Chapter 6: Compatibility

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Fraternity of Men

Despite being an enormously public figure, Prince Draco is not without some semblance of a vibrant private life, including a small circle of friends who have been at his side throughout the years. Though generally quite friendly with most of his peers, even considered quite popular in school, the Prince has always had a history of selecting his favourite companions and subsequently keeping them close. Perhaps because his father Prince Lucius is notoriously vigilant about his privacy, entry to Draco's intimate circle is said to be a difficult thing to earn.

Among the Prince's confidants are a mix of school chums and longstanding friends of the royal family. From boyhood, the Prince was often seen in the company of the quiet but sensible Theodore Nott, whose father, the elder Theodore, is a Knight of the Garter, having been invested in 1990 by his longtime friend King Abraxas. While at Eton College, Draco and Theodore were joined by the puckish and oft-misbehaving Blaise Zabini, son of illustrious songbird and national treasure Esmeranda Zabini. All three boys would later go on to attend Hogwarts University, subsequently sharing a flat for their final year of schooling.

Of course, no account of Draco's personal life would be complete without mention of His Royal Highness Henry James Potter, Duke of Grimmauld, whose relationship to his adopted cousin, the Prince, would ultimately account for perhaps the most formative friendship of Draco's youth. The so-called Prince Harry (closest in line to the throne after Draco and his father) was, from the beginning, Draco's opposite in nearly all things. Unlike Prince Draco's parents, whose intensely scrutinized relationship is considered a failure by even the most generous accounts, Harry's parents, James and Lily Potter, Earl and Lady Godric, had a famously touching love story that ended with disaster when Harry was barely one year of age. The accident which killed the Potters—an unexpected plane crash which resulted in an outpouring of mourning from the world—is broadly considered one of the great tragedies of the twentieth century.

Most citizens of Britain are perhaps equally likely to remember the wedding of Prince Lucius and Princess Narcissa as they are to recall the fateful day some years later when the world lost the two young Potters. But while Draco has often skirted the press, Harry has openly welcomed coverage of his life. Where Draco was reserved and private, Harry's personality and tendency towards illicit affairs would ultimately make him a tabloid darling.

Differences aside, however, Draco and Harry have always been exceptionally close, almost always seen to be smiling and laughing in one another's presence. By all accounts, tension between the two starkly different men is such a rarity as to render the friendship incredibly unburdened; in fact, those close to them often go as far as to say Draco and Harry consider themselves brothers, a statement which no one would contest.

Oh really, Rita? No one would contest it? Am I to understand, then, that you suddenly don't remember the time you wrote a headline about Draco nearly punching Harry the night before he proposed to me? I believe your exact words at the time were 'BITTER RIVALS COMMENCE ROYAL BRAWL,' so I'm going to go ahead and say I want whatever you're taking. I could certainly do with some memory modification.

Really, Rita's nonsense aside (and the comment about Lucius, who is less 'vigilant about his privacy' than he is 'friendless and unlikeable'), it will never cease to amaze me that two men as different as Harry and Draco had ever managed to find common ground.

Even more amazing? That for a time, that common ground was me.

October 31, 2010
Hogwarts University

Alcohol consumption had the strange (or not-so-strange; she'd done the research and knew the basis for the phenomenon, but for all intents and purposes it certainly remained highly unwelcome) effect of prompting Hermione to keep ungodly hours the following morning. When her eyes snapped open just before six, she slithered out from under Daphne's duvet and collided neatly with her bed frame, stifling a yelp as she stumbled sideways.

Coffee, she thought.

Coffee would be most welcome.

That, and water.

And possibly something to stop the invigorated pounding between her ears.

She forced herself upright with a wince, layering on some clothes (her fuzzy Patagonia, some old Carondelet sweatpants, and a pair of ankle-high Uggs—all things she avoided wearing here under all circumstances short of the ones involving her present state of death-approximation, and which certainly should not have been worn together) and careening into the hall, promptly forgetting her keys and phone inside her room. She sighed, rubbing at the recalcitrant swelling between her temples.

Clearly, she was off to an excellent start.

"Oh, hey," she heard as she made her way into the common room, grasping at the banister for stability and taking each step with pained deliberation. "Nice outfit."

She looked up groggily to find Harry sitting on one of the leather sofas, grinning widely as she managed to place both feet on the ground.

"Nailed the landing," Harry congratulated her, and Hermione sighed.

"Coffee," she managed.

"Ah yes, I see," Harry agreed, rising to his feet and heading over to the coffee maker, which had thankfully already been put to use. He was showered and dressed, his hair still a little damp and falling onto his forehead, and Hermione sidled over (feet shuffling in a way Pansy would surely bark her opposition to) and squinted up at him, frowning.

"Something's different," she noted, staring closely at his face.

"Is it?" Harry asked, sliding a mug over to her and refilling his own. At her continued inspection, he chuckled, nudging her to follow. "Come on. Let's get you some fresh air."

"Your face," she registered, obediently wrapping her fingers around the ceramic mug and dragging after him (Are you lost, Hermione? she imagined Pansy saying, because otherwise, I cannot imagine why your toes would need to personally identify each of the floorboards—?) in something of a hazy epiphany. "Your face has glasses on it."

To that, Harry was clearly fighting laughter. "Yes, my face does have glasses on it, well spotted. You know, you won't believe this, but I even use my nose to hold them up from time to time."

She rolled her eyes, grumbling something incoherent into her mug as he led her out into the corridor, making his way towards the castle's lake-facing doors with a patient approximation of her positively glacial pace.

"What was that?" he asked her, holding a cheery hand to his ear.

"Why," she clarified, detaching her mouth from her mug after burning the roof of her mouth, "are you wearing glasses?"

"Because I'm practically blind," he informed her, shrugging. "Weak eyesight. I got it from my father."

"But—"

"I wear contacts," he clarified. "But this morning I was rather without the urge to stick my fingers in my eyes. After you," he added, ushering her through the door, at which point she was hit with a crisp smack of near-wintry air, shivering slightly before pulling her jacket closer. "I always love a frigid start to the day, don't you?"

"Mmphmh," she replied succinctly, and he laughed again, tucking his free hand into his pocket and sipping his cup of coffee as they made their way down to the lake. It gleamed in the distance, preternaturally still; the willow tree beside the castle swung in the breeze, unimpressed by their presence.

"So," Hermione managed after a few moments in silence. "You're up early."

"As are you," Harry pointed out. "Though 'up' is a highly literal term. Upright, yes. Awake, slightly less so."

"Alive? Only barely," Hermione contributed drily, and Harry ducked his head, amiably smiling down at his feet before sparing her a sidelong glance, briefly skimming what was surely her disastrous profile. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, taking another sip before adding, "You looked like you were having fun last night."

She felt her cheeks flush slightly, fingers tightening around her cup. "Yeah, well, you always look like you're having fun," she pointed out, giving him what she hoped was a playful nudge. "I think you might be the most consistently cheerful person I've ever met."

"Well, you don't see me very often," he reminded her wryly. "I only come here for academia and debauchery. Academic debauchery, I should say," he amended, as she arched a brow, doubtful. "Other kinds of debauchery are, of course, reserved for separate occasions."

"Of course," she agreed, shaking her head before glancing at him. "Did you have fun?"

It took a moment. His mouth parted and paused, his tongue slipping out to moisten his lips before he finally scraped a hand through his hair, mouth twitching with something that wasn't quite the wattage of his usual grin.

"I did," he said eventually, but she made a face, flashing him what she hoped was an elegantly skeptical glance and not something too terribly unhinged. "I did," he repeated emphatically, laughing a little this time. "It's just—" He paused, eyeing the contents of his mug. "Halloween is a difficult time for me," he informed his coffee, taking another sip of it as Hermione frowned at him.

Caffeine had begun to supply her with something approximating her usual means of parsing emotional subtlety, though the rest of her hangover was less on board. "You're not going to be coy with me, are you?" she asked him, possibly a little too bluntly, though he took it with another glance of amusement. "I mean, coy isn't really one of your strengths."

"That," he said, "is extremely offensive. I'm not coy?"

She considered it. "You're more like… flagrantly bold. Boldly reckless?" she amended, and squinted into nothing, trying and failing to explain herself. "I mean, you're very, like—boom. Harry's here, take it or leave it. Feast your eyes, et cetera."

"Feast your eyes?" he echoed, playfully disbelieving. "Wow. Wow—"

"Hey, it's a compliment," Hermione insisted. "You know what you want and you go for it. Sometimes I wish I had your balls. Figuratively, of course," she added, with a fleeting glance at his smugly arched look of Is that so? "Though I'm sure your balls are, you know. Wonderful and all that."

"Wow," he said again, shaking his head as he curled a hand around his mouth. "You are… wow."

He was laughing into his palm. "Stop," she muttered, giving his arm a shove. "I'm weakened, okay? My intellect's been injured."

"Has it?" he prompted wryly. "Because if you do have curiosities about whether or not what I'm working with is wonderful, then—"

"Stop," she said again, a little flushed this time. He caught her shift in tone—identified the reticence—and gratifyingly cleared his throat, changing the subject.

"Anyway," he said, forcefully engaging a brighter tone. "Like I said, Halloween is something of a mixed bag, but it was certainly a fun night. Draco even managed to have fun, which is saying something."

For whatever reason, Hermione didn't particularly want to talk about Draco. Maybe because it felt a bit like a test. Harry had certainly dropped him into the conversation deliberately, and she knew he'd seen them dancing together the night before. Considering she didn't want to get into it before she'd had the opportunity to use any brain cells on the topic, she opted to guide the conversation elsewhere.

"What's wrong with Halloween?" she asked instead, and caught the motion of his uncomfortable swallow. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if it's something personal," she demurred quickly, "I just thought, you know. If you wanted to, you could—"

"It's fine," he assured her, as she rushed to fill her mouth with coffee rather than chance any further episodes of insensitivity. She watched him take a stabilizing breath before explaining, "It's my parents. They died on Halloween. Plane crash," he clarified, as Hermione tried not to choke on her stupidly overlarge swallow of coffee, having expected slightly lighter fare than the death of both his parents. "My dad was piloting my mum on what was supposed to be a quick flight from Cornwall. He'd done it dozens of times before," he added, swallowing. "Was a pilot in the Army Air Corps."

Hermione said nothing. Harry was eyeing his mug.

"Fluke accident," he said after a moment. "I mean, I have the benefit of knowing every single expert in Britain reviewed the detail of the flight piece by piece," he added, sparing her a somewhat humorless laugh she suspected was meant to make her feel more comfortable. "Nobody knows what happened. Plane was reported missing, and then they found my mother's suitcase in the water. But then—"

He broke off, and Hermione reached out, lightly touching his arm.

"You don't have to talk about them if you don't want to," she said quietly, and he shook his head in disagreement, not quite looking at her.

"You know, I spend every other day of the year trying not to think about them. So, that being the case," he exhaled sharply, "on Halloween, I think it's something I go through on purpose. Thinking about them as much as I can."

She felt impossibly sad for him; not that she quite knew how to translate that sort of pain, even under normal circumstances. Considering she was working with even less at the moment, she found herself lamentably empty-handed.

"Harry," she attempted softly, hoping he might hear something closer to I'm so sorry, and he glanced at her, forcing a smile.

"See?" he said. "Not always cheerful. Very disappointing, I'm sure."

"No," she told him. "No, not at all." She paused for a moment, catching the twitch of reservation at his jaw, and tugged him towards the lake, continuing their walk. "Tell me about them," she suggested, and he glanced at her, questioning. "Your parents. I didn't read about them in the papers," she reminded him, "so I'm a blank slate. I don't know anything about them. You can tell me anything. Everything." She shrugged, gesturing to her coffee. "I've got time."

Harry's smile then was something she hadn't seen before. It wasn't reckless, and it wasn't for show. He smiled with gratitude, and it warmed her as much as it brought edges of softness to his face, relief pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"The thing is," he said, clearing his throat and thinking, "I was only a year old when they died, so I don't know a lot of things outside of what my godfather told me. Everything I have is secondhand information."

"I promise not to fact-check with any unauthorized biographies," Hermione assured him gravely, and Harry chuckled, the smile on his face broadening.

"Well," he began, and though it must have been painful to recount, the smile on his face remained. "For starters, my father was aristocracy, but my mother wasn't. And when they met, my mother apparently had no interest in my father. In fact, she was dating someone else," he added, "but Sirius said James—my dad," he clarified, and Hermione nodded, "eventually won her over."

The warmth of the memory on Harry's face was enough to prompt Hermione to a smile herself. "How'd he do it?"

"Well, genetically gifted hair, for one thing," Harry said, gesturing to his own with a grin, "and a truly abominable persistence. He knew," he added with a wistful glance. "My godfather always said, 'James took one look at Lily and he knew,' and when she told him there was no way he could be so sure—because again," Harry said with a playful laugh, "she'd had a boyfriend, a fairly nice bloke she'd been dating for ages who was all set to propose to her—my dad just looked her in the eye and said, 'Take your time. I'm sure enough for both of us.'"

His smile faded for just a moment, fleetingly succumbing to obvious longing before brightening again as he glanced at Hermione.

"You sure you want to hear all this?" he asked her, and she could feel herself mirroring his smile.

"Tell me everything you remember," she said, and before long, she barely noticed her coffee had long since gone cold, the two of them chatting about his parents as the lake breeze swirled around them, carrying with it a hint of cedar and jasmine.

By the time Draco announced his presence at her door with his usual penitent raps of arrival, Hermione had managed to eat, shower, and regain some semblance of legitimate personhood, arriving at the threshold with a smile she battled with and lost, leaving behind the rotting corpses of her restraint (or at the very least, her self-preservation).

"Hi," she said, absurdly breathless.

"Hi," he returned, and upsettingly, he looked as though he'd had a perfectly restful night. His hair was parted neatly, his usual cashmere sweater looking buttery enough to spread on toast, and his trousers were perfectly pressed, the entire effect of him as neat and orderly as if he'd done nothing remotely sinful the night before, or possibly ever.

"Oh, hello," Daphne contributed unhelpfully, appearing in the door frame with a wink. "My goodness, Your Highness, what a surprise! Is there something one of our eligible ladies could help you with?"

"Will you desist," Hermione muttered, elbowing a laughing Daphne and closing the door behind her, hastily letting out a breath as she faced Draco in the corridor. "So," she exhaled, as he stifled a laugh at her obvious roommate-related trauma. "Library?"

"Yes, of course," he said, pointedly gesturing to the bag slung across his shoulders. "Ah, though, wait a moment—Daphne," he called without knocking, and the door immediately opened, revealing she'd yet to vacate the frame.

"Yes?" Daphne asked, with a merciless grin at Hermione.

"I wondered if you and Hermione might attend a little party my grandfather's hosting in two weeks," Draco said, and admittedly, it took Hermione a few seconds to register Draco was indeed talking about his grandfather, the King of England, in what was highly unlikely to be a 'little' party. "He's having his annual gala in London to celebrate the anniversary of his reign. Fifty-two years," he added to Hermione, who nodded, hoping to look sufficiently impressed by that number, despite having no conceivable method for comparison.

"Theo, Blaise, and Pansy are already attending," Draco clarified, "and Harry, of course, but I would love if you both could be there, too. Out of support for your divinely-appointed monarch, obviously," he assured them, "but also, to take advantage of what will surely be stuffy gin cocktails and paralyzingly dull conversation."

Daphne laughed. "Oh, good, wonderful. My favorite things, delightful—"

But Hermione, on the other hand, had the strangest sensation there was something slightly off about the invitation; something overly formal. She frowned a little to herself, drifting out of the conversation and registering that Draco inviting them both at once seemed to have been a purposeful move. Was it possible he wanted to be absolutely certain Hermione understood it wasn't a date?

She stood a little straighter, hoping the improvement of her posture might conveniently aid the little pinch of nerves that nagged beneath a swell of opposition. She wasn't an idiot, after all. Whatever else had happened between the two of them, she already knew she couldn't be Draco's escort to a royal party, of all things. Was it really necessary to go to these lengths?

She grimaced, scolding herself. So what if he thought it was necessary—did that really matter? It seemed her rationality was losing a battle. Mostly to deflated pride.

"Hermione," Draco said, having apparently been trying to get her attention. "Is that a yes?"

"Hm? Oh, sure, of course," Hermione said.

"Great! We can go shopping next weekend in Edinburgh," Daphne said. "I'll make a date for us with Pansy, which she will of course refuse until the last possible second. Thank you for the invitation, Draco."

"Of course," he told her, smiling. "I couldn't imagine either of you not being there."

There it was again, Hermione thought. Either of you. Was there a chance he'd changed his mind?

She was still pondering it as they made their way through the corridors, walking the all-too-familiar path to the library and scarcely noticing anything else until she felt Draco's fingers wrap around her forearm, tugging her into one of the castle's alcoves. He bent his head to hers, surprising her with a kiss that might as well have been a brutal shot to her solar plexus (read: it knocked the wind out of her).

"Whoa, hello," Hermione said into Draco's mouth, managing one (1) single gulp of oxygen before he was kissing her again, his fingers tight on her hips. Draco had a distinctly citrus scent to him, sharp and layered, like a spiced cocktail. He was all bergamot and sandalwood and cloves, and when he was this close to her, he all but filled her nose and her lungs and her concentration, serving to snatch her sanity right out from underneath her feet. She kissed him back, gloriously, for the span of several moments, until both of them separated just long enough to catch their breaths.

"Sorry," he said, clearing his throat. His cheeks were flushed and his mouth was red, a beautiful dash of colors alighting on his features. "I'd planned to… well. I'd specifically planned not to, actually, but I think the memory of last night got the better of me—"

"Oh?" Hermione asked, pressing her fingers to her lips. Studying was going to be a challenge. "Well, good, I guess," she determined weakly. "I mean, I wondered if maybe you thought, um. That maybe you'd thought better of it, but—"

"What? No," he said, aghast. "Better of it? What does that—"

"Well, you seemed pretty intent on inviting me and Daphne, so I thought—"

"Oh, no," Draco said, withering slightly as he pressed his forehead to hers. "Sorry, I thought—I just thought you'd be more comfortable if you knew you and Daphne were both invited. These things are terrible, honestly, and horribly formal. I always end up talking about the state of morality being in crisis with people my father's age, and anyway, I just… I thought it would be better if you and Daphne had each other, that's all—"

"Oh," Hermione exhaled, half-laughing. He seemed consummately awkward now, resigning himself to rambling as she tightened her grip on him, stroking her thumbs over his cheeks. "No, I was… Sorry. I was being stupid."

"The truth is, it won't be very enjoyable," he told her, looking massively apologetic. "And I'm afraid it's not at all an ideal Saturday evening under any circumstances, but I always feel better knowing you're around, so I thought if you knew everyone else would be there—" He exhaled, sheepish. "I just wanted to be sure you knew you wouldn't be there alone, because…"

He trailed off, bracing himself.

"Because as much as I would like to," he rushed out, "I won't be able to spend much time with you. Much as I wish I could simply show up with you on my arm, the truth is it would be rather… um. It's just—"

"Stop," Hermione exhaled, taking hold of his collar and giving him a little nudge of reassurance. "I get it. We talked about this, remember? We have a code now," she reminded him, brushing her thumb briefly over his lips. "That's enough."

"Is it?" he asked, obviously hesitant.

"Well, of course," she told him. "I'm leaving at the end of December, remember? There's no reason for me to suddenly make your whole evening a spectacle. I mean sure, I'm new here, but even I have some idea what would happen if you arrived at your grandfather's party with some mystery brunette on your arm."

"Well," Draco exhaled, relieved. "Still. That doesn't mean I don't wish I could, you know. Mystery brunette or not," he remarked with a chuckle, taking hold of one of her curls and twining it around his finger. "I really do prefer it when you're close. Probably because I know one day you won't be."

"That's—" Hermione swallowed, closing her eyes briefly. "Well, that's… cool," she finished underwhelmingly, and he laughed again as she shook her head, groaning at her own inability to communicate the precarious combination of god damn it, you always say the right things and how dare you exist so problematically? "I just meant, um. I'm happy to be there. And I understand," she added. "I mean, I'm the reason this can't be anything, right? So it's not like it's fair to expect things I know perfectly well you can't give me."

"You don't have to be fair," he assured her, giving her a slightly less invasive kiss. This one was comforting, affectionate. It struck her less in her unholy knickers and more in the little crevices of her heart. "You can unfairly say things. Or hate things. I know I do."

"Do you?" she asked, playing at doe-eyed innocence.

"Well, you'll never believe this," Draco said solemnly, "but I have it on good authority that other people in the world don't have to hide in castle alcoves when they want to kiss someone."

"Mm, no, I think that might just be a rumor," Hermione informed him. "It certainly sounds fake to me."

"Right? That was my thought. But whatever the case is," he continued, his hand slipping down her wrist to tangle briefly with her fingers, "I like being with you. Around you. Publicly adjacent to you," he joked, leaning forward to kiss the side of her neck. "Even if it's a secret."

"Well," Hermione mused, toying with his signet ring, "just so you know, I can be discreet."

She looked up to find him smiling.

"I look forward to your discretion," he told her, bending to kiss her again.

Much to Hermione's dismay, Draco was called away from Hogwarts the following Monday, though it was something of a relief to be able to focus solely on her schoolwork as he came and went from the castle. Her classwork was intensifying as they ventured further into the second half of term, and outside of Draco's brief appearances—and one or two mostly-clothed makeout sessions when Daphne was in class—Hermione had little to distract her aside from his grandfather's gala.

Though, the impending gala was certainly not not a distraction. Unsurprisingly, Hermione did not own a lot of formal evening gowns—which was to say, of course, that she owned exactly none. Preparation by Pansy about which designers were appropriate for the event (Jenny Packham, as Daphne tended to favor, or Temperley, as Pansy preferred) had done little to improve the situation; there had been no way that Hermione was about to put down two thousand dollars or more on a dress she'd only wear once, as she informed both of them—much as she might have wanted to.

"Well, nobody's going to be looking at you," Pansy had said in response, which was evidently meant to be a reassuring statement. Hermione had learned that with Pansy, the facial expression and not the phrasing was really the best way to determine whether or not she should be insulted, and at present, Pansy bore no discernable traces of mockery. "You could wear positively anything and it really wouldn't make much of a difference."

"Thanks," Hermione sighed, as Daphne spared her a sympathetic eye roll. "So comforting."

"You know, to be honest, there's nothing very good this season," Pansy added to Daphne, either continuing to be ambiguously nice or simply lamenting the failures of haute couture. "Did you see Dior's new line? It's practically the Mad Hatter's tea party. Nothing's remotely wearable, and even the marginally respectable ones would have to be thoroughly lined first."

"Better that than the My Fair Lady travesties from last year," Daphne replied, making a face as Hermione sifted through dresses, continuing to find nothing.

"I told you, that's ridiculous," Pansy told Daphne. "That was entirely in your head."

"Absolutely not. Didn't you see all the lace? And the exorbitant hats? Not to mention the ivory. Nobody needs that many ivory dresses in a single line—"

"Yes, but that's also the line with the—" Abruptly, Pansy paused, eyeing Hermione. "Actually," she began, and immediately pivoted away, digging her phone out of her purse and disappearing without another word.

A week later, Hermione finally sorted out what she'd done.

"Here," Pansy said without preamble, barging in with a garment bag held aloft the moment Hermione opened the door to her room. "I had to have the bodice taken in quite a bit," Pansy said nonsensically, adjusting her blouse over what even Hermione had to admit were objectively marvelous breasts, "or it would have been here sooner, but anyway, here it is."

"Here what is?" Hermione said, and Pansy sighed, nudging her aside to unzip the garment bag on her bed.

"This," Pansy said emphatically, gesturing to what was revealed to be a pale blue, floor-skimming gown with a narrow straps and a high neckline. She turned it, offering Hermione a glimpse of the low back, and replaced it inside the garment bag. "Looks ridiculous on me, so I've never worn it," Pansy sniffed, "but considering your shape, I think you'd get more use out of it."

"Pansy," Hermione said, frowning. "This dress is Christian Dior."

"Yes," Pansy said, nodding curtly as she flicked the label on the garment bag. "Very good, Hermione, you have correctly identified the designer. Brava—"

"But I can't accept th-"

"And hopefully this goes without saying, but I obviously don't want it back," Pansy continued, looking insulted that Hermione would even try. "It's no use to me if it's already worn, and besides—like I said, I look ridiculous in it. Naturally I'd hoped you'd do me the favor of taking it off my hands. Unless, of course, you have some desperate wish to continue being entirely unsuitable," she accused brusquely.

Slowly, Hermione smiled. Then laughed. Then, much to Pansy's dismay, rendered herself unable to answer for several minutes until Pansy finally let out a loud, impatient sigh, about to snatch the hanger back until Hermione's hand shot out, pausing her.

"Sorry," Hermione managed, "I was just—it took me a second to realize you were trying to do something nice for me."

"I wasn't trying to do anything," Pansy sniffed. "You needed a gown, and I happen to have one that makes me look positively shapeless. This is called efficiency, Hermione. This is purely economical."

"Oh, stop. You did a nice thing, Pansy. Own it," Hermione suggested, struggling not to laugh again as Pansy turned her head away, apparently in detest of her own supreme weakness. "Fine—thank you," Hermione sighed, taking the hanger from Pansy and shaking her head. "I will happily do you the favor of wearing a dress that you hate, and which you definitely did not specifically choose and have altered for me so that I would look pretty. How did you even know my measurements, by the way?" she asked, eyeing the gown with the distinct impression it had been masterfully recrafted; impossible to tell by looking, but Hermione was fairly certain it would fit.

"Daphne," Pansy supplied, shrugging. "As you know, she has foolish artistic aspirations. Though please," she added with a notably pained expression, "have a care to how you accessorize it. You'll have to blend, you know. Nothing too ostentatious, so try to ignore your outlandish American impulses. A single necklace," she suggested as Hermione sighed, fighting an eye roll. "Perhaps one—one—bracelet. And you'll have to borrow a clutch, of course, seeing as everything you own looks like it belongs to some sort of vagrant—"

Which was how Hermione came to be wearing custom (in a sense) Christian Dior while holding an Yves Saint Laurent clutch. Her feet wobbled only slightly in a pair of nude Aquazzura pumps she'd borrowed from Daphne, who had a habit of buying her shoes too big and simply padding the toe. "For comfort," Daphne had explained. "Fewer blisters."

Only two things on Hermione's body that night actually belonged to her. Her trusty Victoria's Secret underwear, of course, and the gold snake ring that sat covertly on her finger.

"Did you have to wear that?" Pansy asked her, eyeing it doubtfully. "You're aware this isn't a costumed event, aren't you?"

"Yes, she did have to wear it," Daphne said, giving Pansy a sharp nudge, "so leave her alone. Surely there's someone else here whose choices you can criticize."

"That's true," Pansy agreed, casting a hawkish glance around the room.

"Oh, good, you're here," Blaise announced, sidling up to them with cocktails. "And here I was beginning to wonder if I might have to drink these myself."

"These are clearly yours, but thanks," Daphne assured him, and Blaise spared her a disapproving purse of his lips.

"Minus five for judgment," he said, "but plus two for accuracy."

"Noted," she agreed, clinking her glass against Hermione's and taking a sip. "So," Daphne ventured after a moment, "has anyone seen Draco?"

Hermione was deeply grateful Daphne had been the one to ask. She wasn't sure her own peering around the room would have been very covert.

"Oh, he's around here somewhere," came a voice behind them, and Hermione and Daphne turned to find Harry and Theo approaching, both men dressed formally (as Blaise had been) in polished, well-fitted tuxes.

"In the meantime, you'll have to make do with us," Harry said, smiling down at Hermione, who couldn't help smiling back; Harry's charm was contagious. "So sorry to disappoint, but it is what it is, I'm afraid."

"You look nice," she said, pointedly tapping his black bow tie as he sidled up to her. "I see you left the glasses at home."

"Yes. You may have to keep me from accidentally falling off any balconies," he joked. "Near-blindness is the height of fashion, yes? I hate to think I might have been mislead."

"Oh no, never," she assured him. "Whoever's styling you is right on."

She shifted towards him slightly as beside them, Pansy and Blaise began rapidly discussing some noblewoman's offensively dull footwear. Briefly, Harry's hand rested just below the cut of Hermione's dress, carefully poised on the narrow stretch of fabric above her backside and below her exposed skin to guide her to a more suitable standing position.

"Well, fortunately I'm not actually blind," he murmured, removing his hand gently, "as I think I'd hate myself for the rest of my life if I'd failed to see you in this dress."

Hermione swallowed carefully. "This? It's… certainly different from the last outfit you saw me in," she said wryly, absentmindedly tucking back a curl from her low chignon, and Harry smiled broadly.

"You always look beautiful. No need to qualify it," he informed her, and looked up as Pansy shifted to greet him, brushing her lips smoothly against his cheek.

"You're behaving, I hope?" she said, which appeared to be more a warning than a question, and Harry laughed.

"Oh, only barely. You look nice, Daph," he added to Daphne, who Hermione agreed looked positively breathtaking in a swath of rust-colored silk that would have made almost any other woman look like a slightly rotting pumpkin.

"Oh, thanks, Harry," Daphne replied, and beside her, Theo rolled his eyes.

"Greengrass, honestly. When I tell you you look nice it's some sort of declaration of war, but then Harry says it and it's 'oh, thanks, Harry'—"

From Pansy, with a theatrical sigh: "Will you two please conjure the ability to wait until after food is served to commence your incessant bickering? I simply can't take it on an empty stomach."

From Daphne, defensively: "We're not bickering. Theo's posturing into the void and nobody else is listening."

From Blaise, gleefully: "Ten points to Daphne for total devastation!"

From Theo, loftily: "First of all, take those points back, Blaise, nobody is devastated. Secondly, posturing to my friends is hardly the void, Greengrass. For one thing, the void is much more comforting."

From Harry, with a laugh: "He has a point there."

Blaise, sniffing affectedly: "A point, maybe, but no points."

Theo, with palpable exasperation: "Blaise, whose side are you on?"

Blaise, shrugging: "I like a winner, Theodore. I'm English. It's uncontested glory or nothing."

From Harry: "Per usual, Blaise is always right and never wrong."

Blaise, slyly: "If you think I'll give you points for that—"

Pansy, sighing irritably: "He will."

Blaise: "—I WILL. You can have ten."

From Harry, chuckling into his glass with a wink at Hermione: "It's almost like I planned that."

Theo, to Daphne: "You know, it wouldn't kill you to tell us we look nice, Greengrass."

From Daphne, derisively: "Actually, it might."

From Hermione: "I'll take those odds. You do look nice, Theo. Does your little pocket square have a name?"

Blaise, with gusto: "May I suggest: Rupert."

Harry, clapping quietly: "A dignified name for the silks of a dignified man."

Pansy: "Are you just being indiscriminately sycophantic?"

Harry, with a wink: "Have I mentioned how lovely you look, Lady Parkinson?"

Pansy, scoffing: "Shut up immediately."

Harry: "Never. Your eyes shine like—"

Pansy: "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

Blaise: "Yes, there I agree. You know I loathe false poeticism."

Hermione: "Do you have some opposition to metaphors, Blaise?"

Blaise: "Like a cat to water."

Harry, grinning: "See what he did there? Beauty and brains."

Blaise: "If you think I'll give you points for that—"

Hermione, sighing: "You will?"

Blaise: "—I ABSOLUTELY WILL. Plus ten for Prince Harry."

Harry, smugly: "Personally, I'm feeling very good about all of my decisions."

Hermione: "Whereas I am developing some doubts. I'm beginning to suspect the referee of this game is susceptible to bribery."

Blaise, with piqued interest: "Why, what are you offering?"

Hermione: "What? Nothing. It was a hypothetical pondering."

Blaise, dismayed: "Minus two points!"

Hermione, shaking her head: "That's extortion, Blaise."

Blaise: "What are you, the king?"

Harry, to Pansy: "I'm surprised you passed on that one. You love crime-related wordplay."

Pansy, frowning: "Where are Daphne and Theo?"

Abruptly, the group stopped talking, realizing the other two had, in fact, disappeared.

"There," Hermione said eventually, gesturing to a few feet away where Daphne and Theo were silently arguing behind a pillar. "Is it just me, or does that look like an actual fight?"

"Well, as a general rule, we don't do that here," Harry reminded her. "Here being England, obviously. Our topics of conversation are usually limited to the weather and horses."

"No, affection is for horses. And on occasion, small dogs. But we can discuss other things," Pansy said. "And yes, it does look like they're having a row, so give them their privacy." To that, Hermione blinked, surprised. "What?" Pansy demanded, turning away. "If they wanted an audience, they'd have brought Blaise over to assign them points."

"True," Harry agreed. "I've seen them do it."

"Do you think they'll ever admit they're in love?" Hermione lamented, sighing.

"What is this, time travel?" Blaise demanded. "I'm fairly certain this is how the original wager was placed."

"I think they will," Pansy mused idly, "but, then again, I'm incredibly soft."

To that, Harry, Hermione, and Blaise all spared her a skeptical glance.

"What? Sometimes I'm nice," Pansy snapped, and Harry rolled his eyes, comfortingly patting her head as Daphne and Theo rejoined the group, both looking noticeably ruffled.

Hermione, noting the tensed line of Daphne's mouth, gave her arm a nudge.

"Let's get a drink, shall we?" Hermione said, hoping the others would opt not to mention her glass had scarcely been touched. "Come on," she said, coaxing Daphne towards one of the servers with trays of champagne. She unnecessarily swapped glasses, grimacing in apology to the server as Daphne stood sulkily beside her and sighed, shaking what appeared to be frustration from her shoulders.

"He's just being stupid," Daphne said without preamble or elaboration, taking a large gulp of champagne and wincing. "It's nothing new."

"Actually, you're being especially mean today," Hermione pointed out. "Aren't you? A little."

Daphne opened her mouth to protest and then stopped, conceding with little more than a sigh.

"Is it about the drawings?" Hermione pressed, and when Daphne grimaced, she figured she'd guessed correctly. "I told you, I'm not going to say anything about them. It's just for class," she added, adopting Daphne's careless (and blatantly false) stance on them. "It's nothing."

"I just—" Daphne paused, making a face. "I think he thought it would mean something."

"Oh?" Hermione asked, feigning surprise. "He sat naked as a personal favor for you and assumed you might consider being nicer to him as a result? What an absolute fucking fool," she remarked scathingly, lifting her pinkie as she brought her champagne to her lips.

Luckily, that was enough to jar Daphne from her position of irrationality.

"Fine," she grumbled, wilting slightly. "I'll apologize."

"Good girl," Hermione said, patting her shoulder, and then paused as she noticed someone else had joined their previous spot at the table.

Draco, dressed fantastically in black tie, had popped by to kiss Pansy's cheek and greet Harry, Theo, and Blaise, exchanging what looked to be pleasantries. Harry gestured briefly over his shoulder, ostensibly pointing out where Hermione and Daphne stood a few feet away, and Draco nodded, making a hasty motion with his hand and then departing.

In the opposite direction.

Hermione frowned, and Daphne gave her arm a nudge. "Did you at least see his hand?" she asked, and Hermione shook her head.

"No," she said, and forced herself to straighten. "He was too far away. Maybe he's just busy," she said, hoping to sound airily unfazed, and Daphne gave her a reassuring nod.

"I'm sure he is," she agreed, gesturing to where Draco had joined his father across the room. "He and the Prince of Darkness are supposed to be proving the gossips wrong, I imagine. Must be a truly horrific experience, actually, pretending to get along."

Hermione, who didn't want to think about it, turned back to Daphne, deciding a change in subject was probably best.

"Daphne," she said, "those drawings—"

"Don't," Daphne warned sharply. "You promised never to discuss them."

"Yes, but—"

"I'll apologize," Daphne assured her. "I'll be nice, I promise. Or try to be."

"Will you?" Hermione asked doubtfully.

"Yes," Daphne sighed, giving her arm a tug. "So come on, would you? And try to enjoy yourself," she added, giving Hermione's chin a tap. "Cheer up. We have a party to rejoin."

King Abraxas had a face relatively impossible to miss, considering it was rendered onto not only the country's entire currency but also most of the palace's art. It was difficult to see much from where they'd been seated, but even with the distance, his profile was unmistakable. Like his son and grandson, King Abraxas was a tall men, broad-shouldered, without any noticeable features of age (no portly belly, no stooped posture) outside of grey, slightly thinning hair. If he was any indication of what Draco and Lucius would be in their respective mid-seventies, they clearly had little to worry about.

The king also seemed to possess a slightly better temperament than his son. Occasionally, Abraxas would lean over Lucius to address Draco, and the latter would smile broadly, genuinely entertained. Lucius, meanwhile, would manage a smile that was more like a grimace, opting to remain intently focused on the salad in front of him.

"Narcissa isn't here," Daphne noted to Theo, gesturing to Lucius at the head table. "I thought you said she might come to this."

Theo shrugged. "I think the official palace line is that she's under the weather."

Pansy flashed him a warning glare.

"What?" he demanded. "I've said nothing!"

"Unfortunately," Daphne grumbled, and at Theo's raised brow, she sighed. "Not that I'm not pleased you give us something, anyway."

He nodded his approval, reaching out to tap her nose. "Much better, Greengrass," he said, and Daphne sighed, shaking her head in what was clearly falsified opposition.

After dinner, Hermione felt a nudge at her elbow. "Finally managed to get away from Prince Lucifer and his vapid attempt to right my numerous wrongs," Harry murmured in her ear, appearing at her side where she stood with Theo and Daphne. "Naturally, I told him I needed your help to keep from unforeseen defenestration from the balcony."

"I hope you didn't," she sighed, turning towards him. "I'm not sure if you know this, but the Prince of Darkness isn't my biggest fan."

"Oh, I know," Harry said with a grin. "Makes me like you that much more—which is hard to believe, really, though it's a good lesson. Reminds me never to put a ceiling on my capacity to appreciate you."

For a moment, Hermione wondered if she'd be better off discouraging the undertone of flirtation to the conversation. Privately, though, she was relieved to have Harry's company; Daphne had made good on her promise to be nicer to Theo, which meant the more time Hermione could spend not being their inadvertent third wheel was probably ideal. Meanwhile, Pansy was making small talk with her family friends and Blaise was nowhere to be found, which left Harry—who was admittedly both a very charming conversationalist and a highly attentive friend.

"How's your night going?" she asked him, opting for a delicate change in topic, and he faced her with something of a half-smile.

"These things are generally terrible," he assured her. "My responsibilities are incredibly minimal, of course. Just a few mandatory conversations here and there, but astoundingly, I do tire of people informing me I'm 'quite a scamp' with uncreative jokes about notches and/or bedposts."

"You're absolutely a scamp," Hermione assured him, feigning surprise. "Did you not know that?"

He laughed. "Not everything's what it seems," he assured her. "I'm hardly the rogue people think I am."

"Oh," Hermione said facetiously, "so you didn't sleep with that Scandinavian pop star last month, then?"

Harry opened his mouth, hesitating, and then awarded her the point with a grin.

"Amazing what the Daily Prophet considers news," he said, and Hermione lifted a brow, shaking her head as he laughed. "Okay, fine, so they got one thing right. What are you saying, once in a blue moon qualifies as journalism?"

"Not remotely," she assured him. "But you have to admit, you have a reputation."

Briefly, Harry's smile flickered.

"Is that really what you think of me?" he asked, and she blinked, caught off guard.

"Of course n-"

"Because I'm really not what the tabloids say," Harry said, looking genuinely bothered. "I thought you'd know that."

"Harry," Hermione exhaled, reaching out to close her hand firmly around his wrist. "Of course not. Of course not. I'm sorry, I was just teasing," she assured him. "I know you. I know you're far more than they say you are."

Unfortunately, his brow remained furrowed. "But that's why you never bothered to consider me an option, isn't it," he said, and it was less a question than a statement, leaving her voiceless in response. "You picked Draco because he's the responsible one—is that it? Because he's the good prince who knows how to behave, and therefore he would never hurt you?"

"Oh, come on. You were never seriously interested in me," Hermione scoffed, and Harry shifted towards her, abruptly standing very close.

"Wasn't I?" he asked in a low voice, and horribly, Hermione found herself suddenly quite unable to breathe, her pulse shooting up in her throat and lodging somewhere near the back of her teeth.

"I—" She forced herself to swallow. "Harry, you were—"

"You can't tell me you were never attracted to me," Harry told her, green gaze flicking over what was surely turmoil on her face. "So what was it that kept you away, Hermione? You thought I just wanted to sleep with you because you saw that once on the cover of a magazine?"

She thought of the many, many times she'd been close to him and wondered the same thing for herself. If she'd known nothing about Harry when she met him, would she have let something romantic happen between them?

She wished she had a better answer.

"I like you," Harry said flatly, and Hermione balked, utterly taken aback by the bluntness of the statement. "I liked you the moment I met you. This has never been a joke for me. It's not some kind of pointless conquest. Why do you think I told you about my parents?"

"Harry," Hermione said, swallowing hard, "I just—"

"I get it. You made your choice. You want Draco." He was still far too close, and her recalcitrant pulse throbbed somewhere in her ears. "He's the closest thing I have to a brother and I'd never do anything to hurt him, so consider this my white flag. But maybe someday you'll realize you could be with someone who doesn't ignore you," he pointed out, and in response, she did everything she could not to flinch. "Believe it or not, there are men in the world capable of putting you first."

He leaned forward, and for a moment, she stood absolutely still, not entirely sure what she would do if he kissed her. Her entire collection of useless limbs simply froze in place, bewildered and uncertain and vaguely terrified—not of what he wanted, but of what she might possibly want—but in the end, Harry merely brushed his lips against her cheek, delivering her to a violent shiver at what would look to a casual observer as nothing worth remarking at all.

"I just want you to know you have another option," Harry said softly in her ear, and then he turned away, leaving her to stare after him as he left to speak to someone across the room.

"What was that about?" Daphne asked, giving Hermione a nudge in Harry's absence.

Somehow, Hermione managed not to collapse in a boneless heap.

"Nothing," she said, forcibly clearing her throat and turning back to Theo and Daphne. "Just Harry being Harry."

She caught Theo's brow furrowing questioningly and turned away.

"Well," Theo attempted, forging ahead with something of a spirited aim for enthusiasm, "I think it's about time we pry Draco out from Prince Lucifer's clutches, don't you?"

Hermione, who genuinely hadn't the slightest idea if seeing Draco would be a crushing disappointment or a blessed relief, managed a nod.

"Sure," she said lamely, forcing a smile at Daphne's apprehensive glance.

"Oh good," remarked Prince Lucius, giving each of them a brief look of total disinterest. "Your friends are here."

"Father," Draco said through a carefully curated smile, "cameras."

Briefly, Lucius' hands tightened (he and his son had more in common than purely grey eyes and identical builds, Hermione thought, wondering if such a thing were worth pointing out to Draco on the off-chance he needed something else to go on) but he gave a polite smile, nodding vaguely in their direction as the cameras went off around them.

Don't look at the cameras, Pansy had warned (or more accurately, preemptively scolded) and don't expect Draco to look at you. If there's even a hint of eye contact there'll be dating rumors all over tomorrow's front page, and by next week you'll be pregnant with twins.

Well, my goodness, I had no idea Draco was so virile, Hermione remarked, and Pansy scowled.

I hope you mean that, she retorted, seeing as ill-wishing his sperm count would be actual treason.

"Well, if that's all," Lucius said, pointedly skirting Hermione as he let his gaze skim the tops of their heads, "I haven't spoken to the French ambassador yet." His grey eyes cut to Draco's, arching a pale brow. "I presume you won't be long?"

Draco shook his head. "Of course not, Father. I'd be happy to join you in just a moment."

His fingers tapped pointedly at his thigh, catching Hermione's attention.

Briefly, she smiled, noting the telling glint from his left hand.

"Theo," Draco said, casually leaning towards him as Lucius wandered away, "would you mind permitting me a small favor?"

"By all means, my liege," Theo replied, inclining his head. "The usual favor?"

"That's the one," Draco said curtly.

"Tonic or syrup?" Theo asked.

"Tonic."

"Shaken or stirred?"

"Shaken."

"With a twist?"

"Yes, please. Twenty minutes?"

"Twenty minutes it is," Theo confirmed, and Draco nodded, pivoting away without another word as Hermione and Daphne exchanged a glance, bewildered.

"What?" Theo asked them. "You both look distinctly nonplussed."

"What was that?" Hermione asked, frowning.

"Hm?" Theo replied, feigning ignorance. "Oh, that? Can't tell you, of course. Matter of national security."

Daphne sighed. "Theodore, honestly—"

"Well, suffice it to say," Theo said, tilting his head with a scarcely suppressed laugh, "Draco just informed me that if Hermione were so inclined, she might wish to join him in a more private setting."

Hermione blinked, recalling the placement of his signet ring. "That's…"

"Vaguely mistress-y," Daphne supplied.

"Yes," Hermione agreed, nodding to her. "That's approximately the term I was looking for."

"Well, if it helps, it's not typically a protocol for that," Theo said, rolling his eyes. "He often briefly escapes from these types of events. Usually to have a drink with one of the notorious Bad Lads without any snide comments from Rita Skeeter, which is hardly mistress-y at all."

"Just out of curiosity," Hermione said with a frown, "exactly how involved are you in Draco's sex life?"

"There's genuinely not an answer to that question you'll like," Theo assured her gravely, closing a hand around her shoulder, "and anyway, you certainly don't have to, but obviously he couldn't extend the invitation himself. If he'd asked you directly—"

"Yes, yes, I'd be pregnant within the week," Hermione grumbled, having already been well and fully briefed on the matter.

"Ah, I can't speak to that," Theo assured her. "Well, more accurately, I probably could, but I won't."

Daphne shook her head, frowning at him. "I honestly worry about you."

"Glad to hear it," Theo informed her cheerfully. "So, Hermione? Any thoughts? Requests? Anecdotes? Enemies whose bloodlines you wish to curse? This is a safe place for all of the above," he assured her, and after a moment to acknowledge the absurdity of his existence, Hermione glanced down at the ring on her hand, fighting a brief smile at the memory.

"Alright," she conceded eventually, letting out a breath. "Where am I going?"

"Okay, may I just open with: I am incredibly sorry," Draco rushed out the moment she entered the room, launching to his feet. "This is obviously ridiculous and if you want me to disappear and never speak to you again, I totally understand."

"Nice place," Hermione noted in lieu of an answer, glancing around as she shut the door behind her, determining at the last second a discreetly-handled lock was probably best, if not incredibly presumptuous. Better presumption than disaster, she reasoned, given they weren't all that far from the ceremonial drawing rooms. "Is this someone's study?"

"Mine," he confirmed, stepping tentatively towards her. "My grandfather had it built for me around my eighteenth birthday. Said a young man needed a place for quietude."

Hermione blinked. "This isn't… your house, is it?"

Draco laughed. "It is and it isn't. I have some things here," he clarified. "It does have many available rooms, as you might have guessed. But no, I don't live here."

"Oh." She cleared her throat, suddenly awkward. "Well."

"You look beautiful," Draco said, taking her hand in his. He ran his thumb carefully over her coiled snake ring, smiling at it with remnants of what must have been an identical memory to the one she'd had just minutes before. "I wish I could have spoken to you sooner, by the way. I'm positively dying of boredom."

"If it helps, small talk hasn't been known to cause fatalities," Hermione assured him, letting him lace his fingers with hers. "I mean, I'm sure correlated calamities do happen from time to time, but I'm afraid the science just isn't there."

"Ah, my apologies," he said, using his free hand to brush her hair from her eyes. "I've missed you this week," he told her, smiling slightly. "Unfortunately a few calls and texts to check in every couple of days isn't quite the same as being able to…" he trailed off, taking her face in his hands to guide her chin up, brushing his lips lightly against her neck, "touch you."

"Oh, is it not?" she asked, feigning indifference in the midst of an embarrassingly full-bodied thrill. "I hadn't noticed."

"Ouch." He leaned forward, his tongue darting out briefly against the lobe of her ear. "Hurtful, Hermione."

"Well, it's your fault," she reminded him as he leaned back, half-sitting on his desk and pulling her closer. "It's amazing you get anything done for school."

"It really is, isn't it?" Draco replied. "Though, considering I've done such masterful work this evening playing dutiful son and heir, I've finally convinced my father to let me finish out the rest of term without interruption. And, if I'm being foolishly honest, I'd hoped," he murmured, and slid his hand down, stroking his thumb along her jaw, "you might find that to be good news."

Her stupid heart leapt into her useless throat as she leaned her forehead against his, running her fingers over his mouth. "You're coming back for real?" she asked, a little more eagerly than she'd intended.

She felt his smile spread out from under the tips of her fingers. "Yes. I promise." He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I may only get a few more weeks of time, but for as long as I've got, I'm going to spend it with you."

Well, that was sweet, she thought grimly.

Unhelpfully sweet. Frankly, how dare he?

She sighed, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. "You're doing it again," she admonished him grumpily.

"Mm?" he asked. He ran his hands lightly up her spine, tracing idle patterns on the bare skin of her back until she felt a shiver expel from the blades of her shoulders, her very bones fruitlessly unable to persist with normal behavior.

"You're doing it again. Saying the things." He kissed her as she gave a disapproving sigh, letting him curve a hand around her cheek. "Saying all the right things. You're impossible."

"Impossible?" he echoed, with the ghost of a croaking laugh.

"Yes." She slid her fingers down from his hair, hooking them in his collar. "It's absolutely stupid that I'm even here with you right now."

"It is, isn't it?" he agreed, half-laughing. "Stupider that you aren't staying."

"Well, I can't stay," she said, which was a thing. Definitely a thing.

He kissed her again, his royal tongue sliding deftly between her lips to dance fleetingly along hers. "You could, though," he murmured. "Metaphysically speaking, I mean."

"Hm?" she asked, dazed.

"You could finish the year at Hogwarts. It's sort of a good school," he reminded her with a laugh. "Certainly been around longer than whatever that place is you came from."

"Ah, yes," she lamented. "The clown college that is Stanford—"

"But this is, of course, totally a matter of physical states of being," he assured her. "I'm only saying that if you stayed, for example, the earth wouldn't fall off its axis. I read that in a book once, so I'm fairly confident it's true."

"You don't know that," Hermione scolded firmly. "You're hardly qualified to be some sort of astrophysics expert. Unless you're a doctor prince? Prince-Doctor of Wales and Also Science?"

"To be honest, I barely know all my titles," Draco said, shrugging. "It could be in there for all either of us know, and then wouldn't you feel absolutely foolish?"

His hands slipped under the fabric of her dress, alternately skating over the material and darting under it as he drew his fingers along her back. She, meanwhile, had slid her fingers down over his chest, resting her palms against the muscle that strained against the fabric.

"You know what's foolish," she remarked, closing her eyes as he leaned forward, brushing his lips across the line of her clavicle, "is that I haven't seen you naked."

He stopped, halting in place, lips still pressed to the bone of her shoulder.

"Well," he said. "That does seem a grave error."

"Fixable, though," she said, leaning back to meet his eye. "Don't you think?"

He blinked, somewhere between exhilarated and terrified. "Here?"

She gave a theatrical sigh. "You're right," she told him, "that would be inappropriate. I mean, Bruce might do it," she mused, blithely tapping her mouth, "but Draco can't, of course. That would just be silly."

"Well," Draco said, obviously fighting a grin. "Draco certainly wouldn't be able to do it alone. Whoever Hermione felt the need to be would have to do it, too."

"As a reminder, I don't need an alter ego," she informed him. "Believe it or not, being a lowly commoner is my entire identity, so I feel highly confident saying—" She paused, leaning forward to speak in his ear. "The zipper," she murmured, placing his hand on the concealed seam at the base of her back, "is right here."

His hand smoothed around her backside, pausing.

"For the record," he ventured hoarsely, "this is not what I brought you here for."

"Well, maybe this isn't about you, Your Highness," she told him, leaning away and arching a brow. "I mean, I do have expectations." She tugged at his bow tie. "Like, for example, you'd have to go first."

He tilted his head, considering her. His eyes darted briefly to the clock on the wall, and then back to her.

"I shouldn't," he said. "My father will be expecting me back any minute."

Abruptly, Harry's face popped into her head—believe it or not, Harry whispered in Hermione's ear, there are men in the world capable of putting you first—and she brusquely shoved him out.

"Well, of course," she said, feeling a little flushed with embarrassment. She'd clearly gotten carried away. "It can wait. I just thought it'd be—"

Draco cut her off with a motion; the loosening of his tie from around his neck, and then he slid it out from his collar, holding it aloft for her to observe before letting it drop to the floor.

"Oh," she said, abruptly breathless, and he removed his jacket without any change in expression, setting it neatly on his desk before turning his attention to his cufflinks, removing them from his sleeves and setting them carefully aside.

"Now, you have to understand," he began, kicking his shoes off and beginning to unbutton his shirt, "I am somewhat pressed for time, so there will have to be rules. Fair is fair, and I'll want to see what's under there," he said, waving a hand in a general reference to her dress, "so no suddenly getting shy when it's your turn. Understood?"

She nodded dumbly, watching him ease his shirt over his shoulders before setting it aside. The more clothing items he removed, the less she seemed able to speak. The larger her tongue got, in fact. Was her tongue expanding? It didn't seem to fit in her mouth. It seemed to prefer the real estate of Draco's abdomen, in fact, which was actively playing host to a lavishly articulated landscape of muscle.

Belt. Socks. Weird order, Hermione thought vacantly, but when the trousers were next to go, she abandoned brain function altogether, holding her breath as Draco tugged the zipper down over her uncontested sovereign: his royal dick. The pants, too, were removed with abject care, and when he stood there in a pair of impossibly fitted black boxer-briefs proudly bearing the name of what would surely become her new deity (Hugo Boss), she actually clapped her hand over her mouth, pleading with herself to be reasonable.

He slid the underwear down his legs and kicked them aside, waiting.

"So," Draco said, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot under her gaze. "Uh."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Hermione whispered into the palm of her hand.

"Is that—"

"Don't speak." She stared at him, stepping slightly to the side to view him from different angles. "Are you… are you serious? Turn around," she demanded, and he seemed to be struggling not to laugh, obediently rotating for her to appreciate the details of his construction. "You're like the fucking statue of David."

"Actually, technically his penis is—"

"Please don't talk right now," Hermione said, pained. "I'm really not listening."

Draco laughed, shaking his head. "I believe I mentioned something about an exchange?"

She blinked. "Oh, right, um—" She slid her feet out of her shoes, setting them aside (noting, additionally, that it was a miracle she'd left them on this long; Daphne was clearly onto something) and reached behind her, struggling to sort out the clasp at the back of her dress. "Could you…?"

He stepped forward, carefully adjusting the clasp and undoing the zipper.

"Thanks, I just need to—"

Hermione wiggled ungracefully out of her gown, careful not to wrinkle it, and then stepped out of her trusty no-show thong. "Okay, well," she said, and swallowed, forcing herself not to slouch. Shoulders back, she thought. That would make everything look better. Right? "Anyway, this is—"

"Nope," Draco said, cutting her off to lean appreciatively against his desk, casting a glance over her. "Fair is fair. Spin."

Hermione rolled her eyes, commencing a theatrical rotation until they'd arrived face to face, clumsily colliding. Draco pulled her into his arms, hair falling onto his forehead, and kissed her forehead with a surprisingly unburdened laugh, as much unlike himself in that moment as Harry had been just hours before—which, again, she tried not to think about.

"You're incredible," Draco told her, tilting her chin up for his kiss. "Absolutely incredible."

In response, she tightened her fingers on his hips, experimentally digging her nails in.

"Could do some incredible damage to your desk," she suggested at a whisper, wondering for precisely one moment what had come over her before discarding the thought entirely and guiding him towards it. "If, you know. You wanted."

He deepened the kiss, absolutely dizzying her before sweeping an arm around her and lifting her up, settling her on top of the wood and chuckling into her mouth as she inhaled sharply, startled by the change in temperature. His skin was searing hot by comparison, and hers not much better; she let him lay her back and then pulled him down to her, fitting her hands possessively around the angles of his scapulae.

"Hermione," Draco said, turning his head to her ear as she slid her legs around his waist, tugging him closer. "Can I say something horribly unfair?"

Her fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck, finding roots and holding on. "Yes?"

The world went quiet as she waited. Outside the sound of her beating heart and the palpable silence of impending words from his tongue, everything stopped. Draco turned his head, pressing his lips to her ear, and said one thing:

"Stay."

She closed her eyes, breath catching in her throat.

"That's horribly unfair," she informed him, voice ragged, and he pulled back to look at her.

"I told you it was," he said. He paused a moment and then forced out, "Just pretend I didn't say it."

They looked at each other for a long moment, waiting for something she wasn't entirely sure would come.

Eventually, she cleared her throat, glancing down at their compromising (though not nearly compromising enough) position. "Do you have a, um. Do you have a—"

"Yes," he said, looking uneasy. "But—"

"Please don't make this more than I can handle right now," she blurted without warning, which wasn't something she realized she felt until she'd said it. "I want you, okay? I definitely want the next few weeks. I want to stare at you naked and study with you on friday nights and I want all of you, all the time, for the next few weeks—but I don't want to talk about this. Okay?"

He nodded carefully, swallowing. "You're sure you still want to…?"

"Yes. Absolutely, I've never been more sure about anything." She sat up slightly, hoisting herself up on one elbow and reaching out to curl a hand around the back of his neck. "Please," she beckoned as salaciously as she could manage, "put your royal penis inside me right now, Prince of Dicks, before your father notices you're off slumming it with peasants."

He managed a throaty chuckle, reaching somewhere into his desk drawer, and she lay back with her eyes closed (body tingling, all headily percussive things; heart pounding like steps against the pavement, blood drumming up against the tunnels of her veins) until she felt him return to her, his lips penitently finding hers.

She didn't expect it to be slow, given everything, and she was glad when it wasn't. She was relieved, in fact, that from the moment he filled her, palm flat against her stomach while he pressed his lips to the inside of her knee, it was urgent and frantic and hurried; something to shake her out from the grips of her fear when her instinctive response to his impractical whisper of stay was an equally impractical shout of yes. She dug her nails into his hips and he tugged her down on the wood, pulling her closer; letting his mouth travel over her neck and shoulders and lips to fall with excruciating imprecision; until here, here, here? was met with a much less burdened yes, yes, yes.

Sex was still new and thrilling; maybe one day she'd want more than to simply watch the sheen of sweat glowing from the curves of his shoulders, glinting from the ridges of his chest—but today, she swore she might have gotten off just from watching. When she finished—one leg thrown over his shoulder with his chest pressed down to hers, bent near in two and making words like penetration and friction and contortion into irresponsibly unhelpful understatements—he came shortly after, choking out something as perfectly incoherent as she and her stupid heart felt.

He released her leg first, letting it fall from his shoulder, and then shifted to take her in his arms, turning his head towards her as they both caught their breaths. It was the gradual release of a long-held exhalation; coming down with all the patient ease of a slowly-turning tide.

She felt his hesitant swallow; felt his heart thud patiently beside hers.

"I don't want to pretend I didn't say it," he eventually confessed, breathing slowly out as his lips brushed against her ear.

In response, Hermione looked down at her ring, eyeing the shape of the coiled snake from where she'd slid her hands up his back, fitting herself perfectly into him.

One pulse.

Two.

Three.

"I'll think about it," she conceded quietly, and he brushed his lips against her cheek, satisfied.

Here's the thing about unfair statements: just because they're unfair doesn't mean they're untrue. In my experience, some of the most unfair statements I've ever heard (stay, I love you, choose me) have also been some of the truest.

Another truth? I sometimes go back to those first couple of months and consider what would have happened if instead of studying on Friday nights with Draco, I'd gone dancing with Harry. Would I love him now? Could it have ever been his ring on my finger? That's not nearly how things went, of course, and I'm positive neither of us would have it any other way—but still, sometimes I wonder.

Not for long, though. For one thing, I'm confident I wouldn't be who I am now without my friendship with Harry. In a lot of ways, he helped me become the sort of person who could even begin to imagine spending my life at Draco's side. Harry was there for me through so many crises over the years, and I would never trade his friendship for anything.

And, for the record, I was also there for him—his primary crisis being much worse than any of mine, and a few years in the making. But again, that's a story for another time.

a/n: If you've ever wanted to hear me talk (for some reason) about literally anything, let me know in a review or send an ask or a tweet on whatever platform you prefer. mr blake's put me up to something of a secret project, which I'll clarify soon. Also, hey, thanks for being here! This is fun, right? I hope you're having fun.