Chapter 17: Humanity
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
A Modern Princess
It is perhaps impossible to deny that Hermione Granger is the product of a more modern time, from her unlikely rise to prominence to her blips of outspokenness with regard to social commentary. I myself can attest that on the occasions I have spoken intimately with Hermione, she has been more than outspoken; openly defiant of tradition, in fact, would be the more accurate descriptor of the woman who will marry into one of the most conservative iterations of our nation's royal families.
Since the announcement of her engagement to Prince Draco, however, Hermione has made very few missteps, if any. She has been the very portrait of duty and poise, and while some suspected she would prove a tumultuous addition to the royal family, she has surprised critics and admirers alike by maintaining a notable distance from politics and social issues. As the wife of a future king, the expectations for Hermione are markedly different from other positions of prominence—for example, Prince Harry's wife, who in recent times has become surprisingly outspoken without any notable opposition from His Majesty.
It seems that for the next Princess of Wales and, eventually, the mother of a future king herself, Hermione's position will vary little from her predecessors, despite the role modernity played in depositing her near the throne.
You can practically taste Rita's boredom with me, can't you? She absolutely resents that I haven't set a toe out of line since Draco put this enormous ring on my finger over a year ago. As happy as it makes me to think of her stewing in disappointment, I can't help feeling she has a valid point (until now, anyway, but that's… we're getting there, slowly but surely).
She also brings up another interesting subject, which is that she and I have spoken before, though 'intimate' isn't precisely the word I'd use to describe our encounters so much as 'stalkery' or 'creepy' or 'too much, Rita, have some chill.' Still, if she's not going to have anything rude to say about me (for the moment, at least) then I might as well throw her a bone and explain precisely how it happened.
September 22, 2012
Nott Manor
For Hermione's twenty-third birthday, they decided to commence their (until that year, mostly unplanned) annual trip to Theo's estate for the weekend, rejoicing in the luxury of a mini-break. This time, they were joined by Neville, Fleur, and Harry's new girlfriend Ginny, who despite being in the midst of her final year at Oxford, still found time to gallivant publicly with Harry, earning them both an elevated stance as tabloid darlings. It seemed the relationship was either for show or for sex, though after a while it became difficult to distinguish between the two. Ginny was a rising soccer star who was likely to play for one of England's football clubs, so Hermione reasoned it was probably (and not unreasonably) a combination of both.
It was a welcome break from work, Hermione had to admit—which at the moment was neither good nor bad, but rather a middle-place between extensively draining projects. The luncheon had gone well, but to her complete unsurprise, Minerva was hardly one to bask in a job well done. Instead, Minerva was militaristically moving them forward to their next project, which would be funding. When Hermione had left the office on Friday, she and Oliver had been busy contemplating 'accidental' meetings they could arrange with nobles who were typically patrons of the arts. Needless to say, Minerva was not particularly considering a grassroots campaign.
The episode of peace that was Hermione's escape to Theo's house was a blissful one, for the most part. At the moment, Draco and Harry were playing aggressively shirtless badminton on the lawn. It seemed the tabloid cover featuring Harry's abs, which were already predicted to be that year's most popular Halloween costume, had nudged Draco into a flurry of sporting activities. That day, the 'sport' of choice happened to be either a game or a war as the birdie volleyed violently back and forth over the net.
(For the record, it wasn't as if Draco was losing any battles for acknowledgement of his physique, though Hermione had been forbidden to discuss the fact that someone had commented on the DRAGONFLOWER blog noting what appeared to be the outline of Draco's penis in his trousers. Pansy, ever the dutiful friend, had immediately bought him underwear boasting improved compression technology. Hermione, however, smugly attested that the commenter, username lavenderB, had estimated correctly, which made Daphne positively howl with approval. "We know," Theo sniffed, "we've all seen it," to which Blaise nodded solemnly.)
Unfortunately, Hermione was presently unable to enjoy the episode of gratuitous male torsos due to the summit Daphne had called with Blaise on the topic of Spew ("No one is ever going to call it S.P.E.W., Hermione"), which was… conflicting, to say the least. Hermione had woken up the morning after her drunken night with Daphne to be gifted a headache, cottonmouth, and a distinct sense that whatever they'd discussed the night prior probably belonged in a vault of secrets with a locked door and a swallowed key. For about a week, in fact, she'd forgotten it entirely, until Daphne had stormed into her room, excitedly informing her the web design was finished and the site was ready to go.
Hermione had put off discussion until the luncheon (and then for a few weeks afterwards), but Daphne was growing impatient with the wait, having already sent Hermione a list of article ideas. They'd agreed they'd float the idea of the blog to Blaise, who, despite being 87% chaotic on a good day, was usually neutral enough to provide something resembling sanity.
(He had not brought Tracey Davis, whom he was still dating, or something adjacent to dating. When asked why she hadn't been invited, Blaise had simply shrugged, citing that Old Tracey wasn't particularly overjoyed he'd failed to bring her along either, and had in fact broken it off with him for the eleventh time that week before proceeding to commence their misdeeds again the following day.)
"A lifestyle blog," Blaise echoed thoughtfully, considering it. Fleur and Theo had spiritedly opted not to take sides regarding the badminton match and were equally harassing both players; Pansy was reading Vogue and enjoying the last bit of unseasonably effective sun while Neville rubbed sunscreen into her shoulders. Ginny, meanwhile, was shouting performance tips to Harry from the sidelines, which didn't seem to help even remotely. Hermione shuddered to think what their sex was like, and then proceeded to shudder that she'd been thinking about their sexual relationship at all.
"Well, you'd both be marvelous at it. Provided Greengrass did most of the aesthetic lifestyling, that is, and New Tracey focused on the—" Blaise waved a hand. "Intellectual stimulation."
"Intellectual stimulation?" Hermione echoed. "Are you suggesting erotica?"
"I'm not not suggesting it," Blaise said, "but if you have material, then minus five for not bringing it to my attention until now."
"I used to write a bit of Pride and Prejudice fanfiction," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Granted, I was nine, so it was mostly amorous hand touches."
Blaise nodded sagely. "Hand-kissing is a sacred art. Plus five. Though minus ten for the overused source material."
"Please," Hermione scoffed. "What would you have chosen?"
"A Knight's Tale," said Blaise, without hesitation.
"The Heath Ledger film?" Daphne asked, frowning.
"The Paul Bettany film," Blaise corrected, "and yes. I revere anachronism in all forms."
"Hold on, back to the topic at hand," Hermione said doubtfully. "You really think we should do this blog? I mean, Pansy would never appr-"
"No, wait, I'm not ready to move on yet," Daphne said, still frowning in bemusement at Blaise. "Which pairing? Shannyn Sossamon and Heath Ledger?"
"Hm? Sure," he said. "And if Prince Edward wants to join them, who am I to stop him?"
"Listen, I just want t- wait, what?" Hermione said, belatedly registering Blaise's remark. "You want to write threesome porn for the film A Knight's Tale," she repeated slowly, "involving… the Black Prince? He's in the film for like, five seconds."
"First of all, this is a hypothetical thought exercise," Blaise informed her. "Secondly, had I written it, I would point out to you that those alleged 'five seconds' include no less than thirteen longing glances between Edward and William."
"Thirteen seems like probably too many," Hermione said.
"You're right. Minus thirteen points," Blaise said.
"What? That's not fair, I was just—"
"The blog," Daphne cut in, glancing pointedly between them. "It's a yes? Albeit a no on anachronistic medieval threesome porn, I imagine."
"Well, if you don't want to be popular," Blaise sniffed, "which is probably wise. I suppose there's a rather low probability your blog will somehow fall into the hands of the King of England, isn't there? And if you both remain anonymous, then I don't see the harm."
"See?" Daphne said to Hermione, brightening at Blaise's approval, though in Hermione's view, he was rapidly losing credentials the more he spoke. "It's perfect, or at least perfectly fine."
"I honestly can't get past the threesome porn," Hermione said. "I'm… I'm trying to sort out the logistics of it? Like, at what point in the film would this happen?"
"I imagine the scene would naturally fall at some point after William is knighted," Blaise said matter-of-factly, "but it's really rather freeform."
"Like, before the joust, or—"
"How well do you know this film?" Daphne asked Hermione.
"Not as well as Blaise, obviously, since I don't remember any longing glances, much less thirteen of them—"
"You should really improve your awareness of your surroundings," Blaise informed her. "I've been meaning to bring that up to you, but there hasn't been a proper time."
"What?" Hermione asked.
"Your spatial awareness in particular is appalling," Blaise said, patting her comfortingly on the shoulder. "But there's no reason you can't make drastic changes in the very near future if you really set your mind to it."
"Well, I for one have gotten the answer I came for," Daphne said happily, turning to Hermione. "If you don't want to do it, that's fine, but I just think—"
"No, I—" That wasn't the problem at all, though Hermione was struggling to come back from Blaise's commentary. In reality, she very much did want to write the blog, but she was becoming concerned with the logistics of keeping it a secret. "I just worry, you know, since we'll have to keep the whole thing under wraps—"
"What, that it's wrong or something?" Daphne said, shrugging. "Most blogs don't get more than a small following. Anyway, perhaps we simply try it for a month or so and see how it goes, hm?"
"Well, I suppose," Hermione said, frowning. "Yes, I guess that's a fair point."
"Wonderful," Daphne ruled cheerily, only to be interrupted by Theo shouting to her.
"Greengrass, help me, would you?" he barked, beckoning her over to the makeshift badminton court. "Delacour here's got no rhythm."
"It's true, unfortunately," said Fleur, who probably still had better spatial awareness than Hermione. "That," she said, flouncing gracefully down on the grass, "and I'm afraid I simply cannot summon the interest."
It seemed Harry and Draco were now teaming up against Theo and what was shortly to be Daphne. The prospect of it was enough to garner Pansy's attention from where she looked up, glancing between them with what Hermione was certain was joyous approval (or her version of it, anyway).
"Oh, I don't know," Daphne demurred, though she'd already risen to her feet. "Against a prince of the realm, Nott? Am I expected to fall from my horse to grant him the win?"
"Ah, but aren't you a lady who tilts when she should withdraw?" Draco called to her, prompting Hermione to arch a brow in Blaise's direction.
"We watch A Knight's Tale at least biannually," Blaise confirmed, nodding, and she laughed, leaning back as Daphne picked up a racquet and swung it into Theo's abdomen, prompting him to gift her an ungentlemanly shove.
"So," Blaise murmured to Hermione as, the badminton match got off to a heinously bad start, Theo's racquet flying out of his hand immediately after Draco's serve. "Are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or should I just guess?"
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. "Guess?"
"Ebola," Blaise said. "The Greek economy. Temporal dissatisfaction."
"Well, all of the above, of course," she assured him, "along with medieval threesome porn."
"Please," Blaise scoffed. "If it existed, you'd beg for more."
"If it existed?" Hermione echoed.
"If it existed," Blaise confirmed, "but as it does not, perhaps you might enlighten me. This blog thing sounds precisely like something you'd want to do," he noted, surveying her expression, "and forgive my boldness, New Tracey, but I'm afraid your hesitation is entirely out of character and thus it remains atrociously unexplained."
"That's," she began, and grimaced. "That's unreasonably observant of you, Blaise."
"Thirteen longing glances," he reminded her, and she groaned.
"Alright, fine." She dug out her phone, opening the internet tab and shoving it into his hands. "My article I wrote for Slughorn was published at the beginning of the month."
"Ah, brava!" Blaise said, scrolling delightedly. "Plus fifty for accomplishments of note, New Tracey—"
"Fifty?" Hermione echoed, suppressing the need to squeal in delight. "Really?"
"Really," Blaise informed her, transitioning to grave solemnity. "I would never lie to you about points. Or footwear. Or knitted accessories. Which reminds me, on the topic of your scarves—no, no, I won't," he sighed to himself, shaking his head. "Another time. In any case, why so glum?" he asked, handing her phone back. "Seems unusual, even for you."
"Well—" She took the phone from him, sighing. "It's just… I don't think Draco would approve."
"Seems unlikely," Blaise countered. "I'm given to understand your accomplishments are a very compelling factor in his attraction."
"Oh?" Hermione asked innocently, wondering if Draco had said anything specific, though she wasn't surprised when Blaise loftily skirted an answer.
"Well, presumably that, since I doubt very much that his fondness for you has any relevance to your incurable tendency to steal chips uninvited," Blaise said as Hermione rolled her eyes, "but I suppose I do know what your concerns are. Prince Lucifer would almost certainly not approve." He paused, and then added, "Though, His Darkness does not approve of much. In that, I can assure you you are not alone."
Hermione softened, watching Blaise take a rare self-conscious moment while adjusting his sunglasses. "He doesn't like you?"
"Like me, dislike me, it's irrelevant. He's never bothered to know me at all," Blaise said, shrugging. "Beyond knowing I'm the son of a tawdry widow there's not much to know, is there? So I suppose I see the point of concealing it, but still."
He leaned back onto his elbows, watching Pansy, who had apparently joined Team Harry and Draco by way of mercilessly slandering their opposition. This, of course, left Neville to heartily shout, "Good try, Theo!" to an utterly woeful serve that subsequently earned him a smack in the abdomen.
"Well," Hermione sighed, "I just… I suppose I don't want to put Draco in the position of having to tell me his father and grandfather disapprove."
"Or," Blaise corrected, "you don't want to be in the position of being disapproved of, do you? But you will be." He crossed one leg over another, looking up into the afternoon sky. "I think, all things considered, it may be better to keep some things to yourself rather than simply neglect them altogether. After all, what Draco doesn't know won't hurt him."
"Won't it, though?" Hermione asked, and Blaise turned his laughing gaze on her.
"Well, it will if he finds out," he said, "but this life, in these sorts of circles…" He waved a hand, referencing the princes and the nobles who were presently delighting in leisure. "It does not particularly get easier. Some things will count against you no matter what you do, and then the question becomes: Is it better to have something quietly reserved for yourself with a chance of repercussions, or to openly bare everything for inevitable rejection?"
An interesting question, and certainly highly topical, but she pushed it aside temporarily, focusing instead on the oddly serious nature of Blaise's remark.
"Blaise," Hermione ventured cautiously, "is everything alright?"
Just as she spoke, though, a slim shadow paired with the silhouette of a vaulted chin fell over them.
"Blaise, come help me vanquish these simpering idiots," Pansy sniffed, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder. "It's as if they've gotten together to pretend we didn't best them all thoroughly and without mercy in the Shuttlecock Massacre of 2006."
"UNACCEPTABLE," Blaise said at once, rising to his feet and taking the racquet Pansy thrusted into his hand. "Are we aiming for tears, My Lady, or is it enough to win by virtue of expediency?"
"What do you think?" Pansy scoffed.
"Excess or death," Blaise replied with reverence, and Pansy nodded her approval, the two of them wandering over to the makeshift court and leaving Hermione to wonder what Blaise had meant as Theo fell down beside her on the grass.
"Well, I have little to say for myself," Theo said, "but I suppose my single defense is that I've never been good at any sort of physical activity and, despite my best efforts, have not managed to sprout even an ounce of talent overnight." He glanced at her, grinning. "Do you want to play?"
"What, with Pansy and Blaise? No thank you," Hermione said, shading her eyes to look at them and shuddering at the thought. "Are they… are they stretching?"
"Intimidation tactic," Theo said, rolling his eyes. "Stupid, but effective."
She shifted a look at the game, watching Draco pick up his shirt from the ground to wipe the sheen of sweat from his chest. He looked happy, perfectly at ease, and for a moment, she recalled that it had been quite a while since she'd last seen him that way. He always looked relieved to see her, as if he'd been transitioning from stress to contentment, but it had been some time since she'd seen him move between two phases of equal enjoyment. He caught her eye as she looked at him, winking at her, and she smiled back, watching him jog back towards Harry for the start of a new game.
"Why do you play badminton if you're so bad at it?" Hermione asked, turning to Theo. "Surely you don't enjoy it."
He shrugged. "Eh," he said, gesturing to Draco, who served the birdie directly into Pansy's perfect swing. "He needed a win."
"Well, Pansy's clearly going to win," Hermione noted, and Theo laughed in agreement as Daphne joined them, falling back with exhaustion on Theo's other side.
Theo nudged Daphne, who nudged him back. He smiled down at her, and she up at him, and then she quickly remembered herself, forcefully sitting upright and angling herself away from him.
"Well, what do you say, Hermione?" Daphne called to her. "Want to team up?"
It didn't seem to be exclusively about badminton.
Hermione considered it, then stifled a sigh.
Draco wasn't the only one who needed a win. Or at least a friend who was willing to take a loss.
"Yes," she said firmly, and Daphne's smile broadened. "Count me in."
"Are you ready for your birthday gift?" Draco asked her that night.
"I thought I just had it," Hermione said, having still not caught her breath.
(Draco had very thoughtfully decorated the room with what seemed to be innumerable battery-operated tea lights, as she'd once expressed some degree of concern for open flames being too close to Theo's ancient aristocratic drapes. In the end, she'd walked into the room partway through Draco's neurotic preparations, which had involved arranging rose petals in a lopsided heart on the duvet. At the sight of her meticulous prince muttering to himself about how he should have drafted the shape out first, she found herself quite unwilling to disturb his good work and had instead dragged him down to the floor, opting to blaspheme in his honor with her head against the floorboards instead.)
He laughed and rose to his feet, picking something up from the nightstand along with a blanket and rejoining her, holding out a small envelope.
"It's not much," he said apologetically. "Unfortunately, your ten pound limit was a bit restraining. I really had to think for quite some time about what might be appropriate. At first I thought, perhaps some coffee?" he mused, shrugging, as he clearly had very little concept how money was technically used. "But then I had a better idea."
Her fingers tightened slightly on the envelope, wondering what could be inside. He'd stopped asking her about going on vacation, probably sensing her reluctance, but she wasn't entirely certain whether she'd be pleased or not with finding plane tickets or some other sort of travel arrangement inside.
Though, what could he have possibly managed to do within the realm of ten pounds?
"Oh," she said, carefully unsealing it. "Well, I—"
She stopped, unfolding a single blank page.
"What's this?" she asked, looking up at him with a frown.
He was clearly struggling to contain his excitement. "I've been asked to give closing remarks at my grandfather's annual gala," he said, "and I want you to write my speech."
"I," Hermione began, and frowned again. "Well, that's—" She paused, unsure how to react. "Is it just closing remarks?"
"Well, that's the thing," Draco said spiritedly, "it is, but I'm also giving you free reign to bring up one potentially controversial topic of your choosing. Feminism," he suggested, and she blinked. "Suffrage. Renewable energy, refugees, social stratification—what have you. I'd hate to call for the end of the monarchy, but if you want me to give it a try, so be it." He shrugged, nudging her hand that was holding the blank page. "You get a blank check, Miss Granger, for me to pair my princely name and my royal face to any agenda you like."
She stared at him. "But your grandfather—"
"Oh, he'll disapprove," Draco said, shrugging again, "but provided you write it well enough, which I'm sure you will, then I can't imagine he'll be too upset for long. Besides, what will he do, tell me to stop traveling so much?" he joked. "Force me to stay in London? That being the case, I suspect I could manage to bear the consequences."
"Draco, this is—" She swallowed, the single blank page suddenly the grandest gesture she'd ever witnessed. "I don't even—"
"If you don't want to, you don't have to, of course," he told her quickly, looking rapidly uncertain. "If you'd prefer jewelry, I assure you, I can have Dobby at Cartier in less than an hour—"
"What? It's midnight," she said.
"Yes, and I'm a prince," he reminded her shamelessly, "so if I've done this wrong, I can certainly make it up to you, but—"
"No." She shook her head. "No, Draco, you did it exactly right."
She set the page aside and pulled him close, rewarding him with proximity. He wrapped the blanket around them both, sliding her leg between his to gratefully kiss her forehead.
"I know it must be difficult for you," he murmured to her. "I'm heartily aware I'm not around as much as I'd like, and that you have to make choices for me that perhaps you'd rather not make—"
She tilted her head up, brushing her lips against his. "It's worth it," she promised him. To hold him, to be held by him, to be so thoroughly trusted by him he could hand her his reputation on a single page and ask her to write it as she wished.
Still, it was only one thing, and look what a sacrifice it would be for him. He saw it as accepting a consequence, and not even a welcome one. Better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission, Lady Augusta Longbottom reminded her unhelpfully, and Hermione bit her tongue on confession; the article, the blog… She hated to keep things from him, but why bring it all up now when it might only be nothing? The article had already gone unnoticed. The blog would surely be nothing at all. She was certain she'd only add conflict to his already conflicted life.
She slid a hand down his torso, tracing her fingertips over him. She touched the crevices of his ribs, stroking over the lines of them down to the hard slope of his waist. Just when she thought she knew every inch of him by heart, there was something else, some new reminder that there were parts of him left to discover. She could have sworn that even his skin felt more indulgent the more she touched him. She trailed her fingers down to his thighs, dancing along the muscle of them, and then curving her way back up, passing the resumed hardness between his legs.
"Is that all?" she asked, and was rewarded by his stuttered inhale.
"Well, I suppose I have ten pounds' worth of gift left," he said.
"Cheapskate," she murmured, feigning disapproval, and he wrenched her leg up, fingers passing the still-swollen silk of her clit to earn the sound of her gasp, arching into his touch.
"I'll have to make up for it, then," he said, and kissed her firmly, rolling her onto her back.
Returning to work was difficult, and as she often did, Hermione longed for their university days. As stressful as studying had been, it was still a relatively simple matter when the alternative was employment by Minerva McGonagall. Minerva seemed to have warmed to Hermione, though, going so far as to painstakingly insert small pauses after she spoke so that Hermione could ask up to three entire questions, and Hermione was adjusting to working with Oliver, whose general demeanor regularly hovered somewhere around severely overcaffeinated.
"Listen, okay, so I know you're American," Oliver said, pacing small circles around his desk (he didn't care for sitting, found it to be 'unproductive' and 'stagnant') and brandishing a pen in Hermione's direction, "but you should know that every year, King Abraxas has this massive gala celebrating the anniversary of his reign. He's like two hundred years old now so this is very much an established tradition and a proper to-do—"
"Yes, I know, I'm going to be there," Hermione said without thinking, and Oliver stopped, colliding with an open desk drawer and staring at her.
"What do you mean you're going to be there?" he asked her, plainly without comprehension. "Have you started some sort of side catering business, Granger? Or have you simply confused 'royal gala' with, I don't know, a BAFTA viewing party—"
"No, I—" She hesitated, unsure how to avoid mentioning her actual proximity to the royal family. "Well, I went to Hogwarts, remember?"
"Granger, everyone went to Hogwarts," Oliver scoffed, resuming his pacing. "I don't see what that has to do with positively anything—"
"Yes, but I went to Hogwarts with Prince Draco," she clarified, and he paused again, this time jamming his knee into part of the desk frame. "Well, and his friends, I should say," she added, before clearing her throat and resignedly sighing out, "The point is, I know him. You know, sort of," she clarified hastily. "We're friends."
"You're friends," Oliver said slowly, "with Prince Draco."
"Yes," Hermione confirmed with a nod, "though not just him. I mean, you did notice that Prince Harry joined us for the luncheon last month, didn't you?"
"I assumed that was Augusta's doing," Oliver said, frowning. "I mostly just assume everything is either Augusta or Minerva's doing," he admitted, and Hermione shrugged.
"Well, my roommate is Daphne Greengrass," she added before suddenly recalling, "Oh, and Fleur Delac-"
"SHUT UP YOUR FACE ENTIRELY," Oliver said, just as Minerva stuck her head out of her office.
"What's going on out here?" she asked them, narrowing her eyes. "I can't get a thing done with all this incessant shrieking."
"It's nothing," Hermione assured her. "Just Oliver."
"Ah, yes, I see," Minerva acknowledged, about to exit when Oliver let out another squawk of distress.
"She lives with Lady Daphne Greengrass," Oliver said, flailing his arms in Hermione's direction, "and the daughter of the French president!"
Minerva, who had in fact noticed Hermione's part in cementing Harry's presence at the luncheon—even going so far as to comment, "A well-executed effort, Miss Granger" to Hermione with a hint of approval so faint Hermione was only half convinced she hadn't imagined it—seemed either unsurprised or unimpressed by this information.
"I admire Miss Delacour," Minerva remarked to no one in particular. "She has a prevailing sense of timelessness I find extremely compelling for someone so young."
"I like her with Prince Draco," Oliver said, prompting Hermione to stifle a loud sigh as Minerva's lips pursed (her version of a languid shrug).
"Wood," she said stiffly, "that goes without saying," and the two of them nodded their solemn appreciation.
"I was just telling Oliver I'm going to the gala," Hermione explained in lieu of informing them she knew of a terrible blog they'd both thoroughly enjoy, "and—"
"I believe Augusta is attending this year as well," Minerva said, nodding briskly. "Excellent. You can both mingle a bit on behalf of The Transfiguration Project. Wood, I'd like some talking points drawn up—"
"Emailed them to Augusta last week," he said, now juggling three items that looked like stress balls.
"Good, yes. Hermione, the charts?" Minerva asked.
"Astrological charts?" Hermione joked reflexively.
"No," Minerva said.
"Nope, right, I—yes, I have them," Hermione said, gesturing to the pile of 'charts' (actually a compilation of traffic counts and demographic data to help them identify which public places to commence with) on her desk. "I'll, um. Analyze them and have them on your desk by the end of the week."
Minerva nodded, disappearing into her office again as Oliver suddenly halted his juggling, tossing one of the balls at Hermione's keyboard.
"You realize you have connections we should use," he said, and she frowned. "If any one of Draco's friends—or hell, even Draco himself," he said, moving to bite into the stress ball until he abruptly recalled it wasn't an apple, "were to lend support for this project, we'd be—bloody fuck it all, we'd be rolling in donations and patronage—"
"It's not like I could conceivably ask any of them to endorse us," she began, but then her stomach abruptly sank, thinking of the blank page she'd taken to carrying around in her bag on the off-chance something occurred to her. She could very much choose this project as an issue, if it were really something she cared about.
She sighed. Choosing one thing was so very difficult, and at the moment, it was highly impossible to invest in the one she was being pressed to make a priority.
"Well, just a thought—though, that reminds me, I happened upon a friend of a friend who knows a City player who might be convinced to make a public donation," Oliver said, drop-kicking the stress ball into the corner and then coming around to his computer, drafting an email standing up. "Besides, if Minerva's serious about eventually having an auction—"
"What city?" Hermione asked, but she could see she'd already lost him, instead turning her attention to the text she'd just received on her phone.
Just finished the first post, Daphne said. A bit frivolous, admittedly, but that's what you're here for, aren't you?
Hermione clicked the link Daphne had included. The article was succinct, well-written (after all, Daphne was hardly an idiot), and was largely about dress shapes, complete with images Daphne herself had drawn. It appeared she'd sketched out a few designs regarding what to look for when choosing a fit while shopping for dresses, broken up by categories of cocktail and occasion, office wear, and casual.
It was impressive. Even on a phone, the layout of the blog was clean, elegant, intuitive. Hermione shook her head for a moment, considering how much she'd have appreciated this blog if she'd come upon it herself. The Inquisitorial Squad had been a mess of headlines and message boards but was still widely read; DRAGONFLOWER was addictive even while being difficult to navigate.
I don't know what I'd write about, Hermione said to Daphne, whose bubble of type responded rapidly.
Anything you want. And anyway, if you don't like your first one, you can simply write another, she said, and Hermione considered it, staring into space for a moment before waking her computer screen.
"I'm off for lunch," Oliver announced in the same tone he might have said 'later, nerds' and skateboarded away, and Hermione waved a hand in blind acknowledgement as he went, opening an empty Word document.
The hardest thing about finishing university is realizing you have to grow up, Hermione wrote, mindlessly tapping away at her keys. They teach you all sorts of things about literature and economics and the ills of humanity along with how to ineffectively stress over finals, but then they deposit you into a world assuming you already have the knowledge to cope. But the reality is they teach you to dream, but not how to do. They teach you to do as they wish, but not how to decide for yourself. If experience is the greatest teacher, then why do we wait so long to invite her in?
"What are you doing?" Minerva asked from behind her, and Hermione jumped slightly.
"Oh, um. Writing," she said, and then added guiltily, "It's my lunch hour, but if you want me to work on something specific—"
"You know," Minerva cut in idly, reaching for her coat, "I used to be a painter."
Hermione blinked. "You… really?"
"Yes, really." Minerva tugged her leather gloves on one finger at a time, not looking at Hermione. "When I first started working at Phoenix I tried to fit it into my spare time, painting in the evenings and managing investment accounts during the day. Eventually I drifted away from it." She paused, looking up into nothing. "I find I miss it a great deal."
"Oh," Hermione said, and then added, "You could always start up again, couldn't you?"
Slowly, Minerva's gaze fell on hers.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I could. But I often wish I hadn't waited so long to remember what was important to me."
She moved to exit, her trusty camel trench now securely fastened, before turning over her shoulder to look at Hermione.
"Enjoy your lunch, Miss Granger," she said, and Hermione smiled slightly with surprise, nodding back.
"Thanks, Minerva," she said, and Minerva walked out without a second glance, disappearing from view.
By the time King Abraxas' gala had rolled around, Hermione and Daphne were well into their joint efforts on Spew, which had earned a small following of fifty or so regular readers. Hermione found it was easy to keep the entries fairly impersonal, specifically devoting them to topics of culture, politics, or social issues, while Daphne continued to use her own designs and drawings, contentedly busying herself with sketches on her newly-purchased iPad.
"What are you two always up to?" Fleur asked one of the weekends she was staying with them, noting Hermione and Daphne both on their laptops while happily (albeit silently, save for clicking keys) consuming a bottle of rosé.
"Oh, nothing really," Daphne said. "Picking out a gown."
"Writing Draco's speech," Hermione added, though in truth, she still hadn't come up with anything. Draco had drafted a decoy speech to submit for approval (delightedly claiming he'd never lied so shamelessly to Dobby before, and was positively thrilled to start) and assured her he didn't need the real one until the night of the gala. ("I won't even read it," he promised her. "I'll deliver the words exactly as you write them.")
"Well, that sounds marvelous," Fleur said, swirling out on a breeze of sweetened bourbon-tobacco perfumery and leaving Daphne and Hermione to their work.
Pansy, of course, had resumed her constant lurking when it came closer to Halloween. It seemed she'd recovered from her attempts at tricking Neville into thinking she was a normal sort of person (an intensely failed effort, in Hermione's view) and had thrown herself into the holiday as their first occasion for celebration as alleged adults. They all lamented the loss of the beloved Hog's Head Halloween party, instead piling into Theo and Blaise's flat to submit themselves to the prompt of Blaise's choosing.
The theme that year was astrological puns, much to Hermione's complete incomprehension. Daphne had had no trouble, dressing as Aries/Ares, a goddess of war with a set of curling ram horns, and Pansy had dressed as combined halves of identical twins, employing the use of rhinestones to make herself Gem-ini. Theo came in a massive fur bodysuit while holding two enormous clay jugs ("I'm a water bear-er," he informed Hermione), Harry was dressed as Leonardo DiCaprio from Titanic only with a lion's mane (Ginny, who joined him, wore a skintight black dress and remarked unabashedly "I'm Mercury in retrograde"), Blaise wore a series of metallic lizard scales on an iridescent skinsuit and carried around a gold set of Libra scales, and Neville was mostly happy to be there.
Draco and Fleur were both absent, owing to their familial duties elsewhere, but Tracey Davis was there, much to Hermione's surprise. She'd opted for a Grecian dress with a celestial silver filigree drawn around her eyes, shrugging as she saw Hermione. "What are you?" she asked, glancing over Hermione's costume with confusion as Hermione struggled not to point out Tracey surely wouldn't get any points for her lack of punwork.
"Oh, I'm Capricorn," Hermione said, gesturing to her makeshift dress of corn husks (read: Hawaiian skirts combined to near-disastrous results) and the goat hooves she'd attempted very poorly to recreate. "I was going to be Cancer, but then Dr- I mean, then someone told me that was too bleak," she said hurriedly, and Tracey rolled her eyes.
"Please, it's not like I don't already know you're dating Prince Draco," she said. "Everyone in the Slytherin dorms knew that."
"Well, um, you know how rumors can be, uh—so how are things with Blaise?" Hermione said with a nervous laugh, and Tracey shrugged.
"I'll probably break up with him tonight," she said, but even Hermione could see that was unlikely. The two of them didn't speak, but they did make extremely lascivious glances at each other all night.
Pansy, meanwhile, seemed to have grown tired of her London life, retreating to Daphne and Hermione's flat at intervals of increased frequency. She'd also gone shopping with them, voluntarily offering her services with the clarification "we all know you'll indulge Hermione's tiresome fit-and-flare proclivities until kingdom come, Daphne" and not even complaining once about Hermione's posture or Daphne's choice of colors.
By the time Pansy had told Hermione she 'looked rather lovely' in the dark green off-the-shoulder gown she'd picked out for herself, both Daphne and Hermione determined they'd had enough.
"What's wrong with you?" demanded Daphne, and Pansy pursed her lips (in her case, less Minerva's shrug than it was purely disbelief at their audacity).
"Nothing," Pansy said. "I'm simply commenting her figure is suitably benefitted by the lines of that gown."
"If you're trying to say I look thin, it's only because groceries are expensive and dresses cost money," Hermione grumbled. "I haven't had time to exercise in about a hundred years."
"Well, poverty suits you," Pansy replied succinctly, directing her attention to Daphne. "Why should that mean anything's wrong with me?"
"You're moping," Daphne said. "And you've hardly mocked anyone all morning."
"Is it so impossible to believe the world has been satisfactory enough not to disappoint me for the duration of a single hour?" Pansy countered.
"Yes," Hermione and Daphne said in unison, and Pansy gave them each a viscerally threatening stare.
By the time the gala came around—Hermione in the green dress that Daphne had altered slightly to keep it from slipping down, Daphne in bordeaux-colored velvet, and Pansy in a structured magenta so saturated it photographed red from certain angles—they were both fairly certain something was plaguing Lady Six-Names considerably.
"Do you think it's her parents?" Hermione whispered to Daphne when Pansy disappeared to greet a family friend. "I can't imagine it's fun living with them, especially not with how Pansy talks about her mother."
Even her own mother would be difficult to live with, Hermione thought, though seeing that Helen was being extremely patient with Hermione's lack of free time, she felt guilty for considering the prospect with such repulsion.
From Daphne, shrugging: "Well, her mother's far worse than mine from what I can tell, but even without knowing for sure, I can't imagine it's easy."
From Harry, who'd opted to come alone: "Believe me, the real Lady Parkinson makes Pansy look breezy and easy-going. A proper barrel of laughs."
From Theo: "She once told me she'd seen a croquet mallet that reminded her of me, only with more charisma."
Harry: "She regularly asks me about my children, and when I remind her I don't have any, she says 'that you know of,' so—"
Theo: "She once looked directly at my hairline, offered her condolences, and then left."
From Blaise: "She told me not to listen to the people discussing how the only thing more boorish than my mother's marital scandals was her singing career."
From Fleur, with a bemused frown: "That's sort of supportive, isn't it?"
Blaise: "Well, she'd brought it up."
Daphne, shaking her head: "That solves that mystery, I'd say."
From Pansy, who reappeared with Neville at her heels: "What are you lot talking about?"
Blaise, casually: "How the only thing more boorish than my mother's marital scandals was her singing career."
Pansy, tutting: "Oh, Blaise, don't diminish yourself like that. But yes, that's very true."
Neville, brightly: "Hermione, I heard you wrote Draco's closing remarks."
Hermione, groaning: "Oh god, don't remind me—"
Theo: "Oh yes, what did you choose?"
Blaise, instantly: "Bees."
Harry: "Bees?"
Blaise, shrugging: "Someone's got to."
Hermione, sighing: "No, not bees—"
Blaise, visibly distressed: "THEIR ECOSYSTEM IS IN CHAOS! COLONY COLLAPSE IS A WIDE-SCALE AGRICULTURAL HINDRANCE!"
Pansy, casting a disapproving glance at Hermione: "It's true, it really is."
Theo, scoffing: "You might have put some thought into it, California."
Hermione: "I… I don't know what to do with this."
Harry, thoughtfully: "I for one am going to guess… feminism? No, vampirism."
Hermione, hesitantly: "Well, initially you were close, but then—"
Theo, loftily: "Hello everyone, I'm Prince Draco, thank you for coming, hopefully you've had enough champagne for us to now discuss the harrowing realities of what to expect during the coming zombie apocalypse."
Neville, optimistically: "Literacy?"
Hermione, surprised: "Oh, well that's a nice th-"
Pansy, groaning: "I hope you haven't gone too wildly left-wing, Hermione. Taxes are all well and good, but I hardly think broadscale socialism is the answer."
Theo, stuffily: "Yes, it's largely impractical outside of agrarian communities. Have you done absolutely no research?"
Fleur, nodding: "Also more effective in a homogenous ethnic landscape."
Blaise: "Yes. Like bees!"
Daphne, elbowing him with an eye roll: "Just tell them, Hermione."
Hermione, sighing: "It's… well, it's civic engagement. You know, participating in elections. Making your voice heard. I thought that would encompass most other things, don't you think?"
Pansy, exhaling: "Oh good, that's reasonable. What a relief, I was confident you'd make a mess."
Hermione: "Thanks? At least you were confident in something, I guess."
Pansy, disapproving: "Mm. You really need to listen more carefully to what's being said, Hermione."
Blaise: "Personally, I see no option but to detract twenty points."
Hermione, aghast: "What for?"
Blaise: "You're lucky it wasn't a more crippling loss after you forced me to worry about bees for nearly FIVE ENTIRE MINUTES! But ultimately, a fine choice."
Harry gave her a nudge, sparing a grin as he raised his glass to his lips. "A very reasonable selection," he said, the remark softened privately for her. "I know you could have gone for something more extreme, but I'm sure Draco will appreciate what you chose."
"You think?" she murmured, relieved. "I mean, I was… sort of trying to restrain myself, yeah. Not that I don't think it's important," she added hurriedly.
Harry shook his head. "It's a good choice. I'm sure it's a great speech."
She exhaled slowly. "Thanks, Harry," she said, and was rewarded with another of his smiles. "Where's Ginny, by the way?"
He shrugged. "I'm rather not looking for someone to attend public events with me," he told her. "Besides," he added wryly, "once tabloids see me with the same girl too many times, I lose all credibility. They start to confuse me for the responsible prince."
She opened her mouth to argue—she was pretty sure he was lying, and not even very skillfully—but by then Theo had already taken her arm, drawing her away.
"Ready?" he said, gesturing to his watch. "By my calculations, I have a martini to deliver right about now."
She rolled her eyes at the reference but conceded to follow him, bidding Harry and the others farewell to let Theo lead her towards the now-familiar corridor from the ballroom.
"By the way," Theo said, painting an innocent expression on his face as they walked, "is it just me, or does Greengrass seem in a perpetually fine mood lately?"
"She called you a dickhead twice on our way here alone," Hermione pointed out.
"Yes, but fondly," Theo reminded her, and Hermione laughed. "Is she," he began, and paused, pitching his voice unnaturally high. "Is she, ah, seeing someone?"
Ah, there it was. The Actual Question.
"No," Hermione said. "She's just… happy, I think."
"Oh." Theo looked somewhere between confused and pleased. "Well, I'm glad."
"You could ask her about it," Hermione suggested, and he shook his head distractedly.
"No, no, I just…" He cleared his throat. "I'm pleased she's happy." He paused, toying with a thought, and then added, "Very pleased. That's all. I was worried about her, for a bit. A normal amount of worried," he rushed to assure her. "Just, you know. I thought there was a bit of a low point for a few months, but now—"
"You could have asked her," Hermione said again, and he grimaced.
"I'm never quite sure she wants to hear from me," he said slowly, and Hermione, who half wanted to stab her stiletto heel into his shin and call him an idiot, managed to reservedly shake her head instead.
"Just try it," she said, and he slid her a cheerful glance.
"Well, I suppose I've tried worse," he said, chivalrously opening one of the concealed corridor entry doors and ushering her inside.
To her dismay, upon entry to Draco's study she found not only Theo's father but also King Abraxas waiting, both men chatting in murmured tones and sipping from their respective drinks as she felt Theo stiffen beside her, his attention falling with rigid displeasure on his father.
"Ah, Theodore," said Nott, rising to his feet. "Why don't you and I head back to the party?"
"Help," Theo whispered to Hermione, bowing low to Abraxas.
"I have my own problems," she hissed back, dropping into a curtsy beside him until Abraxas set his drink down, waving them away.
"Nott, I'll see you inside. Miss Granger," he said warmly, beckoning for her to rise. "I'd hoped to have a moment in private with you, if you don't mind? Draco will be here shortly," he assured her, and behind her, the door closed, Theo and his father gone with the sound of the latch. "But the last time we spoke was something of a disaster, I'm afraid, and I'd hoped to improve the state of things."
"Disaster is a strong word," Hermione ventured.
"True, perhaps 'traumatic' would be the better choice," he said, chuckling to himself. "In any case, I wondered if you might wish to tell me something about yourself."
"Something?" Hermione echoed, somewhat doubtfully. "Do you mean something in particular, Your Majesty?"
"Yes, in fact." Abraxas folded his arms over his chest, shifting his stance where he leaned against the desk. "My dear," he said slowly, "are you sure this is what you want?"
She blinked. "I," she began, and cleared her throat. "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?"
"A few months ago," Abraxas clarified anecdotally, "Draco mentioned to me he wished a brief reprieve from his duties to travel for a short time with you. He'd hoped I would lend my approval, despite his father expressly forbidding it—you understand, I'm sure," he said tangentially, "that it does not cast a favorable image on our family to dwell too openly in luxury." Hermione nodded stiffly, and Abraxas continued, "I discouraged him from pursuing the idea, though I found it surprising he didn't bring it up again."
He paused for a moment. A master of pauses, the King of England. It was only one facet in the many, many ways he took up space in the room, diminishing her to unutterable smallness.
"Draco has changed since meeting you," Abraxas went on, reaching up to curve a hand around the outline of his chin. "He has always been well-spoken, obviously poised and comfortable to lead, but he has a very different sort of confidence now. Something admirable and persistent. Since meeting you, in fact, he has grown more comfortable challenging me," he said slowly, "which is why I suspect his sudden silence on the matter is less because of my disapproval, but rather because of your… disinterest, I imagine."
Hermione blinked, startled. "You think I don't love him?"
"Oh, it's not a question of love, Miss Granger," Abraxas said, shaking his head. "You must understand, I am in a difficult situation, as you present separate and unique challenges to me both as a monarch and as a grandfather. On the one hand, you're obviously clever enough to recognize your lack of preparation for the role required of you as Draco's consort," he pointed out. "That, however, is an issue easily reconciled. More difficult," he said firmly, "is the fact that my grandson requires someone who is willing to stand by his side."
Hermione stared at him. "Your Majesty, all due respect, but how exactly am I expected to be a secret and also stand by him?"
"Well, that is where we find ourselves at an impasse, isn't it?" Abraxas asked her. "Truth be told, I would not choose you for Draco." His voice was factual, neither kind nor unkind. "However, I'm the first to admit that I've been wrong before. I approved of Narcissa for Lucius, and I missed all the signs of her fragility. I blame myself for the difficulties they faced," he said gravely, "and this time, I will not stand between Draco and his bride of choice unless absolutely necessary. But neither will I aid in your relationship," he clarified, "until I see reason to believe you will be a better partner to him than someone else."
"That's…" Hermione trailed off, swallowing a harsher remark. "Honest."
"I value candor," Abraxas said, and then added warningly, "within reason."
She looked up at him, trying not to be too defiant, but certainly unwilling to bend.
"So you wouldn't have let him go on holiday anyway, is that what you're saying?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I would have advised against it. It would have been an unfortunate argument, and perhaps he might have resented my choice or been forced to defy me outright. But I didn't have to," he pointed out. "You spared me that."
She felt a curdling sense of fury that she suppressed, swallowing it down.
"Narcissa isn't fragile," she said instead, not wanting to get into the fact that she had a right to not drop everything simply because Draco had asked, and furthermore, she had quite intentionally chosen a boyfriend who was thoughtful enough to understand that. "Narcissa was treated badly." Draco had made that much quite clear to her by then. "By her family, and by the press—"
"Narcissa is mentally ill," Abraxas said, "and she refuses treatment."
"But—" Hermione caught herself, quickly suppressing her temper. "I understand," she amended carefully, "that you want someone suited for your grandson. But didn't you just say I'd already helped change him for the better?" she prompted knowingly, and Abraxas' mouth quirked slightly.
"Yes," he said, apparently not above admitting as much. "You have awoken qualities in him that will make him a very fine king someday. But when that day comes," he cautioned, unfolding his arms and leaving himself unguarded for her observation, "he will need a certain kind of woman by his side. One who will put his interests first, without question. And one who puts duty and loyalty above her personal desires."
In answer, Hermione said nothing.
"I do not ask if you are that woman," he clarified, "because I cannot possibly know you well enough to know, but rather—do you wish to be that woman?"
She blinked.
Blinked again.
And before she could answer, the door had opened behind her, Draco stepping in through the frame.
"Oh, Grandfather," Draco said, sparing Abraxas a bow before standing beside Hermione, brushing his lips against her cheek. "Apologies," he said with some degree of confusion, "did you need me, or—?"
"No, no," Abraxas said with an affectionately lopsided smile, shaking his head and rising to his feet. "I was merely having a chat with Miss Granger. She is everything you say she is, Draco," he said, glancing at Hermione. "Intelligent, poised, compassionate. I see why you care for her." He placed a hand on Draco's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "Don't stay too long," he warned, and Draco nodded.
"Only a few minutes," Draco said. "I just wanted to speak with Hermione privately."
Abraxas nodded, and Draco bowed, placing his hand lightly on the small of Hermione's back as she numbly offered a curtsy and rose.
"A pleasure," Abraxas said to Hermione, who inclined her head as he went, disappearing through the door and leaving her to turn, slightly winded from the experience, to Draco. He was as handsome as ever in his black tuxedo, embellished with all the trimmings of his grandfather's royal insignia.
"Hi," he said, taking her face gently in his hands. His hair was smoothly swept back, glinting in the low light of his study. "How was that?"
He was tentative, hesitant, obviously ready to comfort her if she required it, and she felt her heart pound slightly.
"Draco," she said, swallowing. "How about… Majorca?"
He blinked, then permitted a slow smile.
"Perfect," he said, kissing her forehead, and then her lips, slowly, his hands still penitently set around the bones of her cheeks. "Anywhere with you would be perfect."
She closed her eyes, responding to his kiss; letting him part her lips, his tongue slipping delicately along hers. His hands were first to wander, dipping under the fabric of her bodice; she slid her palms under his jacket, finding the planes of his hips beneath. She tugged him closer, pulling him in by the lapel of his tuxedo, and then, as escalation became inevitable, with half a whisper she said, "Lock the door."
He stumbled back, hurriedly obliging, and returned to draw the hem of her dress up from her ankle, dropping to kiss her calf and tracing his lips up to the inside of her knee. He lifted the gown as he went, rising slowly to his feet laughing breathlessly as she fumbled with the zipper of his trousers, and then he slid his thumb across her clit, drawing the thin material of her thong aside.
"Do you have the speech?" he muttered hazily, rising to his feet and yanking her down further on the desk, hiking her thighs over his hips. He kissed her jaw, her neck, and then the lobe of her ear, curling his tongue around the diamond stud.
"Yes," she managed, "but I have to rewrite it slightly, so hurry up."
He gave her hair a tug—she'd worn it loose this time, relaxing her curls into waves and praying the product Fleur had given her wouldn't make them frizz out too wildly—and dropped his mouth to the curves of her breasts as he set the tip of his cock against her slit.
"Won't take long," he assured her, voice dry, and filled her in a single thrust.
She exhaled her agreement, leaning back on the desk, and watched the pale blond of his hair slip forward onto his forehead, all his concentration fixed on her.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you so much for coming here this evening to honor my grandfather, King Abraxas. His Majesty wanted me to say a few words in closing, but I won't keep you long—if all has gone according to plan, I'm sure you're all quite ready to take your shoes off in the car, swearing off banquets and formalwear for at least another month."
He looked up, grinning, and the crowd laughed; he'd delivered the little glimmer of humor seamlessly, as she'd known he would.
"All jokes aside, the meal has been delicious, and the evening perfectly sublime, rightfully befitting its honoree. I'd like to thank—"
"Excuse me," came a voice beside Hermione, belonging to an approximately middle-aged English woman with platinum blonde hair twisted high on her head, extremely red lipstick on her very thin mouth, and a vibrantly sapphire gown on her surprisingly well-cut figure. "You're Hermione Granger, aren't you?"
"Hm? Yes," Hermione said, distractedly trying to watch Draco, who had earned another laugh from the crowd.
"This isn't your first time attending this event, is it?" the woman asked. "But you're American, are you not? Certainly not nobility, and aside from attending university with the Prince—you did attend Hogwarts, didn't you?"
Hermione spared her a glance of confusion. "I… yes but sorry, I'm just trying to listen—"
"It's very interesting how frequently you appear at royal functions," the woman said, just as Draco transitioned into the most significant portion of his speech.
"It is my belief that people in positions of power should show solidarity with those less able to speak on matters of great personal importance," Draco said, reading aloud the changes Hermione had made just minutes before. "I hope you'll indulge me, ladies and gentlemen, while I take a moment to remind you the importance of awareness—and more importantly, compassion—with regard to issues of mental health."
He stopped for a moment; half a beat, privately registering surprise, and then continued.
"It is sometimes very difficult for us to speak about the reality of our lives. So often our reputations can feel crucially important, and for that, they are immensely fragile. Too often we lose loved ones for our attempts at censure; too often we sacrifice our relationships for how we fear they'll be perceived. But I would ask that when you leave here, you will join me in showing support and understanding to those who are struggling. I would ask—not as a prince," he said, looking up into the crowd, "but as a person who has witnessed the damaging stigmatization of mental illness myself—to try to help when you are asked, to attempt sympathy when it's required, and above all, to offer humanity at all costs."
Do you worry about your mother? Hermione had asked him softly, holding him close once the heat of sex had ended and the warmth of intimacy remained.
Constantly, he said, shaking his head. I wish there was more I could do for her. I never feel more helpless than I do when it comes to her.
"I only ask that we treat each other kindly," Draco continued, and behind him, Hermione felt certain she could see Prince Lucius' expression shift from dismay to distress to placid understanding, eventually settling somewhere unnamable from afar. "We are all fighting our own battles; some more obvious than others. But as we celebrate this night, and as we honor this great nation and its King, let us not only celebrate how far we've come, but how far we have yet to go. I believe that as a country, we can find it in our hearts to help each other; to understand each other, and to heal each other. To stand for each other, and to show the world not only what it is to be citizens of the United Kingdom, but to be citizens of humanity. To stand together," he finished, looking up from what had been a blank piece of paper, a gift to her, and what had become her gift to him, "so that no one will be forced to stand alone."
When he concluded his remarks, bidding the crowd goodnight, she saw Draco touch his finger to the ring he'd placed on his left hand. Like always, he'd told her he loved her in one furtive motion, and though she wasn't particularly close enough for him to see, she hoped he could feel her smiling back at him.
"Sorry," she said, eventually turning to the woman beside her. "I was just… well, anyway, sorry," she repeated, hastily brushing her reaction to Draco's speech aside. "What did you say your name was?"
Hermione caught Theo waving his hands furiously at her, swiping a slashing motion across his throat, but it was already too late.
The woman smiled broadly.
"Rita Skeeter," she said, offering her hand. "And I feel quite certain we'll see each other again, Miss Granger, much sooner than you think."
Well, fuck me entirely, thought Hermione, taking Rita Skeeter's hand with a grimace she tried very hard to fight.
Luckily, what might have seemed like a disaster at first resolved itself beautifully. Rita Skeeter stayed out of my life and mostly kept her distance, permitting me the privacy and decency owed from one person to another, and I didn't hear from her again for many years.
… JUST KIDDING. She wasted no forking time at all invading my life, and believe me, it wasn't long at all before we had our next encounter.
a/n: Happy Halloween, my loves! Lovely Tangled Vices (my latest book, featuring rival witch sisters, a coven masquerading as a sorority, and my staple: inadvisable romance) is now available on Amazon, and shortly after this is posted, you will be able to find links to it on olivieblake dot com. Thanks as ever for being here, and look out for my Halloween three-shot Rebel North, which will post for the rest of the week in my Amortentia story collection.