Chapter 31: Influence
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
A Period of Unrest
The end of 2014 marked a series of scandals for the royal family, much of which was attributed to Hermione's unusual but unmissable presence in the public eye. Prince Draco's surprisingly adamant defense of Hermione coincided with weeks of rumoured familial turbulence, prompting intense criticism of her influence where it came to the Prince's behaviour. Notably, Lady Bellatrix Lestrange was the lone supportive voice in defense of Hermione, despite many beginning to express their doubts in the young American's temperament. For a brief period, Hermione became such a radically polarizing figure that the once-foregone conclusion she would be Prince Draco's choice became increasingly less likely, prompting many to doubt she would ever receive King Abraxas' approval.
Indeed, Hermione's appearances, in particular those following Prince Harry's controversial marriage to Lady Pansy Parkinson, launched a wave of speculation about her future with Prince Draco, whom many sources claimed was suffering extreme pressure from his father and grandfather to choose a more suitable potential bride. Hermione, despite her unpopularity, was rumoured to be quite eager to repair her reputation, grooming her public image and waiting in relative silence in the hopes Draco would ultimately propose.
By all accounts, her efforts were highly effective, albeit slow to take root. It was over a year later, once Hermione's image had undergone a dramatic transformation, that there finally came an end to the months of conjecture that she had been quietly put aside.
Well. Like usual, Rita has mostly no idea what she's talking about.
(Minus the rumors, of course.)
(Largely because those were started by her.)
December 23, 2014
London, England
"Quieter than usual today," Hermione noted, observing the thin crowd of photographers outside The Transfiguration Project's offices and pausing at the sight of the (sadly) now-familiar Colin Creevey. "Has everyone gone home for the holidays?"
"Morning, Miss," replied a cheerful Colin, snapping a picture that nearly blinded Hermione as she struggled not to spill her coffee. "Actually, I imagine they're at the Goring Hotel," he said, giving her an apologetic look when he noticed her displeasure at the disruptive flash. "But I like you much better, of course," he informed her, and Hermione frowned.
"Better than… who, exactly?" she asked, wondering if perhaps Draco had gone to visit Pansy that morning. Not that Hermione was especially interested in the stir that would inevitably result from renewed gossip that Draco might have chosen a more suitable noble bride, but if that were the case, she would have expected more people waiting outside for her reaction.
"You haven't heard, Miss?" asked Colin, frowning. "It was in all the blogs first thing."
"Well, I had a slow start," Hermione began, before abruptly realizing she hardly had to explain herself to a paparazzo. She admonished him with a glance, venturing irritably, "What's happening at the Goring?"
"Hold for a moment," Colin said, shuffling around for his phone. He was always a little bit rumpled, slightly too skinny, and the iPhone he dug out of his pocket had a considerably cracked screen. "Careful," he warned, handing it to her. "Watch your fingers—"
"You really need a new phone," Hermione commented with a disapproving shake of her head, and Colin gave her a sheepish look of agreement.
"Been trying to scrape together enough for a better lens," he explained, holding up his camera. "I've been hoping to focus a bit more on my personal portfolio, but the whole thing's a bit dodgy, really. Bit of a struggle to be taken seriously."
"Tell me about it," Hermione murmured, and paused, squinting a little at where the crack in his screen obscured a photograph of what looked like the back of Harry's head. "This is what the fuss is about? Prince Harry?"
"Hm? Well, yes and no," Colin said, nudging her finger aside and scrolling past a series of candy-colored ads. "It's this bit, really," he showed her, and Hermione frowned, quickly skimming the article.
—not only broken off her engagement to longtime beau Neville Longbottom, but may not have been entirely faithful in advance of their upcoming nuptials. An anonymous source revealed late yesterday evening—
—Prince Harry's arrival at this particular hotel suite coincides with his uncharacteristic request for emergency leave, citing familial difficulties. Certainly his distress may be valid, as the two are famously childhood acquaintances, but could it be the misbehaving Prince has finally bedded the wrong woman? Sources say—
—The Longbottom family could not be reached for comment, but countless describe Prince Harry's demeanour upon arrival to the Goring as noticeably tensed, even visibly concerned. Is it possible Lady Pansy's rumoured lover is none other than—
"No," Hermione said aloud, the countless foggily incomprehensible pieces of Pansy's behavior suddenly fitting together with unpleasant clarity as one hand flew up to her mouth. "Wait a minute, does this mean—"
She blinked as a flash went off. "This doesn't pay as well as you'd think," Colin offered in apology, snapping another photo, and she glared at him, shoving her phone back in his hand and forcing her way to the door of Minerva's offices, removing her own from her bag.
Daphne answered on the second ring. "Well, it's about time, isn't it?"
"Have you seen the—"
"Yes, of course I have, and worst of all, Nott's claiming he's known the whole time—which is frankly just like him, the smug little weasel. If he weren't so spectacularly agile, I swear I'd just—"
"Daph," Hermione growled. "Harry?"
"I know, I know, I'm completely bowled over myself. Not to mention," Daphne exhaled, "that Draco is going to have a bloody aneurysm."
Hermione leaned against the wall of the corridor, surprised. "You think so? I mean, I guess, but—"
"This couldn't be more out of character for Pansy, honestly," Daphne was ranting, not particularly interested in listening to Hermione's opposition. "And they're painting Neville as the victim, can you believe it? None of this has any trace of her usual deftness, and you'd think she'd have done something to get ahead of all this bad press—though, the fact that the whole thing reads like a perfect Harry scandal means perhaps we shouldn't jump to conclusions," she pondered aloud, opting to lean outrageously optimistic. "Maybe it's not what it looks like? He'd certainly come see her either way, wouldn't he? He'd do it for any of us."
Hermione, on the other hand, was only becoming more and more convinced this was the rare occasion of something being precisely as it looked. "Think about it, though, Daph. Pansy wouldn't tell us who the father was."
Daphne's voice was grimly conciliatory. "Yes. I know."
"And I just keep thinking, if it was actually someone none of us knew, then why not just—"
"Yes, yes, I know," Daphne lamented moodily. "It makes perfect sense now, so of course I feel like a total idiot. Which Nott seems to be positively delighting in—"
"I should call Draco," Hermione realized, blinking. "You don't think he'll actually be angry, will he?"
Daphne paused for a moment, considering it. "Well, I suppose it depends. On the one hand, the man who's practically his brother might have recently knocked up the girl who's basically his sister," she began, and trailed off.
Hermione waited, frowning. "And the other hand?"
"Hm? Oh, sorry. No, I only have one hand at the moment. I just keep thinking there must be something we're missing—don't you? I mean really, Pansy and Harry, it's completely unfathomable—"
"Is it, though?" Hermione asked, sounding a little pained in her distress. According to Pansy, the liaison in question had taken place the day after Halloween, which meant it could have easily been the aftermath of the night Hermione and Harry kissed. Was it possible that Harry, feeling rejected by Hermione, and Pansy, having been newly informed of Neville's deception, had drowned their sorrows together? Harry had made a comparable offer to Daphne once in jest, back when the two of them had been in a similar position. Was it completely egotistical of Hermione to consider that Harry might have been so emotionally damaged he'd turned to Pansy in her stead?
And if Harry was the father of Pansy's baby, was Hermione somehow responsible for this?
Not that Pansy would necessarily know that, or Daphne, for that matter. Hermione, who had carefully said nothing of her ill-advised liaison, couldn't decide if she wanted to remove herself from the sequence of events or not; though, either way, she was growing increasingly concerned that so much had happened over the past few months without any of their knowledge. Were they all friends or not?
"I suppose I really have no idea what the truth is," Daphne said flatly, hitting directly upon Hermione's primary concern. "Though, for the record, I'm sure Harry plans to tell Draco himself, or I assume he will, anyway. Last I heard from Theo, Draco and Prince Lucifer arrived at Sandringham early this morning."
Sandringham. Draco had invited Hermione two days ago to spend the holiday with him and his family, though she'd obviously declined, claiming she had work to do. Which wasn't a lie, exactly, though the meatier truth was far more personal; that in reality, she was still reeling from their encounter at Malfoy Manor and didn't think it was a good idea to be so close to him before she'd made up her mind.
It made sense, on some logical plane she wanted very badly to exist permanently in but didn't, that Draco didn't want them to entangle feelings with sex until she'd made a decision about whether or not she wanted a future with him. He'd made it clear, both in actual words and in what Hermione had gleaned from observing him with his family, that his dick and his crown were inextricable—which was admittedly the smart thing to do, moving forward. It wasn't as if he could ever be the handsome stranger carrying her luggage again. She knew what his life was like now, and understood clearly what was expected of him, just as she knew how it felt to love him. Unfortunately, her emotions were getting the better of her, and like usual, future-planning felt hugely out of the question.
She'd planned to spend Christmas with Daphne, Theo, and what she'd thought would be Pansy, avoiding questions from her mother and safely skirting the lure of Draco's highly persuasive presence. "Just say the word and you have me," he reminded her when she'd complained of feeling stung, taking his rejection sorely the night of his father's illness. Bastard, she'd thought with bitter admiration, hating him through another inflamed resurgence of affection for his dumb morals and his irritating certainty.
It was the easier choice to take comfort in her bed and promise nothing. Harder to insist they both do what was right.
Stupid princes.
Which, naturally, brought her full-circle to Harry, the more impulsive of the two troubled royals, and the one who had maybe slept with Pansy, maybe not.
But probably yes.
"Hermione?"
"Wait a minute," Hermione said, registering something Daphne had casually remarked moments earlier. "Did you say they made a victim out of Neville?"
"Oh, good lord," Daphne sighed, "have you not seen Rita's take on all this? Something about a badly behaved tribe of nobles—which astoundingly excludes Neville."
No, she hadn't seen it, and she dreaded making contact with it now.
"Balls," muttered Hermione, as Oliver appeared in the stairwell, frowning down at her.
"GRANGER," he shouted, "ARE YOU IN OR OUT?"
Jesus. Would no one stop asking her that?
"I MEANT OF THE OFFICE POOL REGARDING THE ODDS MINNIE WILL OPT FOR FESTIVE OFFICE WEAR," Oliver clarified, adding with a sniff of his usual frenzied affectation, "YOU MAY REMAIN OUTSIDE, IF YOU SO CHOOSE."
"Noted," she called back, and returned her attention to the phone. "I just have a couple of articles to wrap up. See you this afternoon?"
"Obviously," was Daphne's response, just before they both hung up.
By the time Hermione arrived, however, Daphne and Theo were both packed.
"What," she began, and was immediately cut off by Daphne thrusting a bag into her hands.
"Pansy checked out of the Goring this morning," she said.
"Okay," Hermione said slowly, "and…?"
"Pick out anything from my wardrobe that fits," Daphne instructed, "because we're going to Sandringham tonight."
"What?" Hermione said, balking. "But I can't just—"
"It's that or stay in London alone, California," Theo informed her, sloping in to drape against the doorframe.
There was almost no doubt in Hermione's mind that whatever unintelligible spidey-senses Theo and Draco shared from their incorrigible boyhoods were presently going off. She had resisted the urge to text Draco (not knowing what to say, really), and hadn't heard from him all day, which was newly unusual. Their patterns of communication post-breakup had gone from nonexistent to infrequent to constant but unremarkable, and it was usually initiated by him. How was your day, what are you doing, look at this video of a cat playing the harpsichord, etc. To hear nothing was warning enough.
"Fine," Hermione conceded gruffly, picking out two of the dresses and coats she'd already worn previously and recovering one of her own sweaters from Daphne's closet. "May I ask why it matters that Pansy checked out?"
"Because Harry arrived at Sandringham House just before noon," Theo said.
"Yes," Hermione sighed heavily, "and…?"
"And last I heard, he and Draco were stepping into a private meeting with Abraxas right around the moment he arrived. Which was," Theo began, and glanced at his watch. "Approximately four hours ago."
Clearly, this detail meant something to Daphne, though Hermione couldn't fathom how it was related. "So?"
Theo and Daphne exchanged a glance.
"What?" Hermione demanded, and Theo made a rapid series of indecipherable gestures to Daphne, the two of them silently arguing as he indicated his wife should have the floor.
"Well," Daphne conceded slowly, glaring at him before turning to Hermione, "do you know much about the Royal Marriages Act?"
Hermione, who was up to that moment the only person who made a practice of citing political statues in casual conversation, frowned in answer. "Not outside of it being the thing Abraxas is trying to repeal."
"Right, well, it still has some relevance," Daphne reminded her, "and because of it, the ruling monarch has the ability to veto marriages for all members of the royal family. Typically," she added, with another glance at Theo for confirmation, "King Abraxas would need to approve any potential marriages in writing before they could take place. Draco will need written approval," she explained, supplying an example. "You know, if you two ever decide to admit you're actually together, that is—"
"You think Draco's meeting with Abraxas about me?" Hermione asked, though that didn't seem right. The timing seemed mostly irrelevant, even with Draco's insistence on her making a decision, which was a suspicion that seemed to be confirmed when Theo's mouth slid into a narrowed grimace.
"To my knowledge," he said carefully, "Harry is the one who requested the meeting. Oh, and one other thing," he added, glancing over his shoulder into the corridor before Hermione could fully process the point he'd just made. "We won't be going alone."
"We won't?" Hermione asked blankly, looking up from her bag in time for a second figure to appear in the frame of Daphne and Theo's bedroom.
"Minus five for not seeing it coming," remarked a bespoke-suited Blaise, greeting Theo with a nod and filling the doorway with his usual lofty air. "Though, I suppose you may also take five for similar reasons, so the whole thing is really a wash."
"Oh, fuck no," said Hermione and Daphne in unison, albeit with the latter unwisely declining what the former considered a highly compulsory expletive.
"Perfect," Theo said cheerily, throwing an arm around Blaise. "Should be a lovely Christmas."
Hermione and Daphne were in agreement that Blaise's punishment for seeking Pansy's forgiveness—and, presumably, Draco's and Theo's, but not theirs—would have to be the obvious.
"Pansy asked me to come," Blaise pointed out. "I wouldn't be here if she hadn't."
Silence.
"It's become subtly apparent you both have some unresolved issues," he observed. "Any chance you're in the mood to discuss them?"
Further silence.
"Well, ten points for consistency," he commented musingly to the air, which nearly trapped Hermione into snapping a reply. Luckily, Daphne got to her first, giving her a sharp, quieting jab in the ribs.
"If it helps," Theo began, and Daphne shot him a glare.
"Don't," she warned.
"Yes, wife," said a pleasantly smiling Theo, before turning to Blaise, shrugging. "Greengrass doesn't want to talk right now," he said. "Maybe later."
"Theodore, honestly," was Blaise's drawled response, probably with good reason, though even privately, Hermione hated to give him the satisfaction of being right.
She supposed on some strange level she was relieved Blaise was there, mostly because his presence was giving her a reason not to think about the alternative (i.e., Theo's theory that Harry was asking King Abraxas for permission to marry Pansy). On the one hand, she figured she should have been pleased; on the other, it all seemed intensely sudden. She was supposed to have been co-maid of honor in Pansy's marriage to Neville in a matter of days, and now…
Harry?
It was enough to boggle the mind.
"You know, you're obviously working through something," Blaise commented to her, slipping beside her like a shadow once they arrived in Theo's nearby country house. "Historically, I am very helpful for your ponderings."
"I have no interest in speaking to you," Hermione informed him, hoping he'd leave. He did, temporarily, as Daphne did her the favor of ushering her into a guest room, but then he was by her side again the moment they made their way to Sandringham.
"See, the thing is, I know you, New Tracey," Blaise continued as if they'd never been interrupted, prompting Hermione to groan aloud as they followed Daphne and Theo through the house's corridor. "You love a proper crusade for righteousness, so I can't quite sort out why you haven't taken advantage of your opportunity to lecture me on my misdeeds. It's all very disorienting, really—and I can't say this for certain, seeing as it's a subjective matter, but minus ten for what I feel is really quite poor characterization—"
"Do you honestly think taking points is going to make me sympathetic?" Hermione asked with a glare, and Blaise gave her a clever little smile.
"No," he said, "but I have your attention, don't I?"
She turned away, infuriated with either him or herself, or possibly with both of them. "You knew what you were doing would hurt Pansy," she said flatly, "and you did it anyway. Worse, you lied to us. To all of us."
"Yes," Blaise confirmed, "and as you can clearly see, my pores are suffering the full toxicity of my regret. Which is also why I think we'll all feel better if you just shout at me a bit," he suggested blithely, "and then, perhaps, we can resolve this little detail of my complete and total betrayal, hm?"
She scowled, and he nudged her.
"Points for self-awareness, I imagine," he mused with a lofty gesture to himself, and she rounded on him, successfully provoked.
"Listen, you delusional tyrant," she snapped, and to her dismay, Blaise smiled broadly. "No, stop it. Stop," she repeated, watching his grin evolve to a lazy chuckle. "It's not funny, Blaise. You lied to us, and honestly, with Neville, it's just—"
"Repugnant?" Blaise asked, and then, unsatisfied with his choice of words, "Alternatively: deceitful, odious, abominable—"
"Fucked," Hermione corrected through gritted teeth, and he shrugged.
"Well, five for always having the right idea," he said, "though, minus two for predictability."
She shot him a glare. "Would you kindly shut up?"
"Mm, minus another two for redundancy, and another for stagnation of progress. We won't make any headway at this rate, New Tracey, and certainly not by supper."
"Blaise, for the love of god—"
"Hold on," Theo said, coming to a sudden stop just as they were about to turn out of the main corridor into a narrower one. "They must have just left Abraxas' office."
From down the hall, Harry and Draco's voices echoed in hushed but frantic conversation.
"Why are you stopping?" Hermione asked Theo. "Just tell them we're here."
Theo shook his head. "I don't think we want to interrupt this quite yet," he cautioned her, holding a finger to his lips as Harry's voice became more clearly audible.
"—they're going to vilify her, Draco, and you know it better than anyone else. You think I'm going to wait for it to get worse? No, absolutely not—"
"Obviously I don't want to make things more difficult for Pansy, you know that. But this—what you're proposing," Draco was impatiently urging him, "it's drastic and impulsive, and surely you have to see my grandfather's point! Subjecting her to a scandal like this one could be catastrophic to her reputation, not to mention that—"
"Not to mention that if I do nothing, Draco," Harry cut in, equally agitated, "the damage will be far worse."
"I understand the timing is sensitive. That's not at issue. But now, Harry? She's facing an onslaught by the press, not to mention the reactions from her family. If you had actually thought about this before you came marching in here—"
"I've thought plenty," Harry snapped. "And believe me, I'm not doing to Pansy what you did to Hermione, and I'm certainly not—"
"Excuse me?"
It was the first time Hermione had ever heard Draco sound truly angry. Even when he was at his most frustrated with her, the effect was largely tempered. Now, she nearly shrank from the sound; directed at her or not, it was such a rarity she suffered it in echoes.
"I didn't mean," Harry began to say, and then abruptly cut himself off. "Actually, you know what? I did mean it," he said, and there was a dangerous hint of superiority in his tone, prompting Blaise and Theo to exchange a glance. All four of them inched forward, peering around the corner to see what was going on. "You threw Hermione to the wolves and you made no apology for it. You had every advantage at your disposal—"
"Advantage? You call being watched day and night an advantage? You need my grandfather's approval for one thing, Harry, and you think that's the height of injustice. One fu-" Draco broke off, one hand in a fist. "One thing," he said again, barely repressing his temper, "and you think you have any idea what I went through? I was trying to think of my future, of our future, and—"
"No. No, you know what you are, Draco? You pretend you're different, but you're a snake just like your father," Harry said tightly, and from afar, all four of them tensed in response. "You could have defied him at any moment, you could have protected her. Your hands were never fucking tied," Harry snapped. "You just needed their approval—you needed to hold yourself above her, to never toe the line, because deep down, you love that bloody crown of yours, don't you? You don't stand for anything but your birthright, and let me remind you, Draco—Hermione doesn't love you for that," he warned, "and she won't love you much longer if that's the choice you always make."
"Oh, no," whispered Daphne, and Hermione, equally frozen, couldn't quite decide which direction she wanted to run; either away from them, so as to hear nothing, or towards them, just to make it stop.
"Of course you think this is about my crown," Draco was saying angrily to Harry, "because this is the first thing you've had to take responsibility for in your entire life, isn't it? You've always been privileged without consequences, beloved without any concept of obligation. Everyone's always indulged you, they've let you get away with everything, and now you expect to undo the mess you've made by making an even bigger one? There are other options, Harry, outside of total combustion—"
"Is this because I slept with Pansy," Harry cut in sharply, "or because I kissed Hermione?"
Briefly, Hermione's stomach lurched as the other three turned to look at her, varying expressions of disapproval evident on their faces.
"Interesting," murmured Blaise, and Hermione glared at him, warning him to silence.
"Kind of you to finally bring it up," Draco snapped at Harry. "Or was that just going to be something you kept from me forever?"
Clearly, that he had already known about the kiss was a surprise to Harry. "You were broken up, Draco," he said, contradictorily defensive. "It wasn't any of your business."
"Oh, of course, my mistake. More's the pity, then, that I wasn't surprised at all when you said nothing."
Harry set his jaw, agitated. "If you knew, then why didn't you just—"
"Because it was your job to tell me, Harry," Draco cut in, harshly final. "You knew how I felt about this—about her, about us, about everything. When you told me to move on, you were doing it for a reason, weren't you?"
"So this is about Hermione, then," Harry deduced, looking irritated.
"No, Harry, this is about you. About the fact that you would have happily thrown away your relationship with me once before—maybe more than that, how can I possibly know?—and now you've done it again."
Harry turned away, listless. "I wasn't—"
"How long did you wait, Harry?" Draco pressed, stepping closer. "How long after you tried with Hermione did you wait before you took advantage of Pansy instead?"
From where she stood, Hermione winced. While Draco had briefly been on solid logical ground, his personal feelings on the subject were obviously getting the better of him.
"Hang on," Harry said, sputtering in his fury. "You think I took advantage—"
"She was vulnerable, she was alone, she had her heart broken—and somehow," Draco ranted, "you thought that was a perfectly good time to add her to your list of conquests?"
"My list of—Jesus, Draco, are you hearing yourself?"
"She's not some girl we know, Harry, she's Pansy, and you had no right—"
"No right?" Harry scoffed. "She's a grown woman, Draco, and what do you think this was, some sort of nefarious plot? Do you honestly think I don't care about her?"
"I haven't the slightest idea, Harry," Draco said, bristling, "seeing how I apparently know nothing about anything when it comes to you. I certainly did not expect I'd be spending the day holding my tongue so as not to contribute to the endless list of reasons my grandfather is perfectly within his rights t-"
"Holding your tongue? Everyone could see you agreed with Abraxas!"
"Of course I agreed with him, Harry, use your head! You marry her now, you both get dragged through the press. Have you seen what they've already printed? Adultery rumors don't exactly make for a charming wedding backdrop, much less a christening gift!"
"I don't give a damn what Rita Skeeter thinks—"
"Well, you should have given a damn what I thought," Draco shot back. "You blindsided me, Harry! You pulled me into that room without one single mention of anything you've done over the past two months, and now you have the audacity—"
"It's called giving a fuck about someone other than myself, Draco. You should try it."
Briefly, there was a crisp, sharp axe of silence that fell across the corridor, extending from where Draco and Harry stood combatively in the center to the not-so-vacant points at either side. For the first time, Hermione caught a glimpse of something she hadn't noticed earlier; someone standing at the opposite end of the corridor, lingering just out of sight.
"Shit," said Theo, dragging Hermione's attention back to the moment as his eyes widened, registering something she couldn't interpret from afar. "Shit, shit, shit—"
He shot out from their hiding spot, launching himself into the hall, but whatever he'd seen, it was clearly too late. Draco had wound up so quickly that no one else—especially not Harry—had seen it coming before his fist cracked directly into Harry's cheek, leaving Hermione to gasp aloud.
Harry went down hard, one hand flying up to his face, but despite the fact that Blaise and Theo rushed to come between them, it was clear there would be no retaliation. Harry stretched out his legs, favoring his eye, and glanced solemnly at Hermione, his expression obscured by his palm. Draco, following Harry's line of sight with wary apprehension, turned rigidly over his shoulder, spotting her where she stood.
Immediately, the spark of rage in Draco's expression faded, replaced with something Hermione might have called remorse if he hadn't pivoted away so quickly.
"Draco," she called after him, taking a step toward where he stood, but she'd reacted much too late.
Within moments, Draco had turned his stride in the opposite direction, disappearing along with the evidence of whoever else had been their silent witness.
"...and then he kind of, um. Punched him," finished Hermione, and Pansy tilted her head, considering this information at length while staring briefly into nothing.
"Interesting," she said. "Punched him how?"
"I—what?" asked Hermione, glancing at Daphne for clarification, which she unhelpfully seemed to lack.
"Well," Pansy said, rising briskly to her feet, "Harry and Draco have punched each other approximately seven times in total, and each time has been slightly different. It was Draco this round, so that's interesting," she noted, as if she were discussing differential equations, or something equally calculable. "Harry had a strong lead for nearly a decade, but this brings it up to a much more respectable four to three. It's utterly male behavior," she added, neither approving nor disapproving, "but at least it was in private."
"I," Hermione began, and stopped. "No, you just keep going," she sighed, not really in the mood to bother with her own confusion, and Pansy shrugged.
"Draco fights with Harry from time to time, unlike with Theo," she said. "The sibling rivalry thing is very strange and very real with Harry, but I suppose Draco was well within his rights, from the sounds of it. Besides, Harry has had it coming for several years," she remarked tangentially, and Daphne rolled her eyes.
"They were fighting about you, Pans," she reminded her, and Pansy shrugged again.
"Yes, well, I said what I said," she informed them. "And besides, Harry did rather recklessly impregnate me, in case you've both forgotten."
It was the opening Hermione had been waiting for. "Yes, and about that—"
Pansy waved a hand, dismissing her. "Irrelevant, now, Hermione, and certainly unproductive to discuss. In fact, the point is—"
"Nope. No, no way," Daphne cut in, giving Pansy a look so stern Hermione suffered aftershocks of viewing it, while Pansy, equally taken aback, reluctantly sat. Apparently, this would be the day Hermione witnessed the darker sides of all her usually pleasant friends.
"You owe us an explanation," Daphne warned, leveling it at Pansy like a threat. "I don't know what it is about the rest of you taking advantage of my UNIMPEACHABLE GOOD NATURE," she barked, dazzlingly furious, "but I have had about enough today. Bad enough I'm expected to offer Blaise my forgiveness despite his complete and total lack of effort to earn it, but now I find out that this one—" Here, a sharp reference to Hermione, "kissed Harry, and you—"
"You did?" Pansy asked, turning to Hermione with a disapproving purse of her lips. "Honestly, Hermione, didn't I tell you right from the start not t-"
"Yeah, I don't really think you have a leg to stand on here, Pans," Hermione pointed out drily, and in reply, she gave a loud, exasperated sigh.
"I suppose not," Pansy sniffed, as Daphne gave them both a glare, warning Hermione to silence.
"Explain yourself," Daphne said grumpily to Pansy, who scowled.
"Why should I have to go first?" she demanded, gesturing to Hermione. "It's her boyfriend that's gone and punched my… Well, whatever he is," she muttered to herself, resting one hand on her stomach. "Is there a word for a very dear friend who inseminates you and subsequently proposes marriage?"
"Only if there's one for a prince who won't sleep with you until you agree to be his queen," Hermione replied moodily, and Daphne, who until that moment had been only slightly frightening in her irritation, suddenly went blank with something that looked suspiciously like rage.
"I," Daphne began, and then stopped.
Then she turned, wiring her jaw shut, and stormed out of the room, abruptly disappearing.
"Hm," said Hermione, feeling slightly guilty, and Pansy stood with an irritated sigh.
"Honestly, it's as if she forgets she was our resident idiot not terribly long ago. Still or sparkling?" she asked Hermione, always the perfect hostess, and Hermione gave a loud groan, collapsing where Pansy had been on the bed. "Tantrum it is," Pansy determined disinterestedly, shuffling around for a glass while Hermione stretched out on the duvet, huffing aloud.
"This," Hermione said, "is ridiculous. I'm so angry or something I don't know where to start."
"Angry 'or something'?" Pansy echoed, pausing. "Your self-awareness could do with some introspection. Start there," she advised, beginning to pour the bottle that had been sitting on ice. "Angry 'or something,' honestly—"
"You lied to all of us," Hermione said, lifting her head, "and worse, you almost married someone else without even telling Harry the baby was his!"
"Mm, yes," Pansy confirmed, taking a sip from her glass, "and out of curiosity, would this be the same Harry you neglected to mention you kissed, despite my explicit warning it would probably destroy his relationship with Draco?"
"I—" Hermione grimaced. "That's not exactly what you said."
"One of these days, Hermione, you'll learn to read subtext. Not everything need be so colonially flagrant," Pansy said.
"At least I told Draco," Hermione pointed out, annoyed, and Pansy considered her point for a moment, then grudgingly nodded her agreement. "You, on the other hand, didn't tell Harry anything."
Pansy, either legitimately or not, was mostly unresponsive. "My sins are not at issue here."
"Aren't they?" Hermione demanded, adding, "Not to mention you're the one who told me Draco and Harry's wives would have to be something neither of us would ever be."
She hadn't meant to sound so accusatory, but once she'd said it, it was as if the air in the room had suddenly gone stale. Pansy's hand tightened around her glass, her long Dior-coated lashes halting in a frozen, suspended pause.
"Yes," she murmured, "I did say that."
It was a rare occurrence, catching Pansy in a truth. Hermione sprang upright, taking full advantage. "Have you thought about this, Pansy?" she pressed. "Harry asked Abraxas for permission to marry you—you, who've always said you'd rather die than be forced into the spotlight—and now you're not even willing to confide in me? In me," she repeated, suddenly sharply aware that anger, without the 'or something,' was precisely what she felt. "All these years of telling me I was unqualified for Draco—actual years, Pansy, four of them—and now you have nothing to say to me?"
She still didn't, it seemed. Pansy raised her glass to her lips in silence, taking a careful sip.
"If I have doubted my relationship with him," Hermione reminded her, "it's been partially because of you. Because you were the one who told me—"
"Oh, for the love of god, Hermione, I clearly don't know anything at all," Pansy cut in briskly, nudging her aside and settling beside her on the bed. It was something that might have emerged with impatience or irritation under other contexts, but given the events of the day, Hermione doubted they were about to argue. "At least I was thoughtful enough to give you the fair warning I should have given myself. It isn't rendered less true just because I now find myself in this position," she muttered, giving Hermione a starkly displeased glance, "though, yes." She took another sip from her glass. "I realize I will have to retract the statement."
Uncharacteristic didn't begin to cover that remark. "You're sorry?"
"Please. Not remotely." Another sip. "What I am is wrong, not sorry."
"But—"
"My entire life," Pansy clarified, "I have never been able to separate Draco from his crown, nor, I believe, has he ever been able to extricate himself from it. When I look at him, I still see the position he will hold, the authority he was born to. The daunting nature of his life's work. I see an amorphous, aberrational image of him plastered beside the real one, and I see the truth that Rita Skeeter has carefully robbed from him, piece by piece, every moment since he was born." She turned to look at Hermione, considering her for a moment. "I used to think similarly of Harry, too."
Hermione fidgeted, unsure what would come next. "But now?"
Pansy shrugged. "When he promised me a life with him, I didn't see a crown. I didn't see headlines or tabloids. In fact, under the circumstances, I was absent the constant burden of expectation in my life, which I didn't realize had obscured so much truth from me for ages."
She paused for a moment, fingers tightening around her glass, before confessing quietly, "Do you ever think about the man he will become? The husband, the father." She was pensive a moment. "What does it really mean to share a life with someone? I don't think I ever understood it in those terms until I imagined him from a different view—the one next to me," she explained, "standing at my side. Waking with me, taking comfort from me, giving it back. I could almost stitch it together like that; into something I could trust, something that made sense. Creating a future with pieces from my memory." Her voice was nearly wistful, spinning her gossamer feelings into words. "As for the rest… will he balance me, make me whole? I don't know, I truly don't, but the thought of him beside me is—"
She trailed off.
"Compelling," she finished.
She glanced down at her glass, shaking her head.
"My entire life I would have given anything to have his certainty," she said, lifting the glass to her lips, "and now I have it. Or I'm directly adjacent to it, at least."
She chuckled for a moment into nothing.
"The irony of all this is not escaping me," she added to Hermione, breaking her own miniature enchantment with a look of dry impassivity, "but I hardly consider my time well-spent unpacking the satire that is my current life."
"But if Abraxas approves," Hermione began, and then stopped. "And wait a minute. What if he doesn't approve?" she asked, realizing she didn't know the answer, and for the first time, Pansy seemed a visible degree of remorseful.
She paused for a moment, collecting herself. She glanced briefly at her watch, and then set her glass beside her feet.
"I'm sorry," Pansy said, turning to Hermione. "I wish I were a better friend to you than I have been."
Hermione frowned. "Pans, I didn't mean to imply you were a bad friend, I was just—"
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," Pansy called, looking as if she'd been expecting it, and then Harry's head slipped inside, catching Hermione's presence on the bed and sparing her a wobbly smile before closing the door quietly behind him.
"Ready?" he asked, turning to Pansy.
The bruising had begun to set in around his eye. Pansy rose to her feet, taking his chin in her hand, and observed him for several seconds.
"You provoked him," she remarked, and Harry grimaced.
"I know."
"He had every right to be angry."
"He was angrier than he needed to be."
"Did you apologize?"
"No. I'm not sorry."
Pansy's hand tightened around Harry's chin.
"Henry," she warned softly, and his gaze cut guiltily away, landing on Hermione's silent observation before being swiftly brought back to Pansy. "Tell me you aren't reckless enough to believe even your relationship indestructible."
"I—" Harry attempted to flash her a Prince Harry look of innocent denial, but Pansy didn't budge. "Fine," he conceded, withering, "I'll talk to him later."
"Later?"
"Yes, later. He'll stop me if I talk to him now."
"Henry," Pansy warned a second time, and Hermione cleared her throat quietly, prompting them both to look at her.
"What exactly are you two thinking of doing?" she asked carefully, and an obviously reticent Harry and a blankly unresponsive Pansy exchanged a glance. "Because it looks to me," Hermione mused, rising to her feet, "like maybe you're considering running off together in lieu of waiting for Abraxas' approval. Romantic," she assured them, "but even you know Draco will have a hard time forgiving you if you go behind his back."
"Better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission," Harry said stubbornly, "and it doesn't matter. Draco's not on my side this time."
"Oh, fuck off," Hermione sighed, and to her surprise, Pansy appeared to stifle a laugh. "Draco is always on your side, Harry, don't be an idiot. He stood beside Blaise through everything, he'll stand with his demon of a father, and he even forgave me, so—" She broke off, something registering like a pinprick to her heart. "He will forgive everything but this, Harry. Everything but this."
What she had realized, inconveniently timed, was that Draco was not his father, a man who stood alone in the world and buried himself in selfishness or solace. Unlike Lucius, Draco cared deeply. He trusted unconditionally. He could have excised any number of unnecessary or vulnerable characteristics to fit the mold he was given, but what had he done instead? He had selected a group of people and given them pieces of himself. To Theo, who had experienced nothing but lovelessness from birth, Draco had given affection without constraints; loyalty without end or expectation. To Blaise, genuine consideration in a life otherwise flooded with rejection. To Daphne, the value of value itself, aside from her looks and status. To Pansy, he had given the intimacy she would have always lacked, if not for him.
With Harry, it would always be about balance. Draco was born without equals, without siblings or competitors, so he had made one for himself. And maybe Harry couldn't see it at the moment, but that, too, had been a gift. Because while the rest of the world saw Harry as an afterthought, Draco, misguided or not, had always demanded more from him. To Harry, Draco had given the weight of expectations he didn't wish to bear alone. Draco had made a rival of Harry because even a rival would be more than a shadow, and that had been a gift.
"Tell him," Hermione said to Harry, "or you'll lose him," and they both understood without her saying so that it was the only outcome neither of them would be willing to chance.
Because Draco had given something impossible of himself to all of them, and to Hermione, it had been love, unequivocally. Something he had every reason not to be capable of, but was.
Though that was hardly relevant at the moment.
"Fine," Harry said, and then glanced between Pansy and Hermione. "Do I owe her an apology, too?" he asked Pansy, who rolled her eyes.
"Yes," she said, "several. Most considerably because whatever stupid thing we do next will have consequences that will keep her from the happiness she deserves, at least temporarily."
Ah, Hermione thought. So that was what the bad friend apology had been for.
"Who says you aren't part of my happiness?" she asked, feigning reprehension. "It matters to me that you, you know. Not marry Neville, for one," she said to Pansy, "and that you get your shit together," she said, turning to Harry. "Because clearly, you're a mess."
"You could have blocked it," Pansy added disapprovingly, lightly flicking the bruising beside his eye. "Honestly, Henry, I thought you had better reflexes."
"And to think, this is the eternity I've selected for myself," he informed her drily, and he didn't kiss her, didn't lean towards her—certainly made no motion to suggest any gesture of romance at all—but for a moment, Hermione noticed something between Pansy and Harry she hadn't catalogued before.
A spark.
Which, in her experience, was really all it took to become a flame.
So it hadn't been about her at all, Hermione determined, feeling guilty now for even considering it. She might have been part of how it started, but only in that she was the person Harry kissed just before he decided who would be his last.
Blissfully, she let it go; her confusion about Harry, her frustration with Pansy, all of it. She released it like an exhale, bidding it farewell and placing it securely behind her.
"Call Draco," Hermione suggested to them, "and you'll see that I'm right."
It was close enough to the truth, which was: I'm happy for you.
Not that her opinion really mattered.
"So sanctimonious," Pansy sniffed in reply, not taking her eyes from Harry's.
They met up again the following morning, by which point Daphne had recovered from her brief period of temper. "My humours were imbalanced," she said, "but I've decided to forgive you your heinous crime of sexual omission."
"You were on your honeymoon," Hermione pointed out, "and also, I was trying very hard to pretend it never happened."
"Fair," Daphne sniffed, "though, if it happens again, it will take at least twice as long for me to forgive you."
"Noted," Hermione said, observing that Blaise, who was wearing a wine-colored velvet suit, was languoring silently at Daphne's side. "And this?" she asked, gesturing pointedly between them. "Am I to assume this has been resolved?"
"Yes," said Blaise, and Hermione arched a brow at Daphne, who sighed.
"I'm weak," she grumbled in explanation. "It's not my fault. He just has very excellent cheekbones," she lamented, Blaise's lips curling up with smuggery, "and unfortunately, he does assign the points."
"I gave her two hundred in exchange for her forgiveness," Blaise clarified, "though I suspect it was the well-timed bottle of rosé that won her over."
"Don't be ridiculous, I can hardly be bought so cheaply," Daphne said.
"Cheaply? I stole that from Hortense," Blaise informed her, "which means my death is surely imminent."
Following Daphne's look of playful agreement, they both glanced briefly at Hermione, awaiting her reaction. Mostly, all she could conjure was an unwilling sigh.
"I'm still not happy about what you did," she said, and Blaise shrugged.
"I wouldn't expect you to be. I'm certainly not."
Hermione hesitated, unsure whether to venture the subject of Neville. "Are you two, um." She paused, hating that he was probably going to make her finish the sentence. "You know, you and, uh. Are you guys…"
Blaise gave her a markedly Cheshire smile. "Yes, New Tracey?"
"Well, I just. You know. I feel like we should know," she attempted. "I mean, if I'm going to have to interact with, well. His face," she concluded lamely, and Daphne stifled a giggle.
"I'll give you fifty points if you use your words," Blaise informed her, as Daphne slipped away with a roll of her eyes, joining Theo where he'd emerged from another room. "A hundred, even."
"Fine," Hermione said, folding her arms over her chest. "Are you and Neville dating now?"
"Ah, so succinct. One hundred it is," Blaise said, turning smugly to exit, though the moment Hermione let out a growl of disbelief, he retreated with a laugh, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "The answer to your question, New Tracey, is no," he assured her, shaking his head. "I don't think either of us will be seeing him again."
"I—" Hermione frowned, bemused. "Really? Because I was there, when he, you know—"
"Words," Blaise said, tapping her nose, and she swatted his hand.
"I heard you two," she said, warning him to honesty with a glance that said, under no uncertain terms, Don't play with me. "On Halloween, Blaise, I heard you two talking."
"I know." He sobered for a moment. "I'm not denying that I felt something for him. In fact, it's Neville who wants nothing to do with me," he explained, his voice carefully aloft, "though, I suppose it's for the better. I can hardly expect Pansy to want him around, can I?"
"But—" Hermione glanced up, watching his noticeably schooled expression. "What happened?"
Blaise shrugged. "A story better told another time, New Tracey. Perhaps over several bottles of stolen libations. But," he said, leaning over to brush his lips to the top of her head, "your concern for me, given everything, is worth well over a hundred, points-wise."
"Two hundred?" Hermione asked, optimistic.
"One hundred ninety-nine," he replied, "as there are some terms and conditions applied to Lady Nott's forgiveness."
She smiled hesitantly, pausing him before he released her to follow Daphne and Theo.
"I'm sorry," she said, one hand resting on the velvet of his suit. "Really, I am. It's not that I want you to be unhappy."
"What's to be unhappy about?" he asked her, feigning indifference. "At this rate, I'm hoping to make panicked elopements an annual occasion."
"Blaise," Hermione sighed, and he smiled thinly.
"Some things," he said, taking her hand in his, "are quite simply cursed from the start."
He brushed his lips across her knuckles, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.
"I'd rather have you," he said.
The collective you, he meant.
The royal you, as it were.
"Well," Hermione permitted, leaning into his shoulder, "then here's to happy endings, I suppose."
Draco met them at the church, waiting just inside the door to catch Hermione's arm before she passed.
"I don't suppose you already have a date, do you?" he asked her in an undertone, and she turned, giving him a playful look of scrutiny.
"I could be convinced," she said, "though, there's no need to punch anyone over it."
He grimaced, shaking his head. "Not my finest moment, I know."
"Not your worst, though," she assured him, letting him offer her his arm. "You didn't perform a musical number in advance of the whole, you know, abject violence thing. So yeah, it could have been worse."
"I really think that might have saved it," he commented ruefully, and she paused him, giving him a subtle tug towards her and brushing her lips against his cheek.
He leaned away with surprise, blinking down at her. "What was that for?"
"Nothing. Well, nothing I know about yet." At his look of confusion, she sighed, "I know you, Draco. I know there's something you're not telling me."
He slid her a glance, resuming their path inside. "And you're rewarding me for that?"
She shrugged. "I'll reward you later, maybe," she said. "When you inevitably confess."
"Who says I'm going to?"
"Just a hunch," she said, letting him guide her into the front pew ahead of him. "You're just a soft summer prince, you know. You can't really help what's in your nature."
"Ah, tragic," he sighed, "so you've sorted me, then."
"A little, yeah." She spared another glance at him. "I take it you and Harry talked?"
Draco nodded. "He tells me I have you to thank for that."
"Eh, I think Pansy would have convinced him eventually." She paused, waiting, and then, "You approve, don't you?"
"Hm, of this? Not what I pictured, I'll tell you that much." He glanced around the church, considering the context of its walls. "I never disapproved."
"Oh, stop it," Hermione scoffed. "I heard the fight, Draco, and no offense, but I'm not really that surprised you'd take your grandfather's side on this one."
"Mm." He seemed to be obscuring something; possibly something he'd confess to later. "Well, I'm pleased this is Pansy's choice. And I'm happy for Harry."
She raised a brow, doubtful. "Are you?"
His smile might have been faint, if not for the sun that shone in from the window. A gloomy morning, predictably, minus spurts of light that broke the clouds.
"Do me a favor," he said to her, leaning over to lower his voice. "When we leave, take the long way back to Sandringham."
"Sandringham?" She hadn't intended to go there, expecting instead to return to Theo's house with the others. "Why?"
He took her hand, tucking it under his arm again. "Because I'd like to walk with you, that's why."
Her now-practiced instincts sent up a flag of warning.
"People will see," she pointed out.
"Yes," he agreed. "But I'm having such a marvelous hair day," he informed her, giving her knuckles a gentle pulse of pressure, "and you look perfectly pleasant."
"But I—"
She hesitated, unsure about his intentions, which he must have suspected.
"I'll confess later," he promised her, turning his grey gaze to hers, "but for now, will you trust me?"
He cared deeply.
He trusted unconditionally.
He loved, unequivocally.
Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but there was a tap on Draco's shoulder. "Ready?" asked Harry, giving Hermione a warm glance in greeting but quickly returning his attention to Draco.
Draco rose to his feet with a nod, buttoning his jacket and resting a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"Of course," he said, and took a step, moving to join Harry at the altar just as Hermione's traitorous mouth fell open.
"Yes," she called after him, her voice slightly too loud, and Draco turned with a surprised half-smile, waiting for her to complete the thought. "Yes," she clarified, lowering her voice, "a walk would be nice."
He nodded, measured with his approval, and then turned away, Daphne slipping hastily into the seat he'd vacated beside her.
"Everyone is going to have to stop asking for emergency alterations," she hissed, turning to look at the doorway. "Honestly, if I have to do this one more time—"
"How does she look?" Hermione asked, just as Pansy materialized in the doors.
Her hand was tucked into Blaise's arm, her dark hair pulled back in a low chignon at the nape of her neck. She wouldn't have worn her hair down for this, not being that sort of woman, but still, her makeup was soft and quietly ethereal. She was glowing a little, her dark eyes on Harry's from afar.
"Perfect," Daphne breathed in answer, and Hermione nodded, completely in agreement.
Rather than wear the couture bridal gown she'd bought for her wedding to Neville, Pansy had opted to wear one of her own dresses, a dark green that brought out the warmth in her cheeks and, even from a distance, the color of Harry's eyes. It had been refitted slightly, accommodating the belly that didn't yet show (but the enviable breasts that definitely did), and the delicately off-the-shoulder design gave Pansy a subtle romanticism that was reflected well by the hesitant smile she wore as she walked, her fingers tight on Blaise's arm.
There wasn't a lot of fuss to the procession; Hermione guessed Pansy wouldn't have stood for any unnecessary ceremony. Pansy reached the altar quickly, releasing Blaise, and turned to Harry with something Hermione might have called nerves if she'd ever believed Pansy capable of possessing them.
"Are you sure it's me?" Hermione saw Pansy mouth, and in response, Harry's lips broke into a broad smile.
"Sure enough for both of us," he replied, and took her hand, the subtle motion of Draco's strained swallow just enough to catch Hermione's eye from afar.
Lucius slammed the newspaper down in front of Draco and Hermione, pausing while they glanced at the headline.
(It probably went without saying their pleasant meandering from the church had been rudely cut short upon arrival.)
"This," Lucius said, "is a version of what was published on the Internet late last night."
BITTER RIVALS COMMENCE ROYAL BRAWL! PRINCES CLASH AS BONDS OF CHILDHOOD FALL PREY TO TROUBLING ENMITY
"This," he said, tossing another down on top of it, "is from this morning."
BETRAYAL IS THE NEW BLACK! POSH TRIBE OF ENGLISH ELITE COMES UNDER FIRE FOR ADULTEROUS MISDEEDS
"And this," he concluded, adding a third to the pile with a grim look if dissatisfaction, "is what I've been told will publish Christmas Day."
HERMIONE GRANGER NOT AT FAULT FOR LATEST PUBLIC SLANDER, SAYS LADY BELLATRIX; ROYAL PROTOCOL A 'CRIPPLING AFFRONT TO MODERN WOMANHOOD'
"Looks like the palace has a leak," Hermione observed succinctly. "And anyway, this last one is true."
Draco coughed, nudging her, and she sighed, rolling her eyes and tacitly agreeing to silence.
"It's not a leak," Lucius muttered. "It's Bellatrix."
Briefly, Hermione recalled what she'd managed to forget over the course of the past twenty-four hours; the figure flitting out from the corridor after witnessing the fight between Harry and Draco.
"What possible reason could there be," Hermione began angrily, "for inviting Bellatrix here?"
Lucius gave her a look of unfiltered exasperation. "She wasn't—"
"She wasn't invited," came a voice behind them, and to Hermione's alarm, both Draco and Lucius shot to their feet, turning to drop into respective bows as she registered the late entry to their highly unwelcome conversation.
"Your Majesty," she said quickly, knocking her foot against the desk in her rush to curtsy and then wincing, hoping he hadn't noticed.
By the look on his face, he had.
"Miss Granger," he said, not unsmiling, and then gestured for his son and grandson to resume their seats, making his way into the room. "As I was saying, Bellatrix wasn't formally invited, but it appears people make their way in all the same," he remarked, giving her a look clearly intended to remind her that her presence, too, was hardly planned.
She grimaced, trying not to look too sulky, and he, similarly, appeared quietly entertained.
"Sit," he suggested, though from a king, suggestion was a loose term.
She sat.
"Did you have a nice walk?" he asked neutrally.
She and Lucius appeared to be equally distraught by the question.
"Sir, I really wasn't trying to—"
"Father, I was just about to tell them—"
"I'm merely asking," Abraxas said, resting a hand on his son's shoulders. "Relax," he told Lucius. "The last thing I need is for my heir to suffer another bout of palpitations, hm?"
Obediently, sort of, Lucius leaned against the back of his chair.
"Bellatrix's reasons for being here are unimportant," Abraxas said to Hermione, "though I do not think we will make the same mistakes again." He slid Lucius another glance, expressing something in silence this time, and then turned back to Draco and Hermione. "The walk?"
Hermione swallowed, and then managed, "Lovely."
"Excellent," Abraxas said. "And the wedding?"
Draco coughed sharply, choking for the duration of a millisecond.
Abraxas sighed, nudging Lucius over to perch on the arm of the chair.
"So," he said. "Harry is married, then."
Silence.
"Without my permission," Abraxas noted, "after I expressly told him I required some time to decide."
More silence.
"And I wasn't even invited," Abraxas added with a sigh, as Hermione fidgeted in her seat.
"Sir," she said, "as far as your permission—"
He glanced at her, and she stopped.
"Yes?" he prompted, and she let her attention flit briefly Draco, who gave her a shrug that said, Might as well try.
"I, um." She cleared her throat. "I see why you wouldn't want to give them your permission, given… all of this," she said, gesturing with as little flinching as humanly possible to the headlines Lucius had thrown upon the desk, "but please, Sir, they're our friends, and they really meant well. And Pansy, if you knew her—do you know her?" she asked, second-guessing herself, and Abraxas shook his head.
"Not well, I confess," he said, and Hermione nodded, reasserting her point.
"Well, then you don't know that Pansy—Lady Pansy, or, um—"
"Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Grimmauld," Draco supplied.
"If I allow it," Abraxas warned him, and then, to Hermione, "Go on."
She glanced again at Draco, who was mostly expressionless.
"If you don't know Pansy well," Hermione said again, carefully addressing the man she mentally reminded herself was the King of England, "then you might know she's usually the model aristocrat, but you couldn't possibly imagine what it's like to be one of the people she truly loves. She's fierce, she's tough and protective, but she's kinder than she seems, and she's brilliant and wholly, completely, incomprehensibly good, and at first you might think she's the bad kind of posh, but really, deep down, she's—"
She glanced at Draco, who was looking at his hands, vacantly smiling.
"She's just the most deserving person I know," Hermione finished, turning back to Abraxas. "And besides, you don't know the full story."
"No," Abraxas agreed, "I don't. It's a sensation I've become quite familiar with."
He considered her for a moment.
"What would you do, Miss Granger?" he said. "In my position, I mean."
Hermione frowned. "Me?"
"Yes, you," Abraxas confirmed. "You are my grandson's choice, are you not? Surely you have some meritable thoughts you might share with us."
"Oh, I'm not—" She broke off, not finding it worth getting into whether or not she was really Draco's choice at the moment. "I just meant I'm not sure I should be the one to decide."
"You won't decide," Abraxas assured her, "I will. But I have heard my son's position on the matter, and my grandson's, and Harry's, and now I would like to hear yours."
He leaned back, waiting. Hermione wasn't quite sure how sincere his interest was, judging it to be mostly not, but she could feel Draco radiating beside her, helplessly leaned forward out of curiosity for what she might say.
"I get the feeling there's something nobody wants to tell me," Hermione observed, deciding that whether he wished to hear it or not, King Abraxas was going to receive the full weight of her candor. "I take it that your approval of Harry and Pansy's marriage has something to do with me?"
Abraxas nodded. "As a direct inheriting heir, Draco will have to be free of any similar scandal. Such things take time to die."
At least he was doing her the favor of answering. "So if you approve of Pansy, you can't approve of me. Is that it?"
"Yes," Abraxas said. "An inelegant but mostly accurate assessment."
Beside her, Draco was carefully unmoving.
"That's why you didn't approve?" she asked him softly, turning to look at him, and Draco glanced up, dragging his thoughts away from something else.
"Yes," he said, and did not expand on the answer.
She doubted she would get anything further from him given their audience, and she was right.
"Should you choose to remain in a relationship with my son," Lucius began, but Abraxas cut him off, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"Miss Granger," he said, addressing her directly, "I do not pretend to know or understand your affection for Draco, nor do I expect you to understand what it is to rule a country's affairs. What I do know is that you are not a conventional choice, and therefore your presence at his side will come with qualifications. Our family has served this country with devotion and care for generations," he reminded her, "and while there is, understandably, a certain fascination with being part of it, the reality of our position is that it is—"
"A job," Hermione said. "One that I'm unqualified to hold."
She managed to say it without bitterness, and Abraxas nodded.
"You understand, then," he said. "I cannot permit your relationship with my grandson to be public knowledge until I'm comfortably assured you are fit for the role at his side. He is not a celebrity," he warned. "He is not a fairy tale. He is a man who will be a king."
"I'm aware," Hermione said, catching the motion of Draco's hands tightening. "I'm also aware that it's a very lonely position, isn't it?" she asked, glancing at Lucius. "I imagine it can be so lonely that at times you feel you have no choice but to turn to someone who makes the world feel right again," she said, making Bellatrix's implied presence in the conversation as much a threat as an offering of sympathy before slowly returning her attention to Abraxas, "and what a shame, isn't it? That the only qualifications you value in a woman might mean both your son and your grandson will have severed their hearts from themselves for the rest of their devoted, public-serving lives."
"You forget yourself," Abraxas warned, and Hermione shook her head.
"You asked my thoughts, Your Majesty," she said, "but I think you know perfectly well it would be cruel to withhold your approval of Harry and Pansy. In fact, every minute you do nothing subjects them to the whims of Rita Skeeter," she pointed out, "and everyone in this room knows that's a punishment without equal."
"And you?" Abraxas prompted. "You would have me show favor to your friends rather than yourself?"
She gave him a look that promised, categorically, she would choose Pansy's happiness over her own every time.
"Let your conscience dictate as it must, Your Majesty," Hermione said. "I've spoken mine."
She turned to look at Draco, who was watching her in silence.
"I'll wait," she told him in an undertone, and for a moment, a little glimpse of something broke through his carefully constructed facade.
A little sun through the clouds.
Which was promptly disrupted by Lucius.
"Return to service," he said to his son. "You've carried the burden of my position long enough. It's time I returned to it."
He glanced momentarily at his father, who said nothing.
"I won't deny having my own wrongs to right," Lucius admitted slowly, "but if you wish to repair the damage to your reputation—"
"I do," Draco said. "I will."
Abraxas nodded, approving. "Very well. We'll speak again at dinner?"
A King's dismissal.
"Yes, Grandfather," Draco said. "I'll take Hermione back to Theo's, and then we can discuss my future this evening, if you wish."
His knee nudged hers; a tiny, juvenile gesture to indicate the equivalent of having had his fingers crossed.
"Well, off you go, then," Abraxas said, giving Hermione a look of expectancy. "A pleasure as always, Miss Granger."
"The pleasure," Hermione said, "is all mine."
She curtsied. Draco bowed. He led her out of the office, waiting until the doors had shut behind him, and then gave her an apologetic glance.
"I, honestly," he exhaled, "didn't mean for that to happen."
She already knew as much, and was considerably less interested in his apology than she was in a number of other things. "You wanted us to go for a walk so people would see us together publicly in advance of your grandfather's decision," she said, "is that it?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
Then he gestured for her to keep walking, drawing his hand slowly back to his side.
"It was the only thing I could think to do," he confessed in a low voice. "Whether my grandfather approved Harry's marriage or not, I didn't want to chance Rita Skeeter writing about how I'd put you aside."
"Why does it matter?"
"It mattered once," Draco reminded her, giving her a look that plainly expressed the volumes of their past he hadn't forgotten. "It mattered to you once, and whether it matters now or not, I won't make the same mistake again."
It was time for the truth, Hermione thought. On both sides. The walk from the church had been pleasant, both of them occupying the time with mindless chatter, but clearly, now was the time to have it out.
"Draco," she said, pausing as she noticed a door to an empty sitting room. "Can we, um—?"
"Yes, of course," he said, ushering her inside and closing the door behind him. "Believe me, Hermione, you have every right to be cross with me, or to have questions—"
"Just one, actually," she told him.
He pivoted slowly from the doors, facing her with a look of careful apprehension.
"Ask me," he said.
"I—"
She considered it.
I still don't understand why you were so angry, she thought. I know you, Draco, I know you through and through, I know every beat of your heart and I don't understand, it doesn't make sense, why are you so angry?
But none of that came out of her mouth.
"I'm never going to love anyone the way I love you," she sighed, "am I?"
He gave her a look like he would have taken it from her if he could have, or perhaps carried the entire weight of it himself.
"I hope not," he said, and swallowed. "I know I certainly won't."
She sat down slowly, lowering herself into the embroidered chair behind her, but for all her deliberation, she couldn't shake the feeling she'd just crash-landed into some monumental pillar of inevitability.
"Why?" she finally managed. "Were you upset because it was Pansy?"
He shook his head.
"Because of what Harry said?"
"No. Kind of, but no."
She hesitated, and then, "Because of me?"
"Yes. But not the way you think," he said, and then, after a moment, he qualified it with, "Which is obvious, I imagine, because we both know you and I aren't anything at the moment."
She was the one who'd decided that, she remembered, watching his attention shift to his hands.
It had been her, all along, who'd been hesitant.
But at the moment, all her reasons fell away like scales from the central tenet of her truths.
"Draco," she sighed, "we've always been something."
He looked up, surprised.
"Forget something," she corrected herself with a laugh, "we've always been the whole damn thing, haven't we? The moment you showed up in my life—the moment you stepped into that hall at Hogwarts—you have been the thing, and you know what?"
She looked at him, at the face she'd so long fought not to miss, and shook her head.
"If you thought having to wait would drive me away, then let me give you this, Draco. Let me give you something. Because when the time comes—and it will come," she promised him, "I swear, I will be sure enough for the both of us."
He looked at her in silence for several long moments.
Long enough to make her wonder if she'd said the wrong thing.
Longer, even, than it took to wish to retract it, only she didn't.
Then, to her relief, Draco finally stepped forward, producing something from his jacket pocket.
He set it down on the table beside her, addressing her in a voice even she strained to hear.
"I am angry," he explained, as Hermione stared in disbelief at the small black box, "because I wasn't ready yet. Because I needed more time to win you over. To convince you, which I had every intention to do. But I thought… I don't know, a few months? Maybe that was ambitious of me," he admitted, and she couldn't take her eyes from the box.
Not very many things came in a box that precise size and shape.
"Maybe it was foolish of me to think it would happen so soon," Draco continued, "but I suppose it's fair to say I am unused to other people taking precedence. I simply thought there would be a day when I would ask and you would agree, and until Harry called me into my grandfather's office yesterday, I thought that day would happen months from now, not years."
She waited for him to say they were earrings.
He didn't.
"As it turns out, though," he said, "you and I are equally sure."
He reached forward, about to snap open the lid of the box, and she quickly caught his hand, stopping him.
"No," she said. "I'm not ready to see it yet."
He exhaled slowly, almost raggedly, but nodded, retracting his hand from hers.
"I understand," he said, his voice falling to a mechanized dullness. "Like I said, it wasn't supposed to be now, but—"
"Ask me," she interrupted, and he blinked.
"But I thought you—"
"Just see what I say," she told him. "Win me over, sure, take your time, but ask me. You deserve to know what my answer will be," she promised him, and she could see his pulse racing, darting in the hollow of his throat.
"Hermione, I—"
"Hermione Jean Granger," she reminded him. "Use my full name."
He swallowed hard. "I haven't asked your father—"
"He doesn't own me, you stupid prince, and this isn't the real thing. Just ask me," she said, her heart thudding in her chest, "and try to mean it, because the next time you ask me, it probably won't be about us. It'll be, you know. About your father, your grandfather. Your country. We'll do some dumb interview with Rita Skeeter, probably, so make sure this one is good. Make sure it's quiet."
She stepped forward, brushing her thumb over his cheek.
"Ask me like it's just you and me," she said, "and nothing else."
In retrospect, maybe it had sounded stupid. She could certainly see how it might be hugely impractical, promising something that was hardly a promise at all, but at the time, she was less concerned with what she was asking and more with what asking would mean. She wasn't thinking diamonds or tiaras or gowns; she was thinking, you, Draco, and me, and do it because you want to, because you were noble when you could have been selfish, because you love me best by being who you are.
Because we deserve to have a moment defined by nothing else but us.
He was old-fashioned by default; divine right and all that. He lowered himself to one knee, looking up at her with the unopened box held loosely, symbolically, in one hand.
"Hermione Jean Granger," he said. "Will you marry me?"
Someday, she thought, this will be the best love story nobody else gets to hear.
This will be the story no one else gets to touch, because it's ours, yours and mine.
"Yes," she promised him, and drew his chin up for a kiss. "Yes, Draco, I will."
That was the first time he proposed to me.
The second time would be a lot more public, and minus one very aggressive show of opposition that would be carefully left out of our televised interview, everyone on earth would have access to every tiny, inconsequential fracking detail of what he said and what I said back and what I wore, and for months afterward, the most common clickbait on the internet would be, "You'll never believe Hermione Granger's real name." (It's Hermione. Yeah. That was the whole thing.) For six months, the dress Daphne picked out for me would be sold out across the globe, and as a joke, my mother would send me the Christmas ornament with my face on it that she actually—for real, not kidding—picked up at a CVS in central California.
But hey, that wouldn't be for a while. Like you can probably guess, there are still one or two secrets left to tell.
a/n: Sorry about last week, I got trapped in a blizzard. I also posted a new one shot in Amortentia yesterday (Chapter 134: You Make My Dreams) but other than that, just happy to not be in Iowa. (Sorry to any Iowans, but… move away from where u are. I say this because I care about u.)
Thank you as always for reading!