Chapter 21: Favor

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Tentative Missteps

While Hermione has certainly come to fit quite comfortably into her role as Prince Draco's consort, her initial ascendance as a public figure was plagued by unfortunate timing and controversial missteps. Perhaps the most telling blemish on Hermione's record of indecencies to date has been the publishing of an academic paper in the autumn of 2012, a minor but encapsulating misstep that includes the entire spectrum of difficulties facing her role as an entrant to the British Royal Family. Considered by some to be a scathing call to arms against classism—and indeed, monarchism—in Britain, the paper, entitled, "The Chambermaid's Tale: Social Commentary in Literature by England's Lower Class," was and continues to be the most broadly reviewed piece ever published in the Hogwarts University scholarly journal.

Hermione's relationship with Prince Draco suffered a brief but excoriating blow when she faced criticism for her leftist commentary, which coincidentally arose during a period of mounting scrutiny for the royal family. At the time, nearly a quarter of the United Kingdom expressed the belief that the monarchy no longer had a place in modern politics. The lowest support for the monarchy ever recorded, Hermione's article seemed to kindle (to near-disastrous effect) the argument that citizens of Britain would be better served by a Republic. However, the publishing of a brief but surprisingly impactful editorial by the little-known and, until then, scarcely credible e-magazine The Quibbler prompted a surprising tide in Hermione's favour. A young upstart journalist who'd been unknown up to that point* praised the American for her activism, successfully shifting the conversation from classism on a political scale to the more broadly-accepted topic of feminism in literature.

*Misattributed as Loony Lovegood, later retracted and edited.

Luna Lovegood may have only been given a footnote in Rita's coverage, but she was an integral piece of my story. Here's a little tidbit from her article that Rita didn't feel up for sharing (understandably, given that it's much more sane and neglects to mention either my hair or my posture):

Over the past few weeks, it has come to the world's attention that Hermione Granger, the American known most recently for owning a lovely pair of emerald earrings, published an academic article in the Hogwarts Review. "For shame," writes Rita Skeeter, a very loud member of the Daily Prophet who appears to wish shame upon many, "That a woman who hopes to endear herself to the people of this proud kingdom would have the audacity to vilify the very institution which permits her unparalleled privilege. First galas and jewels, then holidays in France; how does the woman sleep at night?"

I have not personally spoken to Hermione Granger, but I imagine she sleeps rather well; particularly if she is reading the articles written by Rita Skeeter, which are suitably monotonous for an excellent night's rest. I also find it quite interesting that so many people oppose Miss Granger's fairly undisputed position that English literature reflects a timeless frustration with classism and social power. Is it because she's American writing about the English? Or is it simply because she's a woman writing about women? Perhaps this is a paradox, a circle that has no end and no beginning, but as a woman in journalism myself, I suspect it is rather uncomplicated.

Say what you will about Luna Lovegood—whose other work, outside of the articles she wrote about me, mostly include sightings of mythological creatures and a few conspiracy theories about the Prime Minister secretly having his opponents baked in pies and dropped off buildings (which, frankly, sounds unlikely, though I've heard crazier things)—but she has quite a forking magnificent way of getting right to the point.

February 2, 2013
London, England

"Obviously," Lucius said tersely, "the time for preventative action is long passed. The timing between your respective bouts of irresponsibility is disastrous," he said, shooting a glance at Draco, first, and then Hermione, "but clearly, something must be done in mitigation of this… newest abhorrence."

"Oh, come now, Lucius, abhorrence? A bit dramatic," said the unfortunate (and unexplained) presence of Theo's father Nott Sr, who seemed unnaturally high-spirited. It was unclear whether that was solely because he was admonishing Draco and Hermione or because he took some additional gratification in making Lucius exceedingly uncomfortable. Either way, he was a natural antagonist, and Hermione was relieved she was no longer facing him alone.

"Fine," Lucius said tightly, "this… unsavory sequence of events."

"Better," said Nott, and Hermione sighed, leaning forward.

"I understand that this isn't ideal," she said, "but I think everyone's really blowing this out of proportion. It's a scholarly article," she reminded Lucius, who pursed his lips, indifferent to the distinction. "It's hardly some editorial about my personal feelings on the monarchy. Everything contained in that paper is supported by evidence. It's entirely neutral, and it certainly has hardly any bearing on my personal relation to your family—"

"'Hardly any'?" Lucius echoed, scoffing. "The entire resolution of the paper's argument was to position literary commentary against a monarch who is very much alive, Miss Granger—and who was gracious enough to permit your presence over the holidays, might I add."

A ludicrous argument, though she suspected Draco wouldn't particularly want her to put it in those terms. "Sir," she attempted, the words slightly gnashed between her teeth, "I hardly think that as a literary scholar, I could somehow preclude works of literature that criticize politics. There's no such thing as uncontroversial art," she insisted. "My feelings on His Majesty as Draco's grandfather have absolutely nothing to do with my thoughts on him as a political figure, but you can't expect me to ignore them! He can declare war, sign bills into law, remove elected officials," she rattled off in something of an uncontained ramble, "and for heaven's sake, aren't those political tasks? The commander-in-chief of your armed forces can hardly be above scrutiny!"

Lucius and Nott Sr exchanged disconcerting glances in the same moment that Draco's hand slid out, resting lightly on her knee; Too much, the contact provided with his specific brand of diplomatic ease, and she grimaced, rapidly backstepping.

"I just meant," she said with painstaking slowness, "that it shouldn't be a scandal merely to have thoughts. I never stated any personal opinions," she added. "I simply provided evidence of social commentary, but I didn't claim any of them as my own."

"It doesn't matter what you said," Nott said, cutting Lucius off before he could speak. "The fact that it was you who said it is damning enough, Miss Granger. Did it not occur to you to submit it to the Palace for approval before it was published?"

"Surely you cannot expect me to permit you to speak publicly on your relationship now," Lucius added, tiring of lecturing Hermione for the brief reprieve of turning to Draco. "The press is calling her some sort of anti-monarchist, left-wing sympathizer, and at this point, for the two of you to be linked—"

"We are linked," Draco said impatiently, his hand tightening on Hermione's leg. "She's being hounded by the press every day, Father! You should have seen the crowds outside her office—"

"Speaking of which," Lucius interrupted, "under no circumstances are you to repeat another episode of yesterday's outrageous display of impudence. Your grandfather and I had never even heard of… whatever this Transfiguration nonsense is," he sputtered, waving a hand at Hermione. "Can you imagine, then, the grievance of being forced to publicly support it, uninformed, purely to spare you any indignity?"

"Be that as it may, I'm going to keep doing it, Father, until you allow me to formally acknowledge Hermione." On that, Draco was firm. "At the very least," he urged Lucius, "let me make a statement to the press. I can't simply leave her to fend for herself," he insisted. "After what happened to Mother, you can't expect me t-"

"That," Lucius cut in sharply, "is a private matter."

"Well, I'm sorry to tell you, Father, but Nott almost certainly knows anything Grandfather does," Draco said impatiently, waving a hand as the elder Theodore eyed his fingernails with a self-satisfied look of impassivity, "and I certainly don't make a habit of keeping things from Hermione, so—"

"Your mother is not presently at issue," Lucius said, dismissing him. "In fact—"

"Well, she's not not at issue," Nott remarked, glancing imperiously up from his nail beds. "After all, this is so very reminiscent of your past, isn't it, Lucius?"

Draco's hand tightened so sharply on Hermione's knee she nearly had to bite down on a yelp.

"Nott," Lucius said through his teeth, "I'm trying to talk to my son."

"Yes, and it's a very valiant effort, Lucius," Nott replied, sounding bored, "but the fact of the matter is that I wouldn't be here if Abraxas considered this issue in any way handled. That," he added, "and you hardly have a leg to stand on. I suppose I haven't asked you recently," he said with a laugh, "how is Bellatrix?"

At that, Draco's grip on Hermione's leg was ironclad.

"Draco," Hermione squeaked softly, and he blinked, abruptly releasing her as Lucius' mouth stiffened, his own knuckles equally tight with tension.

"This," Lucius said, "is hardly relevant. The point stands, and I expect compliance on this matter," he said, addressing Hermione directly; the only person in the room he could hope to control, or so he seemed to think. "I have considerable sympathy for your position, Miss Granger, whether you believe so or not, but until this subsides, I must ask you to remain discreet."

Discreet. The word struck at her posture with another unpleasant blow, which to his credit, Draco seemed to feel.

"Father," Draco said, lifting his chin, "if that's the case, then—"

"You," Lucius said, fixing his son with a poorly-restrained glance of frustration, "will be joining me in India. When we return, your grandfather expects to have a conversation about whether you've reconsidered your stance on military service."

That, unlike the tiresome refrain of discretion, was uncomfortably new. "Reconsidered?" she echoed under her breath, and Draco glanced apologetically at her, opening his mouth to reassure her only to be interrupted.

"You said it yourself, Miss Granger," Nott said, looking more than a little pleased at being able to say so. "His Royal Highness will one day be commander-in-chief of the armed forces. You don't expect him to avoid it forever, do you?"

"But I thought—" Abruptly, she recalled what the others had always said about Harry being in the Royal Army; that sending the spare was a perfectly fine gamble, but the heir could hardly be put in harm's way. She hadn't expected Draco to serve, and was caught by a mix of unwelcome mental images of his various limbs being blown to bits in addition to the (very occasional, but still) stretches of time during which Harry was unreachable.

"It's unlikely I'd see combat," Draco assured her in an undertone, reaching out to place a hand on her knee again. "I'd wanted to enlist before attending Hogwarts, but of course school was necessary, and then my grandfather assigned me so many public appearances I thought it wiser to put it off so I could focus on diplomatic tasks."

Even Hermione could hear the lie. He'd clearly put it off for her, and she'd never even known it was an option. Now, though, it seemed abundantly clear his father considered it one way to keep them apart.

"Right," she said faintly, "of course."

Nott, Sr looked entirely too delighted, rising languidly to his feet.

"Well," he said, "I for one think it's a fine idea, as I've told Theodore many times. He's a lost cause, naturally," he lamented, conspiring for a moment with an unwilling Hermione. "No coordination and certainly no conception of authority, but Abraxas and I both served in the Royal Navy. Besides, now that Draco's associated with a republican abolitionist," he mused, giving Hermione a laughing gesture, "perhaps a show of patriotism will be necessary. Food for thought," he concluded spiritedly, wandering out of the room and leaving Hermione with a sullen Draco and a glowering Lucius.

"Well," Hermione ventured after a moment, finding that father and son were clearly not on speaking terms at the moment. "Always a pleasure to see him," she murmured, and Lucius' mouth tightened in perhaps the only show of acknowledgement he'd ever really given her.

"Yes," he said, voice dry and toneless. "Quite."

"Now Rita's digging into the annals of The Inquisitorial Squad? Ridiculous," Pansy sniffed, joining them for breakfast in Hermione's flat/prison cell the following day and scrolling through the latest slew of articles. "As if this Slaghorn fellow wasn't bad enough."

"How bad is the article, exactly?" Daphne called from the kitchen, glancing over at them. "Theo read it aloud, but it was difficult to follow. His impression of that professor the two of you had is really atrocious."

Oh, I oversaw her work, of course, the final product being very much the fruit of my steadfast guidance—not to boast, obviously, but of course it is my name headlining the article, so must claim some credit for its subsequent popularity!—but I must say, Hermione's tireless enthusiasm did come as some surprise. I had no idea the extent of her politicism, naturally, but who am I to deny the passion of a rising academician? A star pupil, Miss Granger, along with our Prince! Quite a set of young paramours, they were, Slughorn had gushed unhelpfully, which Theo had done an alarmingly apt recreation of aloud. It was, much to Hermione's dismay, almost identical to having the jolly professor himself in the room, and she was certain it would give her nightmares for weeks.

"It's really accurate, unfortunately," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Theodore is a gifted imitator."

"True," Daphne said. "Nott's like a very gangly, flightless parrot."

"What does Draco have to say about it?" Pansy asked, glancing up from the screen. "About any of it, I suppose."

"Oh, you mean aside from 'I promise not to die in battle'?" she asked, and Pansy pursed her lips, equally disapproving. "I think he hoped this whole thing might convince his father that the truth would be better than Rita Skeeter's fiction," Hermione sighed, "but unfortunately, Prince Lucifer disagrees."

"Well, he would, wouldn't he?" Daphne contributed, plunking down next to them with a mimosa in each hand and denying Pansy one in favor of offering it to Hermione. "His life story's been so twisted up and mangled I doubt he has any faith in truth anymore."

A valid point, albeit an unusual one. "That's surprisingly sympathetic," Hermione said, taking a sip of her mimosa as Pansy reached up, expectantly holding her hand out for the glass.

Hermione sighed, conceding, and Daphne gave her a disapproving look, ostensibly admonishing her for her deficiencies in drink ownership.

"I suppose I neglected to mention he brought it on himself," Daphne amended, and then paused, considering the contents of her glass. "Just curious, though—has Draco ever mentioned what exactly happened with the Prince of Darkness and his two Black sisters?"

"That," Pansy said with a shudder, sampling the mimosa and grimacing her opposition, "sounds like a terrible young adult fantasy series. Also, Daphne, this is entirely champagne."

"The whole concept just seems so unlikely," Daphne continued, ignoring Pansy's commentary in favor of taking another long sip. "I mean, I suppose Prince Lucifer might be considered handsome, if you're into that stuffy, unpleasant sort of thing—"

"Draco looks a lot like him if you squint," Hermione admitted, "but it's difficult to identify the similarities at first glance, or maybe that's just me." She shrugged. "I suppose Prince Lucifer's intolerable inner workings somehow manifest visibly," she suggested, and Daphne nodded, pairing her agreement with a visible shudder.

"Neville looks like his mother," Pansy remarked tangentially, staring into space for a moment before shaking the thought away. "I suppose that's why he and Augusta have so little in common. I'm told his mother was," she began, and then promptly discarded her attempt at consideration. "Weak."

"You know, I have the hardest time reconciling Neville's grandmother with the Augusta I know," Hermione said, recalling how helpful and warm she'd been as they'd worked on the luncheon. "She seems really quite… sweet," she determined, to which both Pansy and Daphne spared a scoff.

"Women of Lady Augusta Longbottom's stature are bred to have two faces," Daphne said, taking a sip and shaking her head. "Either it's breeding or it's genetic, but either way, it'd have to be passed down for generations. Why else would the upper class even exist?"

"Remember, my mother is Princess Narcissa's best friend," Pansy pointed out to Hermione, reminding her for the first time that actually felt relevant. "It's inconceivable on any level that my mother has any friends, much less a best one."

"Well, Narcissa's not exactly clawless," Hermione said, grimacing a little as she recalled their most recent conversation about the 'den of snakes' that was the royal family. "I wonder what Bellatrix is like," she added vacantly, pondering it, and in response, Pansy shoved the champagne flute back into her hand.

"You need this," she said firmly. "Your train of thought is positively collapsing into nonsense."

"Yes, I think Pansy's right about that," Daphne agreed. "By all accounts, Bellatrix is some sort of maniacal banshee you should take no particular interest in."

"According to who," Hermione began, sagely taking a sip, "...men?"

Both Pansy and Daphne seemed to acknowledge the point, but remained mostly unswayed. "The system for judgment is certainly flawed," Daphne permitted, "but seeing as Lady Bellatrix seduced her own sister's husband, she's hardly any sort of moral champion. Even if she does turn out to be a lovely moonbeam of a person," she added, sipping tartly from her glass.

"She's certainly not a proper model for behavior," Pansy said, making a face, "though I suppose I couldn't say who would be best for cultivating your public image."

"What about you two?" Hermione asked, and Daphne and Pansy exchanged a glance.

"We aren't particularly good socialites," Daphne answered Hermione as Pansy shrugged her agreement. "We're the opposite of the Bad Lads, really. Neither of us have any history of pursuing Draco, which makes us thoroughly uninteresting—"

"Nor are we aiming to be actresses, models, or lowbrow artists' muses. Despite Daphne's best efforts," Pansy murmured drily, earning herself an artless smack to the shoulder.

"And we don't particularly make any effort to be publicly recognizable," Daphne finished, as Pansy nodded firmly. "Reporters who do their research might spot us when we're out, but that's about it. You, on the other hand," she said with a studious glance at Hermione, "are about to become one of the most recognizable faces in London, if not the entire U.K."

"The world," Pansy corrected. "Soon enough, anyway. Provided this lunacy continues."

Hermione could always count on Pansy to indicate in some less than covert way that the world as she knew it could end at any moment. By that point, it was nearly comforting to hear.

"Well, I hate to say it," Daphne said with a sigh, "but my sister does have a history of winning these public battles. Actually, I'll be quite surprised if you don't hear from her soon."

"Me?" Hermione said, surprised. "Why?"

Another furtively exchanged glance.

"Think of being a socialite as a career, since you're so keen on those," Pansy remarked on their collective behalf. "Astoria's job is to remain an element of public conversation. You know, Harry also tells me Ginny's mentioned you," she added as an unsavory afterthought, shaking her head. "She, of course, only benefits from being connected to you. It keeps her relevant."

"But Ginny's an athlete," Hermione said, frowning. "She's already got a career, doesn't she? She's a soccer player."

"Ah yes," Pansy sniffed, "and those have such enduring shelf lives."

Per usual, Pansy managed to be mildly prophetic, though her service as an oracle seemed less helpful than most. The following week, while attempting to step out in Diagon, Hermione ran into none other than Ginny Weasley herself.

"Oh, Hermione," came the sound of Ginny's voice, interrupting her procession towards what would hopefully result in groceries (every now and then, the empty fridge necessitated action). Hermione, who had been looking down to avoid the cameras, glanced up with surprise, permitting Ginny to take her arm. She paused somewhat awkwardly, registering the photo-op for what it was, and then Ginny leaned forward. "Want to get dinner? Also, sorry," she said, gesturing apologetically to the cameras outside the restaurant, "but I find it's better to just acknowledge them and move along."

Draco had already expressed the same theory. "Oh, sure, I could do dinner," Hermione said brightly, headlines of UPPITY HERMIONE SNUBS BELOVED ENGLISH SPORTING QUEEN! and DOES RUBBISH AMERICAN HATE ALL THINGS BRITISH?! flashing briefly in her mind.

"Wonderful," Ginny said, smiling broadly. "I'm sure Harry would love you to join us. My brother's coming, too, but they're both notoriously prone to being late."

"Harry's joining you?" Hermione asked, though that made a bit more sense than Ginny choosing such an oddly public place to eat alone. "Good, actually. I was hoping to talk to him about something."

"Oh?" Ginny asked, taking her seat as Hermione settled herself across from her.

"Just about what it's like being in the army," Hermione explained. "I guess I never really thought to question what he did when he wasn't around." She had, actually, but he'd never technically answered. Now that Draco was involved in the conversation, though, she figured he could be more easily compelled to share.

"Ah," Ginny acknowledged, considering it for a moment. Either it was Hermione's imagination, or a brief shadow had fallen across her face, but all she said was, "Yes, I suppose it would be interesting to hear."

She settled her napkin in her lap, clearly not planning to elaborate, but while Hermione was stretching the limits of her imagination to come up with a topic of conversation, someone had already paused beside their table. "My god, Ginevra, is that you?"

Ginny looked up, delighted. "Cormac!" she exclaimed, rising to her feet, and Hermione watched (and then very hastily tried not to watch) as the man kissed Ginny full on the lips, greeting her with a small growl and a light smack to what Hermione's astonished brain could only think to call her derriére. "Stop," Ginny said, rolling her eyes and giving him a shove. "I told you, none of that."

"Next week, then?" the man called Cormac asked with a gleeful purse of his lips, and then he glanced at Hermione, somehow managing to notice her amid his whirlwind greeting. "Oh, hello."

"Hi," Hermione attempted, surely sounding somewhat strained, but Cormac had already turned his attention back to Ginny.

"Let me know when you're back, then," he said, and Ginny nudged him away, demurring with something about how he was so very bad and a nod, falling briskly into her seat. "It's been too long!" Cormac finally declared, sparing her a rousing air kiss, and then he bounded away after his friends, exiting the restaurant and leaving Hermione to stare at her glass, hoping nothing read on her face.

No such luck. "I know what you're thinking," Ginny said neutrally, "but it's really nothing. And anyway, it's not as if I don't know what Harry's like," she added, brushing some invisible speck of dust away from her sweater.

Hermione looked up, frowning. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, come on, Hermione," Ginny sighed, shaking her head. "You think I don't know how Harry is? He blows hot, he blows cold." She shrugged. "I date other people from time to time, and so does he. Besides," she added, sitting back against her chair, "he's always much more attentive when he knows I'm not simply waiting around for him."

"I—" Hermione wasn't entirely sure what to say. "I don't think he's like that."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?" Ginny asked, glancing up at her with her guileless look of neutrality.

That, Hermione thought, felt like a trap. "Harry and I are friends."

"Oh, of course you are," Ginny agreed, somewhat disingenuously. "But if you and Dr-" She broke off, catching herself and leaning forward, dropping her voice. "If you and Draco ever split up," she said in an undertone, "do you really think Harry would settle for being your friend, Hermione?"

Hermione blinked, taken aback. "I don't," she began, and cleared her throat. "It's really not like that between us."

That, too, was met with a shrug. "In any case," Ginny said, "I wouldn't worry about Draco's absences, if that was your concern. You don't worry about them now, do you?" she asked with a knowing glance, and in answer, Hermione struggled to hide a grimace. She didn't, but that didn't feel like something to boast about at the moment.

"Harry's really not, you know… the scoundrel that everyone makes him out to be," Hermione said firmly. "It's all part of an act, really."

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence. Overhead, the song Rumour Has It by Adele was playing softly and ironically.

"Well," Ginny said tightly, "you must be very lucky, then, to see the real thing."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue—with what ammunition, she wasn't entirely sure—but just as quickly, Harry and Ginny's brother Ron had arrived, bounding into the restaurant with a gleam from the flashing cameras behind them.

"Ah, Hermione," Harry said, brightening with surprise at the sight of her and bending to kiss her cheek. "I wasn't expecting you to join us. You remember Ron, don't you?"

"Of course," Hermione said, nodding to the lanky redhead who spared her a nod in return, taking the seat on her right. "It was sort of a spur of the moment thing," Hermione added in explanation, trying not to follow the motion of Harry slinging an arm around Ginny's chair.

"Well, hope we're not too late," Harry said, glancing at Ginny. "What were you two talking about?"

"Oh, nothing much. How to escape all this constant scrutiny," Ginny said, waving a hand in reference to the photographers outside and shrugging. "I was telling Hermione I often find that some time away does me some good."

"That's true," Harry said, looking up at Hermione with his broad, roguish smile. "Very refreshing, distance," he said with a wink, lips curling up at the corners in reference to something Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to consider after having such an unnerving chat with Ginny.

"You know, not all of us can just run off whenever we feel like it," Ron said, rolling his eyes at both his sister and her sort-of princely, kind-of boyfriend. "Some of us have, what's it… jobs?" he joked drily. "Obligations? Responsibility ringing a bell, perhaps?"

"Never heard of her," Harry said with a grin, "but give her my number. You know," he said, transitioning with ease to face Hermione, "maybe you should take Fleur up on that trip to Paris she's always offering. Nott mentioned he was thinking of going to visit her, wasn't he? You could join him."

That, unlike everything else that had been said thus far, was actually a welcome suggestion. "That's an idea," Hermione said, considering it. It wasn't an impossibility, and Fleur had certainly mentioned it more than once. She made a note to herself to discuss it with Daphne when she returned home (sans groceries, unfortunately) and returned her attention to the prospect of dinner conversation.

Much to her relief, Ron and Harry were happy to spend the majority of the time detailing their various harrowing misadventures, nearly all of which involved Harry narrowly escaping something while Ron got grievously injured. (One in particular involved a 'flying' car from Surrey, though she wasn't sure how literal they were being.) Hermione gradually relaxed, forgetting entirely about her conversation with Ginny until Harry paused her, gingerly taking her arm to hold her back before they exited the restaurant.

"I can take you home," Harry said in a low voice, "if you want. It's no trouble."

"Oh, Harry, um." She glanced ahead to where Ginny was waiting with her brother, then felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. "You know, that's probably Draco," she said, conjuring something like a smile, "so I'll just chat with him on my way home."

Harry nodded, amiable as always. "Alright, then, if you're sure." He leaned forward to brush his lips against her cheek, that faint scent of jasmine tickling the reaches of her memory. "See you soon," he assured her, stepping out into the cold after Ron and Ginny, and she nodded, watching him go, before digging her phone out of her pocket.

"Hello?"

"What've you got under that coat, Miss Granger? If the answer is nothing, you'll make a certain prince of the realm very, very happy."

She laughed. "Are you drunk?"

"Only a little. Been ages, I'm all out of practice, and more importantly, you look positively ravishing in whatever that monstrosity is you've got on."

"Oh, good lord," she sighed, shaking her head. "Have pictures gone up already?"

"Yes. Look at you, you look positively freezing. All pink-cheeked and glorious—"

"You," she said with a laugh, "sound ridiculous."

"—sumptuous, even—"

"Are you talking about me, or a cake?"

"Hard to tell in this coat, but I think it's you. I'm about ninety-percent positive, but then again, I have had two entire glasses of wine."

"Oh, ha ha, very funny. Make fun of the girl from California, why don't you? It's all polka dot bikinis until the snow falls."

He laughed, hiccuping softly. "Buggering—" Another hiccup. "Balls."

She hid a laugh in her gloved hand. "What?"

"I don't know." He sighed heavily, letting out a groan that ended with, "I miss you. It's total, bollocky rubbish how much I miss you."

She smiled into the receiver, pausing on the sidewalk to listen to the sounds of him getting into bed. "It's the most rubbish, I agree. Put it in the bins."

"Put it in the bins!" he agreed.

"Take it into the lift—"

"The lift," he said approvingly.

"—grab some petrol, head to the loo with some blokes—"

"You're so good at this. I'm so proud."

"—and put all the rubbish in the bins," she finished, before adding with a smile, "Oh, and by the way, I miss you, too."

"Good." His voice was muffled into the pillow now. "Tell me about your day."

"Why, to put you to sleep?"

"If I wanted that, Miss Granger, I'd ask you about the death of the monarchy."

She groaned. "Oh, come on, you can't be serious—"

He gave a delighted, hiccupy laugh. "Sorry, sorry. Start from the beginning."

"Okay. I woke up," she said, and he made a brisk sound of approval. "Brushed my teeth, starting with my molars and working my way forward—"

"Perfect," he informed her, sounding rousingly content. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Talking Daphne into a trip to Paris was never going to be a problem, which was a relief, both because Pansy declined ("Escapism is for fools and children, and besides, I'm very busy trying to seduce Neville into expensive jewelry and/or lifelong commitment") and because Hermione's article seemed to have had the astonishing effect of prompting not only continued criticism against her, but also extended conversations about the function of the monarchy. Most of these articles were paired with images of Draco and Lucius standing together, and Hermione found it quite alarming how easily public opinion could be swayed. The initial buzz of approval following Draco's speech at his grandfather's gala had been swept away, leaving behind ashy headlines that questioned how different he really was from his father.

"Don't even think about any of it," Fleur said firmly, having invited them all to stay at her Paris residence. "While you're here, you're simply my guests, and I cannot permit anything less than total enjoyment."

Fleur was, unsurprisingly, a wonderful hostess. The itinerary for their forty-eight hours in Paris involved activities seemingly intended for the perfect girls' weekend; a broad variety of food, fashion, and culture, all of which was attended cheerfully and without complaint by Theo. He had no opposition to shopping (and more importantly, did not oppose numerous 'meals' consisting entirely of cheese and pastries) and was perfectly comfortable attending the opening for one of Fleur's artist friends (a name Hermione had never heard but which had made Daphne gasp with excitement). Hermione supposed she regularly forgot how refined Theo's education was, but there must have been a reason he gravitated towards women with interests in the arts.

He and Daphne were arguing about some question of symbolism when Fleur sidled up to Hermione, chuckling into her champagne. "You know," she remarked, "all men have a taste for beauty, but only Theo tries to understand it." She took a sip, shaking her head affectionately as she watched Theo's arms flail in his insistence, then transferred her glance to Daphne, something burrowing very subtly into her brow. "She seems different."

"Daphne?" Hermione asked, and Fleur nodded.

"She seems… happy, does she not? Though, I suppose when I first met her she was very noticeably not." Fleur took another sip, contemplating both of them from afar. "Has something changed?"

"Well, um. Yes," Hermione said, "I think." She cleared her throat, fidgeting with her glass, before launching into, "By the way, this is all really wonderful, and thank you so much for—"

"Hermione," Fleur said with a laugh, "you can tell me, you know. Whatever it is." She turned to Hermione, looking at her with a subtle half-smile. "Though, I suppose you all have so many secrets. It's charming, really."

She sounded a little wistful, and Hermione felt a pang of guilt.

"Well, she's working on something now," Hermione explained. "So I think she's, you know. Busy. She was always happiest at school when she was working on something," she added. "I think it's important for her to do something creative."

"What's she working on?" Fleur asked, which Hermione supposed she should have known would be the inevitable follow-up.

"Well—" Hermione chewed her lip lightly. "Don't tell anyone," she said, and Fleur turned to her with a grateful smile. "She's working on a blog."

She'd been pretty sure Fleur was a safe audience for a vague revelation, and was pleased to see her instincts had been right.

"Is she?" Fleur asked, nodding with approval. "That's quite perfect."

"Yeah, she's enjoying it," Hermione said. "She's always been such a good artist, and then with her interests in fashion, it's just—" She shrugged. "It's perfect, you're right. That's exactly what it is."

"She has so much potential," Fleur said, managing—in her effortless way—to be supportive rather than patronizing. "The way she redesigned that Dior of yours? Flawless." She tapped her glass, considering something. "I wonder if I could get her to design me something original."

Hermione stifled a laugh at the idea that Daphne would refuse. "Well, she'd never say so, but it would mean everything to her, I'm sure," she said. "It's funny, she's always caught halfway between rebellion. If someone like you asked, I think she'd finally put both feet in the water, you know what I mean?"

"I do," Fleur said thoughtfully, murmuring it to herself.

They ended their first night in Paris with a nightcap back at Fleur's surprisingly whimsical flat (a mostly airy space which looked, much to Hermione's terrible envy, like the inside of an Anthropologie, only with a Ralph Lauren-esque devotion to nautical palettes amid a collection of strange and fascinating hanging terrariums) and were discussing whether or not Theo had any discernible taste when Hermione's phone buzzed with a phone call.

"Hello?"

"I do hope you've been taking it easy on the carbs."

Hermione glanced down at her plate of brie. "Hi, Pans."

"You haven't, have you? Just as well. I thought you might like to know that as it turns out, Henry is fully literate. A surprise to us all, of course, knowing how dearly he prefers his more rigorous recreational hobbies—"

"Who is it?" Daphne asked, just as someone took the phone from Pansy.

"Pans, give me that—Hermione?" asked Harry's voice.

"Hi, Harry," Hermione said, glancing at Daphne, who waved. "Congratulations, I think? Daphne says hi."

"Don't tell him I say hello," Theo advised. "Everyone knows Henry loves the chase."

"Well, what Lady Parkinson so unhelpfully didn't tell you—no, come on, Pans, please don't—"

"Hermione," said Pansy's voice firmly, having resumed authority of the phone, "have you ever heard of The Quibbler?"

"The Quibbler?" Hermione echoed blankly, and across from her, Theo scoffed.

"Isn't that the website full of conspiracy theories?" Theo said.

"Theo says it's full of conspiracy theories," Hermione replied dutifully into the receiver, and heard a loud groan as Harry must have taken the phone back from Pansy.

"—told you, you have to preface it—look, okay, yes, it's this outrageous magazine full of nonsense," said Harry, "which I happen to enjoy reading ever since they published an article about how my godfather was secretly some sort of Irish folk guitarist—"

"Oh yes, Stubby Boardman," Theo suddenly recalled. "I'd forgotten, Harry loves The Quibbler. We thought it was like The Onion at first," he explained to Daphne and Fleur. "You know, satirical? But it's entirely genuine, which suits his particular brand of absurdism quite nicely. He positively lusts after candor."

"I can hear Nott talking," Harry said, "and like usual, just ignore him."

"Okay," Hermione said, stifling a laugh. "So what's the deal with The Quibbler?"

"Well, my favorite articles are the ones by Luna Lovegood—who I assumed was completely mad, seeing as her last three articles were about things that definitely don't exist—"

"What, like the Loch Ness Monster?"

"No, weirder, like whatever a crumple-horned snorkack is—but anyway, the point is, she just wrote an article about you."

There it was again, Hermione sighed internally. Just when she'd so successfully avoided it an entire day. "Oh?"

"Yes, but before you go off making that moon-eyed sad face—"

"I don't have one of those!"

"Yes, actually, you do—"

"Harry," Pansy's voice sighed, "would you kindly drag yourself to a point? This is outrageously dull."

"Where's Neville?" Hermione said, frowning. "I thought that's why Pansy stayed behind."

Harry groaned. "Don't ask," he muttered, followed by a grunt of indignation and then the sound of Pansy's voice.

"Let me just say," she announced, "one cannot simply abandon plans without warning. Is it so unreasonable that I might have some expectation to be informed of circumstantial changes in advance before being flung into the wild oscillations of his whims?"

"No," Hermione said, fighting a laugh. "Sounds perfectly reasonable, Pans."

"I detest tardiness. And changes of plan. And when people are difficult to reach. And I'm not overly thrilled about what this weather is doing to my skin. And after Neville had whatever silly reason he had to cancel, Blaise decided to waltz directly into one of his incurable bouts of mystery—"

"Pardon me, Lady Sunshine," Harry's voice growled, returning to the vicinity of the receiver just briefly enough for Hermione to hear them arguing.

"Henry, please contain yourself," Pansy's voice said, followed by a yelp Hermione had never heard her make. "Have you lost your mind? We're not children anymore, no one has the energy for this, and besides that, I always win—"

"Oh please, you've never won in your- OUCH—"

"Hello?" Hermione asked, amused, and Pansy (of course) won out.

"The point is you should read the article," she said flatly. "We have to go, Harry's got an open wound. Try not to overindulge while you're there, and tell Daphne not to do anything stupid."

"Wait a minute, what's going on with Harry?"

"Oh, it's only a scratch, don't be hysterical—"

"You stabbed me!"

"Hello?" Hermione said again, and the line went dead, leaving her to eye the phone with a shake of her head. "Well, that was… enlightening, I suppose—"

"I assume they were talking about this article?" Fleur said, handing Hermione her laptop. "It's actually quite good. Certainly makes you look reasonable and, dare I say, rather less interested in the destruction of the empire than Rita Skeeter seems to think."

"What? I want to see," Daphne said, crawling over to Hermione's left as Theo hovered on her right, the two of them resting their chins on her shoulder as all three read quietly.

After about five minutes, all of them suitably well-informed, Daphne and Theo leaned away.

"Well," Theo said, "whoever this lunatic is, she's much smarter than Rita Skeeter. Or at least much less willing to lie."

"It's too bad this isn't the article everyone's talking about," Daphne said, frowning. "It really paints you quite favorably, doesn't it?"

It did. Not even favorably, actually, because it was largely impersonal and made almost no reference to Hermione herself, but the editorial had handled her research with a respectful, impartial ambivalence. It was, unlike all other coverage about Hermione's possible motives, a purely intellectual breakdown of the argument made by the article, disregarding Hermione's personal connection to the British royal family and instead praising the effort paid to bolstering marginalized voices in literature—which was, after all, precisely what Hermione had always intended the article to signify. Lovegood did end by suggesting that if Draco was actually involved with Hermione, that was probably a good thing (as Hermione 'seemed to be quite clever and certainly attentive to citations'), but outside of that, she'd spared little consideration for who Hermione was.

Hermione got a buzz from her phone; this time an approving text message from Draco saying Harry had told him to read it. It was followed by a screenshot of Harry sending a picture of his 'stab wound,' which did in fact appear to be a scratch (though the circumstances under which he got it remained understandably worrisome).

"Draco seems to like it, too," Hermione said, looking up from the text. "He said it's too bad it's from such an unreliable source, or he'd suggest it to his father."

"Well," Fleur said thoughtfully, "even if it were reputable, telling people to read something is never very effective, is it?"

"True," Hermione said with a little huff of a laugh. "Telling people not to would be much more effective, though I hardly know how that would work."

Briefly—so briefly she thought she imagined it—Daphne and Theo exchanged a glance.

"What a silly idea," Daphne said, and Theo scoffed.

"For once, Greengrass, we agree," he said, reaching over to steal a bite of brie from her plate.

In retrospect, it was no surprise to Hermione when she woke, dehydrated from overconsumption of Fleur's excellent selection of wine, to find Daphne and Theo whispering together on the floor of the living room. They were both wearing their versions of pajamas (Theo in an Eton t-shirt and boxers, Daphne in an oversized cashmere sweater and leggings) and glanced up at Hermione's entrance with abruptly guilt-stricken expressions before Daphne hastily hid her laptop behind her back.

"What," Hermione sighed, "are you two doing?"

"Nothing," they said in unison, and Hermione rolled her eyes, holding out her hand for the laptop.

"No," Daphne said stubbornly. "You're not our mum."

"Yeah," Theo fiercely agreed, and Hermione groaned.

"Just tell me," she informed them, plopping down on the floor and abandoning her search for a glass of water in favor of whatever mystery was at hand. "I already know you're up to something. You know," she added, "on account of my not being an idiot."

They exchanged glances, communicating with a wordless bout of bickering, and then, after a quick game of rock, paper, scissors (Daphne's paper covering Theo's rock) Theo turned to Hermione, raking a hand through hair so tousled he nearly resembled Harry.

"Okay, well, remember that thing we told you to forget about?" Theo asked tentatively. "When we, ah. Supplied Rita Skeeter with an anonymous tip?"

Ah, yes. Spreading the rumor about Narcissa's illness so that Lucius would be forced to invite her in public.

"I have no idea what you mean," Hermione confirmed with a nod.

"Right, well… we stayed in contact with her," Theo said, unable to prevent a grin. "We feed her tips every now and then. She thinks we're a high-ranking official on the Palace staff," he explained, to which Daphne was obviously fighting a laugh. "I've invented a character that's part Slughorn, part Batman, part Bono from U2. We've bonded over our shared love of Adele."

"Everyone likes Adele," Hermione said reflexively, followed by, "Wait a minute, seriously?" as Daphne slipped and let out a giggle.

"Oh, relax," Theo scolded unnecessarily, artfully ruffled. "Draco doesn't know about the first one, obviously, but he knows about it now. Thinks it's brilliant, actually."

Hermione gaped at him. "Draco knows?"

"Well, it is brilliant," Daphne insisted. "The more Rita Skeeter trusts Paul, the better off you and Draco both are."

"Paul?" Hermione echoed doubtfully. "Isn't that your butler's name?"

"It's a very non-threatening name in general," Theo said, and Daphne nodded her agreement. "Call us fools if you must, but never call us unresearched."

"I—" She broke off. "Wait a minute. What are you sending her now?"

"What do you think?" Daphne sniffed, folding her arms over her chest. "Obviously that there's discord in the Palace over this article from The Quibbler."

"The entire Palace staff is positively astonished and dismayed by the indecency of this Luna Lovegood person," Theo recited in one of his caricature voices. "His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales has always intended for the royal family's privacy to remain ironclad, but this article is the lowest form of atrocity. Lovegood may as well have aired the entire family's dirty laundry in one overindulgent presumption of intimacy!"

"This can't possibly work," Hermione said, frowning, as Daphne once again muffled a laugh into her palm. "That article is obviously impersonal. Even skimming it would make it clear it doesn't contain any secrets, wouldn't it?"

"Well, if it doesn't work, it doesn't work," Theo sniffed, though he looked as if he firmly disagreed. "But still, it seems a waste not to try, doesn't it?"

Daphne managed a reprieve from her laughter to swipe at her eyes, glancing up at Hermione. "You said it yourself, you know," she reminded her, sobering just enough to deliver a snotty bit of wisdom. "What better way to make everyone read something than by telling them Prince Lucifer doesn't want them to read it?"

Hermione, whose head had started to hurt (either a consequence of wine or the intensifying pressures of morality) let out a sigh, shaking her head and rising to her feet.

"I'm going back to sleep," she said, ambling down the hall. "Just… try not to break anything."

"Like the monarchy?" Theo called after her, grinning.

"Shut up," Hermione grumbled, throwing it over her shoulder, "but yes."

The rest of the trip was a success, complete with a tired but cheerfully bantering Theo and Daphne, and by the time they returned to London, Hermione did feel successfully refreshed. Things, it seemed, were looking up, or at least elsewhere—particularly by Monday, when Rita Skeeter publicly denounced Luna Lovegood's article.

By Tuesday, snippets from the The Quibbler began appearing on the internet; some of it was clickbait—Ten things you never knew about Prince Draco's American girlfriend (including pricelessly private information, such as, "her parents are dentists," "she went to Hogwarts," and "she's from California")—but some of it was, like Luna's editorial, contributing to the argument that Hermione's focus on socially impactful literature written by marginalized sources was conducive to public conversation.

By Wednesday, even Oliver—whom Hermione had not known could sit still long enough for the length of any article, much less two—had finagled his phone into reading, in its robotic voice (which Hermione could hear through his not-very-noise-canceling headphones while he paced mindlessly around the room) both Luna's editorial and Hermione's article. "You really know your shit, eh?" he shouted at her as she feigned disinterest, fighting a smile at her Excel spreadsheet while he skateboarded into the corridor and narrowly avoided colliding with Minerva.

By Thursday, Minerva herself had read the article, pausing on her way out the door beside Hermione's desk. "You know," Minerva said, "you really are a very thoughtful young woman." Before Hermione could respond with gratitude, however, Minerva had already requested a list of artists be delivered to her desk by the following morning, ending the exchange with a dry toss of, "It's too bad you're not dating Prince Draco," over her shoulder and letting the door shut behind her, a giddy sort of smile plastering itself on Hermione's face.

By Friday, Rita was back at it with another so-called complaint from the Palace about Luna Lovegood (Daphne and Theo really knew how to position things for maximum distress); though, regrettably, she was also back to discussing whether Hermione was or wasn't Draco's very serious girlfriend. Having had an extraordinarily successful week, Hermione finally permitted herself a glance at the DRAGONFLOWER blog, which despite recent events, hadn't given up hope. The latest topic was a quote from Rita's article, this time detailing the 'evidence' that the Commonwealth nations were bringing forth some sort of political bill that would ease previous religious and social restrictions on marriages in the royal line of succession. It was rumored that the 'bill,' which even had a title that sounded fake, would permit Hermione's marriage to Draco—or Fleur's marriage, if the blog was to be believed.

Alright, that's a little much, Hermione texted Theo with a laugh, sending him a screenshot of the article. Repealing the Marriage Act of 1772? Is that even a thing? Seriously, Paul didn't have to go THAT far.

She watched the little speech bubble pulse for a few seconds before his reply came in.

He didn't

She blinked. What?

Cali, came Theo's reply, that wasn't us

She stared at the screen for a moment, totally flummoxed.

But

She couldn't seem to think of more words. Theoretically, the words she wanted could have easily been something like, "but then, that means there's nothing stopping Draco from marrying me"—though, even if her religion or her birth were no longer a problem (still a bit difficult to believe, considering how long those had been unavoidable issues), she supposed there was still his father's approval to contend with.

But, then again, if Abraxas really did approve the existence of such a bill, wasn't Lucius' approval either totally irrelevant or perfectly within reach?

Her pulse quickened, Draco's name flashing on her screen before she'd thought of what to say.

"Hello?"

"I'm home." His voice was crystalline with excitement. "Can I send for you?"

"Is there…" She broke off, clearing her throat. "Is there something you'd like to tell me? About any, oh, I don't know." She swallowed, suddenly apprehensive. Had she imagined it? Was this, like everything else, entirely false? How ironic it would be if even she had been dumb enough to fall prey to a rumor about herself. "Has there been any recent political news?"

He let a little laugh slip; she managed to choke out something similar. "You saw, then? It still has to pass through both Houses of Parliament," he informed her. "Then it can receive royal approval."

"Yeah… no, I know." She felt her breath catch. "But does this mean—?"

"Nothing's been done quite yet. Not yet." She was fairly sure he was trying to restrain himself. "Nothing official, but it's… it's good news, for once. It's quite promising." He seemed a little breathless. "We can talk about it later, but—" She could see him wearing that faltering expression he had when he was feeling victorious, fingers tapping at his thighs. "Can I just see you, please?"

"Yes." The word left her on a sweeping exhale. "Yes, definitely. Now, please."

He gave a low chuckle. "You've got an hour left of work, Miss Granger."

"Fine. Fine, in an hour, then. No, wait, no," she interrupted herself, "I should go home first and shower—"

"You can do that here," he said quickly. "Just be here, please. I love you." He let out a laugh. "I love you, I can't wait to see you—"

"Neither can I," she said, catching herself smiling into nothing. "Okay, let me get back to work for one more hour. I love you," she said before hurrying him to hang up, putting her phone away and refocusing (not particularly well) on her spreadsheet.

He pulled her into the bedroom the moment she set foot in his proximity, his mouth finding hers as she promptly let out a laugh, pulling away to look at him. "Someone's impatient," she noted, running the tips of her fingers over his lips, and he smiled, maneuvering her back against the post of his bed and shifting the panels of her coat.

"Oh, a bit," he murmured, dropping to brush a kiss to her neckline as he slid the coat from her shoulders, inching the hem of her shirt up to let his fingers drift over the spare inch of skin above her jeans. "It's been," he said, dropping to run his tongue lightly over the place his fingertips had been, "too long."

His hands were on her zipper, tugging it down, and she sighed, glancing down at him. "Draco," she said. "I'd like some answers first, please."

He shook his head, lips pressed to the lace of her underwear, and she caught his meandering fingers, holding them still.

"Draco," she said, more firmly this time, and he sighed, remorseful but not particularly enthused. "I have questions, you know."

"Three questions, then," he said, glancing up with a longing glance and a too-clever smirk, "and no asking for more questions. Everyone knows that's cheating."

She considered it, running her fingers through his hair as he slid her jeans over her hips and down her legs, his thumb stroking down the side of her thigh. "Your grandfather approves now, just like what? No, wait," she hurried to amend, "no, I know better, that's not how this works. You must have had to offer him something," she guessed, and he glanced guiltily up at her. "What's the deal, Draco?" she said, nudging him. "Spill it."

"The deal, my suspicious little flower, is really quite in our favor." His fingers were drifting under the lace band of her thong, dancing over her skin. "I was always going to have to do the military thing, you know. I'd always planned on it." She stiffened apprehensively at the reminder, and he dragged himself up to his feet, hands rising slowly up her waist. "I'll serve now," he said softly, lifting her chin, "so that I can be with you in the future."

She hesitated, not quite able to identify what about it was making her feel uneasy. He clearly considered it a bargain, but she wasn't so sure. "Will anything change?"

He shook his head. "Likely not. I'll still be away from time to time, but that won't be any different." His lips brushed her temple, softening to drift to her cheek. "Nothing will change, I promise." His touch, always prone to wandering, slid between her thighs. "This doesn't have to be futile anymore, Hermione, and isn't that worth it? It's a small price to pay, really."

He was right, though it remained difficult to resolve it in her head. "And your father?"

"He can think whatever he likes. I don't need his approval." He was using his princely voice, lifting his chin as she slid her hands under his shirt; he sometimes possessed an unshakable certainty that could only belong to a man who'd been born to be king. "It'll be a year, maybe two, but then—" He let her pull the shirt over his head, lacing his fingers with hers. "All the years after that will be yours."

Tempting. Very tempting. A little whine of a moan slipped from her parted lips when his tongue ventured over her breasts, the two of them having finally done away with the obstacles between them. Physically, of course. Metaphorically some remained, but it was a clearer view now that those could be stripped away, one by one.

It was a very clear view, in fact. Pale blond hair, that mouth, those eyes; a familiar set of arms that circled around her ribs to deposit her on the mattress behind her, his chest pressed breathlessly to hers.

"All out of questions?" Draco asked her.

"Of course," she said. "You only gave me three, and I do follow the rules." She stroked a line down his spine, conceding, "Occasionally."

He gave a beatific little shiver, hiking one of her legs over her hips. "So everything else can wait, then?"

"Yes," she said, breathing in the luxury of it as he moved to fill her. "Everything else can most certainly wait."

Well, I don't need to tell you that things always change, do I? Often for the better. In my case, unquestionably for the better—albeit eventually, and certainly not in any sort of smooth, uninterrupted trajectory. There were highs and lows, as with everything, and not just for Draco and me. Even then, things were simmering beneath the surface with our friends, to both marvelous and disastrous results.

One thing you can always safely assume in life? That nothing ever truly remains the same. But then again… they never say fortune favors the stagnant, do they?

a/n: The Olivie Advent is coming soon! Look out for Felicitous Tidings from the Nouveau Riche, starting Saturday in Amortentia. Here's the summary: When an aimless Harry Potter is asked to retrieve Draco Malfoy from the sinful clutches of American high society, he gets unwillingly dragged into the opulent wizarding party scene of Prohibition-era New York City. Meanwhile, a string of grand thefts draws an investigative auror from the British Ministry to MACUSA, recruiting her for the protection of an American heiress who recently came into a vast inheritance. Ensemble pairings, Roaring Twenties AU, Olivie Advent 3.0.