Chapter 25: Exposition
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
Love in the Time of Public Consumption
With the Palace's reluctance to release any details about the nature of Hermione and Prince Draco's relationship, the entire country gradually fell into a state of ravenous curiosity, scavenging for want of news. Ironically, it was during this time of nescience that Hermione's influence on digital media became increasingly undeniable. With the rise of social media and blogging, Hermione's public presence, however unenlightening, was practically synonymous with the dawn of guerrilla 'journalism,' with all such content voraciously speculating whether a royal proposal was indeed impending. It became nearly impossible to go anywhere without further commentary as to the truth of Prince Draco's intentions, and with the release of Lady Bellatrix Lestrange's shocking memoir, Sister Cunning, Sister Fair: Dark Truths from the House of Black, the prospect of Hermione as the next Princess of Wales became an unavoidable source of idle gossip.
By the time the two were seen attending the wedding of Lady Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott, Earl of Arundel and inheriting Duke of Norfolk, it seemed the public was already quite convinced Hermione would be their future queen consort, with the department store Twilfitt and Tattings going so far as to begin selling engagement paraphernalia in advance of any such betrothal. Sources close to the couple say that due to the heightened scrutiny and the intensely low approval ratings for the monarchy, this period was a crucial one for Draco and Hermione's relationship. Indeed, their "deep love, which was undeniable even to the blindest of observers, was no doubt taking flight, grounded as it was by their mutual love of literature—which I, of course, coincidentally happened to teach them," says Horace Slughorn, former professor and close mentor.
Well, per usual, leave it to Rita to be entirely wrong about positively everything, nothing new there. I think, dreadful as it will inevitably be, the best way to go about unpacking this particular year in our lives will be to process it slowly, one person at a time.
September 27, 2014
London, England
Hermione suspected she would always think of that particular year as The Year of Difficulty, which was in fact so disastrous as to split itself in pieces just to accommodate everything that went wrong.
The year began (or rather, the previous year ended, spilling over into the new year as the story continually picked up steam) with the release of Lady Bellatrix Lestrange's memoir, Sister Cunning, Sister Fair: Dark Truths from the House of Black. It was less a memoir than it was a nasty retelling of the childhood, adolescence, and furtive romances belonging to the Black sisters, including an extremely detailed (graphic, even) account of their respective relationships with the Prince of Wales. Bellatrix and Lucius, introduced by a mutual friend after the latter finished at university, had had a whirlwind affair, the circumstances of their liaison hazy from the start. Bellatrix was already nearly engaged, she wrote, and only after being seen cavorting with Prince Lucius did she agree to break off the agreement with her then-suitor and future husband Rodolphus Lestrange, who held some sort of peerage Hermione could never remember. Bellatrix was, as she called herself, a modern woman from the start. She embraced her sexuality, her passions, her voice. She was open about her affairs with men both before and after Prince Lucius and, to the royal family's dismay, she was no less happy to discuss the times the country's future king had found himself entangled in her bed.
It was always known to us that we could never be together, Bellatrix wrote, but what was born from two such inquisitive minds could not be denied, nor did I ever imagine it would end. How wrong I was! Before Lucius, I would have never believed my own sister capable of such terrible betrayal. Did I suspect her of possessing an eye for my lover, envious as she had always been of the attention paid to me? Yes, of course, but I would have begrudged my sister nothing, and I thought she'd feel the same. But where Narcissa is undeniably beautiful, her loveliness hides a spiteful nature, a cruelty unfathomable even to me who knew her best, and though she knew of my love for Lucius, she did not hesitate to steal him away.
Worse even than the passages damning Narcissa were the ones highlighting Bellatrix's extramarital affairs—particularly the one concerning Lucius, which, while previously only rumored, was now substantiated by laboriously articulated details. Each alleged correspondence was carefully dated, as was each individual liaison, as if Bellatrix had always known this day would come.
I long for you, said one letter from Lucius, handwritten and on display in the book. Nothing has been the same since I was in your arms; I hardly know who I am without you. Bellatrix's reply, encouraging him to see her privately, was hardly met with ironclad resolve. I wish, I wish I could, Lucius said initially, which slowly turned to, We shouldn't, which eventually became, I can't stand it any longer, I have to see you, I have to touch you just to find myself, I swear I'm going mad.
Bellatrix was either a sadistically compelling writer or genuinely emotional, and it was difficult to tell which. She closed her book with an expression of sadness that she had been so quick to turn on Andromeda, the middle Black sister who'd never caused her any pain. For Narcissa, painted throughout as the villain of the book, Bellatrix was filled with sorrow and remorse, claiming that she wished she had not been the source of her sister's misery. Strangely, though, the most inexplicably ruinous part of the book's contents were its concluding lines:
I used to blame my sister for my unhappiness, and blame Lucius, as well. It has taken me until now, upon the loss of my lover, my husband, and my fortune, to realise my true enemy was always this: The belief that, for being a woman, I could never be myself. The idea, the very concept, that I must always apologise for what I truly was, and further, that when I refused, I would be punished for my crimes by the very institution we entrust with honor, reverence, and faith—the monarchy itself—which so easily made judgments about how a woman should be a woman.
It is my great wish that now, finally, a new era is dawning. Perhaps times are changing. Prince Draco has chosen to love a woman of incredible spirit, whose intelligence and thoughtfulness are her loveliest features; a woman whom I was never permitted to be. It is my deepest desire that my own suffering, great as it has been throughout my life, has allowed another woman of my same materials to rise, unburdened.
None of which Hermione read herself, of course. She hadn't been planning to touch the book at all, but within weeks it was impossible to escape any mention of it. Rita Skeeter, gleeful vulture that she was, quoted Bellatrix like she was Shakespeare, or the bible. Every article, no matter how unrelated, seemed to cite Bellatrix's book.
The effects of the book's release were… abysmal, to say the least. The monarchy's approval rating, already wavering for as long as Hermione had known Draco, dropped a staggering percentage. It seemed people either hated the monarchy for its destruction of the pure, desperately impassioned love between Bellatrix and Lucius or, worse, because it was now (pause for pearl-clutching) abandoning its principles by making Hermione Granger, totally un-posh McDonald's-eating, Kardashians-watching, keen-eyed Scavenger of Royal Dick the implausible—nay, inevitable—inheriting consort.
Primarily, the suffering related to Bellatrix's memoir belonged to Narcissa and Lucius, for distinctly different reasons. It wasn't as if they were the only ones who were addressed within the book—Bellatrix had gone so far as to suggest King Abraxas and Theo's father were in some sort of romantic or at least sexual relationship, for which the only evidence she bothered to cite was 'her possession of eyes'—but they were, without a doubt, the targets of near-immediate damage.
Hermione was, of course, not permitted anywhere near Narcissa, but she heard plenty of details about the Princess of Wales' subsequent breakdown. As far as psychological meltdowns went, it was pretty standard; a little screaming, some crying, mild to moderate property damage, a few accusations that Lucius was having her followed and reporting on her movements to his courtesan (Bellatrix, presumably, though Draco glossed over that in his retelling, fixating mostly on 'courtesan' because, as he said, "She just really painted a portrait, you know?"), two or three attempts to flee, and one highly publicized visit by Abraxas which Draco was expressly forbidden to attend.
For Lucius, who had already been unraveling, this was a time of coldness; from the media, who were positively icy in their treatment of him, and from his family, as well. While publicly nothing was said outside of vague, guilty-sounding denial—"HRH The Prince of Wales does not wish to speak about any of the misinformation propagated by Lady Bellatrix Lestrange and hopes the privacy of his family will continue to be respected"—Hermione understood that Draco, Narcissa, and even Abraxas seemed to be aligned in their attribution of blame.
"This wouldn't have happened if you'd just done what we all suggested and paid her off," was Theo's father's take on the situation, reported to them cheerfully by Theo himself, who seemed only able to discuss his father in cheerful tones now that the elder Nott had been dragged into the fray. In Nott Sr's view, the worst of it was the neediness in Lucius' letters; if it had been pictures of his erect penis, fine, as Theo loosely paraphrased, but the concept of needing Bellatrix was the most damning evidence of all.
For months—as the situation simmered within the royal family—Draco's stress was heightened, both because of the now-confirmed infidelities on his father's part (with his aunt, of all people) and because of his Abraxas' coolness towards Lucius. With his father appearing less frequently in public, Draco's appearances were particularly noteworthy, prompting him to invest more fully in his military service that was, by necessity, confidential. During the early months of 2014, Draco was commissioned as a lieutenant and sent away for training, allowing him to focus on something other than his parents' marriage, which the press claimed (correctly) was unraveling further every day; or his own marriage, which they claimed (less correctly) was impending. It seemed to Hermione that Draco was increasingly finding his time away from London to be a relief, rather than the other way around.
But that, of course, is part of someone else's story.
Around March, they found out some extremely unsettling news about Blaise. They had all understood, in some abstract way, that for all his extroversion Blaise was intensely private, even secretive. He would often disappear from time to time, various degrees of unreachable during the day until he chose to make himself available, and that had always been an aspect of his personality accepted by the others.
It was alarming, then, to discover the truth of what he was up to in his spare time.
"You have a what?" Hermione said, startled.
"A job," Blaise repeated, and the others stared at him, entirely flummoxed. "Anyway," he added, adjusting the tie nobody knew he owned outside of necessary costuming, "if that's all—"
"I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD," shouted Theo, who had, in fact, called the others (minus Draco, who was in training, and Pansy, who was spending time with her parents) for a meeting about Blaise's whereabouts after he hadn't been seen or heard from for three consecutive days. "What do you mean you have a job?" he demanded, and then more hysterically, "What are you even trained in?"
"Minus ten, Theodore, seeing as I thought you were aware we went to university together," Blaise said coolly, to which Theo made a sort of trumpeting sound of disbelief that required Daphne to begin soothingly stroking the top of his head. "Why is it so surprising I'd have a career? I'm not an earl, Theodore, and minus an additional ten for failing to notice. Not your finest performance, frankly—"
"Still, I can't believe you didn't tell us," Hermione said, feeling a slight undercurrent of disturbance at the idea that Blaise, her loudest, brashest friend, was also apparently the one she knew the least about. "Where do you work?"
"I'm an investment broker," Blaise said, which prompted another incoherent eruption from Theo. "I have a few select clients, mostly friends of my mother. She seems to want me to expand but, obviously, I have other commitments."
"Why didn't you ever mention it?" Daphne asked.
"I doubted you would find it interesting," Blaise replied. "Would you like to see my suggested investments for the year?"
"No," they said, collectively certain.
"Understandable," Blaise said curtly. "No points."
Among Blaise's 'other commitments'—aside from the rapidly deteriorating mental stability loosely belonging to Theo—continued to be Tracey Davis, though she was rarely around when the rest of them were present. Pansy was especially vocal about her dislike of Tracey, which Hermione began to suspect was increasingly an issue of jealousy. The more Blaise yielded his time to Tracey, the more furious Pansy got, as if losing her position at the center of Blaise's world had unsteadied her and the only way to resume existence was to lash out, striking him. Neville, who was usually present, said very little. By then, he seemed to be used to Pansy's outbursts and no longer appeared startled by them, assuring Blaise that everything was fine, Pansy loved him, that was all. Blaise usually replied with clipped, disinterested phrases.
"Don't worry, she's not mad at you, she's mad at me," Neville would say, "she's just taking it out on you."
"Yes, I know she's mad at you. I know her better than you, don't I?"
"Well, it's hardly a competition."
"Isn't it?"
Hermione noted that unlike the others, Blaise did not give or take points from Neville. It was instead as if the two were playing a completely separate game, entirely divided from the others.
"Just stay out of it, would you?"
"Stay out of what?"
"If Pansy wants to be cross with me, that's her business and mine."
"And it isn't my business that my girlfriend's happy?"
At that point Blaise would usually make a flippant remark, cutting Neville out of the conversation altogether and turning to Daphne, increasingly present, or Hermione, increasingly silent. Hermione generally found it bizarre that the meaner Pansy got, the more tolerant Blaise was of her—making excuses for her, consoling her, doubling down on his affections. Inevitably she would calm, join his side again, and then both of them would return to harassing Neville. But the moment the mention of Tracey or even a hint of Tracey herself came up—a hair tie left on the ground, a single blonde strand on the sofa cushions—Pansy's expression would go grim again, as if she were grinding her thoughts finely between her teeth.
It turned out Blaise was actually quite good at his job. By the beginning of summer (once Hermione had made an effort to actually pay attention to his work) he'd moved into a bigger office, even beginning to work fairly regular hours. She started spending more time with Blaise alone, finding that they were going through something similar. Blaise was losing Theo, just like Hermione was losing Daphne, and both were having to consider what came next.
"We could live together," Hermione suggested one day over lunch, pausing her chopsticks in her box of takeaway as Blaise smiled his cheshire smile at her. "Couldn't we? I mean, you need a flatmate, I need a flatmate…"
"Well, New Tracey, much as I enjoy your company, I doubt it would cast too favorable a light on you," Blaise pointed out, which made Hermione want to lie down on the floor and moan a bit about injustice. "If Rita Skeeter caught wind of you living with a man? Ha," he scoffed with a wave of his chopsticks. "The Prince of Darkness would rise with all his hellhounds."
"Fine," she grumbled, opting not to mention what Prince Lucifer (and his hellhounds for that matter, though she was loath to subject his metaphorical familiars to the same fate; what had they done, after all, but be metaphorically born that way?) could very well go hang. "What are you going to do, then?"
"Live alone, I expect," Blaise said. "I can afford the rent."
(She, on the other hand, could not.)
"Yes, but won't you be lonely?"
Blaise considered that for a long moment, staring somewhat pensively into space.
"No," he said after a moment, setting down his lo mein. "I suspect Hortense and Thibaut will haunt me vigorously enough. But plus twenty for your consideration of my feelings," he added, angling his chopsticks in her direction. "You're a good friend, New Tracey."
"You should really stop calling me that," Hermione sighed, noting that it didn't seem to be Old Tracey's favorite thing. She had never been a fan of their little circle, but she seemed to dislike Hermione most of all; more even than Pansy, though Hermione figured it was safer, as a survival instinct, to simply stay out of Pansy's way.
"And how goes everything else?" Blaise asked Hermione, leaning back in his chair. "Everything fine with the disaster twins?"
(He meant Theo and Daphne, who were a story best saved until later.)
"Fine. Just, you know. An inseparable maelstrom, nothing new."
"Yes, yes, I'm familiar. And Draco?"
(Also better left for a more opportune time.)
"Nothing new since Monday," she said.
"Your job? How are things with Susan?"
(Nope, nope, nope.)
"Fine, everything's fine. Have you talked to Pansy recently?"
"Yes, saw her yesterday."
"Anything new to report?"
"No, just the same Pansy. I'd give her points for consistency, only I suspect that would become redundant."
"Have you spoken to Harry much?"
(Hermione, for instance, had not.)
"He rang me this morning. Are you still not talking?"
"We're, you know. We're not not-talking, I'm just busy. We're both busy."
"Ah, I see."
And so it would go, so on and so forth for most of the summer, with very little change. Sometimes they would discuss, in further detail, either his job or hers. It was something they had in common, the idea that they had to work. That working, or having a job, was less a choice for them than a necessity. Blaise had the money, or could get it, but he wasn't cut from the same cloth as the others; he was wealthy, not aristocratic, and therefore his not possessing a career path looked something closer to laziness than centuries of land ownership (or however it was that earldoms were lucrative). Hermione felt a sense of kinship with him over that, a bond, and despite appearances that Blaise was doing quite well—perhaps the best of all of them, in fact—she couldn't help the feeling he, like herself, was concealing some very painful struggle.
"Tell you what," Blaise said one day, when Hermione showed up for their usual weekly takeaway lunch in his office. "Why don't we go on a little holiday after the wedding?"
"Really?" Hermione asked, surprised; it wasn't as if they were close. The lunches with him were the highlight of her workweek, but still, it was fairly understood between the two of them that they were not each other's intimate go-tos. Daphne was still Hermione's best friend; Blaise was still part of his boyhood band of brothers with Draco, Theo, and Harry, and when Pansy was amenable, she was closest to him. "Just you and me?"
"Sure, why not? We deserve it," he said drily, "after all we've done for our respective flatmates."
"I—" Hermione considered it. "Really?"
"Yes, really, and minus ten for doubting me," Blaise said with a laugh. "Nothing too monstrous, just a bit of time to get away from London. The disaster twins will be busy consummating their eternal love," he said, waving a hand, "whilst Pansy and Neville will be doing whatever Pansy and Neville do—"
"Communing with the dead," Hermione suggested. "Negotiating with demons."
"—yes, precisely, and Draco will be—"
"Elsewhere," Hermione said grimly, chewing her lip. "So yes, I suppose that does leave us, doesn't it?"
Blaise made a little hand motion of, yes, so, what do you think? and Hermione, surprisingly, felt the idea settle comfortably into her head.
"What about Tracey?" she asked, and he shrugged.
"She'll live," he said, though what Hermione suspected he meant was she's not important.
In July, while Hermione was preparing to move out of hers and Daphne's flat into an apartment of her own that she completely couldn't afford, she made a pact with Blaise: After Daphne and Theo's wedding, the two of them would take a trip somewhere else. They would leave London behind for at least a week to luxuriate somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere or in Atlantis or wherever they could find to give them some place of otherness. In other words, a temporary escape for both parties, and though Hermione still wasn't sure why Blaise seemed to need it as badly as she did, she began to think of it fondly; as in: Soon I'll be on vacation with Blaise, or sure, this is annoying now, but it'll be worth it when Blaise and I are drinking mai tais on a beach somewhere, otherwise occupied.
Then Pansy got engaged.
It was mid-August, unbearably hot and horrifically humid, when Neville suddenly interrupted the dinner they were all having (minus Draco and Harry) to suddenly drop to one knee beside Pansy, taking her hand and uttering, to everyone's disbelief, "Pansy Parkinson, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
Well, hold on. Perhaps the story would be better told a few steps back.
It was no secret, obviously, that Pansy had been waiting for Neville to propose for an inventory of multiple years by that point, which is perhaps why none of the others actually expected him to do it. It seemed a conciliatory proposal would be the obvious solution to Pansy's semi-permanent bad mood; thus, the longer Neville put it off, the more the others were certain he was never actually going to do it. What was he waiting for, after all? It soon settled into their collective consciousness that Neville Longbottom, despite wanting so badly to please Pansy—despite devoting himself to her, her fluctuating tempers, and her violently changing moods—was never going to propose, and that would simply be that.
For a time, Hermione wondered if Pansy herself believed this to be true and was simply walking around in a daze, sensitive to every impact. "You could move in with me," Hermione suggested gently, and though Pansy was usually clever enough (or, at least, intuitive enough) to know Hermione meant, PLEASE DEAR GOD DO NOT MAKE ME LIVE ALONE I AM ONLY A HAPLESS INFANT, Pansy retorted with brusque and malicious impatience.
"Why, because I'm going to be alone forever, is that it?"
"No, of course not, I'm just asking—"
"You'd better give up on this fantasy of a happy ending, Hermione," Pansy snapped. "I told you a thousand times, he's never going to marry you, he can say it all he likes but it's simply not happening. Better to move on with your life, do something else. Go to law school if you want, go back to California," she said listlessly, and Hermione blinked, fighting tears. She was used to Pansy's meanness, but it had never felt so sincere before. She was used to having to read Pansy's subtexts, but this time, her belief that Hermione should leave seemed genuine, and not particularly well-intentioned.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Pansy growled. "If you're going to be so sensitive you'll never make it, Hermione, they'll eat you alive."
Then she stalked off, irritated with Hermione's muted dismay, and eventually, it grew to the point where the two of them wouldn't speak for days, sometimes never going beyond cordiality. With Daphne, however, Pansy was a completely different person, clinging to her side as if she or, bizarrely, even Astoria could somehow give her whatever lady secrets that neither Pansy nor Hermione appeared to have.
"What is going on?" Daphne seethed through her teeth the day she and Hermione accidentally bumped into a bizarre portrait of a brunch featuring Pansy, Astoria, and Lady Susan Bones, all perfectly made up and discussing in hushed tones something that was likely—based on what Hermione had been overhearing between a bored-to-death Daphne and a chattering Pansy—the society events of the upcoming fall. "Honestly, what is she doing?"
"You're the only one she talks to now, aside from Neville," Hermione said with a grimace, tugging Daphne back into the street and turning to find another cafe before they were spotted. "Even Blaise says she sometimes doesn't answer his calls."
"Yesterday Draco said she seemed better," Daphne said thoughtfully, and Hermione blinked.
"You talked to Draco?"
"Only briefly," Daphne said quickly, "and only about the wedding."
"I don't care if you talk to him, Daph, I told you, we're fine."
(Strange to think now Hermione was the one saying things like: We're fine, everything's fine, I'm not upset, don't worry. The days of Daphne reassuring Hermione seemed long, long behind them.)
"Well, the point is she's either doing a very good job of putting on a show for Draco or he knows something we don't," Daphne said, while Hermione thought it could just as well be either, or perhaps both.
Then, just before Daphne's wedding Pansy got engaged and, like magic, she warped into a completely different person; one that was neither who she'd been before she'd met Neville nor who she'd been since. She was Engaged Pansy, a new and stranger version who was always serene, never picking fights, always generous with her time and her thoughts and her praise, never expressing any malcontent.
This Pansy, more than the others, terrified Hermione. For the first time she was skirting Pansy's calls, avoiding her when she made surprise visits (first to the flat Hermione and Daphne shared and then to Hermione's flat she occupied alone), until one day Pansy called four times in a row, insistent.
"Hermione, I need you to come with me on an errand, don't bother to refuse," she said in the voicemail. "I'll meet you at your office this evening."
The errand, it turned out, was to bring Pansy's engagement ring to a jeweler.
"Why?" Hermione asked, naturally.
"It doesn't fit, it needs to be resized."
"Oh," Hermione said, surprised. "Why did you need me to come?"
"Must I need a reason?" Pansy sniffed.
"I didn't even know it didn't fit. I thought you liked it?"
"Of course I like it—Neville can't make a single decision on his own, I picked it out for him ages ago—but still, he got the wrong size."
"Really? Let me see it, are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure, Hermione, please. It's on my finger, isn't it? Besides, Astoria says it looks big."
"Since when do you care what Astoria thinks?"
"I'm just saying, Hermione, I'm not the only one who thinks so."
"I know you aren't, but it's been a few weeks now. I'm just surprised."
"Well, you're busy, you haven't been paying attention."
"Fine, okay, but let me just look, I could have sworn—"
"IT DOESN'T FIT," Pansy shouted, and immediately, as if Hermione had inadvertently broken some sort of fragile case containing Pansy's emotions, she drew back, almost wounded, and shrieked, "It's all wrong, don't you understand? It's not right, it's not right, I just need to get it fixed right now, I need you to come with me, I need—"
"Pansy," Hermione said, tugging her into a boutique to escape the photographers that, as usual, were lingering on the street. She picked up a blouse, pretending to look at it, and with her free hand reached down to grip Pansy's hand, wrapping her fingers tightly around Pansy's knuckles. "Pans, take a breath—"
"It doesn't fit," Pansy repeated numbly, sounding a bit broken, and Hermione snatched a handful of hangers off the rack before dragging her into the fitting rooms. She hastily slid the curtain shut as Pansy stumbled in with her, impassive. "It's all wrong," Pansy said again, staring down at her perfectly manicured finger as if it no longer belonged to her, and for lack of any conceivable understanding, Hermione took her hand gently, eyeing the ring.
The diamond gleamed. Pansy herself was perfectly put together, like usual, and the platinum band (betraying evidence of Pansy's flawless taste) fit loosely but not too loose. Pansy herself, however, had a wild look in her eye, like her brain itself had been the thing to rattle out of place, spinning around inside her skull.
"Hermione, you can't leave me," Pansy was mumbling, tightening her fingers around Hermione's. "Promise you won't leave, promise me—"
"I won't leave, Pansy, I won't. I'm right here."
"You should, you know. You should get out, you're too clever for the rest of us. You shouldn't be here but it's too late, you are, so don't go."
"Yes, Pans, I'm here—"
"He's lying to me," Pansy whispered. There it was, Hermione thought, holding her breath. "I don't know what he's lying about, but I don't think he's what he says he is. It's like he's changed shapes or he's a different color or something and he thinks I don't notice, he thinks I don't feel it—"
"What do you mean?"
Pansy shut her eyes. "I don't know," she said hoarsely. "I can't… I don't know. I'm not a monster, Hermione, I swear, I'm not—"
"Of course you aren't! Pansy—"
"He's so good, isn't he?" she begged, and she seemed to genuinely be asking, pleading with Hermione to tell her whether or not it was true. "He's good, isn't he?"
Hermione couldn't help it; she checked Pansy's arms, scoured her for damage, just in case. It seemed that, for a moment, Pansy had been gripped with a terrible fear, and in the same moment, Hermione had gotten caught up in it, too. As if Neville could have magically been gripping Pansy from afar, holding so tightly there would be little vines, tiny welts to prove whatever he'd done to her most confident, smartest, and secretly kindest friend.
"Is he hurting you?" Hermione asked, half-holding her breath, and only then did a glimpse of the old Pansy return to her dark, scattered gaze.
"No, no, of course not. Neville? He wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Pans." Hermione sighed, pulling a rigid Pansy into her arms. "You don't have to marry him," she said, holding fiercely to Pansy's unyielding frame. "You really don't."
Pansy stiffened. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, sliding coolly from Hermione's embrace and adjusting her hair, her bracelets. As if they'd been met with some sort of storm that had passed, and now she was putting everything back in its place.
They never spoke about what happened that day in the shop, but after that day, Pansy seemed much more subdued, and Hermione stopped avoiding her calls. They had less than a month until Theo and Daphne's wedding, and besides, both had other things on their minds without holding onto any ill-feelings towards each other. Their friendship resumed, warily at first, and then with the comfort they'd previously possessed.
"Susan Bones is such a bore," Pansy said one day out of nowhere, prompting Hermione to look up from where she was finishing up an email to Minerva. "Honestly, the idea anyone could possibly prefer her to you is absolutely ludicrous."
Immediately, Hermione's eyes filled with tears, which she quickly and hurriedly suppressed.
"Oh, I don't know," she said, clearing her burning throat. "I think Susan's nice."
"She isn't nice," Pansy corrected, flipping the page of her magazine. "She's ordinary."
And Hermione, who knew better than to say something as idiotic as 'thank you,' merely smiled, returning her attention to her computer screen before picking up her phone, selecting Blaise's name from her contacts.
Maybe we shouldn't go on holiday right after Theo and Daphne's wedding, she said. Shouldn't we stay with Pansy, just in case she needs us for her wedding or something?
Blaise's response was short, perfunctory: We'll see if that actually happens.
Hermione blinked, surprised, and then Blaise followed up with, By the way, Harry's coming by my office tomorrow. Still planning to come to lunch?
Hermione considered it, toying with her hair as she pondered it.
"Put the hair down, Hermione, honestly," said Pansy, not even looking up from her magazine as she flipped a page. "You're not a little girl, are you?"
Hermione sighed, flashing Pansy a glare that Pansy ignored, and typed back to Blaise.
No, I can't tomorrow. But tell Harry I say hi.
The trouble with Harry started, as Hermione had known it would, at the same time she began working with Luna Lovegood. Initially, Harry's interest in Luna was purely related to the articles she promised Hermione: one, the one they'd discussed over butterbeers—which was surprisingly coherent, given everything Hermione now understood about the other woman—and another, following up on the projects two months later in the early months of the year. Let me see! Harry would insist via email, and Hermione would forward them along to him. Well, I'd hoped for goblins, he would reply with disappointment, but I suppose this is good, too.
Around January, a new slew of articles began coming out, showcasing another drop in favor for Harry and, for the first time, the rest of Draco's family as a result. Prince Harry and Ginny Weasley on the rocks again, the headlines declared, featuring old pictures of Harry frollicking with scantily-clad girls in clubs and Ginny, toned and tan and with her long red hair streaming down her back, looking furious. While this was nothing particularly new for Harry, it coincided unfavorably with Lucius' portrayal in the papers as being similarly unfaithful, and for the first time Harry, too, was the subject of enmity from Lucius and Abraxas. The royal family is positively awash in immorality and privilege, wrote Rita Skeeter, delighted as always to find scandals afoot. All that money and power and they're no better than a seventeenth century French court. It's a good thing Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger have no sisters, or perhaps Prince Draco and Prince Harry would be on a mad dash to make history repeat itself!
Harry wasn't entirely without defense. The trivialities of personal complexities we can neither know nor possibly fathom is as pointless as trying to identify nargles in empty air, Luna Lovegood wrote in February, an article which Hermione had thought at first was meant to defend her. We can't even name all the creatures in the sea, Luna insisted, and certainly (despite my best efforts) nobody's found any reported evidence of wrackspurts. How can we claim to know what exists in the private lives of public figures?
"Thank you, by the way, for your article," Hermione said to Luna the next time they met, finding the butterbeer slightly less unnerving this time. They were starting a new project, as always—Minerva was nearly as addicted to motion as Oliver; she hid it better, being significantly less of a maniac, but it was no wonder the two were such kindred spirits—and Minerva had suggested Hermione touch base with that 'Loony or whatever her name is' in advance of their next fundraising effort. "I really appreciated your support in the midst of all this nonsense."
"Yes, well, Harry didn't particularly want me to submit it for publication," Luna mused in admission, startling Hermione with mention of him. "He insisted it wasn't bothering him in the slightest, but personally I've never cared for poor journalism. A bit of a pet peeve of mine, lies."
"I—" Hermione stopped, clearing her throat. "You spoke to Prince Harry?"
"Oh, occasionally during the day," Luna said, apparently unaware how disconcerting this information was for Hermione. "He seems to like being informed what I'm working on. He has such a marvelous capacity for appreciating the banalities of existence—you know, disagreements within mermaid tribes, plants which can be used to breathe underwater—actually no, not that one so much," she corrected herself, frowning. "It's odd, but as soon as I discussed my experiments in the arena of fresh water exploration he rushed off the call."
"Did he?" Hermione asked, half-listening.
"Yes, it was so strange, I was merely telling him it's quite cold in Loch Katrine, next time clothes of some sort would be a necessity—"
"How often do you talk to him?" Hermione cut in, and Luna shrugged.
"Whenever he wants to talk," she said, impassive, and pressing Hermione tangentially, "Now, what was it you wanted to discuss? Another Knockturn project?"
"Yes, but about Harry, are you—" Hermione hesitated. "Is it… romantic between you, or—?"
This seemed to puzzle Luna deeply. "Romantic how?"
"Oh, you know, um. Never mind," Hermione said with a laugh, flushed with embarrassment. "I suppose Harry wouldn't be a chocolate and flowers kind of guy, would he?" she said, more to herself than to Luna. "It does seem a silly choice of words, now that I think about it."
"I vastly preferred the sex to the chocolates," Luna said without batting an eye, "and as I informed him, I have little use for flowers. Anyway, Knockturn?"
Hermione had scarcely waited an hour past the meeting to call Harry, unsure what she wanted to say until he'd already picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"You're fucking Luna Lovegood?!" she shouted, and Harry cleared his throat, the sound in the background fading as he made his way somewhere quieter.
"Nice to hear from you, Hermione," he said, and she could tell through the phone he was wearing his Prince Harry smile, probably smelling of jasmine and torment from wherever he was on the other end. "How's the weather in London this evening?"
"We work together, Harry, this is totally unprofessional—"
"What is?"
"You can't just sleep with people, Harry," she hissed, "you're supposed to be with Ginny!"
He was quiet for a moment.
"You're upset on Ginny's behalf again, I see," he said, seeming to be implying something hateful, and Hermione gritted her teeth.
"You can't just go around with whoever seems interesting to you that day—"
"Ginny and I aren't together," he said. "We've never been particularly conventional, and anyway, if she had a problem with it, I'd be more than happy to discuss it with her."
"Yes," Hermione argued, still enraged, "but you can't honestly think—"
"Hermione, if there's something you want to tell me, you'd better do it," Harry said quietly, seriously, almost dangerously, and in reply, she set her jaw, furious.
"This isn't about me. I don't have anything to tell you."
"You don't?"
"No, I don't. I just thought you were better than this," she spat at him. "I thought you could keep it in your pants but no, of course you can't, you just stick your royal prick wherever the hell you like—"
"I told you," Harry cut in. "I told you, this is what you've always thought of me. You never took me seriously, did you? You still don't."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"You could have had me, Hermione, if you wanted. If that was what you wanted, but you didn't. So don't turn this around on me—"
She bristled. "You think that's what this is about? You think I'm jealous or something?"
"I don't know, Hermione, you tell me. Seems like Draco's not there and you want someone, anyone, to pick up the pieces for you. You want me to take you away, stay in love with you and only you, so that you don't feel alone? I'm not doing that. If you want something from me, say it."
"This isn't about me, it's about you," Hermione snapped. "About how you can't stay loyal to anyone! You just run around doing whatever you want, and you don't even care who you hurt by doing it. You're only here when you're here, and then when you're gone you're just—"
"Call your boyfriend," Harry interrupted, his tone sharp and mean. "This seems like a conversation you should be having with him."
"Leave Draco out of it—"
"You know what? Leave me out of it too, Hermione. Call me when you grow up."
And then he hung up, gone, and she stared at her phone, unable to process what had gone wrong and worse, unable to apologize without really understanding whether she was actually sorry.
Over the next few months, Harry was deployed somewhere Hermione didn't know, the information withheld for his safety. He came back once or twice, holed up with a small blonde woman, and again the day Blaise invited Hermione to lunch knowing she would refuse. Harry had maybe reconciled with Ginny; they were back in the tabloids again. It was made public that he would be attending Theo and Daphne's wedding with a plus one expected to join him (prompting new speculation) but her identity, until the day of, remained undisclosed.
But this, of course, Hermione only knew from covers she saw on magazines. For nearly a year, she heard very little at all from Harry himself, until the day of Theo and Daphne's wedding.
For Theo and Daphne, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. As in: it was a wedding planning time, which was, without question, the worst.
The moment Theo slipped the vintage diamond ring on Daphne's finger, it seemed they had both made themselves slaves to something increasingly larger than they were. It wasn't as if either family really objected to the match; Daphne's parents were pleased enough with Theo's name and fortune and Nott Sr, according to Theo, merely made some sort of grunt of acknowledgement without looking up from his books. Daphne and Theo were happy together, now so joined at the hip it was rare to see one without the other, but the little bubble of contentment quickly threatened to cave beneath the pressures of satisfying two aristocratic families intent on getting their way.
Despite staying in Daphne's house, Hermione hadn't previously interacted with Daphne's mother, Ava, and was startled to find upon meeting her that she was the spitting image of her second daughter. Ava and Astoria walked into Daphne and Hermione's flat with precisely the same commanding presence, with the only difference between the two women being the evidence of maybe fifteen years (Ava was extremely well-preserved) and Ava's hair, an updo where Astoria's was set in loose waves.
"This is where you live? Fine," said Ava, acknowledging and dismissing the flat in the same breath in a way that made Hermione heartily afraid of ever meeting Pansy's mother. "Well, let's get started, shall we?"
"I brought all the latest," Astoria said, dropping a pile of couture bridal spreads on Daphne and Hermione's coffee table. "Unless you already have these, Daph?"
"Um, no," Daphne said, giving Hermione a look that said just watch, let's see how this goes. "Actually, I was thinking I might like to find a vintage dress, and then, I don't know. Maybe alter it a bit, I gu-"
"No," Ava said, picking up the Marchesa lookbook as her younger daughter leaned over to crow her approval, neither woman acting as if Hermione or Daphne were in the room. "Don't be ridiculous, Daphne. This isn't the time for one of your silly projects."
Astoria was slightly better on her own, though only marginally.
"What about a black maid of honor dress?" Daphne suggested, gesturing for Hermione to sample the carrot cake she'd requested for the tasting, and Astoria let out a loud scoff.
"What is it, a funeral?" she asked.
"I just thought it might look nice," Daphne said, faltering slightly at her sister's disdain despite having considered it a brilliant idea the night prior. "You know, modern, elegant. Good for a September wedding."
"This cake is delicious," contributed Hermione, optimistic that it would be a simple enough decision to deem a cake a cake and then, god willing, they could leave.
"Well, Mum said she'd prefer a jewel tone if you're so set on an autumn ceremony," Astoria said, frowning, "but I suppose I don't look bad in black." She leaned over, taking a bite of the cake for herself before making a face, shuddering a little. "You're not seriously getting this for a wedding cake, are you? You know Mummy's going to say it's provincial."
"It's what Theo likes," Daphne said defensively, and Astoria rolled her eyes.
"So? Everyone knows the wedding isn't for the groom."
"Isn't it for the bride, at least?"
"Please, Daph, don't be stupid," Astoria said with a laugh, affectionately patting her sister's shoulder. "It's for Mum and Daddy, for their friends, for the newspaper. By the way, you should, you know. Lose a bit of that relationship weight," she said, dropping her voice while permitting her gaze to linger on Daphne's stomach, the latter flushing pink with embarrassment. "Not to be rude," Astoria sang with a slyly arched brow, "but it is a quick courtship, and you know people are going to talk. I only say it because I love you, Daph."
Needless to say, Daphne began dragging Hermione to yoga and pilates, twice a week each, and pushing her into running on the weekends.
"I didn't even notice," Daphne huffed through a jog that was making Hermione yearn to sit down, nap, possibly even have a quick, casual bout of plague just to get some peace. "I mean, Astoria's right, I've gained five pounds since Theo and I started up, happiness is truly a curse on the hips—"
"You look amazing, Daph," Hermione panted, wanting very vehemently to die. "Astoria's just, I don't know, being unreasonable."
"No, no, she's right," Daphne fretted, pushing Hermione another two miles until she was certain they were both going to collapse.
Meanwhile, the two fathers were having it out as well, much to Theo's surprise. He hadn't expected his father to care much about the details of the wedding, but it seemed that the negative press Nott Sr had gotten for Bellatrix's memoir was meant to be resolved in some way by Theo's marriage to Daphne. Nott must have spent a fortune getting the wedding included in every possible society feature, pushing them into formal engagement photos and emphasizing his son's title, his own title, and their proximity to the throne. He insisted on having the wedding at his own manor house; the Greengrasses objected heartily, wanting instead a fashionable London wedding for the benefit of their more metropolitan society friends.
As for what Theo and Daphne wanted, neither was consulted, and as a result, they became increasingly rebellious, prompting Blaise to begin referring to them as the 'disaster twins.'
"That's IT," Daphne shrieked, storming out of one of her summer fittings for a very traditional dress that, while certainly elegant, had not been her choice, and was instead grudgingly settled upon after intense pressure by her mother paired with a chorus of ruthless encouragement from Astoria. "I can't do it anymore," Daphne shouted to Hermione, who hurried out of the salon behind her, carrying her abandoned purse. "It's exactly what I thought it would be: everything they want or what Theo's father wants, nothing that we want—"
"It's your wedding," Hermione said, panting once again to keep up with Daphne as the latter continued to rage-stomp through London. "You don't have to go along with everything they say, you know. If you want a different dress, have a different dress, then—"
"No, no. No." Daphne stopped suddenly, rubbing her forehead with a scowl. "Call Theo, would you? Tell him to meet us in ten minutes."
The subsequent summit between future-husband and future-wife, which Hermione feared was going to involve the two of them running away together to Canada or Berlin or something, was instead a total surprise.
"This wedding is one day," Daphne said, pacing imploringly in front of Theo and Hermione, "it's one day and if they want it, it's theirs, but I want to know that every day afterwards is going to be mine—that it'll be ours."
She seemed to be staring especially intently at Theo, who frowned. "What are you saying, Greengrass?"
Daphne, somewhere between stubbornness and fury, said, "I want my own line. I want to start a company, I want to design clothes."
Theo blinked, glancing at Hermione, who shrugged.
"You can't honestly think I'd stand in the way of that, do you?" he asked Daphne, who shook her head.
"No, but I have to ask you, because I'm going to need your help. Building a business in our first year of marriage, it's going to be stressful," she said, revealing to a furtively surprised Hermione that Daphne had, in fact, lent some thought to doing it. "You'll be a part of it, Nott, just by being… I don't know. Next to it."
"Well, sure," he said, glancing again at Hermione as if she might be able to explain the problem, which she could not. "Whatever you need, Greengrass, you'll have it. Money, time, support, whatever you need, it's yours."
"Well—" Daphne cleared her throat. "That's the thing. I want your name," she said, startling both Hermione and Theo even further.
"What?"
"The line," Daphne said. "I want to call it Daphne Nott."
Theo gaped at her, entirely bemused. "What? But it's yours, Greengrass, it's entirely your making, I have nothing to do with this—"
"Yes, Theo, you do." Daphne stepped forward, taking hold of his collar and imploring him, somewhat militaristically, to see whatever it was she was trying to express. "Theo, don't you understand? Daphne Greengrass isn't anyone. She belongs to her father, her mother, her family, her birth, her class… Daphne Greengrass is nothing. She can't even say no, she almost lost you—don't you see it? This, whatever this is that I make, I want to make it with you," she said, and turned sharply to Hermione, imploring her to agree. "It's not like it's anti-feminist, is it?"
"I—" Hermione fought a laugh. "I hardly think I'm the definitive authority."
"There, see? Hermione says it's fine," Daphne paraphrased shamelessly, turning back to Theo and waiting for him to agree. "Don't you get it, Nott? I want my own life. I want to make my own choices. I want to choose my own name."
Theo exhaled with a shake of his head, reaching out to stroke her hair.
"Why," he said, "would you possibly want mine?"
Daphne let out a tremor of a laugh.
"I don't know," she said softly. "I guess it just looks so good on you."
Hermione, who was beginning to get the sense she should probably leave the room, rose to her feet only to stop suddenly, pivoting around to look at Daphne.
"The blog," she said, and Daphne's brow furrowed.
"You're not still thinking about what Draco said, are you?"
(He had said things, which could wait until later.)
"No, no, I'm just thinking. The blog has a pretty solid following," Hermione said slowly, catching Theo's dawning look of understanding. "It would be great for your line if you just took ownership of it."
After all, by that point, 80% of the articles were written by Daphne. The entire blog itself was undoubtedly Daphne's brainchild, designed by her and curated to her aesthetic. Hermione falling behind had only meant Daphne had picked up the slack with enthusiasm, finding pleasure in the task.
"You should just say the blog is yours," Hermione continued. "Fleur will wear anything you design for her," she added, which was true. Theo's romantic relationship with Fleur might have been over, but her working relationship with Daphne had only just begun; already, the two had been in contact for a new gown and some pieces for Fleur's Paris Fashion Week wardrobe. "You can talk about the designs on the blog, claim it as yours."
"But—" Daphne frowned, glancing at Theo as if to confirm that he was hearing this, too, and then back at Hermione. "But I like doing it with you."
"With me she only tolerates it," Theo added, earning himself a backhand to the stomach as Hermione laugh-sighed with a shake of her head.
"Take the blog," she told Daphne, "and move in together, too. I'll find a new flat."
"But—" Daphne was clearly having trouble processing. "Hermione. We already agreed, I'm going to keep living here until the wedding."
"Yes, I know we agreed, but—" Hermione broke off, chewing her lip in a way Pansy would have scolded if she'd been present. "But I want you to start your life," she said, not feeling the need to add that if Daphne's happiness came at the cost of ending the way things had been always between them, so be it. The Daphne who was ready to be with Theo was moving at a different pace than the one who had needed Hermione by her side, and Hermione couldn't—or wouldn't; she wasn't totally sure whether she was being held back or keeping herself at bay—keep up.
"Are you angry with me?" Daphne asked, still having difficulty with the necessary calculations. "I told you this stupid wedding would be a lot of work, but if it's too much—"
"I'm not angry," Hermione assured her, and she wasn't. "I'm happy for you. I love you, Daph, you know that. I just want you to be happy."
For a moment, Daphne seemed stunned, processing a broad spectrum of emotions in the span of a few blinks.
Then she beamed, touching her fingers lightly to her heart, and reached out for Hermione, pulling her into an embrace.
"I couldn't have done it—any of it," Daphne swore fiercely in Hermione's ear, "without you."
Maybe, Hermione thought, maybe not.
In the end, Daphne did start her line. Daphne and Theo stopped arguing with their parents, instead acquiescing on every point, never bothering to tell either family they'd moved into the Nott townhouse together three months in advance of their wedding and now stayed up at night, Hermione often by their side and sometimes Blaise, determining logos, clients, choosing between suppliers, contemplating new hires, sorting through paperwork.
"You're okay with this?" Astoria asked, twirling around in the amethyst dress at her final fitting; the gown was purple, which Daphne hated, to set Astoria's coloring off beautifully with the lighting in the church that Daphne's parents had chosen.
"Yes, it looks perfect on you," said Daphne, nudging Hermione to show her the nearly-finished website, the emails back and forth from Fleur discussing the design of her custom gown, the growing success of the blog in the months since Hermione had stepped back. "What do you think?" she whispered, and Hermione frowned.
"What does it matter what I think?"
"Hermione," Daphne said impatiently, "it will always matter to me what you think."
Then she reached down, squeezing Hermione's hand, and for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt happy, and at peace.
"Hello?" Astoria said, gesturing to herself. "Belt or no belt?"
"No belt," Daphne and Hermione said in unison, and exchanged a glance, warmed by their synchronicity as Astoria shrugged, conceding.
And then—prompting Hermione to flinch—her cell phone rang in her purse, indicating that for the first time in nearly nine months, Draco had finally come home.
For Draco and Hermione, the year had gone… not particularly well, beginning with Hermione's trip home to see her parents over the holidays. She had forgotten, somehow, to lend any thought to how she was viewed by the American press, having been exclusively concerned with the British tabloids for months. To her surprise, her face was all over the gossip rags she'd used to surreptitiously eye in the grocery aisle.
Where the English were hesitantly fascinated by her, alternating between their loathing of her hair and her clothes and her unimpressive job and their enthrallment with the idea that she was a cheeky normal girl who'd won over their Prince with her mind, the Americans were positively slavish in their devotion. Princess Hermione, they rapturously called her, as if she were already married to Draco. One of their own, they said, who was living every girl's fairytale.
Hermione couldn't stand to look at it, spending all her time at home with her parents and hardly escaping the four walls of her house until she returned to London.
Things with her job, responsibilities for which were growing in no small part due to Luna Lovegood's coverage of their work and Minerva and Oliver's success in fundraising, were intensifying, despite Hermione's continued emotional lethargy about her role. When Oliver pushed her again about Lady Susan Bones, she was quick to give in, though she didn't particularly care to ask herself why that was. Instead she simply befriended the noblewoman (who was her age) in a courteous way, meeting with her every month or so to have a very forced, highly dull conversation about public art.
"It's very exciting to be part of this," Susan said when they met, offering Hermione yet another in what felt like a long line of frustratingly smooth, perfectly manicured hands that smelled like Chanel. "Thank you so much for including me."
Yes, yes, sure, "Where does your interest in the arts stem from?"
"Oh, my aunt, Baroness Bones—Have you heard of her? I know you're from the States"—What was that, was it some sort of sly reminder that Hermione didn't belong? Had Susan done it intentionally? Was she trying to make Hermione feel small, feel unimportant, what?)—"Anyway, she was always supportive of legislation promoting public art. It was truly one of her passion projects, and I'm afraid it was inevitable I be infected."
"How wonderful," Hermione said, surprising even herself with how false the words sounded, and hurried to amend it with, "I'm glad we'll be able to work together. I think your support will be invaluable to the project."
Susan (bless her fucking heart) was at once entirely incandescent. "Thank you, Hermione, that's very kind."
They pointedly did not discuss Draco, or the fact that, as Hermione had already predicted, Susan's presence at Abraxas' annual gala meant that discussion of her by the press was heightening. As for Draco himself, his training coincided nicely (suspiciously, according to Rita) with several months away from London, starting in January.
Their last night together before he left was, unfortunately, some of their better sex—the unfortunate part being less the satisfaction (always a plus) and more the idea that even when they wanted to fight—when he was frustrated with her lack of sympathy for his situation and she was furious with his apparent inability to see what was right in front of his goddamn face—sex was always easier. Sex always seemed like the better option, more productive for both parties; a fight, by comparison, seemed so depressingly fruitless.
After all, what agreement were they going to come to? Was she supposed to say, 'Oh, I'll just not care anymore that you won't confirm you're dating me and that you also won't publicly deny you're involved with Lady fucking Sooz, I'll be totally fine with you being gone for nine months because hey, everything's fine here?' Or would he tell her, 'Look, my grandfather is the literal king of this country but sure, fuck it, fuck him, let's see if he can really force me to abdicate, let's dare him, that certainly wouldn't make me resent you at all and besides, my family isn't falling apart as it is, everything is the most fine!'
So yeah, sex. God, he was good at it. Even after so many years of it he was really, really good, and he knew what she liked. They both knew how to channel their frustration into physicality by then, transmute it into touch. There was a familiarity that was undeniable between them; a comfort, even when it was aggressive; even when it was fast, when it was rushed. He was still the boy who liked to ask questions about her writing, who wanted to have philosophical discussions about her work, who sat with her in the library and managed to occupy her space without disrupting it. Even without the library, without the writing, without the work, he was still that boy, and she still fell into his arms just as readily, even with everything that changed.
When there were no arms to fall into, however, things weren't quite so easy to push aside.
"Look, I have to talk to you about something," he said at some point, coincidentally the same day she'd yelled at Harry. "Don't be cross with Theo, okay?"
Hermione grimaced; there was only one thing that could mean. She'd been wondering for some time, actually, if Theo ever kept any secrets from Draco.
"You know about the blog, don't you?"
Draco was silent for a moment.
Then, "Yes, I do. I've known for some time now. It's good," he said, and the inevitable but hung in the air between them.
Silence.
"If you want me to stop doing it," Hermione said, feeling a little bitter, "you're going to have to say so."
"I don't want to tell you to stop."
"Yes, but you want me to stop, don't you?"
More silence.
"My grandfather is concerned," Draco said eventually.
"Does he know about it?"
"No. God, no. If he knew, we'd really have a problem."
"So what's this, then? If it's not a problem."
"It's just that he's just asked me to… to make sure there's nothing questionable the press might dig up. You have to understand," he said quickly, "all this business with my father, it's unpleasant. My grandfather feels it's been a bit of a nasty surprise."
"How was it possibly a surprise?" Hermione retorted. "Everyone already knew what your father had done, didn't they?"
Too harsh. She'd overdone it, could tell immediately she'd been cruel.
"I didn't know," Draco said quietly. "I mean, I knew, but I didn't… actually know."
Suddenly, she felt very, very tired.
"He just doesn't want any more surprises," Draco continued, and Hermione sighed.
"When are you coming home?" she asked, abruptly changing the subject.
He used the diplomat tone, the one that meant he knew what he was doing and was planning on doing it anyway. "Not until September."
"Seriously?"
"Yes. I told you, I'm doing this for u-"
"Don't, Draco. You're doing it for you, because it keeps you out of London. Because you don't have to deal with me or my demands."
It was an unfair accusation, and she knew it. But she wanted him to deny it, which he only sort of did.
"It's for us," he repeated staunchly, "but can't it partially be for me, as well? I finally feel useful. I'm not just a puppet for my father, I'm not a pet for my grandfather. I have an actual job here, a real role. I'm not just sitting around in my palace being told to behave, for once."
He paused, and then, "Can't it still be something that's for us?"
"And what am I supposed to do?" she shot back. "You're robbing me of my voice. All I am now is a picture, a name, a headline—I was supposed to be someone," she seethed through her teeth, "not just marry someone!"
He was silent again.
"I'm not going to tell you to stop writing," he said. "I can't do that."
"But you want me to."
Silence.
"Oh, just say it," she said, half-snarling it, and he sighed.
"Fine, I want you to," he said, his voice soft and hard and cold and sad. "Are you happy now, Hermione?"
No, she wasn't. Not at all, and it didn't get much better. The expensive flat in the nice neighborhood with good security that her parents took out a second mortgage to help her afford, the job that required her to constantly be in contact with a girl she couldn't look at without thinking that's what they want me to be—it weighed on her, and Hermione's thoughts started to twist and morph, convoluting themselves into a dull refrain consisting of Bellatrix Lestrange's laugh and her own harrowing thoughts: Is a boy, any boy, worth all of this?
The night before Daphne and Theo's wedding, Hermione got the call from Draco saying he was in town, that he wanted to see her, that he'd missed her. A similar sentiment, the same thing they'd said to each other every night, then every other night, then with windows of silence in between, both too busy with other things to devote their time to the same conversation, spoken like muscle memory over the phone.
It seemed to Hermione that she was falling into bed with a stranger now, unrecognizable from his months in training. Possessing authority had changed him, down to the places her fingertips used to recognize blind; he was muscular now, his slenderness filled out with all the evidence of physical exertion left in its place. The boy who'd studied with her in the library was gone, replaced by a man who looked increasingly like his father. The first time she saw him she almost flinched, seeing Lucius in Draco's features and thinking they're right about you, you're just like your father and then hating herself for believing something she knew (she hoped) was a lie.
Even naked, even in his arms, even post-orgasm, she struggled to feel the satisfaction she'd become accustomed to.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Yeah, fine, I don't know."
It was like they were strangers; like an awkward one-night stand, except they were strangers who had already had their likenesses unflatteringly painted onto porcelain soup bowls in the front display of Twilfitt and Tattings.
"How's your mother?"
"Well, hard to say. It seems like she and my grandfather go back and forth on whether she and my father should get a divorce. The only person adamant they stay together is my father."
"Ah."
"And… you?"
"I told you. I'm fine."
He seemed to know she didn't want to talk, seemed to also know they should talk, but wasn't sure how to go about making it happen.
He slid his hand down to hers, toying with her fingers.
"I missed you."
Yes, so you mentioned. "I missed you, too."
"You're not wearing your ring," he noted, eyeing her finger.
"I had to clean it." True, but then she'd forgotten about it.
"Ah."
He slid his thumb over her knuckles.
"I thought we could arrive together tomorrow," he said quietly, which was something she might have once considered exciting. True, there would be no paparazzi, but surely someone would leak the photos and then for a few weeks Rita Skeeter and the rest of the world would believe that she and Draco were happy, were together, were destined for marriage, and that would keep her going for a while, make her feel loved, or important. It might let her believe for a few days that she was a priority in his life.
She said: "Sure, sounds good."
She did not say: "Too little, too late."
The church was decorated to Ava's taste (Astoria had started out interested, then lost interest in everything save for her own dress, as Daphne had predicted) and was occupied by what felt like a hundred people Hermione had never met. Still, it was a relief to see the others. Pansy was in a good mood, Blaise and Neville were being civil, Astoria was being inordinately helpful, Fleur had cheerfully declined her invitation and sent an enormous gift in her place, Harry had brought Ginny; evidently they had come as friends. He caught Hermione's eye, holding it for a second, and mouthed, "Hi."
She exhaled, breathing a little easier, feeling a weight lift at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he'd forgiven her.
"Ready?"
Daphne was breathtakingly beautiful, her gown simple and elegant and a crisp white silhouette that, although it hadn't been the one she'd wanted, was unforgettably stunning. The cathedral veil, an excellent choice, streamed down her back like a ray of gauzy sunlight, and it occurred to Hermione that Theo, despite his best efforts, would probably struggle not to cry, if he managed it at all.
"Why are you asking me?" Hermione said, laughing a little, and Daphne shrugged, looking excited. She looked, in short, like a woman about to marry the love of her life.
"You just seemed a little unsteady," she said, before leaning forward to murmur in Hermione's ear, "Are you happy?"
Hermione was too tired to lie. "No."
Daphne squeezed her arm, comforting her.
"Then change something," she advised, leaning in for a mock-kiss (only mock for the sake of their saviors, lipstick) to Hermione's cheek before taking her place in the threshold of the church. The doors opened, the audience rose, and for a moment Hermione was temporarily blinded, temporarily suspended; as if Daphne's advice had suddenly made her feel freer, and that loss of paralysis had been like looking directly into the sun.
Hermione took her seat beside Draco, watching Theo watch Daphne's approach down the aisle. Hermione was positive she saw Daphne exchange a challenging glance with Theo's father, giving him an almost audible fuck you before turning sweetly to Theo, who struggled either not to laugh, or not to cry. He took her hand, brushing her knuckles lightly with his lips, and turned to lead her to the altar, her fingers held tightly in his.
Seeing them go saddened Hermione a little, as much as it filled her with happiness. Like all their big moments of change, this one was equal parts of both.
"What now?" she asked Draco quietly, looking first at her hands, then his.
She'd left the snake ring at home, forgetting it again. His signet ring was on his right hand, untouched.
"I don't know," he murmured.
Then, eventually, Theo leaned forward to kiss his bride and the room exalted in joy, celebrating the newness, the precipice, and the consequence of forever.
The good news? That this particular year would end much differently than it started. By the end of 2014 we would have all made some changes, some more alarming than others—but that, I suppose, is all part of life's usual funny way of working out.
a/n: Alright, we've hit rock bottom. Time to go up from here!