Chapter 29: Push
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
All the World is Watching
There is no doubt that Prince Draco and Hermione Granger are some of the most visible people in the world, public figures with celebrity so iconic they transcend political significance to reach the stratosphere of popular culture. It is perhaps no surprise, then, that they are so selective of their various philanthropic endeavors, their intimate circle of friends, and, of course, their carefully guarded behaviours. While Hermione has been known to be rather spirited, she has become one of the royal family's most reliably reserved members, and Prince Draco has rarely encountered a misstep during his lifetime of public service. Indeed, the pair is beloved for their efforts and passions, and hardly anyone could speak against their good names.
Okay, hardly anyone, sure… but then there's good ol' Rita Skeeter. Here, for example, are a few of her very real headlines from the month of December 2014:
DRACO GONE WILD! PENSIVE PRINCE IS NO MORE: PARTYING HEIR'S LATEST ROMP PROMPTS FRESH SCANDAL FOR ROYAL FAMILY
BITTER RIVALS COMMENCE ROYAL BRAWL! PRINCES CLASH AS BONDS OF CHILDHOOD FALL PREY TO TROUBLING ENMITY
BETRAYAL IS THE NEW BLACK! POSH TRIBE OF ENGLISH ELITE COMES UNDER FIRE FOR ADULTEROUS MISDEEDS
HERMIONE GRANGER NOT AT FAULT FOR LATEST PUBLIC SLANDER, SAYS LADY BELLATRIX; ROYAL PROTOCOL A 'CRIPPLING AFFRONT TO MODERN WOMANHOOD'
That last one isn't technically anti-me (it's more of an alarming passive-aggressive bullet to my reputation, given Lady Bellatrix's existence as… well, let's just call her a controversial source), but still. I think it goes without saying that 'beloved' is something of a forking exaggeration, don't you think?
December 9, 2014
London, England
Minerva Mcgonagall did not, as Hermione had already known, fuck around. Less than a week from their initial conversation, Hermione was already taking meetings with some of Minerva's friends and former colleagues, all of whom had ventured from the private sector into philanthropic pursuits over the course of their highly successful careers.
The previous week, after meeting with Oliver and Demelza about The Transfiguration Project's next venture (another gala, though this time—impressively—Oliver had successfully seduced someone at the Tate Modern into granting them an exclusive opening), Hermione had also taken an hour-long phone call with Dr Poppy Pomfrey, a friend to both Minerva and Augusta and a former Chief of Surgery, who had primarily turned her attention to improving technology in hospitals. Her latest project was virtual visits, or 'telemedicine,' aka video conferences with doctors, which were designed to decrease medical costs and to aid those with chronic conditions. Hermione, who knew little about the medical field in Britain, hardly noticed when their prescribed hour was up.
The most recent of Minerva's introductions was to a woman named Dr Aurora Sinistra, a researcher and professor of astronomy. She managed a government-funded lab for most of her career before branching out to education, rallying for funds to create an observatory providing city schools (most of which served students who knew nothing outside of densely-packed urban spaces) the opportunity to see and analyze the stars, either through overnight visits or augmented reality simulations. This, too, was new to Hermione, which was something Dr Sinistra was eager to rectify.
"You'll have to come to the Astronomy Tower to see what we've developed," Dr Sinistra offered excitedly, "perhaps next week? I'd be happy to give you a tour."
Hermione, who'd been considering the possibility of pitching a full story on the Astronomy Tower (Dr Sinistra's observatory) to a variety of publications, was quick to nod her agreement.
"I would love that," she said, and the subsequent realization that she was not, in fact, lying about her enthusiasm was something just shy of miraculous. "I find the whole thing fascinating."
Dr Sinistra seemed pleased by that, and perhaps a bit flattered.
"You know, Minerva said you were particularly bright," said Dr Sinistra, smiling. "You'd think I'd know by now just to believe her without question, but still, I think I underestimated you. You pick things up quickly," she said, rising to her feet as Hermione struggled to hide her pleasure, offering a post-meeting handshake. "I daresay I've met very few young people with your capacity to learn. I thought I'd be answering a lot of very monotonous questions, to tell you the truth."
"But what you do is so interesting," Hermione said, surprised to hear it, and Dr Sinistra laughed.
"Not to everyone, I assure you. Your passion is refreshing," she added, and then, with a promise to have her administrative assistant reach out to Hermione to arrange a tour of the Astronomy Tower, Dr Sinistra departed the Transfiguration offices, waving to Minerva and slipping out while Hermione wandered over to Oliver.
"Good meeting?" he asked her, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. Oliver had recently set the rubbish and recycling bins on their sides, placing them at opposite ends of the room like a football pitch. He had, as a result, been doing a lot more depositing of waste than usual.
Hermione nodded, amused by his latest 'sporting' endeavor, and Oliver declared, "Excellent, glad to hear it. I'd gotten a bit tired of mopey Granger."
"So had I," Hermione agreed, before eyeing his makeshift scoreboard and noting, "Oh, good, nice to see recycling's winning, at least."
"There are many paper products in this office," he informed her smartly, and added, "So, how was space lady?"
"Brilliant," Hermione said, with a bit of palpable envy, which was a thing she had felt after meeting with Poppy, too. There was something about observing women in positions of power—particularly those in science and medicine—that struck her as highly invigorating, and which made her feel bitten with inspiration purely by proximity. It was a similar feeling to meeting Minerva, but the newfound diversity of subject matter was providing Hermione an unexpected level of satisfaction with her work. She briefly wondered how difficult it would be to sweet-talk Fleur, who was apparently dating some rugby player from Bulgaria purely out of boredom, into reading about Dr Sinistra's Astronomy Tower over another highly publicized cup of coffee. "Though, maybe don't call her space lady?" Hermione suggested, and Oliver shrugged.
"If there's a science guy, then surely there should be a space lady," Oliver replied, crumpling the page he'd been reading into a ball and kicking it into the recycling bin with a shout of, "GOOOOOOOOOOAL!"
"Don't you need that?" Hermione asked him, arching a brow, and Oliver scoffed his disinterest.
"I was just proofreading," he sniffed. "Robins has the electronic file."
"Right, well, um, about that—I haven't actually seen the edits," Demelza said, timidly raising a hand for Oliver's attention, and Oliver gave a loud, exasperated sigh.
Well, it's not as if you don't know perfectly where they are, Robins—"
Hermione had opened her mouth to tell Oliver to please stop being so deeply Oliver when her phone went off in her pocket, distracting her. It jolted her with a first vibration, then a second, and then several more. It was clearly a string of text messages, which, in Hermione's experience, typically only meant one thing.
YOU NEED TO COME HERE IMMEDIATELY, came the frantic text from Daphne.
I am not joking
I wish I were joking
I think maybe I should start drinking, that might help
I don't know anymore
But either way I can't do that alone so come here immediately
Please
Thank you
Hermione frowned. I thought you were with Pansy? she replied, recalling that the two of them had had plans to meet in the afternoon when she'd been chatting with Daphne earlier that morning.
I AM, Daphne wailed, THAT'S THE POINT!
"Somewhere you need to be, Granger?" Oliver barked, and Hermione jumped, no less startled by him now than she had been while working as his subordinate.
"Yes, coach," she said, though what had been meant as a dismissive remark had the unintended effect of pleasing Oliver immensely. She rolled her eyes, returning her attention to the screen, and said, I just need fifteen minutes or so to finish up here. Is everything okay?
Her reply: DOES IT SOUND OKAY TO YOU
Followed by: Please do take your time. There's simply no need for all this fuss. Though, if you do plan to be present, then please consider doing so with some degree of haste. I do not have all day.
Hermione frowned, then typed, Pans?
Yes, I have taken ownership of Daphne's communication. Clearly, she can no longer be trusted.
That, Hermione thought, was an alarming turn of events. I'll be right there, Hermione said, and glanced up to see that Oliver was now furiously typing something at his desk, while Demelza was struggling to fish out one of many crumpled paper balls from the recycling bin.
"You don't have to do that, you know," Hermione told her, and Demelza shrugged.
"I kind of like it," she said, looking sheepish. "My last job at university was really rather quiet, and—"
"ROBINS," Oliver bellowed, startling them both, "WHAT'S THE WORD FOR WHEN OBJECTS TAKE ON HUMAN FEATURES?"
"Personification?" Demelza guessed.
"Probably anthropomorphism," said Hermione.
"GRANGER'S GOT IT," Oliver announced, rising to his feet and frisbee-tossing several sheets of paper into the recycling before halting abruptly, frowning into space, and then dropping to fish them back out. "Stand aside, Robins," he said, gallantly nudging her away, "I forgot it's still Tuesday and I need these."
Hermione rolled her eyes, shutting her laptop and making her way out of the office. "Bye, Wood," she said, "See you, Demelza."
"Mmhmm," replied Demelza, watching with something close to riveted amazement as Oliver dove headfirst into the bin.
By the time Hermione arrived at Daphne's, the recently-dubbed Lady Nott was positively beside herself, dragging Hermione by the wrist and then half-throwing her onto the sofa next to a calmly tea-sipping Pansy.
"TELL HER," Daphne barked, reminding Hermione very much of Oliver Wood as Pansy coolly angled her head in Hermione's direction, considering her for a moment before adjusting her own tailored blazer and offering Hermione's cardigan a pursed look of displeasure.
"It's nothing," Pansy said, adding with a disapproving glance at Daphne, "It's obviously this one who needs a sedative."
"It's not nothing," Daphne snapped, throwing her hands up in agitation. "Tell Hermione precisely what you told me!"
In response, Pansy looked positively nauseated, or possibly just annoyed. It was always difficult to tell.
"Well, what is it?" Hermione pressed her, wondering what could possibly have gone wrong. Was Pansy still sick? That hardly seemed worth Daphne's extreme reaction. "Are you okay? Is she okay?" she asked Pansy, gesturing to a now-stormily pacing Daphne. "Because it seems like whatever it is, you should probably just tell me. You know, out with it," she attempted to sniff, hoping for a brisk imitation of Pansy herself.
Pansy made another expression of repulsion, reluctantly conceding.
"Very well," she said stiffly, and set her saucer down on the side table, adjusting her hair for a moment before saying, "It appears that I am pregnant. I will therefore be requiring all of you to calm down, as I am growing a human brain at present and cannot possibly be expected to do so with all this ceaseless shrieking. By the way, Hermione, would you please pass the milk?" she said, and Hermione blinked.
"What?"
"The milk," Pansy repeated, gesturing to the platter in front of Hermione's knees. "You are familiar with the concept of milk, aren't you? Surely they have it somewhere in the backwaters of the colonies."
Hermione glanced at the milk, and then back at Pansy.
"I'm sorry," she said slowly, "but I thought you said—"
"SHE'S PREGNANT," Daphne confirmed with a yelp, smacking Hermione's hand aside and replacing the platter of tea materials with herself, perching on the table. "And that's not even the worst of it! She's—"
"Right here," Pansy cut in sharply, pursing her lips at Daphne in warning, "and still not particularly overjoyed about all this unnecessary hysteria, should that strike either of you as a relevant detail."
"But… I thought you were sick," Hermione managed to say.
"Yes," Pansy said, "I was. I am." She cleared her throat. "I have been," she corrected herself, removing a loose thread from her hem and depositing it on the floor, "on a fairly regular basis."
"But—" Hermione's brain, proclaimed brilliant only a matter of hours before, was now struggling to process this information. "How could you possibly be—" She blinked, still unable to grasp it. "You're pregnant, really? But—" Another blink of total puzzlement, ending in the completely inadequate remark of, "But how?"
Pansy looked a bit like she would rather stab Hermione than continue discussing the subject, but unwillingly submitted to answering. "You may recall that I've been… not myself, recently," she said, mouth tightening. "It appears I missed two days of my birth control around Halloween. Coincidentally, at such time, I also happened to," she began, and paused, pulling her shoulders back stiffly. "I happened to engage in something of an inadvisable tryst," she said sourly, "on one of the aforementioned days."
Hermione's head briefly swam with the effort of remembering where she'd been on the evening of Halloween, which now seemed positively lifetimes away. She hadn't been particularly herself any more than Pansy had been at the time, though she shook herself of the memory. Her misstep with Harry wasn't remotely relevant to whatever was going on with Pansy, which still had a number of foggy details.
"Obviously these two events have a common source," Hermione said, frowning. "Halloween is when I told you about Neville."
"Yes, strangely enough, that does ring a bell," Pansy said drily, reaching serenely for her tea as Daphne made a gesture of incoherence, amounting to something along the lines of, YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN? THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!
"Okay, well, hold on," Hermione said, struggling to be the voice of reason, "what are you… I mean, what are you going to, um. Well, I guess—?"
"All this babbling is entirely unhelpful," Pansy said, rolling her eyes. "Obviously, I will simply advance the date of the wedding, that's all. It's not ideal, but it's hardly as if I have much choice. Besides, it will be a perfectly quiet affair, everyone knows Neville and Augusta are rather private—"
"Whoa, whoa, what?" Hermione said, beginning to understand why Daphne's reaction had been so extreme. "But the baby, it isn't—" She blinked. "It… can't be Neville's, can it?"
Pansy shrugged. "I hardly think that matters," she said, prompting Hermione's jaw to fall slightly agape. "After all, he can't exactly permit me to tell his grandmother what I know about his sexual exploits, can he? Augusta would never forgive him," she sniffed. "She'd rather send him away, I'm sure, like his father, which is perhaps Neville's greatest fear."
Hermione exchanged a glance with Daphne, who was, by now, extremely pale.
"Pans," Hermione said hoarsely, "that's… that's blackmail."
"Yes," Pansy said.
"Your plan is to… blackmail Neville into marrying you," Hermione repeated slowly, "and… force him to raise someone else's baby?"
Pansy took a sip of tea, resting the cup gingerly on her lap.
"Well," she said, "force is an unpleasant word. More like persuade him, I should think, that it's in both of our best interests."
Hermione, who couldn't believe what she was hearing, hardly managed to steady herself before exclaiming, "PANSY!"
"Oh, marvelous," Pansy sighed. "Now you're both being irrational, wonderful."
"FOR GOOD REASON," Daphne snapped, and Pansy glowered tartly at them both.
"I should think it no less than Neville deserves," she said, "and besides, he's not an idiot. Whatever he feels for Blaise, it will never be an acceptable match. At least this way," she said in neutral tones of disinterest, "the two of them can continue carrying on as they have been, and in the meantime, I will—"
"—SECRETLY RAISE ANOTHER MAN'S BABY?" Hermione demanded, just as the door behind them opened.
"Oh, hello, California," Theo said cheerfully, "a pleasure as always. Greengrass, I heard shouting, did you need anyth-"
"I NEED YOU TO LEAVE IMMEDIATELY, NOTT," Daphne said.
"Ah, wonderful, just checking. Speak later, then," Theo replied, closing the door as Pansy gave Daphne a silencing glare, shaking her head.
"This is precisely why I didn't want you to tell her," Pansy said quietly, and Hermione, who didn't process at first that she was the 'her' in question, balked for a moment in disbelief.
"You weren't going to tell me?" she echoed, astonished. "But… but I thought—"
But I thought we bonded wasn't a particularly mature thing to say, nor anything shy of needy, but still, it seemed relevant. Daphne gave Hermione a look of apology, reaching over to give her forearm a light squeeze.
"Pansy just means she didn't think you would approve," Daphne explained as Pansy eyed her cup, "and she's right, because nobody in their right mind would approve." She turned back to Pansy, shaking her head. "You can't really believe I think you're making the right decision either, Pans. Not even you believe that."
Pansy, Hermione could see, was fully planning to deny it to her grave. "I don't have a choice," Pansy said. "I can't get rid of it. Even if there was a way to do that discreetly, I—" She broke off, lips pressed thin. "I can't."
Hermione opted not to press her on that. "But Pansy, the father—"
"Is not important," Pansy supplied flatly, giving Hermione a look that, unlike the others, was successfully quieting, mostly given that it looked closer to fear than anything else. "I don't want him to know about it, and anyway, he can't be in the picture. He wouldn't be, regardless."
"How do you know?" Hermione pressed, and Pansy shook her head.
"I just know."
"But who—"
"It was nobody," she repeated, "and I told you, it's not important. It's my fault; I was irresponsible. He doesn't need t-"
"To what? Deal with the consequences?" Hermione asked, and to her dismay, Pansy flinched. "No, Pans, I'm sorry," she hurried to say, "that's… that's not what I meant. I was just trying to say—"
"I know what you were trying to say, Hermione, and believe me, I've already considered it. I've considered everything many times." Pansy was quiet for a moment, hands tightening on her cup, before she said, "I've already known for some time."
Hermione frowned. "How long?"
"Two weeks," Pansy said, and Hermione blinked.
"But that means you knew even when we—"
"It's done," Pansy said, voice clipped. "It is what it is, Hermione, and you don't have to accept it, or me. But I don't see a better alternative."
"You could do it alone," Daphne interjected softly, reaching out to take Pansy's hand. "You wouldn't really be alone, anyway. You have us."
"Yes, you do," Hermione hurried to agree, shifting closer to Pansy on the sofa and slipping an arm around her shoulders. She regretted that it had not been the first thing she'd said, though with Pansy's customary habit of stifling her emotions, it was always quite difficult to remember she happened to be a person with a surprising capacity for insecurity. "You don't need Neville, Pansy," Hermione reminded her, "or whoever the father is, so if you don't want to—"
"No. No, this baby, it needs a father." Beneath Hermione's touch, she felt Pansy stiffen with tension. "I'm hardly maternal, Hermione, and I certainly can't be mother and father both. I can teach it, I can raise it, but I need someone there to… to nurture it. To be everything I'm not, I can't—"
She exhaled with something Hermione thought for a moment might have been half a sob, but then she abruptly straightened, casting off the suggestion as easily as if it were a fly.
"Some women aren't meant to be mothers, and I'm one of them. Neville, whatever else he is, will be a good father," Pansy said, resuming her tone of disinterest. "The best I can do is give the baby a good name, a comfortable life. Better that," she added with a scowl, "than being the illegitimate child of a disgraced heiress. Not to mention I'd likely be disinherited, if not entirely disowned—"
"But—" Hermione looked pleadingly at Daphne, who gave a small shake of her head, warning Hermione to silence. She realized that Daphne must have already ruled Pansy's calculations, at least on this matter, generally correct. "But who is the father, Pansy?" Hermione said, cutting herself off to take a different approach. "Maybe you're not giving him enough credit, or—"
"I told you," Pansy said brusquely, "the father is out of the question."
Again, Daphne gave Hermione a warning look. Hermione grimaced, frustrated, but agreed to change the subject. "Have you told Draco?"
"Not yet," Pansy said dully.
"What about Harry?" Daphne asked, and Pansy shrugged.
"I don't see how it would concern him. Either way, he's away for at least three months," she said, and Daphne and Hermione exchanged a glance, not wanting to ask the obvious follow-up question. They silently argued over who should bring up the name Blaise until Pansy glared at them both, adding the next most obvious remark of, "No."
"Pans, come on," Hermione said, chewing her lip. "I mean, obviously he, you know—"
"No," Pansy said again.
"Well, but hang on, wouldn't he be involved by default?" Daphne asked gently. "I mean, as far as we know, he and Neville are still—"
"Doesn't matter," Pansy snapped. "Whatever Neville does aside from raising this baby is entirely up to him, and I have no interest in what that is or will be."
"Pans," Hermione said, "listen, I know Blaise is—"
She broke off when Pansy gave her a look that was terrifying enough to melt her intestines, prompting her to a rapid, remorseful silence.
"Blaise," Pansy said tightly, "is no longer part of my life. He will have no part in this or in anything, and I forbid both of you to tell him."
"We haven't spoken to him," Daphne said quickly, and Hermione grimaced.
"I know Draco does," she admitted, "but—"
"Draco can do as he likes. I'm not asking for anything but the meager belief that the two of you will graciously permit me to live my life as I wish to," Pansy said impatiently, "and without either of your interference. If the two of you are truly my friends—"
Hermione shook her head. "Pansy, please."
"If you're truly my friends," Pansy repeated, glaring at Hermione, "then you will stay out of this, you'll keep your opinions to yourself, and you'll not say another word about my marriage to Neville. Am I understood?" she demanded, and though Hermione wanted very badly to shout about something—anything—she did manage to remember at the last second that Pansy was pregnant, and therefore not eligible to be physically shaken into seeing sense.
"Good," Pansy said, and looked as if she might have said something else, but then she paused, contemplating something, and leaned her head against Hermione's shoulder, giving Daphne's hand a squeeze.
It was, it seemed, a gesture of gratitude, and Hermione, despite everything, was pleased she had been there for the strange and wonderful thing that was now happening to her friend, however insane she happened to be as a result of it. Pansy, after all, wasn't nearly as aloof as she pretended, and Hermione had the luxury of possessing fewer doubts than Pansy about what kind of mother she had the potential to be.
As quickly as the moment had happened, though, it was over, and then Pansy was nudging Hermione and Daphne away.
"As for names," Pansy said, picking up her tea again, "both of yours are out. I simply don't care for them," she remarked, and then proceeded to take a sip, briskly beginning to discuss the possibilities of an intimate family wedding, which would be held at the end of the month.
By the end of the week, Draco had been informed about Pansy's pregnancy, as had Theo. Hermione had gone over to Daphne and Theo's for a quiet dinner after work, finding that Draco was already present. He rose to his feet upon her entry to Theo's study and drew her aside, offering her a bag of her favorite sour gummies, a candy cane-flavored tube of Chapstick that he must have had to ask her mother how to find, and a package of six plastic claw-clips.
"What's this?" she asked, frowning down at the thematically nonsensical collection of items, and he shrugged.
"I know you prefer your hair out of the way while you're writing," he said, pointing to the clips. "Though, if you prefer flowers as a congratulatory gift, that's certainly within the scope of my capacity."
"No," she pressed him, "I meant…" A sigh. "What is this?"
His mouth quirked.
"Well, it's certainly no grand gesture," he permitted, "but it's a start, isn't it?"
This damn prince, Hermione thought, shaking her head.
"It's sweet," she grudgingly admitted. "Thoughtful."
"They do call me the pensive prince," Draco reminded her very seriously, and she considered shoving him, or perhaps kissing him, or maybe both at once—until he took a step back, startling her. "Don't get ahead of yourself," he advised, shaking his head. "I'm playing a long game, Miss Granger, and I can't have you taking advantage of my spectacular vulnerability, however appealing it may be."
This fucking prince, Hermione sighed internally, though by then, Daphne was taking hold of her arm and pulling her into the newly (sort of) furnished dining room.
"Behold," Daphne said proudly, waving a hand at what appeared to be a baked ziti. "Nott and I have cooked. It has béchamel," she announced, nudging Hermione and referencing her new culinary prowess as Theo meandered in after them, cupping a hand around the back of Daphne's neck and dropping a kiss to the top of her head.
"Every single bowl in the kitchen is dirty," he declared proudly, "and it's all this one's doing."
"Shut up, Nott," Daphne said, beaming. "Sit down, would you? We have guests."
"Guests, is that what we're calling them? Magnificent," Theo replied, pulling out a chair and pausing Hermione before she moved to take the seat. "Please, California, there's a prince in our midst."
"He means himself," Draco informed Hermione with a sigh, as Theo did, indeed, proceed to take the seat for himself, gesturing for Draco to sit across the table—or perhaps on the floor in the corridor, unclear. "Thank you, Your Highness."
Draco took the seat across from Theo and beside Hermione, his knee brushing hers as they sat. She shifted slightly, giving him a scolding glance, and he slid a look of amusement at her, raising his glass of red wine to his lips with a languid, deliberate smile.
She was suddenly keenly aware both that he probably understood how handsome he was, and that he was clearly now using it against her.
"Stop," she said in an undertone, and he slid his tongue out over his lips, persisting innocence.
"Stop what?" he murmured, leaning close enough that she could smell the thrill of his familiar scent, a little darker this evening than usual. Clean, like always, but with some underlying sense of something warmer, deeper, like the glow of a midnight fire. Like skin on skin in the dark, and she fought a thoroughly unhelpful swallow, shoving him away.
"Stop," she warned again, and his smile broadened, raising his glass for another sip.
His right hand was absent its usual signet ring, she noticed, and tried not to check his left.
That effort lasted about half a second. Damn it, she thought, spotting the signet ring on his opposite hand. The code hand, which was a place his ring did not—should not—belong. To her immense displeasure, Hermione was left to cross her legs tightly, trying to focus on whatever Daphne and Theo had cooked for dinner instead of what Draco might do to her later if she let him.
"So," Daphne said, "about Pansy—"
All four of them glanced over their shoulders reflexively, still not entirely convinced Pansy wasn't somehow listening via wiretapping or perhaps by watching them from an enchanted mirror.
"Are we going to intervene?" Daphne pressed, glancing pointedly at Draco, "or—"
"I tried," Draco said, shaking his head. "She's set on this."
"I also tried," Theo remarked, and when Daphne frowned at him, he shrugged. "We talk from time to time, Greengrass. It's not unheard of, and I, as you know, am a spectacularly talented source of comfort."
"Do either of you know who the father is?" Hermione asked, and both Draco and Theo shook their heads.
"I don't even have a guess," Draco admitted. "She's always been highly secretive about, you know."
From Theo: "Her lovers?"
From Draco, with a wince: "Please don't call them that."
From Hermione, musingly: "Her… paramours?"
Draco, with a sigh: "Slightly better, but also acutely worse."
From Daphne, with a pensive frown: "Well, it has to be someone we know, doesn't it? It's hard to imagine that Pansy would deign to touch anyone who wasn't somewhere along the periphery of social acceptance."
Theo, with a laugh: "What Greengrass means is: Do we think she would she slum it with someone below her rank?"
Daphne, with equal annoyance and tenderness: a backhanded smack to Theo's chest.
Hermione, humming thoughtfully to herself: "What's the deal with the Weasleys? Maybe it's one of theirs."
Daphne, with a grimace: "Impossible. She'd die first."
Hermione, smartly: "Well, she's obviously not giving up a name, is she? Seems sort of telling, don't you think?"
Daphne, uncomfortably: "That is, unfortunately, a valid point. Whoever it is, she clearly doesn't want us to know."
Theo, with a scoff: "That's because if Draco knew, he'd descend upon him like a tyrannical plague."
Hermione, abruptly noticing that Draco had gone suspiciously silent: "Really?"
Draco, still suspiciously silent: a shrug.
Daphne, irritated: "She's a grown woman, you idiots, she can do what she likes. I just want to know who it is, considering she'd rather marry Neville and live unhappily ever after than confess."
Hermione, still stuck on Draco's silence: "You're seriously upset she slept with someone?"
Draco, unconvincingly: "Of course not. Daphne's right, she can do as she likes."
Hermione, warningly: "Draco—"
Draco, averting his eyes: "Yes?"
Theo, stifling a laugh: "Alas, the prince doth protest."
Draco, glaring: "Oh, so you've remembered who I am, then?"
Theo, sniffing: "It's a metaphor. And anyway, California, there's a reason Lady Six-Names is so feverishly secretive. She may not have brothers, but she has Draco, and as far as approval goes, he's more difficult to please than Prince Lucifer."
Hermione, stunned: "Really?"
Daphne, sitting upright with a sudden revelation: "Is that why she never said anything about Michael Corner?"
Draco, eyes narrowing: "What did Michael Corner do?"
Theo: "Based on context cues? Penetrat-"
Daphne, with a sidelong glare: "Stop."
Theo, innocently: "Yes, wife."
Hermione, turning to Draco with exasperation: "Well, that must be why she won't tell us, then. If you're going to be unreasonable about it—"
Draco, flippantly: "Exiling him for his misdeeds is hardly unreasonable. Beheading him for treason would be, maybe, but I've barely even considered execution."
Hermione, aghast: "She just had sex, Draco! It's not a crime—"
Draco: "Right, hence my adherence to appropriate retaliation. Such as disinheritance or, more immediately, stripping him of his lands and titles."
Daphne, reassuring Hermione: "He's joking."
Theo, laughing into his glass: "Sure he is."
Hermione, still frowning: "But Neville—"
Theo, cutting in: "—is a different story. He seemed perfectly harmless to all of us, firstly, and of course now, with the Blaise thing—"
Draco, with a heavy sigh: "Can we change the subject, please? If Harry were here he'd feel precisely the same way, and clearly Theo's too busy laughing at my expense to admit he agrees with me—"
Theo: a small shrug that denied nothing, earning himself another swat from Daphne.
Draco: "—but the point is, I'd be perfectly happy to listen to Pansy if she had any wish to confess. Seeing as she does not, I'm sure we can all agree that whoever he is, he's of such considerable ill-repute—"
Hermione, rolling her eyes: "Jesus, are you a medieval prince now?"
Draco, louder: "—that she doesn't want us to know, and thus, he is unlikely worth our speculation. Whether or not he retains his testicles can be a subject for another day."
Hermione, with a sigh: "I just think, you know, doesn't he deserve to have a say? Or, I don't know, at least—"
Draco, emphatically: "Theodore, you were saying you and Daphne planned to head to Edinburgh this weekend?"
Hermione, huffing: "Nice try, Your Highn- wait, you're going to Edinburgh?"
Theo, replying with something that felt very rehearsed: "Yes, to Edinburgh. Daphne's meeting with some distributor about textiles and I, of course, simply plan to wander the city begging for scraps—"
Daphne, brightly, and with equal rehearsal: "You know what, Hermione, you should come! We could go visit our old haunts, don't you think?"
Hermione, cutting a glance at Draco: "Do you have something to do with this?"
Draco, with palpable innocence: "Hm?"
Hermione: "Draco."
Draco: "Hermione?"
Theo, mournfully: "I hate this game."
Daphne, sighing loudly: "Oh, give it a rest, you idiots. Hermione, Draco was thinking of joining us after a public appearance he also has to make, so he thinks it would be a lovely idea for you to come along."
Hermione, skeptically: "Draco, is this true?"
Draco, with theatrical surprise: "Well, I am quite obviously hearing this for the first time, but given the coincidence, it does seem like quite a brilliant idea, doesn't it?"
From Hermione: a narrowed glance of disapproval.
From Draco: a smirk, alight with obvious mischief.
Theo, eyeing the dregs of his wine: "Obviously, California, this is a very spontaneous idea that we've all had independently, and with no conceivable evidence of collusion—"
Hermione, drily: "Obviously."
Theo, louder: "—but I do think it worth your time. We've gotten into hardly any antics, have we? Not for years, and to be frank, marriage has made me positively well-behaved."
Daphne, with a quiet scoff: "Hardly."
Theo, with a wink: "Not in front of the children, dear."
Draco, turning to Hermione: "Look, it's all perfectly innocent. Just a trip with friends, that's all."
Hermione, doubtfully: "You really think you can manage to get away for an entire weekend?"
Draco, settling his grey eyes on hers with pointed deliberation: "For you? Yes."
Hermione, after a beat of surprise: "…With me, you mean?"
Draco, coolly: "Mm, yes, sorry. Slip of the tongue."
The reference to said tongue was highly unnerving, more so than Hermione would have predicted prior to that evening. It wasn't as if she didn't already know what his tongue was capable of, though it was highly possible that was the worst part. She felt like part of her history with Draco was somehow being rewritten, very like the original except for a few embellishments, and included in the latest version of their text was how it felt to be swayed by being near him, arresting her anew.
She'd taken a job she knew his father wouldn't accept. She'd told him the truth: I don't know where that leaves us. ABBA aside, they weren't anywhere that warranted weekend trips, or ring-codes of I want you, or anything logically following a single stomach flu confession.
She tried to give Draco a look that said: We talked about this.
He replied with a look of: I haven't done anything wrong, have I?
"Oh, just say yes, Hermione," Daphne said impatiently, interrupting their silent exchange. "If not for Draco, then for me, because we all know Nott's no use. The other day he asked for his grey trousers and I had to inform him they were, in fact, green."
"She really allows me no freedom for artistic expression," Theo said, and Daphne leaned over to kiss him with something that seemed equal parts fondness and agitation; as if she desperately wished for him to stop talking, but could only stand to do so with her lips.
The compulsion was, unfortunately, very familiar.
"I told you," Hermione murmured to Draco, "I don't know what I want yet. I don't know if I'm ready to start up again."
"I know," he said, shrugging, "but you do at least plan to let me put forth my case for consideration, don't you?"
His ring glinted from his left hand, the one-time symbol of his furtive promise winking at her once again from around his glass.
"It's just a mini-holiday with friends," he assured her. "Not some sort of dastardly plot. I even asked Pansy to come along, though I suppose it's not a surprise that she said no."
"It's not that," Hermione said firmly, and Draco gave her a look of: Then what is it?
She sighed, not wanting to reply. She didn't feel like telling him that it was herself she didn't trust, not him. They weren't technically playing a game, but it still felt like confessing it would register on Oliver's scoreboard as a point to him, not her.
But still, he wasn't wrong, was he? It was just a weekend with friends, hardly a sacrifice on her part. She could finish her work with plenty of time to spare before they left, and it wasn't as if she was giving something up by going.
And besides—maybe, just maybe—she was a little curious about what he had in mind.
"Fine," she conceded, and from across the table, Daphne wiped a little smudge of lipstick from Theo's cheek, giving Hermione a devilish look of satisfaction. "Fine, you win, then. I'm in."
Most of Saturday was spent in Theo's company, as Draco had at least been honest about his appearance at some sort of grand opening for Edinburgh's children's hospital while Daphne did, in fact, have to meet with a textile manufacturer about getting her hands on a particular kind of gauzy fabric for Gabrielle Delacour's next gown. It was virtually impossible for Hermione to go anywhere in the U.K. by then without being recognized, but Theo did have a strange gift for being invisible; fewer heads than usual turned their way as they wandered through the Queen Street Gardens.
"So," Hermione said, nudging Theo with conspiratorial affection amid the crisp and biting Scotland cold, "how is married life, then?"
A brief, nearly imperceptible smile flickered over Theo's face.
"Oh, fine," he said, giving her his most troubling glance of swaggery. "It's not entirely unpleasant, you know, waking up in the morning next to the person in the world I distinctly hate the least. Doesn't hurt that she's such a winning conversationalist," he added with a tone of suggestion, "and quite a fair hand at most strategy-based board games."
"I know you're not saying anything technically dirty, but still—gross," Hermione groaned, and Theo's smile broadened. "I really don't want to hear about your sex life, thank you."
She heard enough about it from Daphne. You'd think the sex might get a bit tiresome once you're married, but no, she'd said into her coffee, leaving Hermione to choke a little on the abrupt change of subject from where they planned to meet for lunch. Turns out it's just the beginning, now that I know I can ask for things and he'll have to divorce me before he can say no.
Please don't tell me what things, Hermione said, quite reasonably, and Daphne's lovely lips twisted up with pleasure.
He may be an unceasing pestilence, but he's very good at what he does, she replied, to which Hermione reminded her firmly that she had already had a bout of stomach flu and certainly could not stand another go-round.
"Well, it's something of a vast enormity, circumstantially-speaking, to be hers without restriction," Theo remarked, with something Hermione suspected was honesty beneath the musing of his tone. "Forgive my vulgarity, but there is something excessively freeing about sharing a life with the woman I love."
It was a wonderful sentiment, albeit a highly suspicious one.
Hermione slid him a narrowed glance. "Is that suppose to be subterfuge, Your Lordship?"
Theo, in answer, reached out to wrap an arm around her shoulders, briefly nudging his cheek against the top of her yarn-spun, pom-beanied head.
"Normally it would not be within my unique set of distasteful personality constraints to be so forward," he said, completely un-forwardly, "but I suppose I can't resist my opportunity to tell you that this prince of ours is something of a rarity. Believe me, if I could have chosen someone else upon which to waste my time and adolescence, I would have opted for something far less smugly blond," he said, hip-checking Hermione with a smirk, "but it is, as far as I can tell, impossible to find even the barest of comparisons."
"This," Hermione informed him, "is the least subtle wing-manning I've ever seen."
"Oh, no, no," Theo corrected her, shaking his head. "I have no interest whatsoever in the pleasures of His Highness' flesh. I only think that as a subject of this kingdom, our prince could do no better, and naturally it is within my best interest to ensure you see as much yourself."
There was, of course, no way in hell she was going to tell him he was being extremely persuasive. It would go to his head, which was the last thing Theo needed.
"You're totally doing that thing they did for King Henry VIII," Hermione noted. "Sneaking women into his rooms, plotting his next wife—"
"Maybe, maybe not," Theo replied, tapping her nose, "but it would certainly never occur to him to ask for my help, so I suppose that leaves me to forcefully intercede."
"Well, you are very forceful," Hermione sighed, and Theo nodded, pleased.
"As my final word on the matter," he began, and Hermione groaned.
"Yes, fine, you think we should get back together, I get it—"
"I was going to say please don't tell my wife about the debilitating crush I allegedly have on her," Theo sniffed, as Hermione rolled her eyes, "but yes, I suppose now that you mention it, I do think it's worth considering. On your terms if you wish," he added with a shrug, "but it isn't wholly irrelevant to say that what he feels for you is no small thing. Certainly nothing easily dismissed."
"Noted," she grumbled, and Theo gave her another nudge.
"Come on, California," he said, "let's go feed some birds."
"It's bad for them," Hermione said, and Theo gave an exasperated sigh.
"Then be a little bad, Cali," he sniffed, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets and jogging directly for a crowd of pigeons as Hermione frowned a little to herself, contemplating everything that had passed between them, both said and unsaid.
It started out simple enough.
"You know, maybe we should go out," Hermione had suggested to Daphne—neutrally, without inflection, as if she hadn't been practicing it in her head all through dinner—and Daphne had glanced up from her digestif, surprised.
"Really?"
"Yes, really," Hermione said, turning to Draco, who was observing her with a quiet look of curiosity on his face. "I mean, royal residences are great," she assured him drily, as he gave her a little laughing nod in concession, "but don't you feel like getting out?"
It occurred to her that perhaps she was testing him in some way, though acknowledging it to herself now would surely require her to explain it to him later, which sounded terrible. It wasn't as if she wanted to bark at him to choose her over everything, but perhaps if she were being honest, she might have admitted that she did feel a bit like putting his latest theory—that he could sweep her off her feet—to work. The old Draco could have easily bought her thoughtful gifts and snuck away with her, as he was doing now.
What the old Draco would never have done, though, as Hermione well knew, was chance his father's disapproval. If she were being honest, she might have admitted that her urgency in pushing him out of his comfort zone was less about her wanting to explore Edinburgh's nightlife than it was about forcing him to make a choice.
"You want to go," Draco began, drumming his fingers lightly on the arm of the Edwardian sofa, "out?"
He arched a pale brow, and she shivered again at the sudden reminder of his arrival earlier that afternoon. He'd leaned forward, brushing his lips against her cheek with his hands resting lightly on her hips, and said in her ear, "It appears Scotland suits you just as well."
Prove it, she'd thought.
"Yes, out," she confirmed, nodding. "Nothing crazy, just… get outside these walls." Go somewhere people can see, she didn't say, but he wasn't an idiot. Surely he could hear the implication, and after a swift glance at an expressionless Theo, Draco rose to his feet, stretching out his long legs and finishing his glass of Scotch.
"Out it is," he said, beckoning with his chin for Theo to follow. "We'll just get changed, then."
Hermione, who hadn't quite believed he'd actually say yes, blinked, noticing that even Daphne looked as though she considered it an unexpected outcome. Daphne rose with some bemusement to her feet, giving Hermione a suspicious glance, and then Draco nodded to both of them, setting his empty glass on the side table and exiting the room with Theo at his heels.
"I meant be bad with the pigeons," Theo murmured in Hermione's ear, pausing to give her a tiny glance of admonishment, "but if you insist—"
"I do," Hermione said with far more confidence than she felt, and Daphne sidled up to her with a little furrowed look on her face.
"What are you up to?" she mused, and Hermione shrugged.
"Are you going to dress me up or what?" she asked, and Daphne, who could never deny herself the opportunity to make Hermione less of a general disaster, declined to press her, opting instead to lend her a pair of perfectly-fitted black jeans to go with a silky top Hermione had thrown into her bag at the last second.
She hadn't imagined they'd be able to sneak in anywhere. For an occasion like this one, Draco used his driver and his security team, and by the crowd of lucky photographers waiting near the royal residence, there was no escaping the inevitability that all four of them would chance being photographed. There was an element of agitation in Draco's fingers, which tapped restlessly at his thigh, but when Theo, after hanging up with Harry, offered to stagger their entrances to the nightclub—the owner was apparently an old friend of the baddest of the Bad Lads—Draco wordlessly shook his head.
"It's one evening," Daphne contributed, nudging Theo. "Even Prince Lucifer can hardly object, given everything."
"Right," Draco agreed, and looked at Hermione, who was beside him in the backseat. "And I have nothing to hide."
She glanced down at his hand, noting the ring that remained on his left. He, it seemed, was still offering her something that she was neither convinced nor unconvinced she wanted.
No, she corrected herself, swallowing as Draco shifted in the leather seats, his thigh gently nudging hers. She wanted it; that was fairly undeniable. She just wasn't sure yet what she was willing to give up to have it.
She kept waiting for Draco to push back somehow, to call her bluff, but he didn't. He ignored the stares as he entered the club, leading Hermione with a hand that hovered (intimate, but politely so) above the small of her back. He had requested a private table, but passed through the crowd to arrive there without much acknowledgement of nearby gawking, or of the phone cameras flashing. He merely gestured Hermione into the darkened booth, settling himself beside her and ordering a drink from a waitress who'd arrived tits up for the occasion.
"And for you?" Draco asked Hermione, who was still positively gobsmacked that any of this was even happening, and Daphne leaned forward, speaking to the cocktail waitress for her.
"She'll have gin and tonic, and so will I," she supplied at a shout.
There was a real sense of the macabre to nightclubs in general, but especially this one, Hermione observed, waiting in nervous silence beside Draco for her drink. It was dark save for the dull glow of eerie red bulbs, and had the distinct presence of misbehavior. Draco's hair suddenly seemed especially gleaming, silver and pale and almost saintly amid all the lascivious darkness, and for a moment, Hermione felt intensely guilty about her request.
Shortly after receiving their drinks, though, the song Fancy by Iggy Azalea came on, which was unfortunately one of Daphne's favorite shower songs as of late. She yanked Theo to his feet with an alarming immediacy, the two of them making their way to the dance floor, just as Hermione raised her drink tentatively to her lips, aware that she was now alone with Draco.
He slid an arm behind her shoulders, resting it on top of the booth's low cushions.
"So," he said, and Hermione bit down on her straw.
"So," she agreed, glancing at him.
She caught the slow crescent of his smile, his teeth suddenly devilishly white.
"You look nervous," he commented, though she couldn't quite hear him.
"What?"
"I said you look nerv-"
"What?" she repeated, frowning at him, and he laughed, scooting closer to her.
He brushed away a curl from her ear, leaning to speak into it. "You look nervous," he said, perfectly audible and entirely too close. She cleared her throat, turning her head so sharply he didn't have time to move, his lips nearly brushing her cheek.
"I'm not," she lied, and he gave her a doubtful look, the song changing with a laughable irony to Katy Perry's Dark Horse. "I'm fine," she assured him, shifting in her seat, and Draco shook his head, removing his jacket and rising to his feet to hold his hand out for hers.
"Dance with me," he suggested, and Hermione still couldn't quite hear him, but the invitation was obvious. She hesitated for a second, watching him beckon her a second time with an arched brow, and then, lacking any better alternative—this had been her idea, hadn't it?—she gave in, accepting his proffered hand and letting him pull her to her feet.
The overloud bass thudded within Hermione's ribs as she made her way down to the floor with Draco, spotting Daphne where she was furiously making out with Theo a few feet away. The two of them, it seemed, were benefitting early from Hermione's alleged 'spontaneity.' Hermione, meanwhile, let Draco take hold of both her hands, swaying with her from a reasonable distance. People were staring, obviously; every now and then, the strobe lights would reveal eyes on her and Draco from all over the room.
Hermione glanced around apprehensively, contemplating changing her mind entirely and suggesting they go back and watch a film or something, only then Draco's hand settled on her hip, pulling her closer.
"Relax," he said in her ear, the song changing again to something she was too distracted to recognize. "Dance with me," he told her again, curling his fingers to drag them slowly down her spine, and as much as she wanted to resist him—as much as she'd hoped her test would be more for him than for her—she relented, resting her palms flat on his chest and then slowly, gradually, sliding them up to wrap her arms around his neck.
She could smell him again, familiar and unfamiliar, and with the crowd shoving around them on the dance floor she was pushed further and further into him, pressed closer and inescapably closer the longer they danced. What little she'd drunk that night intensified exponentially, heating a little in her limbs, and then she found motion easier; she let herself go a little more with each shift of his hips against hers, her hesitation vanishing conversely with each increased pulse of pressure from his touch.
The song changed again; this time to Down on Me, which was old and had no place among the sugar-pop tastes the club had catered to so far that evening, but which came on anyway. Hermione had no choice, beholden to the whims of the vengeful music gods, but to think of the last time she'd been dancing with Draco to this particular song; him in his Batman mask, her in her Cleopatra costume, the gaudy snake ring on her finger.
He seemed to be thinking the same thing. He took her right hand, glancing down at it for a moment, and then carefully slid his thumb over the gold serpent that wrapped snugly around her ring finger, tracing her knuckles lightly.
Then he released her, pulling her into him again, and turned to say something in her ear.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
She shivered, reflexively pulling him closer, and suddenly whatever restraint she'd had evaporated. She wasn't exactly the partying type, but this close to him, she couldn't resist putting a little extra sway in her hips, letting herself grind feverishly with him as he wrapped his arm around her, one hand tightening in the fabric of her blouse until he could run his fingers over the little slip of skin above her jeans.
She felt a vibration from the pocket of his trousers, grimacing.
"Your phone," she shouted, and he shifted to pull it partially out of his pocket, glancing down at the screen.
"Just my father," he replied, pulling her back into his arms. "Dobby called in the car, too, but it's fine."
"You're not going to answer?"
He shook his head. "I'm busy," he said in her ear.
She fought a startled gasp as he spun her by her hips, securing them against his. The line of her spine was pressed into his torso, the bare blades of her shoulders digging into his chest, and he slid his hand over her waist, toying with the hem of her shirt and the line of her jeans. His pace was faster now, to match the thudding bass. She could feel it in her bones like the vibrations that continued from his phone, still furiously buzzing between them until they abruptly stopped.
"See? It's fine," he said, lips brushing her neck as he spoke.
It was an accident, it seemed, and surely unintended, only then he stopped, momentarily frozen.
He stayed there, unmoving.
Then he kissed her neck, deliberately that time, and she held her breath.
His lips traveled upwards, pausing behind her ear, and she shuddered.
He kissed the edge of her jaw, one hand tightening around the shape of her hip, and nudged her chin up with his nose, lips grazing the side of her throat.
She leaned her head back, resting it against his shoulder, and he paused for a moment, trying to read her face in the dark.
"You saw the ring," she told him hoarsely, not even sure if he could hear her, but it must have been clear enough; that, or maybe he'd already done the math and figured out what it meant that she was wearing it again. He reached around to take hold of her cheek, angling her chin over her shoulder—raising her lips to his—and paused there for half a second, letting a single breath pass between them.
His phone buzzed in his pocket again, disrupting the brief spell of total insanity, and she swallowed hard, waiting to see what he'd do.
Hermione, it's my father, I have to take this—
Hermione, I'm sorry, it's important—
Hermione, you understand, I have to—
Hermione—
"Hermione," he said, and she closed her eyes, dreading the inevitable.
"Hermione," he said again, before he brought her mouth to his and kissed her.
It shouldn't have been a surprise how good it felt, or how much it sparked. If there was one thing they'd both always had, it was chemistry, and it wasn't like the circumstance of darkness and heat and sweat and darkened rooms were wholly unfamiliar. None of this was all that new, really, and yet it was entirely different now, newly cursed by deprivation. She felt herself gasp a little in his mouth, startled by the new-oldness of it, or the old-newness, and he pivoted her hips with both hands, spinning her to face him.
Things got heated quickly, even with people watching, though whether that was his doing or hers was something of an impossible mystery. She knew she was the one tearing desperately at his collar, but he was the one who had his hands slipped hungrily under her blouse. She was pulling him towards her, yanking him nearly in half to hold his chest to hers, but he was the one keeping their hips locked in place, one hand slid into the back pocket of her jeans. It was something that could escalate—that would escalate, if she wanted it to—and out of a wild surge of abandonment, Hermione broke the kiss to say in Draco's ear, "Let's go somewhere."
His fingers tightened on her hips, pressing into them. "What?"
"Let's go," she repeated, giving his trousers a pointed yank to suggest she'd moved on from the insufficiency of dancing, and he chuckled, shaking his head.
"Not yet," he said. "Not until you want me."
"I think it's pretty obvious that I want you," she growled, impatient. "Come on, it doesn't have to count for anything, we can just—"
"No," he said, shaking his head, and she frowned at him.
"But you were just—"
"Yes, I know," he said, and then broke off, jostled a little by someone next to him. "Come on," he sighed, taking her hand and leading her back to their table. "Hey," he said once they were alone, catching the look on her face and pulling her into him. "Don't be angry, I'm just—"
"I'm not angry," she snapped, and then grimaced. "I'm not," she repeated, slightly more convincingly that time. "I just… I thought you wanted—"
"I do, Hermione. Obviously I do, and believe me, I—" He glanced around, shaking his head, and then leaned forward. "I want you, trust me, but not like this," he said in her ear. "Not until you're ready."
"But," she began, exasperated. "But I am, I just—"
He reached out, holding her face with both hands and stroking the bones of her cheeks.
"You really think I'm going to waste my second first time with you?" he asked, and she blinked, suddenly a little dazed. Or possibly dehydrated. Impossible to tell.
"Draco," she murmured, and he did the most unhelpful thing he could have done: he pulled her into him again, dropping his lips to hers. "Draco," she mumbled into his mouth with fury, and that she was thoroughly unable to prevent herself from kissing back—even with the idiotic proclamation that he intended such efforts to go nowhere—was highly discouraging. Truly, she thought with displeasure, she was hopeless.
"Draco, you stupid prince, just let me take off your pants and—"
"Draco," came a voice behind them, prompting them to leap apart, Hermione's hand flying up to her mouth. Theo was standing just behind them, shoving a cell phone into Draco's chest with one hand; the other was laced with Daphne's fingers. "You need to take this."
"What?" Draco asked, unable to hear him, and Theo gave the phone another hard shove.
"YOU NEED TO TAKE THIS," he said again, shouting it this time, and at Theo's obvious urgency, Draco's brow furrowed with puzzled concern.
"What is it?" Hermione asked Daphne, apprehensively reaching for her arm.
"It's his father," she said softly, and Hermione looked over at Draco, watching his knuckles go white the moment he took the phone.
There was no avoiding the paparazzi upon their hurried exit. Photographers and reporters were successfully kept out of the club (probably why it was a favorite of Harry's) but once outside, Hermione could barely move, finding herself blinded and crowded as Daphne pulled her into the car and Draco rested a hand on her back.
"You three go," Draco said in her ear, pausing Hermione as she climbed none-too-gracefully into the backseat. "I have to go see my father right now. I'm sorry, Hermione, truly, but it can't wait—"
"Hold on," Hermione said, throwing out an arm before he could shut the car door. "Wait a minute—"
"I'm sorry," he said again, looking troubled and torn. "It's not a matter of not choosing you, Hermione, but this is my family, and I can't just—"
"No," she said firmly, "no. I meant hold on because I'm coming with you."
She hopped out of the car, the photographers continuing to snap pictures of them as Theo leaned over, conversing quietly with Draco.
"What's going on?"
"I have to go, just take Hermione and Daphne and—"
"No," Hermione said again, interrupting Draco with a hand on his arm. "You could be waiting half the night for news, Draco, and I'm not letting you wait alone. I'm coming," she said firmly, and suddenly, it occurred to her that perhaps her life no longer revolved around Draco, but that certainly hadn't changed her impulse to be near him when he was suffering. He gave her a look like he might have argued, but she shook her head, stopping him before he could speak.
"Just let me be there for you," she told him, unsure whether she was pleading with him or admonishing him, and a tiny flicker of something, possibly surprise, furrowed in his brow.
"We'll get your things and meet you there," Theo said, adding a hand motion that was probably yet another code, and after a beat of hesitation, Draco finally gave in, nodding to Theo and moving to shut the car door.
Then he took Hermione's hand without a word, tucking her under his arm and heading to a second car as the flashes around them went off, unrelenting.
Lucius, as it turned out, had suffered another cardiac arrest, something just shy of a heart attack. It had prompted him to collapse during an official appearance in Wiltshire, where he'd refused to be taken to the hospital. Instead, he'd demanded to be taken home to his wife at Malfoy Manor, where he'd been treated by a private physician.
By the time Draco and Hermione got there, Lucius was in bed, weak and drugged but hardly as unconscious or unspeaking as one (read: Hermione) might have hoped.
"You again," he said upon sight of Hermione, his grey eyes narrowing. "I thought we were done with you."
Narcissa was sitting regally at Lucius' bedside; she gave Hermione a little shrug that indicated she, unlike her husband, was unsurprised. She also didn't appear particularly doting at Lucius' bedside, but she was at least present, which was more than Hermione might have guessed based on the things Draco had said about the state of his parents' marriage.
"Have you seen the headlines?" Lucius was demanding from Draco, who appeared to be only half-listening, instead checking his father for damage that he was obviously not going to see. Hermione hovered near the door, suddenly feeling as if she was an intruder. "Look at this," Lucius snapped, reading from his phone: "'Party prince trades responsibility for debauchery while his father desperately clings to life,' 'Prince Lucius suffers brush with death, Prince Draco responds with wild American-influenced bender'—"
"Oh, please," Draco sighed, taking a seat beside his father. "You can't honestly believe that's important right now, Father, compared to your health."
"EVERYTHING IS IMPORTANT," Lucius retorted, struggling to sit up as Draco forcefully nudging him back, hushing him into remaining against his pillows. "Don't you understand what this means, Draco? Don't you see what you've done?"
"It was one night, Father," Draco said. "They'll forget about it in a week—"
"NO," Lucius bellowed, and Hermione flinched with apprehension, catching Narcissa's look of pursed disapproval from across the room as Lucius continued shouting at his son. "This is how it starts—this is how everything starts. Do you think I somehow haven't noticed that you're the only thing keeping our family from ruin, Draco? You think I don't realize you're this family's only hope?"
Hermione winced, and Draco sighed.
"Father, listen to me, it's really not so dire—"
"No, you listen," Lucius snapped. "Are you really going to throw away everything you've done? Look how hard you've worked, how much you've grown," he ranted. "Look what a reputation you've created for yourself, and now—AND NOW—"
"Father, please don't overexert yourself—"
"If you think I'm not proud of the son you have always been," Lucius said through gritted teeth, and Hermione looked down, eyeing the carpet beneath her feet. The argument suddenly seemed intensely private, exclusively meant for Lucius, his son, and perhaps his wife, though Hermione wasn't sure whether Draco might take it poorly if she left. "If you think I don't see what a fine young man you've become, or what a worthy heir you are, Draco, you're wrong."
"Please, Father, we don't have to talk about this right n-"
"If this is some attempt to… to throw that away, Draco, just because I've let you down, then please, listen to me—"
"It's not," Draco began, and swallowed, his pale head bending towards his father's in what was obviously a difficult moment. "It's not that, I promise you."
"Don't destroy your life, Draco." It was half omen, half emotion. "Don't undo everything you've done, don't undermine everything you've proven just because of what I did—"
It occurred to Hermione, with a sudden, striking realization that she'd known but never really understood, that somehow, Lucius was both father and employer, authority and paternal figure both. He, like Draco, was a man as well as a figurehead, and similarly, for Draco, his family, his occupation, and his ceaseless expectations would all be inextricable from each other.
It became alarmingly clear to Hermione, suddenly, that to accept Draco for what he was—for who he was—was, in essence, to join the family business.
Which was, it seemed, as much a personal matter as it was anything else.
"Father." Draco's voice was soft, and obviously anguished. "Father, you don't understand."
Hermione, who'd scarcely been listening after getting lost in her own head, heard the sound of a throat clearing. She looked up to realize that Princess Narcissa was now standing in front of her, one hand gesturing to the door.
"The usual bedroom," Narcissa suggested, her voice a cold tone of: This doesn't concern you.
Hermione looked at the bend of Draco's neck, swallowing hard, and nodded slowly, slipping out into the corridor and hearing the door shut securely behind her.
Draco came to find her after about half an hour. By then, she had showered and put on the robe that Princess Narcissa's housekeeper had brought for her; she was staring blankly into nothing, lost in thought, until Draco knocked quietly on the open frame, stepping inside the room and closing the door behind him.
"So, listen," he began, and Hermione cut him off with a shake of her head, rising to her feet.
"You listen," she said, and he blinked, a little taken aback, but waited for her to continue. "Things are different now," she told him, and he opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him with another silencing glance. "They're different. I actually like my job now," she reminded him. "I don't need you as much as I did before. And I can see," she began, and swallowed, grimacing at him. "I can see you're needed elsewhere."
She watched him force a swallow. "Hermione, please, I—"
"You don't need to give up everything for me," she said, clarifying her point for the benefit of his obvious agitation. "Your family needs you, Draco. I can wait."
His fingers twitched at his side, tentative. "And in the meantime…?"
"Don't sleep with anyone else. I won't, either," she assured him, prompting him to frown with confusion, "and, of course, try to see me as often as you can. And call," she murmured, reaching up to sweep his pale hair back from his forehead. "Call me whenever you like, Draco."
He shut his eyes as she inhaled, setting his hands blindly on her waist.
"Miss Granger," he said, his voice a little cracked, "are you, by chance, asking me for a relationship?"
She waited for a moment.
Waited until his eyes floated open again, and her fingers traced his cheek.
Then she reached down, untying her robe, and let it fall open.
"I'm saying I want you," she said softly. "Isn't that enough?"
For a moment, he stared down at her, his grey gaze sweeping over the curves of her with a longing she could practically taste. It was clear that if he wanted, if he dared, he could have her in his arms in a moment; in less than a heartbeat. He could have her right here, taken her against the wall or bent over the edge of the bed or flat on her back; he could have had her on her knees, he could have had her however he wanted, and she could have him. She could have him, he could be in her bed with his beautiful mouth on her desperate skin, and the thought of it was so very tempting it very nearly pained her; almost strangled her with how badly she wanted it.
It. What was it, exactly? Sex, obviously, but what else?
Him, her mind said firmly, but she shoved the impulse away, taking Draco's hand instead and pressing her lips to his palm, pulling him closer.
He gave her a look she couldn't interpret, his grey eyes fixed on her face. She waited, rising up on her toes, and when he leaned forward to kiss her—so lightly, so delicately, that she felt it leave her lips like a quiet, meditative breath—she tugged him into her, holding him in her arms, but he resisted.
"Not quite," he murmured to her lips.
She stiffened, frowning up at him, thoroughly bemused.
"Goodnight, Hermione," he said, and brushed his lips against her forehead, touching her cheek. "Sleep well."
Then, much to her disbelief, he slipped out of the room, leaving her to stare after him, dumbstruck.
I ended up thinking a lot about what Prince Lucifer said about reputations. Specifically, that he said Draco's had been created—not born or given, not even earned, but manipulated by choices, crafted by Draco's own hand. Sure, I think the Prince of Darkness was at least a little altered from whatever medications he'd been dosed with at the time, but he'd given me something to think about, whether he'd intended to or not.
How had all of my friends been affected by trying to defend some invisible thing they'd painstakingly manipulated, whether true or false, purely because other people could see it? And what was it worth, in the end, to sacrifice everything just to control what other people could see?
For one friend in particular, we were all about to find out.
a/n: I'll be at a conference for about five days starting Thursday, so next week's chapter will be a couple of days delayed until the following Thursday. In the meantime, look out for a Valentine's Day nottgrass posting this week in Amortentia: Black Jeans and Daphne Blue. Thank you for reading!