Chapter 24: Privilege
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
A Love in Bloom
It seemed for a time that everything was falling into place for Prince Draco and Hermione, who quietly continued their relationship throughout His Highness' military training. Hermione's popularity as a public figure was increasing, the success of her work for The Transfiguration Progress was gaining traction, and rumours of Fleur Delacour's romantic exploits in Paris had finally put to rest any continuing speculation that the French siren's dalliance with Prince Draco was ongoing. While rumours persisted that Lady Bellatrix Lestrange's impending memoir was causing some stress on the royal family (subsequently pressuring the relationship between Hermione and Draco), Palace staff was adamant that in fact, all was well, and that the daily lives of both Prince Draco and his father, the Prince of Wales, continued uninterrupted. In fact, aides at the time remarked that both Prince Draco and Prince Lucius were quite calm, confident that any such memoir could not possibly contain any substantive threats to the royal family.
Falling into place? All was well? Lucius was CALM? Rita, please. Entrance to our mid-twenties was… Well, candidly, a mess. True for all of us, though our individual messes were extremely distinct from one another. My particular experience fell snugly between a pretty clump of charming chaos (Daphne and Theo) and a Mess of Unusual Size (basically everyone else), so I probably shouldn't be complaining. It was nowhere near as bad as Narcissa's, what with her own sister coming out with a memoir that threatened the state of her marriage, or Pansy's, which was…
Well, it ended with some broken recreational equipment, I'll say that much. And a few other broken things. And one very wonderful, highly perfect, and extremely wholesome thing. I'm getting ahead of myself now, but the point is that my mess was far easier to tidy at the time—and now, of course, we're here. With new problems. And a new and bigger mess.
But this time, as you know, it's a little bit different, because for the first time I'm being honest about how it all went down.
November 5, 2013
London, England
"Granger, are you listening?"
"Hm?" Hermione said, jolting to attention as Oliver gave her the sort of sharp poke she imagined he would have offered as a boy to, who knew, probably his pet iguana. The idea he might have possessed one seemed wildly in character. Either way, she could have done without the uninvited jab. "Yes, yes, you were saying, Susan Bones—"
"Lady Susan Bones," Oliver corrected. "She's very well connected, Granger, so I'm going to need you to pay thirty-five percent more attention to the facts."
"Only thirty-five?" she echoed doubtfully, but he had already moved on, beginning to arrange the items on her desk into a meticulously crafted labyrinth, like a corn maze for a mouse.
"Her aunt is Lady Amelia Bones," Oliver was saying, "otherwise known as Baroness Bones, and the first female leader of the House of Lords. Are you following?"
"Yes, I'm following, Wood. I'm on the page."
"She's magnificent," Oliver added hotly, as if Hermione had deigned to contradict him, "and if we can get Lady Sooz on board—"
"Lady Sooz, really?"
"—then we could have a real go at this thing!" he finished, pounding a fist into her desk that sent several of her writing implements rolling over its edge. "Sorry."
"They're insured," Hermione told him drily, resolving to pick them up when he was less likely to knock them over a second time. "Let me guess, Minerva loves Sooz?"
"Lady Sooz. Honestly, woman, have some respect—"
"Fine, fine, Lady Sooz—"
"She's young," contributed Minerva, sweeping out from her office as Hermione, who'd been sitting on her desk chair with her legs tucked under her, jumped to resume a more professional posture and Oliver, who'd been systematically destroying Hermione's desk, leapt back to his own.
"The problem with this initiative is that it looks stuffy," Minerva sniffed, idly pretending not to have noticed anything amiss, "and as much as I admire Augusta, she isn't providing a sufficient base upon which to grow. It appears that some people find our work," Minerva began, and trailed off, lips pursed. "Trivial."
A Rita Skeeter word, surely. Hermione and Oliver exchanged a glance.
"As such," Minerva went on, "a younger patroness may bring a more enthusiastic demographic to the cause. Her record is thoroughly unblemished," she said, as much praise as she'd offered anyone in the past, "and therefore, highly advantageous. Ideally, you'll both persuade her to our cause."
"You say that like we're courting her," Hermione remarked blithely, which was intended to be a joke, but by the time Minerva's gaze swiveled to hers, she could see that it wasn't.
"Yes," Minerva said, and then disappeared back into her office, leaving Oliver to slink back towards Hermione in the rolling desk chair that he had promised, several times under duress, not to stab with scissors or otherwise destroy in any way.
"You're a girl, aren't you?" Oliver said at half a whisper, prompting Hermione to frown, wondering if he considered this a point of secrecy. "You should have no trouble getting Lady Sooz to like you. You can simply, I don't know. What do women do within collectives?" he postulated, frowning deeply in thought. Hermione opened her mouth, prepared to retort with the appropriate degree of scornful admonishment until he attempted, "Plot vengeance? Archery? Book clubs about archery," he guessed, and then brightened. "If there's one of those, Granger, I want to join immediately."
"I—" Hermione stopped. "Actually, that's refreshing. I thought you were going to say manicures or brunch or something but no, you're right," she sighed, "archery is much more the thing, fine."
"Well, excellent," he said, pleased, adding, "Hopefully you'll be less distracted when the time comes for you to woo her."
"Me?" Hermione said in disbelief, dismissing the prospect of wooing altogether. "You think I'm distracted, Wood?"
"Yes," he said snottily, and in a fit of totally missing the irony, he rolled himself away, nearly toppling over as he encountered the obstacle that was several of Hermione's previously dropped pens.
In reality, Hermione was quite distracted, which was in no small part thanks to the combined whirlwind that was Theo and Daphne. As it turned out, the two of them being together—exciting as that had been for Hermione to hear, until it very promptly wasn't—was as complicated as their being tragically apart.
The whole questionable situation had begun on Halloween when, dressed as a headstone from Highgate Cemetery and an undead Queen Victoria respectively, Hermione had been informed by Daphne that she and Theo were not only secretly dating, but they were also, to her utter disbelief, secretly engaged.
"Excuse me, you're WHAT?" Hermione had whisper-shouted, and Daphne had sighed, taking hold of Hermione's elbow and dragging her into Blaise's bedroom.
"You can't tell anyone," Daphne said urgently, shutting the door behind her, "at least not yet. We don't want to hurt Fleur's feelings, first of all, and secondly—"
"Hi, hi, sorry," interrupted Theo, who slipped into the room behind them in his own costume, which consisted largely of having bells tied to his feet and heavily implied he was in costume as some sort of Victorian corpse. "Well, Greengrass, have you told her or not?" he demanded of Daphne, who turned—beneath layers of pale, glittering luminescence Hermione assumed was paint and not, in fact, a palpable veil of lust—a sudden, blissful shade of pink.
"I'm telling her now, Nott, for the love of god, be quiet," she said in her usual antagonistic tone, just before (confusingly) offering her smiling lips to Theo for a kiss Hermione felt she'd plummeted through the looking glass to witness.
"HOLD ON," said Hermione, not particularly calmly. "When did this happen? What is this? What?" she squawked, and Daphne immediately shushed her, elbowing Theo away to continue her mystifying explanation.
"We're going to have a very private ceremony," Daphne said, and with a quick glance at Theo, she added, "One might, perhaps, call it a secret ceremony. Something just shy of an elopement."
Hermione, meanwhile, gaped at her. "When? Where? Why? How?" and, once again, "What?"
"Excellent journalist, this one," Theo noted, as Daphne gave him another shove which ended, again, in another thoroughly baffling kiss.
"Look," Daphne sighed, nudging him away to return her attention to Hermione, "the thing is, we don't want anyone to know yet because, well—" She squirmed a little. "Well, frankly, because we don't particularly want a wedding."
"Not even remotely," Theo agreed, shuddering. "For one thing, it involves people, which is, as you know, reprehensible."
"Specifically, it would involve my mother," Daphne clarified, "who, while hardly any sort of Prince of Darkness, would very likely get… carried away."
"Carried away?" echoed Hermione, who seemed to be capable of little more than parroting blankly, and Daphne and Theo both nodded, unfazed.
"Yes," Daphne confirmed. "Were my mother to know I had plans to be married, she would insist on inviting everyone I hate."
"And a cake," Theo contributed. "And a color palette."
"Yes, and a cake and a color palette, and a dress—which, by the way," Daphne said with revulsion, "I wouldn't possibly be permitted to choose myself, and which would involve a mile-long train. None of it would have anything to do with me or Theo," she said, making a face, "and it would take at least a year to plan, which sounds horrendous."
"Okay," Hermione said slowly, accepting this premise as logical enough. "So why can't the others know?"
"Well—"
Just then, Hermione's phone buzzed in the pocket of her toga-resembling garment.
"Go ahead and take that," Theo offered graciously, and Hermione spared him a glare, rolling her eyes as she noted Draco's name on the screen.
"Hello?"
Draco's enthusiasm was unbridled. "So, have they told you yet?"
"They're telling me right now," Hermione said, watching with continued bewilderment as Theo pulled Daphne into his arms again, the distance of a few inches having apparently been long-suffering torment. "When did they tell you?"
"Oh, Theo told me yesterday. Have you gotten all your questions out?"
"No, not yet," Hermione said, having not even begun to mentally separate her innumerable questions into categories, much less spoken them aloud.
"Ah, okay, I'll call back," said Draco, and hung up, leaving her to slowly lower her phone.
"Why can't the others know?" she asked again, and Daphne sighed, twisting around in Theo's arms.
"Only because Pansy would have a meltdown," she said, using her practical voice, "and Blaise would tell Pansy, and Harry would think it was hilarious, which is… Well, the point is, don't worry. They'll find out, of course, in two weeks," she hurried to assure Hermione, who breathed a sigh of relief at having an end date for the secrecy.
"Well, good," she said, and then, with a frown, "What's in two weeks?"
"Oh, the wedding," Theo said, prompting Hermione to wish she could retract her previous relief in favor of returning to her more-appropriate sense of looming, unidentifiable anxiety. "We've had to schedule it so it coincides with Draco being home for Abraxas' annual gala, so obviously our timing was limited—"
"You're going to surprise them," Hermione attempted to sort out, "with a… wedding?"
"Yes," Theo said, and Daphne nodded.
"You're not telling anyone at all?" Hermione asked. "Not even your families?"
"No," they said in unison.
"Actually, I told my father, just as a fun way to pass the time," Theo remarked idly, "but, as I suspected, he thought it was a joke. Thanked me, in fact, for the laugh."
Hermione, who had too many other things on her mind to even begin to think of touching that, pressed, "And in the meantime, you're telling them…?"
"Oh, same as always," Daphne assured her. "We're just friends."
The idea that Daphne could comfortably persist with her most outrageous, oft-repeated lie even while Theo's arms were wrapped tightly around her ribs was not only of no conceivable sense to Hermione, but was also keenly upsetting to her understanding of rational human behavior in general.
"WHAT," Hermione repeated, only to be interrupted (Theo and Daphne leaping comically apart) by Blaise poking his head into the room.
"What are you all doing in my bedroom?" he asked, looking alarmingly delighted by the discovery. "Actually, no, never mind," he sighed before they could answer, unhooking his parasol from the forearm of his skeleton unitard to toss it like a rifle over his shoulder, "don't tell me. It'll only disappoint me."
In the end, Hermione had been persuaded that yes, Daphne was very serious; yes, she'd always been in love with Theo, and had simply been a flaming idiot up until now; and yes, they'd talked about it, they were very serious about it, it wasn't some sort of juvenile whim but in fact a need to do away with lost time. Hermione continued to have her doubts, naturally, but had managed to come to terms with it.
Sort of. Mostly.
Certain selfish thoughts had been occurring to Hermione; namely, the impending loss of Daphne as a flatmate. After all, the entirety of Hermione's stay in the U.K. had been spent living with Daphne, so the prospect of losing her so suddenly felt… disruptive, particularly when Hermione's life was in dire need of stabilization.
"By the way," Minerva said, poking her head back into the office and interrupting Hermione's reverie (yes, fine, Oliver was right, she was distracted—not that she'd ever admit it to him) to pause expectantly in the doorway. "We're going to need some media coverage for our Knockturn revitalization project. Now, I should imagine it goes without saying that Rita Skeeter is hardly my press contact of choice," Minerva sniffed, "but she does, unfortunately, have an audience. Particularly now," she clarified, looking pointedly at Hermione, who grimaced.
There was no ignoring the fact that Rita Skeeter had been gleefully promoting Lady Bellatrix Lestrange's impending memoir, which rumor (read: Rita) purported would be released before the end of November. Its title had not yet been disclosed, but there had been new reports nearly every day about what it might contain—including, to Hermione's intense dismay and Minerva's obvious awareness, private and previously unconfirmed information about Hermione's relationship with Draco.
Despite the Palace's denials in the press that such a memoir might contain any truth, Prince Lucius was privately undergoing a campaign of feverish preemptive strike. Already, he'd gone so far as to remind Draco that any conceivable toes which might even dream of existing adjacent to the line would be brutally severed post-haste.
"I want utter, unimpeachable silence," Lucius had seethed to both Hermione and Draco. "Not a word, not a whisper of anything worth reporting, do you hear me? I don't want either of you to appear that you might even be thinking of something worth speculating. I don't want you to smile mysteriously or to betray any expression of possible malcontent. I don't want you to even wear anything that damned Rita Skeeter might interpret as a salaciously-charged color—NEUTRALS ONLY," he barked, and then, "Do you understand me?"
Seeing as he'd looked a bit like he was melting from the inside out, Hermione and Draco had felt it necessary (mostly for the sake of their collective corporeal well-being) to do nothing but nod quietly, acquiescing without a word.
"Please no," Hermione said to Minerva, wincing at the thought of Rita being anywhere near her at this particular time (or any other, for that matter), and Oliver nodded his emphatic agreement.
"Last time that Skeeter woman covered our work, she said I had the mannerisms of a poorly-animated cartoon cat," he said, adding with a grumble, "which I did not care for."
"Well, we'll need someone else, then," Minerva said, glancing expectantly at Hermione. "Perhaps someone you trust to be… discreet?"
Hermione, recognizing that it was an offering, sighed internally at her continued inability to confirm anything, or to openly show gratitude. "I wish I knew someone," she said, chewing her lip, "but I really don't. I mostly avoid any press. You know," she added quickly, "since these are all baseless rumors, of course."
"Of course," Minerva said.
"And I have certainly not been instructed in any way not to discuss any relation between myself and His Royal Highness," Hermione added hastily, "were one to exist."
"Naturally," Minerva said curtly. "Speaking of which, there's a crowd out early today," she murmured, and Hermione stifled a groan. "Can't imagine why."
"You know, that Colin is really growing on me," Oliver said, unhelpful as always as he referenced Colin Creevey, the only paparazzo Hermione could even remotely stand. "I had an extra coffee the other day and we got to chatting, and wouldn't you know it, he also enjoys graphic novels—"
"If there's something I can do," Minerva murmured to Hermione, who shook her head.
"It's fine," she said, though she tensed a little at the thought. "I'll just… go out and run a pretend errand. Once they get their picture, they'll leave me alone."
Minerva nodded, quietly approving. "Well, if you do happen to think of a journalist you feel comfortable approaching, do let me know by the end of the day. Otherwise, I'm afraid I'll have to use my Daily Prophet contacts, and I'm sure we know what that will mean."
"Rita Skeeter hardly even counts as journalism," Hermione muttered irritably, as Minerva kindly pretended not to hear. "In fact, if anyone has covered anything honestly in the last year, it's been—"
She broke off, suddenly struck with an idea.
"Minerva," Hermione said slowly, "do you have any opposition to The Quibbler?"
Minerva, not unrightfully, looked doubtful. "Miss Granger, I hardly think this is the appropriate time for satire."
"Minnie, please. HUMANITY IS SATIRE," said Oliver, karate-chopping a book shut on his desk.
"Well, what if I could promise the article would be broadly read?" Hermione said, hopeful at least of that much, and Minerva shrugged, turning back towards her office with an air of resignation.
"If it keeps Rita Skeeter out of our office," she tossed over her shoulder, "then by all means, Miss Granger. Quibble away."
"Stand still," Daphne said, immediately after having accidentally jabbed a wriggling Hermione with a pin while adjusting the bodice of her gala dress. "You're very fussy today," she noted, glancing up at Hermione with a twist to her fashionably coral-painted lips.
"Yes, I agree," contributed Theo, who was languishing on the sofa with one of Daphne's fashion magazines in his hands. "Stand still, California, or the whole thing will be a travesty."
"In all seriousness, he's right," Daphne said, adjusting the lining over Hermione's hips. The gown was a metallic grey lace over a soft, neutral silk, and while the cut might have appeared demure to the untrained eye, the lace itself had been one of Daphne's most valuable finds: a celestial pattern with references to Greek mythology, all of it camouflaged to indistinguishability by anyone observing her purely through a camera lens.
"Like it or not, people pay attention to what you wear, Hermione," Daphne reminded her. "I'd like for them to say 'Colonial Upstart Stuns in Custom Gown' rather than 'Colonial Upstart's Gown Fits Like Shit,' if you don't mind."
"Does this mean you're finally starting your own line?" Hermione asked her, glancing down at Daphne, who hesitated.
"Well," she said, "I'm not sure."
"Daph," Hermione groaned, "honestly—"
"Well, my parents are going to have a fit when they find out I've gone and gotten myself married," Daphne pointed out. "And really, I can only handle their disapproval a limited amount of times per year."
"But Daphne—"
"I keep telling you, Greengrass, it shouldn't matter what they think," interrupted Theo, the poster child for one's parents' thoughts not mattering, but Daphne merely shrugged.
"Yes, I know, but it's either start a company or elope," she said, "and while one can wait, the other simply can't."
Hermione, a very excellent friend, pretended not to catch the furtive smile Daphne was fighting amid a draping of lace, just as she pretended not to see the one Theo smothered brusquely into his palm.
"Surely a real wedding wouldn't be so bad," Hermione attempted, still hoping to convince her, and Daphne made a face.
"Trust me, Hermione, you wouldn't want to deal with that," she said, sounding adamant. "You'd have to do entirely too much work."
"Me?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Wouldn't Astoria be your maid of honor?"
"Yes," Daphne said, "but really, this isn't remotely enough to hold her interest and you'd end up having to help me with positively everything. You know how foolish I am on my own," she said, and loath as she was to admit it, Hermione certainly did. "Believe me, I'm doing you a favor."
Just then, Hermione's phone buzzed from the table. She strained on tiptoe, unable to see the screen, and called out to Theo, "Can you check that?"
He leaned over, glancing down. "It's an email," he said. "It's from Fl-" He balked, leaping to his feet. "It's from Fleur," he said, hurrying to hand it to Hermione, and Daphne's brow creased with concern. "It was sent to both of you."
"I thought you said it ended amicably?" Hermione said, frowning a bit at Theo's apprehension, and he rubbed self-consciously at his forehead.
"It did," he said slowly, "but that doesn't mean it wasn't… Well, I don't know," he said, exasperated. "Just read it, would you?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes, skeptical, but obligingly opened the email, skimming over the brief paragraphs until Daphne's chin rested, breathless, atop her shoulder.
"What's it say?" she whispered, both of them reading the contents.
Dearest Hermione and Daphne,
Forgive me for not being able to do this in person, but I'm afraid I can't quite bring myself to return to London at this time. I am sure you are both well apprised of what has happened between myself and Theo, and that things between us have ended. Please understand, while I treasure our friendship very much, I do not think I will be revisiting London any time in the near future.
"Well?" Theo asked nervously, and Hermione and Daphne both glared at him, shushing him with a look.
I have sent the remainder of the year's rent to Hermione, but I am sorry to say I cannot renew the contract. Beautiful as our memories together have been, the prospect of returning is now a bit dimmed for me, and while perhaps it is selfish to say so, I do not feel I am capable of resuming my occupancy in London.
Daphne, I have adored my time getting to know you. I wish you a lifetime of happiness, and if I may, a word of advice: Do not let him go.
Until we meet again, which I hope will be soon,
Yours sincerely,
Fleur
"Oh," Daphne said with a swallow, looking somber, and Theo, who was twitching at a brief distance from them, lunged towards them.
"Please, can I, so sorry, I just—thank you," he exhaled, accepting the phone as Hermione placed it in his hand and turned to Daphne, frowning.
"Daph," Hermione said quietly, "if you and Fleur are both out, I can't afford the rent here. You know that."
Daphne chewed her lip. "If you'd just let me pay for i-"
Hermione silenced her with a warning glance, and Daphne sighed.
"You could move in with us," she said. "Theo's family has a residence in the city, there's plenty of room, you could always simply—"
"No," Hermione said, suppressing her exasperation as much as possible. "I can't move in with you two, Daph, it's… it's your first year of marriage, you shouldn't have me in the way—"
"You wouldn't be in the way," Daphne protested, but Hermione could only think of the way her stomach hurt, uncertain. She wished, desperately, that she were not presently trapped inside an unfinished dress, pinned into it with no escape.
"What am I going to do?" she asked, fidgeting, as Theo nudged the phone back into her hand.
"We'll think of something, California," he said. "I mean, surely Draco can think of something. And anyway, you at least have until what, July?"
"Yes, but—"
"Maybe Draco will propose," Daphne said hopefully, and for some reason, it made Hermione's entire body erupt in what felt like a cold sweat.
"Just… can you, um. Can you let me out, please?" Hermione asked, shivering a little. "I just… I need to—I can't right now, I just have to—"
Daphne hurried to help her, carefully holding the fabric as Hermione wriggled out and made her way to her bedroom, collapsing on her bed. She knew, on some level, she was being deeply selfish by focusing on her own issues; Fleur was going through a breakup, so it wasn't as if her decision didn't make sense, and far be it from Hermione to deny Daphne any happiness whatsoever.
But still, everything was happening so fast. Things were changing so quickly she felt powerless to stop it, and powerlessness had never been a sensation Hermione Granger enjoyed.
Her phone buzzed again; a text, this time from her mother.
All checked in for our flight! exclaimed Helen. See you in twenty-four hours!
Hermione rubbed her temple, exhausted. Her mother's visit had been a source of excitement until recently, what with Bellatrix's memoir being released and Prince Lucifer flying off the handle and her roommate, usually a source of stability, having a life Hermione no longer recognized. The idea of skirting paparazzi with her parents in tow was suddenly unbearable.
Hermione opted not to respond while she was upset, instead dialing Draco's phone number.
"Your timing is impeccable," he said, answering on the second ring. "I was just about to call you."
"No bad news, I hope?" she asked wearily, not adding, because I don't think I can take it.
"No, no bad news. Good news, actually. My father just confirmed it's still perfectly fine for you and your parents to attend the gala, so that's excellent—"
She sat up sharply, stunned. "I didn't realize there was a possibility we couldn't."
"Oh, well I wasn't—" He broke off, obviously recognizing he'd made a mistake. "Sorry, I just… I just meant to say everything's fine, that's all."
"But you thought it wouldn't be."
She heard the sharp intake of breath that meant he was backpedaling. "Well, I just wasn't entirely sure. There's… Well, there's no point pretending, is there?" he said, sounding defensive. "There's quite a lot of attention on you, and with my father wanting me to stay above the fray—"
"The fray," Hermione echoed, bristling, and Draco hastily corrected himself.
"I just meant—" He broke off. "Never mind. I can't—I'm sorry. That was thoughtless of me."
Her hand tightened on the phone. "My parents have been looking forward to this for weeks now," she said, growing more frustrated by the second. "My mother had Daphne make a dress specifically for this event."
"Yes, I know, which is why I thought—but no, sorry, I'm clearly not going about this right—"
"Would you really have told me I couldn't come?"
"Hermione." She heard him exhale raggedly. "No, no, I wouldn't have, I want you there. Of course I want you there, you know that. I always do. But you have to understand, with everything that's going on—"
"It's just a stupid book, Draco." She could feel her throat tightening. "I thought we were moving forward. I thought you said that law in Parliament meant this would…" She broke off, not particularly wanting to sound whiny. "I just thought we might be closer to being open about it by now. About us."
"I know, I thought so, too. I'm trying, Hermione." He sounded genuine, though it was difficult to tell. Already, the last time she'd seen him felt like a distant memory. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but I am, I promise. It's just a very sensitive time for my family." He paused, and then added quietly, "My mother is refusing to come, she's been… a bit unpredictable. She says my father is trying to force her into behaving like everything's normal, so she won't do it."
Hermione, whose feelings on Narcissa were nearly always mixed, felt her heart sink for the other woman. "Well, I can't say I blame her."
"I know. I can't either, but—" Draco broke off. "The point is, I just don't think it's worth it to fight with my father right now. And I know, I know this is frustrating, but I just don't think the timing is right at the moment. Soon, though, I promise," he said. "When this passes, we'll focus on us again. I promise."
She eased herself back on the bed, glancing up at the ceiling.
'Soon' was starting to feel like an impossibly long time.
"I miss you," she said quietly, and Draco sighed.
"I miss you, too," he said, "like you wouldn't believe."
"At least I'll see you soon." She groaned, remembering, "At this secret wedding—which, by the way, is sure to be a mess."
He laughed. "I hate to say it, but I look forward to Pansy's reaction. Is that wrong of me?"
"Yes. You have a sadistic sense of humor."
"Oh, hardly. Only a little."
She sighed, feeling marginally better, and glanced down at the snake ring on her finger.
"Marriage," she said, finding the concept unimaginable. "Wild, isn't it?"
"Nearly unbelievable," Draco agreed. "Though, they're lucky they can do this. Simply run off together, I mean."
Hermione hesitated, and then, "Is that what you would want to do?"
"Wouldn't you?" he asked, and then, "No, don't tell me, I shouldn't dare imagine it," he sighed, sounding tense. "Any wedding I had would have to be a spectacle. Good on Theo and Daphne for getting around it, frankly."
She felt fairly certain he was treading carefully, deliberately speaking in hypotheticals.
"How are you?" he asked her, venturing a tangent that cemented her suspicions. "Something troubling you?"
Yes. Money. Rent. My job. Theo and Daphne. Your mother. Your father. The idea, the very concept, that your spectacle of a wedding might involve me. The idea, in fact, that the rest of my life, no matter what I do, might be a spectacle, and I will be powerless to stop it.
There it was again, she thought. Powerless.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, another email. Probably Luna Lovegood confirming their meeting for the following afternoon, which meant Hermione should probably hang up the phone and prepare. Or at least prepare for the prospect of preparing.
"Nothing," she said, exhaling, and thought if he were there, maybe everything would be just the slightest bit better. "Just missing you, that's all."
As if that were not its own subject of enormity.
"I miss you too, Hermione," Draco said, sounding temptingly close and yet not nearly close enough. "But I will see you very, very soon."
"I'm coming," said Harry, probably not in the context either of them would have liked him to use it.
(Which was not, Hermione amended hurriedly, to suggest that preferred context was in any way how it sounded. She simply meant that after having been dragged out of bed and bullied into breakfast—"Is Daphne still asleep?" Harry had asked, frowning at her still-closed door and forcing Hermione to groan and shove him out of their flat, lest he discover 'sleeping' was one of Daphne's preferred activities these days—the last thing she wanted was for him to now make further demands on her fragile constitution, or her job.)
"You can't come," she reminded him, nudging his fork away from her eggs. "It's my job, Harry, and I don't see how I could possibly invite you."
"It's very easy," Harry told her. "You simply say, 'Harry, I need'—no, no, 'Harry, I desire—'"
"Please," Hermione sighed. "Don't Prince Harry this."
"Oh, I assure you, it's been Prince Harry-ed," he informed her smugly. "You're having an afternoon meeting, aren't you?"
She deeply regretted telling him that.
"So," he continued, reaching over for a second time, this time for her toast, "I'll just… you know. Pop by."
He smiled at her, shameless as ever, and she felt the onslaught of a headache. "Honestly, Harry, even you have to know that's just… incredibly unprofessional."
"You're right," he agreed, winking at her and taking a satisfied bite. "Better if you simply tell her I'll be joining as a patron of the digital arts," he determined, mouth half-full, and Hermione swatted at his arm, wishing she'd ever possessed Pansy's ability to tell him what to do.
In the end, she'd caved ("You were always going to," Harry had pointed out, kissing her cheek and leaving crumbs behind before he dashed off, luring photographers after him and leaving her a mostly-clean getaway) and invited him to her meeting with Luna Lovegood, whom Harry, for whatever implausible reason, was apparently desperate to meet. "I'm a huge fan of her work," he'd said, and Hermione, lacking the energy to argue, had unwillingly offered up the time and place, hoping he'd behave himself.
"Hi," he said, grinning as she walked in. "I'm a bit early."
The place Luna Lovegood had requested they meet was a small cafe below The Quibbler's digital media office, which Hermione had expected to be a fairly straightforward facility serving coffee and was, instead, some sort of nexus for the arcane (judging by the crystals, cauldrons, and what were possibly tiny preserved bats) or at least the very odd and slightly morbid. Harry was sitting at a table below a drawing of two intertwined skeletons, draped by a banner that read, 'Til Death Do Us Part.
"Yes, hello, I see that," Hermione sighed, checking her watch to confirm that she, by contrast, was precisely on time. "Is Luna here, or—"
"Barman Tom," called an elfinly tiny blonde woman who might have easily been a Dickensian orphan, materializing like a ghost from one of the cafe's back rooms. "Three butterbeers, please. Our guests are here."
"In the flesh?" shouted a man's voice, which ostensibly belonged to Barman Tom.
"In the flesh," replied the blonde, flashing Hermione an absent smile that was moderately unnerving.
She, the woman who could only have been Luna Lovegood, had long—too long, Pansy would have sniffed—waist-length blonde hair and a pencil tucked behind her left ear, which enabled Hermione to see her earrings, a set of something that looked like radishes. She was wearing an egregiously yellow dress, almost blinding, and a pair of slouchy boots that Daphne would have either adored or immediately set aflame (Hermione could never really tell with Daphne).
"Butterbeer?" echoed Hermione, doubtful. "It's a bit early for alcohol, isn't it?"
"Well, if you insist," Luna said absently, tossing over her shoulder, "Hold the beer, Barman Tom, just the butter will do."
In the same motion, she had shot a hand forward, offering it to Hermione. "I'm joking," she said, "it's just coffee and immense amounts of sugar, almost no arsenic at all, and also I'm Luna. You're Prince Harry," she noted in nearly the same breath, glancing at him where he sat at the table. "That's odd, isn't it?"
That this particular woman was capable of judging anything else odd startled Hermione to silence; Harry, by contrast, leapt out of his chair, apparently giddy with excitement. "You're Luna?" he said, reaching a hand out for hers. "I'm a huge fan, Luna. Huge."
"Of what?" she asked, genuinely curious, but Hermione managed to regain control of the situation, stepping forward to gesture Luna to a chair.
"I hope you don't mind," she explained quickly, "but as Harry's taken a bit of a patronly interest in The Transfiguration Project, he asked if he could join while we discuss our upcoming project."
"Or werewolves," Harry said cheerily. "Or dirigible plums. Totally up to you."
"There's really not much to say about dirigible plums," Luna said. "They're presently out of season."
"Are they? Fascinating. And about erumpent horns—"
"Your Highness," Hermione said, kicking Harry sharply beneath the table, "if you don't mind, I'd hoped that Miss Lovegood and I could discuss more interesting topics? Say, the specific topic of Transfiguration, for example?"
A slightly stooped man that was old, quite wrinkled, and with a head like a polished walnut delivered three heavy mugs of something onto the table, the foam atop them threatening to slosh out of the glasses before he gave them a stern look of displeasure and wandered jerkily away.
"Thanks, Barman Tom," Luna said dreamily.
"Why do you call him Barman Tom?" Harry asked her. "Isn't he Barista Tom at this hour?"
"Oh, it's to distinguish him from Handsome Tom, who has tried several times to take over the world," Luna said, expressing a palpable sense of disappointment. "We can't put him off it, I'm afraid."
"Why don't you call him, you know. Evil Tom?" Hermione couldn't help suggesting. "Or possibly World Domination Tom?"
"We tried," Luna said, sighing, "but we just couldn't do away with handsome."
"Ah, yes, understandable. Beauty is such a curse," Harry said, playfully indicating himself.
"Handsome Tom has a lot of curses," Luna replied solemnly, "so I really wouldn't bring that up now if I were you."
"Anyway," Hermione said, raising her beverage to her lips. It was precisely as frothy as the froth had indicated it would be, and tasted how she imagined liquified magic would taste—or, alternatively, diabetes. "About Transfiguration—"
"Yes," Luna agreed, removing her pencil from her ear to stir the foam of her butterbeer. "You want me to write about your Knockturn project, is it?"
"If you wouldn't mind," Hermione said, and then paused, observing as Luna tucked the pencil back into its place behind her ear. "Do you… need to take notes, or…?"
"I'll use the pensieve later," Luna said, dismissive. "Go on, please."
"Right," Hermione said uncertainly, watching Harry's utter delight seem to magnify with each word Luna spoke. "Well, I hope you understand, I want to be sure your coverage is—" She broke off, carefully selecting her words. "Relevant," she decided, "to the work our company is doing."
"What else would it be about?" Luna asked.
Hermione blinked.
"Oh," she said. "Well, you're right, my apologies. I just meant—"
"Oh, you meant because of you," Luna realized, frowning. "Well, I can't imagine my readers have any interest in you. Not to offend you, of course," she offered kindly, "I just don't see how your private life would be important to the subject of public art."
"I—" Hermione stopped. "Yes, well, you're quite right."
"I'm sure you're a lovely person," Luna assured her, "but I'm afraid you aren't exactly the subject I had in mind when I agreed to take this meeting. My audience desires important news, breaking discoveries, the vast majority of which belong to this realm. Will that be a problem?" she asked, taking a sip of butterbeer which awarded her a temporarily dignified foam mustache.
"I… no," Hermione said tentatively. "This realm is, you know. The one I'd hoped to discuss as well."
"Well, wonderful," Luna said, blinking absently as Harry buried a laugh into his butterbeer. "Now, about this Knockturn project, do you foresee any ill-effects on the existing creatures?"
"Creatures?" Hermione echoed. "The… current residents, you mean? The businesses?"
"In part," Luna said. "Mostly, I meant the ghouls."
"Oh, uh." Hermione cleared her throat. "I'd prefer to focus on the… human occupants. With perhaps no mention of the ghouls?"
"Smart," Luna said, nodding. "Ghouls are known to be intensely private."
Beside them, Harry choked into his mug.
"So, you mentioned revitalization?" Luna prompted.
To Hermione's relief, they went on to discuss the project at length for thirty entire minutes, with very few interruptions. Once it had been made clear to Luna that they hoped to narrow the discussion to the affairs within provable reality, the journalist was extremely professional. While she took no notes and did not appear to record any of the conversation, her questions were thoughtful, succinct, and indicative of rapid, off-the-cuff critical thought, to the point where Hermione wondered if Luna were not far cleverer than her dotty appearance suggested.
"Just one more question," Luna said, reaching the end of their allotted time together. "A humanizing element is, at times, crucial to the reception of a piece. What is it that connects you to the project?"
"Oh… me?" Hermione asked, surprised. "I thought you said I wasn't going to be part of the article."
"Well, not your private life," Luna told her, giving her an owlish blink, "but this, I imagine is highly… What was your word? Relevant."
"Oh, um." Hermione cleared her throat. "Well, obviously I care very deeply about the citizens of London, and about public space—"
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning…" Hermione fumbled, a bit flustered by the question. "Meaning, well, the space people use from day to day, the geography of how people live their lives, it's all very… very fascinating, and, well—"
"What's your favorite public art space?" Luna asked. "If you were to pick something to model this project on, what would it become?"
"I—" Shit, Hermione thought. Shit, shit, shit. "Well, you know. The parks in London are just… well, it's all so, um—"
"Assuming you succeeded with this particular project," Luna said, apparently unfazed by Hermione's sudden inability to word, "what would be next for you?"
What was next for her? The question seemed to constrict her lungs. A spectacle of a wedding, Draco's voice whispered in her ear, uninvited, just as Lucius' voice shouted, NEUTRALS ONLY!
"Well." Hermione's throat was dry, and there was no way the sweetness of the butterbeer was going to help. "Um—"
"The idea isn't so much that this project would be the end-all," Harry said, cutting in smoothly as Hermione slid her palms apprehensively over her thighs. "Right, Hermione?" he asked, prompting her. "This isn't some isolated episode of gentrification. This is a project with longevity… isn't it?"
He was clearly teeing up an answer for her, and she nodded, relieved.
"Yes," she said, exhaling, "yes, of course, Harry's right. Contrary to critical opinion, our organization is built on the belief that public art is a right, or should be. People have a right to find beauty in their daily spaces, even as those spaces continue to change, and as such, our involvement has no end date. Investment should be revisited frequently over time."
The nudge from Harry had been enough to resettle her nerves. Within ten minutes, Luna seemed to be satisfied, wishing them the best of luck with the project and promising the article would be delivered to Hermione's inbox by Monday.
"I didn't expect her to be so unnerving," Hermione admitted to Harry as they left. "There's something about her eyes, I think? Or her honesty, I don't know. She's either brilliant or a lunatic, and either way it's frightening."
"Isn't it?" Harry said, mildly euphoric. "She was precisely what I hoped she'd be: totally bonkers," he said proudly, shaking his head. "She didn't disappoint."
Something about his tone of voice slithered its way into Hermione's cracked-open jar of insecurities.
"You like her," she noted, unsure why it slipped out as a grumble.
Unfortunately, Harry heard it, too, gifting her a little frown that was more amused than she would have liked. "Is that a problem?"
"You're with Ginny," she reminded him, still a little more disapproving than she'd intended, and he slid her another glance, longer this time.
"Does that bother you?" he asked after a moment, moistening his lips before holding the door open for her.
She bristled, glancing up at him. "Are you implying something?"
That, as she might have predicted, did not help. "You're the genius," he said, "not me."
She set her jaw, irritated.
"I can't leave with you," she reminded him bluntly, gesturing out the door. "I'm walking back to the office, and if we were photographed together—"
"Right." He seemed… She wasn't sure what he seemed. Her ability to read him was bogged down by convoluted knots of sensitivity she hardly knew how to process, much less verbalize. It seemed she wasn't able to put anything into words anymore. "Well, I'll see you this weekend, then."
He seemed perfectly willing to end the conversation there, but she scrubbed at her temple, frustrated with herself and unable to let that be their uneasy farewell. "I didn't mean to snap at you," she said.
"I know."
"I'm just… I don't know. Tired."
"I know."
"I'm glad you were here, honestly. You helped a lot, and I'm grateful."
A little pause, and then, "I know."
"I guess I'm just… I don't know what I am." She exhaled. "Stressed."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Anything I can help with?" he asked.
Don't go out with Luna Lovegood, demanded the petulant little voice in Hermione's head; the one growing louder by the day. And certainly don't look at her the way you look at me, it added snidely, lashing out with a mix of envy and annoyance and a pinching sense of doubt.
"No," Hermione said, clearing her throat, "I'm fine," and Harry nodded, permitting her to pass him as she made her way to the street, permitted thirteen blocks of solitude before the cameras began to flash.
The arrival of her parents, while ill-timed, was at first a relief. Daphne was in supremely high spirits, as she had been for the entire week, and even Pansy seemed better than usual.
"I think Augusta's had words with Neville," Pansy was explaining to Helen, who was a much more cheerful mannequin for Daphne's final fitting than Hermione had been. "Apparently he's been evasive with her, and naturally she won't stand for it. She thinks his restlessness is a sign he needs more exercise, so he's started playing tennis."
"And it's helping?" asked Helen.
"Well, it keeps him busier than I'd like, but it seems to be," Pansy said. "He certainly needs the practice. His swing is positively Shakespearean."
"Comedy or tragedy?" Daphne asked with her usual mouth full of pins.
"Take your pick," sniffed Pansy, prompting David to snort into his coffee.
"And what about you?" Helen asked Daphne, twisting around to glance over her shoulder amid a tousle of fabric that was part of a modest train. "Are you dating?"
"Oh, no," Daphne said, lying with an ease Hermione deeply envied. Lately when Daphne denied her involvement with Theo, even Hermione had begun to wonder if the whole thing had been an extremely vivid dream. "You know me, Lady G, too busy for boys."
"You know," Helen sighed, "I—what is it, Hermione? Ship, is it ship? Is that what the kids say?"
"Mom, please don't," said Hermione, who was promptly and unfairly ignored.
"Yes, it's 'ship,' I think—anyway, the point is I ship you and Theo," Helen told Daphne, who rolled her eyes and prompted another crisis of confidence for Hermione, who was mostly a very good person and did not deserve this sort of stress. "Won't you make me happy, please? I do so much for you, Daphne," Helen lamented. "Don't you want me to be happy?"
"Your daughter—me, by the way—is dating a prince," Hermione reminded her, exasperated.
"Yes, but that's old news," sniffed Helen, as Pansy scoffed her agreement.
While Helen and David both insisted that the constant media presence was a non-issue ("It's fine, Hermione, it's fine, sweetheart don't stress, we're perfectly capable of being hounded by paparazzi, it's what we were born for") Hermione wasn't especially able to relax. By the day of the gala, she was fussing with everything; what had once been a ritual of great excitement had become tiresome. Her hair pulled, the complicated arrangement of her bra dug into her ribs, her shoes gave her blisters in the first five minutes. Helen looked beautiful in her sleek gown with its modest slit, David looked 'fetching' (Harry's words, much to everyone but David's dismay) and while Hermione's dress had turned out perfectly, she was entirely unable to focus on the beauty of it. Instead, she gripped her champagne glass with tension, watching Theo and Daphne play at unattached banter and wishing she could fast-forward to their elopement and have it all over and done with.
"Something's got you all twitchy, New Tracey," noted Blaise, sidling up to Hermione once her agitation had already sent her mother and father wandering over to Pansy and Neville. "Didn't you read Daphne's blog post about using lavender oil to soothe your nerves?"
"God, don't remind me," said Hermione, who was two days behind on her posts. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Blaise said, raising his glass to his lips and adding, "minus twenty for lies."
She glared at him, and he sighed.
"Fine," he said. "Minus only five, then, because this is a safe space. But certainly not a rewarding one, if you continue to be so reprehensibly dour."
"There's nothing to say," Hermione grumbled, turning to face Blaise because, as she thought with resignation, this might as well happen. "I haven't gotten to see Draco yet."
"Nor have I," Blaise said with a shake of his head. "I believe only Theo and Harry have seen him."
At the moment—somewhere so far away she had to squint to see—Harry was at Draco's side, both men speaking with twin expressions of politeness to the Prime Minister and his aide. "My mother's been… difficult," Draco had told Hermione in a low voice on the phone the evening prior. "She won't tell me why, and neither will my father. Even my grandfather's warned me to behave myself, and I haven't any idea what's going on."
He'd also rushed off the call, eliminating Hermione's opportunity to potentially say, "I love you too and also I might be going crazy"—which was currently an additional conflict between her rational mind, which considered his behavior understandable, and her emotional bits, which were somewhat less (in fact, not remotely) reasonable.
"Well, I have always told you Draco's quite sensitive to trivial things like duty and responsibility," Blaise reminded Hermione, shrugging. "It's why things never worked out between us despite his obvious attraction to me," he lamented, adding slyly, "Don't worry, he seems to have developed a preference for you by now."
"I know, I know," she muttered, tightening her hand around her glass and not particularly in the mood to joke. "It's just… not a great feeling, I guess. Being over here while he's over there."
At that, Blaise gave her a surprisingly sympathetic look. "I know what you mean," he said, and then straightened, clearing his throat. "Thus, you may have ten points for relatability."
"Where's Tracey?" Hermione asked him, and Blaise shrugged.
"Pansy doesn't like her," he said.
"Pansy doesn't like anyone. She doesn't even like me."
"True," Blaise permitted, "but still. No need to antagonize her further with Old Tracey's villainous inability to wear proper statement shoes."
While almost certainly not his actual reason, Hermione opted not to press him further.
"You seem to be better," she noted. "You've seemed a little out of sorts for a bit."
"Have I?" Blaise asked, impassive. "Well, New Tracey, I'm sure there's some sort of sciencey law about this. If you're going to be out of sorts, then I certainly can't be. It's conservation of normality."
"Energy," corrected Hermione.
"Right, sure, auras and all that," Blaise agreed, sipping his champagne. "Anyway, the point is—"
"Why isn't Draco here?" Helen asked curiously, materializing on Hermione's left with a frown. "I thought he'd come over and say hello, at least."
Hermione glanced at Blaise, who busied himself with a very long sip of champagne.
"He can't," Hermione informed her mother tightly. "Rita Skeeter is here—"
"Oh, is that the reporter?"
"Yes, that's the one—"
"Is this different from the one Harry likes?"
"He doesn't like her," Hermione said, just as Blaise answered, "Yes."
"He does, doesn't he?" Helen said. "The blonde one, he told us about h-"
"The point is it's a whole thing," Hermione interrupted briskly. "Princess Narcissa's sister is coming out with a memoir and it's stressful, so Draco and I can't exactly interact publicly right now."
Helen's confusion was intensely unhelpful. "But what does that memoir have to do with you?"
"Mom, he just can't, okay?" Hermione said, bristling. "He's not talking to Daphne or Pansy, either."
"Why not? He's talking to that girl," Helen said, and Hermione blinked.
"What?"
"Her," Helen said, gesturing with her glass to where Draco was, in fact, speaking with a woman Hermione took a moment to recognize. "Who's that?"
"That's Lady Susan Bones," Blaise informed Helen, who gratifyingly turned towards him and away from Hermione. "She's one of Hortense's enemies, not that she's aware of it. Luckily Hortense's curses don't seem to stick, or at least I don't think they do. I'll have to check on that later."
"Who's Hortense?"
"Draco's cousin. Deeply mad, probably some sort of minor deity, maybe a malevolent demon. Impossible to tell at this stage of reincarnation."
"Well, that's quite a review, Blaise."
"Yes, well, she also has a brother—"
Hermione wasn't listening, focused instead on Draco, who was no longer standing with either Harry or Theo but was instead, as Helen had observed, in conversation with Lady Susan, whom Hermione could not clearly see but whom she still wanted very badly to stare at, relentlessly, until something happened. What that something was, she didn't exactly know. Maybe spontaneous combustion? Maybe Lady Susan would simply spill on her dress. Maybe she'd salaciously go in for a kiss and Hermione would then be gifted the opportunity to march up to her, shout, "HOW DARE YOU?" and march back. Maybe Draco would notice Hermione was staring and look over, smile at her, put her at ease. Maybe Rita Skeeter was watching this, too. God, Hermione thought, Rita Skeeter was definitely seeing this, she had no doubt about that. Pansy had said it, everyone had said it: Whenever Draco so much as breathed the same air as a woman, she was pregnant with the next royal heir. Hermione had been secretly carrying twin princes just last week. Now what, now it was Lady Sooz? Now there would be a blog called Soozdragon? It ought to be called snoozefest. She was boring, even Hortense thought so. Her dress was plain, her hair was fine, her face was—
Great, Hermione thought angrily, now she was that girl, making it about looks. The patriarchy was a fucking virus, it had infected all of them. No, probably Lady Susan Bones was smart or something. Probably very nice. Probably very stiff in bed. No, Hermione thought angrily, stop it. Stop. They were just talking. They were just talking, it meant nothing. Lady Susan Bones was… blonde. She was… fine. This was not about Lady Susan. Lady Susan was…
Hermione's thoughts came to a sudden halt, suddenly noticing something else. Specifically, that Prince Lucius stood off to the side near Draco and Susan, not disapproving. Not interrupting. The man who'd told Hermione not to even think of causing a scene was watching his son talk to a young, pretty-ish noblewoman in front of everyone—
And then, just as Hermione thought it, it hit her.
He'll promise you the world, Bellatrix whispered in her ear, and then, just when you feel safe, you'll see someone new at his side—
Someone docile and quiet, Bellatrix laughed, young and tame and sweet, a pretty little thing they can mold—
She'll be in the place they tell you you're not allowed, she taunted, and then—
"You okay?" Daphne said, a hand closing softly around Hermione's stiffened shoulder.
She nearly gasped, as if she'd been pulled up from the risk of drowning, and turned to find Daphne looking at her with concern stitched neatly between her brows.
"Fine," Hermione forced out, turning away to down what little remained of her champagne and leaving Blaise to entertain her mother. "Come on," she said to Daphne, exhaling sharply. "Let's go have another drink."
"What on earth are we doing?" Pansy demanded, climbing out of the car with the usual sense of dignified rage she typically had when deprived even a moment of perfect comprehension. "Daphne, you insisted this was important."
"And it is," Daphne said, gesturing for Pansy to go ahead. "You'll find out shortly, won't you?"
"This is a church," Pansy accused, glancing at Hermione, who shrugged, walking forward without a word.
She, unsurprisingly, had not slept well.
"There you are," said Draco, hurrying to reach her from where he stood with Harry, Blaise, and Theo. He took her hand, kissing her cheek, and she let him, though he pulled away with a frown. "Everything alright?"
"Fine," she said, hoping that would be that. Behind her, Pansy was making further demands, most of which were being hurled at Blaise.
Draco, meanwhile, was pressing Hermione. "You don't look fine."
"I'm fine, I'm tired."
"Is that all? Because if something's bothering you—"
It was unfortunate, she thought, that people were never content to accept 'fine' for its actual translation of 'now is not the time to press me for details,' instead foolishly inviting disaster.
For example, the thing she accidentally said next.
"My mother was curious why you were talking to Lady Susan Bones instead of me," Hermione said flatly, the words delivered without a moment's forethought to how they would land, and Draco frowned.
"What? I spoke to her for two minutes, my father—"
"Yes, your father," Hermione muttered, her stomach roiling. "Always your father, how convenient."
Even she was surprised by the sound of her own bitterness. Draco blinked, stunned.
"I don't understand, what are you—"
"It doesn't matter," Hermione said, glancing over at where Theo had taken Daphne's hand, apparently explaining everything to the others. "It's not important right now."
Draco was, rightfully, unconvinced. "Are you sure? Because if you want to talk, Hermione, we can do that. I understand it's been difficult, but—"
"What do you mean Draco and Hermione already knew?" Pansy's voice said hotly, Pansy herself glaring furiously at Daphne and Theo. "Have you both lost your minds?"
"Well, see, this was the sort of thing we were hoping to, you know. Possibly avoid," Theo said. "But carry on, I can clearly see we've miscalculated."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Pansy demanded, rounding on Daphne.
"Because, Pans, we knew you'd—"
"Have you given this even one single moment of thought?" hissed Pansy.
"—say that," Daphne finished, sighing. "Yes, Pans, we've thought about it. And anyway, doesn't this means someone wins the bet?"
"Oddly? I think it's Harry," said Blaise, looking despondent. "He put his money on you two running off together. I am evidently the only true romantic," he sighed, "as I predicted you'd commit yourselves after a long, drawn out engagement that ultimately strengthened your union, making it impervious to penetration."
"Well, not totally impervious," Harry said.
"Hermione," Draco murmured in her ear, nudging her towards him. "You can't honestly think I have any interest in Lady Susan, do you?"
"That's not the point," Hermione snapped, though she wasn't entirely sure what the point was anymore. She seemed to have lost track of it. "And anyway, this isn't the time. We can talk about it the next time you're home—What'll that be, by the way," she said sarcastically, "two months? Three?"
"Hang on. Are you actually angry about this?" Draco asked, caught somewhere between puzzled and frustrated. "I told you, this is part of a deal—I serve for a couple of years, and then once that's done—"
"Years?" Hermione echoed, abruptly thunderstruck. "Years, Draco?"
"Well—" He seemed entirely taken aback. "It's the military, Hermione, not an internship."
"Why is Harry always here, then?" fell out of her mouth, and in response, Draco frowned.
"Harry wasn't around during his first few years either, Hermione—and what does he have to do with this, anyway? Weren't you just going off about Susan Bones?"
Draco's confusion made her want to shake him, or leave. Or cry.
Mostly cry.
"You had the time to book a church," Pansy was now half-shouting at Daphne, "but you didn't have the time to explain to us why you felt this was necessary?"
"Well, it had to be a church, didn't it? We couldn't simply march into a government office with Draco and say, 'marriage please and by the by, let's just keep this between us,'—"
"Look, it's nothing," Hermione muttered to Draco. "Let's just go in, then, and—"
"It's clearly not nothing, Hermione, but I don't understand, what's going o-"
"Well," came a voice that paused all of them in their tracks. "So you were actually serious about this, then."
All seven of them turned slowly to find, of all people, the elder Theodore Nott standing in the doorway of the church.
"What," began Daphne in a whisper, "the f-"
"I didn't think he'd actually come," Theo hissed, one of his arms sliding protectively around her waist as she twisted to gape at him, their conversation audible for lack of any other sound. Behind them, Pansy, Harry, and Blaise all stood quietly, uncertain, and Draco's hand shot out to close around Hermione's.
"You told him the time and place?" Daphne whispered.
"I told you, he thought it was a joke, he laughed—"
"Well," Nott said, expression soured with disapproval. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I imagine it's just what you need, really. An annulment in two weeks, perhaps a divorce in six months. Marvelous," he scoffed, folding his arms over his chest and staring at his son before letting his attention drift to Daphne. "Wanting to get it over with, are you? Charming." His voice was absent even its falsest imitation of warmth. "I don't blame you. Are you pregnant?"
Theo's arm tightened around Daphne. "Father, please don't speak to her that w-"
"Running from something? Do you owe some sort of terrible debt?" Nott was laughing now, his voice still dry and mirthless. "I can't imagine what would compel you to marry my son unless there was something for you to gain from it, my dear."
"Father," Theo said through carefully gritted teeth, "I've already asked you, I don't care f-"
"How much do you need?" Nott asked Daphne, shifting his stance to reach into the lining of his coat. "Clever of you, picking an easy target, but still, let's be reasonable. There's no need to embarrass both your families with something like this. My son is—"
"Don't you dare," Daphne said, her voice dangerously soft. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
Hermione caught Pansy's wide-eyed look of shock across the room and recalled, as she regularly forgot, that with the way her friends had all been raised, Daphne had just done something quite unheard of. There had been no curtsy, no lowered gaze. Daphne was staring defiantly at Theo's father, nudging Theo's arm away to undergo a step that brought them closer, she the young woman challenging a man who, for all intents and purposes, ranked nearer to a king.
"I don't want your money," Daphne said evenly to Nott. "I have my own. And even if I didn't, I wouldn't require a cent from you, and I certainly wouldn't want it. The greatest contribution of your life, whether you see it or not, is that you are the father of your son, and as far as I'm concerned, any value you possess begins and ends there."
Nott's mouth twisted. "If you think you can—"
"You know, I don't particularly care what you have to say," Daphne cut in, coolly dispassionate in a way Hermione desperately wished she could applaud, or perhaps bottle for herself for later use. "You forfeited the privilege of my consideration—yes, the privilege," she snapped when Nott opened his mouth to argue, "when you mistook me for someone you could bully like you do everyone else. I don't have the time or the energy to explain to you how thoroughly you have wasted my time, nor do I plan to waste one second further. I'm in love with your son, he's in love with me, and your opinion, your approval or disapproval, is no concern of either of ours. I hate to think I'll be forced to associate with you, seeing as you've humiliated your family to unimaginable lengths purely by everything you've said and done, but if that's the cost of a life with your son, I'm more than happy to pay it."
"Goodbye," Daphne finished, gesturing Nott to the door, and though he was visibly vibrating with rage, it was obviously a losing battle. There was no question he would only make a fool or a brute of himself by responding, and the moment that became clear, Nott spared his son a final glare.
"Have her, then," he said flatly, and turned around, letting the door swing wide as he went.
Even after he'd gone, the others remained frozen, eerily silent. Theo, the first to snap out of his paralysis, took a tentative step towards Daphne, who was staring blankly at the door.
"Greengrass," he said softly, and she whipped around, suddenly pink with the fury she'd restrained in Nott Sr's presence.
"We're having a wedding, Theo Nott," she said between her teeth, "and it's going to be enormous."
Theo cleared his throat. "Greengrass, if this is about what just h-"
"The dress is going to have a train," she seethed, jabbing at him like a threat. "I'm going to have a cathedral veil. The flowers are going to cost a fortune. If I have to bankrupt both our families, so be it, Nott, it's happening—I'm going to say 'I do' under a BLOODY FLORAL ARCH," she shouted at him, suddenly incensed, "AND YOUR WANKER OF A FATHER IS GOING TO WATCH ME DO IT!"
"Greengrass," Theo said, stunned, but clearly, she wasn't done.
"HE'S GOING TO SIT FRONT AND CENTER," Daphne continued to rant, now pacing back and forth, "WHILE I TELL EVERYONE THAT I LOVE YOU, THAT I CHOOSE YOU, AND WHEN IT'S OVER, I'M GOING TO STAB HIM WITH THE CAKE KNIFE—"
"Daphne, you had me at cathedral veil," Theo said, half-stumbling to reach for her, but to everyone's immense surprise, it was Pansy who barreled into her first.
"You wretched beast," Pansy said, arms thrown around Daphne's neck as Daphne, meanwhile, seemed to have been jarred back to sanity, staring over Pansy's shoulder to look at Hermione with obvious confusion. "You little demon. Finally. Finally—"
"A wedding," Draco murmured in Hermione's ear. "I suppose it's about time our group had one of those."
She glanced over her shoulder at him, catching the look of contentment on his face and, with a sigh, letting his obvious happiness chip away at the frustration that had been there before.
"You do realize you and I are going to be dragged into all of this, don't you?" she reminded him. "You heard her use the words 'enormous wedding,' after all."
Draco shrugged, still smiling. "Is that so bad?" he asked, gesturing to where Blaise and Harry had joined the dogpile of an embrace Pansy had started, and Hermione sighed again, spirits slightly lifted.
"No, I suppose not," she admitted, tugging his hand to pull him towards their friends.
Just as she took a step, however, Draco's phone buzzed in his pocket.
"Sorry," he said with a wince, pausing her as he hurried to glance at the screen. "It's just—"
Hermione, who knew before he even said a word that it was his father, felt a tired opposition rear its ugly head inside her chest, gripping tightly around her ribs. She opened her mouth to argue, about to beg, plead, snap—for once, she wanted to rail at him, can't this wait?—until she saw the color drain from his face.
"It's out," he mumbled, half to himself. "The book."
"What book?" Hermione said, but he had already raised his phone to his ear.
"How is it?" he said without greeting, releasing Hermione's fingers to wander into a more remote corner of the room as she watched, the sounds of her friends' celebration fading to white noise at her back. "You're sure?"
She held her breath from afar, still keeping a distance from the others. She had the sense, oddly, like a woman on a tightrope, that until Draco returned to her side things would simply teeter on the narrow line of a precipice, left to fall one way or another from whatever he said next.
Draco approached her after another minute, hanging up the phone, and even if he'd said nothing, his face would have confirmed everything she'd suspected.
"The memoir is out," Draco said. "And it's bad."
A piece of advice I never knew until I became part of it: the royal family is hit by rumors constantly, new ones every day, so purely as a matter of practicality, they really only bother to deny rumors if they're true.
Which, by reading Rita's coverage, should tell you a lot about what was coming next.
a/n: Another installment of Olivie Blake is Not Writing is up on youtube! Also, some things to consider: this month's Witch Way Magazine story involves a bisexual lady vampire, a roguish male witch, and a newcomer to New Orleans who is about to be very sexually confused. Thanks as ever for reading!