Chapter 22: Tame

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

For King and Country

Like his grandfather, King Abraxas, and his father, Prince Lucius, Prince Draco served his country as an officer in the Royal Navy, Royal Air Force, and the British Army. After an exemplary performance in training at the Royal Military Academy throughout the spring and summer of 2013, His Royal Highness was commissioned as Lieutenant Wales, a tribute to his father's title as he followed his cousin Prince Harry into the British Army.

While Prince Draco expressed great enthusiasm for his military service, a lifetime career (as well as any possibility for active service) was judged to be impossible for the heir to the English throne. However, his long absences meant that Hermione was often seen alone in London as she continued her work for The Transfiguration Project, leading many to praise her enduring patience throughout her future husband's tireless service on behalf of his nation.

Ah yes, 'patience,' the most loaded of Rita's euphemisms and perhaps my least favorite description of myself. It's certainly one of a handful of triggering phrases (along with 'soon, I promise,' 'just like his father,' and 'Hortense is here') that I've come to detest, as it implies I spent all that time pining quietly—patiently—for Draco to ride in on his noble steed, ready to place a crown on my waiting head.

In reality, of course, I was doing no such thing—but in this case, Rita's coverage of it is less bothersome than the collective opinion she was voicing. The fracking injustice of a fairy tale romance isn't the lie contained within it, but the little bud of truth: that nobody likes a princess who isn't first a damsel in distress.

September 1, 2013
London, England

"Hermione, hi," said a coolly pleasant Astoria Greengrass, rising upon her entry and leaning to kiss her cheek, catching sight of Daphne over Hermione's shoulder. "Oh good, Daph," she added, "you're here."

"Yes, hello sister," Daphne said, rolling her eyes. "You're in a formal mood, aren't you?"

"It's called being polite," Astoria mused in reply. "Or should I have Mother call you to refresh your memory?"

"You witch," Daphne said fondly. "You're positively dreadful."

"Thank you," Astoria said with perfect solemnity, taking a seat and tucking one ankle delicately behind the other. "So," she said, turning to Hermione, "how was your summer, then?"

Hermione and Daphne exchanged a glance, not sure where to start.

"Oh, you know. Fine," Hermione managed eventually, which was, as it always was, a massive understatement.

"Fine?" Astoria echoed, rightfully doubtful. "I've been pestering the both of you about meeting for lunch for weeks. What have you been so busy with, if everything is so very 'fine'?"

Hermione looked at Daphne, who looked back at Hermione, and then at her sister.

"Nothing, really," Daphne managed, which was, somehow, even worse.

In reality, Daphne in particular had been extraordinarily busy, beginning with Fleur's request for a custom gown for a state dinner accompanying her father. Daphne had begun the dress in April and only barely managed to finish by the requested event in June, having created and discarded at least six designs before Fleur's final fitting.

The final gown—which Hermione had fondly named Estelle, and which Blaise had overruled in favor of Jocelyn—was a blush-colored lace in a modified Victorian style, the skirt an elegant pillar with layers of material designed to accentuate Fleur's slender height. The collar in particular was masterful; Daphne had crafted something that somehow managed to be fashion-forward, demure, and highly feminine in a way that was signature Fleur Delacour, employing a sheer high-neck of French lace that created the illusion of an off-the-shoulder gown once it reached the décolletage of an ivory silk lining. Later identified as the work of 'a small unknown British designer with faint hints of vintage Alexander McQueen' (it had reminded Hermione, who knew nothing about historical fashion, of a less-floofy version of the dress Audrey Hepburn had worn at the end of My Fair Lady), the dress was ruled a success by those who religiously followed Fleur's style. Ironically, it was particularly beloved by the DRAGONFLOWER blog, who would ultimately place it in their top ten favorite Fleur Delacour outfits for 2013.

Daphne had requested Fleur not make a fuss about her work, but shortly afterwards, the younger Delacour sister, Gabrielle, had also requested a custom gown. This one (a brocade, A-line cocktail dress cinched with a leather belt that Daphne had forgone sleep for weeks in order to craft by hand) had been splashed across fashion blogs in August, listed as a gift from a personal friend and prompting an immediate flood of copycat designs. By that point, Hermione had advised that Daphne start a company, which Daphne had been reluctant to do. ("People are going to ask," Hermione told her, and Daphne sighed. "People like who?" "People like me!" Hermione informed her, and Helen, who'd been Skyping with them, nodded her fervent agreement, leading to Daphne's third and fourth bespoke requests for the year, respectively.)

Precisely at the moment Hermione had convinced Daphne to try making a go of it with her designs, however, a very strange thing had happened to derail their progress: Fleur Delacour was photographed at a cafe in Paris with her laptop open, a thing she had never previously done. She had been 'innocently' (read: either Daphne or Hermione had clearly been less than covert with their web browsing around their flat) scrolling through a blog called, much to the internet's delight, Spew. Within minutes, every other blog—DRAGONFLOWER included—had snapped up the paparazzi photos, setting in motion a rampant launch of traffic towards what had once been a comfortable two hundred or so followers.

Hermione and Daphne, who at the time had been impassively downing wine and listening to Pansy bemoan her constant state of displeasure with Neville, were informed of this by virtue of the several thousand emails which landed in Daphne's inbox.

"What is possibly happening?" Pansy had sniffed, noting that the vibration of Daphne's phone had become so insistent it had launched itself off the coffee table, diving to the floorboards below. "My goodness, Daphne, has Roger started angsting again?"

"That was one time, and—oh," Daphne said, frowning down at her screen before glancing at Hermione. "It's, um. Nothing."

"I know I'm beautiful, Daphne, but I'm not an idiot," Pansy said impatiently, rolling her eyes. "What is it?"

Hermione, never a particularly good liar even when she did know what was happening, was obviously no help at all, and Daphne opened her mouth to fling, "THEO HAS A RASH," in Pansy's general direction without a moment's breath of forethought. Pansy, rightfully, had retched quietly to herself and promptly abandoned the subject, leading Hermione to spare Daphne a slightly less than impressed head shake of admonishment.

But they hadn't really known what had taken place until many days later, and even when they did begin to theorize that the exponential jump in internet microfame had to have come from somewhere, it hadn't been Daphne or Hermione to discover the source of their newfound following.

Though that, of course, was another matter altogether.

"Nothing?" Astoria said, glancing between Hermione and Daphne with palpable skepticism.

"Nothing," Daphne confirmed, giving Hermione's ankle a sharp nudge with her Louboutins. She seemed reluctant to let her parents know what she was up to, which meant any conversation about her life was almost entirely out of the question. "For me, anyway," she clarified, tossing the baton to an unwilling Hermione, who grimaced.

"I've been… working," Hermione said, and Astoria took a sip of tea, nodding.

"You work with Lady Augusta Longbottom, don't you?" she asked. "I hear she's a patron, anyway, for that charming little art thing of yours."

"Yes, she is," Hermione said, graciously declining to expound upon the many ways her 'charming little art thing' had swamped her in laborious details, haunting her nightmares with Excel formulas. "She plays hostess for our events quite a bit."

"Hm, yes, and that's… what's her name," Astoria said with a frown, musing to herself. "Your friend Lady Pansy's dating her son, isn't she?"

"Grandson," Daphne confirmed. "Yes, Neville Longbottom."

"They're not engaged yet, are they?" Astoria noted, and Daphne and Hermione exchanged yet another glance. "So surprising, isn't it?"

"Yeeeeees," Daphne and Hermione said in unison, adding twin coughs of discomfort in an effort to conceal that this was not, in fact, a surprise.

Pansy, who had upgraded her weekend brunches with Augusta to formal appearances at the latter's social events, was slowly and steadily losing her mind. It was an intriguing devolution, to say the least, as the more Pansy seemed to resent Neville for what was either his passivity or his unreliability (difficult to tell), the more desperately she required his commitment. The more he canceled plans or put off talks of the future, the more Pansy compulsively launched into a hyperactive, almost manic surge of energy, embedding herself more deeply at his grandmother's side.

Hermione and Daphne had, of course, done everything in their power to combat this disturbing metamorphosis (particularly Hermione, though that was better left for a separate conversation), but to their surprise, it was Blaise who was the least reasonable. He, like all the Bad Lads, had always permitted Pansy a certain amount of behavioral leeway, opting to go along with her whims with a good-natured smile and a congratulatory offering of affection for her unique brand of lunacy rather than contradicting her outright. When it came to Neville, however, he was adamantly and diametrically opposed.

"Just end it," Blaise had said with an uncharacteristic aggravation, which all of them had overheard through the thin walls of his and Theo's apartment during a lull in Harry's little birthday soiree. "You're not happy, Pansy! You're simply being stubborn—"

"Find me a woman of my circumstance who's happy," Pansy had hissed, "and I'll reconsider my position. Until then, you can take your tantrums elsewhere—"

"Your circumstance? Do you hear yourself? You sound just like—"

"DON'T YOU DARE SAY MY MOTHER!"

"—your mother—"

"HOW ABOUT COFFEE?" shouted a frantic Theo, hastening them out the door just as Harry threw a handful of ice into a blender and turned it on high, forgetting the lid and showering the kitchen floor in ice chips.

Out of all of them, only Blaise had been willing to express the obvious—and the rest of them had all learned from his mistakes, opting not even to broach the subject at the risk of upending either Pansy's fragile mental state or their own corporeal well-being.

"I'm sure it'll be soon," Daphne told Astoria, forcing a smile. "They're very serious."

(They were, which was the strangest part. The question of marriage aside, Neville appeared to cater to Pansy's every whim, but then… Hermione didn't claim to understand them. She had other things to worry about, anyway.)

"Mm," Astoria said, indifferent. "And how's Draco?"

"Oh, um," Hermione said, glancing at Daphne. "Well, he's… good, actually."

And he was, as aside from their distance and his frequent time constraints, he was enjoying his officer training at the Academy. It suited him, and Hermione found she was inclined to agree that his skills were being put effectively to use. True, Hermione wished she could see him more often, but it wasn't terribly unusual by then for him to be gone. Their relationship was as stable as it had been, and missing him, either for weeks or for months, was simply a matter of adaptation. More concerning, however, had been that once he'd learned he'd be in training through the summer, he'd asked a particularly weighty favor of Hermione.

"We'll talk every day," he'd promised her, "but I'm worried about my mother."

As it turned out, Draco had been taking secret trips to see Narcissa at least once a month, and he confided in Hermione that he worried she was getting worse without company.

"It's difficult," he said tentatively, "because my father and grandfather aren't wrong, per se, but she's always so herself when I'm there, and I just hoped if there was someone there—someone understanding, and, perhaps, someone who was quite close to family…"

He'd trailed off, clearly hoping Hermione would intuitively meander to his point, which she very distressingly had.

"I could visit her," she'd offered with more reluctance than enthusiasm, and Draco's face had gone beatific with relief.

"It would really ease my mind," he'd said, "and besides, maybe you'll enjoy her company. She'll certainly enjoy yours."

But Hermione, who'd been less sure, had taken it as an opportunity to distract Pansy, bringing her along for what became their monthly trips to the country estate and ancestral home of Malfoy Manor.

"Interesting," Narcissa had judged upon their arrival, pursing her lips slightly at the sight of Hermione and sparing Pansy something of a furrowed glance of resignation. "And you're here because…?"

"Well," Hermione had begun, only to be cut off by Pansy.

"London is dreadful," Pansy supplied, "and men are total rubbish."

"Ah," Narcissa said with a sour look of agreement, clearing the threshold for their entry. "Come inside, then."

By their third visit, Hermione had gleaned very little about what purpose they were serving in Narcissa's life. She seemed, at least, to appreciate that Hermione's presence was at Draco's request (a thought which appeared to soften her demeanor from time to time) but she also seemed to reserve a great deal of herself, mistrusting Hermione's motives. She was consistently a certain degree of paranoid, regularly asserting that she was being watched or judged, and while the visits themselves were nice enough—often consisting of endless silent tea-drinking in the garden, or, from time to time, a film or two—Hermione found she understood Draco's reticence when it came to his mother. Narcissa slid between moods, sometimes sleeping in until late afternoon, sometimes rising well before the sun and insisting on extravagant breakfasts. By the time any given weekend was over, Hermione was intensely drained of energy, though she passed Draco the same message every time: "Your mother is wonderful, and she adores you."

(The latter, of course, was unquestionably true. The one bonding experience they'd had was Hermione noting the presence of several different copies of The Odyssey, which Narcissa informed her had been Draco's favorite book as a child.)

"Was my father there?" Draco would sometimes ask, which was a far more difficult question to navigate.

"Not that day, no," Hermione would usually say, delicately changing the subject and opting not to mention that if he wasn't, he surely had been. Narcissa was her foulest self when there was an extra place setting at the table, and though Hermione knew better than to ask, she certainly had a gift for pattern recognition.

"He's enjoying his training," she finally managed to say to Astoria, employing the same pleasantly evasive tone she typically used to discuss Prince Lucius. "He'll be home soon, though. We'll be seeing him in a couple of weeks."

"Well, that's nice," Astoria said disinterestedly, glancing up at her sister. "How's your boy, then? The skinny one."

"He's not mine," Daphne said, sounding more factual than argumentative.

Beside her, like usual, Hermione forcefully bit her tongue.

"I know this is you," she'd heard Theo say to Daphne, shortly after the DRAGONFLOWER post revealing Fleur's fondness for Spew. Hermione's room and Daphne's shared a wall; not a particularly thin wall, but some things, Hermione reasoned, were worth straining to hear. "Is this what you've been doing, then?"

Daphne replied with her falsest tone of innocence, which Theo would surely recognize; Hermione certainly did. "What?"

"This… blog," Theo said, followed by the sound of some motion. "This Spew thing—it's you, I'm sure of it, at least some of it. I'd know your voice anywhere, Greengrass, and I have some guesses about the rest of it, but this I know for sure—"

Daphne, of course, persisted in denial. "How'd you find that?"

"It's—Fleur was," Theo began, flustered, "and then, you know, that Draco blog, but—look, the point is, it's you," he accused, "isn't it?"

Hermione held her breath.

"Nott, if you're planning to scold me—"

"You didn't tell me," he cut in sharply, which clearly surprised Daphne.

"Why would I?"

"Because. I don't know. Just because."

"Because what?"

"Because… because it's me. Because it's you."

"Those aren't reasons, Nott."

"Because it's us, then."

"We aren't an us. We've never been an us."

"We're an us, Greengrass, don't be stubborn. We're friends, aren't we?"

Hermione grimaced, shaking her head from the other side of the wall.

"Of course we're friends. But Pansy's my friend and I didn't tell her, did I?"

"Of course you didn't, she'd think it was vile. But me, I'm—"

"You're what?"

"I'm… I support you, Greengrass. Don't I?"

"I'm plenty supported."

"Yes, but—"

"What are we really arguing about?" Daphne asked, and to Hermione's relief, she didn't sound angry. She was simply asking, and Hermione hoped it was a sign of growth, or at least something like it. "This isn't about the blog. It had to be private, for what I hope are obvious reasons."

"You tell me everything, Daphne. Why not this?"

"I don't tell you everything. Do you tell me everything?"

"Of course I d-"

"Then you're doing it wrong."

Hermione, unable to resolve her innumerable feelings on the conversation, bit lightly on the side of her finger, holding herself back from interruption.

"We can be friends, Theo. We can be friends for our entire lives, I promise. But you already have someone to tell everything to, and it isn't me. It can't be me."

Hermione waited, but if something further was said between them, it was done too softly for her to hear. After a few minutes, she'd heard footsteps, and then Daphne's bedroom door, and then the door to their flat.

There had been no marked change in behavior after that. To the rest of their friends, Theo and Daphne seemed relatively unchanged. Daphne herself had never mentioned it, not even to Hermione, and to her sister, she merely said, "Theo's fine, but we're not involved."

"Well, that's probably best," Astoria said, glancing impassively over the menu. "Anything noteworthy at all, then, or do you both simply do nothing all day?"

"We do nothing all day," Daphne and Hermione lied in chorus, and Astoria sighed, leaning back against her chair and, with an air of at least I can bring some culture to the conversation, proceeded to tell them all about her latest trip to Ibiza with some Irish football player Hermione made a mental note to inform Oliver first thing in the morning.

"I'm really not sure what you saw in her," Hermione said later that night, and Draco laughed.

"She's funny, actually, though I don't know if she means to be." He sounded tired, Hermione thought with wistful longing, but in a good way. Cheerfully drained. "But in fairness, I wasn't exactly looking to marry anyone at the time. I think I might have agreed to date whoever my father nudged my way if it meant he'd leave me alone for five minutes."

"And to think," Hermione lamented with a dramatic sigh, "I came along and ruined it."

"You did," he confirmed. "I could have been some sort of unrepentant lothario by now if you hadn't rudely intervened."

"A terrible loss."

"The world is worse off, certainly. I think I'd wear it well, don't you?"

She gave a little laugh, unable to dissociate Draco's seduction techniques from his atrocious performance of ABBA, then sobered slightly. "You don't actually think you missed out on anything, do you?" she asked him. "I mean, we were fairly young. Are," she corrected herself. "We are still young. Not that I have doubts," she added quickly. "Just, you know. I wondered if you were… missing something. Missing out."

"You sound like my father," Draco groaned, his voice muffled into his pillow. "Is it so impossible I might not have any interest in sowing oats of any sort, wild or otherwise? It's you I want."

"I know. I know." She exhaled softly, leaning back against her pillows and eyeing the vacancy beside her. "I guess I can't help but wonder."

She heard him roll over, probably staring at the ceiling. "Do you think you missed out on anything?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I was just wondering, that's all."

"Well, that's certainly fair enough." He yawned, breathing quietly into the phone for a minute and almost falling into a steady rhythm before he suddenly asked, "So what does your week look like?"

She rolled her eyes at the telling sounds of him fading. "Draco, if you're tired—"

"I'm fine," he said, yawning again. "I'm fine, I'm here, I'm awake. What are you working on tomorrow?"

"It's just work, the usual. Seriously," she said with a laugh. "Go to sleep. Only a couple more weeks until I see you."

"I know." His mouth was close to the receiver; probably pressed to his ear. "Can't wait," he murmured, and she, too, felt a rush of relief. Their annual weekend at Nott Manor had become a symbol of relief for them; this year, it would be the first time she'd seen him since the beginning of the summer.

Hermione, lost in thought, toyed with her duvet in silence, listening to the sound of him breathing until she registered it had gotten slower, deeper, and uninterrupted.

"Draco?" she attempted after a minute or so.

Nothing.

She smiled, shaking her head. He was like a puppy that way, always drifting to sleep in seconds. She, by contrast, was usually contemplating something until the moment she closed her eyes.

"I love you," she said to the phone. "Sleep well, you soft summer prince."

Hermione put her phone down with a sigh, leaning back against her pillows again, and glanced over at her calendar, counting the days. Eighteen until her birthday. Twenty until she saw Draco. She could handle that.

She closed her eyes, and then her phone buzzed again.

Pansy: I'm thinking of taking up knitting. Or cats.

Hermione: why not both?

Hermione: plus you could always take up serial murders as a fun weekly hobby once the cats are properly trained

Pansy: Don't be ridiculous, Hermione. Murder is for necessity, not fun. Goodnight.

Hermione rolled her eyes, putting her phone away, and set her alarm for the morning, finally letting herself drift to sleep.

There were twelve days until Hermione's twenty-fourth birthday and fourteen until she next saw Draco when she and Pansy made their way to Malfoy Manor for their monthly summit with Narcissa, a weekend prior to the usual jaunt to Theo's father's estate (which, they'd been hastily assured, would not contain Nott Sr in any way). It wouldn't have been a particularly memorable day, but ultimately became something of an instant classic in Hermione's mind—at least, in terms of unpleasant surprises.

"Good, you're here," Narcissa had said without preamble when Pansy and Hermione had arrived, ushering them inside. "Is that what you're wearing?"

The question was, naturally, directed at Hermione, who was wearing yoga pants and a loose cardigan. Pansy was wearing a structured sundress, a blazer, and a set of nude pumps, and she spared Hermione a look of I told you so, didn't I? from beneath her Burberry sunglasses.

"I could change," Hermione said weakly, and Narcissa nodded.

"Better do it quickly," she said. "Bellatrix will be here in an hour. Pansy, can you do something with this?"

This, too, was directed to the general area of Hermione's existence.

"Yes," Pansy confirmed with a nod, and Narcissa swept away, not even bothering to note the fact that Hermione was numbly mouthing 'Bellatrix' in disbelief as she went. "Well," Pansy said, turning to look at Hermione, "I'm not sure I can completely reroute your skincare routine in a single hour, but I suppose this bun situation could conceivably be improved—"

"Did you hear her?" Hermione demanded, swatting Pansy's hand away. "Did she just say Bellatrix, or did I just have some sort of tiny psychotic break—"

"I was wondering when this would happen," Pansy sniffed, tugging Hermione into one of the many guest rooms and holding a hand out for her bag before abruptly changing her mind. "Never mind," Pansy muttered briskly to herself, opening her own bag and forcefully sitting Hermione on the bed. "I always bring extras, although I have no idea what we're going to do about fitting you into my blouses. Stuff your bra, I suppose—"

"Pans," Hermione squeaked. "What do you mean you were wondering when this would happen?"

"Well, keep your friends close," Pansy said, and at Hermione's blank expression, she gave a weighty sigh. "And your enemies closer? You've heard it, haven't you? It's an idiomatic staple, Hermione, honestly—"

"I know the phrase," Hermione said impatiently. "What I don't know is how it makes any sort of sense. Why today?"

"Because she's got reinforcements today," Pansy said, sorting through her bag and holding up a sheer ivory blouse before tossing it aside with a shake of her head. "Do you have anything more suitable?"

"Than what I'm wearing now?" Hermione asked, and Pansy scoffed.

"Of course not, I don't know why I'm asking—"

"Pans," Hermione groaned, "I still don't understand—"

"Listen," Pansy said briskly, identifying a navy silk blouse and holding it up with slightly more approval, "it's really very simple, Hermione. If the rumors are true, then Bellatrix hasn't a single dime of her own money—but it doesn't matter, does it, seeing as she's sitting on a wealth of information. All she has to do is talk about Prince Lucius or reveal the truth about Narcissa's absence, and there you go. She can profit from her sister's misery," Pansy concluded with positively no change in tone, producing a thin measuring tape from nowhere and prompting Hermione to her feet, wrapping it around her waist. "Mm," she said to herself, "the Chloe skirt might work—"

"But—"

"There's been rumors for months now that Bellatrix might be writing a memoir," Pansy said, withdrawing said Chloe skirt from her bag and tilting her head, considering it, before pressing it into Hermione's hands and digging around for shoes. "What size are you? Don't answer, we'll make it work—"

Hermione shimmied out of her yoga pants, not bothering to look at what she was donning. Her opinion on the outfit was, as always, irrelevant. "What rumors?"

"Well, my mother said something about how Rita Skeeter was digging into their old school records," Pansy said, waving a hand. "Of course, she took it as an opportunity to remind me that she's a Roedean girl who married well, as if I could possibly forget—"

Hermione sighed. "And?"

"Must I spell everything out for you? Narcissa has two choices," Pansy said, holding out a hand for Hermione's shirt and swapping it for her navy blouse. "She can either talk her sister out of it—offer her something. Money, or privilege," she guessed, waving a hand, "whatever would appeal to her."

The blouse slid on without issue, though Pansy had been right; she did fill the bust out much more appealingly. The skirt was also a little snug around Hermione's hips, but she figured she wasn't going to be playing rugby in it. "Or?"

"Or she's hoping to discredit her," Pansy said flatly, sitting Hermione down and pulling out a bag of gleaming cosmetic jars, "which is probably a less demanding exercise."

"Discredit her?" Hermione echoed as Pansy instructed her to look up, turning her attention to her under-eye shadows. "By… inviting her to her house? That makes no sense."

"Well, obviously you've never been in a war with your sister," Pansy said, roughly dabbing color onto Hermione's cheeks and lips.

"You don't have any sisters either, Pans—"

"That's not relevant. The point is, any account of Bellatrix's life is going to villainize her sister," Pansy said, "which means Narcissa has to look accommodating. Doting, even. She didn't go to Bellatrix's husband's funeral, so that's certainly a strike against her—"

"Is it? I wouldn't have gone either, by the sounds of it—"

"—but given all of Bellatrix's shameless gallivanting around," Pansy continued, releasing Hermione's hair from its elastic and making a face, "people will be quick enough to forgive Narcissa for that. Nobody likes the mistress," she sniffed, wagging a finger at Hermione's face. "Remember that."

"Why on earth would I need to remember that?" Hermione demanded.

"It's just general advice," Pansy said, twirling some of Hermione's curls around her finger and then beginning to pull it into a low chignon. "Nobody likes a mistress, if the egg floats in water it's gone bad, my enemy's enemy is my friend, don't eat food from the Underworld—" She shrugged, giving Hermione's hair an uncomfortable tug. "It's all within the same genre of important life knowledge."

"Ready?" Narcissa asked, sweeping into the room. Like usual, she looked elegant and youthful, and while Hermione wondered if she'd get through the afternoon without any sort of hitch, she reluctantly admitted to herself only commoners had that problem. Narcissa, like Pansy and Daphne, would save her inevitable meltdown for when her rival was out of sight.

"Shouldn't I, um." Hermione frowned. "Shouldn't I have some sort of explanation for why I'm here?" she asked, immediately feeling stupid as Pansy spared her a scathing glance. "Well, I just thought maybe the truth was, uh. Private," she finally decided, and Narcissa, to her surprise, let out a quiet laugh.

"My dear," she said with genuine humor, "the truth has nothing to do with it. Come on, then," she beckoned, venturing out of the room, and Hermione rose to her feet with a sidelong glance at Pansy, who reminded her—silently, and with a distressingly communicative glare—to smile.

"Don't slouch," Pansy said.

"That's the least of my worries," Hermione muttered to her.

"Sure it is," Pansy said with a surprising sympathy, leaning forward for what was ostensibly a comforting embrace. "Until I murder you for slouching," she warned in Hermione's ear, and then she painted a beautiful smile on her Chanel-coated lips, vaulting herself forward into the belly of the beast as Hermione hurried breathlessly to follow.

Hermione: this is insane, right? tell me it's insane

Draco: it's insane

Hermione: thank you

Draco: though, it also makes perfect sense

Hermione: !

Hermione: gratitude retracted

Draco: what an unfortunate errand i've sent you on. remind me to make it up to you when we're alone next weekend

Draco: i can do the thing you like

Draco: twice, even

Hermione: ...are you sexting me right now?

Hermione: read the room draco I'm having a crisis

Draco: sorry sorry it's just been a long time

Draco: plus it can't hurt

Hermione: I have to go but fine

Hermione: here

[image redacted]

Draco: not to be totally insufferable, but

Draco: i'd enjoy this more if you weren't wearing pansy's clothes

Hermione: beggars can't be choosers

Draco: but i'm a prince

[one minute later]

Draco: i'm going to pay for that one aren't i

Hermione: yes you are

Draco: harsh but fair

Hermione: ugh i have to go bye

Draco: okay. good luck

[image redacted]

Hermione: wow you've been working out huh

Draco: a little

Hermione: nice

Draco: i thought you had to go

Hermione: be quiet

Draco: i love you

Hermione: i love you too your abs-ness

Draco: it's actually your royal highness prince of abs but okay

"More tea, Bella?" Narcissa asked, her voice a touch too high.

"I'd love some, Cissy," Bella simpered in reply.

Hermione glanced helplessly at Pansy beside her, who replied with a warning jab to her waist; it was her usual militant reminder to watch the mechanizations of Hermione's overly expressive face. Across the table were Narcissa and Bellatrix; Narcissa must have made sure to seat herself in precisely such a way that the sun shone on her pale, golden strands, making her look ethereal and regal in the light. Bellatrix, unquestionably the elder sister, wasn't… unbeautiful, exactly, but it was clear which sister had inherited most of the family's looks.

"This is wonderful, isn't it?" said Bellatrix.

"Oh, marvelous," Narcissa replied. "It's so wonderful you were able to come."

"Well, I'd heard you weren't feeling well," Bellatrix said. "I'm so pleased you seem so much better, sister, even if you do look a bit tired."

"Oh, you're sweet to worry," said Narcissa, who conjured a smile. "You know, sometimes I tell myself 'stop caring so much about your appearance, just let yourself go, look how well it works for Bella'—but then, of course, my vanity gets the better of me."

Hermione coughed on her biscuit and looked at Pansy, who aimed a spoon warningly in her direction.

"It's true, I can hardly manage to focus on luxuries anymore," Bellatrix lamented. "It's so busy running a household with my husband gone. It's so wonderful yours is so…" She paused, her spoon colliding delicately with the lip of her porcelain cup. "Attentive," she mused, raising her tea to her lips, and subtly, Narcissa's nails bit into her palm.

Briefly, there was a pause. Hermione could feel the air in the room going stiff and fidgeted in the tension of it, wondering what to say until Pansy lightly cleared her throat.

"I heard the funniest news the other day from Lady Augusta Longbottom," Pansy remarked, taking a sip of her tea. "It seems that the second Weasley son—you know the family, I'm sure," she mused conspiratorially to Hermione, which initially seemed an odd comment, but instantly produced the (probably intentional) effect of having Narcissa and Bellatrix both make a face at the mention of the family's name. "Lovely people of course—they've fallen on hard times, but who hasn't?" Pansy said with glaring insincerity. "Only a touch more shameless social climbing and they'll find their way to relevance again, best of luck to them—"

"Dreadful," Narcissa murmured, and Bellatrix made a pursed look of agreement.

"But anyway, you won't believe it," Pansy continued, "but the second son, Charles? Turns out," she murmured, leaning forward as Narcissa and Bellatrix did the same, "he's got his little ginger hooks into Nymphadora."

Both Narcissa and Bellatrix gasped in unison, and Pansy sat back with a muted sense of triumph, sparing Hermione a glance that smugly said, See? That's how it's done.

"No," Narcissa gasped. "Andromeda approves?"

"Of course she approves," Bellatrix said with a scoff. "Why wouldn't she? Her own husband was no better. I'm sure she's beyond pleased."

Ah, Hermione registered, recognizing one of Pansy's loathsome pearls of wisdom along with the name of the third Black sister: My enemy's enemy is my friend.

"Still—a Weasley?" Narcissa nose was wrinkled with distaste. "You'd think she'd intervene."

"I hear Nymphadora is trouble enough already," Bellatrix said, exchanging a glance with her sister, and while Hermione felt a sense of disturbance at the two of them ganging up on what seemed to be their less-than-cherished niece, she was pleased that the tension in the room had dissipated, leaving the two women to spend the next two hours reliving their disappointment with their sister (who, as Hermione grew to understand, committed the capital sin of marrying beneath her station).

Luckily, the afternoon had never been intended to stretch for long. In fact, Hermione had been about to text Draco that all had gone well (relatively) until she was paused in the corridor by Bellatrix herself, who was making her way back from the bathroom.

"I'm pleased I was able to meet you," Bellatrix said, which surprised Hermione into looking up at the other woman with a jolt. She, Hermione noted, had hair that was nearly as curly as Hermione's own unruly mane, though Bellatrix had pulled hers back to cascade down her rigid spine. "I think we can be very useful to each other."

Hermione blinked, registering the word choice. "Useful?"

"Of course," Bellatrix said. "After all, we have quite a bit in common."

Something in Hermione's abdomen twisted and lurched. "Do we?"

Bellatrix gave a high, cold laugh. "Don't let Narcissa fool you," she said. "She may act like a friend, but my sister only looks innocent. She knows you won't last, dear, and she's doing you no favors by pretending."

Hermione stiffened. "What makes you think it's pretense?"

"Ah, because I'm living proof, aren't I?" Bellatrix mused. "You and I, we're the same woman, just a generation apart. Clever, charismatic, quick-tempered. Inappropriate," she clarified knowingly, sparing Hermione a look that was somewhere between mocking and sympathetic. "Unbroken, in the end. We're both too smart for the men, aren't we? And they'll always be threatened. They'll always look for a Narcissa instead—someone docile and quiet. Sweet. Tame. Young." The last word she spat out with repulsion. "Someone weak. A pretty little thing they can mold."

"They," Hermione echoed stiffly, and Bellatrix forced a smile.

"You know, I'm the great love of Lucius' life," she said matter-of-factly, as if nothing on earth had ever been truer, and while Hermione certainly had no wish to argue it—or anything—with Lady Bellatrix Lestrange, her loyalty to Draco festered painfully in her chest. "But I was always considered too wild to be his consort, too headstrong. Too scandalous a choice. Too notorious for the men who'd come before him, because I never dreamed he'd ever look my way." Her expression darkened. "I don't blame Narcissa for sinking her claws in when she could. She was always the better actress."

Bellatrix stared into nothing for a moment, then turned back to Hermione.

"Draco will choose someone else," she said, and it struck Hermione with a stinging anguish. It was one thing when Nott said it, or when Prince Lucifer said it. They were men; men who underestimated her, at that. To hear it from Bellatrix, who claimed they were so deeply alike, was disarming. Close to torturous. "When he does, you don't have to be nothing. I'm willing to share." Bellatrix smiled cruelly. "You don't see it yet, my dear, but you will. He will choose some new Narcissa over you, whoever she is. You won't even see it coming. He'll promise you the world, he'll promise you his life, and then, when you feel safe—when you feel loved," she said with a twisted look of mirthless humor, "you'll see someone new at his side. Suddenly, she'll always be there. She'll always be in the place they tell you you're not allowed, and suddenly you'll notice the attention he pays to her, and the way the camera makes her pretty blonde hair glow, like it deserves its very own crown—and eventually you'll wonder, should I have seen it coming?"

She shrugged, and Hermione, dazed a little, swallowed heavily.

"But by then," Bellatrix concluded, "it will be much too late."

She tore her gaze away from the imaginary (or, perhaps more accurately, historical) narrative she'd concocted and rested a hand on Hermione's shoulder, giving it a squeeze that prompted her to tense up in response. "When it happens," Bellatrix advised, "come find me. People can't help themselves when it comes to our stories, you know. They think they love a princess, but she bores them over time. The wicked witch, she endures."

"Nobody likes the mistress," Hermione said, curling one hand to a fist, and Bellatrix let out a hearty laugh.

"Think bigger, little girl," she said. "Being liked is so fucking ordinary."

Then she pivoted away without another word, disappearing down the corridor and leaving Hermione behind.

Draco: how did it go?

Draco: that bad, huh?

Draco: i'm going to bed soon but i'm here if you need me

Draco: i love you

"Can we talk?" Hermione asked, and Narcissa looked up. "Honestly, I mean."

Narcissa considered her for a moment. "I do prefer honesty, generally speaking."

Hermione gambled a little with, "You don't act like it."

Narcissa gave a grim smile. "Fair," she said, and sat upright from where she'd been reading on her sofa, making room for Hermione. "Sit."

Hermione sat, angling herself towards Draco's mother.

"Sorry if this is invasive," she began, and Narcissa rolled her eyes.

"You want to know what happened with my sister?" she guessed, and Hermione nodded, wincing a little. "I suppose you ought to hear it," she said, and then added after a moment, "You remind me of her sometimes."

Hermione flinched, and Narcissa slid her an amused glance.

"I adored my sister," she said. "It's not an insult."

"I know," Hermione said, which was approximately 67% a lie.

"She's smart," Narcissa said. "Interesting. Exciting. The boys always loved her," she said with a heavy exhale. "Even though she wasn't as pretty as I was, they always had no interest in me when she was there. I told myself when I was younger that it was only because she'd sleep with them, but now I think it was something else entirely. It was because they wanted to own me, but they could never own her."

Hermione let the point settle for a moment.

Then she asked, "Draco's father?"

Narcissa's mouth stiffened.

"I never really knew if she actually loved him," she said. "Maybe it was half because she loved him, half because she wanted to hurt me. My mother said I was selfish to think it was about me, but I think maybe I wished it was." Narcissa crossed one long leg over the other, letting her foot dance from the ankle. "I am very selfish."

"I doubt that," Hermione attempted, and Narcissa turned to give her a silencing glance of disagreement.

"I am," she said firmly, "but we all have flaws. I was selfish. I saw that the Prince of Wales was available for the taking, and I took him. But not out of spite, not for meanness." She cleared her throat, eyeing her hands. "I fancied myself in love with him. Stupid girl that I was."

Hermione hesitated, and then, "And Bellatrix's flaws?"

Narcissa huffed a laugh. "She's spiteful. Vindictive. She could have fucked him quietly—she was certainly smart enough to be discreet—but she wanted me to know. She wanted me to see I'd never really have him." She shook her head, glaring at something; her memories, most likely. "She was right."

"Was it—" Hermione squirmed in discomfort. "Was it… just her, or—?"

"Does it matter?" Narcissa asked neutrally, glancing at her. "What's another woman? Another twenty women, even? One betrayal was more than enough, and I could never quite repay him for my pain. There was never an equivalent," she lamented bitterly. "He has no brothers, no real friends. No one. It was why I loved him, really, because he seemed entirely alone. I thought I had all of him to myself."

She leaned her head back with a sigh. "Does that answer your question?"

Not entirely, though the only remaining question was the most invasive of all.

"Is it," Hermione began, and bit her nails into her palm. "Is it still happening, do you think?"

She wasn't sure what she'd expected. For some reason, though, the single tear that slid down Narcissa's porcelain cheek felt out of place. Hermione wondered whether sadness had put it there, or whether Narcissa had done it herself. It was difficult to tell which of the Black sisters was right about the other being a snake.

"Everything got worse after I saw them together," Narcissa said. "I think maybe Lucius knew sooner that there was something wrong with me—that the merchandise was damaged," she said with a grimace, "but it got so much worse after that. He used to look at me like I was beautiful, but then he started to look at me like I was mad, and truth be told, I felt… something. Something bubbling up, and then—" She swallowed. "The pills. The fall. I couldn't trust him anymore, and if I couldn't trust him, then—"

She stopped again.

"I can't trust him," she said to herself. "I can't trust him," she repeated, this time in answer to the question, and Hermione knew, instinctively, that what she meant was, I don't know.

"Do you think," Hermione started again, and then cleared her throat. "Do you think that Draco, he'll, um—"

She stopped, feeling stupid. Of course she couldn't ask her boyfriend's mother whether or not he might choose his father over her. Of course she couldn't ask this woman, out of anyone, whether she believed her beloved son was capable of enormous pain.

In the end, though, she didn't need to ask.

"Watch the way he looks at you," Narcissa said. "It'll tell you everything you need to know."

Not bad, Hermione thought. She'd certainly heard worse. Pansy, for example, had simply reminded her that her being queen consort was about as likely as Neville being decisive on any given topic, and advised she stop sulking.

So this, comparatively, was excellent advice.

"Thank you," Hermione said, glancing up at her. "Your Highness."

Narcissa pursed her lips, dismissive. "If you do marry my son, don't ever call me Mother," she said. "I'll withhold the rest of my jewels."

"Noted," Hermione replied.

"They're beautiful, you know," Narcissa murmured to herself, closing her eyes. "Almost worth it."

They think they love a princess, Hermione heard in her head, but she gets boring over time.

Maybe the princess and the witch had more in common than they thought.

"Good night, Narcissa," Hermione said eventually, about to rise to her feet, but then Narcissa cracked one eye, looking up at her.

"You know, Odysseus loves Penelope," Narcissa said, which seemed to be some odd form of parting wisdom.

"He also has a baby with Circe," Hermione reminded her grimly, but Narcissa merely shrugged.

"Yes," she said, "but he weathers the storm for Penelope, and what really matters in the end?"

An excellent question, Hermione thought.

And she was still thinking it in the morning, when Narcissa's painted smile was icy perfection yet again, the single tear from the night before little more than a phantom Hermione wondered if she'd half-imagined.

"Two more days—finally."

"Two more days," Hermione agreed, the words turning from bright exuberance to a growl of frustrated impatience. "I've hardly even noticed it's my birthday. Despite Colin wishing me many happy returns while he took my picture this morning," she mused, and Draco laughed.

"Is it any better?"

"It's not bad," she said, shrugging. "We've gotten into a rhythm, you know. They're always there, I smile, they're still there, I'm still smiling, they won't go away… We're really very happy together."

"I feel bad for laughing, but—"

"Definitely laugh," Hermione assured him firmly. "I like listening to it."

The sound of it sobered a little, settling to a wistful sigh.

"I can't wait to see you," he said. "I miss your face."

"I miss your face. And your other things."

He groaned. "Don't remind me—"

"Your diplomacy," Hermione cut in. "That, and your excellent taste in suits."

"You're monstrous. You're totally monstrous."

"I know." She glanced at the clock. "I'd better get to bed. See you soon?"

"Two days, Hermione. Two days."

She closed her eyes, clinging to the thrill of it.

"Two days," she agreed.

The weekend at Theo's, always a strange highlight of the year given its origins, wasn't particularly different from the others at the outset. Daphne and Hermione, exhausted from the demands of maintaining their individual tasks as well as their newly-successful blog, took the opportunity to sprawl out on the lawn of Nott Manor, alternately dozing and reading beneath the sun. Fleur and Neville had joined them, as well as—much to Hermione's immense surprise—Tracey Davis, whom Blaise had brought along. Blaise and Pansy were, to everyone's palpable relief, their usual impossible selves, discarding their disagreements in favor of mercilessly schooling Harry and Theo in a semi-violent game of volleyball.

"You're hopeless," Pansy said, once Neville cheerily informed them the score was something astronomical to two. "I don't know why we bother."

From Harry, defensively: "I was having a nice time until you cursed my bloodline."

From Theo, with a shrug: "That was my favorite part, actually. The bit with the ball I could take or leave."

From Hermione, musingly: "After seeing Theo play croquet, I have to say, this was really an improvement."

From Daphne, nodding: "More surface area. Harder to miss."

From Blaise: "And yet he did—"

Daphne: "Many times."

Blaise: "—with enviable aplomb."

Harry: "Or none, depending."

Hermione: "On?"

Pansy: "Whether one defines 'aplomb' correctly, or simply as a synonym for woeful blundering."

Harry, nodding: "That, or if you squint."

Theo, suspiciously: "My keen senses indicate mockery afoot."

Blaise, approvingly: "Twenty points for accuracy!"

Daphne, expectant: "Twenty for the mockee, and for the initiating mockers?"

Blaise: "A figgy pudding, and a happy new year."

From Fleur, with a nod: "Seems reasonable."

Theo, tossing an arm around her: "That's when you know it's a trap."

Daphne, ignoring them both in favor of pressing Blaise for points: "…and?"

Blaise, with a contemplative sigh: "You're very persuasive. Ten for persistence, Lady Daphne, and as I'm a highly gracious victor, New Tracey can have five."

"What?" said Tracey, just as Hermione said, "For what?"

"Not you," said Blaise, and then, "For proximity."

"What do you mean not me?" Tracey said, as Hermione huffed, "Only half?"

"Of course half," Blaise said, and then, "Context matters, you know."

"I don't see what context has to do with it," said Tracey, in the same breath as Hermione's attempted, "Surely I should get the same amount as Daphne, then, if proximity counts."

"I see that you're experimenting with your technique, New Tracey, so plus five for unearned but blinding confidence," Blaise said, and then, "Context is everything, Old Tracey, or else why would capes be deemed compulsory for vampires only to then be ruled too extravagant for the dentist?"

"I imagine many vampires require a dentist," Hermione noted tangentially, feeling she had the requisite expertise. "It's a highly toothy profession, isn't it? Being a member of the undead, I mean."

"It's really more of a calling, but you make an excellent point," Blaise said. "Ten points to New Tracey."

"HA," said Hermione, mostly to Daphne, followed by a "What?" from Tracey, who'd clearly stopped listening until the repeated use of her name.

"Seems like things are unnecessarily confusing," remarked Neville, who had beckoned a reclining Pansy into his lap, and Blaise slid him a glance of irritation so foreign to his features Hermione didn't recognize the expression at first.

"While some things," Blaise said coolly, "are simply unnecessary."

In response, Pansy's eyes narrowed.

"This wine is delicious," Fleur remarked at a helpful volume.

"It should be noted that in this instance," Theo said in a narrative tone, "'delicious' is being incorrectly applied as a synonym for 'readily available,' but altogether the premise is sound."

"English isn't my first language," Fleur reminded him. "It's not even my second."

"You'll get there," he replied comfortingly.

"Should we do something stupid for Hermione's birthday?" Daphne asked, giving her arm a nudge. "Since we have all this 'delicious' wine, that is."

"In this case, she means 'potent, but still bad,'" Theo explained to Fleur.

"Are you going to translate everything for me?" she asked.

"I would," he said with a shrug, "but I'm really only half-fluent in Blaise."

"Minus five," called Blaise, looking up from where he'd distracted himself somewhere in Tracey's neck.

"See?" Theo said to Fleur. "I haven't the slightest idea what he means."

"What sorts of capers could we get into that would befit my elderly status?" Hermione asked, flopping back down on the blanket. "Prank-calling Prince Lucifer, perhaps?"

"That would be really more of an antic," Harry said, falling beside her. "Though, if we catfish him, then it's a caper."

"Are we ruling out heists?" mused Daphne.

"Yes," said Pansy, just as Blaise said, "The day I rule out a heist, assume I have been overtaken by malicious spirits and proceed to throw me in the river."

"Any particular river?" asked Harry.

"An ancient one would be preferable," Blaise said, "though please, don't be afraid to inconvenience yourselves. If Nott would like to throw himself after me in anguish, he is perfectly welcome to do so."

"See?" Theo said again, and Fleur nodded sagely. "Totally incomprehensible."

"That," Hermione judged after a moment of serious calculation, "would be closer to a quest, I think."

"True," Daphne agreed. "We certainly don't have enough wine for a quest or a heist. Just a caper, I would guess."

"Or," Hermione suggested, "two antics? Possibly three small pranks?"

Harry lifted the bottle, glancing at it. "I'd say there's definitely an entire antic in here, with room for an additional suite of pranks if we really decide to throw caution to the wind."

"And to think," someone said behind them, "I thought we were maturing."

Hermione looked up to find the sun's rays obscured by a head of pale blond hair and a pair of sunglasses, lips curled up in an expectant smile.

"Hi," she said, and Draco lifted his sunglasses, sliding them on top of his head.

"Hello, stranger," he replied, and the moment his gaze fell on hers, she felt the misgivings of the past few weeks (months, even) fall away like scales, gifting her a shudder of exposure. His smile broadened unwillingly as he looked at her—his attempts at restraint in the presence of their friends appeared to be serving him quite poorly—and after less than a moment he was bending down to reach her, lips brushing upside-down over hers.

She thought she'd been fine in his absence, requiring very little, but the moment she kissed him again, the indistinct haze of constantly missing him that she'd grown to ignore—the moments of looking fruitlessly for him any time their group had come together, her reflexive expectancy for the sound of his laugh during any given moment of happiness, the way any sense of being entirely herself felt somehow incomplete without him beside her—shattered in glorious fashion. She reached up as he kissed her, smoothing her palms over his clean-shaven cheeks, and found herself clinging to him, fingers wrapping tightly around the sharp corners of his jaw as his hands slid down her forearms.

"Yes, hello, we are also here," said Theo.

Draco sat up with a roll of his eyes, giving Theo an admonishing glance and then turning back to Hermione, angling his head towards the house. She gave a breathless nod, jolting upright, and pointedly ignored Daphne's enthusiastic gestures as she took Draco's hand, letting him pull her in towards the house.

He tugged her into one of the bathrooms on the first floor as she let out a series of half-hearted, mostly-laughing protests, finally permitting him to set her on the lip of the sink amid her unconvincing opposition. "Bed's too far," he said gruffly, and in the laughing moment he tilted her chin up for his kiss, she caught a glimpse of the way his eyes caught hers.

It was funny the way time passed, Hermione thought. His face was a little thinner, his hair shorter, a little whisper of sun exposure shadowing the bones of his cheeks. His eyes, though, fell on hers precisely the same way they always had; like an anchor, binding them both in place as they swayed together, brought in with the tide.

Narcissa was right, Hermione decided while she looked at him. The act of looking at her brought something identifiably hers into the contours Draco's face, and she, as both the source and the observer of his affection, reveled in the sight of it.

And then she promptly discarded the thought, pulling Draco's lips to hers and relishing the low sound of hunger he growled into her mouth. She remembered, suddenly, the way he'd first kissed her—the strain of fighting not to—and how strange and far away it felt now. This, by contrast, was an undeniable pull, and if the act of missing him had been mostly thoughtless patterns of repetition and mired doldrums of habit, this was a progression filled with intention. A kiss here, a touch there, hips and teeth and shaking hands. She ran her fingers over the evidences of change while he clung to her familiarity, unable to let her go.

There was very little need for foreplay. She couldn't remember a time when kissing could be so satisfactory. He tugged her jeans down, pulling her to her feet, and she shivered, the hovering pause of his fingers over her underwear leaving her to let out a desperate sound she'd never heard herself make.

He picked her up again, pressing her against the wood of the door, and god, she should have been used to it—sex was sex was sex, wasn't it?—but she curled her fingernails into the back of his neck anyway, drawing his lips to the loosely unclasped (but not removed, as that would require an unacceptable parting between them) cups of her bra. He scraped his teeth over the bead of her nipple, curling his tongue around it in apology when she cried out, and the motion of him filling her was so fluid she half-wondered if she should be embarrassed. He made a sound of stammered, gritted desperation, his hands digging into her thighs, and she knew it wouldn't be long. That was the thing about sex—when it was really good, it was an especially fleeting pleasure—but he must have known it, and pulled out of her to drop quickly to his knees.

His mouth on her clit was a fucking revelation. She was sensitive and slick, his tongue rolling over her, and it was so far from the storybook filigrees of romance—so carnal, really, with her hand locking his royal head to her aching cunt while he dove his fingers inside her—she considered maybe she'd never understood how love could have so many distinct pieces. How his voice could satisfy her for so many nights, only for her to remember now how his touch could so easily have her undone.

"I missed you," fell from her lips without warning, his motions continuing as her shoulder blades dug into the door and she arched her back, rising up on her toes to grant further access to the ministrations of his mouth. "God, I missed you," she said, the words more delirious the more she said it. "I missed you, I—fuck, fuckfuckyes there," she gasped as he sucked imprecisely, with feverish intensity, "don't move, oh god, I missed you—"

She came with a slam of her hand against the surface of the door and he was on his feet well before her orgasm had faded, launching her up and back again. He gave her a dizzied look of total intoxication; for not having touched a drink that day, he'd never looked less sober, his hair in total disarray and grey eyes unfocused, lids heavy with want. With utterly biological primacy, she thought, with renewed satisfaction, I did this, and then she fucking buzzed with it, pulse racing.

She didn't have to see to know she looked precisely the same.

"I missed you," he said, voice barely over a rasp as he slid his cock inside her. "I'm doing this for you," he said, the sound of it muffled as his mouth traveled over her neck, her breasts, rising to her chin and her cheeks. "For you," he mumbled unintelligibly, "it's all for you, I swear—"

A handful of thrusts, fast and hard, and she gasped. He choked out a groan. It was familiar bliss, wrenched and wrung out and wrecked. Pain for separation, with euphoria as a reward.

Eventually they caught their breaths slowly, motionless except for his chest rising and falling with hers.

She didn't ask When do you leave again?

He didn't say Soon.

She didn't say Don't go and he didn't say I have to.

She said, "Antics?"

And he replied, "Does defiling Theo's guest bathroom count as one?"

And she said, "Maybe if we do it twice."

And he said, "So brilliant, you are," and then he kissed her, wrapping his fingers in the loosened curls of her hair, and she thought, I will never be weak, and I will never be tame, except for when you're holding me.

Not a princess. Not a witch. Just a woman inconveniently in love, which was apparently not a standard archetype. No allowances had been made for that.

But then the kiss progressed again, and by then, she retained only the knowledge that the floor would soon be requiring her steadfast attention.

People have always wanted something from me, unsatisfied to some degree or another with what I actually am. The more Draco stepped into the role that had been carved out for him for centuries—for dynasties, even, following the footsteps of the many princes and kings who'd come before him—the more they wanted me to be something equally familiar. I suppose the problem was that I was so difficult to jam into a role; after all, I'm not a damsel, I'm not particularly wicked, and if there's a fairy godmother in my life, it's probably Pansy, which is disturbing enough on its own.

The point is, they (read: Rita Skeeter) tried to write our story like it's one that's been told before. But as I've been saying, this one takes some strange turns from the standard fairy tale—which is probably because the princess in the story (read: me) still has a few more twists yet to reveal.

a/n: As I think most of you gathered, I was home for the death of a loved one all of last week and wasn't able to write. Now, unfortunately, I'll be out of the country for a couple of weeks for a wedding and the holidays, which is why I will now present you with a poll! I plan to return with an update on New Year's, and in honor of such occasion, I would like you to choose between:

1) One of the three Modern Romance diaries I have long been teasing, which are collectively part of a subplot that carries on from the existing fifteen diaries; or,
2) The next chapter of this story, which will be from another character's POV.

Let me know if you have a preference on how we start the year. In the meantime, feel free to follow the advent story in Amortentia (Felicitous Tidings from the Nouveau Riche), check out my D/Hr Advent fic (A Matter of Practicality) on AO3, and have yourself a wonderful holiday until we meet again.