The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal

by olivieblake

Objectively speaking, Hermione Granger knows Britain has a monarchy, just as she knows Prince Draco (the grandson of the King of England) is probably off somewhere living his royal life in total unrelation to hers. Seeing as she isn't delusional, she doesn't really expect to be his friend. She doesn't expect anything that comes after, either. Dramione, modern royalty AU. COMPLETE.

18. Chill

Chapter 18: Chill

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Prince Who Will Be King

There can be no discussion about Prince Draco and Hermione without acknowledgement of His Highness' position as the second in line for the English throne. Where Prince Lucius has established himself as a conservative and emotionally reserved public figure, often leaning on his tendency towards stoicism, Prince Draco has grown increasingly vocal about his stance on various social issues. In recent years, Draco has embraced his position as a mouthpiece for a younger, more empathetic generation, and while some consider this to be evidence of inadvisable political softness, opinion polls over the last five years indicate the majority of the country approves of Draco's position on pet issues of civic engagement, equality, and mental health. His Highness' rousing closing remarks during the celebration of His Majesty's reign in 2012 continue to be used as evidence for not only Draco's nature, but his eloquence and diplomacy as well, and are often used to exemplify his unique ability to position a polarizing subject with an uncontroversial call for decency rather than a means by which to alienate his audience. Where King Abraxas and Prince Lucius have often opted for silence in the face of divisive political issues, Prince Draco's willingness to meet a conflict head-on has led many to believe he is uniquely positioned to excel as a monarch in a way his predecessors were not.

Interesting, isn't it, how Draco's 'willingness to meet a conflict' and my 'tendency towards volatile outbursts' describe almost identical behavior? Understood, of course, that Draco was born to his role while some (read: Rita Skeeter) feel I've unjustly stolen mine, but part of me has to wonder whether the standard opinion that princesses should be seen and not heard applies less to the role of royal consort than it does to ovary possession in general. If Draco had been a girl… Well, I suppose there's no point going down that particular line of hypothetical quandary, but it does occur to me from time to time; particularly when the British press is mocking me for my underwhelming career, or for inelegantly pining, or when they are simply belittling me to the insignificance of my fashion choices.

Which, by the way, they would begin doing.

Very, very soon.

---

December 19, 2012
London, England

"Miss Granger?"

"That's you," Oliver said, rolling his desk chair out towards her and giving her desk a firm kick.

"I know it's me," Hermione muttered, rubbing her temple as she glanced over the list of possible donors; Minerva's timing couldn't be worse. "If I'm going to get these done before I leave—"

"I'll handle whatever you don't finish," Oliver offered, which was kind, but also an inconvenient reminder that he was capable of flying through his workload much more efficiently than she was. "Best get in there, though. She isn't overly fond of being kept waiting."

"Oh, is she not, Wood?" Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes as she dragged herself unwillingly to her feet. "Thank goodness you mentioned it, really, I had simply no idea—"

"Don't sass me, Granger," Oliver said, rolling himself back into his desk with a clatter. "One of these days I will simply have to devastate you with the full force of my indomitable wit."

"Believe me, I look forward to seeing any traces of it," Hermione replied, pushing open the door to Minerva's office and pausing just on the other side of the threshold. "Yes, Minerva?"

"I just had the most loathsome phone call," Minerva remarked with a violent shudder, glancing up at Hermione. "Can you explain to me why Rita Skeeter of the Daily Prophet wishes to interview you?"

Hermione blinked, alarmed.

Uh oh, Theo had said, hurrying over to her the moment Rita Skeeter had gone. She's caught your scent, California. She'll be on your tail now.

Theodore, you don't even hunt, Pansy cut in, irritated. You have absolutely zero credentials for anything related to the subject.

I've never possessed a credential in my life and that certainly hasn't stopped Rita Skeeter from interviewing my childhood nannies, Theo informed her tartly before turning back to Hermione with palpable concern. Just be careful, that's all I'm saying.

True, Pansy said, grimacing. Loath as I am to say it, Nott has a point. She'll come for you soon enough.

It seemed they'd both been right.

"No," Hermione exhaled to Minerva, shaking her head. "I really can't explain that."

She could, of course, but she preferred not to, all things considered.

"I detest that woman," Minerva said, bristling. "She's an insipid gossip and a tiresome leech."

"Oh," Hermione said, a bit relieved. That likely meant Minerva had declined the interview, at least. "Well, if you'd rather I not, then—"

"And you're going to have to impress her somehow," Minerva cut in stiffly, "or else we're all going to suffer. I expect you can be trusted to deliver an update for our projects heading into the new year?"

"I—what?" Hermione said, startled. "But tomorrow I have to finish the last of these calls before I leave for the Christmas holid-"

"Oh yes, I'm aware," Minerva said, impatiently cutting her off. "Not to worry, she's on her way right now."

"Right now?" Hermione squeaked, glancing helplessly over her shoulder. "But—but I have at least a dozen more on my list, and—"

Minerva waved a hand. "Wood will take care of them. For now, I'd like you to put it aside and prepare for your interview. She's full of wiles, that woman," she muttered. "A total waste of cleverness, in my opinion."

"I… Minerva," Hermione attempted beseechingly, "I really would prefer not to. Couldn't you or Wood handle this one? I just have so much to do, really, and—"

"I'd be happy to, only she asked for you specifically," Minerva said, looking irritated all over again. She paused, taking a sip from her afternoon Earl Grey, and then gave Hermione a sharp glance. "Is there any reason you might know of to explain her sudden fervent wish to speak with you?"

Oh, surely not any clandestine relationships with princes, Hermione thought, wincing.

"None, really. Maybe she finds my Americanness interesting?" she attempted.

Minerva quite clearly didn't believe her, which was nearly a relief. It was always nice to know the woman whose errands she ran and whose will she seemed to be endlessly carrying out was at least worthy of the role.

"If there is something I should know," Minerva said slowly, "that will affect your performance here in any way, I would like to be informed. Purely to the extent necessary for the operations of this organization," she added. "I have no interest in anything related to any sordid details regarding your personal life."

Hermione doubted her relationship with Draco would have any impact on The Transfiguration Project. She was pretty sure her private life had no bearing whatsoever on her ability to do her job.

"No, nothing," she said, and Minerva gave her another wary glance, but nodded slowly.

"Well, she'll be here in approximately fifteen minutes," Minerva said. "You may use the conference room down the hall."

"Fifteen minutes?" Hermione said, a little panicked. She'd spilled coffee on her skirt earlier that day, and while it wasn't immediately visible, she was suddenly intensely aware of it. "Minerva, are you sure you wouldn't—"

"Please do not name our donors," Minerva said placidly. "I'm sure you're aware of this by now, but many would prefer to remain anonymous until the project has proven successful."

"Right, of course, but Minerv-"

"OI, GRANGER, SOMEONE HERE TO SEE YOU," shouted Oliver, poking his head into the office. "Oi," he said again, as if she could have possibly managed not to hear him. "Someone's here."

"Well, she's early," Minerva said, her voice dripping with contemptuous disapproval. "Marvelous."

"Minerva," Hermione attempted desperately, "I really don't know if—"

"Minerva McGonagall," came a falsely pleasant voice, followed by the distinct shoving of Oliver to the side and the materialization of a woman in a bright red skirt suit. "How wonderful to see you again. How long has it been since we last spoke," asked Rita Skeeter, "ten years? Twenty?"

"Eleven months," Minerva muttered.

"My goodness, you look exhausted! Ah, and Miss Granger," Rita said, turning to her with a chillingly bright smile. "I'm so pleased you'll be able to spare a few minutes. Will we be holding the interview here?" she asked, falling into the seat opposite Minerva, who hurriedly rose to her feet.

"Yes, yes, fine," Minerva said, clearly bent on running out as she gestured Hermione into her chair. "Come along Wood," she added firmly, "I need you to fetch the… literature."

"The literature?" Oliver echoed, filling Hermione's usual role as the person in the room least attuned to the prospect of reading it.

"Yes, the literature," Minerva repeated. "The… escapist literature. It's for an installation," she added hastily to Rita, who gave her a simpering smile.

"Yes, well, who can possibly understand contemporary art?" Rita said, permitting a high, ringing laugh, and Oliver blinked, finally piecing it together.

"AH, YES," he said, "the literature, I must go and fetch it—"

"Yes, yes, come along, I'll help you fetch it," Minerva briskly agreed.

"Good, good, yes, two of us will fetch that much more efficiently—"

Traitors, Hermione thought, watching them hurry out the door as she proceeded to sink grudgingly into Minerva's chair.

"Well," Hermione exhaled, attempting (unsuccessfully) to get comfortable. "I'm not entirely sure what I could tell you ab-"

"You've known Prince Draco since your arrival at Hogwarts, correct?" Rita asked, and Hermione blinked, startled to see that in the spare seconds between Minerva's departure and that unbelievably unprompted question, Rita had set up a recording device, donned her spectacles, and opened a portfolio pad that was lined margin to margin with notes. "Rather a long time, isn't it? Would you consider yourselves close?"

"Uh," Hermione said, momentarily uncertain, and then shook herself hastily. "Apologies, but I rather doubt this has anything to do with The Transfiguration Proj-"

"There's no need to pretend, Miss Granger," Rita said sweetly. "You've been photographed several times in the Prince's presence, have you not? Enough times for your fellow students to presume the two of you in a relationship, in fact," she said with a laugh. "Terribly coincidental, I imagine."

"Ms Skeeter," Hermione attempted, "I do have quite a lot of work to do before the holid-"

"Ah yes, the holidays—I understand you're leaving Friday?" Rita said, glancing knowingly at Hermione through her spectacles. "Funny thing, really, but the press has been informed that the royal family will be off to Sandringham House for their usual holidays in Norfolk as of Friday afternoon, but Prince Draco's press secretary has been unusually hushed on the matter of the week following. Now, in my experience," Rita said, leaning forward with a slow, conspiratorial smile, "that means a private holiday. Of course, it's no secret the royal family prefers the Alps this time of year, and after checking with Klosters and Lech, I discovered Courchevel has closed off most of its resort—something they exclusively do for very high profile guests."

Hermione's head spun, equal parts dismayed and unwillingly impressed by Rita Skeeter's ability to discover not only her holiday plans with Draco's family, but also the precise ski resort Prince Lucius had unhappily designated an acceptable place for them to vacation privately until the new year.

"Is there a question?" Hermione asked, and Rita's smile broadened, delighted.

"Yes," she said, and then, much to Hermione's palpable distress, "What are your feelings going into your first Christmas spent with the royal family, Miss Granger?"

On the one hand, Hermione thought, she could probably punch Rita Skeeter in the face. It wouldn't solve anything, but it'd be a fun midday activity.

On the other hand—on the sphere of actual plausibility, that is—Hermione was fairly certain all she had were incredibly unsatisfactory choices. She wasn't a particularly good liar, so outright denial was unlikely to work. She certainly couldn't confirm the truth (for even more obvious reasons) so, in sum, this was a disaster waiting to happen. She understood now what Minerva had meant about Rita Skeeter's cleverness being put to better use—but still, she reminded herself after a breath, she certainly wasn't unclever herself.

After a moment of consideration, Hermione straightened carefully, clearing her throat.

"I'm so happy you asked about our work," Hermione said, catching the slight furrow in Rita's brow at her newly expressionless demeanor. "We do have several installations planned for next year, including a silent auction—"

"Surely you can't think you can keep this secret for long," Rita said, the smile all but vanishing from her face. "You cannot expect to remain invisible. For however long you remain, I can paint you favorably," she offered. "I can make this relationship fruitful for both of us. I've done as much for others in the past."

"I'm not sure yet whether there will be press at the auction," Hermione said, trying very hard not to waver into the relevant question of and what exactly will you do to me if I fail to make it fruitful for you? and instead focusing on her current task, which was an optimistic, near-demented oblivion. "I'm sure, though, that we can make sure you and the Daily Prophet receive an invitation."

Rita Skeeter reached over, pointedly turning the tape recorder off.

"You and I both know I have no interest in Minerva McGonagall's latest jaunt from obscurity," she said flatly. "What's more, we both know you won't last. You're a commoner, an American—and as fascinating a story as you'll make," Rita said with a trace of ominous warning, "we both know that's all you are."

Hermione (who was doing quite well, thank you) didn't budge. "You know," she said brightly, "an interesting fact about The Transfiguration Project is that when Minerva first had the idea, she was actually standing in the middle of Covent Gard-"

"You know who else dismissed me, Miss Granger?" Rita interrupted, her garish red lips pressed thin. "Lady Narcissa Black." She paused, waiting to see that Hermione had pieced together the requisite threat before adding, "You can play nice, my dear, or I can own you—your choice."

It took all Hermione possessed not to retort. Luckily, she'd been warned often enough by the others (most recently, Pansy and Theo) to know that just because Rita Skeeter's machine wasn't recording, that certainly didn't mean she was in the clear.

"I'm just so glad the Daily Prophet has taken such a keen interest in our little non-profit," Hermione said flatly, and in response, Rita promptly removed her glasses, placing them deliberately into her case and permitting it to loudly snap shut.

"Let me know if you change your mind," Rita said, coolly sliding the tape recorder back into her bag and removing a business card, sliding it across the desk to her. "I think you'll find, Miss Granger, that I'm very good at what I do."

"Oh, I have the utmost faith in your abilities," Hermione said, "and I look forward to your coverage of the auction."

Rita Skeeter shot her a scowl, then exited the room, swinging the door wide enough for Hermione to see Oliver hurrying back to the pretense of work and then letting it slam shut behind her, the sound of her footfall rapidly fading from earshot.

Hermione sighed, rising to her feet, and slid the card from Minerva's desk, walking out to her own computer and digging her phone out of the top drawer.

"How'd it go?" Oliver asked, looking as if he might have guessed the answer was, oh, not especially well. "I offered Minnie your desk, but she said she worried she might contaminate her lungs if she remained in such close proximity to 'that abominable bin of toxic waste,' so she just stepped out to—oh yes, hello," he said, apparently having been on some sort of bluetooth earpiece the entire time. "Yes, Lady Goyle? Wonderful, this is Oliver Wood with The Transfiguration Project, and—"

Hermione glanced down, snapping a picture of the business card, and sent it to Pansy.

Immediately, a message popped up in her inbox: WHAT. HAVE. YOU. DONE.

Then, much to Hermione's relief: Never mind, don't tell me, I don't want to know while there's still so much productivity left in the day. We'll clean up your mess over drinks promptly at five. Everything will be fine, unless of course it isn't, in which case I told you this was always a terrible idea.

Then, as an apparent afterthought: You may dress casually for the occasion.

I'm going to wear what I wore to work, Hermione said, because I'm currently at work.

Well, I shudder to think, Pansy replied, and then, with a sniff of disdain Hermione could feel through the phone, Regardless, I will see you this evening. Goodbye.

---

"You know, I'd admire Rita Skeeter if I weren't so busy loathing her with my entire being," Pansy said, sipping delicately at her glass of wine as Hermione sighed into hers. They'd opted to meet at a quaint little place in Diagon just outside Hermione and Daphne's flat, though Daphne was presently out with Astoria. "You handled it as well as could be expected, I suppose," Pansy continued, "though she'll almost certainly destroy you at her earliest convenience. You're already… Well, you know," she said, flicking a rapid gaze over Hermione's general existence. "So it's not as if she doesn't have plenty to work with."

"So helpful, thank you," Hermione said drily, and Pansy shrugged. "So, what do I do now?"

"Wait for it to blow over, I suppose," Pansy said. "You'll be fine while you're in Norfolk—Abraxas is notoriously private, so there won't be any press. The only thing you'll have to worry about is whether someone might leak it to them, but that's highly doubtful." She shrugged again. "It'll be mostly family and close friends."

"You?" Hermione asked hopefully, and Pansy shook her head.

"Not to something this intimate. But Theo, surely," she said thoughtfully, "and Harry, too. And you'll have Draco, of course."

Hermione nodded, exhaling her qualms about the trip. "I know. I'm just a little nervous, you know, seeing as Rita Skeeter herself just came barging into my office."

"Of course you're nervous, and with good reason," Pansy said, taking another sip. "Had the public not reacted so favorably to that little stunt you and Draco pulled, I imagine he'd have had a much more difficult time convincing Abraxas to let you join them for the holiday."

"True," Hermione grumbled. "Draco had a hard enough time convincing him to agree to Courchevel."

Their holiday plans had been relatively hard-fought, as Abraxas had hinted they would be. There were so many delays it seemed inevitable they'd have to pick a winter destination, and while Hermione wasn't overly thrilled about the bougie nature of holidaying at a private ski resort in the Alps, she admitted she could see how it was easier for Draco's security team. In the end, her concession had been part of a compromise in order to gain Prince Lucius' concession.

"Ah, yes, and about that," Pansy said briskly. "That's another matter entirely. I'll be very surprised if nobody speaks to the press about you and Draco being in France alone together," she warned. "You may have to stay out of sight, particularly as you're already on Rita's radar."

"Well, what else is new," Hermione groaned, taking a long gulp of wine. "This whole hiding thing is extremely irritating. The whole point of taking a vacation was to be alone together, and now—"

"I told you this was bound to happen," Pansy reminded her. "You should take some additional precautions now, you know. If this keeps up, you'll need to be far more careful with your private life."

"How," Hermione demanded irritably, "could I possibly be more private?"

"Well, it's possible people will begin going through your bins looking for any personal detail they can find," Pansy said matter-of-factly. "You should probably change your phone number, your email addresses, check to see what can be discovered about you on the internet—"

Hermione swallowed any mention of Spew. It wasn't like she'd ever written anything suspicious; nobody would have any reason to know it was her. Besides, all of this seemed like a bit of an overreaction.

"I guess," Hermione said slowly, "but do I really need to worry about this right now? I mean, it's only Rita Skeeter sniffing around, right?"

"Rita Skeeter isn't the only reporter in the world," Pansy informed her, pursing her lips. "She's just the best at sensationalizing everything she writes. She's also probably not the only one looking into you, though she's at least going to look for something marginally rooted in fact. Others may not bother," Pansy cautioned, "in which case you may have people watching you much sooner than you suspect."

"But I—" It didn't seem worth arguing. "Okay. Alright, fine," Hermione sighed in resignation, glancing up at Pansy's suddenly listless expression. "I'll do all of that then, if I must—but what's new with you?" she asked, watching Pansy's dark eyes slide meanderingly to hers. "You seem a bit restless."

"Oh, nothing really," Pansy said, sniffing. "My mother would like to know why I'm not yet engaged, of course, but that's hardly worth discussion. Certainly not with Neville." She drained the rest of her glass, setting it down on the table and fidgeting with the stem. "I can't decide whether it would be worse if he's proposing, and then I'll have to say yes," she mumbled, "or if he's not proposing, and then I'll have to figure out how to make him."

"What?" Hermione asked, startled.

"Oh, he's being very secretive lately," Pansy said, waving a hand. "I've dropped hints, you know, but his mind is regularly elsewhere. I've started to set reminders from time to time—you know, don't forget to have this done, and that. Wear the green tie, not the red." She rolled her eyes. "But then, of course, he simply misplaces his phone."

"Pans," Hermione sighed. "You basically just said you don't want to marry him."

"Well, of course I don't," Pansy replied. "If we get married, then I'll have to have children, which of course I have no interest in doing. But," she countered herself crisply, "it's still a preferable alternative to living with my parents."

"Children?" Hermione echoed, making a face, but to her dismay, that only seemed to provide Pansy a darkly satisfied amusement.

"Better get used to the idea," Pansy advised, "as you're going to have to have them, too. If, that is, something goes terribly wrong and you actually end up married to Draco." She paused, shuddering. "Truly, an apocalyptic outcome for the whole of this kingdom."

"Oh god, I would, wouldn't I?" Hermione said, suddenly tightening her grip on her glass of wine. "I'd have to like… bear princes, wouldn't I?"

"You would have to bear them, yes, not 'like' bear them," Pansy said. "It would be your primary occupation as Draco's wife, in case that managed to escape your attention."

"Terrible," Hermione judged, making a face. "I can't imagine how you can stomach the thought. I feel like we're still children ourselves."

"Well, I stomach it the same way I stomach everything, Hermione," Pansy told her unambiguously. "And if my mother, the least maternal person I've ever known, could successfully raise me," she added with a grim look of contemplation, "then I imagine I can scrape together something of a reasonable attempt. Maybe." She eyed her empty glass, looking as if she were willing it full. "Possibly."

It occurred to Hermione that now was surely not the time to tease Pansy about her inhospitality as either person or womb; instead, she reached out, placing a hand delicately on Pansy's forearm.

"I think you'll be a wonderful mother," Hermione said, and for a moment, Pansy looked grateful, or at least not entirely miserable at the thought. "Really, I mean it."

"Well, I hardly require your reassurance," Pansy said, "and also, I'd prefer you not touch me unbidden." She disentangled herself from Hermione, then reached over, removing the glass from Hermione's hand and taking a slow, thoughtful sip. "But I suppose it's nice to hear," she conceded, "even if it does mean very little coming from you."

"Thanks," Hermione said drily.

"You're welcome," Pansy replied without inflection, though half a smile had flitted across the corners of her perfectly mauve-tinted lips.

---

"Are you sure about this?" Hermione asked apprehensively, permitting herself to be tucked against Draco's side as she slipped under his arm. That evening, their first for the Norfolk trip, was going to be spent at some sort of dinner party, which Hermione had been foolish enough to agree to in what could only have been an intensely weak moment. She'd already spent over two years dreading any time spent with Prince Lucifer, after all, and at the moment, she couldn't imagine why she'd voluntarily permitted herself to be signed up for more.

"It'll be fine," her mother had assured her while she was packing, Daphne lingering helpfully to choose which dress suited which particular occasion and ultimately forking over half her wrap dresses to aid the lost cause that was Hermione's wardrobe. "How bad could it be? He's just a normal person, you know, underneath all that practically irrelevant Prince of England stuff."

"Easy for you to say," Hermione grumbled. "You didn't convince his son to lie about a speech—and besides, weren't you terrified of Grandpa when you met him?"

"I thought you said Prince Lucifer liked the speech?" Helen said, and shuddered. "And leave your grandfather out of it."

"He did, sort of, but still. Anyway, Dad said Grandpa made you so nervous you dropped the cranberry sauce all over the kitchen," Hermione said.

"What? You're cutting out," Helen shouted in reply, by which point Daphne, too, had moved onto forcefully strapping shoes to Hermione's feet, bemoaning the state of her footwear and stomping back to her closet.

"Of course I'm sure," Draco said, kissing the top of her head and dragging her back to the point. "This is what couples typically do, isn't it? Spend Christmas with each other's families? So I'm told, anyway," he added with a laugh, and Hermione grimaced, relieved at least that they were joined by Theo and Harry.

"This should be fun," Harry said, giving Hermione a nod in greeting as Theo made a face, shuddering his fervent disagreement. "Or, you know. Mildly traumatizing. Potato, potato."

"Trauma, in this case, is inevitable," Theo said. "Did you see who's sitting near us?"

"No, why?" Hermione said, and blanched. "Oh no, is i-"

"What I'd like to know," came the very loud voice of Hortense Malfoy, "is when we're going to outgrow all this Yuletide nonsense and return Santa Claus to his proper roots: retribution and chaos."

"Whose roots are those, exactly?" Harry asked, as she and Thibaut nudged Theo brusquely aside, Thibaut betraying some surprise that Theo was a human person and not, as he appeared to have assumed, some sort of wax figurine.

"The Norse god Odin, of course," Thibaut said, having recovered from his fright at Theo's lifelike motions. "You know, vengeful and all that. Hunting in the skies, dealing punishment to unworthy children, eight-legged horses, et cetera."

"Festive," Theo remarked.

"I'm Hortense," said Hortense, grandly offering him her hand.

"I know who you are," Theo informed her, exasperated.

"Are you an oracle?" she asked him, before proceeding to inanely demand, "How did I die?"

"Don't you mean how do you die?" Harry asked her.

"Don't be silly," Hortense said stiffly. "I have no plans to do it again."

"She's departed this world before," Thibaut informed them gravely, "and believe me, she isn't thrilled about being back."

"Hermione, do you know Thibaut and Hortense?" Draco asked her.

"Yes, unfortunately we've met," Hermione assured him, and Hortense glanced narrowly at her.

"So this is why you're always around, is it?" Hortense asked, scrutinizing where Draco's arm had been slung around her. "I assumed you were some sort of hired entertainment."

"What, like a court jester?" Hermione asked.

"Nonsense, you haven't nearly the presence," Thibaut said, disapproving. "More like a stablehand."

"I have the presence of a stablehand?" Hermione echoed doubtfully.

"Very sturdy," Hortense said. "Like a solid end table."

From Harry: "I see you two decided to join us this year."

From Hortense, with a sigh: "We'd have preferred not to, but Basile's having a seance. Something about Christmas being a family holiday."

From Thibaut: "We try not to ask too many questions… privacy and all that. Basile's very touchy this time of year. Presumably his inability to fly south ails him."

From Theo, bemused: "You thought your bird needed privacy for a seance?"

Hortense: "What bird?"

From Draco, with a low laugh: "I see not much has changed with you two, then."

Thibaut: "Nonsense, Draco, everything is different about our current stage of evolution. For example, we have only just recently put the finishing touches on a spectacular musical about a tribe of mystical cats who long irrepressibly for the afterlife."

Hortense, excitedly: "Yes, there's a speed train, a master criminal, a brutal row, an abduction, and a local magician-cat who performs feats of witchcraft never before witnessed on the stage!"

Theo, blinking: "That… sounds…"

Harry, confused: "Sorry, did you just describe the musical Cats?"

Draco, to Harry, equally confused: "Did you just admit to knowing the plot of the musical Cats?"

Thibaut, patently distressed: "Drat, has it been done? Well, consider those thousand pages scrapped, then."

Hortense, optimistically: "We could always go with our second choice concept, Thibaut. You know, the one about the life of a desert carpenter who gets grievously tortured after he claims to be some sort of demigod?"

Draco, to Hermione, who was about to open her mouth: "Just let it go—it's really best nobody tells them."

At that precise moment, Hermione felt Draco's arm stiffen, his gaze falling on someone who had entered the room from the opposite side.

"Oh," he said faintly, as Hermione recognized Princess Narcissa's unmistakable form manifesting in the threshold on the arm of Prince Lucius. "That's… I didn't think she was going to—"

"Go," Hermione urged him, giving him a nudge, and he gave her a grateful nod, kissing her temple and then striding forward quickly to reach his mother, whose eyes lit up at the sight of him. "Well," she exhaled, watching him go, "that's a surprise." She turned to Theo, who looked equally taken aback. "Does she not normally come?"

"She does occasionally," Theo said slowly, "but lately it's gotten more difficult to predict."

"Particularly with the year it's been," Harry agreed, and to their surprise, Thibaut gave a quiet scoff.

"Well, it's going to be the worst kind of unbearable tross, as that bore Bellatrix is here," Thibaut said, and Hermione blinked, incapable of preventing a rapid scour around the room.

"What? Bellatrix is here?"

"Yes, I saw her name as well," Hortense sniffed. "I'd so hoped I'd imagined it, or at least been having some sort of frightfully dull hallucination."

"Remind us again why the surprise presence of Prince Lucius' alleged mistress is so unforgivably banal to you?" Harry asked them.

"Oh, so she seduced a married man, slept with the crown prince, and then allegedly murdered her husband? Please," Thibaut scoffed. "I could think of a more imaginative plot while half-dead in a coma. For example," he added, glancing experimentally at Hermione, who was alarmed to have made inadvisable eye contact, "would you or would you not watch a musical about a heavily disfigured man haunting an opera house, running some sort of financial bribery scheme, and giving singing lessons while pretending to be the incorporeal manifestation of a young girl's dead father?"

"I really, genuinely think there's a place for it on Broadway," Hermione said, obviously pleasing Thibaut immensely, "but why is Bellatrix even here?" she pressed. "I thought this was for family."

"Well, she is technically family," Theo reminded her. "More so than these two," he added with a gesture to Hortense and Thibaut, "and yet here they are, so—"

"Rumor has it the Lestrange vault is empty," Hortense said, obviously disapproving. "And that's just the worst of it, really. Oh, so her motive is money?" She gave a loud, contemptuous scoff. "How positively tired. How properly benumbed of subtlety."

"Money," Hermione echoed, suddenly remembering what Rita Skeeter had said: I can make this relationship fruitful for both of us; I've done as much for others in the past. "Is that why she keeps making appearances at all these events, then? The press is paying her to do it?"

Theo looked uneasy at the thought. "Maybe you and Draco shouldn't sit together for this particular dinner," he said slowly. "If she's there, that is."

"Nott and I can keep you company," Harry offered, agreeing. "And you do have your own room, don't you?"

Yes, she did, but not one she'd actually intended to occupy alone.

Inwardly, Hermione suppressed a grimace. So far, the holiday was not going particularly to her liking, and she fought an exasperated groan.

"Well, I suppose as long as you two are here," Hermione grumbled, glad to have at least that much.

"You're very kind to offer, but no, thank you," Hortense told her, grievously misinterpreting which 'two' Hermione had meant. "We have no need for decorative furniture or birds of your particular plumage, but we will contact you should any vacancies arise."

"Please do wait for our call," Thibaut added disingenuously, offering Hortense his arm as they glided away.

Across the room, Bellatrix Lestrange swept in through the same door Narcissa had entered, the entire room falling to a hush. She smiled broadly at Lucius, lips twisted up with something of a telling glance, and he quickly turned away, focusing his attention on his wife and son.

"Well, I always love a little family drama around the holidays," Theo remarked. "Makes me feel much more normal, you know what I mean?"

Hermione sighed. "Well, that's certainly true," she mumbled, and Harry laughed, he and Theo both throwing their arms around her shoulders and guiding her over to the bar.

---

Avoiding Bellatrix turned out to be surprisingly easy. Whatever she was there for, it certainly wasn't to observe Draco, who successfully snuck into Hermione's room precisely as they'd planned.

"I don't know why she's here," he told her honestly, "aside from being technically my aunt, I suppose."

This was a detail Hermione regularly overlooked. Evidently there were three Black sisters in total, of which Narcissa was the youngest, though Draco admitted to not being particularly close to anyone on that side of the family. Hard enough to see his mother, he explained, though he seemed considerably relieved that she was there.

"She actually seems quite well," Draco said, cheerfully taking Hermione's hand and tugging her into bed. "She and my father aren't fighting, even with Bellatrix here, so it's not a problem. We'll just have to be a bit careful the next few days while we're here," he murmured, kissing her reservations to silence, "and then it'll be just the two of us, as promised."

"You really think it'll be the two of us, even with the possibility of Rita Skeeter hovering?" Hermione asked fretfully, and Draco smoothed her hair from her face, smiling a little.

"So what if she catches us, hm?" he asked her. "I'm tired of hiding, Hermione. If Rita Skeeter forces my father's hand by virtue of being an unavoidable pest, so be it. Courchevel was his choice, wasn't it?" he reminded her. "His insistence, in fact, so that's certainly no fault of ours."

Hermione chewed her lip. "But that doesn't mean—"

"No, it doesn't mean I'm going to be reckless," he assured her, chuckling a little, and she nodded slowly. "I'm just saying I don't want you to worry."

It was a nice change of pace, them being (sort of) together (for the most part). Hermione, unable to contain herself, had given Draco his Christmas present on the first day of their trip, awarding him one of those adult coloring books designed for stress relief and amusement (or so she hoped) whilst traveling. He exclaimed over it with delight, but insisted she wait for hers—typical, she'd lamented with a sigh, given their dynamic.

As good as things were between them privately, there remained some distinction between the possibility of being observed by someone unrelated to them and the chance that Lady Bellatrix Lestrange was there to sell the royal family's private details to the press. As a result, Hermione spent her time with Theo and Harry during meals and larger gatherings.

"How do we know Hortense and Thibaut wouldn't sell information to Rita Skeeter?" she asked once, observing Hortense as she floated over to offer Lucius her congratulations about the wreaths—"They just seem so deliciously morbid, Lucy, as if we should all put our heads through them and suspend lifelessly from the stairwells; it's simply decadent, and so seasonally reminiscent of our fleeting mortality, too"—and wondering why nobody had seen fit to be concerned.

"Hortense and Thibaut have almost no credibility with the press for obvious reasons," Theo said, shrugging. "They could probably submit a memoir full of secrets and everyone would assume they were lying."

"That, and what Hortense and Thibaut consider noteworthy is somewhat suspect," Harry added, and Theo made a face.

"Can you imagine? Nevermind affairs or feuds," Theo said, waving a hand. "Thibaut would be revealing the Prince of Darkness' treasonous proclivity for raspberry preserves over strawberry, or the naughty truth about Abraxas' sleep apnea—"

"Though, I don't believe Abraxas has ever had a problem with them," Harry said thoughtfully, and as if to prove it, across the room Abraxas roared with laughter at something Thibaut was saying to him, which Hermione suspected was the plot of the musical Rent. "I think he finds them somewhat amusing, actually."

"Prince Lucifer is, of course, another story," Theo said, gesturing to where Lucius had snatched an unsuspecting Draco's arm and led him into another room, apparently eager to escape Hortense's continued praise. "Though he obviously can't avoid it, which is therefore greatly amusing to me. And it's not as if they can be left out."

"We're British," Harry reminded a skeptical Hermione. "It's not in our nature to be anything other than painfully polite, and there's certainly no telling anyone not to bother coming when they happen to be family-adjacent."

"Even when your wife's sister and erstwhile lover is floating around potentially spying on you?" Hermione asked, watching Bellatrix swan around the room.

"Especially then," Theo said, nudging her with a wink.

Hermione found the whole thing incredibly confusing, though her concern about Bellatrix meant she'd quite forgotten about someone else she might run into while occupying a royal residence.

"Looking for someone?" came a voice while she was, in fact, looking for Draco, and Hermione jumped, realizing Narcissa had been lingering in the corner of a room that had initially looked empty. "He's in there," she said, gesturing to a door further down the corridor. "He and Lucius are discussing something." She slid a glance at Hermione, sipping at something that might have been juice, or perhaps not. "I imagine they're talking about you."

Hermione swallowed uncomfortably, managing a curtsy. "Princess Narcissa," she said, trying not to linger, but Narcissa shifted towards her, clearly intent on having some sort of discussion.

"I must apologize for ruining your holiday," she said, surprising Hermione. "It wasn't my intention, but I'm afraid it was a necessity for personal reasons."

"What?" Hermione asked, confused. "But you didn't—"

"My sister," Narcissa clarified, taking another sip of her drink. "I invited her. She needs money, you know," she said with a look of triumph, something darkly similar to humor twitching at her lips. "When Lestrange died, he left her with practically nothing. It's why she's resurfacing at all these public events, causing yet another strain on me—so, isn't it just wonderful," Narcissa said with a little laugh, "to be able to remind her she is only where she is at my mercy? Poor thing," she lamented mockingly. "She must despise having to curtsy to me."

Hermione blinked, uncertain how to respond. "But… that's—"

"Petty, perhaps." Narcissa shrugged, glancing sideways at her. "But she fucked my husband, so here we are."

Hermione, who felt immensely uncomfortable, cleared her throat, contemplating an escape while Narcissa continued on, unfazed.

"Of course, the whole thing is making Lucius terribly apologetic," Narcissa murmured softly, "which has been quite the additional benefit to me, as you might guess. And in turn, I've done you some favors, haven't I? Or tried to." She took another sip, adding, "Courchevel was always my favorite."

Hermione, determining it better that she say nothing, merely looked up at Narcissa.

"Lucius also tells me you continue to be a thorn in his side," Narcissa remarked, smiling into her glass, and at Hermione's look of surprise, she gave a crisp, sparkling laugh. "Oh yes, Lucius and I speak. Exclusively about Draco, but that's a topic which includes you, doesn't it?"

Hermione swallowed. "I suppose."

"Don't worry," Narcissa assured her. "I'm not an idiot. I can piece two and two together, can't I? That since you've been seeing Draco, he's been a different man. His father has less control over him now." Another sip, more solemn this time. "Because of you," she murmured quietly, "I have my son back, and therefore I have no interest in seeing you go."

It didn't exactly sound like an offer. "So you approve of me now?"

Narcissa shrugged. "If I were your mother, I'd warn you to stay far away," she said matter-of-factly. "Nothing I've said to you before has become any less true, Miss Granger. But seeing as I'm his mother, I find you to be a very beneficial influence in serving my particular interests." Another sip. "So long as you're with him," she clarified, "he has a reason defy his father and grandfather. You do me a very great service, and for that I'm grateful, if a bit selfishly so."

Hermione said nothing, finding the whole conversation a bit overwhelming.

"You have an ally in me," Narcissa mused, "albeit not much of a friend."

Then, startlingly, she laughed, the sound beautiful and delicate and yet about as spun from sugar as the Princess of Wales herself.

"Welcome to the den of snakes, darling," Narcissa said eventually, closing a small hand around Hermione's shoulder, and then she waltzed away, chuckling into her glass of 'juice' and leaving Hermione to make her way forward with a shudder, seeking out Draco's voice from further down the corridor.

"—must be mistaken, Father. She wouldn't… I'd have known—"

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, recognizing strain in Draco's tone.

"—be a fool, Draco, I'm showing you right now, am I not? Unless you really think so little of me as to accuse me of compiling a false academic journal merely to suit my own imperial whims."

"I'm not…" Draco broke off. "I just don't see why she wouldn't have mentioned it."

Hermione winced, remaining out of sight.

There was a brief lull of silence, followed by the sound of a low cleared throat.

"You know I can't condone this," Lucius said, and Hermione heard Draco scoff lightly in reply. "I'm not your enemy, Draco, but this… this is unacceptable. If you plan to continue your relationship—"

"Plan to continue?" At that, Draco's voice was angry. "After all this time, Father, you still think I'm just playing around, is that it?"

"I'm not saying that, Draco, I'm simply—"

"She's my girlfriend. I love her. There's nothing further to be said on the matter, Father, and if you can't simply accept that—"

"Don't tell me you're so blinded by your opposition to me that you can't see she lied to you, Draco," Lucius snapped, and Hermione held her breath. "You said yourself she never mentioned it to you, and if she would keep something like this from you—"

"That's irrelevant," Draco retorted, but even Hermione could hear in his voice he'd been successfully stung by his father's remark. "The truth is, Father, you've been against Hermione from the beginning. Even Grandfather and Mother have accepted her presence in my life, but for some reason, you stubbornly refuse to listen—"

"Because only I know what it's like, Draco." Lucius' voice was hard, crisp, and hurtful. "Who else can understand your position better than I can? And who else could possibly care more?"

"Father, I only—"

"It is even more imperative that your relationship remain a secret," Lucius warned him. "If this got out, Draco, don't you see how they would paint her? This article is full of controversial and even problematic commentary, all of which would reflect poorly on not only you, but your grandfather, as well. Some of it even goes so far as to criticize policies established by your grandfather, in fact, and—"

Draco cut in, irritated. "You've read it?"

"Yes, of course I've read it, I wouldn't just—"

"So you know, then." Draco's voice was firm. "You know how intelligent she is, how thoughtful. You know what a benefit she would be to me, and to this family. She wrote that speech, as you might recall," Draco reminded his father bitterly, "the one they're all congratulating me for, and you won't even let me give her credit—"

Lucius reply was bolstered with urgency. "She is an accomplished young woman, that much is clear—but no one will be looking at her accomplishments, Draco! They will be looking at her pedigree, her motives, her… I don't know," he scoffed, "I'm not a practiced gossip, but I find it difficult to imagine they will discuss much other than her shoes, or the fact that she remains in this country despite her citizenship elsewhere—"

"Let them say what they want, then, Father! After all, isn't that what you insist when it comes to your own indiscreti-"

"For heaven's sake, Draco, wake up," snapped Lucius, startling even Hermione from where she stood. "She lied to you. She lied, and you've not even been through any real challenge together yet. Your relationship is untested, and believe me—now is not the time to disregard your father's advice. Crown or not, Draco, I know what it is to be with a woman who lies to you, upon whom you cannot rely, and believe me when I tell you I wish only to spare you that pain—because it is excruciating."

Lucius was breathing hard, strained and aggravated, and Draco was silent. In the corridor, Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth, suffocating slightly beneath her guilt.

"There are so many who will feed you falsities because of your position," Lucius said, followed by the sound of him sinking slowly into a chair, the old furniture creaking just enough to echo tiredly through the halls. "You cannot imagine the loneliness you will feel, Draco, because no one will ever be capable of understanding the pressure that never eases from your shoulders. Everyone will require something from you, and if you do not choose someone who will willingly take on that burden—"

"But I love her, Father."

By then, Draco's voice had softened to a rasp.

"I know, and I pity you that above all," Lucius said. "Because in the end, can you ask her to change for you? Can you even think it? Because you cannot ask that of someone you love, Draco—and yet, somehow, you must."

But Hermione, who'd heard more than enough, didn't wait for Draco's answer.

She merely turned and fled down the corridor, Lucius' words ringing inescapably in her ears.

---

It didn't get much better from there.

"I think," Draco said quietly, "it might be best if we ask the others to join us in Courchevel."

She didn't need to ask what others he meant.

She hadn't actually expected him to come to her room that night, truth be told, and couldn't decide if she was relieved to see him. Draco had walked in solemnly, evidence of struggle creased into his brow, and sat on the edge of her bed, not even bringing up the article or the conversation with his father.

Draco cleared his throat, venturing further, "I think, all things considered, it would be best if it appeared to be a group holiday. That way, you and I wouldn't have to worry so much about whether or not we might be photographed alone together."

Hermione gave a tiny, forced nod.

"It's not as if I don't," Draco began uncomfortably, and stopped. "It's… I just think—"

"You know, don't you?" she said, and he looked up. "About the article." She paused, and then exhaled, "Did you read it?"

For a moment, he didn't say anything. He merely looked at her, searching, and then permitted his gaze to cut away.

"You know, I would have been so very, very proud of you," he said, "if you had simply given me a chance to be."

She sighed raggedly. "I didn't want you to… to have to stand against your father," she said. "I didn't want to give you yet another reason to face his disapproval, and—"

"I thought we were a team, you and I," he said flatly. "I thought all this time you and I were in this together. That I could take risks because you were by my side, but now—"

"How could you have possibly thought we were doing this together?" Hermione countered, a flare of defensiveness and guilt rising up to mix with two years of stifled longing. "You're literally forbidden from acknowledging me, Draco. I'm not on your team," she accused him, watching him recoil with frustration. "I'm just here in the background until someone decides I'm worth the trouble of acknowledging."

Draco looked up at her, pained, but said nothing.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked her, gesturing to the door. "Whatever you want, Hermione, I'll do it. If you want to cancel the trip, fine. I know you never really wanted it, and if it's an issue of—"

"You still doubt me, don't you?" she said, and he stopped, flinching. "That's what this is about. You think I'm not really in this."

For a moment, he didn't answer.

He shook his head, spreading his hands wide, and looked imploringly at her.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked again, and she wanted desperately to cry, only it felt like the tears were getting caught in her throat, the unbearable ache of everything sticking to the backs of her teeth.

"No," she said. "No, I don't."

He slid a hand through the pale blond of his hair. "Do you want to talk?"

She couldn't imagine that helping. What more was there to say? She shook her head, curling up on her side, and after a moment's beat of pause, Draco shifted to his feet, kicking off his shoes, and crawled onto her other side, curling himself around her.

"Your Christmas present," he said in her ear. "I'd rather give it to you when we're… not like this."

Awfully optimistic of you to assume we can fix it, she thought, but didn't say anything.

Instead she pulled his arm around her and closed her eyes, hoping things would feel different in the morning.

---

Spoiler alert: They didn't.

Luckily, Pansy and Daphne had been quick to agree to come, dropping their respective holidays with their families and meeting Draco and Hermione in France. Pansy had brought Neville, but she and Daphne were waiting together alone as Hermione entered the resort lobby with a sigh, rushing directly towards them as they looked up from solemn conversation with a matching pair of concerned glances.

"Hermione," Daphne exhaled, giving her a warm hug as she set down her bag, gripping with relief at the familiar frame of Daphne's shoulders. "How are you?"

"Foolish," Pansy supplied, sparing Hermione a knowing glance as she gave her a brisk, Chanel-scented embrace. "You should have known that article would be a problem," she scolded unhelpfully. "I can't imagine what possessed you to keep it from us."

"Thanks," Hermione muttered, exchanging a reticent glance with Daphne, and Pansy sighed.

"That being said, you look dreadful," she conceded,"so I suppose I don't need to remind you the many ways you've erred."

"Thoughtful of you," Hermione said drily, looking up to see Blaise and Fleur. "Wow," she said, blinking. "You guys all came, didn't you?"

"Of course," Daphne said, wrapping an arm around her waist. "You missed all the tabloid coverage, of course," she whispered. "All sorts of nonsense about Bellatrix and Prince Lucifer's continued affair, not to mention whether or not Fleur is or is not secretly engaged to Draco—"

"It's a good thing that continues to be laughable," Hermione muttered, "or I really think I might scream."

"It's a good place for that," Pansy advised. "Mountains, wintry isolation—skiing," she added offhandedly, "which is essentially careening to your death at top speed and barely skirting it somewhere near the end. Altogether," she judged without expression, "this an ideal place to address the void of life's existence at top volume, so scream away. I certainly would like to."

"No engagement ring, I take it?" Hermione asked in a low voice.

"An Hermès scarf and perfume," Pansy said flatly, and Daphne winced.

"Yikes," she whispered to Hermione, who—despite everything—felt immensely better to have them at her side, even if they all appeared to be varying degrees of unsatisfied.

Even with the continued tension with Draco, it was easy to salvage the holiday by virtue of having everyone else there. It had been a while since they'd all been together, and it was easy to fall back into their usual rhythms. Fleur, of course, was an excellent skier, as were Draco, Harry, Ginny, and Pansy, while Theo continued to be his usual inept disaster. Daphne, who could not stop laughing at Theo, managed very little actual skiing, which was perfectly fine with Hermione. Eventually most of them quit trying, instead opting for an open-air lunch together that involved quite a lot of booze and very little productivity.

From Theo, who had given up skiing by then: "Okay, how about this: worst Christmas gifts ever received."

From Neville: "A tie rack. No ties, just the rack."

Theo: "That's the worst, really?"

From Blaise: "My god, you've led a privileged life. Minus ten."

Neville, delighted: "Oh, am I playing the game now?"

Blaise, firmly: "Yes, and you're losing."

Neville, with a cheerful shrug: "I'll take it."

From Daphne, thoughtfully: "My mother has bought me wrinkle cream every year since I turned fifteen."

Theo, with an air of one-upmanship: "My father once bought me golf clubs. Which is fine, except then we had to go golfing, and as you might guess, he disowned me four separate times before we even got to the fifth hole at Saint Andrews."

From Hermione: "My grandmother used to buy me these very creepy Victorian dolls. Sometimes my dad hides them in places for my mom to stumble onto—I think he wants her to think his mom is haunting her."

Blaise, pleased: "Ooh, excellent, a haunting. Ten points to David!"

Hermione, alarmed: "You don't actually speak to my dad, do you?"

Blaise: "No, but he's still doing better than you are, points-wise."

Neville, eagerly: "What about me?"

Blaise, unimpressed: "Are you actively trying to lose points?"

Neville, happily: "I really have no preference either way."

Daphne, nudging Theo: "Nott, I'm surprised your father even acknowledges Christmas in any way. You know, outside of stealing it."

Theo, shrugging: "Every now and then he indulges in a wassail and goes a bit wild. He has his more sprightly demonic moments every third blood moon."

Hermione: "What did he get you this year?"

Theo: "I think he decided the unstable neuroticisms he's given me over the years were probably sufficient, which is fine. I was running out of places to put them, anyway."

Daphne: "Oh, don't sell yourself short, Nott. You got some of those all by yourself."

Theo, with a slow grin: "I love it when you're impressed by me, Greengrass."

Daphne, with a heavy sigh: "Please do give me the gift of shutting up."

Theo, sniffing: "They're all sold out of that at John Lewis, I'm afraid."

Blaise, with a sudden recollection: "I once received a beautiful tropical fish. I named it Herbie, with the intention to call it Herb when it grew old, which of course it did not."

Neville: "What happened to it?"

Blaise: "It died, Longbottom. As fish do."

Neville, crestfallen: "Oh. Sad."

Blaise, shrugging: "I never really got attached. Sea creatures are notoriously unemotive—with the exception of finfolk, who are whimsically vengeful and not suitable for any sort of gift."

Hermione, frowning: "Finfolk? You mean mermaids?"

Blaise, with a lofty scowl: "New Tracey, when I mean mermaids, I will alert you. Minus five."

Neville: "How old were you when you got Herbie?"

Blaise: "Twenty."

Neville, frowning: "Not what I was expecting, but okay."

Daphne: "Who was it from?"

Blaise: "The girl I was dating at the time."

Theo, with a wary sense of premonition: "Uh oh."

Blaise, sighing: "Yes, she was also Herbie's assassin. Either her or improper water filtration; though who can tell, really."

Hermione, nodding sagely: "A classic suspect lineup."

Theo: "Personally, this has been one of my better Christmases. Almost no one mistook me for a house plant."

Daphne: "Even with your gregarious foliage?"

Theo, feigning exuberance: "Again with the compliments, Greengrass! You must be in a very fine mood."

Daphne, who did not mention to the group what she'd excitedly told Hermione earlier, which was that they'd recently hit two hundred blog followers: "Yes, I'm perfectly fine, Nott, thank you for noticing."

Blaise: "Speaking of a wassail, we should inject some in Pansy. All we need is a karaoke machine and some red wine and we'll have all the materials necessary to recommence the Lady Six-Names Sloshed Caroling Extravaganza of 1997."

Neville, surprised: "What, really? Pansy?"

Blaise, airily: "Let me put it to you this way: put enough claret in the yuletide imbibements and Good King Wenceslas looks out on more than just the feast of Stephen."

Daphne, alarmed: "You don't mean to suggest Pansy would strip, do you?"

Blaise, taken aback: "What? No, of course not. She puts on a crown and makes everyone else strip."

Hermione laughed, the bit of peppermint schnapps in her hot cocoa having long settled into her bloodstream by then, and looked up to see Pansy, Fleur, and Draco making their way out onto the terrace, Draco stopping short as he caught her eye from afar.

"What are you all squawking about?" Pansy asked, falling into the vacant seat beside Blaise and picking up his cup of coffee, promptly sputtering upon sampling it. "Blaise, how much alcohol is in this?"

"Almost enough," he said cheerily, and Draco made a small motion with his chin, beckoning Hermione towards him before turning.

Hermione sighed, rising to her feet, and Daphne gave her arm a squeeze.

"Good luck," Daphne murmured, and Hermione shrugged.

"Can't imagine he'll be anything but perfectly civil," she said, which sounded like the worst possible outcome. After all, was it possible that after everything they'd been through they'd simply… drift apart into nothing?

Daphne, catching the look on her face, smiled wistfully.

"Like I said," she murmured. "Good luck."

---

Draco was waiting for her in the suite they were sharing, though up to that point, they'd done little but politely avoid each other while inside it. That day, they'd spoken about two words to each other, and as far as Hermione could remember, that began and ended with the "excuse me" she'd offered when she'd accidentally walked in to find him brushing his teeth.

"Okay," Draco said without preamble or greeting, throwing his jacket off and turning to face her as she entered the room. "Let's fight."

Hermione stopped short, surprised. "You hate to fight."

"I know that," he said, unperturbed, "but if I'm going to prove to you that you're worth fighting for, I have to prove you're worth fighting with, don't I? So let's fight."

He tossed his goggles aside, his cheeks slightly red with a mix of cold and sun exposure, and she paused uncertainly, waiting.

"You kept that article from me," he announced. "I don't appreciate finding out from my father, of all people, that you essentially lied to me. How many times did I ask you what you were doing for Slughorn?" he demanded. Obviously he'd been thinking about it while skiing; the words had an air of rehearsal to them, which felt slightly unfair. "You could have told me at any point," he accused her, "and you didn't."

She blinked, and then—

"Oh, and you're perfectly honest with me?" she shot back, surprised how quickly her temper bubbled up and came flying out of her mouth. She'd initially expected to demur, but evidently the schnapps settling into her digestive tract vehemently disagreed. "There's plenty you keep from me, Draco, and you know it!"

"If it took me a while to tell you about my mother, that's hardly the same thing," Draco said, obviously agitated. "I didn't know how I felt about it, much less how to explain it to you—"

"Well, I didn't know how I felt about this, either," Hermione snapped. "And besides, can't I have something that's just for me without having to worry about how it affects you? Can't one thing in my life just be mine without it having to involve your father?"

"This isn't how relationships are supposed to work," Draco hurled at her, and she stared at him.

"How would you know?" she said nastily.

He stared at her, swallowing.

Then he raked a hand through his hair, stepping closer.

"That's not fair," he said flatly. "You can't hold my parents' marriage against me."

"I'm not," she said, stubbornly folding her arms over her chest. "I'm holding the fact that you've never had a real relationship with anyone against you, because in case you've forgotten, you're a fucking prince. You're nobody's equal, because you've never had to be!"

"And that's my fault?" he countered. "It's not like you've got some long tenure to fall back on for experience!"

"I didn't say I did," she retorted hotly, "but you can't go around saying things like you're the end-all font of knowledge for how things should be. How am I supposed to rely on you when I know that you're… that you're not just you," she spat accusingly. "I'm not just in a relationship with you, I'm in a relationship with the fucking King of England, too—"

"I can't help what I was born to," Draco cut in sharply, bristling.

"Neither can I," Hermione half-shouted back, "and still, your family will always hold it against me, won't they? So why should I be any different?"

She had been impossibly angry, fury turning brittle in her bones, but at that, all the rage in her extinguished like a candle flame. She stopped just as she said it, all the wind knocked out of her at once.

"Because I love you," she exhaled, answering herself as Draco's expression of frustration suddenly vanished, disrupted with a look of conflict. "I love you," she repeated, "and that's why I should be more understanding than they are, but I don't know how… to love you and still love me. I don't know how," she sighed, helplessly letting her hands fall at her side, "to remind myself I matter too, and that I'm not just… just becoming some extra piece of you," she muttered, "like one of your arms or legs—or even just the person standing in your shadow."

"Of course you don't, because that's my job," Draco said, stepping painfully towards her. "I'm supposed to remind you of that. I'm supposed to make you feel like you matter, and clearly, I've let you down. I just—" He grimaced. "I don't know how to do this either, Hermione, but I want to, I swear—"

"I'm scared that the more serious this gets, the less I'll matter," Hermione told him, shaking her head. "I don't dream of being a wife, Draco! Or a mother," she added, feeling herself grow frustrated again, "and I know we've always acted like those are future things that don't have to matter yet, but they do, don't they? Because—"

She broke off, trying to figure out how to put her thoughts on the matter into words.

"Say we could look at our lives. Say… say we could look into a mirror," she said slowly, "or, you know, something—and see how everything was going to go. Say we could see everything we wanted. What would you see?" she asked him, hoping he'd indulge her temporary lunacy. "Because… Draco, I look in that mirror and I see you, but it's not… it's not just you," she said quietly. "I see a career, too. I see work that's meaningful to me, and I see a life, a full one, and one with choices I made for myself."

He swallowed carefully, closing his eyes.

"I see you," he said, indulging her after a moment. "Everything else is… blurred. Out of focus. It's hotel rooms," he said with a grimace, shaking his head, "and private planes, and fancy galas. It's all thrones and crowns and meetings, all of it meaningless and in a fog—but always, you're with me. You're there, clear as day."

Hermione inhaled carefully; exhaled.

"Am I beside you, Draco," she murmured softly, "or am I behind you?"

His eyes snapped open, the grey settling firmly on hers.

"How many times can I tell you?" he said, imploring her. "How many times can I say the same words before you believe me?"

"I don't know," she told him honestly, shaking her head. "All of this just seems… temporary. Everyone treats it like it's going to be over someday, and I'm just not sure." She gave him a mournful look. "If it were just you, I'd choose you in a heartbeat, Draco. I'd tell you right now you're it for me, you're the one. You're the love of my life. But—" She swallowed hard. "But it's not just you. It'll never be just you, and for me to pretend otherwise is—"

"Is what?" Draco asked, bristling again. "Stupid? Pointless? Not worth it, Hermione? Because if it's not, then just spare me the pain and tell me so."

Anguish mixed with fury, inciting its way up her spine.

"Are you saying you want this to be over?" she snapped at him, gesturing at the space between them. "End it yourself, then! I'm not going to be the one to walk away and let you hold that against me—"

"Aren't you listening?" he growled. "I don't want this to be over. I'm willing to fight for us, Hermione," he said bitterly, "whether you are or not—"

The idea that he could have possibly wanted it more than she did drove her to a bit of insanity, propelling her forward until she was digging an accusatory finger into his chest.

"You asked me to stay and I stayed," she reminded him, feeling him stiffen beneath her touch. "You asked me to take this job and I did. You asked me to stay the holidays with you and your family instead of going home to mine, and I did. You changed your mind and wanted me to hide, and I did—"

"Unfair." His chest rose and fell with violence. "If I could have made those choices instead of you, I would have."

"Everything we ask from each other is unfair. It always has been." She set her hands on his chest, watching the motion of it as it shifted below her palms. She could feel his eyes on her, staring down, as she kept her own gaze fixed on the evidence of him breathing beneath her touch. "We're mismatched, Draco. We were born in completely different places. We were meant to have totally different lives. We're only here," she said, grimacing, "because we're both so fucking stubborn, and that's entirely the problem."

"You want stubborn? I'm not quitting on us," he told her. "You'll have to make me go. You'll have to force me out the door, Hermione Granger, because nothing less than you refusing me will ever take me from you."

"You're an idiot," she said impatiently, glancing up to find the grey of his eyes there, waiting to settle on hers. "You're an idiot, Draco, and so am I."

"Is it just that you want to have secrets?" His voice was rough, his hands tight at his sides. "Is that it? Is that what I can give you? Fine, have a secret. Have two, three, however many. Make something for yourself, if that's what you need to remember who you are. I'll tell you who you are every night if you need it. I'll tell you," he said, dropping his head to speak in her ear, "exactly who and what you are, Hermione Granger."

He took hold of her arms without warning, shifting her to the side and maneuvering her onto the bed.

"You're a writer," he told her gruffly, yanking down the zipper of the hoodie she was wearing and tearing it gracelessly from her shoulders, tossing it onto the floor. "You're a person of extremely unyielding opinions, and you have one for every. Single. Thing." He gave her elbows a nudge and she lifted her arms dazedly overhead, letting him slide her extremely unsexy thermal shirt up over them before depositing it to the side. "You're a woman who refuses to be helped. You're fiercely, resolutely, shamelessly independent, and believe me, it is as inconvenient as it is admirable."

He yanked at her sports bra, throwing it aside and shoving her backwards onto the bed, dropping to pull at her shoes and her extremely unattractive thermal socks. He tugged at the button of her pants and then, with a sudden regaining of her senses, she rushed to help him, letting him slide them down her legs and then hurrying to take off her own underwear as he tore his shirt over his head and dropped to fall against her.

"You," he said, tongue slipping out over her breast before he bit down lightly, a whimper falling from her lips, "are my father's biggest fear, because he knows a woman like you could ruin me. Because he knows I want you more than anything I could ever inherit from him."

She pulled at his pants and he twisted to remove them, flipping onto his back to kick them off. She straddled him, agonizingly desperate to put her mouth on his, but he rolled over her, positioning himself on top of her as she panted her surprise.

"You're not just a part of me," he said gruffly. "You're the best parts of me, Hermione. You're the only part that matters."

He slid his thigh between her legs and kissed her, letting her roll her hips furiously against him as his fingers worked their way into her hair, tangling in webs of desperation. She made a low sound of anguish, her tongue darting out against his, and he yanked her hips down to pry her legs wider, the length of him pressed firmly against her thigh.

"Make me go," he said, breath coming short, and she tightened her fingers in the hair at the back of his head, prompting him to growl slightly with pain.

"No," she said, and his teeth nipped at his lip, half-laughing.

"Stubborn," he exhaled, his cock sliding against her clit. "Tell me you've had enough, Hermione. Tell me you're done with me."

She yanked his head back, pressing her lips to his neck as he choked out a groan.

"No," she said, forcing him onto his back and taking his shaft in one hand, instantly vindicated by his full-bodied shudder. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands gripped tightly at her waist, shaking his head.

"This is the trip we were supposed to have," he told her hoarsely, lips falling open as she stroked along the length of him, biding her time. "You were supposed to be naked. I was supposed to refuse to let you leave the room, much less the bed, and you were supposed to tell me you loved me," he gritted out, reaching up to tangle his fingers in a handful of her hair, "so that I could say it back—"

"I love you," she said, and carefully, with every ounce of deliberation she possessed, slid onto his cock, both of them shivering with satisfaction. "I love you," she said, working into a slow, measured rhythm the way she knew he would want her to, "and it's not too late to have that, Draco, because I'm not—" She broke off as he sat up, lips and tongue finding the bead of her nipple to position her upright on his lap. "I'm not going anywhere."

He looked up at her, wrapping his arms around her ribs, and for a moment, his gaze went hazy, lost to the wildness of being pressed against her while the snow fell impassively outside.

"We should fight more often," he murmured, pulling her lips down to hers.

Privately, she thought he might have had a point, though she conceded to stop talking, letting the conversation naturally transition elsewhere.

---

They stayed until New Year's Day. The DRAGONFLOWER blog was thrilled to report that Draco and Fleur had likely indulged in a furtive New Year's kiss, which no one was in a hurry to contradict (Draco and Fleur even posed together from the balcony of the resort, laughing together in full view of the paparazzi). In reality, Draco and Hermione were able to finish the last few days of their trip in something of a broad, euphoric bliss, opting to stay in bed rather than ski, which meant they successfully skirted any and all cameras. Rita Skeeter, it seemed, would not win, at least where Alpine holidays were concerned.

By the time Hermione and Daphne made it back to their flat, they were both exhausted, barely speaking to each other as they made their way from the car. Daphne instantly went to run a hot bath, muttering something about some final edits to a new blog post, and Hermione got ready to curl up in bed with a book, crawling under her covers and lamenting the lack of Draco's warmth beside her.

She let out a sigh, missing him already. It was unfortunate they'd wasted so many days, and she kicked herself for not saying something sooner, wishing she could rewind and do everything again, only better.

Just as she thought it, her phone rang, Draco's name popping up on the screen.

"You're psychic," she said, hurrying to answer. "I was just thinking about you."

"Oh?" he said, chuckling. "Well, same." He paused, and then, "I'm sorry we lost so much time. I should really learn we're actually quite good at communication when we give it a real try."

She rolled her eyes. "You mean sex?"

"Sex, fighting, whatever. We're multitalented."

She exhaled slowly, laughing under her breath. "Well, for the record, now's one of those times I wish you weren't a prince." She paused, wistfully staring at the picture of them from their Hogwarts graduation where it sat on her nightstand. "I hate that I can't just show up throwing rocks at your window, you know?"

"Ah," he said. "Well, it's my job to do that, isn't it? Only your window is a bit out of reach from the street—at least from where I'm parked."

She sat upright, blinking. "What?"

"I'm outside," he clarified, sounding amused. "No rocks, but—"

"I'll be right there," she said breathlessly, pulling on her Patagonia fleece and racing down the stairs, spotting his usual black car with the tinted windows and hurrying towards it. She yanked the car door open, ducking her head to find his expectant smile, and barreled into him, kissing him with as close to an apology as she could form her lips to make.

"I realized," he said with a laugh, disentangling slightly from where she'd shoved him against the passenger-side door, "I didn't actually give you your Christmas present. That," he added, gesturing for the chauffeur to drive around the block, "and I missed you, and seeing as I'm leaving tomorrow for Geneva—"

She held out a hand, expectant. "Give it."

He chuckled. "So charming, you are," he murmured, tucking her beneath his left arm and kissing her forehead before pulling something free from his coat pocket. "Here," he said, "these are arrangements for your parents to take a trip here later this month—Dobby will handle the details. They can change the dates, of course, if these don't suit, but I thought they might like a visit in the near future."

"Oh, thank you," she exhaled, turning to kiss his cheek. "My mother will be so happy. She was evidently very upset she had to listen to my cousin brag about something or other—I don't know," she admitted, shrugging, "she'd had a bit of champagne so the whole thing was very hard to follow—"

"Ah, I'm not quite done." Draco dug something else out of his pocket, hesitating slightly as they slowly rounded her block. "I know you didn't want me to get anything extravagant," he said, dodgily preempting the gift with a caveat, "but seeing as it's technically an heirloom, hopefully you don't oppose it."

He pulled out a small square jewelry box, and Hermione's eyes promptly widened.

"Oh no, oh god—no, sorry," he told her hurriedly, catching the look on her face, and she exhaled sharply, relieved. "It's… well, it's my mother's, but she gave it to me to give to, well." He cleared his throat. "Let's just say I want you to have it."

Hermione opened the box, finding a pair of earrings inside. They were oval emeralds, surrounded by solitaire diamonds, and they glinted dramatically even in the minimal light that slid in through the car windows.

"Oh, Draco," she exhaled, a little afraid to even touch them. "This is… this is too much, really—"

"My grandfather gave them as a gift to my grandmother," Draco explained. "She then gave them to my mother, who changed them from oversized studs to this drop design—she said it was important I add that, but anyway—I was going to buy you something," he admitted, "but she thought maybe you might appreciate something more if it were handed down. I might be wrong," he added hastily, "in which case, again, easily remedied—"

"Draco." She placed a hand on his knee, shaking her head. "I love them."

She did, and Narcissa had been right. The seal of approval embedded in the gift was a mixed blessing, particularly knowing what she already knew about Narcissa's feelings on her, but a blessing nonetheless. She certainly wasn't one for fancy jewelry, but this, she thought, shifting to try them on, was a welcome exception.

"How do I look?" she asked, and Draco smiled, stroking her cheek just as the car pulled back around to the front of her flat.

"Perfect," he said, and kissed her, and she marveled that he could taste so unpretentiously like the man she'd fallen in love with even while being the prince who'd just lavished her with royally inherited jewelry. "Well," he murmured, hand still cupped around her cheek, "I suppose that's that, then. I'll see you in a week or so?"

She lightly fingered the emerald at her ear, nodding wistfully.

"I'll miss you," she said, which was true enough. She missed him already.

He nodded, releasing her with a murmur of a goodnight, and she opened the door to step out of the car with a sigh, glancing around at the empty street before sliding out from the backseat.

"Okay," she exhaled. "Well, call me, I suppose, or I'll call you. I mean, whatever, we'll work it out." The prospect of returning to phone calls after so much time actually with him was maddening, but she supposed it could be worse. At least they were no longer fighting. "Have a nice trip, and—"

"Wait—"

Draco's arm shot out from inside the car, pulling her back just enough to take her face in his hands again as he brought his lips to hers.

"I love you," he whispered to her. "You, Hermione. Not the man you make me. You."

She reveled in it, exhaling with a sigh, and kissed him one last time, preparing to let him go.

"I love you," she said quietly, and just as she pulled away, contentedly satisfied, something strange occurred to her; a thought, like the sensation of déjà vu, or like a sudden bolt of lightning.

No, not like a bolt. An actual bolt.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught it again, her breath faltering this time as she knew it for certain.

"What is it?" Draco asked, and Hermione winced, shaking her head.

"Trouble," she said, and it was.

It was the unmistakable brilliance of a camera flash.

---

It's not as if I'd led an uncomplicated existence by any means up to that point, but I do tend to think of my life as the time before that moment and then the time that followed after. I think it goes without saying that this was the precise moment my entire life changed, but still, seeing as we've already gotten this far—why not just say it?

This was the precise moment my entire life changed, and from then on, nothing would ever be particularly simple again.

---

a/n: There is a new jily in Amortentia, Lovely Tangled Vices is available, annnnnnd… I'm happy you're here! Endless thanks to those of you still reading.