Chapter 20: Hounds

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Hermione Effect

By now a common term, the 'Hermione effect' refers to the ways in which Hermione Granger has made an impact on fashion, boosting sales of U.K. designers (and then some) purely by virtue of being seen wearing one of their pieces. As the colourful saying goes, everything Hermione touches 'turns to sold'—which, while somewhat crass, has proven undeniably true in recent times. Despite a few initial stumbles by the American (now armed with a tasteful battalion of British labels and a mix of accessible pieces and haute couture), Hermione's most noticeable impact as a royal hopeful has been the curation of her image.

It's quite easy to call this advancement in personal style a rousing success, as Hermione's early years in the spotlight amounted to quite another story altogether. At the inception of her popularity in 2013, Hermione's tastes were symptomatic of a young, untested woman hoping to be taken seriously, perhaps to the point of appearing drab or uninspired. After finding her footing as one of the most influential women in Britain, however, Hermione has blossomed into an impactful force in U.K. fashion markets. By now, it has become quite easy to see the future consort Prince Draco adores for her timelessness and effortless elegance.

Ah yes, my 'initial stumbles,' otherwise known as the clothes I was able to afford and haphazardly piece together while being hounded by the press and working an entry-level job at a non-profit. What a charming euphemism, Rita. You should be a writer!

Anyway, there's not much to say here that isn't true on some objective level. I'm hardly without an eye (I clean up nicely on my own—or so I like to tell myself, despite what I'm sure is Pansy's vehement disagreement) but Daphne's influence certainly helped me make more thoughtful choices once I recovered from the misconception that attention paid to my appearance would eventually pass. I didn't really understand, at first, that while I was being being scrutinized, I was also being… observed, if that makes sense. I was being noticed, firstly, and then grudgingly admired, and then, to my surprise, I woke up one day to find I was broadly emulated.

At the beginning, though, it definitely just felt like I was being watched.

January 13, 2013
London, England

"I didn't even know you had a motorcycle," Hermione remarked with dazed approval, clambering off the back of Draco's bike and managing to stand while whispering into the darkness of her street.

"Sure," Draco said cheerfully, dismounting with considerably more grace and pulling her against him, "I have one motorcycle."

Both of them having helmets on (hers borrowed from Blaise) and the fact that it was probably close to three in the morning had combined to make Draco shamelessly handsy. She tugged his hand away from where it was slipping down over her backside to drag him up the stairs into her flat, shushing him firmly along the way. He followed semi-obediently—which is to say, not without some wandering; his hands on her waist drifted repeatedly to her hips, stroking at her spine, resting on her lower back. It was unhelpful, to say the least, and she yanked him inside only after fumbling twice with the latch, indulging his touch once she was certain no prying eyes could see.

"You're hopeless," she whispered to him, not bothering with lights. His fingers traced over the slopes of her lightly, parting her coat and then floating delicately to the hem of her shirt. She shivered as he ran his touch above the lip of her jeans, stroking the line of her hip. "Being on a motorbike makes you positively reckless."

"Well," he said, removing her helmet with a chuckle, "I'd hate to bespoil my good name without mitigating my lewd behavior." He took his helmet off, setting it beside hers on the kitchen counter, and picked her up (ignoring her squeal of opposition-turned-resignation) in a brusque, unfluid motion, carrying her into her bedroom. "What can I do, hm?" he mused, kicking the door shut behind him and setting her atop her dresser. "Shall I recite my lineage?" he hummed softly against her throat, wresting her coat back from her shoulders to let it bunch around her waist, his hips secured between her thighs.

"Some poetry," she suggested, leaning her head back as he kissed his way across the neckline of her shirt. "Just to even things out, you know—"

"When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see," he whispered, dropping lower to slide her shirt up against her torso, "for all the day they view things unrespected, but when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, and, darkly bright, are bright in dark directed."

"Oh wow, you're really going for it, okay," she murmured, closing her eyes as he slid her shirt over her head, depositing carelessly it on the floor.

It occurred to her, briefly, that they should probably discuss… something. He'd been very forthright with her earlier that evening, leaving her with little in the way of questions (What was there to say, after all, to any version of 'my father refuses to acknowledge you'? Certainly nothing helpful, aside from the frustrated sputtering she'd wanted to oblige and managed, miraculously, not to) but nothing was particularly resolved. Draco had made a very strong point, after all, when he'd inadvertently silenced her with a single question.

Do you want to marry me someday?

It wasn't a proposal. It wasn't even romantic, really; at least, not in any conventional way. It was a very obvious and yet entirely implausible consideration. Did she or did she not have any desire to one day be his… god, what even was a Queen Consort? What did that actually mean? She only knew the term within the context of her A.P. European History class, which was unhelpful. The idea that it could be her actual life was out of focus, blurred and nonsensical, but Draco was right. Unless she wanted to one day be his wife, there was little he could do in the way of convincing his father to publicly support their relationship.

Hermione had spent the previous week earning a very small taste of what it was to constantly have people following her every move. It was more than a little enlightening as to why Draco had a habit of reflexively looking over his shoulder, scanning whatever room he was in to identify what might be lurking in all of its vacancies and corners. Her newfound sympathy for the pressures of his constant observation seemed to have endeared her more to him—hence the uncharacteristically roving hands, or so she imagined—but it was clarifying very little for her. Prince Lucius' approval, were he to grant it, meant royal protocol would extend to her in good ways as well as bad; in behavioral expectation, of course, which was where she was clearly suspected to fall short, but also in security, in some degree of privacy, and in the privilege of forcing speculation out from time to time. Her walk to work, never particularly lengthy, had become one of the greatest obstacles of her day.

Her answer to Draco's question, in the end? Same as it always was.

I don't know.

Draco, it seemed, had expected as much. The conversation had been relatively brief, the two of them rejoining the rest of their friends (minus Blaise, who was quick to disappear for reasons that remained a mystery, provided the mystery's name was Tracey Davis) until they'd opted to return to her flat.

At times—like this one—it wasn't too difficult for Draco and Hermione to put aside the struggles of their relationship in favor of being two foolishly touch-starved people who hadn't seen each other in over a week.

"—all days are nights to see till I see thee," he continued between his teeth, having successfully divested them of most of their clothing by then. He paused to press her bare torso against him, a thin sheen of perspiration clinging coolly to his heated skin, before finishing the sonnet with, "and nights bright days when dreams do show thee me."

"Shakespeare?" Hermione mumbled, having sacrificed listening in favor of baser instincts. Draco bit lightly at her inner arm where it wrapped around his neck, his oral fixation in full force as she clung to him. One of her legs was wrenched up, her heel dug in against the wooden edge of her dresser, and the rest of her limbs were twined somehow within; around; between his.

He filled her with a choked-out gasp of, "Sonnet forty-three, yes," for which she assumed the latter confirmation served a dual-purposed expression of approval. The dresser beneath her, probably not designed for its current purpose (although who could tell), gave a loud creak to match her stifled moan.

It was a conversation they'd had many times, their respective messages expressed a thousand different ways. Sometimes it was Draco saying I need you, Hermione replying with I'm here, I'm yours; sometimes it was insecurity from her, fingers toying with the hair at the back of his neck to whisper can this last? so he could answer with the enduring assurance of yes, I promise, yes, relentlessly driving the point home. Tonight they were both playing with ignorance, racing into oblivion. This was a rapid, heart-pounding full-sprint, a cliff-dive into carelessness. Somewhere on the spectrum between little chats and magnanimous speeches was body language at its most compulsive; the mindlessness of her muscles aching—let's ignore everything—was answered with the half-contorted sheltering of his arms around her—what else could possibly matter?

Tomorrow would be another day. Tonight, she was falling with a prince into her bed, and within hours, the dull sheen of old snowfall would glisten to the light of a dawn she'd never see while Draco slept soundly beside her.

Hermione woke to Daphne stumbling into her room, blearily holding out the clutch she'd left somewhere in the common area the night before.

"Your purse is ringing," Daphne said hoarsely, tossing it at Hermione's feet and then turning to collide with the doorframe, holding one hand to her temple. "Remind me never to let Pansy make the drinks again," Daphne muttered to herself, and then half-turned as Hermione fished around in the clutch for her phone. "Hi, Draco."

"Hi, Daph," he yawned into the pillow, stretching his arms overhead, and then he blinked, noticing what Hermione was doing and launching immediately upright. "Oh, no, don't answer th-"

"Hello?" Hermione croaked into the phone, catching the panicked look on Draco's face moments too late.

"Miss Granger," said an equally panicked voice. "I'm very sorry to bother you, but I'm afraid I must inquire: Is His Highness with you, by chance?"

Draco shot with astounding speed to his feet, seeking his trousers amid the piles of forsaken clothing and digging out his cell phone, hastily turning it on.

"Oh, yes," Hermione said faintly, "he's, um—"

"Buggering Christ almighty," Draco growled, his phone dropping from his hand as several messages arrived, prompting it to vibrate ceaselessly against her floorboards. "Tell Dobby I'll take the motorbike back, he needn't send someone—"

"He'll take his bike back," Hermione repeated dutifully. "It'll, um. Be more covert that way?" she guessed, and Draco nodded firmly.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Miss," said Dobby, his voice mildly tainted with desperation. "Have you looked outside this morning, by any chance?"

"Oi," Daphne said, poking her head back in. "Is there any reason the cameras are here early?"

"Besides this one?" Hermione hissed, gesturing to a half-clothed Draco, who gave Daphne a sheepish grimace.

"Oh, right," Daphne said, shrugging and removing herself to the living room.

"Miss Granger," Dobby continued, "I regret to tell you it has become necessary for a private car to collect His Highness from your residence. Would it be possible to for you to pass the message along to His Highness Prince Draco that his father the Prince of Wales is sending a car shortly? He expects as discreet an exit as possible."

"Well, um," Hermione said, glancing at Draco. "He could just stay here, couldn't he? Until the photographers leave, that is."

"I'm afraid they will not be leaving any time soon, Miss," Dobby said as Draco grimaced, mouthing something to her that seemed to indicate a similar concern. "Also, His Majesty has requested His Highness' presence this evening, and time constraints being what they are—"

"Right, okay," Hermione said. "Well, I think he knows, so—"

"One last thing, Miss Granger," Dobby said quickly. "Forgive me, but I must ask that the Prince's discretion extend to… well, yourself, Miss."

"Sorry, what?" Hermione asked. Across from her, Draco, who had been getting dressed, paused to frown. "What does that mean?"

"His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales requests that you refrain from joining His Highness whilst Prince Draco exits the premises," Dobby clarified, clearing his throat. "To give the public the impression that His Highness was partaking in any sort of… it would be, ah." Another cough. "Well, it would be best, Miss Granger, if we did not draw any unnecessary attention to this… event."

Hermione tore her attention from Draco to focus on the absurdity of the situation. "You don't want people to think Draco spent the night with me? Sorry," she said with a dry, disbelieving half-laugh, "but I think they're probably going to piece that mystery together fairly easily, don't you?"

Draco shook his head rapidly, reaching out to take the phone from her, but she held him at arm's length, refusing.

"Be that as it may," Dobby said tentatively, "given the circumstances of your…"

"Relationship," Hermione supplied for him. "It's a relationship, and quite a long one, at that—or has Prince Lucius forgotten it's been over two years?"

"Miss," Dobby said, heighteningly distressed, "I simply—"

"Give me the phone, Dobby," came a voice on the other end, and Hermione winced, glancing up at an unsurprised (and by the looks of it, displeased) Draco. "Miss Granger," said Prince Lucius, "surely you have better things to do this morning than to argue with my personal staff. Must I impress the obvious upon you yet again, or can we simply agree you'll do as I ask this morning?"

She swallowed. Draco had secured his most impassive, expressionless mask, which was never a good sign.

"Yes," she said. "I'll stay out of the way."

"Excellent," Lucius said drily. "Painless, isn't it? Now, if you'll do me a personal favor and continue this highly uncharacteristic sequence of acquiescence, I would ask that you put my son on the line."

Hermione held out the phone, offering it wordlessly to Draco, who accepted in silence.

"Father," he said, and the voice on the other end grew louder, incomprehensible but certainly not inaudible from where Hermione sat. "Yes, I know. You're free to admonish me later. Yes, I'm aware I've been careless. No, I won't be late." A pause, and a quick glance at Hermione. "I'll explain it to Grandfather myself this evening, if you're so concerned." His mouth tightened. "Very well."

He hung up the phone, handing it back to Hermione.

"I have to go," he said, pulling on his jacket and raking a hand through his hair.

She nodded, fiddling with the cover on her phone. "Sorry," she mumbled, and to that, Draco paused his motions, carefully lowering himself beside her with a sigh.

"This is my fault," he told her steadily. "It was a new motorbike, I didn't think it would be recognized, but I was mistaken. You didn't do anything wrong."

Aside from making it worse, she thought. She was fairly sure losing her temper with someone who merely worked for his family hadn't been helpful.

Draco slid a hand over her cheek, drawing her gaze up to his.

"I do wish you wouldn't antagonize my father," he said, carefully diplomatic. "Difficult as he is, he is also rather instrumental in us being able to move forward. He may not often be fair to you," he conceded slowly, "but that's an injustice for me to resolve on your behalf. It doesn't particularly help to validate his opposition, however unreasonable it may be."

She flinched. Draco rarely lost his temper, but that was close enough. She'd been right; his reassurance of her was only partially genuine.

He was, at least partially, cross with her.

"I'm sorry," she said again, letting her chin drop for a contrite brush of her lips to his palm, and this time, he sighed with a bit more affection, reconciling some of his frustration.

"We'll fix this," he said. "I'll discuss it with my father again—and again, Hermione," he assured her, sweeping his thumb comfortingly across her jaw, "and again, and again—for however long it takes."

Maybe it was just her imagination, but Hermione felt certain an unspoken 'if' seemed to hang in the air between them. She wasn't sure if it was an if you're sure (or, similarly, if you still want this) or something worse.

Moderately worse? If you can manage to contain yourself.

Much worse: If you can stand to learn your place.

She thought, for the first time in a long time, of Narcissa's bitten nails, her wide-eyed look of panic, and her desperate insistence that Hermione turn and run.

"See you soon?" she asked hopefully, and Draco took her face in both hands, kissing her softly.

"Very soon," he promised, and was gone on a slowly fading breeze of cedar and sage.

About an hour after he'd left, the first articles surfaced on the internet. Prince Draco slinks back to Clarence House after a sordid night with rumoured American flame Hermione Granger, wrote Rita Skeeter. It seems our thoughtful Prince retains some of his father's nature for secrecy, or at least for secret liaisons! The royal family continues to evade any official mention of the romance, which leads this reporter to wonder whether this coupling is in any way serious, or merely a symptom of our Prince's youthful virility. Either way, it seems this American will have her moment! she exclaimed, following it up with an old picture of Hermione laughing at something Draco had said while walking to class at Hogwarts.

The headlines trickled in afterwards in a similar fashion. At times, Hermione was merely the mysterious American; sometimes she was camera-shy; sometimes outright spoiled; sometimes, speculations that she was demanding and shrill (unhelpfully 'confirmed' by 'intimate sources' she doubted had known her past childhood) were provided as scandalous cause for secrecy. Draco's descriptions, by contrast, went anywhere from defiant to randy (though the DRAGONFLOWER blog was quick to point out that particular apartment had been known to house Fleur Delacour as well).

Silence from the royal family says it all! was the general mood for gleeful takeaways on the situation, followed by the usual itemized list of reasons Hermione was, at best, a fling: American, Catholic, and a commoner, even by subpar colonial standards.

"Well, if it helps, it's been a relief to level up from total silence to snooty denial," was Helen's helpful reassurance over Skype. "Aunt Karen and that pathetic schmuck of a future son-in-law she's got were getting out of hand. Though, we've had quite a few more patients showing up asking for cleanings recently," she added thoughtfully, "and I doubt this has much to do with their sudden need to reunite with their long-lost cousin, floss."

"So long as it's not a total loss, then," Hermione grumbled, leaning back on the sofa and scowling moodily around the room. The shades were drawn, as they had been since Draco had been photographed leaving the flat, and it was unpleasantly dark, even at two in the afternoon. "I haven't been able to leave my apartment in two days but fine, so long as people are going to the dentist—"

"I'm sure it'll be an adjustment," Helen said sagely, with all the wisdom of a mother who had boatloads of sympathy and no idea what else to say. "Still, you had to know it was coming, didn't you?"

"Well—" Yes, theoretically she'd known, but how was she to really grasp the scope of it? She'd thought photographers were human beings who required sleep and food and perhaps shelter from snow, but current experience was proving otherwise. If she looked out her window right now, she was positive there would be some sort of article about it within minutes. "I mean yes, I did, but—"

She broke off, hearing a key jostling the latch, and looked up, frowning. "Daph?"

"Oh, good!" Helen said, brightening. "She's helping me choose a dress for yet another disastrous party your father's forcing me to go to—"

"Unfortunately, no," came Theo's voice, his slender form slipping like a shadow into the flat before he turned to grin at Hermione, raking a hand through his hair and shaking away flaky drops of snow. "Just me."

"Fleur's not here," Hermione informed with a frown. "And neither is Daphne."

"Well, my goodness, California," Theo drawled, "do you think they're the only reasons I might visit, or have you forgotten we were once friends? That," he added, holding up a bag of Indian take-out and loping over to her side, "and I needed somewhere to eat this that wasn't my empty flat. Blaise is being extra mysterious these days, and I can hear far too many of my own thoughts, which—Oh, hello, Lady Granger," Theo said, leaning over Hermione to wave at the computer screen. "You're looking wonderfully fetching this afternoon."

"You're a magnificent liar, Theo," said Helen, who was wearing a bathrobe. It was approximately six in the morning her time, and though she and Hermione's father were early risers (often on account of David's continued obsession with Sunday morning bike rides) the only thing Helen was fetching was more coffee.

"Yes, I agree," Theo said firmly, "it's one of my ample charms. Tikka masala?" he offered, holding up the bag, and Helen chuckled.

"I'll let you two go. My daughter's being a grump, anyway," she said with an admonishing glance at Hermione, who groaned her disagreement. "Date one prince, I tell you, and all semblance of optimism just goes out the window."

"I can't promise never to date a prince," Theo offered with regal solemnity, "but I can assure you I will continue to be my sunshine-iest self, should the opportunity to do so arise."

"Best of luck, Theo dear. You'd look positively stunning in a tiara."

"Helen, you celestial angel, you're not still with that silly husband of yours, are you?"

"Please stop flirting with my mother," Hermione growled at Theo, shoving him aside as he winked unapologetically at the screen. "Alright, Mom—I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Yes, my darling girl, you will," Helen confirmed cheerfully. "Do let us know when you feel up for visitors again, would you?"

"I miss you," Theo lamented to the screen as Helen blew him a kiss and Hermione hastily said her farewells, shutting the laptop and reaching for the bag she was certain contained some samosas as Theo settled himself at her side on the sofa. "So," he said, reaching for his food and pouting as she slapped his hand away, "you're still not letting your parents come here, I take it?"

"Just until some of this blows over," Hermione confirmed, identifying the tellingly-sized container and handing the rest of the bag back to him. "It's just… a lot to deal with right now. I think, anyway."

"Well, sure," Theo agreed, neatly setting up a spread on her coffee table, "but personally, I don't think hiding up here is going to help."

"How'd you even get in here?" Hermione asked, frowning, before abruptly pressing him, "And more importantly, how have you not been harassed since dating Fleur?"

"I'm very good at being invisible, Cali," Theo said. "Perks of being too thin and also largely unremarkable."

"Well—" Hermione took a bite of a samosa, soothed a little by the luxury of fried food and spiced potatoes she hadn't had to purchase for herself. "Thanks for coming over," she determined after a moment, burrowing her toes under Theo's leg, and he turned to give her one of his dancing half-smiles.

"See? We're friends," he said, giving her knee a brisk smack. "Which means I can ask you what you're being gloomy about, can't I?"

"Oh, just the usual," Hermione said with a grimace. "Draco's mad at me. I'm trapped inside my flat. I'm terrible at my job. Overall, living the dream, as they say."

"Draco's not mad at you," Theo corrected, and she arched a brow doubtfully. "What? He isn't. He's got his father on his back and, per usual, he doesn't know how to employ his princely frustration. He lacks the privilege of obstacles," he commented, waving his fork around illustratively before digging into his basmati rice. "He's unrehearsed when it comes to sensations of malcontent, but he certainly doesn't blame you."

"Well, maybe, maybe not," Hermione grumbled, pursing her lips in disagreement. "I mean, he has a point. Me constantly fighting with his father is hardly any help to him, but I just don't really know how to exist like… this," she finished uncomfortably, waving a hand around the darkened flat.

Theo took a hefty bite, considering her point through a forkful of tikka masala, and then swallowed carefully. "Well," he said slowly, "have you ever considered asking Draco for help?"

"What?" Hermione asked, which was probably answer enough.

"Relationships are somewhat two-sided, as I understand it," Theo informed her, looking smug. "He takes your advice, doesn't he? Accepts your help." He shrugged. "Why shouldn't you do the same?"

"Well, I—" Hermione frowned. She supposed she hadn't technically asked Draco for anything; in fact, she made a habit of forcefully shoving him away, insisting she could handle it all on her own. She'd always been enamored with the concept of independence, detesting the idea she required someone's assistance, but she supposed it did seem rather silly when put in perspective. "He's, you know. Gone a lot, and he's got his own problems—"

"That's an excuse, California, and you know it," Theo said. "He may be a prince or whatever silly thing he calls himself, but you're doing him a disservice by not trusting him to be for you precisely what you are for him. A partner," he clarified, brandishing his fork at her. "He sees you as on his side. Do you see him on yours?"

She smarted a little from the unlikely wisdom, the bite of samosa going slightly ashy in her mouth.

"I guess not," she admitted, swallowing, and Theo shrugged again.

"There's give and take, you know. Not just give. It's healthy to take what you need from time to time, or so I hear." He took another overlarge bite, chewing happily—with all the confidence, Hermione thought with a sigh, of someone in a contented relationship with an intelligent, charismatic, and beautiful woman. No wonder Fleur and Daphne both loved him; he was unapologetic about all things, including himself.

Eventually Theo swallowed, adding, "Draco may not be very good at knowing what to do with any of his less convenient emotions, but he's uniquely talented at being a friend. Comes naturally," he explained, "which must be innate, seeing as he can't have inherited from his father."

Hermione sighed.

"Do you think Prince Lucifer will always hate me?" she asked wistfully, and Theo barked out a laugh that startled them both.

"That blond demon doesn't like anybody or anything," Theo said succinctly. "If anything, you should be pleased he considers you an adversary. Everyone else is mostly, I don't know. The mud on his shoes," he estimated. "An unseasonable breeze. Some other repulsion." He gave her a conspiratorial glance. "But believe me, nothing outside of his son and his father are enough to turn the Prince of Darkness' head. Maybe his crown," Theo added as an afterthought, shrugging, "but those aren't unrelated."

Hermione took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Would you want a crown?" she asked after a moment, and Theo fixed her with a look of utter reproach.

"Absolutely not," he said, "and any one of us would surely tell you the same."

"Pansy's certainly mentioned it a few times," Hermione agreed, making early headway in the competition for understatement of the year. "She told me the first time I met her that Draco's a job I'm unqualified to hold."

"Ah, well, that's where she's wrong," Theo said, shaking his head. "Draco's not a job—not for the right person, anyway. But don't tell her I said that," he hurried to add, and Hermione laughed.

And then she thought about it.

And thought about it.

And was still thinking about it in bed that night when she leaned over to find a text from Draco.

Saw a little curly-haired girl this afternoon in Yorkshire who informed me it was extremely inconsiderate to cause traffic just so I could get by. Her mother was horrified—I, meanwhile, had to stop myself from telling her I knew just the person to appreciate her keen sense of injustice

Hermione half-smiled. Dobby? she replied.

Too clever, you are. Off to bed?

Yes, she replied, and her phone promptly rang.

"Sleep well," Draco said when she answered.

She smiled into the receiver. "Is that all?"

"For now, yes, unfortunately. Wish I could be with you."

She glanced at the place he would normally be; pale blond strands against her sheets, sleeping on his stomach, his expression its most unembellished arrangement of those narrow, linear features. Divine right (or so Hermione assumed) meant Draco didn't snore, but he breathed deeply and slept fitfully, and she always wondered what danced in his head when his princely eyes were closed.

"Draco?" she said. "I love you."

She could hear evidence of him smiling. "I love you. I'll see you soon."

"Soon?"

"Yes, Hermione," he promised her. "Soon."

"HERMIONE! Give us a smile, would you?"

"Hermione, have you seen Draco recently?"

"Don't be shy, Hermione! Where's that American charm?"

The usual. Or the new usual, anyway, seeing as it was the same as it had been last week.

Hermione kept her head down, hurrying towards her office from the opposite sidewalk. She'd been doing her best to arrive before Minerva got there, knowing that the disruption outside would be less than pleasing to her frills-opposed employer. Planning for the coming benefit auction had been requiring the small Transfiguration team's full attention, and Hermione doubted Minerva would thank her for the distraction.

She stepped into the street, about to cross, when a car pulled up from her periphery; too close—or certainly close enough to feel too close—and she jumped back in alarm, hearing the sound of what felt like dozens of camera shutters as she bit her tongue on a number of different profanities. She bristled and kept walking, voices carrying after her as she went.

"HERMIONE, LOOK OVER HERE!"

"Hermione, what do you think about following in Princess Narcissa's footsteps?"

Jesus. Those damn earrings; it seemed everyone (but Hermione, of course, who knew better) was considering them some sort of pre-engagement gift. She hurried around the car and into her office, dodging photographers. There had been attention while at Hogwarts, but that had been something entirely different. Now, she felt the eyes on her like tiny ants crawling over her skin; she shuddered again at the sensation, making her way to her desk.

"Miss Granger," came Minerva's voice, and she halted beside her computer, wincing. Her timing had been off today, it seemed. "Would you come in here, please?"

Hermione set her bag down with a sigh, turning her computer on before heading sheepishly into Minerva's office. "Yes, Minerva?"

Today, like usual, it was sensible tweed. Minerva looked up, glancing quizzically at Hermione through her spectacles.

"Perhaps we should discuss the reason I had an unusual amount of difficulty arriving to work this morning," Minerva invited, leaning back in her chair and gesturing for Hermione to sit. She complied, albeit somewhat unwillingly, and Minerva went on, "I can't pretend I don't have some idea, I suppose. Augusta keeps me somewhat informed on relevant topics of social inquiry, but still, I imagine you have something to say."

Hermione swallowed, considering whether or not she should attempt to evade the question. Ultimately, she remembered the word discretion, fighting a grimace. "Well, I," she began, and faltered. "It's… well, the press seems quite certain I'm… in a relationship," she exhaled rapidly. "With Prince Draco. Which is—" A cough. "Silly."

Minerva arched a brow, somewhere between equal parts unsurprised and disappointed by her denial. "May I presume," she asked drily, "this is why we had the pleasure of Rita Skeeter's visit?"

"Er, yes. But it's all conjecture, of course," Hermione said hastily. "I'm sure it will, um. Pass."

Minerva eyed her for a moment.

"That's all?" she asked, voice ringing with doubt.

It seemed to Hermione that without Prince Lucius' approval, this particular tree (by which she meant the reality of her relationship, or possibly any reality whatsoever) could fall in the forest and no one would hear.

"That's all," Hermione said. "Just… baseless assumptions, that's it."

"Ah." Minerva glanced down, adjusting her spectacles, and Hermione moved to return to her desk but was stopped by the sound of a low cleared throat. "About this auction," Minerva said. "I wanted to have a brief discussion with you."

Fuck. "Yes?"

"Well, it seems you're rather unenthused," Minerva remarked, glancing up again. "It appears the potential donors that Wood speaks to are perfectly willing to offer something for the event, but I notice you're not having quite the same results."

Ah, yes. Donor calls, most of which began and ended with 'I'm not interested' shortly after the conversation was begun.

"Oliver does have a better way with people over the phone," Hermione conceded, trying not to look as shameful as she felt. "I suppose I just have some difficulty being persuasive."

"Well, Miss Granger, I'm perfectly aware you're intelligent," Minerva said, "but cleverness only goes so far. In the not-for-profit world, we sink or swim on the charity of others."

It was as close to an outright scolding as she was going to get, and Hermione felt her eyes sting with frustration as the office door behind them burst open.

"Busy morning, isn't it?" Oliver said, poking his head in. "Any reason for all the cameras?"

Minerva glanced pointedly at Hermione, who looked down at her hands in her lap.

"Wood," Minerva called after a moment, and Oliver, who'd already lost interest and begun setting up what appeared to be a yoga ball for his desk, bounded back into the threshold. "Could you perhaps take a few minutes this morning to share with Miss Granger the script you use for your donation calls?"

"Oh, I don't use a script," Oliver replied jovially. "Come on, Minnie, you know this is all just a fortuitous mix of natural charm, passionate speeches, and unbridled enthus-"

"Wood," Minerva cut in. "Would you please share your script with Miss Granger?"

A beat of silence.

"Oh, yes, yep, very cool," Oliver said after a moment, hurrying forward to give Hermione a fraternal smack on the shoulder. "Yes, of course, can do, Minnie, you've got it—"

"I'll do better," Hermione said quietly, and Minerva transferred her glance from Oliver's retreating form to Hermione's reticent one.

"Miss Granger, I'm afraid finesse is something of a learned skill," Minerva said. "But one needn't lament the lack of it. The only thing one cannot do," she clarified, "is ignore that which will not possibly recede. After all, we only get what we want with some degree of vigor."

Hermione doubted the remark was exclusively about her work, though it didn't seem worth disputing. She simply nodded, heading back to her desk, and paused to watch Oliver bounce several times on the yoga ball.

"Oi, Granger, is this you?" Oliver asked, turning his computer screen towards her to showcase the image of her stumbling in the street from scarcely minutes earlier. "I mean, she's wearing your same clothes and happens to have your exact name, but it just seems so unlikely."

"I'm sure it's just coincidence," Hermione said, sorting through her emails. One in particular ("How goes the auction planning? Just checking in! Augusta") felt mildly reassuring, but outside of that, she glanced at her list of calls with the sort of enthusiasm she typically reserved for pap smears.

It had been Daphne's turn to update the blog; she must have thought herself hilarious that morning, as she'd gone with an article titled, How to get Hermione Granger's seasonally-appropriate 'librarian chic'!

"Huh," Oliver said, bouncing a few more times on the yoga ball and determining her half-hearted denial a perfectly acceptable conclusion. "Well, fair enough," he said, and then leaned back on the ball, transitioning his attention to an unsurprising set of sit-ups.

The week didn't get much better. No amount of coaching from Oliver was particularly helpful to Hermione's fundraising endeavors, it seemed. Worse, people were now beginning to show some recognition at hearing her name that had little to do with The Transfiguration Project. Getting to work continued to be difficult, and returning home more so; she'd stopped leaving the office for lunch, too, opting instead to sit at her desk and face down an empty page.

"Still having trouble?" Draco asked over the phone when she called him Wednesday afternoon. "I don't see why, you're plenty persuasive. Here, ask for my kidney. Try it out, see what I'll say—"

"Stop," she said, shaking her head and stifling a groaning laugh. "I'm just not sure how to speak stuffy British aristocracy, that's all. Or even British business owner, or British anything, really. I swear, they hear the American accent and the high-pitched voice and they just—"

"It's hardly high-pitched," Draco offered comfortingly. "You've got a lovely honeyed timbre."

"—it's just game over," Hermione finished, rubbing at her temple. "I suppose it's best I figured this out before I became a lawyer," she muttered, "or who knows what the jury would have had to say about me."

"Oh, you just need a confidence boost," Draco said. "Something to remind you that you're Hermione Granger, unstoppable force of nature, who very much deserves their donation of fine Himalayan candle holders for your upcoming benefit."

"Well, your faith in me is misplaced, but reassuring," Hermione said. "Sort of. Maybe." She paused. "Well, it was for about a second, but my inability to get people on board with things seems to have overruled your confidence boost, so we've all moved on."

"Okay, so maybe there's one thing you're not naturally good at," Draco said, and she sighed. "Plenty of commoners have flaws," he joked, "or so I hear, anyway."

She made a face. "You're in a good mood, aren't you?"

"Ah, caught me. I'm coming home late tomorrow," he said. "Briefly, but still. I'm hoping to make use of the time, and you tend to make that a guarantee."

"Do I really just—" She chewed the inside of her cheek, pensive. "Fix everything for you?"

"Everything? No, but most things." She heard him pause, hesitating. "By the way," he said slowly, "I noticed some of your pictures have you looking a bit hassled. Is everything alright?"

She guessed he was referring to the one from earlier that day, which was somewhat (very much) less than (intensely not) flattering. The camera had been shoved in her face unexpectedly, and she couldn't keep herself from expressing some mild form of rage—though, she'd thankfully managed not to say anything aloud.

"Sorry," she said, wincing.

"No, I didn't—" He broke off, stopping himself. "I don't need you to be sorry, I'm—"

She waited, and he sighed.

"I'm supposed to protect you," he said; weightily, as if everything he wished to say could be encapsulated by that one sentence.

"I don't need protecting, Draco," she reminded him. "I'm perfectly capable of handling it."

"Yes, I know, but—"

"Anyway, I should get back to work," she said, glancing at the clock. "I'll see you Friday?" she asked hopefully. "That's soon."

He hesitated, then seemed to think better of it.

"Yes," he promised her. "Soon, I promise."

"Well," Oliver said on Friday afternoon, shoving himself away from his computer and nearly toppling from his yoga ball, "Lady Goyle's changed her mind about that marble phallus she was donating to the auction."

"God, really?" Hermione asked in disbelief, throwing her head back with a groan. "That was one of the top five items expected to sell!"

"Yes, I'm aware," Oliver said, promptly stabbing his yoga ball with a pair of scissors and kicking its remains into the corner behind his desk. "Any movement on your end, Granger?"

She glanced down at her list, shaking her head. "Nothing, really. I could maybe try calling one of these smaller galleries, I mean—even if it's an unknown artist, it could at least look expensive, right?" she asked fretfully, wondering now if Daphne still had Roger Davies' phone number. (God, she hoped not.)

"Certainly could be more impressive than whatever this dick statue was supposed to be," Oliver glumly agreed, hurling a pen into the makeshift dartboard he'd fashioned at the opposite end of the office. "What is it, some sort of aristocratic dildo?"

"Sounds right," Hermione said glumly.

"Miss Granger," came Minerva's voice, and Oliver turned, pointing at her. Hermione gathered her things with a sigh, dragging herself into the office.

"Yes, Minerv-"

She broke off, surprised to find Minerva was standing at her window, staring down at the street. It was rare to find Minerva daydreaming—which was what she appeared to be doing, though Hermione had her doubts. "Minerva?" she asked tentatively, stepping forward.

"Why," Minerva said slowly, "is there a state car outside our office?"

"Um," Hermione said, rushing forward and abandoning any sense of decorum altogether to stand beside her employer, catching sight of a pale blond head exiting a black Bentley. "Oh god, is that—?"

"OI, MINNIE," came Oliver's voice, followed by the rest of Oliver's body, which was attached to a coiled telephone cord. "That was some sort of shrieky elf from the Palace, apparently we're supposed to have an unscheduled visit from—"

"Prince Draco," Hermione confirmed breathlessly from the window, spinning to face Minerva. "I'm… did you? I didn't, I'm just—"

"Collect yourself, Miss Granger, please," Minerva sniffed, still glancing down as Draco walked over to one of the younger looking photographers, beckoning him closer as the young man struggled not to topple over while feverishly bowing. "Do you have a mock-up prepared for the auction's guest list?"

"I, um—yes, actually," Hermione squeaked. Whatever else she might have lacked in employment, she remained perfectly timely with her assignments. "But, um—"

"How do I look?" Oliver demanded, poking his head in and straightening the tie he kept in one of his desk drawers, which appeared to be covered in an illustrated rendition of the solar system.

"You look ridiculous, Wood, but it's far too late to change that now," Minerva said, shoo-ing Hermione away from the window. "Get to work, you two. I won't have this looking like some sort of juvenile operation run by hapless fools."

"Yes, Minerva," Hermione and Oliver said in unison, hurrying back to their respective desks—Hermione applying her peppermint chapstick, Oliver struggling to remember where he had put his chair—by the time the door opened.

"Excuse me," came Hermione's favorite voice, followed by her favorite smile. "Is this The Transfiguration Project, by any chance?"

"Your Highness," Oliver half-shouted, rising to his feet with a bow as Hermione hurried to curtsy, nearly forgetting how in her excitement. "To what do we owe the privilege of your fine company?"

"Ah, you must be Oliver Wood," Draco said, striding forward and holding out a hand. "Colin, would you mind?" he asked the sheepish photographer behind him, and Colin, whoever he was, hurried to raise his camera, snapping at least three dozen photos of Draco shaking hands with Oliver. "Wonderful to meet you," Draco said warmly. "I hope you don't mind my interruption. Miss Granger," he said, turning to Hermione and offering a hand, which she took with a shiver of delight. "A pleasure, as always."

"Your Highness," she returned, made a little giddy by the play-acting. "How have you been?"

"Oh, very well," he assured her, scraping his left hand through his hair to let his signet ring flash pointedly in the light. "Ah, and you must be Minerva McGonagall," he said, turning to meet an unaltered version of Minerva's usual expression, minus the precisely deferential curtsy Hermione felt certain even Pansy couldn't fault. "I'm very excited about the work your organization is doing to improve public spaces in London. You're familiar, I'm sure, with my grandfather's devotion to the arts?"

And so it went, with Draco charming the trousers off both Minerva and Oliver while Hermione observed, chiming in whenever she was addressed but otherwise happy to pretend at total innocence. The photographer, Colin Creevey, seemed utterly bewildered at having been brought in for this task, but Hermione could see it was a tactical play by Draco. He'd managed, somehow, to magically transform an unorchestrated visit to a beneficial state appearance, and she doubted anyone would question it later—not even Lucius.

"Tell me, do you have any vacancies for auction items?" Draco asked her. "I'm sure you must have to draw the line somewhere, what with the popularity of this event," he assured her, pointing to Colin to write that down in his scribbled notes, "but in the event you can make room, I imagine we have one or two heirlooms for the cause."

You're saving my life, she mouthed to him, and he, professional that he was, merely gave her a genial smile.

"Well," he said eventually, turning to Minerva once he'd received a full tour, an hour-long interview with the organization's founder, and possibly one million pictures. "I don't suppose you'll be keeping Miss Granger much longer this afternoon? She's an old friend, and I'd love to catch up," he said, and Hermione blinked, turning as covertly as possible to face him as Minerva gave a stunningly impassive indication of agreement.

"What are you d-"

"Certainly nothing untoward," he murmured to her, beckoning subtly for her to join him as he made his way out of the office. "Do you have your things?" he asked, waiting, and she blinked, staring at him for several seconds before Oliver firmly shoved her purse into her hands.

"Oh," she said, glancing down at it and stumbling as Oliver nudged her forward. "Yes, um—"

"Thanks again," Draco said to Oliver, waving over his shoulder and walking briskly as Hermione hurried to follow.

"Draco, what the—"

"Be sure to smile when we get outside," he told her in an undertone, not glancing askance as Colin followed in their wake. "In my experience, posing briefly is enough to get them to leave you alone for a while. Understood?"

"Yes, but—"

She paused, falling to a halt beside Draco as he stopped to spare the cameras a moment of posed acknowledgement, then beckoned for his car door to be opened.

"In you go," he said to her, as if that were not somehow the most ludicrous statement he'd ever uttered, but rather than cause a scene, Hermione numbly made her way inside, ignoring the fact that the crowd had doubled—if not more—from its usual size.

Draco entered on the opposite side of the car, nodding to his security team, and gestured for the driver. "People are watching," he warned as they pulled away from her office, "so unfortunately I can't greet you quite the way I'd like to." He glanced at her, half-smiling. "Which, by the way," he murmured softly, "you'd be scandalized to hear in detail."

"What are you doing?" she asked him, not bothering to soften her bewilderment before confronting him with it. "It's one thing to make a visit to my office, but this—"

"I told you," he said firmly. "It's my job to protect you, to keep you safe. If my father prefers to deny your existence rather than provide you the necessary defense of royal protection, then you'll have mine," he said, gesturing around to the full security detail he'd brought with him. "If that means taking you to work and back whenever I'm in London, so be it. He can deal with that however he likes."

She pushed aside the usual argument; that she didn't need protecting, that she could take care of herself, that everything was fine. She didn't feel up for admitting it had only been two weeks and already she found the attention thoroughly exhausting, but neither did she plan to deny it.

Besides, this wasn't someone who'd take advantage of her weaknesses. Hadn't he proven that often enough? Instead, she shared a bit of rawer truth, reminding him quietly, "You can't always be here, Draco."

At that, he turned to look at her. "I know," he said, equally solemn. "But for as long as I am, believe me, I'm not abandoning you."

She blinked at him, a little ache of gratitude filling her chest.

Then she blinked again.

And a third time.

"Just out of curiosity," she said tentatively, "what would happen if I—um." She swallowed. "If I… married you? What would it be like, I mean," she hurried to clarify, though she doubted that helped.

In answer, she caught the smallest trace of surprise on his face.

"Well," he said slowly, "you would join me for most of my royal duties." He leaned his head back, considering it with a half-smile. "We'd travel the world together. Attend state functions together. You'd have your own patronage, of course," he assured her, "whatever you wished to focus your attention on. You'd have your signature causes, and I'd have mine. But," he murmured, sliding his hand across the seat between them to let his pinky linger comfortingly beside hers, "we'd do our separate things together. If you wanted." He glanced down, stroking the tips of his fingers over her knuckles. "And that's just the beginning, of course. Which is to say nothing of what could follow."

She remembered his comment about a little girl with curly hair and faltered a moment, lost in a hazy glimpse of his future.

Theo was right, she realized. Prince Draco of Wales wasn't a job.

He was a lifetime.

They pulled up to her building and he glanced around through the car window, scrutinizing the scene. "Better," he said, more to himself than to her, then turned his attention back to their conversation. "I'm quite positive I'll be expected back home shortly," he said, the expression on his face still hesitant. "I don't think I'll make it to Theo's birthday dinner, but if the lecture lasts as long as I suspect it will," he playfully lamented, "promise you won't forget me, will you?"

She wished they were somewhere other than inside a car that was being watched by photographers. Short of disrobing him to show her appreciation in some preferable (albeit moderately profane) way, she touched the snake ring on her finger.

"I know," he said, mouth quirking warmly. "Me too."

And when she smiled for the photographers, she knew—for once—it was genuine.

"Well, you look atrocious," Pansy said, tossing the newspaper at Hermione as they gathered that evening for Fleur's celebration for Theo, a dinner (much more appropriate than a surprise party) which had them imbibing casually in the back room of a Diagon pub. "Would it kill you to try something less drab than olive?"

From Theo, sniffing his agreement: "Yes, I thought we agreed you'd bring back aubergine. You know how it suits my autumn complexion."

From Blaise, outraged: "MINUS FIVE. Theodore, you're a winter and you know it."

From Daphne, with a scoff: "Clearly you've never seen Nott in a lovely marigold—and Pansy, olive is not drab, it's chic."

Pansy, lips pursed: "Not the way Hermione's wearing it."

Daphne: "Well, fine, but still. Don't make absurd generalizations."

From Hermione, drily: "So comforting, thank you both."

From Fleur, with a cooing sympathy: "I like your taste, Hermione, it's very practical. You're a woman in the workplace, like so many others. It's very accessible."

Pansy: "Yes. Also accessible? Mediocrity."

Hermione, sighing: "Again, thank you."

Pansy, sniffing: "You're welcome."

Fleur, with furiously endearing warmth: "I think Hermione's doing a wonderful job handling this. It can be very difficult, you know, all the attention. I frequently made unwise choices when my father was elected."

From Neville, hesitantly skeptical: "I know we don't know each other well, but I find that difficult to believe."

Theo, with a sly grin: "What Longbottom means is you're a filthy liar, Delacour."

Hermione, with a shake of her head: "I'm with Theo on this one. I've never seen any evidence of a misstep."

Fleur, stoically: "I was not always responsible with my shoe choices. At times, my ankles looked… too delicate."

Daphne, sipping her beer with a shake of her head: "Has anyone ever tried to assassinate you? Just curious."

Fleur, shrugging: "Well, as my father always says, no one's anyone until someone wants you dead. Though, for the record, it sounds much more violent in French."

Blaise, with boisterous approval followed by bemusement: "Twenty points! You don't even need them, but have them anyway."

Fleur: "I have simply no place for them, Blaise, but thank you. I'll cherish the sentiment."

Pansy, visibly impressed: "Did you just try to return the points? Incredible."

Hermione, mockingly aghast: "That sounds suspiciously like approval, doesn't it?"

Pansy, blithely returning her attention to the newspaper: "And if the olive wasn't bad enough, let's discuss the issue of these pleats—"

Neville, attempting something Hermione estimated to be support: "It's retro, isn't it? Or vintage? One of those."

Pansy, making a face: "Please don't."

Blaise, disinterestedly: "Yes, don't, Longbottom, we're already floundering in a sea of ineptitude. No need to worsen the situation."

Daphne, leaning towards Hermione: "Actually, I like the pleated skirt. I thought the overall effect was quite darling, really. Very Oxbridge mod."

Hermione, with a frown: "Why are you whispering?"

Daphne, with a hiss: "Because I don't want to die, Hermione!"

Pansy, loudly: "I can hear you, Daphne."

Daphne, groaning: "BALLS."

Theo: "I personally don't care what California wears—"

Hermione: "Thank you, Theo."

Theo: "—so much as I'm deeply concerned about the state of her hair."

Pansy, remembering: "OH, THE HAIR—"

Hermione, with a growl: "Gratitude firmly retracted."

Theo: a shameless smile, which he doused with a sip of Daphne's beer.

Daphne: "Excuse me?"

Theo: "No need to beg, Greengrass."

Daphne, arching a brow: "...I didn't say I begged your pardon, Nott."

Theo, smugly: "We all knew what you meant."

Blaise, thoughtfully: "I personally think New Tracey has excellent hair."

Hermione, surprised: "Blaise, that's—"

Blaise: "It's imposing, like a distinguished mustache."

Hermione, rapidly wilting: "—never mind."

Theo, lifting Daphne's glass for a toast: "Well, overall I like California as a fashion icon. Perhaps she'll bring about incurable bookishness as a trend, eh?"

Blaise, complying with a clink between his glass and Theo's: "True! Think of all the young bespectacled girls who will come of age during the dawn of a new swotty idol—"

Hermione, frowning: "I don't wear glasses, Blaise."

Blaise, dismayed: "What? Minus ten, as you should clearly start—"

Abruptly, they all broke off as their phones went off in unison, with the exception of Hermione's, Fleur's, and Neville's.

"Oh," Daphne said, chewing her lip.

"Oh," Pansy said with a scowl.

"Oof," said Blaise, grimacing.

"WHAT?" demanded Hermione, and the others looked up.

"Slughorn," Theo supplied, and as he said it, Hermione's phone buzzed with a text from Draco.

Can't talk right now, but just so you know, it said, followed by a link to the terrible combination of the title HERMIONE GRANGER'S HOGWARTS PROFESSOR TELLS ALL and the unfortunate name Hermione had so quickly learned to dread: Rita Skeeter.

Briefly, there was a low hum of silence, followed by Neville awkwardly clearing his throat.

"We should drink more," Theo suggested, and Hermione nodded firmly, reaching forward for her glass.

"Yes," she agreed, putting her phone away as Daphne gave her a sympathetic glance across the table, snatching her glass back from Theo.

It seemed they were in complete agreement: Bad news could wait until later.

"This," Hermione said, "is future Hermione's problem."

"Hear, hear," they offered in unison, all raising their glasses and toasting the collective misfortunes of the morning.

Funny, isn't it, that the 'Hermione Effect' refers to fashion and not, as it probably should, to accidentally inciting discourse about the destruction of the monarchy? I suppose I have Luna Lovegood to thank for that.

But that, of course, is what comes next, and personally, I make it my business never to cross bridges until I get to them.

a/n: Sorry this was late! Stomach bug causing me problems, plus I dismantled this chapter twice (pain face). For future reference, if you're ever wondering where an update is and there's no warning about it in the previous author's note, chances are I've posted about it on my tumblr. Lastly, Amortentia now contains the dramione I wrote for Little Chmura's birthday, and if you're in the States, have a happy Thanksgiving!