Chapter 10: Omission
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
A Mother's Love
The question of Princess Narcissa's retreat from the public eye has alternately puzzled and enraptured the country for close to two decades. While Narcissa was once an exceedingly popular public figure—serving as the face for a number of charitable causes and making a fortune for fashion houses overnight purely by stepping outside—in recent years, the Princess of Wales has become something of a recluse. While many suspect her disappearance was due to King Abraxas' insistence she step away from public life after news broke regarding marital conflicts between the Prince and Princess of Wales, there has never been any clear indication whether the choice originated with her or the Palace.
Narcissa's retreat from public life began after a brief hospitalization from a fall while attending a party hosted by King Abraxas in London. Prince Lucius released a statement citing his wife's wish for privacy during the family's difficult time, though no one could have predicted such an occasion would commence eighteen years of absence from the public eye. Most have speculated Narcissa suffers from some sort of chronic illness, though the royal family's doctors have never given any indication what her ailment might be.
At the time of the alleged injury, Prince Draco was a mere ten years of age, well before any suspicions of romance ever arose. As he grew into adolescence, however, speculation about his mother's thoughts on his romantic interests would soon become inevitable: Did Princess Narcissa approve? Would this girl, or this one, be the next to wear Narcissa's meticulously recorded jewels? While Narcissa herself has never made any public statement about her son's romances, it can be assumed Hermione received her future mother-in-law's approval quite early in the relationship. Of Narcissa's handful of reported appearances over the last decade, each one has been at an event where Hermione has also been in attendance.
I don't know where to begin with this, so I suppose I just won't. It's true, but it also isn't. So, with that unhelpful preamble, this is the story of how I met Draco's mother.
(Believe me, it's much worse than Rita Skeeter could ever know.)
July 22, 2011
Hogwarts University
Working for Professor Horace Slughorn was, in the twist of the century, not actually the worst. Slughorn was an incredibly lazy academician, but in a way that was extremely beneficial for Hermione, a very non-lazy upstart. She'd been a research assistant for professors in the past who had limited her involvement to menial tasks, but because Slughorn had a lot of ideas and not very many effective methods of implementation, he left quite a lot of the major decisions to her.
His encouragement of her initiative (rather than his own) meant Hermione was able to access some of the rarer texts she might not have been able to view without a professor's permission, and when she expressed some interest in the academic paper he was writing on behalf of the university, he asked her to draft part of the work. While most people might have considered Slughorn's unwillingness to do his own work to be something just shy of an outrage, Hermione Granger was not most people. When Slughorn offered to split writing credits with her, she was positively overjoyed. The unfurling of her fingers over the keyboard was like coming home, and for the first time since she'd ceased writing for The Stanford Daily, she felt invigorated by her work.
"Excuse me," came a voice behind her while she was plugged into her headphones, deep in concentration over a particular sentence with too many conjunctions and a concept she must have understood when she wrote it but certainly didn't now. "Do you know where I can find the most brilliant girl at this school? I understand it's time she abandon her noble pursuits of academia and commence slumming it with her more debaucherous associates."
Hermione turned over her shoulder to find Draco standing in the doorway of Slughorn's enormously roomy office, which he'd been kind enough (read: absent enough) to offer her as a workspace during most hours of the week.
"Your Royal Highness!" she remarked, batting her eyes. "Whatever brings you here?"
"Oh, the usual. Just on my way to a joust and then to war over Calais," he joked, and then grinned. "My goodness, you are lovely," he remarked, mimicking Harry's outrageously flirtatious grin as he approached. "I say, have you ever dated a prince?"
"You know, I haven't," Hermione replied very seriously. "Is there some sort of ritual involved? Some glass slipper of some sort? Possibly a coma?"
"All of the above, plus dwarves," Draco confirmed. "I'm told it's worth it, though. We do have the benefit of unlimited postage stamps."
"Hmm, I don't know," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I'm not in the habit of encouraging the advances of strange men. Just think, Your Highness," she exclaimed. "My virtue!"
"Oh no, not your virtue," Draco remarked gravely, tutting softly with feigned dismay. "Well, hold on. What's your dowry like?"
"Abysmal," Hermione said. "Almost no jewels."
"Almost no jewels?" Draco echoed. "So, one or two jewels?"
"Maybe one jewel—"
"Ah, Your Royal Highness!" erupted behind them, Slughorn materializing in one of his rare afternoon appearances to offer a supremely unsteady bow. "Whatever brings you to our little corner of the school?"
"Oh, my father asked me stop by the castle on my way to Edinburgh," Draco pseudo-lied, though true or not, Slughorn looked positively delighted. "Actually, Professor, maybe you can help me. I was looking for someone with deeply intimate knowledge of royal history—"
"I am that!" Slughorn assured him, having used that exact phrase at least a dozen times during the class Draco and Hermione had taken together. Hermione, meanwhile, was forced to stifle a laugh, abruptly piling things into her bag so as to look supremely busy. "What is it you need, Prince Draco?"
"Tell me, was Edward IV actually two metres tall?" Draco asked.
"Oh, my boy, Edward of York was two hundred and one centimetres on horseback—can you believe it? The people must have taken one look at him and decided yes, surely you must be king—not unlike yourself, of course, and your grandfather, God save him—"
"Professor," Hermione interrupted, coughing briefly into her hand as Slughorn turned distractedly towards her. "I just emailed you a draft of what I finished today. Will everything else be able to wait until Monday?"
"Ah, wonderful, wonderful, of course, cheerio," Slughorn replied in his usual string of sprightly nonsense. "Your Highness, do you know my assistant, Miss Granger?"
"Oh, no, haven't had the pleasure—Granger, was it?" Draco asked, extending a hand, which she accepted. "Lovely to meet you. Draco Wales, as it were."
"Wales? As in the Wales?" she asked. "Don't tell me you're the prince!"
"Oh, but he is, silly girl!" Slughorn interrupted before Draco could speak. "She's an American," he murmured to Draco, conspiratorially leaning in as Hermione briefly pretended to be deaf. "One of the good ones, though, quite bright."
"My goodness, America," Draco remarked. "That's that one just over that way, isn't it?"
"Erm, yes, approximately that way," Hermione confirmed, aiming a hand over her shoulder. "Do you know of it?"
"I hear the spice trade is a revelation," Draco said.
"You should see our state fairs," Hermione told him, and Slughorn, who looked simultaneously bewildered and overjoyed to be included, nodded eagerly. "Tell me, Your Highness, what are your thoughts on football?"
"Surely that's the one played with your feet, isn't it? Otherwise the name is just nonsensical, don't you th-"
"You should stay for dinner!" Slughorn trumpeted, unable to contain himself, and Hermione and Draco quickly leapt to dispel the joke, hurrying out of the office.
"—have to run, actually—so sorry, Professor, but as you surely know, the Crown's affairs wait for no man—"
"—see you Monday, Professor—oh, Prince Draco, are you heading out this way?"
"Why yes, Miss Granger, may I escort you out?"
"My, my, are all British men gentlemen, or just the princes?"
"Not even all the princes are, I'm afraid—"
They raced around the corner, Draco tugging her into an alcove just before the stairs and backing her against the wall as she struggled not to giggle too inanely, eventually losing ownership of a single peal of laughter that erupted between his lips.
"Aren't you worried Slughorn might tell people you're here?" Hermione whispered, snaking her arms around Draco's neck, and he shrugged, kissing her again.
"He tells people we're intimate friends, Miss Granger. I doubt anyone would believe him."
"Fair, fair—"
The kiss deepened when Draco abandoned conversation, opting instead to slip his hand with a glorious sense of possession around her jaw as his hips pinned her securely against the wall. Draco had five primary kisses, as Hermione was learning. One was a polite hello. The second was playful, quick, fleeting. The third was deep, thoughtful, as if he'd been considering it for a time before he did it; as though he might have traced the shape of her lips with his mind and then lowered his own down to hers. The fourth was an apology, either because he'd actually done something wrong or had merely gotten too gruff. The fifth was this one, which translated roughly to: I've been waiting for you all day.
"Is anyone home?" he asked, voice gravelly as his lips traveled to her neck.
"Unfortunately, yes," Hermione replied, certain they'd have to leave soon or the castle would get an eyeful of something firmly uncouth. "Come on," she sighed, taking his hand, and he paused her, shaking his head.
"One second—"
"Theo's dad's bollocks," Hermione suggested, and Draco grimaced.
"You officially know too much about me," he told her, and she grinned.
"What's his phrase? 'Bollocks on parade,' is it? I like that one—"
"Stop," Draco growled, and then frowned slightly. "How's Daphne?"
"Oh," Hermione said, withering a bit. "Well, according to her, she's perfectly fine."
That was, of course, the exact proper wording, as Daphne had said it several times. I'm fine, when Hermione had asked how she was dealing with Theo's new relationship. I'm fine, when Hermione hesitated to use Theo's name. Truly, Hermione, I'm perfectly fine, it's not like I really thought it would work out, when Hermione noticed Daphne had taken to wandering the flat like a ghost at night, the two of them eventually falling asleep together on the sofa after weeping through The Notebook.
Draco bit his lip. "I'd tell Theo, but—"
"No, you can't," Hermione reminded him, threatening him with a glance. "You absolutely cannot say anything, Draco. If she can't even admit it to me, then—"
"I know, I know," Draco sighed, giving Hermione a nudge into the corridor. "Besides, Theo seems happy. I really hate to think it's with someone who isn't Daphne, but—"
"I get it," Hermione said, and she did. Theo did look happier than he had in a long time, and she suspected that was a major (if not the only) reason Daphne was insisting she had no opinion on the matter. I'm happy for him was another constant refrain, which Hermione was fairly certain was both extremely noble and bitterly true. Daphne did have an extraordinary ability to wish happiness on others, even when it contradicted her own. "And it's not that I don't like Fleur—"
"Right, right," Draco agreed absently. "She's a lovely girl, she's just—"
"Not Daphne," they sighed in unison, and exchanged half-smiling glances.
"What stupid idiots we're friends with," Hermione remarked, and Draco laughed.
"Truly, the stupidest," he agreed, glancing over his shoulder before pulling her in to brush a quick kiss against her cheek. "Anyway, are you all set for Saturday next?"
Draco and Harry were having a joint birthday party, which was really more of a 'formal celebratory affair,' to hear Draco tell it. Apparently King Abraxas enjoyed hosting something for Draco's birthday every year, though it appeared to be his least favorite of Abraxas' annual events. Sharing it with Harry had been Draco's version of easing the unpleasantness.
"I'm ready, yes," Hermione said. "Are you?"
"Well—" Draco paused. "I suppose."
"It can't be that bad," Hermione said with a laugh, and Draco gave her a wearied shrug.
"It's not bad, really," he amended. "It's just… a lot of attention, which means constant observation. No slipping away, and certainly no having any fun, so—" Another shrug. "It's really more for my grandfather and my father than it is for me."
"What about your mother?" Hermione asked, and Draco grimaced.
"She… sometimes attends." He eyed his feet for a moment. "Depends."
Hermione arched a brow. "On?"
"Well, I don't know, exactly," Draco said, and then paused. "My father said she hasn't been doing especially well lately."
"Oh," Hermione said, though she often wondered how sincere Prince Lucifer was when it came to Narcissa. He seemed a little too intent on keeping mother and son apart, and while Draco was mostly willing to take his father's word for it, Hermione was slightly… less so. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Well, in any case, it'll be fine," Draco said, exhaling it swiftly. "It always is. And you'll be there," he added, with a gratuitous smile in her direction. "So things could certainly be worse."
Not for the first time, Hermione wished she could have kissed him in full view of whoever happened to have nothing better to do on a July Friday than hang around the castle and observe a prince and his unsavory girlfriend. In place of something more palatable, she merely lifted her hand, touching the snake ring on her finger, and his lips instantly twitched up, translating her intent.
"You know, it's amazing you manage to keep track of so many codes," Hermione commented. "I think I've already lost count of how many you have with Theo."
"Well, why have royal blood if not to possess a genetic predisposition towards obscuring one's true feelings?" Draco remarked idly.
She wondered if he might have been referring to something in particular, but opted not to press him.
"I could use some of that," she said instead, and he laughed, the sound of it bounding out into open air as they made their way into Hogsmeade.
Draco spent the night with her but hadn't entirely been lying to Slughorn about needing to go to Edinburgh. He was off to make some sort of ceremonial appearance with his grandfather, kissing her apologetically around four in the morning before slipping out of the flat.
Hermione woke again a few hours later to Pansy standing next to her bed and glaring down, fingers tapping impatiently against her arm.
"Hermione," Pansy said, and Hermione's eyes snapped open. "It's nearly noon."
Hermione frowned, stifling a yawn and glancing at her clock. "Pansy, it's 9:45."
"I said nearly," Pansy informed her, and gradually, Hermione's ability to process information dawned sufficiently enough to recognize Pansy was fully dressed.
"Did you want to get breakfast?" Hermione guessed, and Pansy pivoted with a nod, exhibiting approval by exiting the room.
"Daphne said she's ready, which means you have ten minutes," Pansy called over her shoulder, disappearing as Hermione let out a growl, dragging herself out of bed and piling her hair into something resembling submission.
It turned out part of the reason for Pansy's insistence on them eating together was that Harry had come in sometime the night prior. He and Blaise were waiting for them at The Three Broomsticks, both lounging comfortably in the booth as Daphne and Hermione took the seats opposite them, Pansy perching at one end.
"Do you have even have a home?" Hermione asked Harry, who grinned.
"Nice to see you too," he said. "And no, I don't. Actually, I only appear when Blaise rubs a lamp and makes three wishes."
From Blaise, scoffing: "Don't be ridiculous. My three wishes would be mind-reading, a bottomless cocktail shaker, and some sort of talking pet, species to be determined. I'm open."
From Hermione: "You know, some birds talk. You don't even need a genie for that."
Blaise, loudly sipping his mimosa: "Who said anything about a genie?"
From Daphne, thoughtfully: "I think I'd wish for world peace. And more shoes."
From Pansy, loftily: "The world isn't meant to be peaceful, Daphne. If it were, we'd still be living in hunter-gatherer communities and wouldn't have discovered irrigation."
Hermione: "Irrigation, really? That's where you draw the line?"
Pansy, sniffing: "Overpopulation stems directly from sorting out how to make surplus food, Hermione, and everyone knows humanity is mostly idiots."
Blaise, to Pansy: "Out of curiosity, would one of your wishes be genocide? Blink once for yes—"
Hermione, hastily: "Personally, I think I'd wish for more books. Or—oh, I'd like to go to the library at Alexandria, I think."
Harry: "I suspect you and Theo have the same wish, though I think his wish would specifically involve robbing it."
Daphne, while eyeing her tea: "Where is Theo, by the way?"
Silence fell over the table.
"Okay, forget I asked," Daphne groaned, and Harry managed to regain his composure first. (Sort of.)
"Who really knows where Theo is, he lives in his own universe, really—"
"He's with Fleur," Daphne cut in plainly. "You can just say it, you know. I'm fine."
There it is again, Hermione thought, carefully clearing her throat. "Hey," she attempted, "listen, about this weekend—"
There was a collective release of breaths, the other occupants of the table exceedingly (and British-ly) relieved the new topic was moderately less disastrous.
"—is there anything I should know?" Hermione finished, and Pansy let out a noise Hermione could only call a scoff, though on a more normal person it might have been a sigh.
"If you're trying to find out about Narcissa again—"
"No, no, I'm not," Hermione said hurriedly, and paused. "Unless you might actually tell me, that is—"
"She won't be there," Pansy said firmly, and Harry cocked his head.
"Well, actually," he said, and Pansy's eyes widened. "That might not be true."
"No." Pansy straightened, leveling an expression Hermione had never seen on her before directly at Harry. "You're joking."
"Well, no guarantees," Harry said quickly, glancing at Blaise, who shrugged. "The Prince of Darkness certainly hasn't said anything specific, but the security details for the party seem to indicate she might have plans to attend."
"Well." Pansy blinked, little traces of a frown appearing in her brow. Hermione, who had never seen her express that degree of surprise before, found herself unable to look away. "That's quite interesting."
At that, Hermione and Daphne exchanged a glance.
"I take it there's no chance you might tell us why it's interesting," Daphne posed slowly, "is there, Pans?"
Pansy's mouth pursed in a way that indicated the answer was no.
"Well, fine," Daphne said, turning back to the others. "Remind me again where Theo is?"
"Okay, look," Harry said hurriedly, leaning forward. "There's really only one thing Hermione needs to know about Narcissa, right? It was public, Pans. If she really wanted to do the research, she could find out all sorts of lies about it. Isn't it better you tell her what actually happened?"
Daphne, who couldn't believe her plan had worked, reached out under the table, covertly smacking Hermione's thigh with excitement.
"Well," Pansy said, grimacing. "I suppose you're not wrong."
"I'll give you fifty points if you tell it," Blaise offered, and Hermione, who was so deliriously overjoyed at the possibility she might manage to crack the vault that was Pansy Parkinson, hurriedly shoved a piece of toast into her mouth to keep from any inadvisable smiling.
"Fine," Pansy exhaled. "Fine." She glared at Harry. "Don't interrupt."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Harry said gravely, nudging Hermione's knee under the table in a way that very clearly said, under no uncertain terms, you're welcome. "Floor's yours, Lady Parkinson."
"Well." Pansy cleared her throat. "First of all—"
"Princess Narcissa is your mother's best friend," the others droned.
"Yes," Pansy confirmed, unfazed. "So I won't allow a word against her. Am I understood?"
Hermione sighed. "I'm not trying to say anyth-"
"Don't interrupt," Pansy said, and took a preparatory sip of tea. "So. The year is 2000."
"Setting the scene!" Blaise crowed. "Ten points!"
"Good god, we'll be here all day," Harry muttered into his coffee, at which point Hermione kicked his foot.
"The year is 2000," Pansy continued, "and for the last year, the British press has been covering scandal after scandal. News breaks about Lucius taking a mistress, Narcissa is said to have torrid affairs in the countryside every time Lucius is away, people start clamoring for confirmation of Draco's paternity—"
"No," Hermione gasped, and Pansy fixed her with a very serious glance.
"Yes," Pansy said. "It was unpleasant."
Hermione quieted.
Pansy nodded her approval, continuing, "King Abraxas requested Narcissa remain behind on several public appearances until his annual birthday party for Draco, which he only permitted because Narcissa was intent on being present for her son." Pansy paused, clearing her throat. "At the party, somehow, Narcissa fell down the stairs. She broke several bones in the process and had to be rushed to the hospital."
It had not been what Hermione was expecting. "What?"
"Wait, I remember this," Daphne said, blinking. "Some tabloids claimed Prince Lucifer had pushed her, didn't they? I think Rita Skeeter was the one who said that, actually—"
"Yes," Pansy confirmed, but did not elaborate. "Anyway—"
"Wait. Did he?" Hermione squeaked, dismayed. On the one hand, it seemed impossible that anyone would do something so terrible to his wife. On the other, she'd met the Prince of Darkness before, and thus, couldn't be entirely sure.
"Of course not," Pansy said.
"…was the official palace line," Harry inserted, smirking, and Pansy glared at him.
"He didn't," Pansy insisted. "He isn't a monster."
"I don't know," Blaise said, shrugging. "King Abraxas had said no divorces, hadn't he? So if Prince Lucifer wanted to marry again—"
"ANYWAY," Pansy cut in loudly as Hermione felt her own eyes widen, "because of the speculation, Narcissa and Lucius agreed she would keep a low profile, away from public view. There were swarms of people outside the hospital, all of them fighting to get inside—the decision was for her own safety."
"Okay," Hermione said, frowning. "But why keep Draco away from his mother? And why keep your mother away, if they're best friends?"
Pansy paused.
Took a sip of tea.
Contemplated sugar.
Took a spoon.
Dropped a cube of sugar into her tea.
Stirred carefully.
Lifted the tea to her lips.
"I don't know," she said, and took a sip, making a face. "Too sweet," she grumbled, eyeing Blaise's cup of coffee until he shoved it over to her with a sigh.
"So, wait a minute, hold on," Hermione said bluntly. "You actually have no idea about any of this, do you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Pansy said. "I know precisely as much as I need to know, and the rest is relegated to matters of family privacy."
"Yes, but if Narcissa wasn't pushed, then how did she fall?" Hermione demanded. "People don't just fall, Pansy, there's such a thing as equilibrium—and she wasn't exactly a clumsy person, was she?"
"Some people thought she did it on purpose," Daphne said, sipping her tea. "For attention, I suppose. Not that I believe that," she added quickly, catching Hermione's curious glance. "I just thought I'd bring it up."
"Some people also think she was running away from Lucius at the time," Harry remarked, fiddling with his coffee mug. "Which is, frankly, a more believable story."
"Wait," Hermione said, blinking. "So he was there, then? She wasn't alone?"
"He was at the top of the stairs when it happened," Harry confirmed, "hence the rumors—"
"All of which are simply that," Pansy said flatly. "Rumors. So, none of that, please."
"But there's no facts," Hermione argued, "so all these ideas are really more like theories, aren't they?"
"You know who she should know about?" Pansy posed, glancing at Harry and pointedly ignoring Hermione altogether. "The French cousins."
"Oh my god, the cousins," Harry groaned, and Hermione sighed, exasperated.
"Don't change the subject!"
"Blaise," Pansy said, turning to him. "What are you wearing to the party?"
"Wait," Hermione said. "No, no, no—"
"I'M FURIOUSLY DISPLEASED YOU ASKED," Blaise erupted, as Hermione (and obviously Pansy) had known he would. "I can't decide. I'm between two waistcoats."
From Pansy: "Pick the less garishly purple one."
From Blaise: "You've no reason to think either of them are garishly purple!"
From Harry: "No reason, that is, aside from historical accuracy."
Blaise, suspiciously: "Henry, I do not care for your tone. Minus three."
Pansy: "Yes, and besides, Blaise has worn garish and unsavory clothing to parties approximately as many times as you've been accompanied by garish and unsavory women, Henry."
Blaise, delighted: "COLD-BLOODED. And valid. Plus ten."
Harry, sipping his coffee: "Yes, well, I was thinking about changing that particular streak."
He paused, glancing at Daphne.
"Daph," he said, and she looked up from where she'd been apparently trying to decide between two jam flavors. "Would you mind terribly being my date to my own birthday party?"
Hermione was surprised, as were Pansy and Blaise, but Daphne looked positively mute with uncertainty. She stared at Harry for a moment, and then blinked.
Frowned.
Blinked again.
"Oh," she said, coming to some sort of internal resolution. "This is about Theo again, isn't it?"
Ah, Hermione thought, silently in agreement. Of course Theo would be attending with Fleur, and Harry was certainly thoughtful enough to make sure Daphne wouldn't spend the day alone. The offer was deeply in character, put in those terms.
"I told you," Daphne continued irritably, "I'm fine—"
"What? No," Harry interrupted, hastily shaking his head. "Pansy's right, Daph. I always end up irresponsibly choosing some subpar disaster who drinks her body weight in gin, so consider this some sort of personal growth. I am turning twenty-one entire years of age," he added, taking another sip. "Perhaps it's time I showed King Abraxas I'm capable of evolution."
"It'd be rather false," Daphne remarked.
"Well, I said 'show,' not 'prove,'" Harry reminded her, and she rolled her eyes, but conceded.
"Fine," she said, shrugging. "But only because Hermione will probably be busy with Draco, and Blaise and Pansy will be bullying some poorly-dressed girl into loathing herself for eternity."
Blaise and Pansy, who apparently deemed this acceptably accurate, merely shrugged.
"I won't actually be busy with Draco," Hermione reminded Daphne. "He says he probably won't be able to get away much this time."
"Well, you say that now," Daphne said with a low chuckle, "but we'll see."
"I'm just saying I wouldn't abandon you," Hermione said quickly, and then, catching herself, added, "Even though you're fine, obviously."
Harry, who'd been grinning throughout the exchange, laughed into his coffee again.
"I'm perfectly fine," Daphne informed the table for the thousandth time, "and no one needs to be concerned with me. Certainly not when Prince Harry's such a divinely unfixable mess," she added, and he looked up, sparing her a wink that made something in Hermione's chest give a dull and objectionable lurch.
Privately, Hermione wasn't sure why she seemed to inexplicably oppose the idea of Daphne and Harry. Was it perhaps because she wondered if it might actually… work out? She frowned to herself, considering it. Daphne and Harry were both funny, clever, flirtatious, attractive. Harry could build Daphne up, and Daphne could certainly temper Harry's irresponsible nature. Hermione always wondered why Daphne had never attempted anything with any of the boys, ultimately assuming it was due to Theo being her primary focus. But now, if Theo was no longer an option, would Daphne consider one of the others? Theo and Daphne belonged together, Hermione's ill-mannered heart grumpily insisted, but with conditions being what they were…
She fought a grimace.
Maybe she was giving herself too much credit thinking this was unselfishly about Theo and Daphne. Was it also possible she didn't want to lose Harry's attention? As much as she loved Draco, Harry did have a gift for making anyone he was with feel special, and perhaps she'd gotten used to that particular energy being directed at her.
She shoved her suspicions aside, turning to Daphne.
"You're right," she said. "And anyway, it's about time you get some proper attention. Oh," she added, brightening as an idea struck. "You can wear one of those dresses you've altered."
Daphne blinked. "Oh, that's an idea," she agreed, and immediately, Hermione felt better. Now Daphne would have something to fixate on that wasn't Theo, and could potentially stop wandering aimlessly through the flat. Besides, even if she did happen to have a fling with Harry, that would at least keep her from her art professor, who was definitely still calling.
Hermione let out a breath, relieved.
Across the table, Harry was smiling at Daphne. Hermione tried not to notice, turning her attention instead to the coffee that had long since gone cold.
The party was at one of Prince Lucius' residences in the country, encompassing an intimate gathering of some three hundred or so close friends of the royal family. Draco had been away for the entirety of the week, which had actually been something of a blessing, as Hermione was both preoccupied with work and concerned she'd blurt out some inappropriate question about whether or not Draco's father should be prosecuted for the attempted murder of his mother. It seemed best that their communication was limited to nightly calls and texts while both were exhausted, leaving them to talk about very little before falling asleep on the phone.
This time, Daphne had convinced Hermione to buy a new dress, which her mother offered up as an early birthday present. This one was a pale pink (so pale it was hardly pink, which was Hermione's ideal shade) knee-length dress with a bateau neckline, which had garnered both Pansy and Daphne's approval. Aside from the snake ring, Hermione added a pair of teardrop diamond and pearl earrings borrowed from Pansy and strappy nude Valentino pumps from Daphne, feeling somewhat pleased with the ensemble she'd managed to put together.
"Flawless," Daphne declared, kissing her on both cheeks and sneakily spritzing her with a little Chloé, leaving her to cheerfully cough up roses. (Pansy's approval had amounted to a nod—Hermione had been ecstatic.)
Daphne, whom Hermione was certain was conscious of Fleur's presence even if she planned to deny it, had worn a rich, jewel-toned green that brought out her eyes, while Pansy had opted for a lavender Emilia Wickstead (perhaps as a nod to Blaise, Hermione thought, as Pansy had recently lost twenty points for suggesting Blaise wear taupe).
It was a summer garden party, largely taking place outdoors, and Harry had met them out front, kissing Pansy and Hermione's cheeks in greeting before offering an arm to Daphne. Hermione, who was standing close by, heard a little whispered exchange of, "Is he here yet?" which was met with a single nod.
Hermione found herself oddly warmed that Harry had thought to be there for Daphne. As the girl on a prince's arm, Daphne would have plenty to focus on that wasn't the upsettingly beautiful French girl in the ice-blue dress who could be seen and admired from well across the garden, instead gifted a reprieve for which Hermione was deeply grateful.
(For the record, newspapers would later print that Fleur's presence at the party and the brief moments she was by Draco's side were further proof of their furtive romance. The DRAGONFLOWER blog in particular had themselves a time.)
Hermione, meanwhile, stayed close to Pansy and Blaise until Theo came to find her, a little smirk on his face. "Hey, California," he said, giving her a warm hug. "Feels like I haven't seen you in ages."
"Well, you've been very busy," Hermione reminded him curtly. She'd planned to be somewhat cold for Daphne's sake, but it was difficult to accomplish, considering it was Theo. The moment he'd joined her side, she'd found herself immensely relaxed. "How've you been?"
"Oh, not bad," Theo said, sneaking a glance at Fleur, who was entertaining someone across the garden. He was a bit smitten, Hermione thought; she had to give him that. Briefly, Fleur looked up and winked at him, and he smiled. "Well, anyway," he said, clearing his throat guiltily and turning back to Hermione. "I noticed Daphne's here with Harry."
Hermione pointedly sipped her iced tea. "Did you?"
Theo rolled his eyes. "Come on, just tell me—"
"Harry needed a date," Hermione said, sticking firmly to the story. "It was his idea."
"Hm." Theo chewed his lip. "She's fine, isn't she? She said—"
"Yes," Hermione supplied quickly. "She's fine. She's happy for you."
"Right." Theo nodded absently. "That's what I thought. I think sometimes Draco disapproves," he added, looking a touch concerned. "He never says anything, of course, and I've told him countless times Daphne's never given any indication she wants anything to do with me. Romantically, I mean," he coughed up. "Not that we—or, that I, I guess—well, besides," he exhaled hastily, "it's not as if I planned to meet Fleur—"
"Theo," Hermione sighed, shaking her head and resigning herself to the fact that she was, however difficult it was at the moment, friends with both of them. "You're allowed to be happy. Daphne really is pleased for you."
That part was at least half-true. More importantly, Hermione thought, Daphne wouldn't want Theo (or anyone) to know how badly she was hurting. It seemed it was going to be a party full of secrets and lies.
"Okay. Okay." Theo nodded again. "Right, good. Well, I came over because Draco initiated the code," he said with a grin. "He says he can spare a few minutes in the blue room, if you're up for it. Just enough time for a private hello."
"Oh," Hermione said, brightening. So far, she'd only caught glimpses of him from afar. "Thanks, Theo, I'd love that. The blue room, you said?"
"The blue room," Theo confirmed with a nod. "It's up the stairs and to the left. You've got—" He glanced down at his watch. "About ten minutes."
"Okay," Hermione said, and Theo leaned forward, giving her another hug.
"Thank you," he said in her ear. "I know you're primarily Daphne's friend, but—"
"There's no sides," Hermione assured him. "Daphne loves you. I do, too. We'll all be back to normal soon, I'm sure."
Theo gratefully kissed her cheek. "Go on, then," he said, gesturing her off. "Tell the guard at the base of the stairs you're delivering a martini."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Great. So now I'm a cocktail waitress?"
Theo winked. "Actually, you're the cocktail," he said, and then strolled away, sparing her a final grin over his shoulder as she sighed, making her way to the house.
This house, like Theo's, was grandiose, although slightly less morbid. It had a tasteful elegance to it she wouldn't have associated with Lucius, and wondered briefly at the possibility a woman had had a hand in its decor. She was still wondering about it when she made her way to the stairs, eyeing the so-called guard.
"I'm delivering a martini?" she said tentatively, and the man stepped aside. "Just… second floor?" she asked, and the man nodded. "Any particular direction, or…"
She trailed off. The man appeared to have finished acknowledging her.
Blue room, she recalled. How hard could that be?
Unfortunately, rather difficult. She made her way through a long corridor, some of the rooms open for observation, some not, but certainly none of them blue. She paused beside a closed door at the end of the hallway, knocking once. No answer. She carefully opened it and exhaled with relief, noting the blue wallpaper and quietly shutting the door behind her, making her way inside.
"You," came a voice further in the room, and Hermione nearly jumped, alarmed by what she'd initially thought had been statue and could now clearly see was a live human woman. "You're the one my son's been staring at."
A blonde woman was standing at the window, facing down into the garden below. She'd glanced up at Hermione's entrance and then back down again.
"He's handsome, isn't he?" asked the woman who could have only been Princess Narcissa, and whom Hermione had been urgently concerned about speaking with for months only to now find herself delivered to utter silence. "He had these massive cheeks as a baby. I loved them. Lucius said if I spent all my time kissing his cheeks and smelling his hair he'd grow up entirely too soft. I told him that would be fine with me."
Narcissa turned, a glass of wine held close to her chest. "Does Lucius like you? I imagine he doesn't."
Hermione swallowed, clearing her throat. "No, actually," she managed, though it was still a bit hoarse. "He's not my biggest fan."
Narcissa's eyes widened, and then abruptly, she laughed. "My god, you're American," she said. "You poor bloody thing."
Hermione, who'd been told by Pansy at least one thousand times that 'bloody' was a swear word and therefore never to be used no matter how funny Hermione allegedly thought it was, started a little at the use of it.
"Oh, sorry," Narcissa said, pursing her lips. "I'm on a lot of drugs. Antidepressants, you know. Antipsychotics. All the anti-this-and-thats—the antagonists of my more dreadful nature, or so they surely hope. Can't always control the things I say, hence my immensely privileged position in the crow's nest. Come here," she added, beckoning for Hermione to come closer. "I want to look at you."
Hermione, unsure what else to do, crossed the room to stand in front of Narcissa, who was unbearably lovely, albeit a little vacant. Still, Hermione could see now why people loved the idea of Fleur and Draco together; Narcissa could have been Fleur's older sister, with equally silvery blonde hair and startling blue eyes. The Brits who still adored Princess Narcissa would have certainly seen Fleur as a more recent incarnation.
"Well," Narcissa remarked. "You're not what I expected."
"You aren't, either," Hermione said.
"Oh, why, did you expect someone chronically ill?" Narcissa asked, half-laughing. "Or just suicidal?"
"I—" Fuck, Hermione thought. "Neither?"
"Don't lie," Narcissa sniffed. "I'm surrounded by liars. Including my husband." She brought her wine to her lips, shaking her head. "Especially my husband."
Hermione cleared her throat. "I didn't know what to expect," she said honestly. "People don't, um." She glanced down. "People don't really talk about you."
"Figures." Narcissa swirled the wine in her glass, offering it to Hermione. "Bordeaux?"
"No, thanks," Hermione said, and Narcissa laughed grimly.
"Believe me, you'll need to pick up some sort of substance abuse if you plan to get much further," she said. "Good of you to try, though, at least until Lucius gets rid of you. What do you do?" she asked, and Hermione blinked. Narcissa was immensely destabilizing; her thoughts seemed to run together without any indication of shift. "You're young. Student, maybe?"
"Yes, I'm a student at Hogwarts," Hermione said slowly. "I met your son in September. He helped carry my suitcases," she added, hoping a personal detail might soften Narcissa towards her, and she was right.
"He's a good boy," Narcissa said, smiling fondly as she took another sip of wine. "He's the best thing I've ever done. Did you know that?"
Hermione shook her head, then faltered. "I mean, he is wonderful," she amended quickly, "I know that much—"
"He's better than me. Better than his father." Narcissa's hand tightened on her glass as she fixed another glance at Hermione. "What about you?"
"Me? I'm not great," Hermione said with a small bubble of nervous laughter, and Narcissa pursed her lips.
"Confidence," she said. "You'll need to be stronger than that, my dear, or they'll eat you alive. What are you good at?"
"Oh, um—"
"Don't be humble," Narcissa advised sharply. "Impress me, won't you? At least entertain me. And certainly don't lie."
"Oh, well, I—" Hermione had never been very good at describing her strengths. This felt like a job interview for something she was already vastly unqualified for. NASA, perhaps. "I'm smart."
"Mm," Narcissa permitted, with a hazy sense of I'll allow it. "What kind of smart?"
"Book smart," Hermione said honestly. "I like research. I like school, and I'm good at it. I actually have a research fellowship right now," she remembered, glad to be able to bring it up. "I'm getting writing credits on a scholarly paper, which usually doesn't happen to undergrads."
"What's the paper about?" Narcissa asked, and finally, Hermione managed to relax a little, pleased to be talking about something she solidly knew the answer to.
"Well, it's about literature and social commentary during the Victorian era," Hermione said. "So it's quite a bit of Dickens, as you might imagine. The professor I'm working with wants to focus on that era in history, but I've actually started doing a bit of comparative research about how not just literary fiction but all fiction is inherently political, which he seems to find intriguing, so I've been working on a study of how Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale is arguably within the same vein of social commentary as—"
"Ha," Narcissa cut in, and Hermione's mouth snapped shut, startled. "There's no way you can put your name on that, darling."
"I—I'm sorry," Hermione said, blinking. "What?"
"You can't put your name on that," Narcissa repeated, slower this time, as if the problem had been Hermione's cognitive deficiencies. "Certainly not if you plan to be connected to this family in any way. Can you imagine the way the press would react? You can't have an opinion," she said with a darkened laugh. "You can't have a voice, you foolish girl, and certainly not a critical one. You can only have the voice they give you, and believe me, silence would be just as good. Look at me," she added, the wine in her glass sloshing a little as she gestured to herself. "The best they could do with me was shove my heavily sedated bum into a room upstairs so I could watch my son from afar and thank my father-in-law for graciously permitting my attendance."
Narcissa's voice was sharp and mean.
"I, um. I didn't know—"
"Of course you didn't," Narcissa said coldly. "Nobody knows, do they? Nobody knows I nearly killed myself falling down the stairs because my husband decided the best thing to do was to drug me without my knowledge, do they? Oh sure, they think he pushed me, so at least there's that," she said with a bitter laugh. "This family, they thought they could control me, sweetheart. Lucius and his father both, they thought I'd be their little pet, just there to smile and wave and wear the right shoes but they forgot I was a person, didn't they? They forgot you can't just fuck your mistress in the bed you share with your wife and expect her to keep quiet—"
The door behind them abruptly opened and Narcissa's gaze hardened, falling on whoever stood behind them before she turned back to Hermione, her voice low.
"Listen to me," Narcissa whispered, taking hold of Hermione's shoulder. "Get out while you can. Trust me. My son is a good man but he isn't king, he can't save you. They'll break you, they'll take everything from you, they'll either turn you into something lifeless or they'll rob you of everything you are—"
"Miss Granger," came Prince Lucius' voice of displeasure. "Always with the most opportune timing."
Hermione turned hesitantly, Narcissa's hand still closed tightly around her shoulder.
"I see you've met my wife. Unfortunately she's rather ill," Lucius said to Hermione, reaching out to take Narcissa's arm, "and I imagine she'd like to rest. Quite a lot of excitement this afternoon—"
"Let go of me," Narcissa warned Lucius in a low voice, and Hermione, entirely unsure what to do, didn't move. "I'm not going anywhere."
To Lucius' credit, he looked no less conflicted than Hermione felt.
"Narcissa, please," he said, softening slightly to address her. "Please don't do this, Draco will want to see you, and—"
"There's no reason he shouldn't see me," Narcissa snapped. "I'm his mother, Lucius, I haven't seen him in months—"
"Yes, I know, and if you'd just come with me—"
"Let go," Narcissa said sharply, and as she jerked her arm away from her husband, the wine in her glass abruptly splattered across Hermione's dress, drenching the pale pink silk in an alarming crimson bath. "Oh, balls," Narcissa said, yanking free from Lucius' hold. "Hold on, her dress is ruined—"
"We'll get her another one," Lucius said, digging his nails into his palm from where Hermione could see he'd been loosely clenching a fist in frustration. "Come on, Narcissa, please, let's go—"
But Narcissa had already reached around, unzipping her dress and stepping out of it. "Here," she offered, and Hermione turned her face away, cheeks heating as the Princess of Wales stripped down to her undergarments. "Take this," Narcissa suggested, holding the dress out to her. "Nobody will be looking for me, anyway. After all, I won't be allowed to see them."
Hermione was about to protest but Lucius shook his head in warning, shoving the dress into her hands before removing his jacket and draping it over his wife's shoulders.
"Not a word," he breathed in an undertone to Hermione, and she nodded dumbly. "Not to Draco. Not to anyone."
"Yes, Your Highness," she offered, apprehensive. "Of course."
But that didn't seem enough.
"Give me a moment with Miss Granger," Lucius suggested to Narcissa, who spared Hermione a vacantly pitying glance as Lucius pulled her aside. "What were you even doing here?" Lucius hissed, and Hermione flinched.
"Theo said the blue room, and I didn't—I thought this was—"
"This is the green room," Lucius snapped.
"But the wallpaper—"
"The furniture," Lucius growled, gesturing to it, "is green."
Hermione blinked. "It was an honest mistake."
"Of course it was. It always is with you, isn't it?" Lucius said irritably, and as Hermione gritted her teeth in equal frustration, Narcissa cut in.
"Leave the girl alone," Narcissa said gruffly. "I want to change, Lucius."
"Yes, yes—I'm coming," Lucius told her, exhaling sharply as he gave Hermione another lingering look of distaste. "Say nothing. Do you understand?"
"I wouldn't," Hermione said quickly. "Honestly, I promise. I wouldn't."
Lucius nodded tightly. "You don't know the whole story. Whatever she told you—"
"Lucius." Narcissa's voice was strident and firm. "Leave. Her. Alone."
Lucius grimaced, but turned away. He led his wife out of the room and shut the door behind them, neither of them bothering to speak another word to Hermione.
Hermione, meanwhile, stared down at the dress Lucius had shoved in her hands. Her own was ruined, that much was obvious. Still, Narcissa was a little taller, a little more slender, and what was she supposed to do now?
She reached into her purse for her phone.
"Daphne?" she said, sighing. "Sorry to drag you away from Harry, but I think I need a favor."
"There," Daphne said, the needle between her teeth as she finished adjusting the dimensions of Narcissa's dress. As Hermione had known, Daphne kept a miniature sewing kit in her purse, though her ability to make adjustments on the fly was something of a rarer talent. She'd taken the silk dress (an emerald green silk with a 1940s-style cut) and adjusted the hem, adding a tasteful slit to suit Hermione's limited height and then adjusting the bodice for her smaller bust. "That should do it. You actually look really lovely in this," Daphne added approvingly. "I think it's vintage Dior, though the label's been removed, so who knows."
Hermione, who probably couldn't recognize a designer without having studied them for months, easily cast that bit of commentary aside in favor of praising Daphne's clever eye and quicker fingers.
"Daph, you're an absolute lifesaver," Hermione said, wheeling around to eye herself in the mirror on the green room's wall. "Seriously, I can't thank you enough. This looks perfect."
"Well, lucky it was a fairly close fit," Daphne said, half-smiling. "But try not to run into these sorts of problems too often."
"I will, I swear. How's Harry?" Hermione asked, aiming for innocence, though Daphne saw through that with relative ease and laughed.
"You're all being so careful with me," Daphne lamented wearily. "I'm not that fragile, you know. I really am—"
"Don't say you're fine," Hermione growled, and Daphne laughed again.
"Fine, I won't. I miss him," Daphne admitted, fussing with the straps of Hermione's dress, which Hermione suspected was so she wouldn't have to look her in the eye. "But I think I miss my friend Theo most, you know? It's fine if it doesn't work out between us. I really never thought it would. But I hate feeling like I can't be around him because everyone else is afraid of what I might react."
"That's fair," Hermione agreed, feeling a bit guilty now. "Well, I can certainly do a better job. We could invite him over?" she asked hopefully. "Get lunch, the three of us? We used to do that all the time."
"Yes, I'd like that," Daphne said, and seemed to mean it. "Really, I would. I can stand being around him with Fleur—seriously," she sighed, as Hermione arched a skeptical brow. "Really, I can! I'd just hate it if he and I couldn't be friends anymore. That's the one thing I'm afraid of, honestly."
"Well, as long as you're not too miserable," Hermione sighed, reaching for Daphne's hand. "You'd tell me if you were, wouldn't you?"
"No, likely not," Daphne said, and then laughed at the expression on Hermione's face, squeezing her fingers. "But I know you're there for me, and that's really all I need. Well—that," she amended, "and a full report on Princess Narcissa. I can't believe you met her—"
"I genuinely don't know what to say about it," Hermione admitted. "She was utterly terrifying in completely different ways from Prince Lucifer."
"Well, we'll have to discuss it later," Daphne said, peeking down into the garden. "Looks like lunch is about to start."
"Right, of course. Oh, wait, Daph," Hermione said, catching her arm as she turned to leave. "Don't, um. Don't mention this to anyone, would you? I…" She hesitated. "I haven't decided yet what I'm going to tell Draco, so—"
"Your secret's safe with me," Daphne assured her, looping an arm through hers and guiding her firmly out the door.
Lunch was… interesting.
For one thing, Hermione had forgotten that Daphne being Harry's date meant they'd be sitting together elsewhere, which left her in the precarious position of being wedged between a conspiratorially whispering Pansy and Blaise. Across the table were Theo and Fleur, who were making eyes at each other, and an additional set of incredibly strange people purporting to be Draco's cousins. Initially, they had little interest in Hermione, who, likewise, was otherwise occupied with Pansy's narrow-eyed questioning.
"What's this?" Pansy asked, scraping a glance over Hermione's dress. "This looks familiar."
"Oh, it's a long story," Hermione said weakly, not wanting to get into it. "What'd I miss?"
"Draco, apparently," Blaise murmured to her. "He came by looking for you. Wondered if you were dead, to which I said if that were the case, I would immediately and swiftly take ten thousand points."
"For dying?" Hermione asked.
"I would ask you to avoid it, if possible," Blaise sniffed. "I'm sure you can see how it would interrupt the flow of my day."
"Well, you can wear whatever you like to my funeral," Hermione told him. "No matter what Pansy says."
"Marvelous. Five points, and I'll hold you to it," he told her, though Pansy was still staring at what appeared to be Hermione's chest.
"I know this dress," Pansy said, frowning. "How'd you get it? It's much too chic to be your taste."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Pans—"
"Princess Narcissa wore one just like it in the late 1990s," Fleur remarked in her lightly accented French. Hermione, who hadn't realized Fleur was listening to their conversation, started a little at the knowledge that she'd recognized the gown. "It's Dior, isn't it?"
"Oh, um—"
"That is what it is, you're right," Pansy said, and Fleur gave a little shrug that said, Yes, I know, I usually am. "Well, good. Now that I've placed it, I feel much better, though I have no idea how you managed to get a replica in the single hour we've been here—"
"It's not a replica," sniffed a blond man opposite Hermione, who fixed her with a matter-of-fact look of certainty. "That's Narcissa's dress."
"Yes," agreed the blonde woman beside him, who could have very easily been his twin. "You can tell because all that weak-chinned aristocracy is visible in the stitching."
"That," the man said as Hermione balked, "and because it still has a faint sense of general mania clinging to the fabric."
"Hermione," Theo offered, stifling a laugh as he spotted her horrified face. "This is Thibaut and Hortense. They're somewhat distant cousins."
"Not distant enough," declared the man who was evidently called Thibaut. "This proximity is making my delicate skin itch."
"However did you wind up with Narcissa's dress?" Hortense asked Hermione. "Did you, by chance, happen to rob her? Oh, are you here to rob us?" she amended, looking positively aflame with possibility. "I do hope so. I was just telling Cousin Lucy this party needed a bit more spicing up if he ever intended to get back in my good graces."
"What did he do to fall out of them?" Blaise asked, and Hortense gave him a withering glance.
"Do I know you?" she asked him.
"Yes, of course you do," Thibaut said, nudging her. "This is Draco's ex-girlfriend, the pretty one he brought to that party where you accidentally set that small fire?"
"That fire was not an accident," Hortense declared.
"It was a candle? At a baptism," Blaise reminded them, frowning. "It really wasn't a fire. And also, I'm not Draco's ex-girlfriend."
"What? But it was you, wasn't it?" Thibaut said, squinting slightly as he struggled to recall. "I said, 'here young lady, have this small flame, I've named him Rupert,' and you said, 'well, ten points for unnecessary gendering'—"
"Yes, that was me," Blaise confirmed, "but I'm not Draco's ex-girlfriend. Largely because I'm not a girl, but also because we've never dated. He's just so very busy," Blaise added in explanation to Hermione. "I need much more attention than that."
"Wait, you're not a girl?" Hortense said, alarmed. "Then why do we call you the pretty one?"
"Well, I'm definitely the pretty one," Blaise said very seriously, "so twenty points for that."
From Theo, to Hortense: "What am I, then?"
Hortense, to Theo: "Have we met?"
Theo, sighing: "Yes. Several times."
From Thibaut: "Impossible. I'd remember someone with your totally inadvisable limb ratios. If this were Sparta, you'd be thrown to the wolves for inefficient anatomical structure."
From Theo, smartly: "Who says I wasn't?"
Hortense, to Hermione: "Remind me. Who are you at this party to steal from?"
From a bewildered Hermione: "I'm… not?"
Hortense, in hushed tones: "I won't tell anyone. In fact, I keep several knives in my purse."
Hermione, alarmed: "That you should definitely tell someone!"
Pansy, sighing: "They're very small knives, Hermione. Don't be tiresome."
Hortense, approvingly: "See? Snub-nose gets it."
Thibaut: "Hortense, don't insult snub-nose. Then she'll steal all our knives again."
Pansy, covertly: a silent smile, tucked carefully into her napkin.
Hortense: "True, true, but I'd just like to know what sort of con is happening if we're going to be considered accessories."
Hermione, grudgingly: "I don't know why I'm saying this, but I think given your consent to be involved in the crime, you'd be closer to accomplices."
Thibaut: "MY GOD. She's right."
Blaise, whispering to Hermione: "Five points for accuracy, though minus three because now I'm slightly frightened."
From Fleur, thoughtfully: "The most valuable thing in this house is a painting, if that helps. There's an original Renoir inside."
Theo, with surprise: "How did you know that?"
Fleur, shrugging: "I studied art at Beauxbatons."
Pansy and Hermione: a silently exchanged glance.
Thibaut, to Fleur: "Oh! I know you."
Fleur, unsurprised: "You might know my father, yes."
Hortense, firmly: "No, we know you. You helped us housetrain Basile."
Fleur, now very surprised: "I beg your pardon?"
Thibaut: "Your face. From the magazine? With the shoes."
From Pansy, bemused: "You housetrained your puppy using pages from Vogue?"
Hortense: "Who said anything about a puppy?"
Hermione, frowning: "That can't possibly have been effective."
Thibaut, smugly: "It wasn't."
Fleur, murmuring in thought: "Of course, if that really is Princess Narcissa's Dior, that dress would be the second most valuable thing in this house. Lucky it isn't, right?"
She fixed Hermione with a pointed glance, which then delivered Hermione to a moment of both muted relief and utter astonishment. Had she accidentally let Daphne cut a slit into a famous gown? And worse, had she just had a brief moment of camaraderie with Fleur, whom she was determined to hate for Daphne's sake?
Ultimately, it seemed more important to take the out she'd been given and deny any knowledge of either Narcissa's presence or her dress.
"Of course not," Hermione said. "How would that even happen?"
"Well, you have a point there," Pansy agreed, and luckily Hortense and Thibaut had distracted themselves with their butter knives and did not push the issue further.
Eventually, as lunch ended and mingling resumed among the guests (Harry, it seemed, was attempting to salsa with Daphne, who was admittedly a very good dancer) Fleur sidled up to Hermione, handing her a glass of champagne.
"There's only one dress like it," Fleur murmured, sipping quietly. "Originally it was strapless, but Narcissa personally requested straps be added before the first time she wore it. To a state dinner. In France." She took another careful sip, then smiled slightly. "It looks lovely on you."
Hermione chewed her lip. "I made some alterations."
"So?" Fleur said, shrugging. "That's what makes clothes such a wonderful form of art. We style them, adjust them, change them to suit the wearer's personality. A painting hangs in a museum but a dress this beautiful is meant to be worn, to move and to shift with light and contrast. This dress was meant to be curated by the human experience, not held captive in a glass case."
Fuck, she was eloquent, Hermione lamented.
"Daphne did the alterations," Hermione said. "She's very gifted with clothes. And art."
"I can tell," Fleur said, now eyeing Daphne where she was dancing with Harry. Like always, Daphne was luminous, stunning from every angle. "You need not consider me a threat, by the way,"Fleur commented softly. "I like Theo quite a bit. I also like Daphne." She turned to Hermione. "I like you as well, and all Theo's friends. I think you're all quite wonderful to be around. You're very lucky to have each other."
"Do you," Hermione began, and paused. "Are you—"
"Do I plan to stick around? Yes," Fleur said, with a faint sense she was willing to back her word with whatever necessary force it took to be convincing. "Can you stomach it?"
Hermione considered it. "Can you keep secrets?" she asked, gesturing to the dress, and Fleur smiled.
"I certainly can," Fleur said, turning to watch Daphne again as she took another sip of her champagne. "You know," she murmured, "I thought perhaps she might have had some feelings for Theo still."
Hermione, who had just taken a sip of champagne, coughed into her glass, which luckily Fleur didn't seem to notice.
"I think she looks good with Harry, though, doesn't she?" Fleur said. "Happy." She turned, eyeing a still-coughing Hermione. "Are you alright?"
Hermione swiped moisture from her eyes. "Yes, sorry, she's… yes." She swallowed hard, watching Harry spin Daphne as he'd spun Hermione once before. Truly, he loved to dance. He had a hard time staying still, Hermione suspected. He'd been well-trained, firstly, and was always in motion, so it seemed the best thing he could manage to do with his feet at any given time. He and Daphne also looked absurdly perfect together—though Hermione wondered if that wasn't simply because Harry made everyone he was with look brighter, happier, and Daphne made everyone she was with look more attractive, like she was reflecting them in the best possible light. "They are having fun, aren't they?"
Fleur slid Hermione a look. "It must be frustrating," she remarked. "Not being able to appear in public with Draco."
You don't know the half, Hermione thought. She was certain the internet would be swarming with pictures of Draco and Fleur, if it wasn't already.
"It is," Hermione said, "but it's worth it."
"Always?" Fleur asked, her voice kind. She was offering Hermione a chance to speak more intimately about it, it seemed. Fleur, who was a public figure herself, probably knew quite a bit about the importance of privacy.
Hermione thought briefly of Narcissa's warning, but a perfectly-timed exchange of glances with Draco was enough to shove it out of her head. He lifted a hand from across the garden, scraping it through his hair. Left hand, she noted. Signet ring. Secret code.
Hermione smiled.
"Always," she said, and Fleur nodded, pleasantly satisfied.
That night, Harry was the one to help Hermione sneak out to meet Draco. She and Daphne were staying in a hotel nearby, but evidently (and unsurprisingly) Harry was the most familiar with sneaking girls away from paparazzi.
"Much as I hate to be the one introducing you to this protocol of salacious skullduggery," he said, fitting her into the sunken backseat of a large SUV and then covering her head with a darkened sheet, "it is at least useful."
"Will you be okay without me?" Hermione asked Daphne, who smiled.
"I'll be fine," Daphne said, shrugging. "I have Harry, don't I?"
"That she does," Harry agreed, pausing to pat Hermione's head. "All set?"
"I'm not comfortable," Hermione informed him. "It's very hot under here."
"Right," Harry said. "That's just the flames of your godless lifestyle."
"Stop," Hermione said, and he grinned.
"Have fun," he said, and Daphne waved as he shut the door, leaving Hermione to be driven the few-odd miles to get back to Draco.
He was waiting for her in the cleverly concealed subterranean garage, rising to his feet the moment the driver opened the door and holding his hands out for hers.
"Come on," he said, eagerly taking her inside. "I've been waiting ages."
He gave her a brief tour of the rooms inside, including the one she'd missed earlier that day (the blue room was incredibly inaptly named; only four of the items inside were blue, and the walls were white) but was clearly in a hurry to be elsewhere. Eventually he tugged her up the stairs and into what was obviously his bedroom, shutting the door behind them and pulling her into his arms.
"Hi," he said between kisses. "How was the party?"
"Oh, um—" His teeth scraped against her bottom lip and she shivered a little, unsure whether it was the best time to discuss having run into his mother while his hands were slipping under his bra. "Well, it was—" He rolled her nipple lightly between his fingers and she gave up, throwing her arms around his neck. "We'll talk about it later," she said firmly, and he laughed, hands dropping to unbutton her jeans.
It was an uncontested delight to undress him here, in the place he'd obviously spent a great deal of time during his life. She imagined him first as a teenager, possibly discovering the excellent angst-ridden soundtracks of their adolescence (or alternatively, discovering masturbation) and then, upon recollection that other girls might have been here before, she permitted her motions to upgrade from fond to possessive, pulling him on top of her and kicking his trousers down his legs.
"My goodness," he mused against her lips. "In a hurry?"
"Maybe a little," she admitted, and he chuckled, switching places with her on the bed to pull her between his legs, settling her back against his chest.
"Well, slow down," he suggested, and reached down to tease a finger against her underwear, stroking her clit through the fabric. "I intend to make this last."
"Do you?" she echoed, breathing hard within seconds. He had a dreadful habit of being impossible to resist, and he made lovely, devastating work of alternating between slipping his fingers under the lace and then floating again on top. "I mean, is slower always better? We do have all night—"
"Yes, we do," Draco said, kissing her neck. His free hand was on her breast, and not one inch of her was unaffected by his proximity. She was acutely aware of every place they touched, from the way her legs rested on either side of his to the motion of his patiently roving fingers, his mouth finding hers every now and then to drive her further up the brink of madness.
"I love the way you fit against me," he murmured to her, guiding her hips to rise with the motions of his hand so she was grinding against his palm, her shoulder blades shifting against his chest. "It's so hard to concentrate when you're around. Requires a whole new level of prince-ing. I've had to develop a totally new version of my 'polite company' smile so it's less obvious I'm thinking about you."
"Oof, talk dirty to me," she mumbled, half-laughing, and he grinned against her neck.
"You have no idea, Miss Granger," he said, and slid his fingers inside her. It was genuinely worrisome how wet he made her, though she wasn't about to argue, and certainly had no opposition to him sliding her underwear down her legs, ridding her of the final obstacle between them. "And seeing you in that green dress, Hermione, I swear, I wanted to take it off with my teeth—"
Oh, hell no, that won't do—"That dress is your mother's," Hermione blurted out, her thighs abruptly snapping together around his hand like a goddamn Venus fly trap, and Draco froze, his chest going still for a second as he considered this new information.
"I," he began, and paused. "What?"
"It's," she attempted. "Well. Okay. So, um." His hand was still caught between her legs and she guiltily released him, turning to have what was apparently going to be a naked conversation. "Well, I went to the wrong room when you told me to meet you. And I, uh, I ran into your mother."
"My mother was here?" Draco asked, his voice oddly quiet, and Hermione, knowing what she'd seen from Narcissa, felt her heart twist and break for him.
"Yes, she… she told me… well, she told me a lot of things." Hermione swallowed hard, recalling the promise she'd made to Lucius and wondering how to get around it without bulldozing entirely through it. "She wasn't feeling well," she eventually determined, and Draco grimaced.
"That's what my father always says."
Hermione flinched. Wrong choice. "It's just—"
"You saw my father too, I'm guessing." Draco glanced at her. "He asked you not to tell me?"
Hermione, who could feel herself venturing into problematic territory, winced slightly. "Yes," she eventually said. "Yes, he asked me not to say anything, but really, Narcissa didn't seem well. I had to change dresses because she spilled on me, actually," Hermione explained, fidgeting. "She just seemed… a little off, that's all."
"I see." Draco grimaced. "Well, that explains why my father was especially ridiculous, then."
Hermione blinked. "What?"
"I—" Draco hesitated. "I asked him again if there was a chance you and I could, you know. Go public. He was adamantly opposed." He paused, glancing apologetically at her. "I guess my timing was a little disastrous."
"I didn't realize you were still trying to do that," Hermione said slowly, and Draco blinked.
"Still?" he echoed, stunned. "Hermione, I'll never stop. I love you. Don't you think that means something to me?" he asked, leaning towards her. "I don't want to love you temporarily. I don't want to love you until you leave or I have to get married, whatever comes first. I want to love you the way I want to, and that means getting my father on board. Though," he grumbled, "that may take even longer than I thought."
"But—" Hermione swallowed. Abruptly, she recalled Narcissa's warning again. At the time, it hadn't particularly concerned her, seeing as she wasn't about to be outed as Draco's girlfriend anytime soon. In Hermione's mind, whatever they were doing had some end date—some expiration she couldn't see and didn't want, but would eventually have to come to terms with. She never imagined she'd have to consider another option.
Oddly, she thought of her paper with Slughorn and Narcissa's opinion that Prince Lucius would never permit it, realizing Narcissa was probably right. If the rest of the world knew who Hermione was, her opinions would reflect on Draco, and in turn on his father and grandfather as well. But what was she supposed to do about that? She could ghostwrite the paper, of course, but did she really work this hard just to hide behind some old man's name when she'd done all the work? Were her choices really between being Draco's secret girlfriend or being a secret academician? Was she really never going to be entirely herself?
"I bet she liked you," Draco said softly, interrupting her ponderings with his own. He reached out to brush his thumb against her cheek, and at his touch, like usual, she melted. "My mum's nothing like my dad, you know. She's fun and funny, and so smart. I'm sure she loved you."
It hurt Hermione's heart to tell him otherwise, though in fairness, she couldn't really be sure.
"Did you tell her about your work?" Draco pressed, brightening. "I bet she'd love that. My mother loves books. She's incredibly well-read."
"I did," Hermione said, half-smiling. "She, um." She told me to run. She told me to get out. She told me your family would destroy me. "She told me she found it interesting."
"You know, come to think of it, you haven't really told me what you're working on," Draco said, and for a moment, at his excitement—at his obvious pride in her—Hermione wanted to tell him everything; to say Slughorn had given her a massive opportunity that was the first thing she'd done to really be proud of in ages. "Is it just research? Has he given you anything specific? He knows how smart you are, I'm sure, I imagine he'd give you loads of freedom—"
She could tell him. Maybe he'd be okay with it.
But then—
Maybe it was better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission. Besides, maybe it wouldn't even matter. It was just a scholarly article, and it wasn't as if their relationship was public yet, or that any signs existed to indicate it ever would be.
What was the worst that could happen?
"It's nothing," she said, forcing a smile. "Just boring stuff. You know," she added blithely, "the best of times, the worst of times—"
"Oh, so clever you are," Draco said, rolling his eyes and pulling her closer. "Well," he said. "That's enough talk about Dickens and my mother, don't you think?"
His hand slid between her legs again, and she sighed her agreement.
"Sounds perfect," she said, and while she'd planned to punish herself at least marginally with some remnants of guilt, her weak attempt at moral fortitude couldn't last. Certainly not when Draco traded his fingers for his mouth, gifting her several uninterrupted minutes of what, precisely, his royal tongue was capable of doing when it wasn't the one-day head of the Anglican Church. Definitely not when he made her legs shake with graceless satisfaction, an unrefined series of moans slipping from her lips. Was she really meant to focus on anything but him when he slid her onto his cock and whispered to her how wet she was, how tight, how hard she made him? Any of that would have been too much to ask from her poor overwrought brain. All of it taken together was positively hopeless.
She could run the scenarios tomorrow. For now, she was otherwise occupied.
"Slow down," she whispered when he threw her on her back. "Take your time," she murmured, sliding her fingers up his spine, and he smiled as he kissed her.
"Knew you'd see it my way," he said, the pace of his hips carefully measured. Gradually—with effortless command, his back arched just so for the perfect angle—he built up a merciless, unbearable knot of desperation somewhere inside her until it finally conceded to yield, and then it escaped her in shudders, in the perfect agony oh-so-patient sex as her entire body thrummed with satisfaction.
She came for what felt like hours, some little bitten-down-gasp-moan slipping from her lips, and in the absurd length of time before she went blissfully numb, she wondered if maybe time in general might be entirely relative. Maybe they had plenty of it. Maybe it would feel like they had plenty of it. Or maybe she should strap Draco to this bed and have a week-long orgasm instead of contemplating her life choices. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Still, she couldn't exactly think about that now. Not while she had a prince to satisfy.
"Your turn," she said, trading places with him, and he smiled.
"Your sense of fairness is so wonderfully democratic," he said approvingly, and she bent her lips to his ear.
"God bless America," she said, and bit down on the lobe, delivering him to a wholly blessed shiver.
I did write that paper, and I did use my name. Slughorn gave me equal writing credits and it was ultimately published in the Hogwarts scholarly journal, which is read by prominent academicians all over the world. It's one of my proudest achievements, and also one of my three most significant relationship obstacles. My lie of omission came back to bite me—as I probably knew, deep down, that it would—but as I wouldn't see the fallout from that for over a year, it was a pretty forking easy thing to forget.
My relationship with Lucius and Narcissa, however—the second and third biggest obstacles, respectively—was only just beginning.
a/n: A bit under the weather lately, but managing to scrape things together! I think. Thanks for being here! (Also, depressingly, this was me trying to curb the word count. I wrote all of this today and clearly cannot be trusted to have any control over anything.)