Chapter 8: Speculation
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
A Covert Affair
While Draco and Hermione have since confirmed their relationship began while they were students at Hogwarts University, the story of their budding romance was rather another matter at the time. Given the Prince's need for privacy, the early stages of their courting were carefully guarded. However, there are some sharp-eyed observers who say the evidence for the relationship existed within the castle's sheltering walls.
The earliest rumours of Hermione's relationship with Prince Draco began around February of 2011, by which point Hermione had extended her stay at Hogwarts and begun living with friends in Hogsmeade. By her second term at Hogwarts, Hermione had been accepted into the Prince's close circle of schoolmates. As a result, she was often seen in his company, though it took some months before speculation began about whether the relationship was as platonic as it appeared. Still, given the sanctity of the university's aim for higher learning, it is understood that the respectful student body at Hogwarts were loath to lend any prying eyes to the Prince's private life, turning their attention instead to their devoted pursuits of academia.
Okay, put down your Instagrams and your Snapchats, children. We're about to take a trip through some internet history, and more specifically, the rise of social media through the age of anonymous confessions. Yes, that's right, it's time for some colonial drivel about a delightful little blog called 'The Inquisitorial Squad'—which, you'll notice, Rita Skeeter cleverly left out of her account of how Draco's privacy (and by extension, mine) was respected.
Perhaps you've heard of College ACB? Or, if you have some sort of very elderly friend or grandmother, possibly JuicyCampus? These are the American iterations, of course, but don't you worry—Hogwarts had its own version. The gist of these blogs was this: anyone, anywhere, could send in an unsubstantiated rumor without any evidence to support it, whatsoever. Gossip Girl ringing any bells? Imagine being Blair Waldorf. Actually, don't, because even at Gossip Girl's most invasive, Blair never had it as bad as I did. She was beautiful, rich, refined. I, on the other hand, was… American. An outsider, and one with the audacity to have curly hair. (Reprehensible, I know, particularly in the age of the flat iron.)
Now recall that at the time this was happening, I was dating the most eligible bachelor on campus, if not most of the world. Knowing that, how would you guess that wonderful little corner of the internet treated me?
Needless to say, The Inquisitorial Squad was… not a fan.
January 29, 2011
Hogwarts University
Spending the holidays in England turned out to be one of the best decisions Hermione ever made, which was particularly excellent news considering she was coming back from one of the worst. By the time she was watching Pansy move a sofa into their new flat (with one finger, obviously, directing the movers while wearing her best do not disappoint me expression) Hermione couldn't believe she'd ever considered leaving. It seemed an impossibility that faded to the edges of her memory moments after she arrived back at the castle.
Draco had been a hit with both her parents, of course. He'd only been able to spare a couple of hours with them given that he and his father were expected to make several ceremonial appearances for the holidays, but even that little window had been more than enough to prove everything Hermione had already known; that he was smart, considerate, charming, and well-mannered. David and Helen were happy to believe their daughter had a thoughtful boyfriend and good-hearted friends in both Daphne and Harry, and by the time they'd tearfully boarded a plane back to California, Hermione had all but discarded the shrapnel of minutiae that had held her back in the first place.
The commencement of her second term, unsurprisingly, stood in sharp contrast to the start of her first one. She understood now why Daphne had been so reluctant to leave the bar that first night she'd spent at Hogwarts; seeing the rest of the group after some time apart was like waking from a strange, half-paralyzed dream to suddenly realize she didn't know what the rest of her limbs had been up to while she slept. What did they do when she wasn't there? Did they really even exist without each other? And what happened, as she had asked Blaise, when he had no one to assign points to? ("Do not," Blaise replied idly, "ask my lovers.")
Theo, meanwhile, had looked pleasantly unsurprised to see her. "Ah, yes, you look familiar," he'd remarked upon swiping Daphne's beer. "Don't I know you from somewhere? Did we possibly share a taxi at some point?"
The major distinction had been the presence of Tracey Davis, who was about as much a houseplant as Theo had once described. "Oh, hi," she'd said, shaking hands with Hermione and then disappearing into the wallpaper of the Hog's Head. (Just kidding. She didn't disappear, but, well… safe to say Hermione didn't think of her much, aside from marveling that someone could be quite so gloriously blonde.)
Draco had returned the night before classes, appearing in the threshold of their new flat with his hood pulled low over his face.
"Hello," he'd said, right before Hermione had pulled him in by the lapel of his jacket, half-throwing her arms around his neck. "My goodness," he managed, stumbling into her, "did you miss me or something?"
"Or something," Hermione agreed, and dragged him directly to her bedroom, not quite in the mood for whatever restrained little dance he might have otherwise had planned.
Sex that night was exactly unlike the sex they'd had the night before she left. For one thing, there was no reverent disrobing; she'd barely managed to shimmy out of her yoga pants before Draco was reaching for her hips, fingers digging tightly into them while he dropped to his knees, maneuvering her back against some poor blameless piece of furniture. She stayed there—half-sitting half-standing against the desk with her knuckles white on the edge of the wood, one of her legs shoved up and over Draco's shoulder—while he went down on her for what could have been little more than a handful of minutes, by which point she was shoving his head away with a too-loud moan, proceeding to straddle him on the floor. Oh yes, the floor. On the place meant only for shoes, furniture, and existential crises, Hermione Granger tugged the Prince of England's jeans down to his knees and artlessly climbed on top of him, satisfying a sudden intense need to see him from a different angle. What did he look like when he had his eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched, head flat against the floorboards, a single blooming petal of profanity slipping out between his lips? What happened to him when she did this, or that, or (cut to a whisper in his ear: Do the noble girls touch you like I do, Your Highness?) and if she did all those things she wanted to—if she dared—would he melt at her touch; would he cry out at the feel of her; would he lose himself completely?
Yes.
The answer was yes.
They fell into a habit of not speaking. Which wasn't to say it was all sex all the time, because it wasn't (they kept to their tradition of Friday nights in the library and say what you will about Hermione Granger, but she never turned down an academic argument)—but it was certainly a process of tacet agreement not to speak about certain things, at the very least.
It was a collective surrender, a la: Well, we don't have to talk about feelings just now, do we? So let's not. "I'm not going to say it," for example, was what he whispered in her ear while he was inside her. "Not now. Not yet."
The absence of the sentiment drove Hermione crazy in the best way. She'd never said the words before and meant it, so the distinction in circumstance (meaning it, but not having to say it) was, put frankly, ideal. There was a mutual understanding that if one of them ever said it, everything would then become real.
Neither of them wanted to admit there was a veritable mountain of reasons they couldn't be together. Provided neither of them ventured into that territory, though, the troublesome landscape was easily circumvented. If neither of them said it, then there was nothing wrong with sneaking out in the middle of the night to see each other. It was perfectly fine that they had to keep their distance in public. It was even acceptable that he secretly had his hands up her shirt in the library stacks so long as nobody was looking and nobody was claiming to be in love. Love was candlelit dinners. Anniversaries. Public declarations. Grand gestures. Whatever they were doing was… not. It was tiny gestures, actually, like his fingertip writing the word tonight? on her leg, under the table, out of sight. Whatever they were, it was summed up with her reply yes please, scrawled with a fingernail into the flat of his waiting palm.
It helped that almost nobody asked them to talk about it. Theo and Blaise were notoriously tight-lipped about anything having to do with Draco's personal life, having long been practiced at a clever technique of silence. Daphne's curiosities were helpfully playful. She was eager to know the details of Draco's sexual prowess, not how many children he wanted or whether he'd lent any thought to Hermione's future career. Harry teased her or Draco sometimes, as Harry was wont to do, but he wasn't around often enough to really grasp the details of their arrangement.
The only exception was Pansy, though it was a very slight exception. She said very little. In fact, "Careful," had been the only word out of her mouth the first night Hermione had crept back to the flat from Draco's room. Hermione had the distinct impression Pansy had been waiting there for hours, hair perfectly coiffed and makeup done, just waiting for Hermione to arrive home in her typical walk-of-shame squalor.
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, playing at something far too guilty to be innocence, and Pansy had pursed her lips.
"You know what I mean," she'd said, returning to the pages of her book and resolutely saying nothing further until Hermione had finally given up, throwing her hands in the air and aiming herself toward the shower.
In retrospect, Hermione would realize just how flagrantly she hadn't taken Pansy's advice. In fairness to her, though, happiness had something of a blinding effect. Too much of it was like staring into direct sunlight. Try looking at literally anything else for a minute, her brain might have requested politely, but such a thing was always easier said than done.
They'd been at it ('it' being whatever it was that wasn't officially love and certainly wasn't a 'relationship') for nearly a month before trouble started to show itself. Until then, everything had been dangerously idyllic. Hermione was taking another class with Slughorn—who was, unfortunately, one of the more specialized professors, and therefore harder to avoid amid the upper level literature courses—but really quite enjoying her courseload. She was gradually fighting her way out of her point deficit in Blaise's game (she'd been given one hundred thousand points for returning, but the initial loss was apparently nonnegotiable). She and Pansy were probably friends (always hard to tell with Pansy) and she and Daphne were closer than ever (even with the time Daphne spent working on her portfolio for an art class and Hermione spent with Draco).
Later, Hermione would think of that month as the Golden Age, and she would remember the precise moment the age had met its end. Draco had arrived at their flat with a weekender bag slung over his shoulder, looking positively delighted with himself.
"I have to be in London on Monday," he'd explained, "and everyone thinks I've already left. I can stay all weekend," he clarified emphatically, before sparing her a grin so broad it looked like one of the ones Harry might have trademarked. "It's genius."
"Yes," Hermione agreed, half-laughing as she beckoned him inside. "Galileo, Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking, Prince Draco of Wales—"
"Don't mock me," he growled with a kiss to her lips before glancing up to find Pansy eyeing him beneath an arched brow. "Oh, and you, don't do the thing—"
"What thing, pray tell?" she prompted airily, taking a sip from a glass of blush wine that perfectly matched her dress and flipping a page in that month's British Vogue. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Draco."
"Hey," Daphne said, bounding into the living room. "Did I hear correctly? Are we finally having a slumber party with the Prince of Wales?"
"Yes," Pansy confirmed before Hermione could answer, "and Harry, too."
"Harry?" Hermione asked, surprised. "I didn't know he was coming this weekend."
"It's Theo's birthday on Tuesday," Draco and Pansy supplied in unison, and Daphne and Hermione both blinked.
"I didn't know it was Theo's birthday," Daphne said, frowning to herself. "Is this something that happens every year?"
"I sort of thought maybe Theo wasn't born," Hermione remarked. "Doesn't he seem like he just… manifested from nothing?"
"Yes, just popped out fully-formed, like Athena," Daphne agreed, and Draco laughed.
"He doesn't care for the attention much," he explained with a shrug, leaning against the counter beside Pansy. "Says he wants recognition for his actual accomplishments, like getting out of bed every morning."
"That," Pansy agreed, flipping another page, "and because his father doesn't celebrate it."
To that, an uncomfortable silence fell over the room.
"I was leaving that bit out, Pans," Draco eventually said with a pained expression, and Pansy shrugged.
"Well, one of them was bound to accidentally mention it," she pointed out, glancing between Daphne and Hermione. "This one," she said, gesturing carelessly to Hermione, "was almost certainly going to make a fuss, wasn't she?"
"I—" Hermione frowned. "Well, yes, but—what do you mean Theo's father doesn't celebrate his birthday?" she demanded, succumbing to a sudden violent opposition. "Theo's his only son!"
"Well," Daphne said, chewing her words slightly, "Theo's mother. She, um. She died," she explained slowly, not looking at any of them. It seemed she was busy sorting something out for herself, and in the absence of any further clarification, Draco gently took the reins.
"Theo's mum died in childbirth," Draco explained to Hermione. "So naturally it's a bit of… mixed emotions. But as I said, he doesn't make a big deal of it, and—"
There was a knock at the door, cutting him off.
"Come in," Hermione called, and Blaise slid the door open, poking his head in.
"Oh, good," Daphne exhaled, looking vastly relieved. "I thought for a second you were—"
"Oi," Theo called from behind Blaise, following him inside with his laptop tucked under one arm. "Listen, we have a problem. Blaise and I were just—" He paused, registering their guiltily averted gazes at his entrance. "What were you lot talking about?" he asked suspiciously.
There was a brief, awkward pause in which the rest of the room struggled to collectively invent a topic of conversation, all of them failing rather spectacularly until Pansy drained her glass, rising to her feet.
"The problem," Pansy announced on their behalf, "is that there's far too many people coming and going in this flat. You're all much too entitled."
"Yes, so true. Minus ten to Theo for not calling first," Blaise agreed.
"What? This was your idea," Theo told him indignantly. "You said we had to come straight away—"
"Theodore, please," Blaise sniffed. "Do you have a reason for this intrusion?"
"Blaise, what the—you know what? Never mind. Look," Theo said, nudging Daphne aside to settle himself on the sofa, propping his laptop open. "Look at this," Theo beckoned, gesturing, and Daphne's mouth tightened as she leaned over, a look of hastily stifled distress coming over her features.
"Oh, um. Pans," Daphne called, voice strained with false pleasantry. "Could you take a look, please?"
"What's going on?" Hermione asked, watching Pansy lean over to take one glance at Theo's screen before promptly lurching away, lips immediately taking on their most authoritative formation. "Blaise," Hermione growled at him. "Speak."
"It's really easier to grasp if you see it," Blaise demurred with a delicate cough, eyeing his fingernails, and in the absence of any further explanation, Draco came around the other side of the coffee table, wearily pressing his hand to his mouth.
"Oh no," he exhaled into his palm.
"What is it?" Hermione demanded, her voice half-shrill with ambiguous dread, and Theo slowly turned his laptop to face her.
The words were in bright, glaring pink type, settled beneath a picture of Hermione that had obviously been taken with a cell phone, catching her entirely unaware. She calculated the timing of the picture quickly, eyeing her own clothes; it had been taken a few days prior, probably in one of her literature classes. The headline IS THIS PRINCE DRACO'S NEW GIRLFRIEND?! screeched beneath the image, and Hermione blinked, startled.
"This doesn't look like a newspaper," were the first words she managed, though she was dismayed to hear how steady her voice wasn't.
"That's because it isn't," Theo confirmed, looking troubled. "A student took this."
"A student," Hermione echoed, stunned. "Which one?"
"It's anonymous," Pansy noted from the edge of the sofa, folding her arms over her chest. "It could have been anyone."
"But there's no proof of anything," Daphne inserted quickly, jumping to her usual comforting optimism. "Right? It's just speculation, that's all. Nothing to worry about."
"Er," Blaise said.
"BLAISE," Pansy snapped, glaring expectantly at him, and he winced.
"Minus five for yelling," he ventured uncomfortably, "but, um. Perhaps look at the threads."
"Threads?" Hermione repeated, her voice a tepid squeak. "Plural?"
Theo grudgingly clicked a button, prompting hundreds of posts to reveal themselves beneath the initial caption. In seeing the spidery web of comments emerge, Hermione slowly moved forward, reaching for the laptop and picking it up to read the screen.
Wait, I was in that Slughorn class! She was ALWAYS looking at him. Do you think she was after him from day one?
Hermione flinched, scrolling down.
I thought she was going back to whatever school she goes to. They must be dating if she stayed, right?
Now that I think about it, she's in the Slytherin dorms a lot and she doesn't live there anymore.
No. Way. NO WAY he's dating her. Have you seen her?
WAIT OMFG I just remembered that article! astoria greengrass said draco cheated on her AT HOGWARTS, didn't she? IS THIS WHO HE WAS SLEEPING WITH? yikes
Hermione swallowed hard, glancing at Draco briefly before continuing. This wasn't good for either of them, but she was mostly focused on the damage to him—that is, until she kept reading.
Check her facebook. She has pictures with her parents outside Buckingham Palace from less than a month ago—how serious is this?
Omg her facebook is so lame wow does she even have friends
yesssss good detective work guys lol. quick what's her sign
she's a virgo
I was joking you twat. but also lmao, figures
For the first time that Hermione could remember, she thought about what was on her Facebook. What was her profile picture? Oh, shit. She pressed a hand to her temple, realizing it was a picture of her with her parents—in front of her house. A handful of students judging her appearance or hating on her from afar was one thing, but what would happen if the British press got wind of her personal information? Her name? Her family?
Luckily that hadn't happened yet, she reminded herself. And really, why would it? Hermione forced herself to take a deep breath, figuring she was overreacting. It was just a college blog, after all. Just an unsubstantiated blog, made up of anonymous comments and no facts. The whole thing would blow over.
She looked up at Draco, not wanting to say out loud: it would blow over, wouldn't it?
In response, he gave her an unreadable look, hesitating. His hands were still; no clue there. Maybe he didn't know. Was it possible he didn't know?
Then, abruptly, his phone rang, jarring them all back to consciousness as he glanced down at the screen.
"It's my father," Draco said, toneless, and rose to his feet as Hermione's limbs abruptly went numb. "I have to take this. Hermione, may I—?"
"Yeah, sure," she managed, waving him towards her bedroom, and he strode into it without another word, shutting the door behind him.
For a moment, there was silence.
"Don't say anything," Daphne warned Pansy, who was perching stiffly at the end of the sofa.
"Oh, I wasn't going to," Pansy said, eyeing Hermione. "She knows."
And she did.
Careful, Pansy had said.
Hermione had not been careful.
This, she supposed, was about to be the price.
"The Inquisitorial Squad?" Harry echoed that night at the Hog's Head, frowning at the banner across the blog from where he was eyeing his phone screen. "Dumb name." He shrugged, putting the phone back in his pocket. "It'll pass."
"Will it?" Hermione squeaked doubtfully in reply. "All Draco said to me before he had to leave for London was 'take down that picture,' which doesn't really sound like it'll pass—"
"You should disable your Facebook account," Pansy advised, taking a sip of her wine. "Easiest that way."
"But wouldn't that, like… confirm things?" Hermione asked apprehensively. She'd already been chewing relentlessly on her thumbnail until Pansy had swatted her hand away. "If I just ignore it, it'll go away, right?"
"Ha," scoffed Pansy. At Harry's look of warning, she sighed. "I mean, sure. Maybe."
"Let's change the subject," Daphne cut in, reaching over to place a hand on Hermione's arm. "Everything's fine, okay? It's just some gossip, that's all. It's going to be thoroughly mortifying for a bit, but then everyone will simply find something else to talk about."
"How did you find the blog?" Harry asked Blaise, who shrugged.
"I like to be informed," Blaise replied simply, as if that were answer enough. "And also," he explained to their skeptical glances, "I'd heard someone had some remarks about the shirt I wore to class last Thursday, which was frankly unacceptable."
"Minus forty points," Theo noted, reading aloud from one of the replies before looking up from his phone, lofting a brow. "I take it that was you, Zabini?"
From Blaise, curtly: "I have no idea how you would even begin to know that."
From Pansy: "Wait, I remember that shirt. Wasn't it silk? Purple silk?"
From Daphne, thoughtfully: "Really more of a mauve, actually."
From Theo, still reading the blog's threads: "The problem seems to be less that it was a purple silk shirt and more that it was unbuttoned to your sternum."
Blaise, stiffly: "You say problem, I say alluring invitation. And anyway, Greengrass is right—it's mauve. Minus five points for inaccuracy, Theodore."
Hermione: "If it helps, I thought that shirt looked rather beguiling on you, Blaise."
Harry, in an undertone: "You're just saying that to get points, aren't you?"
Hermione, innocently: "What? No—"
Blaise: "She is, and it's working. Plus ten for the new Tracey Davis!"
From Tracey Davis, across the room: "Sorry, Blaise, did you say something?"
Blaise, over his shoulder: "IT'S VERY RUDE TO INTERRUPT, TRACEY DAVIS. MINUS TEN."
From Tracey Davis, nonplussed: "Minus ten what?"
Blaise, turning back around with disgust: "Well, she's positively hopeless. Anyway, what were we saying?"
Hermione, with a sigh: "Oh, please don't make me think about it again."
Daphne, hastily: "Yes, true, let's move on. Onwards and upwards."
Harry, after a sip of whisky: "Well, you're all perfectly welcome to discuss me, if you prefer."
Pansy, with latent dismay: "Who are you allegedly romancing this week, Henry?"
Harry, smugly: "Twins."
Pansy: "We are not discussing that. End of story."
Blaise, with palpable disappointment: "Oh, come on—"
Daphne: "Actually, I agree with Pansy. Nott, is there anything you'd like to share with the class?"
Theo, with his beer halfway to his mouth: "What?"
Hermione, gleefully: "Yes, Theo. Anything new in your life?"
Theo, warily: "Uh-uh. No way. I sense a trap."
Daphne: "It's not a trap, you goon. Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?"
Harry, with a laugh: "Who, Theo? He wasn't born. He manifested."
Hermione: "It still would've happened on a day, Harry."
Theo: "Not if time's a construct. Which it very firmly is."
Blaise: "Ooh. Five points. Very meta."
Daphne: "Hello? We're discussing Theo's birthday?"
Theo, loftily: "No, actually, we aren't."
Hermione: "Theo—"
Pansy: "Frankly, I hardly need an excuse not to celebrate Theodore. There's so little to applaud."
Daphne, aghast: "Pansy!"
Theo: "See, Greengrass? That's true friendship. Why can't you be thoughtful and sympathetic like Pansy?"
Pansy, with grave severity: "A question I ask everyone several times a day."
Theo and Daphne continued to bicker quietly (or not-so-quietly) about whether or not it had been a loathsome betrayal of their friendship for him not to alert her of his birthday, which evidently had not even been a matter for discussion the previous year. Hermione, meanwhile, was beginning to notice that people around the room were looking at her. Necks were decidedly craning. Brows were definitely arching. Eyes were certainly narrowing. All sorts of actions were invading her sense of security and she could feel herself growing smaller, wondering firstly whether people were taking photos of her on their iPhones and secondly, whether she would ever know for sure. She slumped down in her chair, broodily pulling her pint towards her, and Harry glanced over from the rest of the group's conversation, catching her reticence.
"You know," he murmured to her, "you don't have to play their game."
"Don't I?" Hermione asked sulkily. "I never asked to be part of the game. I'm just here, playing against my will. Like Blaise's game," she added, perfectly aware she was pouting unreasonably, "only infinitely worse, because there's no winning."
"Well, that's not entirely true," Harry said, and then considered something before holding his hand out for hers. "Come on," he beckoned, rising to his feet as she stared up at him with confusion. "What? Just come with me."
"But—Harry, they're just going to—"
"Talk? Yes, Hermione. They are." He swept her up in a single motion, nudging her chair back with his foot in the same languid effort of pulling her into his arms. "Come on," he said, sashaying backwards with her, "we're dancing."
Hermione sighed, permitting herself to be dragged. "Harry—"
"They're going to talk, so give them something to talk about. Why let it be the truth?" he prompted, giving her hips a nudge and spinning her under his arm. "They want a show?" he asked, tugging her into his chest, "Then give them a show." His lips were close to her ear, his voice low, the familiar hint of jasmine lifting her spirits just slightly. "Do you honestly think I'm fucking a pair of twins just for the hell of it? Even I am not so dastardly, Hermione."
She blinked, letting him lead her on a set of steps far too complicated for the song that was playing (which was, in fact, Bad Romance by Lady Gaga—perhaps too fitting).
"Don't play their game," Harry said again in her ear, "play mine. Do you think Rita Skeeter has any idea I've been spending most of my time lying alone in bed thinking about the only girl in the world I can't have? Not to be too full of myself, that is," he assured her, giving her another elaborate spin. "I'm sure there are one or two other uninterested parties," he said with a grin, "but it's presently unclear who they are."
Hermione swallowed hard, glancing up at him with surprise. "What are you saying, Harry?"
"Hm? Oh, nothing you don't already know. Certainly nothing important. The point is, people are going to try to create a narrative for you," Harry said firmly. "If you're Draco, you're going to spend all your time trying to control it—trying to paint a picture so perfect nobody sees your flaws, and hey, that works for him. But seeing as nobody but him could possibly live that way for long, I suggest you try something different." He slid a hand around her waist and let her fall into his arms, catching her just before she might have hit the ground. "Someone got a photo of me with two lovely friends I happen to know, and now I'm suddenly Prince Harry, shameless romancer of twins. Is that unflattering? Maybe." He spun her back upwards, tucking a curl behind her ear. "But at least nobody knows what's real. That's the one thing they can't take from you, you know."
"What is?" Hermione asked, a little breathless, and Harry smiled at her.
"Your truth," he said firmly, and then swept her a bow, brushing his lips softly against her knuckles.
Okay, so. This girl is a total slag, right? Look at these pictures with Prince Harry!
How many people is she sleeping with?!
She spends a lot of time with Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, too. Look, you can see them in the background of all those photos.
Could be a ruse, maybe? The timing is a little suspicious. Besides, everybody knows how Harry is
Do you guys think she's found this blog yet?
Oh, DEFINITELY. nearly everything's been deleted from her facebook
I can't decide if I'm jealous of her or if I just loathe her
Both? Both is good.
"Stop reading that nonsense, would you?" Daphne sighed, coming up behind Hermione and giving her a nudge. "You're going to drive yourself mad."
"I already am," Hermione grumpily replied.
The weeks following her little outing with Harry hadn't been particularly successful. On the one hand, people had been scrutinizing her relationship with Draco slightly less, but their coverage of her day-to-day life was positively brutal. She barely left the flat anymore, and when she did, it was purely to go to class. She no longer ventured anywhere near the Slytherin dorms. She took all her meals back to the flat rather than sitting around the dining hall. Draco came by from time to time, but his father had suggested spending less time at Hogwarts until the buzz from The Inquisitorial Squad died down, and it seemed to be advice he was more than willing to follow.
"You can't let them win," Daphne said, sitting down beside her, but Hermione moodily didn't answer. She wasn't exactly trying to let them take over her life, was she? She was just… unused to the attention. Hiding out seemed to be the best option, assuming at some point they'd eventually leave her alone. "Look," Daphne continued, "we should do something. Maybe you and I should take a trip away. With Pansy?"
"I suppose we could go to Theo's house again," Hermione noted glumly. "He mentioned it as an option."
"Oh, um. Well." Daphne looked away. "Sure, maybe. I do have a lot of work to do for Professor Davies, so will have to see, but—"
"Daph, it was your idea," Hermione said, frowning at her. "And who is this professor you're always talking about?"
"Hm? Oh, Professor Davies? I had him for drawing last term," Daphne said, not quite looking at Hermione. "I told you, he said I had potential, remember?"
"Of course he did," Hermione said, parroting her mother. "Because you do."
"Right, yes, whatever," Daphne said, waving a hand. "Point is, he's asked me to flesh out my portfolio a bit more. No pun intended," she added wryly, sparing Hermione a smirk. "So… maybe not Theo's house. But something," she said, suddenly emphatic, and Hermione frowned.
"You've been weird about Theo," Hermione mused. "Weirder than usual."
She was realizing she probably should have caught the signs earlier and kicked herself for being so focused on The Inquisitorial Squad. Since Theo's birthday, in fact, Daphne had been in a weird, almost paranoid state, jumping slightly every time Theo's name was mentioned. It was as if any mention of him was somehow also a well-oiled mousetrap.
"Did something happen between you two?" Hermione asked carefully, and Daphne, who had already been looking elsewhere for the majority of the conversation, was now particularly loath to meet Hermione's eye.
"Nothing," Daphne said, and to Hermione's impatient scowl of disbelief, she sighed. "Just—I don't know. The usual." She cleared her throat, eyeing her hands. "A moment."
"A moment?" Hermione echoed doubtfully. "This is 'usual'?"
"Well, yes," Daphne said, her cheeks fluorescently bright. "You know how he is."
"Actually, I don't," Hermione reminded her, rolling her eyes. "He's not hopelessly in love with me, Daph, as you seem to regularly forget—"
"He's not in love with me." At that, Daphne's voice was sharp, prickly, pained. "He can't be. He's just… he doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't realize I'm not… I'm not what he thinks I am. I'm. I don't deserve to—" She exhaled, suddenly rocketing to her feet. "Look. The point is I have a lot of work to do, and—oh, good," Daphne sighed with relief as the front door opened. "Pansy's here!"
Pansy paused in the doorway, frowning at them. "Nobody ever reacts that way to me arriving," she determined flatly, setting her keys down on the table beside the door. "What've you done?"
"Nothing," Daphne said quickly, bounding over to her. "Hermione's reading the blog again."
It was a shameless attempt to change the subject (and thereby excuse herself from talking about Theo), but even Hermione knew there was a 0% chance it was going to fail. She let out a groan, and immediately, Pansy rounded on her.
"What did I say—"
"She's trying to distract you," Hermione growled, angling an accusatory finger at Daphne from across the room. "Daphne Greengrass, you get back here—"
"Oh," Pansy said tartly. "Is this about Theo, then?"
"No," Daphne insisted, hoisting her chin up in defiance. "Actually, Hermione was asking about my professor, and then she went off on a totally ill-advised tangent—"
"Is this that new art teacher?" Pansy asked, folding her arms over her chest. "His name's something horrid, isn't it? Frederick? Rupert?"
"Roger," Daphne supplied, rolling her eyes, "and speaking of him, I have to get to office hours, so I should probably go." She picked up her keys, dangling them in front of Hermione, and scooped up her portfolio with one hand. "Conversation over, love. Kisses!" she added shrilly, before disappearing into the corridor without her coat.
Pansy watched her go, frowning to herself. "Hm. Well, that was… odd."
"Do you know anything about that professor?" Hermione asked, and Pansy shook her head.
"Only that he's inordinately handsome," she replied with disinterest, waving a hand. "Maybe our little Daphne's got a crush."
"She does have a crush," Hermione muttered in agreement. "Only it's on Theo Nott."
"Ah, well, I wouldn't expect anything to come of that anytime soon, if Theodore's incessant glowering is any indication," Pansy noted, rummaging through her purse for a bit of hand cream before spying Hermione's laptop screen. "And she wasn't lying, was she? You are reading that blog again."
"I just…" Hermione trailed off with a sigh as Pansy promptly shut the screen, pursing her lips impatiently. "It's hard not to, okay?"
"Understandable," Pansy permitted, lifting her chin. "But still, stupid."
Hermione groaned, rubbing her forehead. "Can you help me?" she asked hopefully, wincing a little as Pansy arched a brow, apparently amused by the request. "You're always so… you know. Above everything. How can I do that?"
"You can't," Pansy said, voice clipped. "Other people could, but not you. I told you," she added. "Remember? That first night, I told you."
He's a job, and you're unqualified to hold it.
Hermione blinked, startled by the reminder. "But I thought—" She cleared her throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "I thought you'd warmed up to me a little since then. Silly me," she added, and Pansy sighed heavily, sitting in the chair where Daphne had been.
"This isn't about my feelings on you, Hermione. It simply is what it is. You're unprepared to deal with the scrutiny, the expectations. It's something learned from birth."
"But—"
"And to be clear, I never said I was qualified, either," Pansy told her, surprising Hermione with something that felt rather like sincerity. "I would never, ever consider being romantically involved with either Draco or Harry, specifically because I have never wanted this sort of speculation. I grew up with them," she said again, and though it was perhaps the thousandth time Hermione had heard her say so, the words seemed to mean something different this time. "I watched them learn how to cope with it, and I knew right away I could never do what they did. It's hard enough to be liked by friends, by people in your real life, without adding strangers to the mix. Believe it or not," Pansy added drily, "I am not particularly adored. I never wanted to be involved with them because I knew, even when we were small, I would never be liked the way they were liked."
It had never occurred to Hermione that Pansy might have ever been a child, much less a child with any insecurities. She found herself speechless in response.
"The woman Draco eventually marries will be tough," Pansy continued in her silence. "Thick-skinned. Impenetrable. She'll have a faultless background—the right birth, the right opinions, the right sense of style. She'll be virginal and kind and easy to love."
She paused, correctly guessing Hermione's insides were twisting with incomprehensible anguish at the thought of Draco's imaginary future wife, and locked eyes with her.
"She will be perfect in a way neither you nor I could ever hope to be," Pansy told Hermione, not unkindly, "and that is simply what will be. Even Harry's wife—whoever that poor unfortunate girl is," she muttered in an undertone, "will be the type of woman who can watch the newspaper headlines throwing her to the flames and still not bat an eye."
It was hard to imagine such a person existing at all, but at the moment, the idea that Pansy had ever lent any thought to who Draco or Harry would end up with was somewhat more intriguing. "Do you," Hermione began, and faltered, unsure how to ask. "Did you ever… have feelings for one of them?" she asked tentatively. "Romantically, I mean?"
Pansy shook her head, apparently repulsed by the thought. "No. I was around them when they were first discovering their pricks, Hermione, so no, definitely not. But sometimes I do think I envy the women they will ultimately choose, because I know I'm not it." She seemed genuinely saddened when she added, "It's nothing personal, Hermione. I don't dislike you. I don't think you lack any value whatsoever. I simply know you will never be Prince Lucius' choice, and therefore you can never be Draco's. I thought you might listen to me, though, and that maybe I could spare you… all this."
She finished with a wave of a hand over the laptop, and Hermione gradually managed a nod, swallowing back a lump in her throat.
"Either way, you can't let it keep you from living your life," Pansy said, admonishing Hermione with something almost like gentleness. "You can't keep hiding here. It's one thing for me to know you're moping," she added drily, rising to her feet, "but it's another to let them think you're weak."
"But I'm—" Hermione grimaced. "I'm just… I don't know what to do," she admitted, and Pansy sighed.
"Well, as someone who is often photographed in royal proximity, I've found it wiser to have no social media," Pansy said, and Hermione nodded glumly. "I also keep to a relatively predictable schedule. Easier," Pansy explained with a shrug. "They get what they came to see and then they leave me alone. I also do very mundane things in public—they get their pictures only to discover nobody cares."
Hermione nodded again, grasping the point. "Thanks."
"No problem." Pansy turned, about to head into her bedroom, and then backed up, resting a hand on the counter beside Hermione. "One more piece of advice, if you'll take it. Call Draco," she suggested, and Hermione glanced up with a frown, surprised. "You need help, don't you? He'll help you. If you ask for him, he'll do everything he can to come," Pansy assured her. "Prince or not, that's the kind of man he is."
She rested a hand briefly on Hermione's forearm before apparently determining it entirely too much contact for her liking, leaving the room in a swirl of Chanel and the predictable pattern of her supermodel strides. Hermione stared after her, shaking her head, and then picked up her phone, dialing Draco's number.
Voicemail. Ouch.
"Hi," she ventured uncertainly, "it's me… um. Hermione, I mean. I just—" She cradled her face in her hands, already appalled with herself. "I don't know. I don't really know why I'm calling, I just… I wanted to hear your voice? I don't know. It's been… tough." She winced. "Look, just pretend I didn't call. Jesus," she admonished herself under her breath, shaking her head. "Sorry. Okay, bye."
She hung up, letting the phone fall in her lap.
"Nice work," she muttered to herself, wondering if it would be worth it to cry. Probably not. Probably better to do something; to make something. She rose to her feet, considering the kitchen. Cookies? Cookies.
Cookies, she told herself firmly, and set herself about the kitchen, getting to work.
She opened the door a couple of hours later, swiping flour from her forehead and gaping in shock as Draco smiled warily from the threshold.
"May I come in?" he asked, and she nodded dumbly, stepping aside to permit him entry. "Smells nice," he noted, giving the air a testing sniff. "Looks a bit like you got into some sort of bakery-related heist, though," he added, brushing some of the flour from her face, and she grimaced.
"I'm not a fantastic baker," Hermione admitted. "But I was—"
"Hungry?" Draco guessed.
She didn't feel much like lying. "Sad," she admitted. "Frustrated. Lonely." She swallowed, shrugging. "Take your pick."
"Ah." He softened. "I thought as much." He reached out, curling a hand around her cheek. "Can we talk?"
She nodded, gesturing him towards her bedroom, and he settled himself on her bed as she closed the door behind her, wondering how best to begin speaking. "Listen, I know it's not your fault," she said carefully, "but not having you around recently has been kind of—"
"I'm afraid I've been a bit selfish," Draco cut in flatly, glancing down at his hands. "I knew perfectly well how hard it was for you here, and I confess it's weighed on my mind. But I saw those pictures of you with Harry, and I think I just—"
"What?" Hermione asked, blinking, and Draco looked up, knuckles clasped together.
"I have bad news," he said after a moment, and she fell into her desk chair, waiting. "My father is… displeased. To say the least." He fidgeted. "I'm sure you guessed as much."
She said nothing.
"He wants you to take down your social media," Draco said. "All of it." His gaze fell again. "I told him I couldn't ask you to change all the aspects of your personal life unless… unless he was willing to let our relationship go public." A long, unsettling pause. "He refused."
Hermione exhaled slowly, wanting to nod, but not quite able to manage it.
"On the one hand, I agree with him." Draco's expression was visibly pained. "It's quite a lot to go through, taking a relationship public, and I know it was… difficult, I suppose you could say, for my mother. It was partly the reason why she—well. It's just a lot." He took a deep breath. "I didn't want to expose you to all that quite yet, at least while everything is still so new. I mean, I haven't even told you how I—well. There's just so many things we haven't said, or done, and it's a lot. It felt too soon to me, but still, now that I know we can't—" A halted stumble. "I'm afraid I'm at a loss."
A wave of numbness washed over Hermione, chilling her to the tips of her toes.
"I don't want to be without you," Draco said slowly, "but knowing everything I'd have to ask of you, it feels quite wrong. It was rather devastating." He glanced at his hands. "And then I saw you with Harry, and I thought… maybe that would be better for her. Maybe that's what she wants."
"Draco," Hermione said, blinking, but he shook his head.
"If it is, Hermione, then please, consider it," he said flatly. "I would—" He glanced up, one hand rising to curl around his mouth. "I would hate it. I would hate it. But I couldn't face you knowing what I would have to ask of you, and—I know how well you and Harry get on, I've seen it myself. I couldn't possibly—"
"Draco, would you shut up," Hermione said, launching to her feet and startling him. "Please," she amended. "Would you close your royal mouth and listen to me for a second?"
He stared at her, caught off guard, and she took advantage of his silence. "It's you I want," she told him, frustrated he didn't already know as much. "I told you I could handle the secrecy, didn't I? I'm okay with it, really. The thing with Harry was just…" She waved a hand. "I was trying to sort out how to deal with all the attention, and it backfired. But if you'd been there," she pressed, reaching over to take his hand in hers. "If you'd been here, I would have been okay. I don't mind the secrets. I just… I want you," she told him firmly, and he softened regretfully, nodding.
"I just don't want to go through this alone," she finished, glancing down at his fingers where they laced with hers around the coiled snake ring, and he took hold of her chin with his free hand, tipping it up to look at her.
"You're right," he said. "I was selfish, and I'm sorry." He leaned towards her, brushing his lips softly against hers. "I left you here with the wolves," he murmured, "and I didn't even realize what I'd done until I heard how miserable you sounded in your message."
"I don't think I even realized how unhappy I was until I called," Hermione admitted, leaning her forehead against his. "But Pansy pointed out I was looking for advice from everyone except the one person whose help I really wanted."
"I'm so sorry, Hermione." He kissed her again, deeply this time, the little sob she'd been fighting suddenly hopping up to her throat, making an untimely appearance as he pulled her closer. "Truly, I'm so sorry—"
It became evident sooner rather than later that the conversation was transitioning elsewhere, Draco's hands sliding under her shirt to her ribs as she gladly shifted beneath him, grateful he was there, and real, and touching her with the fierceness she'd so painfully been missing. Let them say what they wanted, she thought, so long as he was the boy in her bed. So long as it was Draco kissing his way down her torso, pressing his lips to the little indentations of her, then let them say whatever they wanted to about her.
It was an easy thing to believe when she was touching him. For Hermione, touch was a romance language, and Draco spoke it like the honeyest poetry. There were never any awkward lags, no hitches of hesitation. How could she feel alone when she was in his arms? How could she want for anything when he was filling up her little vacancies, in the most literal sense? Let her carry her insecurity between the blades of her shoulders, and let his fingertips banish it away. Let her many thoughts of inadequacies fill her worried mind, and then let his little eroticisms drive her to distraction. The masculinity of him, all lined and lean. The way he tasted clean and touched her filthy. The way his hands looked on her breasts. The meandering veins and tunnels of his arms, carved around his muscle. He could have chosen any bed. Any girl. Any place to spend the night. But he was here, and for that, each punctuating motion of his hips meeting hers was a triumph; it was enough, enough, enough.
It was only when they were finished that she realized they hadn't actually said anything at all.
"I won't say it yet," he whispered to her, and however reverently he didn't say it, for the first time, it felt like a slightly hollow sentiment. "Not now. Today, after I've disappointed both of us? No," he said, kissing her fingers and shaking his head. "Some other time."
She nodded, unable to speak.
They never said anything, she realized. They hadn't fought. They never argued because they never talked. Because so long as neither of them called it what it was, they never had to fight for it. They would never fight for anything—and why would they have to? He still didn't confess to everything, and neither did she. If anything, their pattern was still to hold their feelings in and then confess. It was apology without explosion. It could never be damage unchecked, and true, maybe that made things easier—but if that were the case, then how easy would it be to fade away to nothing?
"Me too," Hermione told him hoarsely, running her fingers through his hair, and wondered how long saying nothing could possibly keep them satisfied.
About a week later, Hermione had finally recovered enough from The Inquisitorial Squad unearthing an old LiveJournal she'd had in high school to show her face again, though it was hard not to be aware how many people in her midst had read her angsty poetry from the time she'd been in love with a boy on the soccer team. The internet, she was learning, was an absolute trove of things she rather wished would die. It was like wandering around in a terrible cemetery, only it was full of the emotional zombies and absent any particular aesthetic.
Still, she'd drug herself up, trying to follow Pansy's advice ("make some appearances or they'll simply hunt you down") along with Draco's ("don't let them keep you from doing the things that make you happy, or you'll lose everything worth holding onto") and a bit of Harry's ("fix your hair a bit," he'd said, promptly tousling it to utter mismanaged chaos).
"Ah, she's back among the living," Theo noted with a little bite of irony, shoving his things aside. Hermione had appeared beside him in the library without a word, glancing sheepishly at Pansy and Blaise. "Pity that means I'll actually have to study."
"Oh, stop," Hermione said, though she gave him a grateful nudge as he grinned. "Hiding wasn't doing me any good, so I figured showing up couldn't be any worse."
"That's certainly true," Pansy agreed, aiming a pen in Hermione's direction without looking up. "This is an indisputable improvement."
From Blaise: "Yes, ten points."
From Hermione, doubtfully: "For what?"
From Theo: "Courage in the face of adversity?"
Blaise: "Adversity? I don't know her."
From Pansy, sighing: "You're ridiculous."
Blaise, snottily: "No points for that. Unambiguous truths have value, Lady Parkinson, but not if you never make other attempts."
Pansy, not looking up: "I'd be marginally insulted if I could manage not to be entirely apathetic."
Hermione, laughing a little at Blaise's expression of dismay: "You're awfully philosophical today, Blaise."
Theo, in an undertone: "The Inquisitorial Squad was, unfortunately, highly unfair about his wardrobe. He's having his version of a meltdown."
Hermione, frowning: "What, they don't like the lavender paisley? That's criminal."
Blaise, ruthlessly: "That's what I said! Five points to the new Tracey Davis."
From Tracey Davis, a table over: "What?"
Blaise, glowering: "THIS IS A LIBRARY, TRACEY DAVIS. Honestly."
Pansy, rolling her eyes: "In any case, Blaise, I don't see why you care what that blog has to say. Nobody at this school has any taste."
Theo, astounded: "Is that… Pansy. Was that a compliment?"
Pansy, stiffly: "Absolutely not. I was including Blaise in that assessment."
Blaise, gloriously injured: "Harsh but fair. Add five, take ten."
Pansy: a shrug, apparently in agreement.
Theo, glancing around: "Have any of you seen Greengrass? I swear, she's been missing in action for days."
Hermione, thoughtfully: "She has been a bit distracted, I suppose."
In the moment—perhaps because Theo was searching so intently for Daphne—Hermione stopped to look around the room, immediately coming to regret the decision. The rumors about her clearly hadn't died down in the slightest, and though she'd intended to focus purely on studying, she found it was going to be difficult to do while knowing cell phones were making their way out of pockets. On Theo's other side, she caught the motion of someone raising a phone, aiming the zoom from where they sat, and Hermione froze, momentarily torn between abandoning her post and simply staring down at her screen, pretending she hadn't noticed.
"That's it," Blaise said flatly, catching Hermione's apprehensive glance and slamming his pen down. "I've had enough."
Hermione and Pansy looked up, startled, as Blaise launched himself out of his chair.
"Blaise, what are you—"
But before any of them could do anything, Blaise had reached across the table, taking hold of Theo's face and kissing him firmly, successfully blocking the shot of Hermione and reducing Theo himself to total incomprehensible sputtering, his eyes blown wide as Blaise affectionately smacked his cheek.
"There," Blaise said, falling back into his chair. "That should distract them for a bit. WE'RE IN LOVE," he added at top volume to the rest of the room. "PLEASE TELL NO ONE, THANKS."
"Jesus, Zabini," Theo said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Might've warned me?"
"I don't see why," Blaise sniffed. "I wanted your enjoyment to be authentic."
Theo grumbled something that sounded like "you shameless Casanova" under his breath and Hermione stared across the table at Blaise, blinking with surprise.
"Blaise," she ventured tentatively, "I'm not actually sure if I should thank you, but…"
"You know, I find it very upsetting you asked everyone but me for advice," Blaise cut in, not quite looking at her. "I'd have deducted points for merciless insult, frankly, but you seemed to have been going through a bit of a time and I'm not a monster, so—"
"And what would your advice have been?" Hermione prompted, half-laughing. "Kiss Theo?"
"Oi," Theo muttered, making a face. "Please don't."
"No," Blaise corrected loudly, glancing up at her. "If you'd asked me," he informed her without hesitation, "my advice would have been to trust your friends."
Internally, Hermione felt the stirrings of something; a memory being formed. Someday, she knew, she would know this was the precise moment she learned she mattered to Blaise Zabini, and furthermore, that he mattered to her. Because he was the sort of person who would kiss his own best friend without warning purely to start a rumor that would overshadow hers.
Later, she would discover a blissful three weeks wherein the primary rumor coverage from The Inquisitorial Squad was that Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott (both belonging to the notorious Bad Lads) were not only debaucherous bachelors to the vulgarest degree, but also torrid lovers. For three entire weeks, nobody would mention anything about Hermione's romantic life, and she would get a bit of peace. Eventually, of course, the rumor would be debunked—a girl who'd slept with Blaise discussed the intricacies of his sock drawer and someone else would also point out the obvious, i.e. that Theodore Nott was famously and hopelessly in love with Daphne Greengrass—but still, it was one of the greatest gifts anyone had ever given her. Later, Hermione would try again at making cookies, which Blaise would accept, and they would each have one while walking amicably to class, ranking all of his shirts from purplest to least purple.
But today she merely smiled at him, and he smiled back at her.
"Ten points," she said to him.
"Ten?" Blaise echoed, totally aggrieved. "You're terrible at this. You think I enjoyed that?" he asked, gesturing to Theo, who rubbed his forehead impatiently. "Do you know how much I know about Theo? And specifically, Theo's mouth? He exfoliates nothing, Hermione—"
"Fine," she sighed, cutting him off before he got into any gruesome details. "One hundred points."
"That's better," Blaise sniffed, and they all returned their attention to their work as something that was either laughter or a sneeze pulled at Pansy's lips, forcing her to leave the table.
It was nearing midterm exams by the time Hermione began to reconcile the constraints of her new normal. People looked at her, yes, but luckily, reports of her day-to-day activity from The Inquisitorial Squad were banal enough to more established gossip rags that nothing she did ever extended beyond the scope of Hogwarts. She began to get mildly comfortable with a certain amount of staring, recognizing that people would eventually look away once they realized there was nothing to see. She'd never been all that interesting, after all. She hung out with her friends, studied, went to class. That she would suddenly be interesting for her rumored proximity to a Prince felt ironic. Even that scandal, for as much as she enjoyed his company, wouldn't have given them much to talk about.
Is it serious? people had begun to ask.
He isn't dating anyone else
Maybe he's just not dating at all?
That's ridiculous. They're probably just being secretive.
Well he must not like her much if he's keeping it a secret. Maybe she's just got great tits or something
Uh, hello? Do you have eyes? She doesn't
She learned to ignore most of it. The tits commentary (among other such discussions) was the sort of thing she could easily brush off after a while. People seemed vaguely disappointed with her physicality, but there was nothing she could do about that (nothing she was willing to do, anyway). The only thing that still got her, though, was that she wasn't sure she knew any better than The Inquisitorial Squad did.
Was it serious between her and Draco?
"You're being quiet," Draco noted, looking up from his book. He was reading in her bed, shirtless. It was the sort of thing she usually found pleasantly distracting. In fact, Draco seemed tailor-made for all her particular kinks—though she wasn't sure 'reading' counted as a very interesting one. "Everything okay?"
She turned from where she'd been sitting at her desk and eyed him for a second.
He really was very handsome.
Upsettingly handsome, actually. A little slip of blond hair fell casually onto his forehead and he brushed it away, his forearm flexing slightly as his fingers moved. Ugh, his forearm. Why did he have such nice forearms?
She suddenly recalled that earlier that day he'd had the utter audacity to send her a love song. He sent her a fucking love song. He just texted it to her casually, like hey, this made me think of you, only it was an abominably adorable song and it had made her smile the whole time she listened to it, all the while thinking he heard this song and thought of me, and now here I am, smiling.
How dare he?
She paused, abruptly disgruntled.
How very fucking dare he?!
She got more agitated the longer she stared at him, wondering how to put her sudden influx of bewildering emotions into words. It was a mix of thoughts, really; all little bits and soundbytes of things that might have been reasonable on their own becoming something entirely unintelligible when it was thrown together. It was pieces of what if this ends and how am I supposed to exist in the world having known you and wait a minute, what IS this and oh my god I'm panicking STOP PANICKING and if this ends, fuck me, I am so fucked, how will any other boy ever measure up to what you are and holy almighty god I would marry this boy tomorrow, is that weird? Oh my god it's so weird and I HAVEN'T SPOKEN IN LIKE FIVE MINUTES WHAT AM I DOING HE PROBABLY THINKS I'M HAVING A GODDAMN STROKE—
"Uh," Draco said, and Hermione blinked.
"Shit," she whispered under her breath, and he frowned a little, setting the book aside.
"Hermione, if there's something you have t-"
"I love you," she blurted wildly, launching to her feet, and he froze, somewhere between surprise and… something more paralyzing than surprise. Shock? Unclear. "But hold on," she interrupted, her mouth apparently continuing on without her permission as his lips parted briefly, "because that's not what I want to talk about."
"I'm sorry," Draco said slowly, "you… don't want to talk about that?"
"No," Hermione confirmed irritably, pacing the floor of her bedroom. "You know what I want to talk about?"
"I genuinely have no idea," he confessed, shifting forward on the bed, "but somehow, I suspect you're going to tell m-"
"I danced with Harry," she reminded him flatly, folding her arms over her chest. "I danced with Harry, knowing how he felt about me, and you saw the pictures and you just… you told me you'd be fine with it?"
He gaped at her. "Hermione, I'm sorry if that upset you, but it's not my place to—"
"No. No." She was furiously shaking her head. "Nope, don't apologize to me. Fight with me," she said, glaring at him. "Did it upset you?"
"I—that's… Hermione, it would be unfair of me to—"
"No. Stop. No," she said, giving him a little shove and landing hard on the edge of the mattress to drop herself across from him. "I don't care if it's unfair, Draco," she said, slightly aware she'd ventured into mania. "Your feelings don't always have to be fair, okay? But I do have to know what they are!"
He stared at her.
Frowned.
And then, abruptly, "Did you honestly think I was going to be okay with it?" fell brusquely out of his mouth, an emotion she'd never seen before gradually taking shape on his face. "I felt terrible that I'd left you alone. I was in such a hurry to get back to you, and then I found out you were just…" He waved a hand, flailing slightly. "Gallivanting about with Harry! Doing perfectly fine! And you know I wish I could do everything Harry does," he accused her, brow furrowing. "You know that—"
"Yes," Hermione said, absurdly delirious with pleasure. "Yes. Finally. Give it to me, Draco. Give me the whole spiel—"
"You hurt me," Draco informed her flatly, rising to his feet. "You know I can't help that I have to live my life by my father's rules. You know it upsets me. And you didn't say anything! You just went off on your merry way with my rogue of a cousin, and it didn't even occur to you to apologize—"
"No, it didn't," Hermione agreed. "And you know what else?"
"What?" Draco said, disarmed.
"You left me alone!" Hermione snapped. "You left me here to deal with this by myself—and you know what? It sucked," she informed him, standing up to face him. "It seriously sucked. Because you know better than anyone how awful it is, don't you?"
He grimaced. "I know. But I couldn't make it any better—"
"Yeah, but you being gone made it worse," she shot back. "Harry was there for me! Of course I turned to him!"
"Yes," Draco said, deflating slightly, "I know, and I'm sor-"
"No. Don't. I'm sorry, too," she told him. "I know you're sorry. I get it, we're both stupid and sorry, but we still have to talk about it—"
"Why?" he demanded, obviously frustrated. "I don't want to hurt you, Hermione! I don't want to say things I'll regret, or make accusations about things that aren't anyone's fault—"
"BECAUSE I NEED YOU TO ACT LIKE YOU'LL FIGHT FOR THIS," Hermione shouted at him, and then they both stopped, struck temporarily mute as the words launched themselves out of her, her mouth continuing to have no regard for any conceivable consequences to the rest of her.
"Draco," she exhaled shakily, "if you treat this thing like it's fragile—like anything could break it—then I think it's definitely going to break." She swallowed hard, staring up at him. "And I'm just not… I can't do that. I can't have one foot in and one foot out. I'm in this," she told him, glancing at her actual feet and struggling not to be completely humiliated by the admission. "And if you're not, then I need you to… I need this to stop. Because I just don't think I can—"
"I love you." His voice startled her out of her rambling and she looked up, mouth snapping shut. "I'm in love with you, Hermione. I'm so deep in this you can't imagine how stupid I feel, every day, looking at you like you're the bloody embodiment of the rest of my life."
"Oh. Shit," she said.
"'Oh shit' is right," he agreed, taking hold of her shoulders. "Don't you think it breaks my heart, Hermione?" he asked her, grey gaze meeting hers with a desperation that sent a shiver up her spine. "Don't you think the first thing I wanted to do when my father told me I couldn't be with you was to run directly back to your arms and tell him he could go to hell? But I can't do that. I'll never be able to do that. And asking you to just… to wait," he exhaled heavily, "to see if anything changes, it just feels so…"
"It's a lot, yeah," Hermione said, swallowing hard. "But I know what I'm getting into." She looked up, brushing his hair out of his forehead. "I choose you," she said to him, slipping her hand over his cheek. "I understand your responsibilities are part of who you are. I understand it's a terrible hand to be dealt, and nothing can ever be normal. But it's worth it. For you," she said, rising up on her toes. "For however long I get to be with you, Draco, it's worth it."
She touched her lips to his, softly, and he sighed, closing his eyes.
"The invasion of privacy," he said. "Worth it?"
She nodded.
"This… this Inquisitorial Squad—"
"Worth it," she whispered.
"My father, then. Is he—"
"Yes," she said firmly, kissing him again.
"You don't even know the half," he lamented, shaking his head. "For one thing, I have these French cousins—"
"Doesn't matter," Hermione told him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Whatever it is, it's worth it."
"Okay, well, just remember you said that, because—"
But she was kissing him firmly by then, having made her point, and he seemed like he could be persuaded to change the subject. He slipped his hand under the waistband of her pajama shorts, pausing for a moment.
"Are you not wearing underwear?" he asked curiously, and she pulled back.
"I haven't done laundry in a while," she admitted with a shrug. "Why, does that upset your sensibilities, Your Highness?" she mused facetiously. "Unfortunately, we commoners sometimes run out of our finest lingerie—"
"Actually, I love the expediency," he corrected gruffly, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her onto the half-made bed. "You know what else I love?" he asked, rolling over her and sliding the shorts down her hips. "This… scent you wear," he answered for her, hoisting her leg up to kiss the inside of her ankle. "You always smell like a damn garden."
"It's my lotion," Hermione said with a laugh, giving his chest a shove with the arch of her foot. "It's hardly a 'scent'—"
"Whatever. I also love these outrageous socks," he noted, peeling one of them from her foot and eyeing it skeptically. "What is this made of, Bigfoot's fur?"
"Yes," she told him drily, "and my feet get cold, so leave me alone."
"Mm-mm," he demurred, shaking his head as he dropped to kiss her torso. "No, shan't."
"I can't be sexy all the time," she growled, and he lifted his chin to look at her.
"Pity," he noted, "because you are."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't," she warned. "Save your compliments for the times you really mean it or I'll just never wear anything nice again. It'll be all Bigfoot, all the time—"
"Fine by me," he informed her, slithering up her stomach to prop himself up on his elbows, pushing her arms over her head. "It's you I love, Hermione Granger," he told her, his gaze fixed so intently on hers she felt the words in every bone of her body, her heart inconveniently pulsing with too much bass. "Whatever you wear, whatever you do, whatever you smell like," he murmured. "I love you."
In that moment, as Draco slid his hand between her thighs and she surrendered to her baser urges, Hermione determined it was no longer important what The Inquisitorial Squad or anyone else had to say. Let them speculate, she thought. Let them talk. Let them type their nonsense into the void of the interwebs while she lay here with Draco, whispering the words I love you into the sheets. Tomorrow, she'd smell his cologne on her pillow. She'd see his name on her screen. Tomorrow they might call her a slag or make fun of her body or her hair but she'd still have spent the night in his arms, and she'd be all the better for it.
Let them talk, she thought, rolling over him and putting his hands on her underwhelming tits, glorying in the whole of it.
Let them say anything they liked. She'd already said everything she needed to.
The next day, Hermione let Draco sleep in for a bit, slipping out of her room and tiptoeing into the corridor as Pansy emerged from her room, beckoning to Hermione.
"Come look at this," Pansy said, gesturing inside the room to her laptop screen. "We have a problem."
Hermione saw the brightly-colored banner belonging to The Inquisitorial Squad's blog and groaned. "Forget it, Pansy, I'm not reading that stuff anymore—"
"Not everything is about you, Hermione Granger," Pansy snapped irritably, turning the laptop screen. "Read this. It's important."
Hermione sighed, falling into Pansy's desk chair. "Fine. But for the record, this whole blog is just a bunch of—"
She stopped.
"Oh," she said, blinking.
"Yes," Pansy said curtly.
With one sentence, Hermione sorted out immediately why Pansy had called her in. It wasn't about her. It wasn't even remotely about Draco.
Professor Davies is sleeping with a student.
There was no doubt in Hermione's mind who the student was. She hadn't seen Daphne much in days, and when she had, Daphne had been… absent. Distracted. Daphne was also spectacularly vulnerable; much more so than a professor had any right to take advantage of, however attractive or young he happened to be.
"What do we do?" Hermione asked numbly, turning to Pansy.
"Try to save her, I expect," Pansy said, and then leaned over, reaching out to scroll down for the rest of the thread. "There's pictures."
Hermione slid a hand over her mouth, immediately turning away from the laptop screen. "I can't look at those—"
"Her face isn't in them," Pansy said quickly. "But if anyone sorts out who she is, or if the administration gets wind of this… she could be expelled. Not to mention—" She broke off, grimacing. "Theo will probably see these. If he hasn't already."
Hermione flinched, not even willing to consider his reaction. Was there no limit to the amount of damage the so-called Squad could cause? She hated that she'd been so selfish, and then hated even more that it shouldn't have been any of their faults. Was privacy really such a luxury even they, for all their nobility, couldn't afford?
"I hate this blog," Hermione spat passionately after a minute or so of silence, and in response, Pansy placed a hand lightly on her shoulder.
"So do I," Pansy said, mouth tightening. "So. Do. I."
The Inquisitorial Squad was my first exposure to the unpleasant consequences of micro-fame, though it wasn't nearly the most invasive. It was something of a training experiment, actually, for the upgrade I'd later have in terms of exposure. And really, seeing as the worst of the damage caused by the blog wasn't even to me, it's a little bit of a fracking laugh to think about how little the whole thing ultimately mattered. Considering the news that's about to break about me any moment, I almost wish I could have The Inquisitorial Squad back.
(…I said almost.)
Ah, simpler times. But as anyone knows, the higher you climb, the harder you fall—and obviously, I still had quite a rise left to go.
a/n: Oh, did you lot happen to request a look at what's going on with Theo and Daphne? Well. I have a surprise for you next chapter.