spill it, sister, or I'll take sole custody of this champagne. "Pansy said Draco called her," Daphne exhaled quickly in answer, as Hermione paused, waiting. "He was looking for Theo. Because he hasn't been answering his phone," she shot at him, and he shrugged.

"It's called being a good host," he informed her, though Hermione was pretty sure he'd simply misplaced it. He was nearly impossible to reach via any communication devices, even under the best of circumstances.

"Well?" Hermione demanded. "What did Pansy say?"

"Well, presumably she told him where he was," Daphne said, "though I don't know, because when I asked, she simply replied 'Daphne, my personal communication is none of your business,' and then I was asking Theo if he thought Draco was going to come here, but—"

"But I obviously don't know," Theo supplied for her, "as my phone has clearly been pilfered by poltergeists." He paused, brightening. "Hey, that's a good title, isn't it? Someone write that down—"

"Not the time, Theo," Hermione growled, frustrated. "Should we leave, then?" she asked Daphne, who considered it.

"No," she determined slowly. "Unless… yes?"

"You're both overreacting," Theo assured them, toying with his cigar. "If he comes here—which is a big if," he informed Hermione, "I highly doubt he's going to think you personally hatched a scheme to befriend his childhood best friend, latch on, show up in his house on the precise weekend he was gone, and then be waiting for his appearance like it's some sort of psychotic pseudo-romantic heist—" He paused. "Actually, that does sound like something someone would do to get his attention. Not you," he assured her hastily. "Just, you know. Someone. Someone desperate." Another pause. "Which is, of course, not you. Not that he knows you particularly well, so, maybe, but. You get what I'm saying."

Hermione let out a muted groan. "Theo—"

"You're not helping," Daphne scolded him, swatting at his arm. "Listen, Theodore's idiocy aside—"

But somewhere else in the house, a door had opened. Then shut. Then footsteps echoed through the corridors. Then murmured voices. Daphne, Theo, and Hermione all froze, waiting, and outside the door, someone informed another person that "young master Theodore is inside the study," and then, after another moment, someone else replied in a deeply familiar voice, "no, no, I don't need to be announced, honestly, how many times have I been here?"—

"Oh," Theo said. "Hm."

"Theo," came Draco's breathless voice as he burst through the half-open doors, "you will not believe what my father's been up t-"

He broke off, catching sight of Hermione, who was still holding the bottle of champagne halfway to her mouth. Daphne promptly snatched it from her hand, surreptitiously (or not) obscuring it from sight, and Draco blinked, smoothing a hand through his hair as he looked at her, suddenly a bit dazed.

At that precise moment, it struck Hermione with the vengeance of Theo's beheaded ghosts that she hadn't seen Draco in nearly two weeks. It also struck her that she'd scarcely known him for much longer than that, and yet, somehow, those two weeks without him had been awful. They'd been awful. Because yes, she was enjoying herself at Hogwarts, and yes, it was wonderful that she'd made friends, but still; what she felt for him was not so easily put on hold. It wasn't easily forgotten. In fact, would she have come after him if he'd asked her to? Yes. Yes, absolutely, no questions asked, she knew that now. She'd have followed him anywhere if he'd asked her to.

But he hadn't asked, had he?

He hadn't asked, and that was what mattered.

She swallowed heavily, wishing now she hadn't agreed to come.

"I wasn't expecting to see you," Draco noted slowly, and Hermione briefly wondered if it were possible to suddenly learn the art of magical disappearance.

"I wasn't expecting to see you, either," she replied, relieved her voice sounded almost completely normal (to her, anyway). "This is entirely Theo's fault."

"In my defense," Theo inserted loudly, "I didn't plan this, seeing as one of you was invited and the other has simply barged in, as if he is some sort of entitled monarchical figure—"

"I'm so glad you're here," Draco interrupted, and in three long strides that took all of them by surprise, he'd dropped a small bag to the ground and taken Hermione in his arms, wrapping them so tightly around her she nearly forgot to breathe.

"Statement retracted, I planned all of this," Theo said gleefully, coughing as Daphne's hand shot out to smack him in the abdomen. "Honestly, Greengrass, will you desist?"

"Don't you have literally one iota of restraint, Theodore—"

But Hermione wasn't listening. She was busy revelling in the comforting sensation of being close to Draco, her hands wandering soothingly through his hair as he buried his fingers in her clothes, his lips finding her cheek—softly, reverently, sweetly—and then her ear.

"I wanted so many times to call you," he murmured to her, as she nodded breathlessly in agreement. "It's been a hellish couple of weeks, and all I wanted to do was come back, to talk about absolutely nothing with you—"

She laughed, reduced to joyful relief now, and slid her hand around the back of his neck.

"I thought you'd think I was crazy for just showing up here," she lamented, pulling back to look at him. She was vaguely aware of Daphne and Theo toasting each other with satisfaction as they watched, but she pushed it out of her mind (at least temporarily) and focused on Draco, his grey gaze falling gladly to hers. "I really didn't want to bother you, but—" she exhaled. "But I missed you, too."

He smiled broadly, golden and princely, and Theo cleared his throat, joining them to offer Draco the bottle he held in his hand.

"Libation, my Prince?" Theo asked, and Draco turned to give Theo a long look of utter relief.

"I'd love one," Draco said, and though he released Hermione to greet Theo and Daphne, she still felt a giddy sense of delight fluttering through her stomach.

He was here. He had missed her. He had missed her, and he was happy she'd missed him, and maybe for one weekend—one night, even, or possibly just one hour—this was the one place in the world he could tell her that, and she could tell him, and it didn't matter what any socialite had called him in the newspaper. Maybe for one night, nothing would matter but them, and this, and their best friends, and the joy of having a drink in the middle of a medieval manor house, joking morbidly about blood on the walls.

And then—after an hour or so, once Theo had managed to make an old radio play something that sounded convincingly like pop music—Draco held out his hand for Hermione's, smiling down at her from where she'd rested her head against Daphne's legs.

"Will you dance with me?" he asked her, and for once, she didn't hesitate.

"I thought you'd never ask," she said, and he pulled her up to her feet and into his arms, delivering her to absolute satisfaction.

They all stumbled to their respective bedrooms a little after one, deliriously bidding each other goodnight. By six in the morning, though, Hermione was wide awake. She slid out of her bed, tiptoeing quietly so as not to wake Daphne, and made her way into the corridor, only to find she wasn't alone.

"Oh, hi," Draco said, catching sight of her where he stood near an open window at the end of the hall and walking over. He was rumpled from sleep, wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a white t-shirt, and he was also barefoot, which in that particular context, Hermione found especially endearing. She'd never seen him this undone before, and for a moment, she forgot all about the fact that her hair must have been wild, her face was completely bare, and these were decidedly unsexy pajamas. "Not running off, are you?"

He was smiling. She smiled back.

"Just couldn't sleep. Happens sometimes after I have… a bit too much to drink," she admitted, sparing a guilty wince. "What about you?"

"Same, actually," he said, and glanced around, gesturing to the stairs. "Want to take a walk?"

"Wouldn't that require shoes?" she asked, glancing pointedly at his feet, and he shrugged.

"Come on," he said, "live a little," and then he nudged her down the hall, letting his hands settle on her hips for just a moment—brushing his lips against the back of her neck just briefly—before leading her to the stairs, grabbing a blanket from one of the enormous sitting rooms.

"Here," he said, wrapping it around her as he led her outside. He didn't seem to mind the dewy grass beneath his feet; it seemed this was something he'd done before. She, meanwhile, permitted him to settle her within the blanket's hold; making her comfortable, though she might have been just fine without it.

"Won't you be cold?" she asked him, and he shrugged.

"Not yet," he said, taking a deep breath of morning air. He seemed to be luxuriating in the chill, and she watched him as discreetly as she could, estimating she was learning something important about him by the way he took his little freedoms. He was comfortable here, she noted. Certainly more comfortable than at Hogwarts, where people were always watching. She guessed that maybe Theo had been as much a home for Draco as the other way around, and reminded herself to tell Theo that in her view, his gratitude for Draco's friendship wasn't in any way unrequited.

For a few minutes, they walked in silence. Draco seemed to be thinking about something (which Hermione felt no need to interrupt), but gradually he turned towards her, pausing them both and leading her onto a yawning stretch of grass before falling down onto it.

"Come here," he beckoned, holding his hands out for hers, and she settled herself easily between his legs, leaning back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. "I like to watch the sun come up from here," he offered in explanation, murmuring it in her ear, and she nodded, leaning comfortably against him. "And, if I'm being honest, I was getting a bit cold."

She laughed, warming his arms with her hands. "You could have just said that, you know."

"Fine, fine." She shifted, pulling free of her unnecessary swaddling, and draped the blanket over both of them. "Don't tell anyone," Draco said, "but sadly the privileges of divine right don't extend to temperature control."

"I would hope not," she told him. "Otherwise the amount of grey skies in this country would be positively criminal."

He chuckled. "I don't suppose the sunshine in California is democratic?"

"What, do we vote on it, you mean?" she asked. "Of course. It's in the constitution."

"Mm. You must be desperate to go back, then."

She hesitated, unsure how honest she wanted to be. "Not at this particular moment," she determined eventually, and he nodded into her shoulder, satisfied.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I'm sure you must be tired of hearing that, but I am. If it had been up to me, I'd have stayed at Hogwarts, but unfortunately, very little is up to me."

Hermione opened her mouth, then paused.

"What?" Draco asked, sensing her reticence.

"Nothing," she said, biting her lip. "Nothing."

"Hermione," he sighed. "You know I don't believe you."

"Well, it's just—"

"What?"

"It's just—it is up to you, mostly," she told him. "Nobody actually told you you had to leave, did they?"

She felt him swallow. "Well, it's just—"

"Which is not to say you didn't do the right thing," she hurried to reassure him. "I know bad press is… messy, and I know your image is important to you, so after that article I wasn't exactly surprised, but—"

"Oh. Do you think my absence was about Astoria?" he asked, sounding slightly bemused.

"Wasn't it?"

"Well," he began uncomfortably, and she turned to face him, frowning slightly. "Initially, yes, it was. But it's… a bit more than that. Which I suppose I haven't explained, really, because it's not very interesting."

Hermione arched a brow. "Draco."

"It's—" He broke off, glancing away. "It's just that any press along those particular lines is something of a sore subject, particularly for my father. He has a tendency to overreact when it comes to my behavior."

"But nothing in that article was true," Hermione said, skating over her own questionable role in the events of his breakup in favor of… well, skating over it. "So wouldn't ignoring it work just as well?"

"Ah—" Draco grimaced. "The thing is," he began carefully, "you have to understand, a lot of this comes back to my parents. To my mother, specifically," he clarified, and Hermione braced herself, recalling Pansy's comments on how sensitive the subject was to Draco. "She's…" He hesitated, glancing apprehensively at her before demurring. "It's just a very private matter."

Hermione deflated slightly. "Oh. Right, of course."

"It's just that my mother was once—and continues to be, whenever she leaves the house," Draco told her, hastily rushing to assure her, "a highly public figure. This was a very distressing thing for her," he added slowly, "as she married my father when she was about my age. Quite young, I think, for someone with no experience in how to be constantly picked apart, or being scrutinized for every move she made. When their marriage started to—"

He broke off again, glancing at her—reading her, Hermione guessed, for her reflexive response—she reached out, gently touching his cheek.

"I won't say anything," she promised him, and he exhaled slowly.

"Well, it's just… it's not exactly a secret that my parents' marriage isn't perfect," he admitted, grey eyes darting away. "My mother was supposed to salvage my father's reputation. He'd had some missteps when he was my age, and there were all these rumors about discord in our family, and in an effort to hide what was really going on—" He swallowed, grimacing. "He married my mother very quickly. She was popular, and beautiful. Regal, I suppose. She certainly looked like she was born to be queen."

Hermione nodded. Her own mother had remarked something similar about Princess Narcissa, who had been Helen's fashion icon in the nineties.

"But, of course, my mother was a human being, not just a symbol," Draco said bitterly, "and my father isn't particularly warm. He didn't… help her, much. I've never bothered to know the details, but I know there were some affairs, and…" He trailed off, not quite looking at her. "The more media coverage my mother got, the worse it was. The worse she was. There was something, an incident, and—"

He flinched at the thought of it, whatever it was, and Hermione shifted in his arms, turning to face him.

"It's okay, Draco," she told him. Her curiosity would clearly have to wait for another time. "You don't have to talk about it."

He paused for a moment and then nodded, leaning forward and brushing his lips against her forehead.

"I'll tell you someday," he promised her quietly. "Just not right now, I think. If you don't mind."

Hermione shook her head. "Take your time," she said, though the moment she said it, she wanted to wince, abruptly recalling they had very little of it. "It's your story, Draco. Not mine."

"Well, it's hers, actually, which is the problem," Draco lamented. "I don't feel like I know my mother as well as I'd like to; my father doesn't let me see her much. Or let her see me, I assume, though I have no idea. I can't contact her directly, and she's often away, and—" He exhaled heavily. "The thing is, I remember her," he admitted, and Hermione curled up in his arms again, resting her head against his chest as he spoke. "She was so full of life, you know? She was fun and warm and funny, and everything my father isn't. Now I only see glimpses of her, and my father is usually there watching, and it's just not the same."

"I'm sorry," Hermione murmured, and she was. It was difficult to sit so close to him, to the steady pulse in his chest, and not feel the pain of it herself.

She also had the distinct feeling the words were (unlike a number of his actions) totally unrehearsed. Draco had never practiced this. He had never said these words before, in this order, and they were unfamiliar, heavy on his tongue. Maybe he hadn't had to, Hermione reasoned, because the people close to him—Harry, Pansy, Theo—would have seen it for themselves, but still. He was trusting her, and she did her best to share the weight with him; to assure him she could carry whatever he chose to give her.

"Anyway," Draco exhaled eventually, "all of this is to say that sometimes it's my first instinct to disappear, and normally, I admit, I don't think about what that does to the people around me. It feels rather selfish, now that I think about it," he admitted, resting his chin lightly atop her head, "and I'm sorry about that. That I'm out of practice, you know. At having someone else in my life who might wonder where I am."

"I'm not the only one," Hermione pointed out, shifting to glance up at him. "Pansy was worried. And Theo, too—who I'm beginning to think definitely did plan this, at least to some extent."

She felt the low rumble of Draco's laugh from his throat. "It's a code between Theo and me," he confessed. "He actually hates it here." He paused, and Hermione caught traces of remorse on his face. "He hates it here, always did, so when he had to be at home, I would come to stay with him—and then, at some point, that switched from being something I did for him to being something he did for me." Something tugged warmly at his expression, then; a wistful smile. "When I've been gone too long, Theo comes home, because he knows I'll follow."

Hermione, who didn't quite know what to do with all the information she'd gathered about Theo Nott in the last week, went with an eye roll.

"So it was a mutinous plot," she grumbled, and Draco laughed, pulling her close.

"If it helps, he's never done this before," he assured her, gesturing between them. "He's never brought a girl home." He paused, and then added, "I'm not sure Daphne knows that."

"Those two," Hermione sighed, "are so deeply in denial it's amazing Blaise ever gives them any points."

"You do know I'm winning that game, right?" Draco told her. "Blaise actually does keep track of the points. You're in third."

"What?" Hermione squawked, sitting up. "Third, really? That's—" She frowned. "Why am I so devastated about my placement in an imaginary and vaguely despotic game?"

"I don't know, actually," Draco said, fighting a laugh even as he shrugged. "I mean, third's on the podium, isn't it? And quite frankly, I don't know that you're eligible to be there. I told him he should really lend some consideration to citizenship, but alas, here we are—"

"Who's second?" Hermione demanded furiously, and this time, Draco's laugh wasn't so easily concealed.

"I'm certainly not telling you now," he informed her. "I'm worried you might take some sort of violent action—or worse, toss our precious tea overboard—"

"You'd better tell me," Hermione warned, brandishing a finger at him, "or I'll broadly distribute pamphlets about the death of the monarchy to all of your friends and nobles."

"Okay, and by death, do you mean—"

"Political," Hermione sniffed, "for now."

"For now?" Draco echoed, smiling broadly. "Miss Granger, I do believe that's a threat against the crown."

"Glad you noticed," she informed him. "Means I've delivered it properly."

"You've been spending far too much time with Pansy," Draco informed her, falling backwards onto the grass as Hermione gave him a pointed shove, tumbling with him. "The last thing we need is for you to weaponize her already-authoritarian techniques."

"We as a society, you mean?" Hermione asked, propping herself up on her elbows, and he reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, brushing his thumb over her lips.

"We as a species," he assured her, and lifted his chin, closing the (admittedly, very minimal) distance between them and kissing her gloriously, epically, and with undeniable enjoyment as his arms slid around her ribs, securing her against his chest.

For a moment the kiss was slow, almost penitent, her fingers brushing over the column of his throat; he pulled back, opening his eyes to look at her, and then drew close again, not-quite-kissing, not-quite-touching for a long moment. He took her chin between his fingers, looking at her, until she abruptly remembered she must have looked terrible and nudged his hand away, kissing him again. He laughed, probably seeing her insecurity for what it was, and rolled over her, yanking one leg up and smoothing his hand over it.

"You're going to ruin the blanket," she scolded him, breathless. "Grass stains."

"I'll buy Theo another one," he assured her, kissing her again.

"You can't just buy things, I mean, what if—what if it means something to him—"

"Ah, I don't know. Then I'll knight him," Draco offered solemnly, and she laughed as he wriggled down lower, kissing the exposed skin of her stomach and then drawing her t-shirt up.

"Here?" she asked hazily, and he shrugged.

"How am I ever supposed to learn to be spontaneous if I never practice?" he asked her, and she rolled her eyes, stretching out blissfully as he kissed the curve of her thigh.

"You do know that's not how it works, ri-"

"Oi," came a voice above them, and Hermione jerked upright as Draco fumbled to free himself from the tangle of blankets, both of them finding Theo (who was even more sleep-mussed than Draco, all of his hair standing wildly on end) frantically waving his arms. "I've been looking all over for you—"

"Theodore," Draco said grumpily, "what the—"

"Your father," Daphne said, arriving after Theo and panting, obviously having sprinted from the house. She—unlike any of the others—looked perfectly in place, minus the flush in her cheeks, which Hermione felt certain other women would have willingly paid for. "He's here, Draco, and he's looking for you—"

The blood drained from Draco's face as he scrubbed at it, obviously frustrated.

"Fine. I'll just—" He shifted to stand and then paused, glancing at Theo. "A little help, please?"

"My dad," Theo said instantly. "My dad's bulging, wrinkled bollocks. My father, while wearing a bikini, getting out of a sauna, bollocks on parade. Yoga. My father doing yoga—with, again, sweaty, damp boll-"

"That's enough," Draco said with a wince, rising firmly to his feet. "Please," he added to Hermione, holding out a hand to help her up, "do not mention anything you just heard."

"Really, it's a compliment," Theo told her, offering her a formal salute, and she groaned.

"Let's just go," she suggested, sparing a glance at Draco, whose fingers had already clenched and unclenched in distress. "Are you going to be okay?" she asked him.

But by the time he turned to her, the mask of pleasantry had already been fixed on his face, and he was a Prince of England yet again.

"Everything," Draco said smoothly, "is going to be fine."

Predictably, everything was not fine.

"What were you thinking?" Lucius demanded without preamble, rounding on Draco the moment he entered the door from the gardens. "You can't just go sneaking off without warning! What if the press had followed you here? What were you going to tell them, Draco? If Rita Skeeter finds out you're here—"

"I'm visiting a friend for the weekend," Draco sighed, gesturing to Theo. "I hardly think that's any of her business."

"Sure it isn't," Lucius drawled sarcastically. He was wearing a navy suit, Hermione noted, in a very portrait of formality, and unlike the first time she'd met him—wherein Draco and Lucius were practically mirrors of each other—she could identify now the little differences in demeanor between father and son. They were approximately the same height and build, all things considered, but Draco's features were slightly softer. The nose was less angular. The eyes were wider, warmer in color and shape. The cheeks, more forgiving of his defined jaw, were less sunken in. Most significantly, though, the obvious rage was less pronounced. "Nevermind that all Skeeter has to do is note the two girls also staying in this house—"

"You remember Daphne," Draco cut in loudly, gesturing to her, and Lucius paused, blinking. "Astoria's sister? And Hermione, of course."

Lucius' mouth tightened, and then he fixed his attention on Hermione. "You again," he noted flatly.

"Yes. Me again," she agreed, and though Daphne had bowed her head, Hermione intentionally did not. She could see the lack of deference was noted, and luxuriated privately in Lucius' obvious look of hatred; glad, for a moment, it was directed at someone who wasn't Draco.

"Draco," Lucius said, and jerked his head to the door of Theo's study. "A word?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but Theo touched the inside of her arm, shaking his head in warning.

"Don't make it worse," he warned under his breath, and she swallowed, nodding once as Draco followed his father into the study.

It was moments like this, Hermione would come to learn, that things could so easily be different. The door might have successfully latched, and maybe they wouldn't have heard anything. Maybe they would have even exited the room. Father and son could have argued to their hearts' content, and then Draco might have simply left with Lucius, with no damage to speak of done to either party. But, unfortunately, the door didn't quite shut, and when Theo didn't move, Daphne and Hermione didn't either, standing rigidly on the other side as Lucius began speaking in low tones of fury to his son.

"Which one?" Lucius asked instantly.

"I beg your pardon?" Draco countered, obviously startled, and Lucius scoffed.

"Which one," Lucius repeated. "If it's the Greengrass girl, then fine. You'll have to pose for some pictures making nice with her sister to make it work, but so be it. The press will love it, in fact. You can sell it as a love story and that horrible Skeeter woman will turn it into the romance of the century. But if it's the American—"

"Her name is Hermione," Draco said through gritted teeth, and while it hadn't exactly been an answer, there was a pause that indicated as much.

"No," Lucius said flatly. "Absolutely not. No."

Daphne reached out, lacing her fingers tightly with Hermione's.

"You can't say no," Draco countered irritably. "You don't even know what you're saying no to, Father."

"Do you want this for her?" Lucius demanded. "Do you want what happened to your mother to happen to her?"

"Father, I—"

"She's unprepared, and worse, she's unsuitable. She's an American, Draco, and a commoner, and even if I liked one thing about her—which I do not, considering her timing seems to be more than a little suspicious, and that hair—she would still be entirely inappropriate for you. What exactly do you plan to do, hm? Have your fun and then leave her?"

"Have my fun? You're one to talk—"

"Don't, Draco. Listen to me. We discussed this. You're supposed to know better than this. You assured me you knew better than this—"

"I'm not you, Father, and I'm not making your mistakes! I'm just—"

"You're just what? What, Draco? Do you honestly think I saw your mother and somehow thought it best I intentionally ruin her life?"

"I'm not saying that." Draco's voice was already wearied. "I'm not, I'm just saying, I've done everything you've asked for the past two weeks—"

"But don't you even see how this looks?" Lucius' voice, by contrast, seemed to be growing harder by the minute. "Astoria Greengrass accused you of straying at Hogwarts, and now that you're here with the American, you think people won't put these things together?"

"Father, listen to me. What we talked about—"

"And worse! Do you really think I could permit you spending more time with your mother after this?" Lucius demanded, and Hermione blinked, startled. "Of course not, Draco. You know what she's like! I certainly can't permit her out in public when you're off gallivanting around like this—"

"No," Hermione muttered under her breath, loosening her hand from Daphne's, whose face paled.

"Hermione, I'm not sure you should—"

But she had already crossed the room, yanking open the door to the study and slamming it shut behind her.

"Don't do this," she said to Lucius, who rounded on her without hesitation, expression flickering with fury before settling carefully to cold disinterest. "It's not his fault. He didn't know I was here."

"Not that it matters," Draco said. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides. "Whether I knew she was here or not, I would have wanted to see h-"

Lucius held up a hand, cutting him off. "Don't do what?" he asked Hermione tightly.

Hermione hesitated for a moment—a breath—before grudgingly saying, "Don't keep his mother from him. And don't blame him for this, either," she added fiercely. "He didn't do anything wrong with Astoria, and he's not doing anything wrong now, so—"

"You," Lucius said sharply, "have no idea what you're talking about. Particularly when it comes to my wife."

"Maybe not," Hermione retorted, "but I do know that Dr-"

"You don't know my son, my wife, or anything about my family," Lucius warned, stepping towards her. "You don't have any place in our lives—nor will you, no matter how cleverly you try. You may be desperate to date a prince, Miss Granger," he threatened, with a voice she was certain meant he knew more about her than he'd let on, "but you will not get your hands on my son."

"Father," Draco protested, stepping after him, but Hermione cut him off.

"I can speak for myself," she assured him, still glaring up at his father. "You think I'm desperate? That I have any interest in your titles when all it seems to bring either of you is pain? Do you even know your own son doesn't sleep because he has your mistakes to make up for—"

"Do not confuse your ability to read a headline with any requisite knowledge about my life," Lucius growled. "You may think you're some kind of—"

He broke off, coughing.

"You—clearly you think—"

Lucius staggered slightly, and for a moment, Hermione thought he'd been struck, only she was pretty sure she hadn't moved. "How," Lucius began, and froze, his hand rising to his chest.

Hermione blinked, suddenly paralyzed.

"Draco," Lucius said, and there was a notable difference in the sound of his voice; something pleading now, and the look of barely-concealed anger melted from Draco's face as he leapt forward, steadying his father. "Draco, I can't—I can't breathe, it's—"

"Oh my god," Hermione gasped, hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my god, is he—is it—" She stumbled forward, helping Draco to keep his father upright. "Are you in pain? Draco," she added frantically, glancing at him as beads of sweat began to form on Lucius' forehead, "if it's a heart attack—"

"No," Lucius said firmly, struggling to lock eyes with his son. "Draco, think—"

"THEO," Draco shouted, and the door burst open, Theo promptly entering the room. "Theo, call Dr Pomfrey, tell her to make arrangements—"

Theo nodded hurriedly and ran, Daphne following at his heels.

"He needs a hospital," Hermione protested raggedly, but Draco's mouth was grim.

"We can't just take the Prince of Wales to a hospital," he said, voice clipped, and Hermione flinched, realizing she should have known as much; if she'd been Theo, or Pansy—or anyone besides the American who popped up without warning two months ago—she would have already known as much. "Not until they've prepared a private room and permitted secure entry."

"Right, yes," Hermione said weakly, "of- of course—"

Theo reappeared, nudging Hermione aside and supporting Lucius' left side. "She's on her way," he told Draco, "and in the meantime, we can take him to my father's rooms. They're closest for emergency vehicles."

"Okay," Draco exhaled. "Yes. Okay. We'll go there, just—Hermione," he said abruptly, turning hurriedly to her. "Don't go, okay? Don't go," he said, grey gaze pained. "I need you. Don't leave."

"I won't," she promised him, and Daphne joined her, nodding to Draco in reassurance. "We'll be here. We'll be right here, Draco, I promise."

Draco nodded, and then he and Theo were gone, carefully helping his father through the door.

Hermione sank into the sofa, burying her head in her hands, and Daphne sat down beside her, tentatively resting her cheek on Hermione's shoulder.

"It'll be okay," Daphne said softly. "It'll be fine. I'm sure it's fine. He's still young, and he's really quite healthy—"

"But what if it isn't fine?" Hermione asked, pained. "What if…" She swallowed hard. "Daphne," she whispered hoarsely, "what if I accidentally killed the Prince of Wales?"

For a moment, Daphne said nothing.

Then she started to tremble slightly, which Hermione thought was a bit of an overreaction (they hadn't liked him that much, after all) until she realized Daphne was actually laughing, and then Hermione wasn't quite sure she could prevent herself from doing precisely the same.

"Stop it," Hermione snapped, trying to be stern, though something bubbled up and nearly left her lips in a blurted peal of laughter. "Stop, it's not funny—"

"I know," Daphne forced out, trying to bite it back. "I know, it's not funny at all, but—but kind of, actually, if you really think about it—"

"I might have murdered him," Hermione wailed, which didn't seem to help, as both of them were now fighting fits of giggles, swiping at their eyes. "Oh my god, think of what they'll say!"

"Probably that the American revolution is an ongoing process," Daphne agreed, sputtering with barely suppressed hysteria. "You know, if you pick up his crown, I think it might technically be yours—"

"Oh my god, STOP," Hermione sobbed, as Daphne clutched at her stomach. "What if Draco comes back in here and I'm laughing at his dead father—"

Daphne struggled to call for pause, fumbling for her pocket, and managed to pick up her phone, holding it unsteadily to her ear. "Hello?" she attempted, choking on withheld laughter, and then held it out to Hermione, offering it for her. "It's for you."

"Oh god," Hermione said, fanning herself, and took the phone. "Hello?"

"What," Pansy's lofty voice said, "on earth. Did. You. Do."

"Um," Hermione said, abruptly clutching Daphne's arm. "Uh—"

"Nevermind," Pansy sighed. "Just sit quietly and do nothing. I'll be right there. What are you wearing? No, don't tell me, I already know it's entirely unsuitable. Do you have any—actually, no. You don't. I don't know why I'm asking. Just—don't move. Don't go near windows. Draw the curtains. Paparazzi will be outside soon enough, and—are you listening? Hermione. Listen to me. Do. Not. Move."

Then a click, and she was gone, and Daphne and Hermione exchanged a panicked glance, confidently certain the nightmare wasn't even close to over.

Don't worry, Lucius didn't die. (Unfortunately. No, wait—I don't actually mean that. Okay, I kind of mean that, if we're being honest. Only a little. NO. I don't mean it. He and I are… fine. Everything's fine.) Actually, it was a fairly minor situation, medically-speaking, though I remember being forking terrified at the time, and not exclusively because Pansy has an utterly frightening telephone voice.

Really, the important thing about that particular experience with Lucius was what it proved to me about Draco; that even then, he needed me, and I needed him. That even from the start, when he and I knew so little about each other, we still knew we were stronger together. Looking back, that was the first time I knew—really knew—that he wasn't just some guy. He wasn't just a crush. He certainly wasn't just a friend. He was something I'd spend my life fighting for, or fighting against, or just… fighting, because what we had wasn't something you stumble on every day. It was real, and it was good, and whatever else it was, it was worth it.

Which was something I would ultimately have to remind myself quite often, considering everything we had yet to face.

a/n: I am always in a rush to post this late at night (sorry!) so my author's notes are basically useless, but listen, I promise to be consistent if you promise to stay with me!… she says, not remotely needy. Thank you for reading! Oh, and some of you asked about my graphic series with Little Chmura, so fyi you can find all of my work on olivieblake dot com.