Chapter 13: Restraint

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Portrait of Grace

It is difficult not to admire the woman who will be the wife of Prince Draco, who is widely acknowledged for her impeccable polish and gracious demeanour. From the moment Hermione Granger was brought to the public's attention—despite the event's capture in the most spectacularly candid of ways—she has been an extraordinary beacon of warmth, a constant at her Prince's side, and an unerring symbol of duty.

While Hermione has certainly been known to have her colourful moments, occasionally breaking royal protocol in the most lively of ways, her general sense of integrity and deference has endeared her to the people, whose wary eye on the country's future was once rife with concern about the monarchy's relevance in the forward-leaning slope of modernity. However, there has been a renewed sense of adoration for the royal family since Hermione and Draco's relationship became public, which many believe will ultimately prove to be Hermione's legacy as part of the House of Malfoy. She is, without doubt or contradiction, a woman of silent courage, demure sophistication, and utterly beatific grace.

This pile of bollocks is brought to you by the woman who once called me 'as fundamentally wilted as her unconvincing American posture' (see also: 'did she wake up this morning besieged with a desire to turn us to stone like some sort of vibrantly jumpsuited Medusa?' and 'scientists have determined Hermione Granger is the final piece necessary to prove taste can neither be bought nor conquered, even with the treasury of an empire') so all of this is to be taken extremely fracking lightly.

Thank goodness for Pansy and Daphne, I have to say, though if I've appeared 'beatific' in any way, it might be purely the result of context. For example, if things had gone differently, I suspect that first meeting with King Abraxas would have been…

Hm.

Well, let's just say there's a reason I stayed a secret for so long, and shockingly, it's not because Draco and I are some sort of privacy masterminds (which I'm sure was everyone's first guess). The main reason, I suspect, is because it's easy to stay hidden in the background provided the sky is falling somewhere else.

October 31, 2011
Hogwarts University

Draco groaned as the timer on her phone went off again, his fingers digging into her hips in protest. "You can't be serious. Already?"

"Yes already, and hush," Hermione told him firmly, dismounting him with something she might have called the coordination of a newborn baby deer and leaning over the bed to fumble for the die she'd bought in Hogsmeade earlier that day. She gave it a roll as Draco propped himself up and leaned over, kissing her shoulder and sliding his hand over her hip. "Ah, rats," Hermione said, squinting at the die. "What did we say six was again?"

She felt Draco's smile against her skin. "I believe you specified 'reverse cowgirl,' Miss Granger."

"Yes, right, okay—get on your back," she instructed, elbowing him sharply in the ribs, and he laughed, arms lifted obligingly overhead as she clambered ungracefully onto his hips, facing his feet. This one, she had to admit, she hadn't been particularly thrilled about, though she warmed up to it once he let his hands fall, his fingers floating over her skin to trace the shape of her spine. She swallowed, feeling momentarily awkward with her back to him like this, and he shifted slightly beneath her to sit upright, pressing his lips to her spine in a way that made her think, okay. Okay, you've got this.

She started slow, adjusting to their new position. He moved his hands from her back, forming them around her ribs, and then he gently curled them over her waist before sliding them down to her thighs, his breath catching as she moved.

"Sorry if my hair's in your face," she muttered to him, closing her eyes to concentrate on her rhythm. He didn't answer. Instead, he merely took her hand and slid it from where she'd been unknowingly gripping his thigh to let it hover over her clit, stroking her there once with his thumb before shifting again to press another kiss to her back. She twisted around to look at him, catching the heavy-lidded look of satisfaction on his face.

"You were right," he offered, pairing the concession with one of those slow, brain-muddled, sex-infused grins. "This is much better than the Hog's Head party."

"I hate to inform you of this, Your Highness," she told him, "but as it turns out, I'm always right and never wrong."

"Ah, of course, my mistake." He reached out to pull her chin towards him, his free hand traveling down her stomach as he kissed her, and she obliged the helpful venture he'd initiated, pressing her fingers to the gradually mounting ache between her legs while she rode him. The muscle of his legs were carved out and stark with the effort of restraint, his heels digging into the twisted-up mess of her sheets, toes curled. She, meanwhile, could feel the sweat forming on the back of her neck, tension stiff between her shoulders. The teetering precipice between torment and relief was its usual artful lure as she heard him swear quietly, delicately—the way he only did when he was alone with her, phone off, flat empty, the rest of the world momentarily cast off from consideration so that he could give her that little glimpse, that sparing taste, of his perfect imperfections.

The timer went off again and Hermione let out a groan, caught just shy of what was sure to be a spectacular denouement. "Never mind, this was a terrible idea," she grumbled, and he laughed, leaning over the side of the bed and reaching blindly for the die. "You read it," he said with a kiss to her shoulder blades, tossing it, and she glanced down.

"Two," she said, and he gave her thigh a light smack.

"Get on your back, Miss Granger," he murmured to her back—a much more effective command when he gave it in his regal prince voice rather than her swottily determined one—and she gave a visceral shudder in reply, letting herself be thrown back on the mattress as he hurried to position himself between her legs. The motion of him filling her was torment raised anew, jostling the swollen lips of her cunt with a rough lack of precision, a hiss slipping sharply between her teeth.

"Close?" he asked her, his voice a dry rasp of effort, and she nodded—so very close—as he locked his eyes on hers, shoving a hand under her hips. He was helpful, that Prince of Wales. Always very respectful of her angles, Hermione thought, his cock buried deep while the friction against her clit continued, every motion arranging itself in such perfect alignment she guessed it'd be a matter of one or two withheld breaths before she went boneless (and probably useless) for at least one round. He'd learned her so well, and she'd been right—a few hard thrusts of Draco's hips and her body went rigid and then, haltingly, completely fluid, the shudder of sudden buoyancy washing over her in a wave.

"Jesus," she said, the incorporeal post-orgasm numbness floating over her limbs, and Draco chuckled, shifting to lower his mouth to her breasts. He slid his tongue around her nipple, scraping his teeth over the pert little bead of it and making his way down to her navel just before the timer went off again.

At the sound of it, he snapped upright—clearly now fully sold on the gamification of sex, which Hermione had initially suggested as a vaguely comical means of Doing Something Different—and rolled the die again. "Four." He paused. "Was that one—?"

She rolled onto her stomach, giving him the most salacious glance she could manage over her shoulder, and he grinned, leaning back on his haunches and guiding her thighs to either side of his. He leaned forward, sweeping her hair over her shoulder and kissing the back of her neck before pushing inside her again, fingers curled over the bones of her hips.

"This is fun," he said, voice gruff with effort as he moved, hand sliding up to curve around her breast. "Very fun." A kiss on her cheek. "You're fun." A kiss to the line of her neck, then the stroke of a finger down her spine.

"Stop telling me how much fun I am," she advised, panting a little as she shifted her hips to meet his thrusts, "before the timer goes off again."

His response was ground between his teeth, words that gifted her a little shiver: "This is the last round, Hermione."

His voice was strained, hips moving faster now, and she could feel that coiling pressure building up again, racing faster, faster, faster, yesyesyes right there possibly slipping from her lips in some sort of uneven, arrhythmic lack of cadence, along with fuck and holy god and a handful of other problematic references to a clearly vengeful deity as the timer went off and they ignored it, his fingers twisting up in the mass of her hair she really should have gotten cut about two months ago. He'd mostly been reduced to incoherence by then, to the masculine little groans Hermione had collected and savored and replayed for herself in the dark when she needed to remember the sound of him being lost, being hers, both of them dancing along that edge of too much too much too much—(timer beeping)—(clock ticking)—(pulse racing)—more more more—and, then, finally, oh.

Yes.

He came and she came and they were panting, slick with sweat, but he managed the incalculable effort of sliding the screen of her phone to finally deliver them to blissful silence. There was nothing but the sound of their breaths in the room as Draco pulled her into his chest, settling them both down to something marginally more acceptable for a normal resting pulse.

"That," he said hoarsely, "was a great Halloween party."

She elbowed him weakly, shaking her head. "Seriously, though," she told him after a moment, burrowing in his arms, "I'm sorry you couldn't go this year."

Prince Lucifer had been in a mood recently, stating unambiguously that if Draco could not promise a totally incident-free final year at Hogwarts then he shouldn't bother sitting for his exams. Apparently the Prince of Darkness wasn't taking Hermione's appearances very well, Draco had told her—which had been paraphrased, she guessed. Shocking, Hermione had thought in reply, give or take a few expletives she'd left lounging on her tongue.

"Nah, it's fine," Draco assured her, toying with her hair. "I took a risk even going last year. Worth it, though." He kissed her shoulder. "Certainly worth having you to myself tonight."

"You sure?"

"Oh, absolutely." He paused, tapping his fingers on her arm as he pondered something. "Though I should do something for Harry, I think, tomorrow."

It didn't really occur to her to stop herself from responding. "Because of his parents' deaths, you mean?"

Draco hesitated, then rested his chin in the dip of her shoulder.

"You know about them?" he asked carefully.

"Doesn't everyone?" she said.

There was a surprisingly long absence of a response. In the silence, she felt a strange, intangible distance work itself between them, His Royal Highness Prince Draco of Wales manifesting inch by inch to fill the place her Draco (the Draco who'd said yes, Hermione, god I love the way you feel, the way you taste, you make me so weak for you—that Draco) had just been.

"Harry rarely speaks about his parents," Draco eventually said. "About them, yes, but not about their deaths. He says telling other people about them makes the whole tragedy thing feel like part of an elaborate charade he has no claim to, which isn't necessarily true, but—" He paused, clearing his throat. "It's unusual he discusses them."

"Oh." She wasn't really sure what to say. "Are you…" She trailed off, lifting her chin to look at him. "Is everything alright?"

"Hm? Oh, of course," he said. It was his polite company voice, the same one he used to welcome people into the sort of room that featured his portrait on the wall. "I just didn't realize you'd had such a, well. An intimate conversation, I suppose."

"It was last year," she said, a little surprised by the word choice. Intimate. She hardly wanted to consider him being intimate with anyone but her, which seemed to be precisely the point. "I think I caught him at a vulnerable time, that's all."

"Right, yes, of course. You're probably right. It's good he talks about it, anyway," Draco said, sounding as if he were trying to reassure himself. "I try to, usually, because it's difficult for him, left to his own devices. I hate to think he's just punishing himself in silence."

She frowned. "Punishing himself?"

"Harry is very adept at hiding his pain, Hermione." Draco paused, and then added quietly, "And perhaps other things, too, I suspect."

She blinked. "Draco, are you…" Are you mad? seemed a stupid question, though unquestionably the one she wanted to ask. "Is this, um—"

"I suppose you must provide something similar to both of us," Draco said quickly. "It's very… freeing," he determined, "being with you. There are no expectations, no limits. I suppose it rather makes sense Harry and I would both find that quality appealing."

She could hear the undertone of disenchantment in his voice; like something special, something rare, had been tainted slightly now that he'd been forced to share it. "Well, it's not like Harry has much to live up to," Hermione ventured tentatively, "does he?"

"Harry wears a very clever mask. It's a coping strategy, really. He's lost so much." Abruptly, Hermione remembered what Harry had said to her: That's the only thing they can't take from you, you know. Your truth. "But however naturally it comes to him, it's not that easy," Draco said, sounding resigned. "I know it's not."

"You sound," Hermione began, and swallowed. "Upset."

"I'm not upset."

A categorical lie. He was, but she didn't know what kind.

"It's not like I was trying to… I don't know," she attempted, feeling guilty while also guiltily defensive. "I wasn't—"

"Oh, you didn't do anything wrong, Hermione." Draco softened slightly, brushing his lips against the top of her head. "It's nothing you did, or that he did, it's just," he ventured, letting it dance on the tip of his tongue, "he tells me everything, usually. There's no secrets between us, or there haven't been." She could almost hear his thoughts whirring, his arms feeling heavy around her now. "But this time, he didn't tell me."

She felt a knot of anguish swell up in her throat.

"My father is quite demanding," Draco said slowly, "unfairly so, and I suppose it often seems everything comes down to me. What I do, how I behave, it often gets treated like the most important thing in the world—so at times, it seems like everything revolves around what I do." He swallowed. "I suppose sometimes I forget it doesn't."

Hermione tilted her chin up, kissing his jaw, then his chin, then eventually, when he finally conceded to look at her, she pressed her lips to his.

"I love you," she said, "and Harry's my friend. I think I was just in the right place at the right time, that's all."

Draco nodded slowly, letting her kiss him again. "You're probably right," he said. Lie, she thought, catching the hints of avoidance in his unfocused grey gaze. "Maybe I'm overreacting." Lie. "Harry's older now. Maybe it doesn't bother him quite so much to talk about it anymore. That would be ideal." Lie, lie, lie. "And you are very easy to talk to." True, but still part of an overarching lie. "I suppose I can't really blame him." Definite lie.

Draco tilted her chin up, his palm smooth across her cheek.

"I love you," he said. Truth.

"I'm," she began, and stopped. "I'm not for him, Draco. He knows that. I'm yours."

It may not have been the right thing to say, but at least it was true.

Draco kissed her forehead in answer, reaching for the duvet that had bunched at the foot of the bed and dragging it up to cover them both with it.

"We should sleep," he said, and she nodded. Pressed to his chest, though, she could feel his breath quicken and falter, both of them still awake by the time the door to the flat opened and closed, signaling the end of another Hog's Head Halloween.

By morning, Hermione and Draco had mostly forgotten the weirdness that had kept them up the night before. That was probably partially due to having such excessive weirdness of a different variety to contend with the next day, but Hermione took what she could get, letting Draco kiss her sweetly out of bed, coffee mug ready in hand.

"Well, this is lovely," said Roger, Daphne's former professor and current sort-of boyfriend, glancing around the flat from where he sat at Daphne's left. "Certainly better than the squalor I lived in my last year at university. Which was not long ago," he hurried to assure a mussed and sleepy Neville, who looked far too hungover to care.

"All the better to serve our illustrious faculty," Pansy said drily, sipping her tea.

"Roger, you're making everything weird," Daphne informed him, rolling her eyes and giving Pansy's chair a hard nudge under the table. "You went to art school," she added, glancing up at him. He had his arm slung over her chair as if he were using her like a security blanket or a shield, which he probably was. "It's supposed to be squalor. It builds character."

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance, sharing a moment of total detest for Daphne's hopefully temporary distraction in Professor Roger Davies. They'd opted not to let Roger in on the secret of their relationship despite Daphne assuring them that if he blabbed to anyone she'd simply get him fired and/or fake a pregnancy scare for purposes of traumatizing him completely, but they didn't feel it worth informing someone who wouldn't be around long (they hoped).

Roger had of course not gone to the mostly-college-aged party the night before, which would have been filled with his students, but he had stuck around for breakfast after Hermione and Pansy (hoping to point out the obvious flaws in the arrangement by making them all sit down to breakfast) had suggested to Daphne he stay. They were, in a classic twist, regretting that decision now. Roger wasn't unpleasant, necessarily—the appeal was certainly obvious, as he was incredibly attractive—but while Fleur had been grudgingly accepted on the basis of her being genuinely good for Theo, they owed Roger Davies no such benefit of the doubt.

"Well, I suppose that's—"

Roger broke off as the door to the flat flew open, revealing a still-costumed Blaise. The party that year had been jungle-themed, which meant Blaise had taken firm advantage of his single opportunity to wear a skintight catsuit and likely wasn't going to put it to rest soon. Daphne, in her usual pursuit of loopholing the theme, had gone as some sort of AC/DC groupie, while Theo and Fleur had gone as, respectively, a gorilla and a Jane Goodall so posh Hermione had initially failed to notice it was a costume. Neville and Pansy (who typically loved an ostentatious look) hadn't made much of an effort for their first Halloween as a couple. Pansy had merely worn a black dress and a set of cat ears, having drawn whiskers on Neville's face.

Harry, who had since changed out of a fluffy lion's mane Hermione was certain had been intended for a small child or a dog, followed Blaise into the room, eyeing an apprehensive Roger and lifting a brow at Draco, as if to say, Can you believe this?

Draco returned with an expression Pansy had once described as his look of measured anguish, alternately referring to it as his 'disaster eyes' (because of the blankness in his grey gaze) or 'distress smile' (because of the distinctly… not okay shape of his mouth).

Uh oh, Hermione thought.

"You," Blaise said to Roger. "Out."

"I'm sorry?" Roger said, frowning. "Who are you?"

"Minus five hundred for not instinctively knowing," Blaise sniffed, "and also, please leave."

"Blaise," Daphne sighed, "that's no need t-"

"We have to discuss something of VITAL IMPORTANCE," Blaise said to her, "concerning matters of the crown."

"Ah, yes, okay, out," Daphne confirmed, elbowing Roger in the ribs and removing the piece of bacon from his hand just as he was raising it to his mouth. "So sorry, you understand."

"What?" Roger asked, half-heartedly letting Daphne guide him to the door with an ironclad grip on his elbow before she yanked the handle, depositing him on the other side of the threshold. "Wait, Daphne, what are you—"

"I'll call you," she said, placing him brusquely into the hallway and then closing the door before he could reply. "Yes, Blaise, what is it?"

Immediately, Draco's phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket, went slightly pale, and put it to his ear. "Father," he said, giving them a nod and making his way to Hermione's room, the low murmur of his voice fading into the echo of the corridor.

"Well," Hermione said. "That looks—"

"Related," Pansy confirmed, pursing her lips. "What is it, Blaise?"

"Rita Skeeter just printed an article about Lucius and Narcissa's marriage," Blaise explained, blindly handing Pansy his phone. She'd already had a hand up expecting it, the two of them as accustomed to each other's movements as Hermione guessed any two people could be. "She suggests Lucius is keeping Narcissa away from the public as something of a silencing tactic."

Hermione looked up at Daphne, whose mouth quirked only slightly.

"This," Pansy sniffed as she skimmed the article, "is disgusting. This is outrageous." Neville reached over, trying to view the screen, but she held the phone up and Blaise took it without looking, folding his arms firmly over his chest. "They're saying Lucius is some kind of… like he's her jailer—"

Draco burst from Hermione's room, the rest of them holding their breaths as he blew in, breathless, from whatever conversation he'd just been having.

"I have to go," he said, and then he hesitated a moment before clarifying, "home. Not to London."

"What?" Hermione asked, a touch surprised. 'Home' in Draco's vocabulary meant his family's country estate, which was where he'd spent the better part of his time as a child and where his mother now resided. "Why?"

"My grandfather wants my mother to come to the gala next week." Draco had a strange look on his face; half-anxious, half-excited, entirely irrepressible. "My father is executing some sort of media strategy for which I'm sure he won't give me any details, but in any case—he wants it to be known I'm visiting her."

"That's—" Hermione stopped, registering that the others (notably Harry, Blaise, and Pansy) did not look overly thrilled by the news. "That's… great, right?" she asked him, frowning. "That you get to see your mother?"

"Yes," Draco said, nodding distractedly. "Yes, it is, and—"

"Draco." Harry's voice was quiet. "Do you want me to come with you? I could spare a week, if you wanted."

"Hm? No, no, it's quite alright," Draco said, not quite looking at him. "Actually, I was thinking," he ventured, turning to Pansy. "Would you come with me, Pans?"

"Of course. Though, that being said, what on earth for?" Pansy asked him, and Hermione, who had expected the request about as much as Pansy had, struggled to withhold a bemused frown.

"Well, it's just been some time, and—" Draco fidgeted, turning to Hermione, who realized for the first time that perhaps his absence from his mother might have been more complicated than she'd initially thought. He looked apprehensive, and not in the way he usually did when he was discussing what his father or grandfather expected from him. This, she realized, was about Narcissa, and abruptly, Hermione registered for the first time that Draco hadn't seen his mother in any considerable capacity for… perhaps years. They might have been strangers to each other by then.

"I'm sorry," Draco told her, his voice carrying a distinct undertone of I know you won't like it, "but it's just that my mother already knows Pansy so well, they've always gotten on in the past, and I don't want to… overwhelm her—"

It also occurred to Hermione with alarmingly delayed recognition that maybe Draco really believed his mother was ill. They'd never spoken about whatever excuses his father might have given to keep him away, so she supposed Draco must generally believe whatever Lucius, or Abraxas, had told him.

"No, of course," Hermione said hurriedly. "Right, yes, I understand. I have to work, anyway," she added, which was true. She had a number of deadlines to meet and it would have been more than a little inconvenient to leave now, just when Slughorn had requested a massive overhaul to part of their paper after she'd suggested they include more non-European sources. It wasn't as if she had time to jet off with her boyfriend on a trip to see his mother.

Besides, she'd see him, of course. At the gala. As part of a situation she herself had manipulated, which certainly hadn't backfired in any way. "Makes perfect sense," she said firmly.

"Well, it doesn't, let's be quite clear about that," Pansy countered, pursing her lips. "Still, I suppose it has been some time since I've seen Narcissa myself." She paused for a moment, lost in thought. "I'm quite curious how she's doing."

"You don't see your mother much?" Neville asked Draco, who gave something of a wry half-smile confirming in answer. "Nor do I, my grandmother is really quite strict about—"

"When are you leaving?" Pansy said, to which Draco looked uneasy.

"Now." He shot a quick glance at Hermione. "I'm sorry, I know I said I'd be here all week, but—"

"Draco, it's fine," she said, rising to her feet. He slid an arm around her waist, instinctively tugging her into him. "I'll get someone else to teach me how low to curtsy to your grandfather. I'll just ask—" She bit her tongue on Harry, just barely stopping herself before amending, "Theo. Fleur's leaving in a couple of hours, he won't have anything else to do. He's already read Othello about eight times, I suspect," she added with an uneasy laugh.

If Harry heard the significance in her specifically not naming him, he said nothing. She figured there was nothing to say, but that didn't stop her from fidgeting a little in the silence. She tilted her head up and Draco kissed her quickly, one of his fleeting kisses. Something that indicated his mind was elsewhere.

"Thank you," he murmured, brushing his lips against her forehead before turning to Pansy. "Be ready to leave in ten minutes, Pans?"

"I keep a bag packed," Pansy assured him lazily. "My mother always advised being prepared to leave at a moment's notice. I believe her version of self care was the fanciful idea she might simply abandon her life and never return."

Neville laughed uneasily, which no one else did, and Hermione wondered briefly if there would be rumors about Draco and Pansy now, as they would inevitably be seen together. She wondered, too, if such a thing would bother her despite her knowing perfectly well it wasn't true.

She felt… sticky with unease. Icky. Swampy, almost, with the sorts of curdling feelings in her stomach she knew were based in something other than logic. Draco loved her, she loved him, Prince Harry was simply their friend, and furthermore, Lady Pansy Six-Names was precisely who Hermione would want in this situation if it were happening to her. All of this was perfectly true and reasonable, and yet—

Emotions were dreadful things, Hermione thought glumly.

"Have fun with your mother," she told a departing Draco, who gave her a lingering look in return, a thousand things caught on his tongue by the time his grey eyes met hers.

She tried to guess what was on his mind and couldn't. Whatever it was, perhaps he didn't quite want her to know. She fiddled with the snake ring on her finger, twisting it around and around, and in answer—his attention snagging on her hands—he subtly switched his signet ring, right hand to left.

She tried a smile, which sort of succeeded, and he gave her something similar in answer before slipping out the door. He mostly spoke in codes, she knew. That was where he was most comfortable, generally speaking; in not having to voice his feelings aloud.

Still, Hermione thought as Daphne's hand slipped comfortingly around hers, she really wished he would.

It turned out the correct way to curtsy to the King of England was relatively simple: very, very low. She rehearsed it with both Daphne and Theo, who, at Daphne's insistence, very credibly filled the role of noblewoman.

"Very good," Daphne-as-King Abraxas said approvingly, applauding both Hermione and Theo's shaky curtsies from the throne of Hermione's bed. "I daresay we'll make fine young ladies of you yet."

"I think Theo's is better," Hermione said, grimacing at him.

He, unsurprisingly, batted his lashes in reply. "I don't know why you're surprised, California. I'm the very portrait of elegance and grace."

"Yikes," Daphne said, which was something she had picked up from Hermione and done a positively faultless job of improving. "Overdoing it a bit, Theodore."

"Per usual, you're a tyrant," Theo retorted.

"I'm a tyrant what?" she prompted, one hand to her ear, and he groaned.

"You're a tyrant, Your Majesty—"

Hermione sighed, deciding she felt the rest of the etiquette lesson better ended with a slow, melting sprawl across the floor. She'd spent most of the day working on the same three paragraphs for Slughorn, trying to cut some unnecessary words and only making it longer each time instead. A combination of perfectionism towards her work and her bizarrely antiquated request to date her own boyfriend was draining her considerably, and Daphne dismounted the bed to perch cheerfully beside her, giving her forehead an affectionate pat.

Theo, similarly, took the opportunity to lie down on the floor at Hermione's side, the buzzing from his phone prompting her to turn to him. "You gonna get that?" she asked, jamming a finger into his ribs.

"Hm? Oh, it's just Fleur," he assured her. "She's at some sort of dinner with her father and she likes to transcribe the stupid things people say to her." He shrugged. "I'll read them later."

"Roger does something rather like that," Daphne said, rolling her eyes. "Only I imagine Fleur's commentary is much more clever."

"Oh, it is," Theo said, "though I'm never quite sure I have anything to say outside of—" He pulled out his phone, glancing at his responses. "Yes, here it is, 'haha' has been the last four of my responses—well, I suppose I could weld on additional 'ha' this round—"

"Well, at least there's that," Daphne said, deciding to begin arranging Hermione's hair in some sort of design on the floor. "Roger sometimes sends me poetry," she added, "but I'm really not sure what I'm supposed to say to his observations about the significance of the dawn."

"You should reply with some of your absurdist stuff," Theo suggested sagely, rolling towards her. "That sonnet you wrote about life as a blade of grass nearly gave me appendicitis."

"You mean it had you in stitches?" Hermione asked.

"That's what I said," replied Theo.

"I'm not sure Roger would recognize it as satire," Daphne said, shifting on the floor to begin the design on the other side of Hermione's head as Hermione, finding the floor surprisingly comfortable, contemplated a laugh. "I believe his precise commentary was that satire as an 'art' form is on its way out, being that it is a tool of intellectual snobbery."

Theo made a face. "Did he use the air quotes, or did you add them?"

"What do you think, Nott?"

"Oh, sweet merciful Christ."

"I know. It's heinous. I keep thinking about stealing his phone and throwing it into the lake, only then I remember he'd only buy another one and use it to ask me my thoughts on the subsequent painting. You know—'Daphne, do you think people will understand the use of darker tones within the lake represents the misery of the human experience?'—or something of the sort."

"Wild idea here, Greengrass," Theo said drily, "but you could simply… stop seeing him?"

"He's not all bad," Daphne said, not particularly convincingly. Hermione, who'd had her eyes closed, cracked one, curiously glancing between them. "But I suppose you're technically not wrong."

"Of course I'm not," Theo said. Hermione noted his phone buzzing again, which he didn't address. "If the best that can be said about him is 'he's not all bad,' I imagine there's some avenue more preferable."

"Well, there's always Michael Corner," Daphne said, grinning at him, and Theo groaned.

"That idiot again—no, no, stick to Roger, he's at least he's got some semblance of not being dropped on his head as a child—"

"You know, if Roger's not that great, maybe there's no need to settle," Hermione suggested, prompting both Daphne and Theo to suddenly recall her existence. "You could just, oh, I don't know." She tried to keep her voice light. "Wait for the right person?"

"This from the woman with a wobbly curtsy," Theo said with a Pansy-esque scoff, adding, "and speaking of, we should also discuss how to refer to people in private."

"Mm, yes," Daphne agreed. "Title first, then 'sir'—"

"This is giving me a headache," Hermione said, sitting up and disrupting whatever had been done to her hair, much to Daphne's dismay. "I'm just… meeting my boyfriend's grandfather, it should be so simple. The last time I met a boyfriend's grandpa it was over these miniature pickle wraps at a fourth of July barbeque, so—"

"There were so many Americanisms there I scarcely understood a word out of your mouth," Theo said, groaning. "I'm afraid you may be entirely a lost cause."

"Unhelpful," Daphne said, pulling a face at him before resuming her lecture to Hermione. "Also, try not speak to the King until he speaks to you," she began explaining, which was apparently an important enough point to merit being cut off with an outburst from Theo.

"Oh CHRIST, okay, yes," Theo said, scrambling to his knees to take hold of Hermione's shoulders. "Do not speak to Abraxas unless he speaks to you. He's going to do a very confusing thing where he presents himself as a perfectly friendly and perhaps even doddering old man. Do not be fooled," Theo advised, his tone so astoundingly severe and unlike his usual demeanor that Hermione half-considered asking him if he required an exorcism. "He's cutthroat, Abraxas, and in a very different way from Prince Lucifer."

"Draco talks about him as if he's… nice," Hermione said tentatively, and Theo made a loud, unhinged barking sound.

"His closest friend is my father," Theo reminded her, which was an extremely valid point, "and his preeminent issue is the Prince of Darkness. All of this should be very concerning to you," he said, flailing his hands slightly, and though it was being delivered with a sense of drama Hermione wasn't entirely sure what to do with, she figured some sort of point was being made. "Not to mention that just because he didn't steal his crown from some dead man's head hardly means the position doesn't require some degree of ruthlessness—"

"Yes, fine, I'll follow the rules. In fact, I'll say nothing," Hermione said, heartily meaning it. She had no plans to ruin this, and for once, she thought it better that King Abraxas find her uninteresting or easily pushed aside than to chance him ruling her out entirely. "Seriously, I won't."

"You really shouldn't," Theo firmly agreed. "And don't say anything to Draco about it if he does say something snide, either. Draco is Abraxas' favorite, he's the only person Abraxas dotes on, so believe me, I've tried, but he won't believe a word against his grandfath- ah, now she's calling," he said, cutting himself off to dig his phone out of his pocket. "Sorry, hold on—"

He got to his feet, slipping out of Hermione's bedroom, and Hermione caught the lingering look of disappointment on Daphne's face, her beautiful features taking on a hollow sort of loveliness in Theo's absence.

"Break up with Roger," Hermione said, and Daphne blinked, turning to her.

"What?"

"Break up with him," Hermione begged, and Daphne rolled her eyes. "Come on, Daph, we all know you don't really want to be with him and it's just getting hard to watch—"

"Well, hang on," Daphne said, shaking her head. "I know I'm not… I know what he isn't," she clarified, clearing her throat, "but what he is is a person who loves me, or says he does, and when he asked me to give him a chance—" She shrugged. "If I had just done that the first time someone had asked," she confessed quietly, "then maybe I wouldn't be in this position now. I'm just trying to learn from my mistakes, that's all."

"But—" Hermione made a low sound of frustration. "But he's not Theo," she eventually said, and Daphne chuckled a little.

"No, he's not, but still. He's sweet," she said. "He's thoughtful. And Theo is happy." She leaned back, glancing wistfully at the door. "Theo's very happy, and I…"

She shrugged.

"I want that," Daphne said honestly. "Even if I'm not ready for it yet, even Roger's not the one, I suppose I just want to—" She tilted her head. "To practice. So when it's the real thing, I'll know what it's like."

This sounded agonizing to Hermione. "But—"

"Okay, good news, Fleur's tits are a huge success," Theo said, bursting back into the room and falling back down beside Hermione with a laugh. "At least according to the Prime Minister of what she called 'one of those countries with all the potato-based dishes,' which, I'm really not even sure what that means—"

"You were saying Abraxas is some sort of demon," Daphne reminded him, and Theo snapped his fingers.

"Right, yes, so—" He paused. "No, that was it. That's the whole story."

"Okay, well, I've ruined everything so far," Hermione said grimly, "so I promise, I'm just going to keep my mouth shut. Daph's in charge of making me look good," she added, and Daphne nodded solemnly, "so all I have to do is follow your rules," she said to Theo, whose nod was far more urgent, "and then I'm set. I'm not going to give Abraxas or Lucius or anyone any reason to resent me any further, I promise."

She glanced down, toying with her ring again, and she felt Theo and Daphne exchange a glance over her head, having another of their muted conversations.

"Look," Theo said slowly, "if this is about Draco going home with Pansy—"

"No, it isn't. Well, it is," Hermione admitted, and Theo gave an I knew it sort of grimace, "but not like you think. I mean, it's only about that in that Pansy is exactly the kind of girl Draco's father would want him to be with, but—"

"You're the one he wants," Daphne told her firmly, and Theo nodded his agreement.

"You just have to understand, Draco is very…" He grimaced, clearly unsure how to put his thoughts into words. "He's limited, in a sense," he explained slowly. "His grand romantic gestures are so small you'll have to squint to see them, but believe me, it's you he likes, California, more than anyone. He doesn't want a different version of you, he certainly doesn't want a different kind of girl. Just… give him time," Theo said. "And also, don't turn your back on Abraxas."

"Disrespectful?" Hermione guessed.

"That," he said, "and he might have you stabbed."

Hermione blinked.

"Kidding," Theo said with half a laugh. "Well, not really. I mean, I wouldn't put it past him. But no, it's the first thing, the deference thing."

"Oh," Hermione said lamely, and Daphne firmly kicked Theo's foot.

"Don't worry," she said to Hermione, "he'll love you. And at the very least," she joked, "I'll make sure he'll love your dress."

That was a relief, Hermione supposed, gladly taking her wins when she found them.

"Don't be nervous," Draco said on the phone.

"I'm not nervous," Hermione said.

"Liar." He laughed. "You'd be inhuman not to be, but don't worry. My grandfather's much different from my father. He'll be tolerable, I swear."

"Right." She swallowed, recalling what Theo had said about Draco's stance on his grandfather's character and opting not to comment. "How are things with your mom?"

"She's been lovely, actually. My father's here, so I'm not really ever alone with her, but she seems… fine. Well, she seems mostly tired," Draco said. "She sleeps quite a lot, but outside of that she seems normal."

Hermione wondered what Lucius had done to make sure Narcissa behaved. She doubted he would have taken any chances.

"That's good," she said.

"She says she wants to see you again," Draco added. "You must have made quite an impression on her. I think she's fond of you."

Hermione blinked. "Really?"

"Oh, definitely. She seemed almost urgent about speaking with you," he said. "Said she thinks it's rather nice I've chosen someone so unspoiled."

"I'm certainly not spoiled," Hermione said with a laugh. "Not compared to the people you should be dating, I imagine."

"I think she meant unspoiled by the world. Not disillusioned, I think she meant," he clarified.

Hermione doubted that had been intended as a compliment. She suspected the word Narcissa meant had actually been naive, but at least she hadn't expressed outright disapproval to Draco. Perhaps Narcissa would be an ally in the end.

"Well, I'd love to see her again," Hermione said. "Are you thinking that's a possibility?"

"Oh, almost certainly. We'll meet my grandfather after the gala," Draco clarified, "so plan to stick around for a bit, okay? He leaves first," he explained. "Nobody can leave before he does, but then we'll slip out to speak to him. I'll have Theo tell you when."

"Sounds great," Hermione said, feeling another surge of anxiety. She paused, then ventured carefully, "Have you talked to Harry?"

Draco was quiet a moment.

"I wanted to apologize to you about that," he said. "I hope you understand, it's not really about you. It's just that I was so surprised—normally I know exactly what Harry's thinking. But it was unfair of me to react the way I did, as it isn't your fault." He paused again. "I'm glad he was able to confide in you."

"Oh, good." Her response felt underwhelming, but she wasn't sure what else to say. "As long as you're not, you know. Worried, I guess."

He didn't say anything for a second, and she waited, fingers tight around her phone.

"Do I have anything to be worried about?" Draco asked her.

"No," she told him hastily. "No, of course not. I promise."

She heard a rustle on the other end, as if he was switching the phone from one ear to the other. "I didn't think so, but I'm glad to hear it. Pansy says hello, by the way," he told her, which she doubted. Presumably that was a paraphrase of something else. "Well, she said to make sure you and Daphne hadn't burned the flat down, but I think that's something like hello."

Hermione laughed. "Yeah, that sounds right. Tell her everything's still standing."

"I will, don't worry. You'd better get to sleep if you're leaving early. Call me in the morning when you arrive?"

She nodded. "Of course."

"Excellent. I can't wait to see you."

Relief tugged a little at her heart. "Yeah?"

"Of course. I miss you terribly, I always do. There's no one to tell when my father says something outrageous, and nobody's on the other end of my conspiratorial 'can you believe Pansy just said that' glances. I've also been studying with absolutely no distractions," he lamented with a sigh. "It's horrible and I hate it."

Hermione smiled. "I miss you, too."

"Good. I love you, in case you'd forgotten."

It was always nice to be reminded. "I love you."

"See you tomorrow?"

"Yes." She nodded. "Sleep well, Your Highness."

"I will. Sweet dreams, Miss Granger."

When they hung up, Hermione glanced up at the gown, which was hanging from the door of her closet. This time, Daphne had reconstructed one of her own gowns, taking an initially strapless dress of floaty Cambridge blue silk and adding lace sleeves and a matching overlay. Altogether, it was appropriate, beautiful, classic and feminine and soft, and Hermione glanced down at her nails, which she'd miraculously managed not to touch for an entire week.

So far, things were generally in her favor.

All she had to do, she reminded herself grimly, was not make a single mistake.

The party was much like it had been the previous year, though with the addition of Neville. Fleur had been unable to get away (which would surely disappoint the DRAGONFLOWER blog) but it was nice to have the group together in its usual form. Hermione's updo that evening came courtesy of Pansy, who'd barged into Daphne's house sometime in the early afternoon and barked at both of them to stop everything they were doing, which she'd expressed with abject certainty was entirely all wrong. It had been, surprisingly, the ideal way to start the evening, and Hermione had to admit, for a girl who'd always been able to pay for her hair to be its perfect, shiniest self, Pansy certainly knew what she was doing.

Harry, who'd made himself fairly scarce since Halloween, looked his usual handsome self, greeting Hermione with a broad and comforting grin. She hated to admit it, but at the events which prescribed Draco's absence, she always felt more at ease when Harry was there.

"Hi," she said, breathlessly giving him a hug. "Have you actually been working, then?"

"Oh, you know, saving lives, eating canapés," he joked, kissing her cheek. "You look perfect, as ever," he said, taking her hand and giving her a little twirl to nod appreciatively at the dress. "Abraxas will love you," he determined triumphantly, and Hermione made a face.

"Don't remind me—"

"He's not scary," Harry said. "Don't let Theo scare you. He's never liked Theo, but honestly, who would?" he joked. "Seriously, don't worry. You have nothing to be afraid of."

Hermione felt a rush of relief, exhaling sharply. "Really? I wish you'd told me."

He half-smiled. "You didn't ask."

"What are you two talking about?" Blaise cut in before Hermione could react to Harry's potentially deeply-layered comment, arriving at their side with two glasses in hand.

From Harry, reaching out for one: "Oh, is this for me?"

From Blaise, irritably: "Don't be ridiculous, Henry, I'm a gentleman, not a butler. This is for the lady."

From Hermione, skeptically: "Is it, Blaise? Or is it just… also for you?"

Blaise, with a scoff: "Just take the drink, new Tracey."

From Daphne, appearing from elsewhere in the room with Theo at her heels: "You won't believe who's here."

Pansy, slightly winded from apparently chasing after Daphne: "Do not make a fuss about this, Daphne Greengrass you heathenous gossi-"

Blaise: "TELL US IMMEDIATELY OR I'LL TAKE POINTS FROM EVERYONE."

Harry, grinning: "Better not chance it, Daph."

Daphne, bursting with excitement: "Okay, it's—"

Blaise: "THE WAIT IS INGLORIOUSLY TORTUROUS."

Neville, offering Pansy a glass of champagne: "What's going on?"

Theo: "Oh, nothing, we're just slowly killing Blaise."

Blaise, groaning: "I've never in my life wanted to be murdered so much if it would mean I could haunt all of you relentlessly as punishment for your crimes."

Hortense, approvingly: "That's the most relatable thing you've ever said. Someone should allocate you some sort of imaginary point total."

Theo, jumping in place at the sight of Draco's French cousins: "Jesus, when did you get here?"

Thibaut: "Who are you?"

Theo: "What?"

Harry, to Hortense and Thibaut: "Can you two leave?"

Hortense, stiffly: "Metaphysically speaking? Yes."

Blaise: "That means no."

Thibaut, approvingly: "The pretty one gets it."

Harry: "I didn't think you two were even invited to this."

Hortense, with tinkling laugh: "We were not."

Theo, nudging Daphne: "Just tell them, Greengrass, or we'll all die of suspense—"

Neville, sipping his champagne with confusion: "Tell us what?"

Pansy, impatiently: "Honestly, Neville, we're talking."

Hortense, glancing over Hermione's shoulder: "Oh look, Bellatrix Lestrange is here. Didn't she recently kill her husband?"

Daphne, frustrated: "I was just going to say th-"

Hermione, confused: "Wait, that's who you're excited about? Who is she?"

Daphne, obviously barely repressing excitement: "Okay, so, the thing is—"

Thibaut, loudly: "Bellatrix Lestrange is an absolute bore."

Harry, doubtfully: "You're going to call the woman who slept with a married man twice her age, dated Prince Lucius, married the married man, had an affair with her sister's husband, and then wound up suddenly widowed a… bore?"

Hortense: "It's true. She almost never wears patterns."

Blaise, loftily: "Besides, who isn't widowed these days. Once? That's child's play."

Thibaut, nodding vigorously: "I agree, it's as if this is some sort of recreational dive into the sandbox for amateurs—"

Hermione: "Hold on—what did you say she did?"

Pansy, impatiently: "Don't listen to them, Hermione, it's nothing. Only I will say that I hope Narcissa doesn't run into her. Or if she does, then hopefully nobody from the press notices h-"

Hortense: "Oh look, it's Rita Skeeter."

Pansy: silence, save for a look Hermione had learned to translate as, loosely, "Oh, for bloody fuck's sake."

Neville, curiously: "Rita Skeeter?"

Pansy, sighing: "Neville, please. Not now."

Thibaut, gleefully: "This is a disaster."

Harry, frowning: "Actually, it sort of is."

Hermione, catching his sidelong glance: "Why?"

Harry, with marked hesitation: "Well… Pans, do you plan to stop me if I tell her?"

Pansy, stiffly: "I suppose in this one instance, you probably should. But stick to the facts, Henry."

Hortense: "I've never once enjoyed a fact and I don't plan to start now. Come on, Thibaut. We should steal some furniture."

Theo, with palpable confusion: "Aren't you two sort of… extremely wealthy?"

Thibaut: "One cannot buy thrill, Francis."

Theo: "My name's Theo."

Hortense: "I really don't see how that's relevant."

Daphne, helpfully: "I would imagine silverware might be easier to steal than furniture. Just in terms of logistics."

Thibaut, dismissively: "I imagine it is, if one is a coward. Good day."

Harry, waiting for Thibaut and Hortense's absence before turning to Hermione: "So anyway, Lady Bellatrix Lestrange is Princess Narcissa's eldest sister."

Hermione, surprised: "What, that woman over there? But she's so—"

Daphne: "Unhinged-looking?"

Hermione, hesitantly: "I was going to say brunette, but—"

Blaise, sipping champagne: "Genetics are a fickle business."

Harry: "Right, well, anyway, Lucius dated Bellatrix first, but she already had, um. Pans, what's the nice word for it?"

Pansy, lips pursed: "A reputation."

Harry: "Yes, that."

Hermione, hesitantly: "I don't understand."

Theo: "Well, it was… what year?"

Harry: "The early eighties, I think. Lucius was in his twenties then, and so was Bellatrix."

Daphne: "Yes, and the worst thing any woman can be is a person who enjoys sex."

Pansy, scoffing into her glass: "Which is still true."

Blaise: "Yes, very much so. Even mariticide seven times over is technically preferable."

Neville, hesitantly: "Is that something that actually happened, or…?"

Blaise: "What?"

Neville, venturing carefully: "Well, it's just… you've implied some sort of murder several times now, and I'm just growing a bit concerned—"

Daphne: "Anyway, the rumor is Abraxas shut things down immediately. Said the Princess of Wales couldn't possibly be someone like Bellatrix, who was already said to be having an affair with Rodolphus Lestrange—who was married at the time."

Theo, with a shudder: "And my father's age."

Daphne: "Yes, and that. And they say that for a time, Lady Bellatrix was sleeping with both Rodolphus and Prince Lucius."

Pansy, dismissively: "Rumor. Nothing more."

Hermione, slightly entranced by the story against her will: "Okay, so what happened?"

Daphne: "Lucius broke it off, but Bellatrix is how he met Narcissa. The Black sisters were high-ranking, from a good family, and Narcissa didn't have Bellatrix's… flaws."

Harry, drily: "Probably because she was only eighteen at the time."

Hermione, startled: "That's… wow. That's so young. And Prince Lucius was—?"

Daphne, thoughtfully: "Late twenties, I think. He's definitely much older."

Theo, with a nod: "They got engaged after a year of dating, married another year later."

Hermione, tentatively: "And I take it all was not quite well?"

Pansy: a stiff, throat-clearing expression of confirmation.

Hermione: "So what happened?"

Harry: "Well, Lucius and Narcissa got married, that's obvious. Rodolphus Lestrange left his first wife and married Bellatrix."

Hermione, somewhat uneasily: "And I take it the vows didn't quite stick?"

Theo: "That's a nice way to put it."

Pansy: "Again, all of this is hearsay, Hermione."

Hermione, waving a hand: "Mmhm yes of course but what do they hearsay?"

Harry, hesitantly: "Well, after Draco was born, Lucius sort of… fell back into it with Bellatrix."

Blaise: "With his penis."

Harry: "Right, that was implied."

Blaise: "Just slipped out."

Harry: "You're not helping."

Blaise: "I'm not trying to help."

Harry, sighing: "That's pretty obvious, yeah."

Hermione, impatiently: "And Narcissa?"

Blaise, shrugging: "Well, you know the general sense of it. People said she'd been carrying on with an array of people—Darian Mulciber, Caleb Avery, they even said—"

He broke off, glancing at Harry, who looked intensely uncomfortable.

"My father knew her when they were younger," Harry explained to Hermione. "But of course, it's entirely possible nothing was going on."

"I'd take 'entirely possible' and upgrade it to 'definitely true,'" Pansy assured him, giving him a steadying glance. "Everyone knows James loved his wife," she said fiercely, and Harry gave a small, grateful smile in reply. "It's merely that every noble who'd ever appeared within an inch of Princess Narcissa was accused of sleeping with her, no different from Draco and any woman he breathes in the presence of. Or Anne Boleyn, for that matter," she added as an afterthought, and Hermione blinked.

"Wait, but what about Narcissa and Bellatrix?" she asked, and to that, the others all seemed to collectively hesitate—minus Daphne, who glanced around with the same degree of curiosity.

"Narcissa hasn't spoken to Bellatrix in years," interrupted Hortense, who had apparently returned sans any stolen sofas. Hermione jumped, startled, but Hortense, who seemed to have that effect on everyone, looked relatively unfazed. "When Rodolphus Lestrange finally did us all a favor and died of chronic mundanity, Narcissa didn't go to the funeral. Rita Skeeter made a point to highlight Narcissa's absence," she added brightly, sipping at something bright green that Hermione was fairly certain was not being passed around. "I, for one, cannot wait to hear what she has to say about this event. Oh, look, the French ambassador. I wonder if he's done anything new with his penis," she mused to herself, wandering away and leaving the others to gape in her midst.

"Wait, why is Bellatrix even here?" Hermione asked Pansy, who shook her head, evidently without an answer. "That's—" She broke off. "Oh, no. That's bad, isn't it?"

"Abraxas will be furious," Theo said, grimly confirming Hermione's suspicions. "It's likely she received a ceremonial invitation, given her late husband's standing," he clarified, "but she usually knows better and declines." His expression soured, then grew sympathetic. "He won't be in a good mood. If he even still agrees to meet you, that is."

"If?" Hermione echoed, dismayed, and Theo shrugged, uncertain.

"That," Pansy contributed, "and Narcissa certainly wasn't expecting to see her." Her expression was surprisingly filled with human-resembling concern. "I can't imagine anyone in the royal family will be pleased, particularly now that Rita Skeeter's here to witness it."

"Draco," Hermione realized, her throat going dry. "Does he know about this? Does he know who she is?"

She glanced at Harry, who hesitated, then nodded.

"He knows," Harry said quietly, with Theo and Blaise both looking equally concerned. "He won't…" He stopped, contemplating it. "This will bother him," he explained at a murmur, which Hermione knew was something he'd said for her benefit. "I doubt he'll say anything, but believe me, it will."

Hermione, who could only imagine the discomfort of being within several feet of any woman while knowing her father had cheated on her mother with her, sought him out in the crowd, straining to see him. At this distance, she could identify only the pale blond of his hair, the shape of his shoulders. She had no way of reading the tension in his spine, the tightness of his hands around his glass. She had no way of comforting him, of checking in with him, of knowing at all what this was like for him. He was standing with his mother, who looked pale, but as far as Hermione knew, she always looked pale.

Narcissa was wearing a dark column gown, something that made her look unspeakably regal, but Hermione was distracted, noting less her outfit than her toneless look of poise. Hermione marveled that she and Draco could reveal so little, both draped in finery and wearing smiles that never shifted, painted carefully in place. They were like statues carved from ice, and so was Prince Lucius, whom Hermione guessed had made a point to stand with his wife and son for the benefit of their audience. He reached for Narcissa, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, and Hermione, who'd seen Narcissa shrink viscerally from him before, watched her now stand perfectly still, obviously aware what was expected of her.

Hermione wondered if it had been asking too much for Draco to be something emotive, something free, when clearly, he was not. How would he have even learned to be, given everything?

"Hey," Harry said, drawing her away. "Let's get another glass."

She nodded, realizing the others had continued talking about something else while she'd been staring hopefully for a glimpse at Draco. "Right, sorry. I don't want to drink too much, though," she said quickly, and Harry nodded.

"We'll get water, then, it doesn't matter." He paused, then said, "Are you alright?"

"Me? Of course," she said. "This isn't about me at all."

"Still." He gave her a small smile. "I'd feel better if you didn't look so distressed."

"Oh, I'm not—" Harry cut her off with a doubtful look, and she sighed. "Okay, fine. I guess if I'm being selfish—"

"Be selfish," Harry assured her. "Really. It's a necessity from time to time."

"Right." She sighed again. "I guess I'll just be frustrated if this means I don't get to meet Draco's grandfather. I mean, until I do meet him and I find out whether he might possibly approve of me, it does sort of feel like I'm… I don't know. Spinning my wheels? I mean if Draco and I will never get to openly date, then what are we doing? Am I supposed to be his secret forever? I just—" She broke off, realizing who, exactly, she was unloading all of this on. "Sorry," she said, suddenly horrified with herself. "I didn't… I wasn't thinking, I just—"

"I told you to be selfish," Harry said, shrugging. "It's something you may never get to be with Draco. I'm happy to help."

"But I—" She felt awful. "I don't want to do that to you."

"Do what to me, Hermione?" he asked, his expression schooled and neutral, and she recalled what Draco had said about him wearing a successful mask. "We're friends. You matter to me. Your happiness matters to me. It matters in general," he added pointedly, "even if you're sometimes asked to put it aside."

My father was sure enough for the both of them, she heard Harry say in her head, followed by Daphne's murmur of I want him to be happy, even if it's not with me.

Hermione swallowed heavily. "We should go back," she said, gesturing over her shoulder to where the others remained. "I'm fine, really. It's nice of you to worry about me, but I'm not the one who needs it. I should let you get back to your roguery," she added, hoping it sounded like a joke, and Harry fixed her with a too-long glance.

"It will be worse," Harry said plainly. "If and when you and Draco go public, it will be much worse."

"I know that, but—" She broke off. "What are you saying?"

His bright green eyes, always filled with humor, weren't laughing now. They were fixed on hers, and even in the stiffness of a tux, he smelled like jasmine and familiarity.

"If he won't fight for your happiness," Harry said, "then you should."

She felt the weight of his unspoken implications, landing around her shoulders like a heavy, invisible cloak. "Harry," she ventured, a little troubled, and he shook his head.

"Just some advice," he said, "one friend to another."

Then he looked up, letting his attention wander. "Speaking of, looks like Neville could use a friend," he said, gesturing to where the others were. "I should really have a chat with Pansy about what sorts of people she can successfully step on, don't you think?"

"I—yeah, I guess so. Yeah." Hermione nodded vacantly. "Should we go back, then?"

"Probably," Harry said, glancing down at her. "I don't suppose you feel any better, do you?"

No, not at all. Not even remotely. Hermione glanced up in time to see Narcissa's eyes drifting across the room to fall on her sister, her face expressionless and voiceless and… silent.

"Oh, I'm much better," Hermione assured him. "Yes. Much."

Theo guided Hermione through the palace halls, thankfully having learned from the last time he'd let her wander around an unfamiliar series of rooms. She was grateful to see Draco was waiting for her alone, standing outside a closed set of double doors and pacing the floor until he looked up to catch her arrival.

"Hermione," he said, relief flooding his features, and she strode directly into his arms, hearing Theo silently depart the room behind her with the quiet motion of the door. Draco pulled back, managing a thin smile, and brushed his lips against her forehead. "It's been… well, it's been much too long." He tugged her in close again, curling a hand around the back of her neck and resting his cheek against her hair. "How was the party?"

"Fine," she said, not wanting to get into it. "Your French cousins are bizarre, though. How are you?" she pressed, and he laughed, leaning back to take her face in his hands. "I know this must be a sore subject," she ventured, chewing her lip, "but—"

"Ah." He shook his head. "They told you about Bellatrix Lestrange, I take it?"

She grimaced. "Yeah." She slid a hand gently through his hair, his eyes closing gratefully at her touch. "Want to talk about it?"

"There isn't much to tell, is there?" he asked in a low voice, eyes floating open to land steadily on hers. "My grandfather's furious, my mother hasn't spoken more than two words in over four hours—and none of us can stand to look at my father, of course. They've been in there," he added, gesturing to the closed double doors, "since we left the party. I'm apparently not invited to participate in whatever this is, which is probably my father's doing."

Hermione wondered if it was. It was getting difficult to tell who in the family had more influence over the situation. "But what about you?" she asked him, touching his cheek. "It can't be easy for you."

"Well, who knows what Rita Skeeter is going to say to ruin things." His mouth tightened. "I thought I was finally making progress with my mother, but now this will get printed, and everything horrible about my parents printed in the last thirty years will get dragged up from the dead, and—"

He broke off, clearing his throat.

"It doesn't matter," he exhaled, glancing down at her. "It's nothing. Are you nervous?" he asked her, and she blinked.

"Draco," she said uncertainly, "if you want to talk ab-"

The doors opened, startling them both, and Prince Lucius slipped out with his head bent, closing the doors behind him.

"Miss Granger," he said grudgingly in greeting, more to the top of her head than to her, and she gave him her best curtsy in reply, determined not to do anything stupid. "Draco, you'll have to find another time," he said, mouth tight. "Your grandfather doesn't wish to be disturbed."

Hermione's heart sank, though she'd already been preparing herself for the possibility. She straightened as Lucius turned to re-enter the room, ready to leave, but to her surprise, Draco had set his jaw, his hand resting firmly on the small of her back and holding her in place.

"No," Draco said, and Lucius frowned, taken aback. "No, he'll see us now."

Lucius gave an impatient scowl. "Draco, listen to me, this isn't the best time t-"

"Father," Draco said firmly, "I understand Grandfather is very busy, but he will see us now."

"Draco," Lucius hissed, "please do not make a scene in front of—"

"In front of my girlfriend?" Draco demanded, and Hermione, as surprised at the outburst as Lucius had been, merely tried not to gape at him. "Because that's what she is, Father. You keep trying to treat her like some sort of outsider but she isn't," he shot accusingly. "Not to me, and therefore not to you. I want Grandfather to meet her," he said, resolute, "and you're not going to stop me."

"It's not—" Lucius grimaced, taking a few steps closer to drop his voice. "It's not as if I'm the one making the rules, Draco. Your grandfather has made it very clear that—"

"Come on," Draco said to Hermione, taking her hand. "Don't forget to curtsy," he said under his breath, and before she quite realized what was happening, he'd burst through the doors, leaving Lucius in his wake and tugging Hermione in after him.

"Grandfather," he said, and a man who leaned against the room's wooden desk—the man who was King Abraxas, Hermione registered absurdly, the fucking King of England—looked up, a slow wave of confusion passing over his face before resolving itself to something like amusement. In the corner, Hermione noted, Narcissa had been pacing near a window, fingers curled into fists as she stopped short, blue eyes hard at the sight of Hermione.

"Sorry to disturb you, Grandfather, but it's rather important. This is Miss Hermione Granger," Draco said, and Hermione quickly dropped into a curtsy, which she was grateful now she'd practiced so many times. "Hermione, this is my grandfather."

"Your Majesty," she said, lowering her chin, and Abraxas, who had removed his jacket and ceremonial medals and looked shockingly like a real person, glanced at her for a long moment.

"Miss Granger," he said, his voice surprisingly warm. "I've heard so much about you."

She bit back a reply, recalling Theo's advice: Don't speak unless he addresses you directly. Instead she smiled, waiting, and Abraxas shifted away from his casual lean against the desk to step towards her, glancing at something behind her.

"Lucius, the door please," he said to his son, and Hermione heard the door close behind her before she realized Abraxas was beckoning for her to rise. "No need to stay there all evening," he joked to her, and she slowly slid her gaze up, permitting herself what she hoped was demurely cooperative eye contact. "How are you, Miss Granger?"

It was hard to find her voice. "I'm very well, thank you, Sir. And you?"

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

She was toying with a response—Nice to meet you, too, would that be too informal?—when Narcissa gave a loud scoff, rounding on her father-in-law from where she stood.

"Oh really, is it, Abraxas?" she scoffed. "Is it a pleasure," she said, irony dripping from her voice, "or will it only be a pleasure if you get to hide her away for the rest of her life, because I think if it's the latter—"

"Narcissa," Lucius warned sharply, and Hermione held her breath, noting Draco's shock beside her. His entire frame had gone rigid, though he said nothing. "We'll discuss this later."

"Will we, Lucius?" she snapped, and whirled around to move towards Draco. "Your father keeps me locked up, you know," she told him harshly, and his face drained instantly of color. "He keeps me from you, Draco, but you should know it's his doing, not mine."

"Narcissa," Lucius said, his face a similarly ghastly shade, "I keep telling you, this is just paranoia. If you'd just listen to your doctors—"

"Yes, right, my doctors," Narcissa muttered. "As if they're not paid to keep me quiet by you—and as for you," she snarled at Abraxas, "don't think I don't know you're using me. I let it happen, I kept my mouth shut, but you will not take my son from me again—"

"No one is taking Draco from you, Narcissa," Abraxas said, his voice gentle, though it was less soothing than it was a bit patronizing, and almost excessively persuasive. It had a distinctly caramel sound to it, a sweetness that slid on either side of true or false and could have easily been either. "Lucius and I are merely trying to make sure you have the care you need without the added stress of royal duties."

Narcissa was increasingly agitated. "Look at him!" she half-shouted, waving a hand at Draco, who looked sickened. "He doesn't even recognize me! He doesn't even know me anymore, and it's you," she gasped, one hand flying to her face as she stared at Abraxas. "It's you, you did this—you turned my son against me!"

"Mother," Draco said, stricken, and Hermione, who could count at least eighteen levels of injustice she wanted desperately to address, did everything in her power not to speak. "Mother, that's not true, I promise you—"

"And you," Narcissa said, rounding furiously on Hermione. "I told you to leave. I told you to get out. Why aren't you listening?" she asked, and it occurred to Hermione that Princess Narcissa, one of the most beloved and envied women in the world, was begging. "Why aren't you listening to me? He'll only hurt you, you stupid girl, he'll break you, he'll leave you alone to fend for yourself while he leaves you," she half-sobbed, hysteria smeared across her face, "and I'm trying to save you, I'm trying to help you—"

"That's enough," Lucius said sharply, and Draco stepped between Hermione and his mother—guarding Hermione from her, Hermione suspected, though she wanted to tell him she was pretty certain Narcissa was the only one in the room who meant her no harm—as Narcissa's agitation heightened, spreading to everyone in the room. "Narcissa, you're just overexcited. You should rest."

"Draco," Narcissa sobbed, reaching for him, and he caught the hands she flung at him, white-faced with shock. "Draco, I'm—" She stopped; Hermione suspected she must have seen the horror on Draco's face at her outbursts and she quickly forced herself to soften, eyes still wild. "Draco, sweetheart," Narcissa whispered, stroking his cheeks as he stood frozen and uncertain. "Draco, my baby, my darling—please, listen to me. I'm not sick—I'm not," she told him, pleading with him to believe her. "Don't let them take me, please—"

"Mother," Draco said, holding tightly to her hands. "Mother, I won't, I would never—"

"Please." Narcissa was crying silently now, her beautiful face wretched with pain, and Hermione ached for her. "Please, Draco, please believe me—"

"I believe you, Mother. I believe you." He was holding her, trying to calm her, but even so, Hermione saw his eyes drift questioningly to his grandfather, as if asking for proof: You didn't really do this, she imagined him saying to Abraxas, did you?

"Narcissa," Abraxas said, and Hermione watched every single one of Narcissa's limbs stiffen in response. "A good night's sleep should do you some good, don't you think? It's been a rather exciting evening for all of us. We should all get some rest, and we can discuss this later. Privately."

Lucius stepped forward, reaching for Narcissa's arm. This time, Narcissa let him take it, permitting him to pull her against his chest while staring at her son, who released her numbly. Hermione suspected Narcissa could sense she'd done little more than shatter him, and it was obvious by the look on Draco's face he might not recover for some time.

"Draco," Abraxas said to his grandson, "perhaps you might escort Miss Granger out? I apologize we didn't have more time," he said to her, "as Draco does speak so highly of you, but I'm afraid we have some family matters to attend to."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and Draco took her hand, leading her out of the room without hesitation. It couldn't be clearer that he'd wanted to leave even more than they had wanted him to go, and he was walking so quickly, desperately fleeing the scene, that Hermione struggled to keep up.

"Draco," she said, out of breath by the time he'd led her through an indistinguishable series of rooms. She wasn't sure this was the way she'd come, but then again, she didn't trust herself with any sort of direction. "Draco, are you—"

He cut her off with a forceful pause and a kiss, too rough, all teeth and tightly-gripping hands, and she kissed him back, breathless. It escalated quickly, their control rapidly spinning out, and by the time he tugged her hair loose she had yanked at the roots of his, returning his anguish and fury pulse for pulse until he stopped, looking down at her.

"I want you," he said, his voice hoarse.

She swallowed, her lips already swollen.

"Have me, then," she said, and then his mouth was on hers again, hot and urgent and with barely a pulse escaping between them before he pressed her back against the mahogany console table behind her, the sound of their uneven breaths the only audible thing in the opulent, too-large room as he lifted her on top of it.

He bunched up the fabric of her dress—the silk and lace she'd hoped would give her the image of a good girl, the right girl, which seemed increasingly unlikely—shoving it up her thighs and yanking her legs around his hips as she fumbled with his belt, his trousers, pulling his cock free from the band of his Hugo Boss boxer-briefs and helping him slide himself inside her, both of them letting out a gasp. His lips were on her neck, her fingers digging into the blades of his shoulders, and he jerked her up with an arm around her rib cage, thrusting into her with all the tension she knew he must have felt.

"Go ahead," she said raggedly in his ear, holding him tightly. "Go as hard as you want, Draco, I don't care."

To her surprise, he stopped, his arm still tight around her waist. He was breathing hard, his posture stiff, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. She leaned back, looking at him with a questioning glance, and as he drew his gaze up to hers he blinked, suddenly remembering where he was. Who she was, who he was—what they were.

"I love you," he said to her, mumbling it in anguish. "I love you."

She nodded. "I know."

She kissed him hard, thinking he'd want to continue the same way he'd started, but it was different now. Just as urgent, just as pleading, but without the necessary violence of pain. Slowly, gently, Draco started to move again, easing one of her legs higher and pulling her close, his kisses sweeter now.

"I love you," he whispered to her lips, and she slid her hands under his jacket, stroking her fingers up his spine.

"I know," she said, "I know—"

"I love you." He rested his forehead against hers, shaking his head. Angry at himself, she guessed, and she touched the back of his neck, his cheek, running her thumb gently across his lips with reassurance. "I'll never—" He broke off. "What she said, Hermione," he attempted, voice strained, "what my mother said, I won't… I won't do that to you, I would never, I love you—"

"I know you do, Draco," she said, and now sex between them was reverent, his pace slow and deep, his pulse still racing but his touch pleading, desperate, devolved. "And I love you, I—" She swallowed. "I'm so sorry that happened, I love you, I'm—"

She broke off with a little mewl of urgency, the flurried building-twisting-coiling inside her rendering her incoherent, and she came with a whimpered cry as he finished with a gasp, the two of them gradually relaxing to clutch each other in silence.

She stroked his hair, not letting go; he held her close.

"I don't know what's happening," Draco said hoarsely, and Hermione nodded.

"I know," she said, and hesitated before adding wryly, "And I can't tell if this was terrible timing, or a convenient distraction that will serve to cast me in a more favorable light."

He gave a tentative laugh. "True, they certainly can't fault you for anything." He leaned away to tuck her hair behind her ear. "I ruined your hair," he admonished himself softly, shaking his head. "You looked so pretty. You still do, of course," he amended hastily, "but, you know—"

She shook her head, reassuring him. "I get it. And Draco, I—" She hesitated. "I'm… glad, actually. That you, um. That you wanted me to meet your grandfather." It was one of those tiny grand gestures, she'd realized, and she wanted him to know she had noticed. "It means a lot to me."

"I told you, Hermione. I want this," he reminded her, reaching for her hand and lacing his fingers through hers. "I want to do this," he said, pointedly kissing her knuckles, "where people can see. I want to be able to take you places, to stand at your side. I want you sitting next to me at every boring dinner party." He toyed with her ring, shaking his head. "And if that means I have to barge in on my grandfather from time to time, so be it."

"Bet he loved me," Hermione said drily, and Draco laughed.

"He will," he said, kissing her hand again. "Don't let what you heard in there… influence you. My grandfather isn't like my father," he assured her. "He wouldn't do… that. He's—you'll see. You'll like him," he said, tightening his fingers around hers. "Promise, you will, and he'll like you."

Hermione, who didn't quite know what to say to something she doubted very much was true, opted not to say anything at all. It didn't seem important. Instead, she pulled Draco close, feeling his tension melt away beneath her touch, and cast hers off along with it. There, in that beautiful palace, all of its occupants playing host to so much fear and anxiety and doubt, Hermione felt a stirring of something.

Of being happy, despite everything, to be here in his arms.

Well, I do like to give credit where credit is due (so maybe I'm the pinnacle of grace after all?) and I will say this: Rita Skeeter is, once again, right about exactly one thing.

After that night, I definitely learned the art of being silent.

a/n: Just another thank you while I hurry to post this and get some sleep. You little treasures are marvelous.