Chapter 16: Underused
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
Selfless Contributions
Following their years at Hogwarts University, Prince Draco and Hermione both adjusted to life in London full-time, though the Prince's obligations as a working royal kept him frequently abroad. As the demands for Draco's position began to increase at his grandfather's behest, Hermione began working for the small public arts non-profit known as The Transfiguration Project. While some considered the venture by former Phoenix Financials CEO Minerva McGonagall merely an exercise in vanity,
Hm, Rita. I wonder who thought that.
it has since been credited for welcome improvements to many of London's public spaces, many of which were previously blighted and unsightly. It is said by those close to the couple that Hermione's tendencies towards altruism which drew her to such a noble causes, however insignificant they may have initially seemed,
TELL US WHAT YOU REALLY THINK, RITA.
made her an ideal partner for Prince Draco; particularly at this point in their still-private relationship, when His Highness' ventures into official royal duties were just beginning.
Honestly, why am I here? You'd think I'd know better by now. Though, funnily enough, at this point in my life I was far less concerned with Rita than I was with other forms of media. That, of course, is something of a long story—so, to tell it right, I think I'll have to back up just a bit.
July 5, 2012
Diagon Alley, London
FLEUR MOVED INTO A NEW FLAT IN LONDON! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! FLEUR AND DRACO ARE NOW LIVING IN THE SAME CITY!
"Honestly," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes and nudging the DRAGONFLOWER post on her computer screen towards Daphne. "Haven't they given this up yet? Fleur's been seen with Theo about a thousand times by now."
"Well, I assume everyone's very frustrated by Draco's lack of love life," Daphne said, shrugging as Hermione scrolled through the comments, most of which simply read 'ahhhhh,' or similar sentiments which were otherwise onomatopoeic. "The more he makes appearances alone with Lucius or Abraxas, the more people will speculate, I imagine."
"Still," Hermione said, making a face. "Look, they're photoshopping Draco's head onto Theo."
"Huh, look at that," Daphne said, tilting her head to eye the screen. "It kind of works, doesn't it?"
Hermione grabbed the screen back, kicking Daphne's thigh. "You're the worst."
"Well, you know how I love to support the arts," Daphne said with a laugh, curling her legs under her on the sofa and glancing around the apartment—which, Hermione had to admit, had been flawlessly decorated. If there was one thing Daphne Greengrass possessed in spades, it was certainly taste. The aesthetic was generally minimalistic, mostly grey and navy with some occasional pops of color to stand in contrast to the white crown molding. Had their fridge contained anything other than a single lemon and three bottles of wine, Hermione might have mistaken herself for living in an adult woman's flat.
"Why are you reading this, anyway?" Daphne asked. "I assumed Pansy would have blocked it from your browser by now."
"No, she lets me read this one because she reads it, too. They're surprisingly the quickest at posting high res pictures of the ceremonial shenanigans Draco does when he's abroad," she admitted when Daphne arched a brow. "What?" she said, shrugging. "I'm sentimental, Daph. I like to see what he's up to when he's gone. And anyway," she concluded, "I obviously know better than to believe anything they say."
"Still, it's—"
"Oh, is that the Dragonflower blog?" Fleur said, emerging from her room like a ray of crisp summer sunshine.
Despite the heat, Fleur looked blemishless, frizzless, and free of perspiration, catalogue-model perfect in a white linen pencil dress Hermione suspected would have made her look like she'd recently broken free from a canvas sack. Fleur perched delicately on the arm of the sofa beside Hermione, smiling down at a candid picture of herself shot from afar (which was, of course, also perfect, unlike every picture taken of Hermione when she wasn't looking).
"Oh good," Fleur noted, "they did get the right shoes. I was worried, the Prada pair is so very similar to the Jimmy Choos—"
"You read this?" Hermione asked, glancing up at her, and Fleur laughed.
"Only because they track my wardrobe. See?" she said, gesturing to a post Hermione had scrolled past. "I've noticed I need to vary my pieces a bit, you know. Can't be all designer all the time. My father says it's not particularly good for the polls for us to be too terribly out of reach."
"True," Daphne said, nodding from where she sat. "Though that can be fun, don't you think?"
Daphne, of course, could say things like that because she had an excellent eye and a semi-eclectic aesthetic. She was an artist above all else; from what Hermione could see, there was no particular enjoyment for her in only buying things as they appeared on the runway.
"Could you help me?" Fleur asked, surprising both Daphne and Hermione with the question. "You seem to have an eye for that sort of thing, Daphne. I'd love to incorporate more British designers," she added, smiling warmly, "given my presence here. Perhaps some smaller fashion houses?"
"I—" Hermione watched Daphne struggle for a moment.
"Yes, of course," Daphne conceded eventually, "I'd love to."
Internally, Hermione sighed. It was so very, very difficult to dislike Fleur, despite both hers and Daphne's best efforts. One of these days, perhaps Fleur would do something terrible to lessen the burden on both of them; eat Daphne's hummus, for example, Hermione mused. Borrow her shoes. Something. Least of all ask for Daphne's opinion as if she were some sort of equal, despite Fleur being the sometimes-face of Chanel on top of being dreadfully unerring with her fashion choices.
"Wonderful," Fleur said, beaming. "Maybe we could all go to Paris for a weekend sometime? I'm sure my sister would love to meet the both of you. And Pansy, of course."
Ah, fuck, Hermione thought, forgetting Fleur had a blissfully perfect relationship with her sister, too. Daphne and her younger sister, meanwhile, had a slightly more tumultuous one, or at least one with a bit less in common. They seemed to talk considerably less now that Astoria had stepped fully into her role as a socialite, openly embracing the public scrutiny Daphne was so keen to avoid.
In other unhelpful recollections, Hermione thought of the vintage Dior hanging in her closet and the circumstances under which it had arrived there, grimacing internally at the reminder of what she'd known since their introduction: that Fleur was an uncontested delight. It was terribly unfortunate, Hermione lamented, as hating Fleur would be such a more satisfying use of her time, but it seemed she would have to settle for heavily restrained admiration.
"I suppose I haven't been to Paris in quite some time," Daphne said coolly, which Hermione knew meant she was positively dying to accept. "Though it certainly won't help you with British designers, of course. We'll have to do that here."
"Yes, we will, won't we?" Fleur said happily, swirling away on a bourbon-hinted aromatic breeze. Despite having a fragrance named for her, Fleur typically wore men's cologne, which of course managed to somehow smell perfectly feminine and enigmatic on her. Pansy, the other perfume enthusiast in the group, was generally given to floral scents that gave her a noticeable air of wealth and prestige, but Fleur alternated between smelling like 1) the world's most sensual Gatsby-era jazz club or 2) a day spent sailing on the open sea.
"Well, I'd better be off," Fleur said, picking up a tote bag Hermione's mother had threatened to steal during her brief visit for graduation and sliding a pair of sunglasses into her hair. "See you later, then!"
She was off in a whirl of perfection, leaving Daphne to lean back with a groan.
"I absolutely hate," Daphne said, "how much I bloody love her."
"She's like a walking vision board," Hermione lamented, and Daphne laughed, shaking her head in unwilling agreement. "I can't wait to exist next to her in my boxy work cardigans," she added sulkily.
"They're not boxy, they're classic," Daphne reminded her. "Smart is always in fashion, Hermione, and besides, it's not as if you're some sort of tasteless circus of buffoonery."
"Pansy said that about me, didn't she?" Hermione demanded, kicking Daphne again as she unsuccessfully tried to mask a laugh. "Honestly—"
"Did that McGonagall woman give you a start date yet?" Daphne cut in. "Next week, you said, didn't you?"
"Yes, next Monday," Hermione sighed. "Thanks for reminding me."
"Oh, it's not all bad, I'm sure," Daphne said. "Certainly not last year's Grecian hols, but still. On the bright side, your prince of a boyfriend does continue to spoil you," she remarked, and Hermione rolled her eyes.
"There is that," she admitted. "And I suppose I don't much enjoy being aimlessly spoiled, either, so work is a perfectly fine alternative."
"Well, if I know you, you're just a bit apprehensive about starting something new, that's all," Daphne assured her. "The Hermione Granger we know and love would be restless by day two of a holiday without some sort of crusade for humanity to keep her hands busy."
"Very true," Hermione agreed. "I suppose it just feels… very limited," she said tentatively. "I thought I'd be doing something different with my life. No idea what," she admitted with a grimace, "but, you know. There was always that pipe dream of writing for the New York Times, or I don't know, being some sort of high-powered attorney—"
"It's only limited if you make it limited," Daphne remarked sagely. "You like the woman who hired you, don't you? And the project?"
Hermione hesitated. "Yes, but—"
"But nothing," Daphne said, shrugging. "Use the job to make connections for something else, if you like. Just give it a proper chance—seeing as some of us don't have quite the same opportunity," she reminded Hermione, who grimaced.
"Yes, you're right, I know," Hermione sighed, shutting her laptop and setting it beside her on the coffee table. "Well, what should we do, then? Until I begin putting my efforts into my extremely worthwhile job," she clarified, "for which I possess veritable buckets of enthusiasm."
"Hm," Daphne said, considering it. "What was it your roommate did to you at Stanford, again?"
"Ate my hummus," Hermione said.
"No, the other thing."
"Thieved my knickers?"
"Yes, that's the one," Daphne said, nodding. "Shall we thieve Fleur's knickers?"
"I mean, I'd be all for it," Hermione said, "but I'm not sure she was wearing any."
The dress was white and fitted, after all, and Hermione certainly hadn't seen any conspicuous lines. Not to say she'd been looking, but… really, it was difficult not to.
"Damn," Daphne sighed, "she's my actual hero."
"I hate her," Hermione said with immensely palpable falsity.
"Same," Daphne lied, both of them shaking their heads.
Minerva McGonagall was anything but matronly, despite being somewhere in her sixties and evidently long widowed. She had a highly retro sense about her, her hair always slicked back in a silver french twist to pair with her sensibly colored shift dresses, and from the start, Hermione could see she was vehemently opposed to nonsense, frivolity, and drivel. Upon meeting, in fact, Minerva had sized Hermione up with something of a lengthy glance, proceeding past salutation directly to, "What are your aspirations, young lady?" which Hermione's lack of filter had left her with no choice but to say, "I don't know, exactly, but I know I want it to be something I believe in."
Under other circumstances Hermione would have thought the snap response a mistake, but it seemed to have been the right answer in this single instance. Minerva had awarded her a sharp nod before proceeding to grill her about her academic history, her hobbies, and whether or not she possessed any thoughts ('unlike the many silly girls who've been directed my way for a career in the arts,' according to her).
"I want someone who can think," Minerva had said flatly. "Running a campaign of this magnitude will necessitate an intimately trusted staff, and I'd like to hire someone I can rely upon not to make careless mistakes. That," she added, "and someone whom my patrons will take seriously."
Hermione wasn't technically sure whether or not she could be taken seriously, but something about Minerva's general demeanor made her want to insist she was. She lifted her chin, finding a certainty she hadn't known existed, and said, "You should choose me."
"Well," said Minerva, "there it is, then."
Hermione's first day, as she'd known since her very strange interview, was going to require living up to a version of herself she suspected she'd invented specifically for Minerva. It was her first job that had not been in an environment she felt comfortable (i.e., for her parents in their private dental practice or for Slughorn at Hogwarts) and she was exceedingly nervous to begin, particularly once she walked into Minerva's office to find a petite older woman sitting in the chair opposite Minerva's desk.
"Hello," said Neville's grandmother, nodding to Hermione as she arrived.
"Miss Granger, you know my friend Lady Augusta Longbottom, do you not?" Minerva asked, gesturing to Augusta, who smiled politely. She, like Minerva, was not given to simpering, but that appeared to be a quality which manifested in a variety of ways.
"Yes, of course," Hermione replied, taking the seat beside her. They'd met briefly, of course, and she'd been with Pansy and Neville at the time, stopping only long enough to sip once or twice from her wine at the cocktail party Neville had thrown in his grandmother's honor. Most of what Hermione knew about her came from Neville himself, who seemed either quite frightened of his grandmother or extremely devoted to her ("Oh, my gran wouldn't be happy about that," seemed to be one of his favorite things to say, along with, "Ah, I wouldn't, but my gran insisted") or it was intimated by virtue of Pansy, who had recently begun a practice of Sunday brunches with Augusta.
"Of course I enjoy them, Hermione," Pansy had said immediately after bemoaning the necessity of going. "She's impossible to please, of course, and generally very difficult to talk to—"
"No," Daphne mock-gasped. "Can you imagine knowing someone like that?"
"—but more importantly, she's connected," Pansy went on, resolutely ignoring Daphne's commentary. "My mother tells me in her day Lady Longbottom was the most prominent heiress in Britain. They say King Abraxas considered her for marriage," she added, "and if she hadn't had a son, he surely would have married her daughter off to Lucius."
"So, you're… trying to get her to like you, then?" Hermione guessed optimistically.
"Don't be silly, Hermione, I haven't a single care for whether I am liked," Pansy sniffed. "I simply require her to consider me an equal one day, which for now means being a bit of a protegée, I imagine."
"Ah, yes, Pansy is apprenticing at the School of Advanced Ladyship," Theo noted sagely. He had taken to coming over from time to time whether Fleur was around or not, as had Blaise, though they rarely came together. In fact, on that particular occasion, both had arrived within minutes of each other without having told the other where they were going when they left their own flat. "I imagine courses include Civilized Conversation, Spicy Hats, The Art of Bearing Sons—"
"We discuss a wide variety of topics," Pansy interrupted.
"You mean Neville," Daphne guessed, earning herself a scolding glare.
"Yes, a variety of topics about Neville," Theo clarified, to which Daphne had laughed.
"Well, obviously I wouldn't expect any of you to understand," Pansy scoffed, thus gaining an additional chuckle from Blaise, who had otherwise been preparing some sort of cheese plate he appeared to have brought along with him. "It will be my job one day to consider what's best for him, you know. He can hardly be relied upon to correctly determine it for himself, seeing as what man ever does—"
"That's a yes," Blaise said, "and rightly so, I imagine. Ten points to the patriarchy, which of course trickles down to minus twenty for each of us—"
"Minus me, I presume?" Theo asked.
"Yes, you lose forty," Blaise said crisply, as Hermione turned back to an eye-rolling Pansy.
"Has Neville explained what the deal is with his parents?" Hermione asked. "He doesn't discuss them much, but they're not dead, are they?"
Pansy shook her head. "Augusta is very tight-lipped on the subject."
"And… Neville?" Theo asked.
"Oh, Neville doesn't know anything," Pansy replied, waving a hand dismissively. "In any case, my friendship with Augusta is quite mutually beneficial. She needs to know she's leaving her beloved grandson in capable hands, doesn't she? And I need to be assured I'll inherit the family tiara, so—"
"Is she nice?" Hermione asked.
"Nice?" Pansy echoed, apparently bemused.
"California, please. You'll have to explain the concept," Theo told Hermione before turning back to Pansy. "You see," he explained to her with pained deliberation, "'nice' is when a person is not defiantly objectionable. Have you heard of it? It requires a series of implausible tactics which include genuine interest in the well-being of others, offerings of warmth, one or two comments on the weather—"
"Mathematically speaking, it requires withholding approximately eight out of every ten thoughts which occur to you," Blaise contributed, and Pansy shot him a venomous glance of dismissal. "You're right," he amended gleefully. "In your case, perhaps ten out of every ten—"
"Lady Augusta Longbottom is not nice, nor do I have to be," Pansy told them both, looking as if she might have smacked them each on the noses with a rolled-up newspaper or perhaps a velvet slipper. "There are far more important things a woman can be outside of nice, you know. And what man has ever been congratulated on his niceness?"
"Neville," Daphne guessed wryly.
"Precisely," Pansy confirmed, "which is why there's so very much to fix."
This, Hermione had eventually guessed, meant that Augusta Longbottom was probably calculating, shrewd, and in possession of faultless manipulation techniques, as those were qualities Hermione knew to be Pansy's primary weapons . Most of what Pansy seemed to take from her meetings with Augusta were regarding how to mold Neville into the sort of husband she would one day want him to be—though, how Neville felt about these changes remained uncertain. Last Hermione had seen from him, Neville had increased what Theo had begun calling his Acts of Devotion, including but not limited to: carrying Pansy's purse, fetching things when told to fetch, and nodding when she gave him a specific glance indicating she required his agreement.
All of which had inevitably led Hermione to gain some fear-adjacent anxieties about Lady Longbottom, seeing as she doubted any woman could manage to make Pansy's already domineering ways somehow even more effective without being extremely terrifying herself.
"Oh, lovely to see you again, dear," said Augusta, who was rather unlike Minerva, at least with regard to appearances. Where Minerva had obviously permitted her hair to go grey and wore very little makeup (along with favoring colors Hermione's mother would call "an autumn palette" and Daphne would call "drab") Augusta had continued to dye her hair a silvery sort of blonde, dressed in something Hermione was pretty sure was Chanel and carrying a purse very similar to the one Fleur had used before departing back to Paris a few days prior. ("That's tiny," Hermione had commented with surprise. In response, Fleur had delicately laughed, "Well, what does a lady really need besides lipstick and a sense of adventure?" and then, at Hermione's palpable disbelief, "I'm just kidding. I need many things, Hermione, I'm highly materialistic. The rest is in my four suitcases.")
"It's so nice to see you again," Hermione returned hastily, opting to mimic Daphne's musical greetings over Pansy's scathing glances. "Thank you again for connecting me with Minerva."
"Yes, quite," Minerva said, in a way that indicated she very much wished to move on. "Are you taking notes, Hermione?"
Hermione, who hadn't known she was in the sort of situation which required formal minutes, quickly reached into her bag for the composition book she kept handy in all situations. "Yes, of course, but may I ask—"
"Why?" Minerva guessed, sparing her a glance above the line of her spectacles (these, too, were entirely practical and not at all for fashion, which Hermione appreciated—or would hopefully appreciate the moment she managed to be less jittery and/or nervous) and waiting until Hermione had fumbled for a pen. "Yes, you may. Augusta has very graciously offered to host a reception for some of our donors next month in advance of our first installation. A luncheon, was it?" she asked Augusta, who nodded. "Yes, a luncheon, sometime late August. I presume you do not need any further instruction?"
Hermione waited, then blinked, realizing she was again being addressed.
"Sorry," she said, looking up. "What day would this be?"
"An excellent question," Minerva said without expression, "which I do expect you to tell me once you have made the necessary arrangements with Augusta and the caterers. And, of course, checked to make sure it does not conflict with any predetermined events. We'll need as many prominent public figures to attend as possible," she said, glancing down at… something, "so do make sure to check their private calendars."
Hermione, who genuinely wondered if that meant Minerva wished her to somehow hack into their personal computers and/or steal their diaries, paused for a moment, uncertain how to tell her new employer she didn't even know if she had a desk yet, much less which caterers to contact or who was considered a 'prominent public figure.'
"Well," Hermione said tentatively, "I'm… sure I could figure this all out—"
"Good," Minerva said with a nod, turning to Augusta. "I have to take a call in about five minutes, so I'm afraid you'll have to discuss the remaining details with Miss Granger. Will I see you tonight?"
"Yes, of course," Augusta said, rising to her feet and turning to leave as Hermione hurried after her, hastily re-packing her bag and nearly knocking over Minerva's desktop monitor before emerging into The Transfiguration Project's main office. "Where should we continue the conversation?" Augusta asked Hermione, who blinked, noticing the two desks immediately outside Minerva's office and realizing she hadn't the slightest idea which (if either of them) were hers.
"Um, well—"
"My dear, in this life one must claim one's own space," Augusta advised, not unkindly. "Better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission."
"Oh, um, of course," Hermione said, taking the desk on the left and then scampering off (as Pansy would have put it) to pull up a vacant chair, gesturing for Augusta to sit. "I'm so sorry, it's my first day, and—"
"Ah, yes, I wondered," Augusta said with a chuckle, delicately lowering herself to perch at the edge of the chair. "I suppose it's never too early to learn Minerva isn't quite accustomed to explaining herself. Happens, I imagine, when one becomes successful despite so many obstacles; her time is twice as valuable as anyone else's, or so she believes. Perhaps not incorrectly."
Hermione exhaled, grateful for even the smallest margin of sympathy. "I just… I hate to disappoint her, I suppose."
"Well, it's rather impossible not to disappoint Minerva," Augusta said matter-of-factly, "but luckily she has quite a kind heart to pair with her lofty expectations. If I were you, I'd expect to make a number of mistakes," she said, to which Hermione fought a grimace, "but provided you do not repeat them, I expect you and Minerva will learn to coexist just fine. May I help you with anything?"
This, Hermione thought, was not remotely what she'd expected from the woman Pansy looked to for advice on being somehow more impossible than she already was. She wondered now how Neville and Pansy had managed to make her seem so terrifying.
"Well," Hermione said slowly, "this… luncheon."
"Ah, yes," Augusta said. "The last week in August would be best. As for the caterers, I can email you a list of people I've previously worked with? Perhaps that would make the search easier," she offered, "and you can choose which company suits your availability."
"Oh, that would be—" literally fucking fantastic, especially since I didn't think you even owned a computer? Personally, I thought you stepped out of an old film, or possibly a museum, "great, actually, if you wouldn't mind. But as for the, um. Choosing the date—"
"Your friend Pansy would be a great help to you, I'm sure," Augusta said. "The younger girls will be shopping around, I imagine, for the events this summer. Surely she'll have heard what they're planning to attend, won't she?"
"Oh, right, of course," Hermione said, scribbling down ASK PANSY ABOUT SNOB BRIGADE, which was what Theo and Blaise liked to call Pansy's London 'friends,' most of which even Pansy agreed were somewhere on the spectrum of relatively to extremely loathsome. "Thank you so much, I'm not sure why my brain isn't quite working yet this morning—"
"Well, to hear Neville tell it, you're quite brilliant," Augusta said approvingly. "This, my dear, is hardly requiring intellect. It's simply practice, that's all, and you're quite new to all of this, aren't you?" she asked, and Hermione nodded hesitantly. "But Minerva wouldn't have picked you if you were not precisely what she was looking for," Augusta assured her, "so I trust you'll find your footing rather quickly."
Hermione looked up from her notes, momentarily setting down her pen with surprise. "Thank you, that's… you're very kind to say that."
Augusta gave her a warm smile. "Kindness has nothing to do with it, my dear. Minerva's an excellent judge of character, and I trust her. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Miss Granger," called Minerva's voice.
"Ah, never mind, then," Augusta said. "Off you go!"
"I… what?" Hermione said, startled. "Does she, um—"
Augusta arched a brow, referencing Minerva's office.
"Right, okay, yes," Hermione said, hurrying to her feet and aiming at the office before recalling she probably needed to say something to the previous focus of her attention. "Well, I will—I'll email you, then—"
"You'll need my email address, I expect," Augusta noted.
"RIGHT," Hermione said too-loudly, bounding back. "And it is, um—"
"Miss Granger?" Minerva called, her voice more impatient that time, and Hermione faltered, abruptly forgetting what she'd walked back to the desk for.
"Pen?" Augusta said.
Hermione blinked, snatching it up from the desk. "Right, yes, and—"
"I'll leave a card," Augusta assured her with a smile. "Best get in to see what Minerva wants, dear."
"Yes, of course," Hermione exhaled, relieved. "Thank you so much f-"
"Miss Granger, I imagine a sense of urgency would properly aid the situation," noted Minerva's voice.
"Off you go," Augusta repeated cheerfully, and as Hermione rushed into Minerva's office, she happened to glance at the clock on the wall, noting it had only been fifteen minutes into her first day.
"My goodness, there you are. I wondered if you'd gotten lost," Minerva said, glancing up. "Do you have the binder?"
"The, um. Which binder, exactly?" Hermione asked hopefully.
Minerva frowned, sitting back in her chair, and slowly removed her glasses, squinting at Hermione from where she sat at her desk.
"The binder," Minerva said. "The one containing all the files on my previous industry contacts?"
"That sounds incredibly important," Hermione said with a hesitant laugh.
"It is," Minerva agreed.
There was a slight pause.
"I'll go look for it?" Hermione guessed.
"Yes, very good," Minerva confirmed, glancing at her desktop. "Do be quick about it, please. I have another call in five minutes."
It was a miracle to have made it to the weekend. Hermione had always been a quick study, regularly praised for her cleverness, but she was rapidly learning that her extremely advanced reading comprehension was not precisely the same sort of talent as predicting the needs of enormously bewildering individuals. By Friday, she could hardly claim to be much better at her job, though she could at least locate Minerva's binder of contacts and had managed to properly move into her desk.
"Isn't there someone who could help you?" Draco asked, looking concerned. Hermione, who imagined there were few situations in his life in which someone had not been available to come to his aid, laughed a little at his palpable dismay.
"Minerva has some sort of silent partner, I think, but I never see him. And there will be someone else, but he's on vacation this week," she said, grimacing. "I honestly thought she wanted me to buy kindling or start a fire or something until I realized 'Wood' was actually a person."
"Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out soon," Draco said, leaning over to kiss her forehead. He'd snuck her into his London home (technically Prince Lucifer's house, though thankfully the Prince of Darkness was not presently in residence) for the weekend, the two of them curled up on a fairly uncomfortable and egregiously expensive sofa belonging to one of his ancestors as they watched a dvd of The Royal Tenenbaums on her laptop. "She wouldn't have hired you if she didn't know perfectly well how brilliant you are."
"Brilliance does not a good assistant make," Hermione grumbled, setting the laptop aside as the credits rolled and turning to face him. "I'm learning it's quite possible my mom and dad had somewhat softer leadership styles than Minerva McGonagall. Though, Slughorn is obviously an outlier," she added drily, "seeing as I'm pretty sure he mistakenly thought I was his boss at least once."
"This Minerva person can't possibly be worse than Pansy," Draco said with a chuckle, to which Hermione had to spare a grimace of agreement.
"True, she isn't quite that. She's not mean or anything, she's just…" Hermione trailed off, considering it. "Stern? She isn't especially sparing with praise."
"So it's an adjustment period, then," Draco determined. "That's always difficult."
"Quite," Hermione sighed, though she wasn't sure it required much more conversation. She'd already had one with Daphne, who'd proceeded to volunteer Astoria as an event planning source; that email, Hermione reasoned with internal withering, could definitely wait until Monday. "How's your boss?"
"Oh, you know, it's all so very low stakes with international politics," Draco said, shrugging. "Luckily for me, the big ticket item for Skeeter coverage this summer continues to be my father."
It was impossible not to notice the attention Prince Lucius had been getting, none of it favorable. Much of it continued to revolve around some imagined love triangle between him, Princess Narcissa, and Lady Bellatrix Lestrange, which Draco allegedly had no insight about, though Hermione suspected that was because he had no interest in pressing his father on the topic. She understood his reticence, for the most part; as far as she could tell, it was a lose-lose situation for him. On the one hand, there was always the lingering possibility he'd have to learn his father had always loved a woman who was not his mother, and on the other, both options required talking to his father—which he (understandably) did not care to do.
The remaining topics of media conversation revolved around the increase in speculation that the rift between father and son had worsened in the wake of Draco's entry to full-time public service. Most of the rivalry appeared to be generated by the press, but as it had been several months since Hermione had happened upon Prince Lucifer, she wasn't entirely sure.
"You've been traveling quite a lot," Hermione noted, and Draco grimaced.
"I know, I'm sorry. I wish I could be here more. Maybe we should go on holiday," he suggested, grey eyes widening with excitement at the revolutionary concept of a vacation. "We could have a whole week to ourselves; no interruption, no press. Maybe in August?"
"Oh, I don't know," Hermione said, chewing her lip. "I have this stupid luncheon to plan, but maybe after, if it's not too busy then? You could come to that reception," she added, brightening. "Neville's grandmother is hosting, and Minerva did say the initiative could use some big names."
"Ah, I… I'm not sure," Draco said, plainly hesitant. "I'd have to see what my grandfather says. You know if it were up to me, I'd be more than happy to, of course," he added hurriedly, "but as everything I appear to support reflects on him—"
"No—you're right, I'm sorry," she said, immediately remorseful. "It's a bit small, anyway. You'll just have to come when we have some sort of suitably-sized gala, or else people might suspect you're sleeping with someone at The Transfiguration Project. Minerva, I presume," she joked, and he chuckled.
"On a serious note, you might consider inviting Harry if you need some press," he suggested. "He's always out and about and his parents were friends with the Longbottom family, so I'm sure no one would think much of it. If he takes off his shirt the caption would certainly include the name of the initiative, wouldn't it?"
(Harry, needless to say, had recently been shirtless on the cover of a tabloid alongside a bikini-clad redheaded girl Rita Skeeter had flatteringly called a 'sporting queen.')
"That's a thought," Hermione said. "I wonder how much money he requires for his services?"
"What, attendance? Or shirtlessness?"
"The latter, naturally. Surely those abs come with a price."
"Oh, certainly. Though I'm sure Blaise could compel him with points."
"Or Pansy, with a disapproving glance."
Draco's hands drifted, the tips of his fingers toying with the hem of her t-shirt.
"Don't tell me the idea of Pansy's disapproval got you all hot and bothered," Hermione said with mock opposition, and he laughed, kissing the base of her neck before shifting lower, brushing his lips across the draping line of her v-neck.
"Blaise's points, actually," he said, and she tried to laugh, but couldn't quite manage it that time, focused instead on the outbreak of pebbled skin beneath his touch. She slid a hand down, delicately forming her palm to the shape of the unmistakable hardness between his legs, and won herself a quiet groan, the sound slipping out from his lips to the curved surface of her breasts.
"Well, that makes sense," she told him, feeling his tongue slide out against the lace of her bra. He always had spectacular timing; she had a tendency to rush, to lose any conceivable sense of seduction in favor of the act at hand, but he somehow always managed to be meticulous with the way he ventured into foreplay. If there was a way to be a stop-and-smell-the-flowers type of person but in a sexual context, he was certainly that; he slid lower, nudging her shirt up, and traced a pattern of light, floating kisses across her stomach, smiling into her skin as she impatiently pulled his mouth up towards hers.
She'd always liked kissing him. Kissing was an art she thought generally undervalued, too often considering it a throwaway act on the way to sex, but Draco always tasted exquisite. He tasted expensive and rare, like this horrible couch she was about to fuck him on, and she luxuriated in being the thing on his lips, on his tongue, even after nearly two years. Though—it wasn't just kissing, of course. It was particularly juvenile that day, with her grinding against the tented material of his pants and him pulling her closer until she'd snaked one leg over his hips, the inconsequential obstacles of their clothing becoming a tangled mess between them.
He paused to remove her bra, working his hands under the cups, and she struggled to pull his shirt off, nearly strangling him in the process only long enough to reveal his mouth. She kissed him again—and again, and again, dismissing the shirt entirely until he grabbed at it with hurried impatience, delivering it to the floor and flipping her onto her back to position himself between her legs—and he paused her again, taking a second's pause.
"Come on holiday with me," he said softly, a rasp of a request as he traced a finger over her clavicle, sliding it down between her breasts. He must have seen the opposition on her face—something in the realm of I just started a new job, I can't, it would be so irresponsible, I can't just wander off on vacation—and doubled down on his request, compellingly adding, "Let me have you on a beach somewhere, Hermione. I want to see you naked for me in the sand."
"Sounds hugely uncomfortable," Hermione said, dragging his lips back down to hers. "Even with a royal dispensation," she murmured playfully, "I imagine sand still feels entitled enough to get everywhere."
He busied himself with the button of her jean shorts. "Well, I could arrange some similar experience, then? Could have you by some sort of swimming pool, if you prefer. In the pool, even. I'm not choosy."
"Think of the headlines, though—Rita Skeeter reports: English Prince Drowns While Orally Servicing Commoner," Hermione said, gasping a little as his hands found their way to her underwear.
"American Citizen Incapable of Revolution, Cites 'Too Sore' as Perfectly Understandable Defense," Draco suggested, and she shoved him away long enough to shimmy out of her shorts before tugging at his zipper, aimlessly helping him kick his trousers and underwear to the side.
"We could go anywhere," he told her, gruffly settling her legs on either side of his hips, fingers digging tightly into the span of her waist. "Anywhere you like. There might be drawbacks to being with a prince, Hermione," he remarked with a solemn laugh, "but in this, at least, I do plan to spoil you rotten."
The idea of a suntan on Draco did feel indulgent and promising. She imagined his mouth on her breasts somewhere warm; somewhere hot, his tongue sliding over the contrast between creamy skin and the inevitable bronzed freckling of her shoulders. She pictured his blond head between her sunburned thighs and groaned out something that might have been a yes, his lips quirking up slightly to draw her back to the scene at present.
Draco. Half-naked; her second favorite kind of Draco. The muscle of his arms was stark with patience as he waited, the hard lines of his stomach appealingly tensed. Real or imagined, he was difficult to refuse. She thought about the flavor of something fruity and tropical on his lips; considered the possibility of fucking him under the stars and melted, picturing the silver glow of the moon as it refracted from the blades of his shoulders.
"After August," she said, clearing her throat, "but yes, okay. Let's go somewhere, then."
He grinned, satisfied.
"Funny," he said, yanking her hips down, "I didn't think it'd be such a difficult request. Wouldn't most girls consider it the primary perk of princely courting?"
"I'm here for your disastrous singing," Hermione assured him, "and because you're mostly just an incurable nerd who happens to have a crown and a six-pack."
"Anything else?" he asked, pointedly bracing himself above her.
She arched her hips towards him, impatient.
"Use your words," he chided softly.
She sighed. "I'd like a serving of your royal penis, please."
"Not those words," he said, making a face.
"You want me to pick different words?"
"Absolutely yes, I do—"
"My goodness, royals these days are so entitled—"
"I can do this all day, Hermione," he warned, settling himself into something of a plank on his forearms. "And we both know you'll cave first."
"That," she said, "is as rude as it is true."
"Hermione," Draco sighed, nudging her chin up to kiss her neck, and she relented, letting her fingertips dance up his spine to the base of his scalp, teasing their way through the soft pale strands of his hair.
"Please, Your Royal Highness," she murmured to him, "despite the fact that we are not on a beach or in a pool, or on a boat—"
"A boat," he said, brightening. "That's an idea."
"—would you please," she groaned, tightening her fingers in his hair, "do me the honor of making sweet, impassioned love to me?"
He sighed. "Are you trying to kill me, or is it just—"
"Draco," she growled, working one hand down over the bare skin of his stomach to grasp the full length of his cock, "just fuck me. Please," she added, biting lightly on the lobe of his ear.
He chuckled in answer, turning his head to let her kiss him into silence.
"Much better," he said to her lips, sliding inside her as she sighed.
"I'd be happy to go to your work thing," Harry said the next time she saw him, which happened to be a film premiere he'd invited her and Daphne to for purposes of buffering. Evidently he'd recently slept with his friend Ron's sister and was now figuring he'd make an effort to behave, despite 'it hardly being serious,' and also, 'truth be told, she's almost certainly sleeping with other people as well, but Ron is hopelessly optimistic.' "I've been waiting for you all to get jobs for years," he added, "so I can finally attend your proper work things instead of my own."
"What do you actually do in the army?" Hermione asked him.
"Mostly restart computers," Harry joked, sparing her a wink as Daphne returned from the bar.
"What are you two talking about?" she asked, handing Hermione a glass of pinot grigio and sipping at her own. "Something interesting, I hope," she grumbled. "I've been utterly bored to tears, what with you all being gone and without even something stupid to study for at school. I nearly called Roger the other day just to amuse myself with an argument."
"Just work," Hermione said, and Daphne made a face. "Yes, I know, I know—"
"Do you not like your job?" Harry asked her, and Hermione sighed.
It wasn't that she didn't like it. She'd actually grown a bit more accustomed to the pace of the job after the last couple of weeks, especially once the desk opposite hers became occupied by a mostly-likable person called Oliver Wood. It seemed that Oliver shared quite a lot in common with Minerva, having been her assistant at Phoenix Financials until she'd opted to step down that spring. Oliver had studied finance and accounting at university, but once Minerva had offered him a position directing her new initiative, he'd cheerfully accepted, citing as his reasoning: "It seemed more fun than maths, really, so I thought—why not?"
It turned out that, like Oliver, Minerva was Scottish and a massive soccer fan, something Hermione only learned courtesy of Oliver's insuppressible enthusiasm for the sport. Hermione barely understood more than 'football' and 'Rangers' and possibly 'eyeballs out' when he described the team both he and Minerva favored, but that hadn't stopped him from going on for at least twenty minutes about something she assumed was a ball. When Hermione casually mentioned she hadn't known Minerva was from Scotland (Minerva lacked any traces of Oliver's faint but certainly present Glasgow brogue, which Hermione guessed had faded away after a long career spent entirely in London) he'd replied, "Yes, that's why she hired me. Told me if I ever lost mine I'd be SACKED"—which was both highly amusing to Hermione and wildly indicative of the relationship he and Minerva shared. Hermione noticed that while she had to struggle to interpret Minerva's wishes, Oliver was extremely likely to know what Minerva was going to say even before she said it, leading to some instances of impossible note-taking wherein meetings between the three of them amounted to full pages of unfinished sentences.
"I like the job," Hermione said slowly, "but it's been… an adjustment." After all, she'd known Minerva a matter of weeks; Oliver had worked as her assistant for nearly four years, which meant she was playing catch-up most of the time. "That, and it's difficult to find a lot of significance in event planning, I suppose," she admitted with a grimace, exchanging a knowing glance with Daphne. "It just seems like something Astoria or even Pansy would be good at, but I suppose I thought I'd be doing something… I don't know. More meaningful, I suppose."
"The cause is meaningful though, isn't it?" Harry said, and Hermione nodded grudgingly. "Jobs rarely are. Fundraising is important, I've heard it told. Something about money making the world go 'round?"
"Yes, we've already had this chat," Daphne agreed, nudging Hermione's ribs. "Haven't we? That even lofty, significant careers require some degree of menial work."
"Yes, yes, I know," Hermione grumbled, glancing with disapproval at a quietly laughing Harry. "What's new with you, then? Minus your forbidden love, that is," she amended, nudging his foot with hers.
"It's not forbidden in the slightest, which is what's so unfortunate," Harry replied, making a face. "Ron's fussing, that's all. It's nothing."
They waited, but Harry didn't elaborate.
"What's he fussing about?" Daphne demanded, and Harry sighed.
"Fine," he said, relenting. "Since you two insist on prying—"
"Yes," Hermione said, blithely sipping her wine, "we do."
"—I'll just tell you the whole story, then. I didn't know she was his sister at first," he said, and then, catching Hermione and Daphne's exchange of skeptical glances, he groaned, "What, I'm supposed to ask every redheaded person I meet if their surname happens to be Weasley?"
"Knowing their surname at all is probably an excellent start, yes," Daphne advised.
"Well, call it a logistical error, then," Harry said, shrugging. "In any case, once the pictures got out, Ron made me promise to take it seriously—though, that directly undermines the reason I liked her to begin with. She's…" He shrugged again. "Well, she's not looking for a ring, let's say that much, which is precisely what I wanted. I imagine we'll have to date for a few months until we inevitably get caught arguing in public," he concluded, "by which time I would hope Ron's knickers won't be quite so tied in knots."
"Who's looking for a ring at this age?" Hermione scoffed, and in response, Daphne and Harry both spared her arched looks of doubt. "Wait, seriously?"
"Oh, absolutely," Daphne said firmly. "What do you think Astoria's out shopping for? Certainly not a new friend for book club."
"Well, I assumed it was a Pansy-type situation," Hermione said, frowning. "You know, grooming for inevitable marriage."
"Nope," Harry corrected spiritedly. "Other girls are not quite the long-term plotter Pansy is. She's like a beautiful little spider," he said fondly, and Daphne rolled her eyes.
"It was one thing when we were in school," Daphne explained to Hermione, "but now, of course, all the eligible men who don't have girlfriends from university are going to be snatched up by socialites. It's blood in the water, really."
"I imagine your mother's been on your case," Harry said to Daphne, who made a face.
"Yes, quite. I was hoping you'd date me for a bit, in fact," she sighed, and Harry gave her an apologetic grimace, "but of course you've gone and ruined it."
"Ruined what?" asked Blaise, materializing at Daphne's side.
From Daphne: "Oh, just my hopes and dreams. What are you doing here?"
From Blaise, brusquely: "MINUS FIVE, HENRY. And Hortense invited me."
From Hermione, with notable panic: "Oh god, is she here?"
From Hortense, nearly startling Hermione into dropping her wine: "WHO IS?"
Hermione, fumbling with her glass: "Holy mother of—"
Daphne, to Blaise: "Just to clarify, Harry only loses five points for ruining my life?"
Blaise to Daphne, stiffly: "Have you met him? He's very charming, Daphne. I simply don't know what you want me to do about it."
Hortense to Hermione: "Oh. I'm realizing you meant me, didn't you?"
Hermione to Hortense: "Very much so, yes."
Hortense, scathingly: "PITY."
From Harry, to a recently manifested Thibaut: "What are you two doing here?"
Thibaut, stiffly: "Well, if you must know, we are patrons of this art museum."
Hermione, with a frown: "This isn't an art museum."
Thibaut: "Then what are all these statues doing out here?"
Daphne: "You mean the… guests?"
Thibaut, scoffing: "Don't be ridiculous, little girl.
Hortense, dismayed: "If we aren't the patrons of this event, why are we here?"
Harry, sighing: "That's exactly what I asked you, isn't it?"
Thibaut, thoughtfully cupping a goblet: "I'm now uncertain whether we are, in fact, patrons of anything."
Hortense: "Don't be silly, Thibaut. We are preeminent in our field."
Hermione, doubtfully: "Which is?"
Thibaut, with a single articulated huff: "You're very tiresome, you know."
Blaise, glancing down at his tuxedo: "Well, in other news, I'm entirely overdressed."
Harry: "Hortense is wearing feathers."
Hortense, with palpable flattery: "Thank you, Harold."
Harry: "It's Henry."
Hortense: "Who is?"
Harry: "Me."
Hortense, aghast: "When did you get here?"
Hermione, turning to Blaise: "I really thought this was just your standard party-going outfit."
Blaise, apparently finding this acceptable: "Well, you're not wrong. Ten points to New Tracey!"
Harry, to Thibaut: "Since when do you two invite Blaise to things?"
Thibaut, bewildered: "Who's Blaise?"
Daphne: "The pretty one."
Harry: "Draco's ex-girlfriend."
Thibaut, apparently suffering a forceful epiphany: "Oh, yes. Why did we invite the pretty one, Hortense?"
Hortense: "I believe it came up organically over coffee."
Daphne, bemused: "You all have coffee together?"
Blaise: "Only once a full moon."
Hermione, optimistically: "Once in a blue moon, you mean?"
Blaise: "Rather not, unfortunately. It has something to do with… lycanthropy? Or is it lupus?"
Harry: "Only one of those has anything to do with the full moon."
Blaise, frowning: "Hmm, I don't know. I prefer not to ask questions."
Daphne, sagely: "Understandable."
Thibaut: "For the record, we'd invite the rest of you, only we don't care for you."
Harry, nodding: "That checks out."
Hortense: "Well, if this isn't the Met Gala, I suppose we've gotten our wires crossed."
Hermione: "You thought this was the Met Gala?"
Hortense: "No, but the statement stands."
Thibaut, turning away: "Yes. Goodbye, children."
Blaise, calling after them: "I'm going to stay, actually, if the two of you don't mind."
Thibaut, with lofty impassivity: "I don't even know your name, you little minx."
With that, they were off, leaving Hermione, Daphne, Blaise, and Harry alone.
"Since when do you spend time with the mad cousins?" Harry asked Blaise, who shrugged.
"I don't, really. I've been very bored, though, what with Theo always off with Fleur," he lamented. "And besides, Thibaut and Hortense do this whole bit where they call me from an unregistered phone number and demand a ransom for my son. It's all very exciting. Last time they even hired a small child," he added brightly.
"Hired?" Hermione echoed, doubtful.
"Again, I really find it's best not to ask questions," Blaise repeated, and beside him, Daphne seemed to have something of a revelation.
"If you're bored, would you perhaps be interested in dating me?" Daphne asked Blaise, who frowned in thought. "Your upbringing's on the upper edge of scandalous for my mother's liking, but you'll do."
"Depends," he said. "Do you cook?"
"Not at all," Daphne replied.
"How are you at maths?"
"Abysmal."
"Would there be any elements of disguise?"
"Probably not."
Blaise hummed in thought. "Well, I'll have to think about it. I'm seeing someone at the moment, I think," he clarified, with a notable lack of clarity. "It's unclear."
"Who?" Hermione asked, startled. "And since when?"
"Tracey Davis," Blaise said, "and since she conveniently moved into the flat below mine."
"You don't call her Old Tracey, do you?" Harry asked him.
"Not in bed, no," Blaise said.
"How did that even happen?" Hermione demanded.
"The same way most things happen," Blaise informed her. "She came upstairs to demand I desist my 'unrepentant stomping' and then, upon discovering I was, in fact, me, she flung a lengthy stream of vitriol at me about how I and my friends had done a bang-up job of inconveniencing her life, and clearly, that didn't look to be stopping anytime soon."
Hermione waited for more, but evidently that had been explanation enough.
"Oh, yes," she said faintly, as Harry muffled a chuckle into his hand. "Such a romantic start."
"In any case, it might work out for a while," Blaise said to Daphne. "Or I might be free next week. Totally uncertain."
"Well, I suppose I'll just maturely put up with my mother and my boredom, then," Daphne grumbled. "At least until I inevitably become the spinster aunt to one of your illegitimate children, that is."
"Thank you," acknowledged Harry and Blaise in unison.
"You have me," Hermione reminded her, slipping an arm around Daphne's waist. "That counts for something, right?"
"Oh, yes—lesbianism, that's an option," Daphne said brightly. "Thank you, Hermione. I'll just tell my mother I love women the next time she asks me if I'm dating."
"Not what I meant," Hermione sighed, "but sure. My pleasure, I guess."
"How's Sweden?" Hermione asked as she made her way home from work. She'd made a habit of taking the long way home and calling Draco as she walked, which was a rather comforting activity after a long day at Transfiguration. That day in particular had been extremely busy with tedium, most of which had involved fielding emails about color schemes and trying to coordinate with Augusta Longbottom's house manager for their luncheon.
"Oh, you know, the usual. Speaking, listening. More speaking, more listening. Questions about the weather. How are you?" he asked her, his voice a bit gruff. He was working out in his hotel suite's private gym, which was, of course, a highly distracting fact for Hermione given she was supposed to be indulging in outward conversation, not internal fantasy about shirtlessness and/or sweat.
"Any thoughts on that holiday?" he asked, panting a little into the receiver.
Truth be told, she hadn't had one single thought about it. She'd been rather occupied with a multitude of other thoughts, most of which involved the cost of having napkins pressed prior to the opening reception.
"Uh… France?"
"France would be nice," Draco said with a chuckle, sounding as if he'd paused his workout, "if you actually wanted to go there, and hadn't simply plucked an arbitrary location out of that brilliant brain of yours."
Hermione sighed out a laugh. "Sorry," she said, making a face he couldn't see. "I suppose I haven't thought much about it, no—not for lack of wanting to," she assured him, "I've just had so much else to worry about."
"Well, that's certainly understandable. I'm afraid I can't stop thinking about it, unfortunately. The other day I looked so longingly into the distance while pondering the prospect of being out of the country with you that Rita Skeeter dubbed me 'The Pensive Prince.'"
"Oh god, even my mom told me about that," Hermione said, and Draco's responding laugh muffled resoundingly into the receiver. "Honestly," she exhaled, "I'll just be happy when you're home. I miss you, like always. I hardly need any sort of lavish vacation—just you."
"Well, who said anything about lavish? I'm happy to starve you, if you like," he said cheerfully. "I simply want uninterrupted time with you."
"Now that would definitely be luxurious," Hermione agreed, digging her keys out from her bag and finding the door to her flat unlocked. "Oh, I think Daphne's—" She broke off, stumbling over a sniffling Daphne, who was lying on the kitchen floor curled around a bottle of wine. "Home," Hermione finished, before immediately informing him, "I'm going to have to call you back. In like…"
Ten minutes? she mouthed to Daphne.
In answer, Daphne merely shoved her phone screen into Hermione's hand.
FLEUR SPOTTED WALKING OUT OF BOUCHERON WITH A CLOSE FRIEND OF PRINCE DRACO! IS IT POSSIBLE AN ENGAGEMENT IS ON THE WAY?!
"Hermione?"
Draco's voice woke her from a sudden wave of nausea.
"Oh god, no, I have to go," Hermione said, hastily shoving Daphne's phone back into her hand. "Sorry Draco, I just—I have to get drunk right now with Daph, okay? Love you."
"What? Hermione, is everything ok-"
She hung up, tossing the phone aside and sitting on the floor with a softly moaning Daphne.
"Are you okay?" she asked, picking up the wine bottle. "You've only had…" A quarter of a bottle, she estimated. "It was just this one, right?"
"I just saw it," Daphne said miserably, forcing herself upright. "I just—"
Hermione softened impossibly at the sight of her; Daphne's eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks swollen, her unfailing loveliness utterly blemished with pain.
"I know it's just rumors," Daphne said, sniffing as she pawed inelegantly at her nose, "but I just realized… he might marry her. I mean," she said, swallowing heavily, "she's older than we are, maybe she wants to get married sooner—"
"He wouldn't propose to Fleur without telling us," Hermione said firmly. "Certainly not without telling Draco, and of course I'd tell you."
"I know, but—" Poor Daphne was as slumped over and helpless-looking as Hermione had ever seen her. "He's going to marry her, Hermione. He's going to marry her, and I'm going to have to go to the wedding, aren't I? Someday, I'm going to have to stand there and watch while he just… while he—"
She burst into tears again and Hermione quickly pulled her into a hug, smoothing a hand over her hair and feeling totally, completely helpless.
For several minutes, neither of them moved.
"You could tell him how you feel," Hermione suggested eventually.
"And then what?" Daphne mumbled into her shirt, sniffling again. "I can't be the person who comes between them. It could destroy our friendship—because he loves her, Hermione," she choked out. "I missed my chance."
Hermione struggled to believe that was possible, though she found it equally difficult to disagree with Daphne's point. Somewhere in Hermione's logical brain she knew that Daphne being the one to come between Fleur and Theo would surely break a variety of relationship rules—but still, it was hard to care.
Wasn't everything supposed to be fair in love and war?
Maybe not, it seemed.
Hermione sighed, raising the bottle to her lips and taking a long sip.
"Should I call Pansy?" she asked gently.
"No." Daphne gave a violent shake of her head. "She'll only try to talk sense into me, and I don't want to see any sense right now."
Hermione sighed in agreement. "Fair. Well," she managed, handing the bottle back to Daphne, "I suppose we could, um. Drink?"
"That sounds right," Daphne said miserably.
Two bottles later, things were… not much better. Though, in Daphne's defense, she had progressed quickly through the stages of grief, moving past denial to catapult herself directly into anger.
"You know what? She may have Theo, but I have a much more interesting sense of fashion," Daphne vented to the DRAGONFLOWER page, admonishing it from where she and Hermione were sprawled on the sofa. "Why doesn't anyone track my clothes?"
"That's true," Hermione said, or possibly slurred. "It's… it's totally ridicrilous. Ridic-" She paused. "Ridikkulus."
"It's not style if you just buy things straight off the runway," Daphne argued, glaring at a post featuring the dress Fleur had worn to a state dinner with her family. "Anyone can style a gown! What is this, playtime in the amateur sandbox?"
"Yeah!" Hermione said.
"Money isn't the same thing as taste," Daphne continued ranting, "and besides, nobody who reads this blog can possibly learn anything from this! Who's going to be able to replicate these outfits, hm, Hermione? WHO?"
"No one!" Hermione said.
"PRECISELY," Daphne said firmly, jolting upright. "Besides, why are English women even following her as some sort of fashion icon? She's FRENCH!"
"Probably because Narcissa doesn't leave the house anymore," Hermione said.
"OR," Daphne thundered, "IS IT BECAUSE THEY AREN'T EMPOWERED TO FOLLOW THEIR OWN INSTINCTS?"
"THAT ONE! I think," Hermione said, squinting at Daphne. "I'm guessing. Right?"
"RIGHT," Daphne said vehemently. "If I had a blog, it'd be far more useful to the average British woman than this worthless drivel," she said, making a face at the laptop screen. "Honestly, celebrity gossip? Is this the best we can do as women? AS WOMEN?" she demanded, and in response, Hermione struggled to sit up.
"Certainly not," she said, or thought she said. "We should be worrying about… about climate change!"
"Yes!" Daphne said. "And issues!"
"Yes, and issues," Hermione crooned. "All of them!"
"Well, all of them might be overwhelming," Daphne cautioned, catching herself from falling just before she slid from the sofa.
"Right," Hermione said. "Some of the issues!"
"SOME OF THE ISSUES!" Daphne confirmed, pounding a fist into the arm of the couch for emphasis. "Women should be doing more than just… just getting married, right? Women should be… astronauts!"
"Presidents!" Hermione agreed. "CEOs!"
"C-E-Os!" Daphne agreed, trumpeting it back to Hermione with a rhythmic smack of her hand against the cushions. "You know what? We should—"
She gasped.
Hermione blinked.
"What is it?" Hermione said.
"Mleh," Daphne mumbled incoherently, followed by the equally incomprehensible, "We should start a blog."
"Who?" Hermione asked.
"US," Daphne shouted.
"What?"
"US. YOU AND ME," Daphne insisted, grabbing her laptop and forcefully giving Hermione's foot a nudge. "We could start a… what's it—one of those, you know. Like Goop."
"Goop?" Hermione echoed.
"Yes, Gwyneth Paltrow's… thing. Her THING," Daphne belted. "You know, with the… the advice, and the thoughts—"
"What?" Hermione managed to say, or thought she said.
"I'll do fashion," Daphne said. "And, you know. Skincare, makeup, fragrance… and you can do politics!"
"I… what?"
"Politics, women's issues, what have you. You're the writer," Daphne reminded her, brandishing a finger in Hermione's face. "You said you wanted to do something meaningful, didn't you?"
"But," Hermione began, blinking. "But… Draco? Or no, worse, Pansy—"
"We don't have to put our names on it," Daphne said excitedly. "Look at this Dragonflower nonsense! Nobody knows who they are! We can run it anatomic- no, anemically—"
"Anonymously?"
"That's the one!" Daphne said, palpably delighted. "What should we call it?"
"Uh," Hermione said, frowning into nothing. "The… thing."
"The thing?" Daphne echoed.
"The women thing," Hermione said.
"The society," Daphne attempted, squinting, "of women's things."
"Is that vague?" Hermione asked her.
"Well, it's not specific."
"Right, but what specifically—"
"We need to address a specific group of women," Daphne said. "Don't we?"
"What, like… society for the things belonging to English-specific women?"
"Oh yes, we're so close, I can feel it—"
"Society for the Promotion of English Women," Hermione erupted suddenly, overcome with a thunderbolt of vision, and Daphne turned to her, eyes wide.
"That's bloody genius," she said. "That's… Hermione, you've done it."
"It spells S.P.E.W.," Hermione pointed out.
"What, Spew?"
"No, aren't you listening? It's S-P-E-W—"
"You know, I like Spew. At first I thought—ew?" Daphne mused thoughtfully. "But it's growing on me. It's like Goop."
"Okay, only Goop is Goop, not G-O-O-P—"
"It's PERFECT," Daphne said firmly. "It's so obviously what we should be doing I can't believe I never thought of it before!"
"I—are you sure," Hermione said, wavering slightly in both corporeal and mental form, "because—"
"You need a passion project," Daphne said, and Hermione blinked, registering that was not entirely untrue, "and I need something to do. You know, to distract me from my empty chasm of a life," she exclaimed, launching up from the sofa. "This could be the solution for us both—two birds!"
"I've never actually been clear why killing birds was any sort of aim," Hermione remarked. "And especially not with stones, that just seems unnecessary. Besides, what about that 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush' idiom? Shouldn't we just wait until the bird is in hand? That's certainly not going to happen if we're throwing stones; then we'll have to settle exclusively for bushes. Not to mention why do we have stones? For throwing them at glass houses, I suppose," she answered herself, "though really, who has glass houses anymore—"
"Perfect, write that down," Daphne said, snapping her fingers. "It'll be our second post, right after I talk about how navy and black can be successfully paired for excellent results if one is not A TOTAL COWARD—"
"This is amazing," Hermione said, blinking. "I can't believe we never thought to do S.P.E.W. before."
"What?"
"Spew then, whatever—"
"Oh, Spew, yes, it's GENIUS—"
"We're incredible. Someone should make a film."
"I can code, you know," Daphne told her, surprising Hermione with the information. "I took some art classes in graphic design. I could very much do this, and with your writing help—"
Hermione scoffed. "We'll win a fucking Pulitzer."
"—right, exactly! So, are we doing this?" Daphne asked.
Hermione paused to look at one of Daphne's three heads (the center one), noting that now, unlike before, Daphne's cheeks were flushed with excitement rather than utter woe. She was not ill-wishing Fleur. She wasn't bemoaning the loss of Theo. She hadn't even been crying for at least twenty entire minutes.
And wasn't she right that Hermione needed one thing in her life that was about her?
Just… hers?
"I'm in," Hermione said flatly. "Fuck it. I'm in."
They just wouldn't tell Pansy. Or Draco. Everything would be fine.
"Everything's fine," Hermione said, in the event Daphne had not overheard her internal monologue, which she didn't appear to have done.
So they'd have a blog, Hermione thought. So what? Everyone had blogs these days. If things got weird, they'd simply take it down. What was the harm in that?
"This," exhaled Daphne smugly, "is the smartest thing we've ever done."
"Yes," Hermione said, throwing her arms around Daphne with palpable, wine-flavored bliss. "I totally, completely agree."
Well, I have this to say for myself:
It was not, in fact, the smartest thing I've ever done.
But in my defense, it was also not the dumbest.
a/n: Aaaaaaand we're back! Paradox is now complete. I am here. All is well. Reminder that the Lovely Tangled Vices preorder remains open; the paperback copies and a new Amortentia one shot will post on Halloween. In the meantime, hope you are enjoying the story!