Chapter 32: Trap
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
Not With a Bang
The marriage of the Duke and Duchess of Grimmauld marked a subtle turning point for Prince Draco and Hermione, due in large part to the stir caused by the whirlwind romance between Prince Harry and Lady Pansy Parkinson. It was rumoured that the pair, burdened by accusations of immorality, had married without the consent of His Majesty—a rather unsurprising suspicion, given the quaking scandal following the abrupt end to Lady Pansy's engagement to Neville Longbottom. However, the Palace later released a statement confirming that His Majesty had, indeed, been privy to Prince Harry's plans to wed his childhood friend and secret sweetheart, and expressed in dignified tones the exuberance with which King Abraxas was most pleased for the happy couple.
The repeal of the Royal Marriages Act of 1772 was a quiet afterthought to the whirlwind private marriage, particularly against the backdrop of
(Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Jamie is worth a bit more than a few lines of Rita Skeeter's nonsense, of course.)
whose christening was a rather spectacular affair. In fact, 2015 proved to be a banner year for the extended Royal Family, despite relative silence from Prince Draco and Hermione.
It was a quiet year, actually. No accidental pregnancies, almost no major feuds, only one or two threats and ultimatums. Forgettable, really.
(Just kidding. Obviously.)
December 31, 2014
Norfolk, England
"…three…two…one…HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
Hermione turned to Draco, lifting her chin, and he gave her a kiss she'd begun to categorize in a mental file marked contentment. It was mostly a matter of brevity, lacking any of the particular mystery she associated with other kisses; most recently, for example, the kiss upon which they had sealed a secret not-engagement, not-betrothed as they now were. Rightfully, that was something preserved between the two of them, and an occasion like this one, surrounded by their friends, was hardly an opportunity for Hermione to remind Draco he owed her something.
Many things.
Specifically, the variety of things he should be doing to her upstairs, if he had any sense. Which he apparently didn't.
"You're doing it again," he murmured to her, giving her a laughing nudge, and she grimaced. Evidently she'd been undressing him with her eyes again. Or unconsciously trying to do it with her hands. Who could tell the difference.
"You should write a book," she muttered in response, never quite sure she was fully feigning agitation. She was a sensual woman! Sexual frustration made her voice ever so slightly shrill. "However you're managing all this restraint, it should be patented and sold. People need it."
"I told you, it's a matter of principle," he said, criminally unseductive. "Principally speaking, I can't possibly bed you until I've won you. It's chivalrous or something."
"Or something," Hermione huffed in confirmation, her gaze falling on where Theo and Daphne were sitting across the room. "Personally, I could do with less chivalry and more of… whatever that is," she informed Draco, gesturing, and in the same moment, Daphne tugged Theo closer, one of her hands curling around the back of his neck. Upon closer inspection, though, Hermione noted the other of Daphne's hands had been rather inconspicuously concealed. "Well. On second thought, maybe not."
"That," Draco observed with interest, "is marriage, evidently."
"Doubtful," Hermione informed him, turning her attention to where Harry and Pansy were sitting together, dutifully not touching. They seemed to have settled into the knowledge their lives were about to change quite drastically, and it had manifested in a noticeable exclusion from the usual ruckus. Pansy had spoken very little, perhaps a result of Rita Skeeter's tumultuous storm of criticism against her, and Harry, reacting to his new wife's quiet, had fixed his attention solely on her.
Even Hermione now had to admit Abraxas' concern about approving Harry and Pansy's marriage had been valid. Archaic though it was, his certainty that the media would take great pleasure in skewering Pansy for her role as the amoral villain in Neville's story was deeply, depressingly accurate. Countless articles had already been released questioning Pansy's fitness as a royal, and even that was hardly the worst of it. The most troubling of all topics at the moment were the rumors of a feud between Hermione and Pansy, which were not remotely aided by Lady Bellatrix Lestrange.
It is a pity that, in this day and age, women should still be pitted against each other as rivals, said Bellatrix in the article released by Rita Skeeter shortly after Harry and Pansy's wedding, but there can be no denying that the assumption of the HRH title by the former Lady Pansy Parkinson will be an obstacle for Hermione Granger to overcome. The Royal Family's expectations for womanhood border on canonical sainthood, which is not only impractical, but impossible.
Are the women who marry into the Royal Family expected to be absent any trace of sin? Impractically, I see no reason to believe otherwise. It may appear that the Duchess of Grimmauld is evidence to the contrary, but I would argue that Lady Pansy's ascension to prominence is evidence of little beyond the status quo. Prince Henry, for all he is beloved by the media, will likely never be king, and therefore however much the Duchess of Grimmauld may fall short, it is unlikely she will be anything but fleetingly tawdry.
Unfortunately, what looks like progress is, in this case, quite the opposite. Lady Pansy, for all her recent ills, is still a member of an ancient noble family. She belongs to the aristocratic class, and she is the product of antiquity and wealth, well-born and well-educated. Whatever she does, and however unholy she has been, she can still only be marginally scorched; that, and she is no outspoken critic of much of anything, nor does she challenge the preserved state of the monarchy in any meaningful way.
My prediction, given the controversy with Pansy and Harry, is that we will soon see less and less of Hermione. As far as I can tell, King Abraxas' approval of Duchess Pansy is proof that Queen Hermione will never be permitted to exist.
Hermione hated to admit it, but Bellatrix made some excellent points. Pansy's current slander was, at best, about the alleged affair she committed for love—which, while certainly scandalous, was no real threat to Abraxas or his heirs. Hermione, on the other hand, stood to challenge everything about the English class system. She was an American, without the proper sanctity of noble blood. Her parents were dentists, not lords. She was a journalist, not an heiress. That her children would be born to the titles of princes and kings was… historically, not awesome.
Hermione was beginning to wonder if Abraxas' intimation of concern for her relationship with Draco had really been a very sly, very clever trick. She had believed his approval of Pansy a personal favor to her rather than the other way around, but there was currently no telling whether she'd been right.
"I lost you," Draco observed, and Hermione blinked, more than a little remorseful to find she had been staring at Pansy. He slid an arm around her, burying his lips in her hair. "I told you not to think so much about that article. Bellatrix is evidently cleverer than I thought," he lamented with a sigh, "and she has a way of manipulating people, it seems. My father is living proof."
That much was undeniable. Hermione still couldn't imagine what possessed Prince Lucifer to speak to his one-time inamorata, given everything that had happened since her husband's death.
"Sorry," she exhaled, glancing up at Draco with something she hoped was sufficiently remorseful. "It's still a little fresh, I guess."
"I know." He looked around for a moment, taking stock of the rest of the room; Blaise was reclined on the floor at Pansy's feet, and Theo and Daphne, apparently resolved of whatever mischief they'd been up to, had wandered over to drape on either side of Harry and Pansy. "Come on," Draco said to Hermione, motioning for her to be quiet as he took her hand, and then he pulled her into the corridor, pausing just on the other side of the wall.
He pressed her against it, her shoulders locked against damask walls, and lowered his mouth to hers as she gasped; a little startled, a little voracious, and entirely thrilled. She twisted her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, and he responded with a nip at her lips, a slip of tongue, and a stifled laugh.
"Are you sure you have to go?" she whispered, and he shook his head.
"Say the word and I won't," he told her. "My grandfather can put me in the Tower, I don't care."
"Lot of good that does me," she muttered, digging her nails into the vertebrae along the back of his neck. "Are those my only choices?"
"Of course not." They were both breathless, quietly exhilarated. "We could flee the country. Become jewel thieves."
"Not you," she scoffed. "You have no applicable skills, Your Highness."
"I beg to differ," he said, and in punishment, he gave her hair a furtive yank, tracing his lips along the side of her neck. "I make a very persuasive lure."
"Not that helpful for a heist," she gasped, fumbling to remove the tails of his shirt from their trousered prison and putting her very capable hands to pebbled skin. "What even are your skills? Diplomacy?" she guessed, irreverently toying with the band of his underwear. "What I need is a hacker. Or, you know, someone who can pick locks—"
"I worry you've given this too much thought," he remarked, and then, abruptly, he removed her hands from his pants, taking a step back. "Slow down," he said, and she scowled at him, wrestling herself free.
"Why? I've already told you I want to be with you, Draco—"
"I know, I know, I just—" He shook himself, staring into space and probably counting backwards from a thousand, or thinking of Theo's dad's bollocks. "I told you, not yet. It's good right now, and I don't want to rush things."
Hermione permitted herself a long, hungry look at him, cataloguing him in pieces: the pale hair that stood on end, a consequence of her greedy fingers. His untucked shirt, his undone belt, his amorous indiscretion. His eyes were somehow both bleary and bright, dazed and clear, and directed at anything but her. As if looking at her might undo him further.
That wouldn't do. "Draco," she said, and his grey gaze fell on hers, and she shivered.
Every recent touch had been extravagance, opulence incarnate as much as it had been nothing at all. His hand brushing her waist, the small of her back. The angling of his hips toward hers. A graze of his knee, his elbow. The way she would indicate something and he would lean closer, the smell of his cologne turning her perfectly respectable thoughts to rapidly disoriented fog. The mere motion of his lips—parting or smiling or put to the tranquility of glass—was electrifying. He was onto something with all this waiting, if that something was his intent to kill her slowly. Even now, just the rustle of clothing on the other side of a wall from their closest friends was enough to paralyze her judgment. She wanted him so badly, so raucously, and with such insuppressible longing it echoed like madness, rattling around inside her bones.
At least she wasn't alone. "Don't," he said, though he took her wrists and locked them beside her head, pausing to scour her face with a manic glance. Welcome to sexual delirium, Hermione thought. Occupancy: two. "Don't," he repeated, and caught her lips with something breathy and slow, gradually progressing. A rumination, a provocation that grew to a blow, a collision.
"Don't?" she echoed doubtfully, and he shook his head, releasing her hands to take her face between his palms.
"Don't," he confirmed, but he was holding her tightly, grasping for her curls and deepening the kiss as she wrapped her fingers aimlessly around the backs of his elbows, forbidding him to release her.
What a disaster they were. There were so many avenues of fates she might have lived, all of them just fine without him, but none of those were real. She had told him the truth; the moment she'd met him, she was done for. So was he. Oh, so with someone else it could be easy? What was easy? Probably nothing. She didn't want easy or soft or slow. This was so much better, the taste of foregone acquiescence on her devastated tongue. What a tragedy they were for anyone but them. For anyone who would never know the way it felt, just giving in.
"Come on," she whispered, "give it up. You don't want to wait either."
He grimaced. "Don't I?"
"No." She wrenched his head back with a sigh. "Unless you want to go into the Royal Air Force having been celibate for months."
"Suffering is important, Miss Granger. I lack sufficient trauma."
Good, she thought, I'd save you from all of it. "Careful what you wish for."
"Only ever you." His lips were on her throat again, his hands on her waist. "Always you."
Jesus balls almighty. "How's tonight for a second-first time?"
"Can't." He slid the neckline of her dress down, tongue slipping between fabric and skin.
"Can't?"
"Won't." Bastard. Her entire body throbbed. "Can't-won't."
"Could, though."
"Mm-mm."
"Oh," she exhaled, "well, in that case—"
She shoved him away, hard, and he stumbled. She watched him struggle to regain his footing, dizzily, and then smile at her, crookedly. His expression was so swept up and lost and perfect she positively fucking ached.
"Thanks," he rasped, scraping a hand over his cheeks, his lips, his jaw. She wished she were dumber, or at least less imaginative. She could see that mouth on every part of her, all over her, all of the time.
"No problem," she gritted through her teeth, lyingly. "Just trying to help."
"Yes. Good. Noted." He was unfairly handsome, the asshole. "What were we saying?"
"I believe I was telling you to go," she sniffed, and his smile broadened.
"No, you weren't. You were telling me to stay."
He crept towards her again, one step and then another. He was looking at her with softness now, or something close to it. Less like he wanted her tied to his headboard, anyway, and more like he wanted to kiss her feet, or cook her dinner. Like he wanted to sing her to sleep.
"Yeah," she said, "maybe. I don't know." She looked away, feigning disinterest. "Sounds familiar."
His lips met her cheek. "It'll be different this time," he told her. "You have your work, your job." He rested his forehead against hers, solemnly promising, "I'll write you love letters."
"Letters, really?"
"Yes. And poetry. Like King Henry to Anne Boleyn."
"That story ends poorly," she reminded him, and he chuckled.
"Does it? I can't recall."
"I heard she takes a lover and leaves him for the beaches of Spain."
"Well, that won't do." He kissed her again, slower this time. "Say the word and I won't go," he said to her lips, and she shook her head.
"Go. You need to."
"Do I?"
It was another thing Abraxas had unintentionally convinced her. "Yes. You have a reputation to uphold, things to learn. You're going to be king."
Another kiss, playful. "Am I?"
"Allegedly. Unless you stay here with me, and then no."
"And do you want my alleged throne, Miss Granger?"
She leaned away, resting her head against the wall, and placed a hand squarely on the beat of his quietly pulsing heart.
"It's a pretty chair," she said. "A little gaudy for my tastes, but I think I could make it work."
He paused for a moment, accommodating a smile, and then he laughed, taking her hand and pulling her knuckles to his lips, grateful.
"Maybe by the end of this year, things will be different," he said, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "All this Harry and Pansy stuff will have died down, I'll be finished with active service." He laced his fingers with hers. "One more year?"
"Yes." She could do a year. What hurry was she in? Maybe not a year without sex, but she'd cross that bridge when she got to it. "Okay. One more year."
"Ready?" asked Daphne.
"Ready," Hermione confirmed, and turned to Pansy, who was sourly wrapping her scarf around her neck and glancing impatiently at her feet.
"Frankly, I'd rather die," Pansy sighed, and Daphne shrugged.
"Should've used a condom, Pans."
"I will murder you," was the Duchess of Grimmauld's tight response, and Daphne smiled broadly.
"Off we go, then," she said, patting Hermione's knee and cheerfully throwing open the car door.
The day of Daphne's first show coincided with the start of Pansy's second trimester, which Pansy unhappily informed them was the period in which nausea began transmuting to a more tangible discomfort. More woeful, though—or at least more collectively woeful—was the coordinated effort to make it clear Hermione and Pansy were not, in fact, feuding, which had been a nonstop source of interest for the press.
The only basis for said feud, aside from Bellatrix' suggestion it should exist, was the argument that Pansy and Hermione's public appearances had noticeably decreased—which, unfortunately, wasn't exactly invalid. Pansy had spent the weeks following her wedding as something of a recluse, attempting to hide her pregnancy until it became more likely the baby hadn't been conceived during her engagement to Neville. Daphne had been the one to suggest they both join her at her show, assuring them the only photography at the event sans-winter coats would be of the show itself.
Pansy, ever the aristocrat, was carefully expressionless as she stepped out of the car, joining Hermione with a perfectly curated look of pleasantry. The camera flashes were blinding; the paparazzi had clearly done their research, knowing it was likely that both royal-adjacent women would be attending. Pansy and Hermione paused, acknowledging the media, as Daphne made her way directly inside.
To Pansy's credit, she complained very little about her newfound fame/perpetual harassment. Hermione had waited, initially, for any evidence that the invasive media attention she had dealt with on her own for years—and which Pansy had retained little sympathy for—would disrupt Pansy's already tenuous state of existence, but Lady Seven-Names was inscrutable to the last. All indications of agitation were violently suppressed, manifesting in absolutely no visible discomfort until they entered the building.
"You okay?" Hermione asked, catching a little blip of misery through Pansy's mask. She couldn't even bring herself to feel smug at the knowledge the tables had turned, knowing how unpleasant it could be. "It'll be fun, you know, getting out of the house for a bit. Blaise says you haven't been doing much."
Pansy and Harry were now living in Grimmauld Place, the house in London which had belonged to Harry's godfather. True to form, Pansy had rendered the previously vacant house immaculately livable in a matter of days, even before Theo and Daphne had finished their languid process of renovating. Unfortunately, not everything had been as straightforward as home improvement; Harry's attempt to finagle an early return to London from his emergency leave was currently an ongoing process. He would be in and out of the city until early summer, which meant Pansy and Blaise had returned to their previous state of near-inseparability.
"Blaise," Pansy scoffed, "is wrong."
She glanced warily around before removing her coat, giving her own body a tight-lipped glance of disapproval. Her attempts to conceal her pregnancy were mostly effective so long as nobody bothered to closely take stock, but there was no doubt her current means for concealment was a departure from her usual style. It bothered her, Hermione was fairly sure, that her first appearances as a royal made it appear her taste was… bulky. Oversized. Anything but the distinguished sleekness she'd specialized in for twenty-five years.
Pansy caught Hermione following her gaze, grimacing. "It's not that I don't want to be here," she said. "Obviously, I want to be present, particularly in the event Daphne's collection requires any restraint—you know how she gets with pleats." Hermione rolled her eyes, and Pansy half-smiled. "Your concern for me is admirable, Hermione, if entirely misplaced. My only apprehension is that at the moment," she said, gesturing somewhat wryly to the clothes Hermione knew Pansy wished she wasn't wearing, "the last thing I want is to see—"
"Ah, bonjour, mes belles amies!" exclaimed a delighted Fleur, who gathered Pansy in her arms the moment she crossed the threshold. "I can't tell you what a relief it is you've finally arrived, Gabrielle has been busy with fittings all morning." She pulled Hermione into a subsequent embrace, smelling like her usual mix of sensuality and sophistication, and immediately, Hermione understood Pansy's unusual reticence to see her. Fleur, Hermione noted, was wearing something Pansy probably wished she had on: a tailored blazer dress paired with mile-high stiletto heels that sent her perfect figure towering gracefully over both of them. "How are you both?"
Hermione, gratefully, was able to answer easily. "Really good, actually."
"Oh?" Fleur looked blissfully pleased. "The writing is going well, then?"
"Yes, very." Hermione's new clients had increased, and the demand from her existing clients was already quite high. By the time she paused her work for her nightly phone call with Draco, she was usually happily exhausted. She was, as she regularly told him, the good kind of drained. Inspired was probably the better word, though there was no escaping the fact that it was work. "There's going to be an article about one of my clients next month, actually, if you feel like picking up a copy of Astronomy magazine."
"Ah, I love the stars," Fleur declared, smiling broadly and turning to Pansy. "And you, Your Highness?"
"I'm well, thank you," Pansy said, opting not to elaborate, though the effect of her repression did little to dim Fleur's pleasure in seeing them.
"And everyone else?" Fleur pressed them. "How is Blaise since we last spoke?"
Hermione and Pansy exchanged a glance. "Well, he's… mostly his usual self," Hermione answered Fleur on their mutual behalf, "but you know how he is."
Fleur leaned closer, dropping her voice. "Have things not… improved?"
Hermione shook her head. "He won't tell us what happened. Won't tell me, anyway," she clarified, looking at Pansy, who shook her head. "And apparently not Pansy, either."
"I must say, it's been quite the gossip, even in France," Fleur said, looking concerned.
Unsurprising, Hermione thought. Obviously, Augusta had miscalculated when she initially leaked Pansy's behavior to the press; she had even less idea than the rest of them that her grandson was being put aside for Prince Harry, but the moment she discovered it, she had clearly cut off all communication with the media. Neville remained the subject of some attention, still painted as the victim of Pansy's treachery, but he appeared in public very infrequently. Last any of them had heard, Neville and his grandmother had departed for one of their country estates around the holidays.
Blaise had managed to escape any mention, naturally. In the media's eyes, this was all some sort of intersection between royal-adjacent feuds: Draco and Harry, Harry and Neville, Pansy and Hermione. Their friends, including Fleur, knew better. Blaise was covering his heartache well, taking refuge in his renewed friendship with Pansy, but it was unmistakably present. Neville's name hadn't been spoken aloud for weeks.
"And Harry?" Fleur asked, turning to Pansy.
She, to Hermione's surprise, visibly softened. "He's… quite well," she said, somewhat tentatively. Even with hesitation, though, it was the one subject she seemed willing to expand on, adding, "He's impossible to live with, of course. Terribly messy, mostly unconcerned with any sort of ritualized behavior, recklessly amicable with the staff. I tell him constantly they will have no reason to listen to us if he continues as he does, but of course he hears approximately none of what I tell him unless he wants to. Not to mention the other day I found his toothbrush in the kitchen sink. And the motorbikes," Pansy sighed. "There are more than I expected. I'd always thought that was something Blaise and Draco exclusively shared, but it appears not."
"Once a rogue, always a rogue," Fleur said fondly. "I must say, I always wondered what sort of woman Harry would find himself with."
"A beleaguered one," Pansy said firmly, though it was markedly transparent. Harry was the one subject she had discussed with any pleasure in weeks; however much irritation she feigned, Harry was obviously the highlight of her narrative. "I'm quite pleased he's away until March."
Hermione made a note to spend extra time with Pansy until Harry's return. Obviously she was missing him, which they both knew she would never admit.
"And you?" Pansy asked Fleur, always polite. "Are you still seeing the rugby player?"
"Who, Krum? No, he's quite busy, and I wasn't willing to travel so often to Bulgaria. Tragically, it's another Englishman," Fleur said, looking playfully disappointed with herself. "I seem to have a weakness for them, though it's a son of a diplomat this time."
"Oh?" Pansy said, surprised. "Not Diggory, is it?"
"Yes, in fact. Do you know him?"
Hermione tuned them out, looking around at Daphne's handiwork for what would be the first major reveal of the Daphne Nott line. It wasn't a traditional fashion show, as Daphne had already informed her (and her devoted audience, via S.P.E.W.), but it was certainly impressive. Daphne had created something of a winter wonderland inside a large, high-ceilinged, glass-covered atrium, the winding path of which would feature a few live models while the rest of her winter line was draped over mannequins. The jewel of her collection was allegedly the dress designed for Gabrielle Delacour, which had somehow managed to remain a secret only Theo had seen. For the most part, Daphne had stuck to a common theme of opposition: chains and leather details on delicate rose-colored lace, jewel-toned embellishments on patterns of tweed and houndstooth, Victorian necklines with ultra-modern sheer paneling. Hermione hardly had the credentials to comment on the fashion itself, but she had to agree with Daphne's eye. The white of the fake snow made the colors especially decadent.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Her Royal Highness," Theo drawled, wandering up behind them and giving Pansy a perfunctory bow. "Never thought I'd be delivering that line unironically, but here we are. Fleur," he added, giving her a pleasant nod (they'd met several times since their breakup and had transitioned, somehow, to friendship, probably aided by their mutual interest in Daphne), before settling his attention on Hermione. "Oh, hi Cali," he mused as an afterthought, pretending to mistake her for a houseplant, and she grabbed his arm, dragging him away.
"They're talking society," Hermione whispered to him, stepping onto the path Daphne had created and dusting some iridescent snowfall from her sleeve. "I just don't have it in me, I'm afraid."
"Something bothering you?" Theo asked, glancing down at her, and she rolled her eyes.
"No, Theodore, I'm fine. You can even tell Draco I said so."
"I don't report to him," Theo sniffed, though at a glare from Hermione, he amended, "Fine. I don't report to him until our predetermined hour of reconnaissance. Are you quite pleased with yourself now?"
"Yes, very," she said, pausing before a mannequin wearing a floral-printed dress structured into the shape of a tightly-bound corset, draped with thin onyx chains. "Hmm. Could I wear this?"
"Well, Greengrass called it 'medieval peasant, but fashion'—so no, I doubt it, no."
Theo was smiling vacantly. Above or around them, Hermione suddenly became conscious of the quiet sound of piano; specifically, the Philip Glass album Theo typically put on while he was reading. He was looking at the dress designed by his wife, one hand in his trouser pocket with the other amicably looped through Hermione's, pleasantly at rest. She, whimsically, could easily step outside the moment to see how very, very far he'd come from that strange moment of ranting in their university lecture hall, when he would have been utterly incapable of envisioning this for himself.
She nudged him. "You're a real grown-up now, aren't you?" she asked, and he frowned down at her.
"That seems so exceedingly unlikely I can't think how you might have arrived there," he remarked, mildly insulted. "Certainly don't tell Greengrass. She'll think I've improved, and then where will we be—"
"I think I'd like to grow up a bit myself," Hermione sighed, and then Theo's expression turned from playfully serious to intently so. "What?" she demanded, and he shook his head, patting her hand and wheeling her around to return them to the momentum of the path.
"You set all of us in motion, you know," he said. "We all see it, even if you don't."
She glanced up at him, surprised. "What's that supposed to mean?"
His response was flippant, evasive. "Oh, you know."
"No, actually, I don't. You're her muse," Hermione said, gesturing to Daphne's work, "and she's yours, isn't she?"
Theo's mouth twitched, then stilled. She would think about his response for the rest of the day, once she had taken her seat beside Pansy, Fleur, and an unsurprisingly late Blaise—"Yes, hello, is this where the tigers will be?" shout-whispered Hortense, at which point Thibaut realized they were not, in fact, at the zoo, and the two of them slipped noisily out—and until the moment Gabrielle Delacour stepped out in Daphne's final gown.
"You'll see," Theo had advised, "if you're looking closely enough," and surprisingly, she did.
The last gown was instantly recognizable, even for Hermione. It was a surprising departure from the rest of Daphne's collection in that it was relatively unembellished, worn without jewelry or any particular styling. Gabrielle's hair, normally a stick-straight platinum blonde, had been curled and left voluminous, teased at the crown, and the dress itself was an obvious homage to a modernized, updated version of Princess Narcissa's Dior slip dress, complete with the high slit and restructured bodice Daphne had once constructed on the fly for Hermione.
This gown, though, was a different color. Instead of Narcissa's emerald green, this one was ruby red—brilliantly, gloriously, flamingly red—and beside Hermione, Pansy leaned over, murmuring in her ear.
"It's you," she said, smiling to herself, and Hermione, surprised by Pansy's warmth, smiled in response, reaching out impulsively to take Pansy's hand. She expected Pansy to pat her knuckles politely, or to brush her aside, but to her amazement, Pansy took hold of her fingers and held on tightly, neither of them noticing the camera flash that went off just as Gabrielle strutted by.
It would be the picture to briefly save their friendship in the public eye, just as it would be the one to change Pansy's life forever.
"Will you reason with my father, please? I'd do it myself, or try to, only I suspect he's stopped listening. That," Draco growled, "or perhaps I'm very easy to ignore when I'm merely some incorporeal voice he can heartily pass on to Dobby."
"I would, but I really don't see what I could possibly do about this," Hermione said, frowning down at the article in the Daily Prophet which had been, unfortunately, no great surprise. Below the picture of Hermione and Pansy—taken in the brief moment Pansy had not been carefully guarding her stomach from view—was the joyous proclamation of Will there be a royal baby for Harry and Pansy?
Troublingly, albeit not surprisingly, the photograph was followed by heavily Skeeter-ized editorials. Are pregnancy rumours the reason for the rushed elopement? Is Prince Harry's absence indicative of trouble in paradise for the newlyweds? Anyone with eyes, which unfortunately Rita Skeeter had, could see some version of the truth: that Pansy was more than a few weeks pregnant, which the baby itself would inevitably prove true. The topic of the month, then, seemed to be precisely as Pansy feared: Is the baby really Harry's, or is it Neville's?
Equally unsurprising was that the Palace remained silent on the subject. The Royal Family, as Lucius had said to Draco, was not some reality television show open to public speculation. In short, let the gossip wheels turn where they may, which was understandably easier for King Abraxas to live with than it was for anyone in their immediate circle.
So. What could Hermione do?
"Well, nothing, probably. But if there's one person I trust to make him see sense, it's you," Draco sighed, "which, believe me, is regrettable. I don't relish it, but I'm concerned. This is a child's life we're talking about," he said, sounding apprehensive, and Hermione remembered, briefly, that when it came to infidelity, Draco was uniquely familiar with the damage accompanying the melodrama of having one's parentage questioned. "And with Harry having difficulty getting in contact with anyone—"
"Why not ask Neville to say something? He could easily confirm the baby isn't his, couldn't he?"
Draco was silent for a moment.
"I believe Blaise already tried," he said, using the diplomat's voice he employed for cautious half-truths, and Hermione sighed heavily.
"You mean he did try," she guessed. "And Neville refused?"
"Neville is…" More hesitation. "Refusal is a strong word," Draco said, tiptoeing delicately around the subject.
"What exactly happened between them?"
"Well, unfortunately, I imagine Pansy's happiness is no great concern to—"
"Not Pansy and Neville them. Blaise and Neville them."
"Ah." Draco sounded increasingly uncomfortable. "I suppose I can't say for certain—"
She rolled her eyes. "Speculate, then. This conversation is off the record."
"Right, right, well—" He trailed off. "It's my understanding that Blaise's terms for reconciliation involved a relationship as opposed to a liaison, which Neville… declined." A softer word than refused, Hermione noted irritably. "He has some concerns about how his grandmother will take the news. I believe he worries about her health."
"Bullshit," said Hermione, who was fairly confident Lady Augusta Longbottom would likely outlive them all. "He's afraid of his grandmother?"
"His father is ill. Increasingly so."
"So?"
"I—" She could hear Draco's grimace through the phone. "I didn't say I agreed, or that I approved of the argument. But whatever Neville said to justify it, Blaise seems to have accepted it."
"No, he most certainly has not," Hermione said impatiently. "I find that extremely unlikely."
"Well, I only know what he's told me, Hermione. I have my own suspicions, but it's not my place to intervene."
"But you want me to intervene on Pansy's behalf," she reminded him, surprised by how bitter she sounded, and Draco exhaled tightly.
"I can't imagine this is easy for you. I know I've put you in this position before."
She said nothing, unsure she wanted to confess (or even acknowledge) her own injury.
"I'm sorry," Draco said, "believe me. I doubt it helps much to apologize for the way I overlooked you in the past—but I have promised you it will not happen again, and I mean that. Not just for you. I will stand by you, Hermione, always, but either I stand for what's right or I don't. Unfortunately, it's a test I will have to pass first with Pansy."
"I know," she said grudgingly, which she did. "I know that. And really, I don't want her to struggle like I did."
"I know you don't. Still, it can't be easy, seeing people come to her need when you must feel I abandoned you to yours." He paused, and then, "Though I suppose, if I'm being honest, I always thought you were stronger."
Hermione blinked. "What?"
"Surely that can't surprise you," Draco said neutrally. "Pansy, for all her intensity, is quite fragile. That has never been true for you."
"I," Hermione began, and stopped, considering it. "I wouldn't say fragile."
"Neither would I—not to her face, anyway. But the reality, Hermione, is that you have a resilience Pansy does not. Which isn't to excuse my past behavior," he said quickly, "but is, quite simply, reality. I am more worried about Pansy because you never gave me a reason to worry about you."
Hermione groaned. "You're trying to persuade me to talk to Prince Lucifer, aren't you?"
"Trying to? No. Why, is it working?"
"Yes," she grumbled, and she could hear him stifling a laugh. "Are you lying to me?"
"What reason would I have to lie to you?"
"To send me off on a ridiculous errand to try to convince a man who hates me that he should listen to me? That's just the top of the list, but I'm sure there's more if I really think about it—"
"No, no, I just wanted you to know. I admire your strength, Hermione, really. More than anything."
She glared into space, wishing she could reach him with it.
Draco sighed, "I've said the wrong thing, haven't I?"
"No," she muttered, "you've said the right things. I hate it."
"If it helps, I'm not trying to do anything right. Historically, it's not my strength."
"Yes, yes, noted." She chewed her lip, thinking. "So, if I agreed…?"
"I'd arrange it. Dobby would send a car."
"Mm," she said, incoherently.
"By the way, before I forget, I loved the article about that… what's it? Oh, yes, The Astronomy Tower, that's it, loved it. That's the place you had the tour last month, isn't it? You'll have to take me, it sounded fascin-"
"Stop," Hermione grumbled. "I'm already mulling, you terrible prince."
"But this is a separate mulling. Isn't it?"
"Oh, shut up, it's all the same."
"Is not. It's not a favor for me, anyway, it's for—"
"Do not," Hermione huffed, "appeal to my sense of philanthropy. You've already done enough."
She could hear him smiling. "And if I do?"
"I'll find another prince. I hear the Greek prince is attractive."
"Pavlos? He's married."
"Of course not Pavlos. His son, umm… Constantine. Constantine-Alexios."
"Alexios is sixteen."
"Well, wonderful, I can wait a couple of years."
"True, we've waited this long."
She sighed loudly, rising to her feet and wishing there were something in her vicinity to frustratedly kick.
"You will," he said, "won't you?"
"YES," she barked. "I hate it."
"I know." He sounded smugly victorious.
"I hate you."
"Well, rightfully."
"I don't want to do this."
He hummed his agreement. "Who would?"
"He's going to mock me. Threaten me. Probably try to bribe me."
"All very real possibilities, yes."
"You'll owe me."
"I already owe you."
"Yes! You do."
"But you'll do it?"
She scowled into empty space.
"I haven't had an orgasm in weeks," she informed him, "just so you know."
"Don't remind me."
"Why not? This is entirely your doing!"
"Yes, yes, I know. But it's all part of my process."
"Process of what?"
"Oh, driving you mad enough to marry me, I suppose. Which, obviously, you would have to be entirely mad to do."
"And if you go mad in the process?"
"Ah, so be it. My predecessors have been mad before, and for far worse reasons. In fact, now that I give it some thought, 'Mad King Draco' has quite a lovely ring to it—"
"Call Dobby," Hermione groaned, "before I change my mind."
She could hear the sound of him sitting up, probably immensely pleased with himself.
"I love you madly, Hermione."
"Yeah, yeah," she sighed, missing him desperately anew. "I know."
The truth was that Hermione had no shortage of sympathy for Pansy, even with the resources Pansy had that she did not. A security entourage was certainly a benefit, but Hermione knew better than anyone that bodily harm was the least of her concerns. No, the real damage was the seeping of Rita Skeeter's words into her brain, under her skin, into the sanctity of her thoughts. Lady Pansy will always be ill-regarded for her misdeeds. Hermione Granger will never be enough for this monarchy. These women will always be pitted against each other, no matter what they do.
Strangely, as Hermione waited for Lucius to meet her in his office, it was Astoria's words that came back to her. For him, it will always be easier. Boys will be boys, won't they? It always comes back to that. Look at Prince Harry. Look at Prince Lucius. Even if Draco were to do something truly awful, they would eventually forgive him—but they never forgive the woman on his arm.
"Miss Granger," Lucius acknowledged, and Hermione stood, sinking into a slightly lower curtsy than strictly necessary and hoping her attempt at reverence would set them off on the right foot. "I'm afraid we have company this afternoon."
She looked up, surprised, to find Theo's father wandering in beside Lucius, appraising her with his usual thin-lipped, derisive half-smile of disinterest.
"Oh," she said, abruptly souring, and Nott Sr replied with a mirthless laugh.
"Yes, fine, sit down. Lucius," he beckoned, gesturing the Prince of Wales into the desk chair, and then he settled himself beside Hermione, stretching out with obvious superiority. "When Abraxas heard you two were having a chat, naturally he suggested I join you."
Hermione knew with a single, swift glance at Lucius this had been news to him, as well.
"How very thoughtful of my father," Lucius said through his teeth.
"An honor," Hermione contributed drily, and Nott spared both of them a pleasant nod.
"Your displeasure is noted. Now, onto the matter at hand," he began, turning to Hermione. "What will it take to make you go away, Miss Granger?"
She bristled, glaring at Lucius. "That's not even remotely the matter at hand."
He gave her a small shrug, as if to say, Too bad.
"Fine," she said, turning to Nott. "Let's do this, then, shall we?"
"I asked you a question," he reminded her. "I'd have dressed it up for more of a song and dance, but I think we understand each other by now."
"Yes, we do," she agreed, oddly grateful he hadn't bothered. There was at least the relief of brevity implied. "What have I supposedly done this time?"
"Oh, nothing, certainly nothing new. Only slightly more pressing." Nott's smile slid back from his teeth. "You may have noticed that the official position of troublesome royal paramour has been filled. Rude, isn't it?" he murmured. "A friend of yours, even. Swept the role right out from under you, and after everything you went through first?" he mused, shaking his head. "You gave her permission to exist."
This again. It rattled in Hermione's bones, manifesting in her teeth. As if the 'Who Wore It Better?' spreads pitting them against each other weren't stupid enough without Nott Sr's contribution. "I'm not here to argue about Pansy."
"It would be a short argument," Nott agreed, dispassionate. "To my understanding, the marriage was your doing. Has she thanked you? I'm guessing not."
"Who told you that," Hermione scoffed, "Rita Skeeter? Bellatrix Lestrange?"
Lucius shifted uncomfortably.
"Miss Granger," Nott said, "the point is—"
"What is it you hate about me so much?" she asked him, abandoning the protocol Daphne so carefully taught her in favor of irritably crossing her legs. "Is it really my birth? My opinions? Or," she said emphatically, "is it simply that you can't make Draco unlove me?"
She was pleased to see Nott's smile twitch slightly, evidence of annoyance that extended beyond amusement.
"It's that, isn't it?" she guessed, already quite certain she was correct. "You can't control him if he stays with me. He listens to me." Briefly, she felt a surge of understanding. "You hate it, don't you, that he sent me here to speak to his father—because he holds me in higher esteem than he does you, is that it?"
"You forget yourself," Nott warned, the same words Abraxas had used, and Hermione shook her head.
"No, I remember myself, Sir," she said firmly, "and for that, there's no getting rid of me."
Nott's entire countenance soured, the glare on his face sliding from Hermione to Lucius.
"She's precisely Bellatrix," Nott said, rising brusquely to his feet. "I hope you're pleased."
Lucius said nothing.
Then, after another hard glance at Hermione, Nott shook his head.
"When you find yourself unhappy with your choice, remember that I warned you. I will not be the one you blame when things aren't what you hoped," he cautioned her, giving her a bullying glance.
"Your displeasure is noted," Hermione said.
Nott spared a final glare, and then compressed it into a tight smile.
"Until next time," he said, and bowed to Lucius. "Your Highness," he acknowledged perfunctorily, and then swept from the room, not waiting for dismissal.
For a moment, left alone, neither Hermione nor Lucius spoke. They sat in silence, her watching him and him observing his hands, until gradually she sighed.
"Look," she said, "about Pansy—"
"I realize I'm not your favorite person," Lucius interrupted, his grey eyes rising swiftly to hers, "nor should you ever imagine you are mine, but understand that I'm not the idiot my son thinks I am. I know what it is to feel trapped," he said, sounding oddly as if he were warning her, or perhaps sympathizing with her. "I don't want you here, believe me, but if you plan to stay, then I want your word you will come to me. Should things go wrong, Miss Granger," he clarified, "I want your assurance you will come to me."
It sounded as if he meant to indicate she should trust him more than Nott, which was something she might have done anyway, though she was loath to admit it. "Why should I give you my word? What possible benefit would there be for me to confide in you?"
Lucius seemed to find this unimportant. "Fine. If I can't have yours, then have mine: Whatever it is, I will help you." He was looking at her intently, scrutinizingly. "Am I clear?"
Not even a little bit.
"Help me," Hermione echoed skeptically. "Like you helped Narcissa?"
He had the decency to flinch. "This is not about my wife."
"Isn't it? Isn't it always about your wife? I mean, I get it," Hermione scoffed, leaning, perhaps unwisely, into the exasperation she felt with Nott Sr. "I'm the Bellatrix in this story, I understand. I'm the villain, I'm the one you want to separate Draco from, but if you think I'm ever going to be stupid enough to trust you—"
"Bellatrix is not the villain of my story," Lucius snapped, cutting her off. "You are not, and will never be, the woman Bellatrix is."
It was so surprising that Hermione's mouth snapped shut, and Lucius grimaced.
"I thought I was dying," he said briskly, rising to his feet. "I had things to say. Regrettably, I thought she would be sympathetic. I wish it surprised me more that she was not."
Hermione hesitated. "I wasn't trying to—"
"To pry? No, but perhaps you'll understand it more than my son ever will. You seem to already." He turned over his shoulder, considering her. "I love my wife. I love her, truly. What I have—had," he corrected himself stiffly, "with Bellatrix was something different. Not that you are entitled to my truths."
He walked to the window of his office, looking out into the London sky outside.
Hermione turned in her seat, facing him. "If I'm not entitled to know, then why tell me anything at all?"
"Because I have nothing to lose by doing so. Not like you." He glanced over his shoulder again. "You have everything to lose and you don't even realize it."
Unbelievable.
"You honestly think I don't realize it?" Hermione struggled to restrain her temper. "Draco's girlfriend or not, I've been in his life nearly five years! How blind do you think I am to not notice what's at stake?"
Lucius rounded on her, frustrated. "Do you even want this?" he pressed her, slamming a hand against his desk and referencing, somehow, the abstractions of his career. "What if I offered it to you sans Draco, hm? What if I said to take it," he ranted. "Take this, take all of it, it's yours now. Centuries of tradition, they are yours to bear. Right or wrong, the errors of everyone who came before you are yours alone. The responsibilities of bearing a crown, it will fall to you—"
He grew increasingly agitated as he spoke. Hermione followed the motion of his rapid pacing, managing to slip into his monologue, "Of course I don't want it without Draco—"
"THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
His voice was so frantic she winced, taken entirely by surprise, and Lucius curled a hand tightly around his mouth, collapsing into his vacant chair.
They were silent again for multiple minutes, Lucius fidgeting to numbly probe his temples between his fingers and thumb.
"The story they will never tell you is that I did propose to Bellatrix," he said, and Hermione blinked. "I did it without my father's approval, without even his knowledge. To this day he has no idea how resolutely I begged her to marry me."
Immediately, the entire narrative of Lucius' life as she had known it reshuffled in Hermione's head. She had never questioned, even for all the inaccuracy she'd known when it came to her own story, that Lucius' portrayal might have had similar fallacies.
"And?" she asked, leaning forward tentatively.
He shook his head. "She's not married to me, is she?" he said, brittle with impatience. "She was the smarter of the two of us. She took one look at the ring and refused."
"But then why wouldn't she—"
"Tell anyone?" He shrugged. "Doesn't suit her, I imagine. A better narrative for her purposes, making me the one who wronged her."
Hermione was fairly certain she was currently employing all of Pansy's least favorite nervous ticks, from twirling her hair to biting her lip. "Does Draco know?"
Another headshake. "No. Not even Narcissa knows. And I forbid you to tell them."
"You can't actually forbid me," Hermione replied without thinking, and Lucius sighed, raising his head to glare at her.
"You are not Bellatrix," he said again. "You love my son, that much is obvious. But my god," he exhaled, frustrated, "what are you doing? What are you thinking?"
"I—" Hermione glared at him. "What are you thinking?" she countered, her mind far more apt to focus on what he had recently informed her. "You genuinely thought you could ask to speak to Bellatrix privately and she wouldn't turn around and use you? I thought you loved your wife!"
"You are speaking to the Prince of Wales," Lucius snapped at her.
"Then act like it!" Hermione retorted brusquely, before realizing she had probably taken things a step too far. "Sorry," she said, clearing her throat. "Got a little carried away."
He scoffed. "I didn't know you were capable of apologizing."
"Sometimes," she muttered, "people earn it."
They glared at each other in silence.
"Jesus Christ," said Prince Lucifer, leaning back in his chair and giving her a brutally dismissive glance. "What do you bloody want from me?"
He seemed to be referring to her reason for visiting in the first place. "I'm not done," she informed him impatiently, and he waved a hand.
"Yes, in fact, you are. What is it?"
She wanted to continue the conversation, but that obviously wasn't happening. She folded her arms over her chest, recalling that at least he hadn't tried to extort her this time.
"Pansy," she said tightly. "You have to do something. She's being crucified by the press."
"Well, aren't we all."
Lucius was sulking, it seemed. "I'm not asking you to help me," Hermione reminded him. "I'm not even asking for much—just for you to do something, anything, to show that the royal family stands behind her. Surely it wouldn't hurt you to make her some sort of… I don't know. Some patron of something."
"Fine." Lucius drummed his fingers against the desk in thought, eventually grumbling under his breath, "She'll have to work, then. A public role on behalf of my father. But she will agree to whatever I choose."
"She will." She might, Hermione corrected herself, but decided to cross that bridge when she got to it. "I'll make sure she will."
"Fine." His percussing fidgeting stopped. "Are we done, then?"
"For now, apparently." Hermione rose to her feet, irritated again, but then paused, giving Lucius a deliberate glance as she curtsied in farewell. "I don't want your help," she told him firmly, "but if I had no other choice, I would consider it. I would consider considering," she amended, "it."
He shrugged. "That's all I asked," he reminded her.
"Though," she began, "about Princess Narcissa—"
"Out," Lucius said instantly, and Hermione sighed.
"Yes, Your Highness," she said, making her way to the door and sealing it carefully behind her.
Pansy listened without interruption; though, considering how little Hermione could actually relay from her meeting with Lucius, it wasn't a long explanation. It consisted mostly of one or two lines, loosely paraphrased as: "If you want Prince Lucifer's support, then you'll have to agree to his terms and do what Draco does. Appearances and things. Speaking engagements, I guess, maybe."
"I see." Pansy took a sip of her tea. "And if I don't?"
Hermione blinked, surprised. "If you don't what?"
"If I don't agree. Then what?"
"I—" She frowned. "Well, Pans, I assume that means they'll just keep doing what they're doing, which is nothing."
"Mm." Pansy tapped her foot, exhaling slowly, "And I should think this is a beneficial offer because…?"
"Are you serious?"
"Of course." Pansy shrugged, reaching down to adjust the strap of her shoe. "Bad press is bad press, Hermione. It happens. I don't see the point in making a fuss."
"But Pans, if you don't do this—" Hermione broke off, unsure how to proceed. Historically, Pansy rarely listened to anything. "Think of your baby," she began, but it became immediately apparent she'd chosen poorly when Pansy glared at her. A real glare, not just a look of disapproval, which was rare.
"I do, Hermione. Constantly."
"That's not what I meant, I was just—"
"You think I don't know what you meant?" Pansy's tone was clipped and bothered, agitated beyond her usual degree. "I was the one who told you about the questions of Draco's paternity, Hermione. Of the two of us, I certainly know very well what you're getting at."
"Well, fine," Hermione sighed, frustrated. "If you know, then why not just handle it now? Get Abraxas and Lucius to shut down the rumors?"
"Because it means—" Pansy's mouth tightened. "Because," she said brusquely, "I'm not Draco or Harry. I'm not even you." She gave Hermione another impatient glance. "I am not likable, Hermione, nor have I ever been. If you make me the face of anything, then—"
"Then what?" Hermione scoffed. "You get to actually decide how people see you? Surely it's better to have control of your image than—oh, I don't know," she said, caustically referencing herself, "sitting back and waiting until you have a turn to speak for yourself, hm?"
"This sounds like your problem, Hermione. Not mine. I certainly don't want to fight about it."
Pansy turned away, obviously dismissive, and for a moment, Hermione struggled to bite back her frustration. She thought of the headlines in the tabloids about their feud and it flashed, briefly, in her mind that maybe Rita Skeeter was right. She had done the work. She had suffered by herself while the Palace had continually denied her existence, time and time again. Now, Pansy swept in and chose silence while Hermione ached to be heard. She wrote under a pseudonym just so she could possess anything close to a voice; just to remind herself she existed, outside of the man she had chosen to love. All that effort, all that isolation, all that pain, and Pansy could so easily deny the acknowledgement Hermione might never get?
For a moment, it enraged her. Oh, so they could feud, then, but they couldn't fight? It incited Hermione to a momentary, breathless period of violent opposition. She was the thing that didn't belong, Pansy had always said so, and now that they were going through the same thing—
Pansy reached down, adjusting her shoe again. This time, Hermione caught a trace of redness, obvious pain where the strap sat; none of which showed on Pansy's face. She merely touched one perfectly manicured finger to the buckle, appearing to contemplate it for a moment, and then tucked one ankle behind the other, resuming her seat again. Even in her own home, Pansy was the portrait of resolute elegance. If it were Hermione, or even Daphne, they'd be in sweats by now, cozied up in something and resplendently barefoot. Only Pansy dressed each day like this, as if anything shy of perfection would kill her.
They weren't going through the same thing, Hermione realized, slowly releasing her fury.
They had never gone through the same things.
"Pans," Hermione said, and Pansy looked up, guarded. "The world won't end if you fail at something, you know."
Pansy's dark brow furrowed. "I never said—"
"You don't have to care anymore what your mother thinks, Pans, or what anyone thinks." Hermione scooted closer to her, graceless, and held her hand out, expectant. "Give me the shoe, Pansy."
Pansy balked. "I beg your pardon?"
"The shoe, Pans, give it to me. It hurts, take it off."
"That—" Pansy inhaled, stiffening. "If this is some sort of heinous metaphor—"
"Give me," Hermione began, and exhaled swiftly, "the bloody shoe."
Pansy, unsurprisingly, began to argue. "I don't know what sort of colonial escapade you think this is, Hermione—"
"Are we doing this?" Hermione demanded. "Are we going to fight about it, Pansy? Give it to me," she said, reaching forward as Pansy swatted her hand away.
"For the love of god, you're being a total barbarian—"
"You're just as educated as Draco!" Hermione snapped, incensed. "You're more educated than Harry! Why should they be allowed to represent this country and not you?"
"That," Pansy retorted, "has nothing to do with anything, and—let go of me—"
Pansy held Hermione's head at arm's length, giving her a shove. "You were fine with the idea when it was Neville!" Hermione growled, swatting her hand away, and Pansy scoffed, accidentally smacking her elbow into Hermione's forehead.
"The things I would have done as Neville's wife were hardly the s- Ouch," she yelped, as Hermione nipped at her fingers. "Did you just bite me?"
"Admit that you're scared," Hermione said. "Just say it!"
"Absolutely not," Pansy replied instantly, and Hermione bent down, grabbing hold of Pansy's ankle. "WHAT—ARE—YOU—DOING—"
"I'm taking off your shoe, you absolute maniac—"
"I'm the maniac?"
"YES," Hermione said, wrestling her hand free from Pansy's death grip. "It's cutting into your skin, Pansy!"
"That's none of your bus- OUCH!"
Hermione managed to free the strap from the buckle, yanking the shoe from Pansy's foot. Pansy, meanwhile, let out a roar of something that immediately became a whimper, her thumb dropping to soothe the welts her shoes had drilled into her ankle.
"You horrible brute," Pansy said, and then, to Hermione's astonishment, she sniffled, swiping inelegantly at her nose. "I was… I was perfectly fine, and now you've—you've gone and—"
"Oh, hush," Hermione said, rolling her eyes and sitting on the floor to take Pansy's other foot in her hand, removing the buckle with slightly more patience this time. "It's hurting you, whether you want to acknowledge it or not," she said gruffly, and Pansy scowled at her through tears.
"If that's a metaph-"
"NOT EVERYTHING IS A METAPHOR," Hermione said, and then, to her bemusement, she suddenly felt the urge to cry, too. An excess of emotion in the room, or some sort of sort of betrayal by her body. Hermione looked up at Pansy, holding her breath, and then released in a stream of unpreventable blubbering, "I just want you to be happy, Pansy!"
"I just want you to be happy," Pansy sobbed, holding both hands to her face. "Don't you see I deserve this," she said, muffled into her palms, "after everything I put you through? You're the one who should be giving speeches, not me, I've done nothing, absolutely nothing—"
"You're the dumbest girl," Hermione wailed. "Just the dumbest, dumbest girl!"
"I know," Pansy wept, struggling to breathe. "I can't believe you spoke to Prince Lucius for me—"
"I can't believe you're crying—"
"I'm not crying, you're crying—"
"Shut up, I am not—"
"You are—"
"What in the unholy afterlife is going on?" came a voice behind them, as Pansy and Hermione looked up from their twin piles of estrogen to find Daphne standing in the doorway, looking utterly bewildered. "I thought we were having dinner," Daphne said, wandering inside with a shake of her head, "but if we're having a cry, then so be it, I suppose."
"What do you have to cry about?" Pansy demanded, as Daphne flounced on the floor beside Hermione.
"What? Nothing. I just want to be included," Daphne sniffed, which, unfortunately, made Pansy cry even harder.
"I don't know why it's so hard for me to just say thank you," she said, reaching blindly for Hermione's hand and tangling her fingers with hers. "I only want to say thank you, but every time I try, it comes out entirely wrong—"
"Don't thank me," Hermione said, wiping her eyes as Daphne leaned against her shoulder. "Just do this, will you? Please, just do whatever Prince Lucifer asks."
Pansy hiccuped once, settling her nerves, and then slid slowly to the floor, letting Daphne and Hermione take up either side of her.
"Promise me," Pansy said, "that you will always fight with me."
Daphne gave Hermione a quizzical look, which Hermione waved away. She'd explain it later, when they got around to it, and Daphne shrugged, evidently in agreement.
"I promise," Hermione assured Pansy, pulling her and Daphne in for what ended up being a very squashed, highly awkward embrace. So much for not feuding, she thought fondly, and kissed the tops of her dumb friends' heads. "You will always, always be worth the fight."
"So? How was it?"
"Not too terrible," Hermione replied, settling herself on her bed. "I mean, it was definitely moderately terrible—"
"Understandable," Draco said kindly.
"—but only to a safely predictable degree." She reclined against her pillows with a sigh, relieved to be home. "Now I just have to worry about my deadline for the Dr Pomfrey blog tomorrow, which is a perfectly reasonable thing to have on my mind."
"Ah, yes, right. Well, I'd let you go," Draco said carefully, "only I had a thought about something."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. So, remember how I owe you?"
"Yes," Hermione sighed, "it rings a bell."
"Right, well, I don't really want you running off with another blond prince, so I thought maybe I'd try to fix it."
"Mm?"
"Yes. Only if you're up for it."
Hermione closed her eyes. "Seems questionable, but go ahead."
"Okay. Well, first thing. Are you alone?"
"Creepy question but yes, I'm at home."
"Okay. And are you, ah." She heard him swallow. "Are you… wearing anything?"
Hermione's eyes snapped open.
"What?"
"Sorry, no, let me back up. What," he clarified, "are you wearing?"
She sat upright. "Jeans. A sweater."
"Oh, the grey one?"
"Draco." She couldn't decide whether to be elated or concerned. "Are you… is this…?"
"Phone sex? Maybe. Kind of. I mean, Ideally, yes."
"Oh my god."
"Should I stop?"
"What? Jesus, no. Did you actually think you'd started?"
"Well, I asked what you were wearing."
"Yes, but I—" Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes, and flopped back on the bed. "Okay, never mind, just keep going."
"Oh. Well, right, okay—jeans, you said?"
She glanced down. "Yes."
"Take them off. Prince's orders."
"Alright, Your Highness." She bit back a smile, setting the phone down and wiggling out of her jeans before putting the speaker to her ear again. "They're off."
"Knickers?"
"Black."
"Sexy. Off."
"I'm still wearing a sweater, Draco."
"The jumper will come off when I say it comes off, Miss Granger."
To her utter delight, she shivered.
"Alright," she said, holding the phone in place with her shoulder, "knickers are off, old boy, cheerio."
"Please," he sighed, "do not do that."
"Fine, fine. What now?"
"That's a good question. Hm." She bit back a laugh as Draco considered it. "Well, if I were there, I would be touching you right about now. Kissing your stomach, your hips. That scar on the inside of your knee."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Take the jumper off now."
"One sec." She set the phone down, removing her sweater, and re-settled herself on the bed. "Now?"
"Hmm," he mused, and then, "You know what I like? The sound you make when I touch you, the little gasp at first. The little twitch of surprise, I love that."
"It's because your hands are usually cold."
"It's my blue blood. Can you do it for me?"
"What, gasp?"
"Yes."
She blinked. "Wait, are you…"
"Also participating? Yes, Hermione. It's called consensual sex."
"Oh." Now that was exciting. "I'll gasp if you moan," she offered, and he laughed.
"You want me to moan?"
"Yes, Draco, I want you to moan."
"Right, well—" He gave a little gruff sound of something that, somehow—despite how maybe-poorly this was going—successfully made her breath fall short, unintentionally complying with his instructions. "Like that?"
"Yes, like that, god—"
"I miss the taste of you. It's the first thing I'd do if I had you right now, if I were there. I'd take you in my arms, of course, I'd kiss you until you gasped in my mouth, but then I'd make my way down your torso. God, I miss the way you taste."
Okay. Okay, so it wasn't going poorly at all. "Yeah?"
"Yes. Do you like my tongue on you?"
Jesus. "Yes. I like," she began, and hesitated.
"Come on, then. Tell me."
Tell me. Prince's orders.
"I like the way your mouth feels on my… you know."
"Apex of your thighs?"
"Jesus. Clit." She half-laughed. "Is that dirty?"
"Yes. I like it. Please continue."
"I love the way your mouth feels. How hot your breath is." She inhaled sharply. "I like when your fingers are inside me."
"Do it."
"Do what?"
"Use your fingers." She felt herself positively pulse with longing. "Pretend they're mine."
Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Okay," she said, and yep, she was wet already. This was happening. This was very definitely happening. "Oh," she exhaled, closing her eyes. "Now what?"
"I'm fucking you with my fingers." Fuck. She could count on one hand how many times she'd heard him say it. "Your legs are tight around my head."
"Oh, oh my god."
"Don't like it?"
"No, I… I like it. I just. It's… new. This. It's new."
"How do you want me to fuck you?" That was two. Christ.
"I want you to slide up against my—" Breasts? Boobs? "Tits?"
"Yeah?"
"Yes, I want you to, um. Suck on them. My nipples, I mean."
He swore quietly under his breath, then returned to the phone. "Right, okay. I'm sliding my tongue around your nipples, Hermione, and I'm—I'm hard for you. That's not even a lie, I'm completely telling the truth. Just the sound of you, I'm—" He swallowed. "I miss you."
"Put your hand on your—" Dick. Prick? No. "Cock. Put your hand on your cock. It's mine, I'm stroking you slowly."
"Ah, but I'm supposed to be doing this for you—"
"Fine. I'm stroking your cock with my hand, but now I'm asking for more. I want more."
"What do you want?"
"I want you, Draco. I want you inside me, I want you to fuck me."
"I'm kissing your neck the way you like it. Running my tongue along your jaw."
"I have my hands in your hair, my legs around your hips—"
"I love it when you do that. Drives me positively mad."
"You're looking at my face."
"Always. Always, Hermione, I love to watch you come."
She shivered, working her hand faster against her clit.
"Tell me more," she begged him.
"I'm fucking you slowly, so slowly." Three. "We have all night. I'm taking my time."
"I want it faster."
"Well, too bad." She groaned. "I'm going to take you right to the edge and tease you. Maybe scrape my knuckles along your clit right when you think you can't bear it, hm?"
"Asshole."
He chuckled, breathing hard on his end. "I want your mouth."
"Have it. I like to kiss you when I'm about to come."
"Are you?"
"About to come? Yes."
"Don't." She whimpered. "Take your hand away for a second."
"Draco, you royal bastard—"
"Just wait, Hermione. Baby," he said softly, "babe, just wait."
She squirmed, fingers tightening in her vacant sheets.
"I love you," he said, "I love the way you look, the way you taste, the way you feel. Love how strong you are, how smart. How brave."
Her throat was impossibly dry.
"Love the way your hair looks on my sheets. Love to put my hands in it, make a little mess of you. Love when you arch your back and pull me closer."
"Draco," she pleaded softly, and he chuckled.
"Love it when you beg," he murmured, and she let out a loud groan.
"Draco—"
"Okay," he said, "okay. Put your hand where I would be."
JesusfuckingChrist. "Okay—"
"I want to fuck you harder now." Four. "I want to be deep inside you."
She said something incoherent; something delirious, and then, "Yes."
"Are you going to come, Hermione? Come for me, I want to feel it."
She felt it like an avalanche, fivefourthreetwoone—"Oh god," she gasped, biting her teeth around the sound of it, and from the breathless silence on the other end, she figured he was close. "Draco, oh, Draco, I love the way you feel inside me," she hurried to say, mindlessly conjuring phrases she assumed would be effective as her wave of recent orgasm slowly ebbed away. "Miss the way your skin tastes, love your mouth on me, all over me, want you to fuck me like this all night, want you to pin me to the bed and—"
"Hermione," he choked out, and she bit her lip, silently satisfied, as she waited for the sound of his breathing to slow again, steadying quietly.
She stayed on the phone with him in silence, still in her bra and nothing else, and listened to the sound of his breathing for two minutes… three… five.
"Well," he said eventually, clearing his throat. "That was…"
He took a few more breaths, trailing off.
"It's possible I need to come home immediately," he murmured, and she laughed, rolling onto her side to face the picture of them she'd returned to her nightstand.
"I love you," she said. "Really kind of a lot."
"And I love you really quite terribly," he agreed. "Inconveniently."
"Ardently?"
"That's the one."
She smiled, then paused for a moment.
"Hey, Draco," she said, "would you choose this? This life, I mean. Your job. Your… title. If you had a choice."
"You mean if I could be with you some other way?"
"No, I mean—" She shook her head, which of course he couldn't see. "No, just leave me out of it for a second. Say I'm a foregone conclusion. Would you still want this?"
Gratifyingly, he took a few moments to answer, considering her question at length.
"Not every day," he admitted. "Some days, no. Many days, actually."
I know what it is to feel trapped, Lucius said in Hermione's mind.
"But then, other days, I am incredibly grateful this is my birthright," Draco said, surprising her. "Responsibility means having the power to make changes—to make decisions, to take action, to impact others. It's no small thing."
"Oh." Still, it was quite a price. The cost of power was steep.
"Having second thoughts?" he asked her, warily interpreting her silence.
"Eh, third or fourth. Maybe somewhere in the sixties."
He gave a low laugh. "Well, I promised you time," he reminded her. "Time I unfortunately regret offering, given my… current state."
"Restraint's a real bitch, isn't she?"
She heard him smile.
"Well, time to sleep, I imagine. Have that deadline in the morning."
"Yes, that. Bed, then?"
"Tragically alone, yes."
"You did this," she pointed out.
"I know." A pause, and then, "Goodnight, Hermione."
She looked at his smile from the frame beside her bed, replaying it in her memory until she imagined she could feel the warmth of it on her face.
"Goodnight, Draco," she said, and hung up the phone, suddenly quite exhausted.
I think, at that point in my life, I was just starting to see myself as a vehicle for making things happen. I had pushed Daphne, once. I pushed Pansy. For that one instance, I even managed to successfully push Lucius.
But it would still be some time before I figured out where I fit into the fabric of my surroundings.
a/n: Thank you again for reading! Keep an eye on Modern Romance—it may see an epilogical update this week.