Chapter 27: Revival

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

A Knight in Shining Armour

Many will recall that in November of 2014, King Abraxas was grievously victimized by a savage fleet of hounding photographers, leading to a treacherous car chase with near-fatal consequences. Understandably, His Majesty opted not to make any public remarks following the crash, asking instead that his grandson, Prince Draco, address the press on behalf of the Royal Family. Aside from the question of why it had been Draco and not his father, the Prince of Wales, who had been asked to speak, the press conference is most oft remembered for its concluding remarks: Namely, Prince Draco's request that the safety and privacy of the woman who would be his future wife be protected above all others.

While Prince Draco had been reluctant to speak with the press about private matters, making few comments (if at all) about his personal life, it seemed that—in the face of rumours he had begun courting beloved aristocrat Lady Susan Bones—Hermione was to be his glaring exception. In fact, less than a month after the initial address, paparazzi would capture Miss Granger sunbathing in the private villa she was sharing with a friend, and Draco would again come quickly to her aid, publicly condemning the Greek press for their actions and demanding an immediate retraction of all leaked photographs. With his grandfather and father were still absent in the press, the young Prince was quick to emphasize there would be no stiff upper-lipping this one; "It was clear that if His Highness had to run into every publication syndicate waving a lance on horseback and challenging each individual editor to a duel, he would do it," comments an anonymous Palace source, adding, "Frankly, it was a bit arousing, if I'm being honest! But don't print that, of course."

There are pieces to this story that Rita is, of course, leaving out; specifically, that she herself printed those pictures alongside a scathing article calling me a 'shameless party girl,' and then she proceeded to postulate that perhaps I had been drowning my sorrows following the loss of my royal boyfriend.

Astoundingly, she got one thing right, as I was drowning my sorrows—sort of, maybe. Suppressing them, at least, or trying to. Draco and I were doing a somewhat tenuous job of being exes, I'll admit; it wasn't something that came easily to either of us, for reasons which now seem obvious but at the time were considerably less so. I had gone on vacation hoping to recover a bit of myself—and I did, I think, or at least make excellent headway towards recovering something. But what I gained in inner peace did come at a cost, as I would soon discover.

The cost of significant outer exposure, that is.

November 20, 2014
Mykonos, Greece

Perhaps it was for the sake of nostalgia that Hermione and Pansy opted to return to Mykonos, where they had once vacationed with Daphne. Hermione hadn't wanted any particular extravagance—certainly couldn't afford any, even with Pansy's help—but as Lady Six-Names pointed out, Hermione no longer possessed the requisite anonymity for a quiet holiday. "If you want privacy, you're going to have to pay for it," she informed Hermione stiffly, handing her a credit card without any additional ceremony. "And do not press me on this, or I will simply change my mind about joining you."

From the start, Hermione doubted that was true. For one thing, Pansy must have had just as pressing a desperation to leave as Hermione did, given that her fiancé and her best friend had been hiding their affair for over a year. For all that Pansy was acting as if nothing had changed, Hermione was positive that it had, just as she was convinced that some time away from London would permit them to have a real and perhaps even illuminating conversation.

During such time, Hermione fantasized she would finally get to the heart of Pansy's feelings; would manage to assuage them, and then, perhaps over a disgusting round of ouzo (probably; it just seemed highly likely), she would finally sever Pansy's need to rely on Neville for… whatever positively medieval reasons she had for remaining attached. Simple, easy. When had distance not made things much easier, or retrospect much clearer? Hermione imagined it would be a week's effort, possibly two weeks tops, and then the remainder of their stay could be blissfully devoted to feminine bonding and their own personal Eat, Pray, Love.

"Let me stop you right there," Pansy said before Hermione even had a chance to speak, dropping her bags the moment they entered the small but luxurious (Intimate!, read the website) rental villa. "I know you have grand aspirations to fix me, Hermione, but let me assure you that, per usual, nothing is broken."

"I wasn't—"

"I can see you've got that smug little Saint Granger look on your face," Pansy continued, leaving Hermione to adjust her expression to something of a pout, "but it isn't happening. I know perfectly well your agenda for bringing me here, and just because I've made no opposition up to this point does not mean I'm willingly submitting to it. You'll not convince me of anything, Hermione, and we're certainly not speaking of it today."

"But Pansy—"

"Perhaps tomorrow," Pansy sniffed, "when I've had a bit more sun," and then she wandered into the kitchen, seeking out a pitcher for what Hermione suspected was going to shortly be mojitos as Hermione was left to sigh, resigning herself to concession. Pansy was right, she thought, not yet. The bonding would have to be a process, and a slow one.

A very slow one, as it turned out.

"Not today, either," Pansy said on day seven. Her bikini top rested beside her reclining lounge chair as she opened one eye, doubtfully glancing at a falsely cheerful, mimosa-bearing Hermione. "And what are you looking at?"

"Um," said Hermione, who wasn't totally sure how appropriate it was to applaud Pansy for her apparently very excellent breasts. Was it the same as complimenting a woman's shoes, or her haircut? Surely it should have been. Didn't men regularly congratulate each other on their pectorals at will?

"Don't gawk, Hermione," Pansy said, though Hermione thought she saw a little smirk flit briefly over Pansy's lips. "They're just tits."

Hermione kept her bathing suit on, thankyouverymuch, lacking both Pansy's aforementioned 'just tits' along with her general aristocratic confidence (read: confidence), and after a moment lamenting another failed plot for intimacy (promised by the villa's website!), she settled herself beside Pansy with a mournful sigh, earning herself a lazy backhanded swat.

"Stop it," Pansy said.

"Stop what?"

"This, what you're doing. Stop it immediately."

"What am I doing?"

"You're meddling."

"I'm not!"

"You're trying to," Pansy scolded, turning her head and arching a brow. "You want me to break it off with Neville, is that it?"

"Well, do you want to break up with Nev-"

"We are not having this conversation," Pansy said firmly, returning her face to the gleaming sun. It wasn't overly warm, being November, but compared with the autumnal gloom of London, the sunbathing felt extremely appropriate. "I came here so as not to think about it, Hermione, and that includes not discussing it. Or do you, in fact, wish me to be extremely unhappy?"

"I… don't," Hermione said, feeling trapped, and rushed to add, "But—"

"No buts," Pansy said, and then smirked a little, "Unless you're feeling cheekier today than usual."

"Pans," Hermione said, feigning a gasp, "was that a crude and irreverent pun?"

"I'm on holiday, Hermione. I'm permitted my moments," Pansy replied, reaching blindly for the mimosa Hermione had set between them and then smiling to herself, apparently perfectly satisfied.

Unfortunately, the truth—which Hermione was loath to admit even to herself—was that her attempt to wander into Pansy's psyche was equally about helping Pansy as it was about distracting herself. With Daphne on her honeymoon, Hermione had been lacking her usual emotionally chatty friend (Daphne messaged her every now and then to check in, but generally Hermione assumed Daphne and Theo wouldn't wish to be disturbed), and was now having to sort out her lingering trauma for herself.

At first, it had seemed fairly easy. "Maybe we're trying to make something work that isn't really supposed to," she'd said to Draco during Daphne and Theo's wedding reception, "and it's just exhausting both of us. Maybe we need to just stop trying so hard. Or," she added as a murmured afterthought, "maybe we need to stop trying at all."

He'd said very little, really. Only, "Is that what you want?"

She'd given it a go, trying out how it felt to be firmly her own advocate. "Yes," she'd said, and in response, he'd nodded stiffly, raising his champagne glass to his lips and pausing it halfway, looking out over Daphne and Theo's first dance.

"Well," Draco said after a moment, lightly clearing his throat. "I'm afraid I don't know how to imagine my life without you."

She didn't either, but that didn't seem to be the point. "Maybe we should try," she said, and Draco glanced at her, questioning, but ultimately nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, perhaps we should."

It wasn't as if Hermione was an expert in break-ups. She'd never really had a boyfriend like Draco before; one that she'd planned (or tried to plan, or couldn't plan, but wanted to) a future with. It was strangely the same, actually, being broken up with him, as it had been being with him and away from him. He hadn't exactly been present in the months leading up to their split, so his subsequent absence was hardly much different.

He'd called her a few days after the wedding. When she answered, he sounded confused, as if he'd dialed her number out of habit and no longer knew why he'd done it. "Just saying hello," he said, uncomfortably.

"Hello," she told him. "Anything else?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"No," he said, and then, "Have a nice night, Hermione."

He hadn't made the mistake of calling again, and she'd deliberately not called him, either. Not until Halloween, which had been its own series of catastrophes.

"Listen, don't hang up," she rushed out, and heard him make a sound like a laugh, only slightly more injured.

"Why on earth would I hang up?"

"I just… I don't know," she said quickly, and then, "It's about Pansy. It's Neville and Blaise, they've, um—"

"Fought?"

If only, she thought grimly.

"They've been sleeping together," Hermione forced out with a wince, chewing her lip and glancing at the clock. It was two in the morning; she was surprised he'd answered. He was normally quite a heavy sleeper. Did that mean he'd still been awake, or…? Her mind raced to fill in the blanks. Was he with someone, maybe? Was he not sleeping because he couldn't sleep, or was it because someone was keeping him awake at night—and if they were, what was her name, and was she prettier, smarter, better dressed (definitely that) than Hermione?

"They've what?"

The concern in Draco's voice woke her from her half-drunken spiral.

"They've been seeing each other behind Pansy's back," Hermione said, rushing to explain what she and Harry had overheard. To her distress, Draco immediately sounded frantic.

"I should speak to Blaise, he told me that—well," Draco amended brusquely, "never mind what he told me—the point is I truly can't believe he would do something like that to Pansy—"

"Wait, Draco," Hermione cut in, knowing that if she didn't say it now, she'd never say it. "There's, um. There's something else."

He quieted for a second, probably hearing the tremorous quality her voice had taken.

"Are you alright?" he asked her, concerned, and upsettingly, she noticed her fingers were shaking. She was having a fit of cold sweats, too, which was hardly ideal. Better to get it out quickly, she reminded herself, and took a deep breath.

"I kissed Harry tonight," she said, and then, in what was mostly terror, she rushed to fling out, "But it wasn't good at all, it wasn't… it wasn't, you know, anything. I was just sad, and it's so hard, you know, that you're not there anymore and I just—I wasn't trying to, I don't know what I was thinking but I was—"

"Hermione." Draco gingerly cleared his throat. "It's alright, really."

Her intake of breath was so sharp it escaped like a hiccup. "What?"

"We're broken up, Hermione. You're at liberty to do whatever you like. You don't have to explain it to me."

"But—" She swallowed hard, uncertain why that, his very reasonable reaction, didn't feel entirely like a relief. "Really?"

"I have to admit, I thought it would happen." He was placing long pauses between sentences, letting her fill the gaps with her own racing thoughts, which in turn made her stomach start to hurt. "I suppose I do know how Harry feels about you, and I guess I… Well," he said with a dry laugh, "nothing, nothing—"

"No, tell me," she pressed him, morbidly curious, and he sighed.

"I suppose I'm relieved it was just a kiss, if I'm being honest," he said.

She tried to imagine him, wherever he was, and the way his hand might look. That was where he kept his emotions: his hands. She pictured one of them tight around his phone, his knuckles white with effort at restraint—or was it his free hand she should have been concerned about? Was it holding open a book, was it running exhaustedly through his hair, was he stroking the tips of his fingers down the line of someone else's languid spine? Was he on some military cot in some godforsaken slice of nowhere, trying to steal a second for his thoughts—or was he in a hotel suite, his bare skin wrapped in silk sheets, catching his breath while some blue-blooded princess slept, satisfied, beside him?

"It was—" Not you, Hermione thought. "Definitely a mistake."

"Ah. Well, I'm sorry to hear that."

She grimaced. "No, you aren't."

"No, I'm really not," he confirmed, and laughed, and for the first time in their conversation, Hermione laughed as well, forgetting herself for a moment and then wanting, absurdly, to cry. It was as if the release of her apprehension called for a release from her tear ducts as well, which she couldn't abide. The last thing she wanted was to cry, which she'd been doing such a marvelous job of not doing, not even once, since they'd broken up.

"I'm sorry," he said, sobering for a moment, "I really don't know if that was the right thing to say, I'm just—"

"No, it's fine." She hurried to force it down, whatever unpleasant emotion was swelling up in her throat. "It's just… I haven't kissed anyone but you in, god. Not in four years. It just felt weird, and different, and not, um—" She pulled her knees into her chest, shaking her head. "I guess you're not the right person to talk about that with."

"Why not?" he said. "I would hope we could still be friends, despite everything."

Friends, she thought, grimacing. Right. The thing they'd tried to be so many times and failed.

"Yeah, I know, but still—"

"I know. I understand." He toyed with the silence for a moment, venturing, "I guess I just want you to know that I still care about you, Hermione. You're important to me, and that's not going to change. I want you to be happy, whatever that means. Whatever it comes with."

"Yeah." She forced a nod, forgetting that he wouldn't see it. All this effort at schooling her face was wasted, but she was desperately hoping it wouldn't extend to her voice. "Yeah, it's just a lot of change. I quit my job," she added. "Just—wow," she exhaled, "like, a few hours ago. Hard to believe that actually happened."

"You did?"

"Yeah, I just… couldn't do it anymore." She fussed with the hem of Daphne's Anne Boleyn costume, trying not to pick at the stitching. "I gave Minerva my two week's notice this afternoon. Well, actually, I told her I was going to give it to her," she said with a hasty half-laugh, "and then, after I said it, I wrote it."

Draco was quiet for several long moments.

"How did Wood take it?" he asked eventually, and Hermione laughed again, tears threatening to spill if she did it any harder.

"Alternated between scolding me and hugging me," she said. "Honestly, I don't think he could focus his attention on one or the other if he tried."

"Well, at least not everything is different, then." Another pause, and then, "How do you feel about it?"

"Honestly? Relieved. Like a weight's been lifted. Though," she sighed, "I don't know what I'm going to do next."

"Well. That's a bit exciting, isn't it?" Draco asked. "Must be, a little."

"Yes, a little. I think I'm transitioning from excitement to fear, though."

"You, Hermione?" He laughed. "No, not you. You're never afraid. You're the bravest of all of us. Certainly much braver than me."

By then, very little was keeping her from tears. Purely the grit of her teeth, she suspected, or the apprehension that crying would mean she had been the one in the wrong the whole time, and now there would be no going back.

Yes, she determined unhappily, fear was definitely keeping her from sadness, though it probably wouldn't do so for long.

"Still could fail," she reminded him. "Bravery's nice, I guess, but it's not much of a safety net."

"We're your safety net," he, in turn, reminded her. "You're not alone, Hermione."

Okay, she thought, that was enough.

That would have to be enough.

"Well, I should probably go," she said, rushing off the phone. "I want to check on Pansy, I'm worried she might murder Neville. She seemed much too calm, frankly, and I'm not sure she was even listening—"

"Yes, yes, you're right, I should, too. Goodnight, Hermione."

"Goodnight, Draco."

That was the last time they'd spoken. The next day she sent him a text that she labored over for hours—ultimately going with: Sorry to hear about your grandfather, hope your family is alright! Here if you need me—though she hadn't expected a response. She certainly hadn't expected his press conference.

The whole conversation seemed to continuously come back to her in pieces every time she closed her eyes, her mind incapable of resting. You're at liberty to do whatever you like, he'd said. Did that mean he was doing whatever he liked? She supposed, in retrospect, she had broken up with him, so wasn't it perfectly reasonable he would find a rebound? He was a prince, for fuck's sake, it wasn't as if he'd have any difficulty unearthing someone to sleep with. She'd said kissing someone else was strange, but she only noticed in retrospect that he'd said nothing in response. Jesus Almighty Christ, what could that have meant? Maybe he'd had a threesome, maybe two threesomes, maybe a whole fucking orgy and meanwhile, she'd been sitting there morosing about like a silly, angsting teenager—'lol, isn't kissing weird?'—and maybe Draco had thought to himself, Christ, Hermione, how sad you are.

She badly, very badly, needed to fix something, and she had hoped it would be Pansy. She'd hoped, desperately, that Pansy would have been the distraction she needed to forget about Draco, but it seemed that was not to be.

"I can hear your thoughts from here, Hermione," Pansy said, eyes still closed as she sipped her mimosa. "Whatever it is, you'll either have to desist immediately or Skype with Daphne about it. Unless you're finally going to let me review your skincare regimen," she mused, looking perfectly content and not at all as if trauma were circling her thoughts. "Heaven knows you could do with a better exfoliant."

It was that or nothing, it seemed. Another win for Lady Six-Names.

"Yeah, I guess," Hermione sighed, picking up her drink. "Fine, whatever. Make me over if you want, I don't care."

"That's the spirit," Pansy chirped, stretching out in her chair and returning—much to Hermione's envy—to her state of sunny serenity.

Typically, Pansy and Hermione's food consumption consisted of snacking throughout the day in the kitchen of their villa, but by that evening Hermione was feeling especially restless. When Pansy gave every indication that she was settling in for another night at home, Hermione began to sense she was responsible for seeking out her own entertainment.

"I'm going out for an early dinner," Hermione told Pansy, who shrugged, looking up from where she'd been slicing feta and cucumbers.

"Well, off you go, then," Pansy said, waving her away. "Just be careful," she added, popping a slice of tomato in her mouth, "and don't do anything foolish."

Hermione tried not to grumble too much in response, making her way from the villa into town. She'd planned on having a walk, getting something to eat and then briskly returning, but she was surprised to find herself recognizing a familiar silhouette as she passed the outdoor seating of a small cafe.

"Roger?" she said, startled, and with a frown, Roger Davies looked up from his cup of coffee, sliding his sunglasses back to reveal his own stunned expression.

"Hermione," he registered aloud, and after a moment to orient himself, he rose quickly to his feet, offering her a brisk and somewhat awkward hug. "Hi, sorry, that was quite a surprise, um—" He glanced warily over her shoulder. "You're not with… Well, who are you here with?" he amended in nearly the same breath, attempting unsuccessfully to appear casual.

"I'm with Pansy," Hermione said, and Roger looked visibly relieved. "Did you think I was here with Daphne?" she asked, amused.

"Well—" He grimaced, caught. "I didn't want to say anything, but—"

"She's on her honeymoon," Hermione assured him, and then immediately suspected she should have softened the blow, seeing Roger flinch at the reference to what Hermione only then realized was not her best friend in this scenario, but rather, his ex-girlfriend.

"Yes, I… well, I rather assumed," he said, and cleared his throat, gesturing for her to join him. "Would you like a coffee? It's bloody strong, sort of like a kick in the—Well, that's not important," he said quickly, and Hermione frowned, unsure what to make of this very frazzled Roger Davies. She'd always gotten the impression he was a bit aloof, something of an art-adjacent intellectual. He and Daphne, when they were most in sync, would spend most of their time discussing art and culture in feverish tones, and he had always given Hermione the feeling he'd seen a lot of the world, or had at least studied it. The clumsiness of his behavior, then, felt highly out of character.

"Is everything alright?" Hermione asked him, and he winced.

"Well, no, not even remotely," he told her, half-laughing, and she took a seat, figuring she had, by that point, no other choice but to relent. "I'm afraid your friend Daphne's done quite a number on me."

Hermione was pretty sure Roger and Daphne hadn't spoken since they'd finished school. "How so? And hold on, wait a minute," she realized, recalling the concept of university courses. "Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts right now?"

Unfortunately, she pieced things together (his absence from school, his presence here on a literal island, and his jumpy search for Daphne) much too slowly.

"Yes, well, I saw that Daphne was engaged to your friend Nott a few months ago," Roger said uncomfortably, "and it, ah. Well, it became something of a festering problem. The muse, you know," he said, as if Hermione could have had any idea what that meant. "She can be something of a flighty minx."

"Can she?" Hermione asked, lacking any other response.

"Well… alright," Roger sighed, resigning himself grudgingly to explanation, "being perfectly honest, I'm going to need something a bit stronger than coffee for this particular story."

"We could get a drink," Hermione offered, gesturing to the restaurant she'd been intending to go. "I was going to have one myself, and an early dinner, if you're up for it? Unless you're here with someone," she amended, glancing around, and Roger let out a barking laugh.

"No, god no—I accept," he said, shuddering a little. "I've been losing my mind the last few days. I thought a bit of time alone would help, but—"

"Totally understand," Hermione said kindly, and he flashed her a grateful smile. Unwillingly, she remembered that Roger Davies was really not unattractive; in fact, he was extremely handsome, now blonder and more golden from whatever time he'd already spent on the island, though she pushed the observation aside. Obviously, he was also in shambles, and that, Hermione reminded herself, was not something to be dismissed in favor of his forearms, however toned they happened to be.

"Shall we, then?"

"Yes, of course," he said, paying his bill and gesturing for her to lead the way.

Roger Davies' story of his recent meltdown was a long one, though not particularly complex. It began, as he'd mentioned, with seeing Daphne and Theo's engagement announcement in the paper, which had apparently launched a manic, furious series of paintings that were, in his words, essentially erotic studies of parts of Daphne's body. He still remembered the precise shade of her cunt, he informed Hermione—who then immediately ordered another drink—which was beautiful, precisely as Daphne was, in fact never had there been a woman with a more beautiful cunt (his words, not Hermione's), and while he would try to persuade himself to create something—anything—else, all he seemed capable of doing for months were recreations of her, which were not only unhelpful to his psyche but also hardly a novel pursuit for his profession. They didn't sell well, and certainly didn't hold much value for his professorship; it wasn't a particularly original concept, he informed Hermione unhappily, as it was certainly not the first time in history a lovesick man had been obsessively painting cunts.

After hurling a canvas out his office window and accidentally injuring a student who had been leisurely cycling by, Roger had discovered he could no longer paint anything at all. Nothing, he said emphatically, waving his arms—not a single thing, no matter how hard he tried—and the more constipated his muse—YES, CONSTIPATED, IT'S VULGAR I KNOW, BUT THAT'S LIFE, ISN'T IT, HERMIONE?—the worse his moods became. He'd always been subject to flaring tempers (he bemoaned his artistic temperament, adding as an afterthought that Daphne had always understood that about him), but it was a festering sort of madness, a chattering in his head, and the less he created, the less he could sleep, and the less he slept, the more angry he became; until, finally, a few weeks ago, he was called into a meeting with the dean, whom Roger had proceeded to (and he wasn't proud of this, by the way) shout at, insisting that the man had never known the true meaning of art—IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE—and therefore could not imagine the depths to which Roger was now suffering, crucified by the whims of the woman—no, the siren—who'd filled his life with beauty, only to rip it mercilessly away.

"They rather forcefully suggested I take a sabbatical," Roger finished, draining a fifth or sixth glass of ouzo as Hermione nodded, the rush of blood in her ears nearly as loud as the sea itself by then. "And now here I am, running into—who else? Daphne's best friend, of course," he said with half a laugh, "so I suppose that's my karmic punishment for being such a total dickhead."

He took a sip of wine (yes, they had also had wine; it was a longer dinner than Hermione had anticipated) and shook his head, sitting back with a sigh.

"I should be clear, I'm happy for her," he added, which was such an absurd statement it prompted Hermione to a fit of furiously smothered giggles. "Obviously, I wish her well."

"Obviously," Hermione managed to agree.

"I just seem to be… struggling, a bit, with a figment of her. A specter," he explained, waving a hand around. "I think, though, now that I've put some of this behind me, I've been able to sort some of it out." He leaned forward, startling Hermione slightly. "The thing is," he murmured conspiratorially, "there's two Daphnes."

His hand was resting on the table beside her forearm, urging her to listen to his latest (and hopefully cunt-free, she thought) artistic theory.

"There's the real Daphne, of course—the one who was always in love with Nott, as I knew perfectly well but didn't want to admit to myself, for obvious and selfish reasons—and then there's the Daphne I created in my mind. The brain does something odd once time passes, doesn't it? It curates the memories out of order," Roger said emphatically. "It makes the good things bigger than we remember and shrinks the bad. It fools us, presents us with things we want to see, until we can no longer see the truth of what someone is—and it's just like love, isn't it? Memory, like love," he sighed, "is a just pretty little trick. We can't see everything, only pieces of things."

He stopped, apparently realizing how close he was to her, and hastily leaned away.

"But of course you wouldn't understand," he said quickly, picking up his glass again. "You and your prince are very happy, I'm sure, as you should be—"

"Actually, we broke up," Hermione said, the words exiting her lips with a flimsy sort of numbness. "And I completely understand what you're saying. Only, I haven't quite gotten to it being a pretty trick yet. It's mostly just a mean one right now," she said, and then, for the sake of irony, she laughed.

Only she hadn't laughed.

To her dismay, the sound that came out of her was a sob, and Roger's eyes, blue as the Mediterranean itself, abruptly widened, alarmed.

"Hermione, oh, I'm so sorry," he said, letting his glass clatter to the table as he reached out, leaning towards her. "I had no idea you had a ghost of your own."

She had hoped Roger would say something obnoxious, but the fact that he did not served to make her cry harder, the liquor in her blood apparently taking control of her otherwise sound ability to reason.

"I'm sorry," she said, weeping incoherently into her palms, and he soothed her with a hand on her shoulder. The motion had the effect, somehow, of making Hermione distinctly more aware that he was Professor Davies, some years her senior, and not simply her friend Daphne's ex-boyfriend. "I didn't… I don't mean to—to have a meltdown like this, I'm so sorry, I just—"

"Why don't we take a walk," he suggested, fishing around in his pocket to pay their bill, "and we can talk some more? I wouldn't have spent so long going on about my own silly tragedies if I'd known—"

"No, no, you're fine," Hermione managed, gulping air and rising to her feet, relieved he'd offered. The last thing she needed was to go back to Pansy right now, like this, with her makeup smeared below her eyes, and her cheeks and eyes equally red from the strain of crying. "Thank you, really, I'm so sorry—"

He shook his head, assuring her with an impressive gallantry that she'd done nothing wrong, and then steered her towards the beach, permitting her to talk. It was the first time, really, that Hermione had been able to discuss with anyone what she was feeling since breaking up with Draco—even since before that, when things had simply been difficult, and which she'd had no outlet to express.

In fact, she realized she'd been trying so desperately to convince herself she was fine that she hadn't thought to question anything she'd done over the last several months.

"I quit my job," she said deliriously, "just like that, like nothing! I kissed my friend, for fuck's sake, it's like I've just gone off the rails completely—"

"Believe me, I know the feeling," Roger said, sympathetic. "Do you know that student my painting hit nearly broke his arm? He didn't, but still, that would have been on my head if he had—"

"I don't know what to do next," Hermione ranted, "and worse, I haven't even thought about it! I haven't even begun to think about it," she wailed, newly devastated at being faced with her inadequacies. "I just ran away from my problems—away from Draco, and away from my only conceivable income—"

"Well, you're being a little hard on yourself, aren't you?" Roger said, glancing down at her. "It's only just happened, after all. You have to give yourself time to breathe."

"I know, but I—"

"No, no, you don't," Roger cut in, turning to take hold of her shoulders and giving her a very long, very intent stare. "Listen to me, Hermione, and take it from someone with a few more years of experience under their belt: It is not a weakness to feel," he told her, his grip on her both alarmingly firm and surprisingly comforting. "That is your humanity—it's your duty as a human being to honor your emotions. To feel," he insisted, releasing her with one hand to begin gesticulating wildly, "and to do it strongly, and fully! Because it is the only thing no one can ever take from you," he said, softening with urgency, "and therefore, believe me, you have an obligation to nurture it."

She stared at him, a little dumbstruck, and a little drunk. He seemed to be staring back at her, though not entirely at her. He was staring at something that seemed to be happening inside his head as it projected directly onto her forehead, which confused her almost as much as his manic speech had soothed her.

"Hermione," Roger said, and she blinked. "May I ask you for an incredibly bizarre favor?"

"Yes," she said, thinking that seemed reasonable enough considering how strangely the night had already gone, and he exhaled, relieved.

"May I… paint you?" he asked, and at her look of disquietude, he rushed to add, "Your face," he assured her, abruptly releasing her and looking sheepish. "It's just—your eyes are such a warm shade of brown," he explained, gingerly brushing away the frizzy bit of a rebellious curl, "and with the sea behind you like this, it's the first time in months I've really thought I needed to commit a palette to memory, and I suppose it's invasive, but I just thought—"

"Yes," Hermione exhaled. "Yeah, sure, of course."

Tentatively, Roger smiled, and for a moment, he looked a little bit like Draco. He was broader around the shoulders, more of a golden blond than silvery, but Hermione felt a sense of relief at the thought that maybe she had done something helpful for him; that she'd contributed, in some way, to relieving his pain, even while he was doing the very great favor of listening to hers.

"Excellent," he said, running a hand through the ruffled strands of his blond hair, and then he gestured for her to follow.

Roger was staying in an airy bed-and-breakfast sort of place, modest accommodations for which the only remarkable feature was a sea-facing balcony. The room was relatively neat, a small pile of books left abandoned on the floor beside the single untucked corner of the all-white bed; a bottle of aftershave, a razor, and a toothbrush were the only personal items in the bathroom.

When Hermione emerged, smearing away the traces of makeup she'd already cried off nearly an hour ago, he had set up a little chair for her on the balcony, beckoning for her to sit. In the distance, the sea was an inky blue-black, with a darkness vast enough to be eternal but pale where the waves crested below moonlight.

"Here, just sit here," he said, placing her. "This won't take too terribly long, I just want to choose the colors, and then—"

He broke off, rapidly becoming distracted, and rummaged around for his brushes, pausing every now and then to eye her from a different angle. She felt strangely comfortable, despite the head rush that remained from the evening's libations. She'd never thought of herself as beautiful, really, and certainly not the kind someone would find worthy of painting; compared to Daphne and Pansy, Hermione was aware her looks were hardly her main strength. She was pretty enough, and sure, she had other qualities—she was the smart one, the thoughtful one, sometimes the brave one—but worthy of being art? That was a little thrilling, newly hers, and she shivered with anticipation.

"Are you cold?" Roger asked, frowning as he noticed her motion. Without waiting for an answer, he picked up a thin wool blanket from inside the room, holding it up for a moment and then nodding his approval, wrapping it around her shoulders like a shawl. "There," he said, stepping back and returning to his paints. "You can talk, by the way," he added, though it was clear his mind was already elsewhere. "No need to be silent."

"I actually don't mind the silence now," Hermione admitted, watching him. She wondered how he could have possibly seen, as Daphne could see, which colors were in her eyes besides brown, or what color the ocean was, besides blue. Artists had always been softly foreign to her. "I think it was just a problem when I knew I couldn't talk about things."

"Well, not everyone likes to discuss their feelings," he said, his attention focused on the page before him while he spoke. "I can't say I know her well, but still. I find it difficult to imagine Pansy is your best option for sympathy."

"Well," Hermione began, and sighed. "No, I suppose she isn't. She sort of reveals herself in pieces," she clarified quickly, not wanting to totally disparage her friend, "but I guess you have to be lucky enough to be there when she's in the mood for it."

"Well, I'm sure you'll get through to her. I just told you my entire story," Roger said with a low chuckle, "so I have to imagine it's coming."

He glanced up, taking a long look at her, and then gave her a fleeting smile.

"You're very warm," he said. "I think that's what it is about you, why your colors are so appealing. Your eyes—they're kind, and they're honest. A rarity," he said, and returned to his painting. "Refreshing, I think."

"I always thought my eyes were boring," Hermione said. "They're just, you know. Brown."

"Brown eyes are underrated," scoffed Roger, with the tone of someone who had done the research and would know. "There's more soul to brown eyes, and besides, they have a ring of power to them. There's a sense of timelessness—some sort of ancient quality, I should say, an agelessness that's both silencing and vast. They hold wisdom, curiosity, authority—"

"You're just saying that," Hermione scoffed; though, she had to admit, it was flattering.

Roger looked up, brow slightly furrowed. "No, I'm not," he told her, and after a moment to set his brush down, he crept forward, adjusting a curl that had fallen around her cheek. "Really, they're very beautiful," he said, eyeing the product of his adjustment, and now he was close enough for Hermione to smell the anise on his breath, the hints of spearmint from his aftershave. "There's a decadence to them, a richness, and—"

She tugged him in close and kissed him without thinking—or rather, thinking only that he was being very handsome and also very poetic and also, she was quite drunk, and had she mentioned he was handsome?—and he inhaled sharply, hands frozen. Then, slowly, he relaxed, curling his fingers around her arms as he gradually gave into the urgency of her kiss.

The moment he was returning the pressure, responding to her motions, Hermione shot to her feet, lurching into him, and he stumbled backwards into the hotel room, his back crashing into the post of the bed.

"Hermione," he said, his rapid pulse visible along the line of his throat, "are you sure?"

She shook her head, half-laughing. "No," she admitted, "but I don't really want to think about it right now. Do you?" she asked, leaning back to look at him, and he blinked.

Blinked again.

"No," he admitted, and pulled her back to fall with him into the mattress, her dress slipping easily over her head and onto the small pile of books as he made his way down her torso; permitting her, at last, to lose herself with a gasp.

"WHERE," Pansy shrieked, stomping towards the door even before it opened, "HAVE YOU BEEN?"

"Hi, Pans," Hermione said, trying with all her might not to be guiltily sheepish. "Sorry, I just lost track of time, I didn't mean to stay out so la-"

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?" Pansy demanded, launching directly into a rant without even waiting for Hermione to fully enter their villa. "This was irresponsible, Hermione, and thoughtless! You didn't even tell me where you were going! I looked positively everywhere and couldn't find any trace of you—I THOUGHT YOU'D LEAPT INTO THE OCEAN," she snapped, and Hermione winced.

"Pans, please, I just—"

"THIS HAS BEEN A VERY TRYING TIME FOR ME," Pansy shouted, and while Hermione had been prepared to insist that Pansy was not, in fact, her mother, she suddenly realized that Pansy's bottom lip was trembling, her hands tightened to shaking fists at her sides. "I've lost my best friend," Pansy said, voice suddenly grieving, "and discovered the man I never wanted to marry anyway is now not only thoroughly uninteresting to me, he's also unpalatable as a human being and bloody untenable as a match—and I had sex," she wailed, flailing a hand out as Hermione gaped in silence, taken aback and still immensely less than sober. "I slept with exactly the worst person I could have possibly chosen to sleep with—and now YOU," Pansy flung at her, "THE ONLY PERSON WHO CARES ABOUT ME, HAS VERY WELL RUN OFF AND—"

"I slept with Roger," Hermione blurted without thinking, and Pansy blinked, falling to a sudden halt and staring at Hermione as if she'd grown another head.

"Roger who?" Pansy demanded.

"Roger Roger. Daphne's Roger," Hermione said guiltily, and Pansy blinked again.

"When? Where?"

"Now. Just now. His hotel room."

"Just n-" Pansy broke off, stunned. "What, is he here? On the island?"

"Yes. He's staying in town."

"But—"

"I just saw him tonight," Hermione confessed, feeling wrung out already, barely thirty minutes from the crime. "I ran into him and we had dinner and some drinks, and he was sad about Daphne, and—"

"Daphne? What on earth—"

"And I know, I know I shouldn't have," Hermione said, fingers twisting in anguish, "but he was just… he was being so nice to me, and I was… I don't know, I was just—"

"Well." Pansy swallowed, straightening for a moment, and then she returned her attention to a floundering Hermione, scrutinizing her for a long time before speaking. "Well," she said again, sighing it out, "so how was it, then?"

It was Hermione's turn to be startled. "What?"

"Well, spill, Hermione," Pansy said stiffly. "There's no reason to deny Roger Davies is an entire meal of a man. Asinine art complex or not, I can certainly appreciate his physicality, can't I?"

Hermione stared at her, venturing half a giggle that broke off crisply, cut off by the apprehension she'd imagined Pansy's reaction.

"He's… a meal?"

Pansy pursed her lips. "Aren't we supposed to be friends, Hermione? I would have thought you could manage not to be so thoroughly judgmental—"

"No, no, I—" Hermione broke off, fighting a laugh again. "I just thought, um—"

"Was it good?" Pansy asked again, and Hermione bit her lip.

"It was… Well, um—"

"Spit it out," Pansy sniffed.

"It was…" She hadn't wanted to answer, only Pansy's dark glare was growing narrower by the second. "Fine, I—yes, okay? Yes," Hermione blurted hysterically. "I came like four times," she wailed, all in a single remorseful rush, and then, having unwillingly confessed to sins she hadn't yet processed, she immediately burst into tears for the second time that evening.

In response, Pansy sighed, pausing for a moment, and then wandered closer, resting a hand awkwardly on Hermione's back.

"Oh, come now," Pansy said, somewhat soothingly. "We can't help it that these mortal prisons of ours require mindless stimulation from time to time. An orgasm is hardly a crime, is it?" she tutted softly. "And four, that's not so bad, is it? In fact it's really quite good—"

"No, it's not—it's not that," Hermione said, struggling to sniffle as Pansy withdrew (ostensibly from nowhere) a handkerchief, handing it to her. "Thanks," she managed, and wept a little more, convulsing a bit as Pansy seemed to finally release the last of her reservations, leaning her cheek gingerly against Hermione's shoulder.

"I slept with someone, too, as I mentioned," Pansy said, sighing, "And I came many, many more times than four."

Hermione laugh-sobbed a hysterical hiccup, then choked it down quietly, still weep-smiling.

"Do you regret it?" she managed to ask, and Pansy considered it.

"No," she said, shrugging. "It was certainly a one-time thing, but I suppose I needed it."

"Who was it?"

"No one you know," Pansy assured her. "An old friend."

Hermione struggled to nod, and then Pansy drew back, scrutinizing her for a long moment.

"What's this about?" she asked, gesturing to Hermione. "The sex was good, wasn't it?"

It was good. Quite good. Hermione wasn't above admitting she enjoyed sex as a pastime, as a recreation. Her opportunities to seek it out were typically slim—she wasn't, after all, usually so impulsive—but she had enjoyed it, and as far as partners went, Roger was certainly considerate. And enthusiastic. And extremely not unendowed. She understood now why Daphne hadn't given him up right away, even amid all her friends' opposition. Roger Davies was a delicious, acrobatic alternative to pining.

Hermione swallowed hard, dragging her gaze up to Pansy's.

"He wasn't Draco," she forced out eventually.

Pansy, in an unusual moment of understanding, permitted the statement to settle for a moment before nodding.

"We should go to bed," Pansy said, and then added quietly, "But we can talk about it in the morning, if you like."

Hermione smiled gratefully, relieved.

"I would love to," she said, feeling, at last, like she'd achieved some sort of release.

The next day wasn't incredibly unlike the others. Pansy, an early riser, had made them both tiny cups of espresso, and Hermione stumbled hungoverly into the kitchen in her bathing suit and a slovenly topknot before they ventured onto the patio, both of them staring out over the pool and drinking their coffees in silence.

"This is good," Hermione said, and took another sip. "Really good, actually. Thank you, it was nice of you."

Pansy was quiet a moment.

"Just so you know," she remarked, "there's no need to sleep with me just because I've been nice. You can simply enjoy the coffee without returning the favor."

Hermione turned, about to retort, and found that Pansy was laughing silently into her cup.

"Thanks," Hermione said drily, rolling her eyes. Then she set her empty cup down beside the two lounge chairs, preparing to sit, before pausing—contemplating the possibilities of boldness—and promptly untying the strings of her bikini, letting it fall to the ground before reclining smugly on the chair.

"My, my, look at you," Pansy said, drawling it with a nearly Theo-esque brand of humor. "Feeling wild after your night of debauchery, Hermione?"

"Yes, actually," Hermione said, lying back in the sun—which could certainly have been warmer, but she'd already made such a show of removing her top she figured she couldn't very well go back now. "I feel much better in general, though I'd still like to have a chat with you."

"Well, nothing new there," Pansy sighed, perching at the edge of her chair and glancing expressionlessly at Hermione. "I take it you want to admonish me for my choices?"

"Yes, I do," Hermione confirmed, "but unfortunately I don't think it will work. I think I just have to own up to the fact that I'll never understand your world—it just feels so, I don't know. Backwards," she said apologetically, "to me, anyway. All this noble marriage stuff, it seems very… archaic." She shrugged. "And it doesn't seem to fit you at all."

Pansy considered that for a moment, staring vacantly out at the pool, and then angled herself towards Hermione.

"My parents are not in love," she said. "They have never been in love, as far as I know. I don't think Daphne would say her parents particularly cherish one another. Draco's are entirely another story, though hardly a dissimilar one." Pansy was quiet for a moment, then said, "I always envied Harry, actually, for having the mythology of James and Lily. They were so famously in love, and so young when they died, they never grew to loathe each other. It's a ridiculous thing to say," she said with a grimace, "and I know I certainly shouldn't envy him for being an orphan, but it does something to you, I suppose. When you grow up believing love is actually the point of all this, then perhaps that changes things. Makes you a different sort of person."

She went silent again, pensive, before saying, "Whereas I have only understood marriage to be a means to an end. A business partnership, in a way," she clarified briskly, "and as much as Neville isn't ideal as a mate, he does make for a very valuable merger. A wise acquisition."

Hermione winced, and Pansy nodded gruffly.

"Yes, I know," she said. "I hear it, too. It's why I don't like saying it aloud, but it remains true."

"Okay, but couldn't you still have a partnership that's, you know. Better?" Hermione attempted optimistically, and Pansy shrugged.

"Maybe, maybe not. But I'm aware I become less valuable the older I get. I suppose I just see my life after marriage as the real start to everything, the actual adventure. Everything I do until then is just biding my time until I manage the thing I was born for."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," Hermione said, and if Pansy had it in her to chuckle, she might have.

"Yes, it is, quite," Pansy agreed. "Though, I think if I had never met you, I wouldn't give it a second thought." She glanced down at the tiny cup in her hand, eyeing the handle of it, and mused aloud, "Nor would Draco, actually. I think he would have simply married Astoria, or perhaps Lady Susan, and never considered he should feel anything other than satisfied that he'd done his job. And really," Pansy scoffed, "his job is to procreate. He makes a big fuss of public appearances or political influence or whatever he seems to think his contribution is to the world, but down to the quick of it, his job is to stay out of trouble and make smaller versions of himself. But now, having met you, I don't think he can—"

Abruptly, she stopped.

"Can what?" Hermione asked curiously, as it was, for once, not he's a job you're unqualified to handle, or let go of this fantasy, Hermione, that's all it will ever be. "Pans, are you okay?"

"Come on," Pansy said quickly, launching to her feet and grabbing Hermione's wrist, yanking her back inside the house. "With a sense of urgency, please, let's go—"

"Hey!" Hermione said, folding her arms uncomfortably over her (much smaller than Pansy's, but still) breasts and following Pansy inside. "What exactly do you think you're d-"

"I'm not sure, but I think I saw a photographer outside," Pansy said, removing her cardigan from her shoulders and handing it to Hermione. "Did anyone see you yesterday?"

"I—" She thought about it, slipping into the garment, but certainly couldn't say either way. "I really don't know, Pans. I wasn't paying attention."

"Mm." Pansy was looking outside the window, nudging Hermione securely behind her. "We should stay inside for the morning. If I did see cameras, then I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."

"What do you mean?" Hermione said, though she knew perfectly well, and she was already cringing internally at the thought of it.

"Oh, I'm sure everything will be fine," Pansy said briskly, dismissing her with a glance. "Now, come on, Hermione, put those tiny twins away and let's finally have breakfast."

WORLD EXCLUSIVE: PARTY GIRL HERMIONE GRANGER GOES TOPLESS IN GREECE! CLICK FOR THE SCANDALOUS PHOTOS THE PALACE DOESN'T WANT YOU TO SEE…

"Well," said Hermione. "Shit."

"You know, I think perhaps it's best we head back a bit early," Pansy said, shutting the screen of her laptop and glancing at the shuttered windows, politely not mentioning the photographers lingering outside. "All this warm weather is starting to dehydrate my skin, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Hermione sighed. "You look terrible, Pans."

Needless to say, the holiday was cut short. Even before they'd made it back to London, Hermione's phone had been buzzing with messages, many of them—alarmingly—from her mother, who ostensibly did not care for seeing her only child's breasts while innocently in line to buy chicken at the grocery store. Pansy, it seemed, was also in a rush to get home—for reasons seemingly unrelated to Hermione's crisis—and so, rather than return to her flat (which she assumed would be surrounded by paparazzi), Hermione made a single phone call before turning her phone off for what would surely be the next week.

On the first ring: "Hermione, are you home?"

"Hi, Daph. Yes, I'm back."

"Oh, thank god," said Daphne, exhaling swiftly upon hearing Hermione's voice. "Come here straightaway," she insisted bossily, adding—much to Hermione's relief—"I'll chill the rosé right now, it'll be cold by the time you get here."

Hermione arrived at the Nott Townhouse to find Lady Nott herself rushing fussily around the house in yoga pants, moving boxes (which they evidently had yet to unpack) out of the way and dragging Hermione by the hand into the living room.

"Listen, I'm so happy to see you," said Daphne, enveloping Hermione in a tight, floral-scented hug, "but before we discuss anything, I have to tell you—"

"Wait, can I go first?" Hermione said, desperate to get Roger Davies out of her system, and Daphne shoved a glass of pink wine into her hand.

"Yes, okay, go," Daphne said, "but quickly, as I have to tell you that—"

"I slept with Roger," Hermione flung out hastily, and Daphne blinked.

"Roger who?"

"Roger Roger. Your Roger—"

"What? How?"

"He was in Mykonos—it was a one-time thing, I just had to tell you—"

"Well, my goodness," Daphne said, obviously amused. "I hope you enjoyed yourself, at least. He can be very reliable," she added, chuckling into her glass. "I wonder what he's painting now? He really does have such a talent. His work always had such a marvelous tactility—"

"I really don't know," Hermione said, trying not to think about Daphne's very beautiful cunt, "but anyway, I'm so sorry—"

"Don't be ridiculous, he's very useful. I'm actually quite pleased you got to try him—"

"DAPHNE, good lord—"

"What?" she insisted, taking another smug sip of her wine. "It's like when you order something delicious, and you want everyone else at the table to try it, but then you can't exactly go around sharing because, you know, he's not actually some sort of tapas dish—"

"What is it," Hermione sighed, exasperated, "about you and Pansy and food?"

"Oh, how was Pansy?" Daphne pressed, suddenly urgent. "I'm so sorry I was away for all of this—I hate to think you were left with Lady 'walk it off, you're fine' Parkinson—"

"Actually, not bad," Hermione said. It was, after all, the single bright spot in recent months. "She was pretty good company, given everything. Where were you, by the way?" she added, frowning. "You were in France for ages. I really thought you and Theo had just given up on coming home."

"Oh, well, it wasn't just the honeymoon," Daphne admitted, leaning closer. "Actually, after the first week in Provence, we met with a bunch of industry people in Paris. You won't believe this," she added excitedly, "but you know how Fleur's sister Gabrielle walked in some of the shows at Fashion Week? Turns out Fleur's contractually obligated to Chanel, which we already knew, but Gabrielle isn't, which means—"

Somewhere else in the house, a door opened. Daphne blinked, interrupting herself.

"Oh, yes, right, before I forget, I had to tell you—"

"California, is that you?" came Theo's voice, followed by the long strides of Theo himself. Hermione turned, ready to greet him with enthusiasm, until she noted Theo's wiry form was followed by…

Her heart stopped.

"So, by the way, Draco's here," Daphne whispered apologetically, and Hermione gave her a silencing glare, nudging her away and attempting to rapidly regain her cool as she gave Theo a hug and then, after a moment's hesitation, locked eyes with Draco, whose smile flickered briefly.

"Hermione," he said, and when he leaned in to greet her with an embrace, she felt her entire body seize up, her very skin reluctant to make contact in such an oppressively normal way. "Listen, I am so sorry, I'm taking care of it right now," Draco said quickly. "I have Dobby looking into legal repercussions as we speak, and I promise you, this will all be over soon—"

"I didn't think you'd still be in London," Hermione said numbly, kicking herself as it emerged with a bit of a rasp. She slid out of Draco's embrace, adding, "And also, what?"

"Oh, the, um. The… pictures," Draco clarified with reticence, as Hermione remembered—had managed to forget, for an astounding five entire minutes—that the entire world had now seen her breasts, and she was powerless to do anything about it. "I'm so sorry, I think someone must have tipped off the press about where you were staying. Naturally, I will do whatever it takes to get ahold of the photographs. I'm sure I can put a stop to any further spread of this, wherever possible—"

It occurred to Hermione that perhaps what Draco was in London for was, in fact, the purpose of cleaning up her mess. She imagined Lucius' reaction to the photos and immediately cringed, adding quickly, "Draco, I'm so sorry—"

"What?"

The surprise in his tone startled her so fully she felt her attention jolt up, finding his face. It was the first time they were seeing each other since the breakup; really, it was the first time she'd actually looked at him in a number of months, having been blinded by melancholy and malcontent the last time they'd been together. Now, he was dressed smartly (and with an extra layer of polish) in a navy suit, his hair swept back from his face, and she noticed for the first time that his jaw was a touch squarer, his cheeks leaner, as if whatever traces of boyishness he'd once retained had been abruptly erased without her noticing.

He no longer looked as much like Lucius; Hermione wondered if she had imagined that to begin with, given her anger with him. His eyes were different from his father's, as they had always been. The shape of them, and the intensity, had come not from Lucius' hawkish stare, but from Narcissa's intently searching one.

She also noticed, slightly too late, that Daphne and Theo had quietly exited the room, and that she and Draco were now alone.

"What are you sorry for?" he pressed her, shaking his head. "You had every expectation of privacy and this was an unacceptable breach. Believe me, you have nothing to apologize for."

"Still," she ventured uncomfortably, "I'm sure Lucius is relieved I'm no longer his problem. He can't possibly be happy about this," she remarked, laughing a little, though it emerged as more of a grimace.

Draco was looking at her strangely, and she skirted his glance, eyeing her hands.

"Hermione," he said, frowning. "Do you think I'm here because my father sent me to bury this?"

"I didn't mean to imply anything, I was just—"

"My grandfather is stepping back from public appearances for the remainder of the year," Draco said, shifting his stance to slip one hand in his trouser pocket. "My father isn't particularly popular with the press at the moment, so I'm handling what remains of their obligations. I'm in London at least until after the holidays," he explained, prompting her to inhale sharply, uncertain what to do with that information, "and I'm sure they feel the same way I do about the pictures—that it certainly wasn't your fault. And even if they disagree," he said, shrugging, "I frankly don't care. You shouldn't have to go through this on your own."

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he glanced briefly down at his watch, re-orienting himself with time. "Ah, I should go," Draco said, giving her an apologetic glance. "I hate to run out like this, but I have to be at an event in a few minutes—"

She, meanwhile, had lost all concept of normality.

"So, wait a minute. You'll be here," she echoed, momentarily stupid, "for… a while?"

Draco paused, and cleared his throat.

"Yes," he said, "but don't worry, you needn't see me unless you want to. In the meantime, don't worry about the pictures," he assured her, brushing past his previous remark in a way that made her inclined to do so, too. "I'll handle it. I expect there won't be anything left in print by tomorrow."

"Thank you," she managed to say.

He nodded perfunctorily. "Of course," he said, and shifted, reaching to button his suit jacket. He suddenly looked very masculine and adult, a man who knew he stood in line for the throne, and to Hermione's dismay, the shape of his chest was suddenly much more prominent when he moved. Before she could stop herself from looking—catching herself, cheeks flushing, once her attention had drifted to his torso (and slightly south)—she noticed that his eyes, too, had slid over her with the briefest, subtlest motion, the flick of his grey gaze so smoothly employed she thought perhaps she'd imagined it.

"For what it's worth," he said, "Greece suits you."

She wasn't sure she'd actually heard him. She thought maybe she'd imagined that, too, along with the look he'd given her.

"Have a nice evening, Hermione," Draco said, and then, before she could say anything in response, he'd already slipped out of the room, nodding politely as he went.

I later learned that Roger did finish that painting. It was part of an Impressionist-resembling color study that he called Return to Life: Mykonos, 2014, leaving my name and features out of it. I'm told it was met with lukewarm praise.

As for me? I think I'd had my fill of being a muse.

Which was probably for the best, as the rest of my life was just in the process of starting.

a/n: My birthday is on Thursday, which is coincidentally when my book, One For My Enemy, is being released in paperback and ebook! Look for announcements in all the usual places: tumblr, instagram, twitter, etc, where I am olivieblake, and if you so desire, listen to an accidentally quite erotic reading of a passage on youtube. In the spirit of it being my day (and perhaps some other people's, but for the purposes of discussion, solely mine), if you have ever wanted to tell me in my personal love language that you enjoy my work, then you are very welcome to support my books with likes, reblogs, even IRL recommendations! Yes, thrilling, I know, she says with wincey optimism, but forgive me my trespasses, as it is my birthday and it comes but once a year.

Lastly, with love from me to you: Thank you for being here, for reading, and for filling another year of my life with your presence!