Chapter 33: Arrow
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
Lady in Waiting
Following the scandals of 2014, Hermione seemed to be taking a much quieter role at the same time Duchess Pansy's prominence in media grew. For much of 2015 and 2016, Prince Harry's wife filled the long-coveted role once belonging to Princess Narcissa as a beloved public figure, eclipsing even the film and television stars of the era to establish her legacy of elegant, quintessentially British style. It would appear that during this time, Hermione slowly began to discover her own sense of fashion as well, conforming to an expectation of propriety and taste that would be well established by the time her engagement to Prince Draco was announced.
Some might argue this change was precipitated by Hermione's wish to prove herself capable of going toe-to-toe with the Duchess of Grimmauld, or perhaps to show His Majesty that she, too, could rise above the unfortunate scandals of the previous year. Whatever the reason, there is little question that Hermione's quest for Draco's heart was considerably aided by the period of relative silence she spent cultivating what would ultimately become her royal persona.
It's funny how Rita Skeeter's version of my life and my own are, despite numerous fallacies, basically the same story, just being told in dramatically different ways. However you slice it, this looks like a story about how an English prince met an American commoner who changed both their lives forever… only it isn't, really. Her version is entirely about two people fighting to be together against the odds—which isn't not the same as mine, but I think it's pretty clear from passages like this one how knowing the details can make the difference.
Personally, it's hard not to see my story as a comedy of errors. One that was about to become even more so, actually, because there is one particular human blunder that we haven't yet had the pleasure to meet.
March 27, 2015
London, England
The introduction to a new client at the end of March was, rather unexpectedly, the most equally fortunate and unfortunate thing to happen to Hermione in several months. She had been enjoying moderate success with Minerva and a handful of her acquaintances, finding it to be marginally steady income, but when the opportunity arose to expand her portfolio, Hermione thought it only natural to accept.
("A reasonable conclusion," Draco later said. "Good intentions, as it were."
"Good intentions can go hang," replied Hermione.
"Well. As a matter of professional ethics, I don't take hangings lightly," Draco informed her, "but that being said, yes. True.")
"I'm so sorry about this," said Dr Pomona Sprout, a semi-introverted conservationist who was experimenting with plants that could be used to combat global climate change. "I'm afraid he was rather insistent I introduce you. The article you wrote on my behalf was… well," she mumbled hastily, "as you know, it was quite well-regarded, certainly more so than any of my previous efforts, and—"
"Dr Sprout, I'm more than happy to chat with him. I'm certainly not in a position to turn down more work." (And she wasn't, seeing as she didn't exactly have a royal budget. Or any budget, for that matter.) "Tell your friend he's welcome to email me," Hermione assured her.
"Oh, he's not my friend," Dr Sprout said quickly. "We're… acquaintances. We were colleagues, once. Sort of," she clarified, wincing. "Well, colleagues would be a stretch, but I'm afraid we do, um. All have our struggles, don't we? Career-wise, et cetera—"
"Well, I'm happy to speak with him regardless," Hermione said, a bit bemused by Dr Sprout's hesitation. "Does he need a blogger or something? Copywriting?"
"Hm, yes, well… I'll just let him tell you, shall I?" was Dr Sprout's rushed answer, before she rapidly changed the subject, switching gears and dropping any mention of it until Hermione had foggily forgotten her request.
The following week, Hermione received a very strange email from a man she vacantly knew as a prominent English self-help author; sort of a Dr Phil-type public figure, she supposed, though exceedingly British—almost a caricature of one, really. For a moment, she was convinced she had incorrectly read the signature.
Dear Ms Clearwater,
It is my pleasure to inform you I will be paying your office a visit this afternoon. Conveniently, I find myself free! There is no need to thank me, of course, and do not worry, whatever you have on will be perfectly acceptable. My dear friend Pomona tells me you were exceedingly keen to meet me. (Don't hold that against her, my dear—it is quite a common reaction!)
There will be no need for additional security measures; I always travel with my own team. As for refreshments, a nice hibiscus tea will be fine. Sweetened with passionfruit would be ideal, but I understand it can be difficult to acquire for those who lack my relationship with the foreign fruit markets.
Cheers!
Gilderoy Lockhart
Bestselling Author and Personality
5-time Winner of Woman's Weekly Most Charming Smile
(In Draco's later words: "Yikes."
"I regret introducing you to that phrase," Hermione said.
"Why, am I misusing it?"
"Unfortunately, no. You just manage to make it so posh somehow," she grumbled.)
"Minerva," Hermione called, wandering into Minerva's office with the email pulled up on her phone. "Sorry to bother you, but have you ever met Gilderoy Lockhart?"
"The silly man-boy who writes putrefying nonsense? No, thankfully," Minerva said without looking up. "I'm rather outside his preferred demographic, I'm pleased to say. I've narrowly missed meeting him several times, though not without considerable effort. Why?" she asked, her spectacles balanced precariously low on her nose as she looked up at Hermione.
"Oh, nothing important," Hermione managed faintly. "Only that he's coming here for a meeting."
"What on earth for?" Minerva said, balking. "I specifically had Wood leave him off the call list!"
As if summoned by magic, Oliver appeared in the doorway, poking his head in. "Minnie, you rang?"
"No, no," Minerva said impatiently. "Granger here said Lockhart, and I momentarily panicked."
"I always leave him off the call list," Oliver said, staring accusingly at Hermione. "What've you done, Granger?"
"Well, I—" Hermione fumbled slightly in protest. "Dr Sprout told me she had a friend in need of a writer—"
"Well, of course," Minerva scoffed. "Everyone knows all of Lockhart's books are ghostwritten, the man can't write the ingredients of a can of soup. Though," she sighed, "I can't imagine what you might have done to Pomona to make her take such drastic action against you."
"I think it was supposed to be a favor?" Hermione guessed. "I mean, I do need the money, so—"
"Nobody needs money this badly," Oliver scoffed, though to Hermione's surprise, Minerva's face clearly said differently. She gave Hermione a look of mild remorse, which Oliver interpreted with a grimace, and then both of them turned to Hermione with hesitation.
"What?" Hermione demanded, glancing between them. "What's going on?"
"Well," Oliver said, and glanced at Minerva. "Do you want this one, Minnie?"
"Not particularly," Minerva sniffed, and Oliver shrugged.
"Well, suit yourself, but it won't be gentle, then—"
"I don't need gentle," Hermione cut in, exasperated. "What's going on?"
"Oh, nothing, really. Only that we're on the brink of failure," Oliver informed her, incongruously cheerful. "Soon to be remedied, I'm sure. Minus Robins, who will likely be on the chopping block soon."
"Sorry, did you say something?" came Demelza's voice, resounding timidly from the main office.
"BACK TO WORK, ROBINS," Oliver barked over his shoulder, turning back to Hermione with a shrug. "Poor thing."
"I don't understand," Hermione said, turning to Minerva with surprise. "I thought the Knockturn campaign was going well?"
Minerva's response was brisk, nearly flippant. "It is. Was. Unfortunately, some of our donors have pulled funding."
Hermione balked. "What on earth for?"
"Mm, well, surprise, surprise—that harpy of a Skeeter woman somehow managed to smell blood in the water," Oliver said, missing Minerva's obvious silencing glance and narrating to Hermione without restraint. "Granted, the auction didn't do as well as we'd hoped, but that was hardly an excuse to accuse us of embezzlement. Even a whisper of a scandal is enough to scare most of our patrons away," he said with half a demonic laugh, still completely unaware of Minerva's increasingly warning glare, "and now, of course, with Augusta's contribution gone—"
"Augusta's out?" Hermione echoed, stunned. "But why—"
She turned slowly to Minerva, who was rubbing her temples with a sigh.
("You can't blame yourself for everything," Draco told Hermione soothingly over the phone, "and certainly not this. Although… I'm quite sure you're going to, aren't you? So I suppose I'm wasting my time," he sighed.
"I'm hardly that predictable," Hermione retorted.
"Unfortunately, Miss Granger," Draco replied fondly, "on some counts, you very much are.")
"This is because of me," Hermione guessed, turning to Minerva with a grimace. "Rita Skeeter is discrediting you because of me, isn't she? And Augusta doesn't want any more bad press, I'm sure," she realized with frustration, recalling that Augusta and Neville had yet to venture out publicly in some months.
Minerva waved a hand, dismissing her concerns. "We'll survive it. The point is, you are quite right to think of your career. It is highly possible this project may not have sufficient business meriting your services much longer."
"But why didn't you tell me?" Hermione pressed. "You don't have to pay me, Minerva. And if you need more donors, I can try to find a bigger name publication for the Knockturn profile—"
"This is not your problem to solve, Miss Granger. Wood and I are taking care of it," Minerva said firmly, leveling yet another glance at Oliver. "Your energy," she said, resuming her attention to Hermione, "is better spent securing new clients, however unpalatable they may be."
"But—"
"Lockhart will remain on the do-not-call list," Minerva said to Oliver, waving a hand to send him bouncing away with a nod. "As for you, Miss Granger, perhaps it would be best to draft a non-disclosure agreement for him to sign before he arrives here. The others may have been respectful of your identity," she warned, "but I do not think Gilderoy Lockhart capable of keeping much of anything to himself."
Hermione blinked, registering this was excellent advice. If he revealed the truth about her pseudonym, she was relatively done for. "Right, of course," she agreed, hurrying away to reply to Lockhart's email.
("What did you tell him?" Draco asked.
"Oh, you know. I took a very brisk and businesslike tone."
"...Did you?"
"Yes! I think. Mostly.")
Dear Mr Lockhart,
I look forward to meeting with you! In advance of your arrival this afternoon, would you please consider signing the attached NDA? Forgive me if it seems unconventional, but for the protection of both parties, I feel it may be prudent.
Sincerely,
Penelope Clearwater
("Prudent," Draco echoed thoughtfully. "A very diplomatic word."
"Mm," Hermione agreed, "I do know some of those.")
Within minutes, she had an electronically-signed form in her inbox, along with the email:
Ms Clearwater,
What a marvelous idea! I confess, I often worry things said in confidence will reveal themselves publicly, either for better or worse. Never can be too careful, I say! Why, I once mentioned to Prince Draco my great love of Scotland, and behold, he chose to attend university at Hogwarts. Which is not to say I'm a close confidante of the Prince, of course… or at least, I'm not saying it until after you sign the form, that is! Ha! Ha! In any case, better that we settle matters of privacy now. I should hate to influence you too greatly through no fault of my own!
Cheers!
Gilderoy Lockhart
Bestselling Author and Personality
5-time Winner of Woman's Weekly Most Charming Smile
"Jesus," remarked Hermione in an undertone.
("What I want to know is who he lost most charming smile to," Draco remarked to himself. "That, and whether or not they're still alive."
Later, Hermione would be able to say with disarming certainty: "Frankly, I doubt it.")
Hermione looked up at Demelza's desk, contemplating her for a moment. "We don't have any hibiscus tea, do we?"
"Mm, I don't think so," said Demelza, pondering it for a moment as behind her, Oliver slid his finger across his throat, giving Hermione a pointed look to remind her (as if she could forget) of Demelza's impending doom. "Why, should I fetch some?"
"Erm, no, thanks," Hermione said, forcing a smile and attempting to surreptitiously wave Oliver away. "You just, um. Keep working."
"Okay," Demelza said cheerfully, returning to her keyboard as Oliver began feigning stabbing motions into his neck.
"Miss Clearwater!" declared the man who could only be Gilderoy Lockhart, sweeping into the room wearing what Hermione would argue was a very Blaise-like cape. "A pleasure to introduce myself," he said, folding into an elaborate bow. He was wearing something very similar to the ensembles Draco typically wore when he was representing his grandfather at state functions; Gilderoy even had a similar series of insignia and medals pinned to his lapel, beneath which he wore a velvet brocade vest.
"Hello, Mr Lockhart," Hermione said, rising to her feet to extend a hand. "Apologies for the unorthodox introduction, but I'm—"
"My goodness, has anyone ever told you that you look precisely like Hermione Granger?" Gilderoy remarked, clasping Hermione's hand and shaking it with vigor. "I, of course, have a far sharper eye than most—your teeth are much larger," he declared, "and, of course, you must be several inches smaller, by comparison you are positively diminutive—I was introduced to her, you see, on the occasion of Prince Draco's last birthday," Gilderoy offered solemnly, dropping his voice to a near whisper. "Did you read in the news about his feud with Prince Harry? All my doing, I'm afraid."
"I," Hermione began, still utterly puzzled, but ultimately opted to go with, "I heard they're no longer feuding."
"Well, I'm pleased the Palace is finally reporting something true, for once," Gilderoy said, with both a conspiratorial glance and a palpable sigh of relief. "I must say, it was a difficult process, but I do have a talent for arbitration."
Hermione blinked, slightly dizzied.
("Is it very wrong of me to find this very entertaining?" Draco later asked her. "I hate to say it, but the man has an admirable certainty."
"I think 'admirable' might be a stretch, don't you?"
"Mmm… I'm afraid not," Draco lamented. "Unfortunately, I suspect that if I were given the opportunity to bottle his confidence, I might do it. You know, just for my off days," he assured her, "and perhaps, from time to time, during sex."
"Please," Hermione scoffed. "As if you need help."
"True," Draco said, not-so-quietly pleased. "I suppose I don't.")
"Pardon me if I'm being completely obtuse," Hermione said slowly, to which Gilderoy permitted an obliging nod, "but… are you suggesting that you had something to do with the Princes' reconciliation?"
"Well, I certainly can't take full credit," Gilderoy said sagely. "They both wanted it, in the end. I was just there to absorb some of the tension, you might say."
"Mm, yes, I see," Hermione evasively agreed, "and you also think I look like Hermione Granger?"
"You do know who she is, don't you?" Gilderoy said, and before Hermione could answer, he had already scoffed to himself, "Why no, of course you don't—just another failure of celebrity," he sighed heavily. "Because of course nobody really knows anyone, no matter how dazzling their public persona. Such a pity, as I'm sure you know. She's a lovely girl," he offered fondly, "given such a difficult lot in life, I'm afraid. Told me herself she was quietly adopted by the couple purporting to be her parents."
"Is that," Hermione began, and coughed. "True?"
"Oh, indubitably. She's actually of an ancient noble line, if you can believe that!" Gilderoy said with a laugh. "Her blood runs purer even than the Royal Family's, I imagine—though, I'm sure she'd like to keep that to herself, so please, do not ask me to substantiate my knowledge. I would never betray her trust that way."
("Well, at least he has morals."
"Draco, I worry your defense of him might actually be mildly troubling."
"Ah, valid. Retracted, then.")
"I… yes," Hermione faintly agreed, "quite right. Sorry," she added, grimacing slightly, "how do you know Dr Sprout, again?"
Gilderoy paused for a moment, frowning. "Dr Sprout?"
"Yes. She recommended me?"
"Oh! My heavens, you mean Pomona, landscaper to the stars!" Gilderoy crowed, bewildering Hermione even further. "Yes, she is responsible for the garden in my country home, which I must say, was quite a revelation. You would know that, I'm sure," he remarked, nudging her. "I wouldn't hold just anyone responsible for my garden portraiture."
"I really don't know why I'm asking this," Hermione sighed, "but what, exactly, is garden portraiture?"
"Oh, my girl, only the finest of landscape artistry," Gilderoy exclaimed. "Surely Pomona told you?"
("Did Dr Sprout ever tell you how they know each other?" Draco asked, quite reasonably, and in fact, Hermione had later discovered that a sheepish Dr Sprout once sought funding for one of her projects from a board which included Gilderoy Lockhart as one of its prominent members. Mistaking her for some sort of fancy gardener, he agreed that he would secure the board's vote to apportion funding to her conservation research in exchange for her creation of several elaborate shrubberies—all of which were designed to look like Gilderoy himself.
"It's kind of a long story," Hermione said, "but I've seen the shrubberies, and they are very impressive."
"Well, she does seem to take great pride in her work," Draco said kindly.)
"Anyway, that aside," Hermione said, "as for your copywriting needs—"
"No, no, not copy," Gilderoy corrected her, draping himself over the chair opposite hers. "No, I need your assistance on my next book. A memoir," he explained, "my first, in fact."
Hermione, who was unsure she'd ever seen Gilderoy Lockhart promote anything other than himself, was unable to dismiss a skeptical, "Really?"
"Well, my other books have been about using my experiences to help others. How to win friends and influence people, for example—"
"Isn't that by Dale Carnegie?" Hermione asked.
"Oh, he wrote something similar, I suppose," Gilderoy said, shrugging, "but there was also my book about finding love and creating lasting relationships—"
"Aren't you rather notoriously unmarried?"
"—and, of course, a critically-acclaimed book that perhaps you've heard of? It's called Ask, Believe, Receive, which I'm sure you're well aware continues to be the bestselling book in its category—"
("Isn't that the whole idea behind The Secret?" asked Draco, and then, after a moment's thought, "I think I remember Oprah telling me I should read it."
Dismissing that Draco had apparently met Oprah, which was a fact that would later enthuse her mother, Hermione replied, "Oh yes, famously. But eventually I decided to just stop pointing it out."
"Ah, yes. Makes sense," Draco agreed.)
"—but naturally, it soon became obvious that people were clamoring for more details about my life story," Gilderoy concluded, giving Hermione a look of admirable humility, "so, after some pressure from my publishers, I finally agreed. Naturally, we'll discuss your availability and my work preferences, but—"
"I'm sorry," Hermione interrupted. "But aren't you supposed to be an author?"
"In more of a spiritual capacity, yes," Gilderoy said, appearing to genuinely believe that was a statement that made sense. "I'm afraid my previous ghostwriter had other obligations, and it has now become necessary for me to undertake a new partnership."
("What happened to his previous ghostwriter?" Draco asked curiously.
"You know, I spent a lot of time trying to sort it out," Hermione said.
"Any luck?"
"Well, as far as I can tell, a great number of people have been paid enormous sums of money not to talk about it."
"Hmm. I could pay more, if you wanted. Or arrest some people, up to you."
"Draco," she sighed, "your prince is showing."
"What? It's a fact—"
"I know. A fact which never stops being weird."
"Good weird?"
"Weird weird."
"Alright, fair enough.")
"So," Gilderoy continued, "as for the terms of our working arrangement, rest assured you'll be paid quite handsomely for your time. I expect you to record our many conversations, of course," he said, "and you will be responsible for all writing and editing. Once I have cast my expert eye upon your work and given my approval, my publisher wants a polished draft by the end of the summer," he informed her, "which, I imagine, is feasible?"
Hermione cast a longing glance over her shoulder to where Minerva and Oliver were meeting in her office. If Minerva was right that The Transfiguration Project was suffering, that was a major client gone. She could probably find other ways to pay the bills, but none this quickly.
"Yes," she sighed, turning to Gilderoy. "Yes, I suppose so."
"Marvelous," Gilderoy declared, and then glanced around. "I don't suppose you were able to get any of my requested tea?"
"I'm afraid not, Mr Lockhart," Hermione said, "but if you'd like to keep some here for when we spend time on your book—"
"Oh, no, no," Gilderoy said with a shudder, casting a gaze around with repulsion. "This absolutely won't do. No, we'll meet at The Chamber Club, of course. I can't be expected to work… here," he remarked, derisive for a moment, then resuming his previous buoyancy. "Shall we reconvene next week, then, Penny?"
"Penny?" Hermione echoed, confused.
"Unless you have a more preferable nickname," Gilderoy sniffed, as Hermione recalled the unlikely truth that he genuinely believed her to be Penelope Clearwater, ghostwriter. "Though, you should know, the Chamber is extremely exclusive, very private—secretive, even. You'll have to dress much better than this," he pointed out with an undertone of sympathy, "so I'll send over some swatches. You and Hermione Granger certainly have that in common," he added with a laugh. "One of these days I'll talk her out of those cardigans."
("Something I'm hoping to do myself," Draco wistfully remarked.
"What, you don't like my cardigans?"
"No, I do," he said, "I just prefer them on my floor."
She groaned, "...Really?"
"You're right," Draco sighed. "I apologize.")
Hermione pulled said cardigan closer around herself, clearing her throat.
"Well, I'll send over an employment contract, then," she suggested, "and once we've sorted the details, I'll see you next week?"
"Mm. Any chance of champagne while I'm here?" Gilderoy asked hopefully, and as Hermione shook her head, he sighed. "Well, fine. Next week it is," he said, rising to his feet and holding out a hand. "Pleasure doing business with you, Penny."
"And with—" Hermione broke off as Gilderoy gave her hand an ostentatious kiss, foregoing the proffered handshake in favor of… whatever that was. "You," she finished, narrowly avoiding being smacked in the face by his cloak before he swept out of the conference room, gracefully descending the stairs.
By April, Hermione knew with uncomfortable certainty what she'd taken on when she acquired Gilderoy Lockhart as a client. She had initially been apprehensive that people might take notice of her meeting him at his social club, but he had at least been right about one thing: The Chamber Club was an extremely private place, with an almost Illuminati degree of security. It was only reached through the lavatory of an institutional building (it was a bit like a speakeasy that way, hidden within an old library) but permission inside revealed a spacious, dimly-lit, smoke-covered and heavily-velveted entry hall that faced a pair of old portraits: one a young, unsmiling King Abraxas, and mirroring it, a similar portrait of young Prince Lucius.
Enemies of the heir beware, Hermione texted Draco upon first discovering the portrait of his father—or tried to, before a man in a full suit of armor made it uncomfortably clear there was to be no text messaging or photography. This, again, revealed itself to be very much to Hermione's advantage. Not once while working there had anyone looked at her, and in fact, she was hardly the least interesting person inside the Chamber.
Once, she was quite certain she'd seen a man who could easily have been a giant, and whatever he was dealing to a deeply handsome stranger—either illicit drugs or dragon eggs, she couldn't be sure—he was definitely a more noticeable presence than she was. After that, Hermione stopped worrying she'd be recognized and, instead, turned her attention to the much larger problem of the actual work.
Which was to say, her client.
"Gilderoy Lockhart is a total buffoon," scoffed Pansy on one of Hermione's rare evenings off, and beside her, Harry nodded his agreement.
"I don't use the word 'buffoon' lightly, but in this case, it's definitely the right one," he said, lamenting it slightly. "I've only met Lockhart once, but it was… a fairly intolerable experience that I don't wish to repeat."
("I was there, actually," Draco later told Hermione. "I believe Lockhart was trying very hard to become friends with Harry? Which, of course, I was only marginally upset about."
"You were upset?" Hermione echoed, scoffing. "What on earth for?"
"Well, I believe he was busy telling Harry they were both, you know. Ladies' men, et cetera, which was, at the time, quite a blow to my teenage confidence—"
"Draco. This is a very weird side of you."
"Well, you agreed to marry me, Miss Granger. If you can't love me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best," he sniffed.)
"Mm, well, you should know you and Gilderoy are actually quite close," Hermione informed Harry. "Did you know he once picked you up from rehab?"
"Well, who hasn't, really," Harry replied, shrugging.
But where Harry was characteristically amiable, Pansy was characteristically alarmed. "That's not going in the memoir, is it?" she asked, perilously on the safe side of impending outrage, and Hermione shook her head.
"Nope, definitely not—not that I'd put it in even if he said to. It's just a fun personal anecdote for Penelope to cling to between visits," she said drily.
("It's not too late to quit our jobs and become jewel thieves," Draco reminded her.
"Learn a useful trade, first," Hermione advised him.
"That literally never becomes less painful, but thank you for keeping me grounded.")
"At least Lockhart's quite handsome," remarked Astoria, who had opted to accompany Daphne that evening for reasons none of them understood. That she was presently between boyfriends seemed to be Daphne's best guess. "Could be worse, couldn't it? You could be spending all your time with a dull old grump or something."
"That's—" Hermione winced. "True, I guess."
"What I need is an older man like Lockhart," Astoria sighed, and at Daphne's look of concern, she rolled her eyes. "Not to settle down with, you silly girl, just to entertain myself a while. Everyone's coupling up for spring and it's maddening, really. I ought to be with someone interesting, but it's hard when everyone suitable is such an incurable bore." She considered it, and then brightened. "I don't suppose you know any widowers, do you?"
"Abraxas," Harry suggested.
"Ah yes, a highly achievable conquest," Pansy said, rolling her eyes and shooting him a warning glare. Harry replied with a smile, nudging her under the table with his foot and leaving her to kick at his ankle.
"I hear Cedric Diggory is available again," Hermione said, and Daphne and Pansy both turned to her with surprise. "What? I read things," she informed them, and then, because neither woman seemed likely to dismiss her unusual employment of society tidbits, she sighed, "Fine, I saw it on the DRAGONFLOWER blog. Happy?"
("You still read that?" Draco asked, chuckling.
"Sometimes I miss you," Hermione grumbled. "Don't let it go to your head.")
"I had no idea that was still a thing," Pansy said, making a face. "Do people really still suspect Draco and Fleur of being in some sort of committed foreign liaison?"
"Yes," Daphne and Hermione said in unison, with Daphne explaining, "Which I only know because, again, they're always the quickest to identify the designers Fleur is wearing. And yours, actually," she added, lifting her cup of tea to her lips and gesturing with mischief to Pansy. "I think you're a new favorite, in fact."
"Of course I am," Pansy said. "I have impeccable taste."
("Hm," Draco said, "and of course I have to imagine Harry said something like—")
"It's true, she does," contributed Harry, with a salacious grin that earned him another kick to the ankle.
("Yep," Hermione confirmed. "Right on the first try.")
"They don't cover you very much," Astoria observed, turning to Hermione with a pensive frown. "I don't suppose that bothers you, does it?"
Per usual, Astoria's candor was slightly unnerving, though Hermione had learned to consider it a compliment; evidence of familiarity. It was better, anyway, than her more layered microaggressions, which were both extremely British and deeply headache-inducing for Hermione to interpret.
("She has a point, though. Does it bother you?" asked Draco.)
"No, it doesn't," Hermione said, and meant it. "I'm not some sort of fashion plate or socialite, and anyway, I'm trying to keep a low profile. I'd like to be taken seriously," she added, at which point Astoria gave a little laugh of disbelief.
"If you mean overlooked entirely, then you're doing a marvelous job," she said, which was met with a glare from Daphne. "What?" Astoria demanded from her sister. "I only mean that it's a bit of a fantasy, this 'being taken seriously' idea. We'd all like to be valued for having thoughts, wouldn't we?" she informed Hermione, "but if it's not going to happen in our lifetimes, then we might as well take advantage of being fascinating. Sooz makes tidy work of it."
Hermione fought a groan; as if she didn't have enough illogical reasons to dislike Lady Susan Bones without Astoria's help. Susan had taken a step back from The Transfiguration Project over the past couple of weeks, which certainly wasn't helping things.
"What's Lady Sooz up to?" Daphne asked, feigning innocence. "And do be specific about her clothes," she added hastily upon catching Hermione's admonishing head shake. "What? This is of professional interest to me."
"Oh, well. I suppose I only know what she's not wearing," Astoria remarked, taking a sip of her tea.
For a moment, there was a long period of silence.
"Alright, fine, I'll bite," Harry eventually growled, turning to Astoria. "What exactly does that mean?"
"Oh," she demurred, "have you not heard?"
"Astoria," Daphne growled, as her sister sighed, obviously delighted to be the one informing them of such clearly desirable gossip.
"Well," Astoria said, leaning forward with her tea cup clutched with both hands, "I imagine you've heard that Neville Longbottom"—at the sound of his name, there was a collective tightening of knuckles around the table—"has been spending quite a lot of time with the youngest Weasley son, haven't you? Apparently they know each other from secondary school—"
"Oh, that reminds me, I should see what Ron's up to," Harry said suddenly, digging his phone out of his pocket. "I've been so busy with all these public appearances I haven't even thought to have him ov-"
"Hush," said Pansy, glaring, which Harry returned with a smile.
"Anyway," Astoria continued, "as you know, Sooz and Ginevra Weasley are great friends—"
"Are they really?" Harry asked, looking genuinely incredulous.
"For the love of god, Henry—desist," snapped Pansy.
"—and now, it seems, they've got a whole little group together. Them and Michael Corner"—that name being met with a choking sound from both Daphne and Pansy as they coughed into their cups—"though, I have to imagine it's Neville that Sooz has her sights on," Astoria finished conspiratorially, "because really, she wouldn't waste her time on Corner. He's much more Ginevra's speed, you know, what with all that misbehavior after university—"
("Is no one ever going to tell me what Michael Corner so infamously did?" demanded Draco.
"Nope," said Hermione, "Never.")
"—and besides, Neville may be a bit of a louse, but he does have quite a lot of public sympathy—"
"I do so love hearing about all your old flames, Pans," Harry remarked neutrally, catching the stiffening of Pansy's shoulders. "I may have had more scandals," he mused, obviously toying with her for his own amusement, "but yours are just so deliciously eternal. And really, it's quality over quantity, isn't it?"
"Henry," Pansy warned icily, and then rose to her feet, clattering cup against saucer and heaving her now-considerable belly in the direction of the kitchen.
"Oh, come on, Pans, he's joking," Daphne called after her, still laughing a little at the mention of Michael and giving her sister a mostly-unsuccessful look of disapproval. "Look what you've done, you little monster," she said to Astoria as Harry sighed, giving the rest of them a little 'what can you do' shrug and following Pansy into the kitchen. "You're just a small apocalypse wandering around in Chanel, aren't you?"
"Well, I'd wander apocalyptically in Daphne Nott, wouldn't I? Only you haven't made anything remotely suitable for the occasion," Astoria retorted. "How many cocktail gowns does a person need, Daph? Make a coat dress, for heaven's sake, put yourself to use—"
"You wench, honestly," Daphne said fondly, as Hermione glanced in the direction Pansy and Harry had gone.
She wasn't quite sure how to categorize their relationship now that Harry was permanently back at home, though she knew he and Pansy had been putting on quite a show for the public. He was certainly very affectionate with her; long gone were the days of the philandering prince and his many love affairs, or so the tabloids were happily convinced. Harry was often caught by photographers looking dotingly at his wife in odd moments, but Hermione was unsure whether Pansy had adjusted to that degree of warmth. After all, she was… uncomfortable, Hermione supposed was the right word, with intimacy. It seemed to be constricting for her, and Hermione worried she needed to step in—juuuuust to make sure that Pansy understood Harry was just being his mercilessly prince-like self.
("He can certainly be… well, himself," Draco permitted, "but still, it's not as if Pansy doesn't know that, is it? She's known him nearly her entire life."
"Well," Hermione sighed, "you know I like to fix things."
"Oh yes, I'm very familiar. It's one of your most charming compulsions."
"It's not a compulsion!"
"Oh, of course not," Draco chuckled. "Slip of the tongue.")
Hermione picked up her cup, making her way to the kitchen, and began rehearsing lines in her head. Pans, you have to understand, this is just how he is. Look how much he cares about you! I know it may be difficult, but if you would just give him a chance—
"Oh, my," Hermione botched out instead, falling to an unsteady halt as she waltzed directly into something that, had she arrived even one second later, might have been an extremely compromising situation.
Pansy and Harry froze precisely where they were—which was on top of the kitchen table, Pansy's fingers wrenched tightly in Harry's hair and Harry's hands hidden from sight beneath the material of Pansy's dress; there was a moment of terrible awkwardness, Pansy coughing loudly and releasing Harry as the latter turned away, adjusting his trousers—and then Hermione, lacking any other alternative, set the teacup down on the table, clearing her throat.
"So," she said, and then, much to her dismay, the question that fell out of her mouth was: "Is it always like this?"
("Stop laughing," Hermione would be forced to eventually groan to Draco, who would, unfortunately, be quite incapable of doing so.)
"Yes," Harry said gruffly, turning back to Pansy and giving her a smile that blatantly asked for trouble. "I have to assume it's just pregnancy hormones."
"You're not," Hermione began, and stopped. "You guys aren't, like… well. You know."
"What, arguing in front of you and then sneaking away for sex when the rest of you aren't paying attention? Certainly not," Harry said, earning himself a backhanded smack to the shoulder from his wife. "What? It's rude not to answer a question, Pans."
"She hasn't asked one, Henry, because she's a child. It's called sex, Hermione, and it's nothing to be ashamed of," Pansy sniffed, nudging Harry out of the way and dusting off the immaculate material of her dress. "We're consenting adults, we're having pleasurable sex, everything is normal."
"No, I… I know," Hermione said, now transitioning from shock to untimely amusement, fighting to hide her laughter. "Right, I was just—well, I'm glad, of course, because I thought—"
"Well, you thought incorrectly, as usual," Pansy said, briskly adjusting the state of her normally-polished chignon, from which a number of stray pieces had escaped. "Besides, Harry's correct. It's simply hormonal." She glanced at him, straightening his collar and brusquely smudging the hint of lipstick from his jaw. "I have no doubt I will return to myself immediately upon expelling his contribution to the patriarchy from my womb."
"I'm telling you, it's a girl," Harry countered for the millionth time, resting a hand on Pansy's stomach before getting his fingers slapped away. "What? I told you, we can confirm any time you like, and then we'll both know for certain that I'm right and you're wrong—"
"Oh, shut up, Henry James," Pansy said with palpable irritation, sauntering past Hermione and disappearing from the room.
Hermione watched her go, frowning slightly with bemusement, but turned back to find a vacant look on Harry's face, his green eyes fixed with brightness at where Pansy had just been.
Clearly, they did not need her help. Which, Hermione supposed, was a good thing.
("Ah, so that's why you called me," Draco observed slyly.
"Again, don't let it go to your head," Hermione said.)
"If you want to have sex with your wife, Harry, just go," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes, and Harry spared her a shameless grin, resting both hands on her shoulders and brusquely kissing her forehead.
"Thanks," he said, smacking her cheek with his palm and winking as only Harry could wink.
"This is very inappropriate," she told him firmly, and then, because she had clearly already lost him, she shouted over her shoulder, "YOU STILL HAVE GUESTS, YOU KNOW!"
But by then, Harry had already disappeared at half a sprint, turning the corner and chasing Pansy up the stairs.
"—now, back to the subject of my formative years, where of course I was Head Boy—"
"Were you?" Hermione asked, glancing up at Gilderoy. "Because I know you were a Prefect, but I'm quite sure I didn't read anything about—"
"Oh yes, yes, I simply misspoke," said Gilderoy, smiling broadly. "I have so many accomplishments, you see, they sometimes blur together. Too many stories, too little time!" he declared, as Hermione attempted to surreptitiously check her watch. "I'll have to tell you next time about how Prince Harry nearly lost the naming rights to his son during our most recent weekly game of Gleek—"
"His son?" Hermione echoed, and Gilderoy leaned in.
"Yes, it's very hush-hush," he supplied, "but I will say, after the save I managed on His Highness' behalf, Gilderoy is sure to be a strong contender."
"Isn't Gleek a three-player game?" Hermione said. "Who else was playing?"
"Why, that would certainly be inelegant of me to reveal!" Gilderoy trilled, briskly patting her knee. "So let's just say he's a very close friend of the Palace, very close. He and I are invaluable resources to His Majesty—though, of course, he would be, wouldn't he?"
"Are you talking about the Duke of Norfolk?" Hermione sighed, referencing the man otherwise known as Nott Sr, and in answer, Gilderoy looked both scandalized and exuberant, pleased to see she had correctly intimated his point.
("Incredible," Draco said, apparently overjoyed by this new imaginary revelation, and Hermione groaned.
"I worry you might approve too much of Lockhart."
"I worry that too," Draco said, "but, unfortunately, it is what it is.")
"Now, don't tell a soul I've said it," Gilderoy assured her cheerfully, "because it's a secret to the highest degree. Theodore's quite soft-hearted in real life, did you know? Surprising, I imagine," he said airily, "because he's so very grim in public, but he's got a real flair for the dramatic arts."
("He's not wrong," Draco said with an audible shrug. "Nott's a monster, obviously, but he plays a mean game of charades.")
"Of course he does," Hermione sighed with a shake of her head, returning to her notes and finishing just in time to meet Blaise for their scheduled after-work cocktails.
By May, obviously not much had changed; Transfiguration was afloat, but barely, and while Gilderoy Lockhart's memoir was certainly lucrative, it continued to be the most terrible writing project Hermione had ever attempted.
"I spend half my time sifting through what he tells me and checking it for details," she explained to Blaise, who chuckled into his whisky sour, "and the other half discovering there's no real way to prove most of what he says. He does a very good job of only discussing people who are completely untouchable—though, just as a statistical matter, some of these stories have to be true, right?" she asked, choosing to be optimistic. "I mean, otherwise, how did he even get famous?"
"Mm, well, packaging is everything," Blaise reminded her. "For all that he's a number of unsavory things, Gilderoy Lockhart is still the big three: handsome, charming, and articulate. He sells books, and that," Blaise concluded, "is what we in the finance industry call a lucrative investment."
He paused, obviously feeling a vibration from his phone, and slid it out from the inner lining of his jacket pocket. "One moment, please, New Tracey—"
"Minus ten," Hermione teased, prompting Blaise to look up, shaking his head.
"Hubris," he observed, adding, "Minus ten for incorrectly assuming requisite authority for point deduction."
("I tried that once," Draco later remarked, sighing. "I got suspended for nearly three days."
"You did?" Hermione asked, aghast. "I didn't even know suspension was a thing!"
"It is, and I highly discourage you from attempting it," Draco said, with something of a shudder. "It was a low point in my existence, I assure you.")
Blaise typed something into his phone, which was met with a near-instant answer. Then he paused, considering something, and replied, tucking his phone back into his pocket only after Hermione caught a glimpse of the name on the screen.
"Wait a minute," she said, blinking as she caught his wrist. "Did that say Tracey Davis?"
"Minus an additional five for snooping," Blaise sniffed, and Hermione groaned.
"Oh, come on, I can't help that you had it out right in front of me—"
"Fine. Yes, it's Old Tracey," Blaise said matter-of-factly, looking as if he had every intention to end the conversation there until Hermione made it clear, glare-ily, that abandonment would not be an option. "What?"
"Well, I just—I don't know," Hermione said hesitantly, but at Blaise's arched brow, she conceded, "Fine. I guess I thought we were done with her? I mean, she was part of the whole Neville thing," Hermione realized, abruptly surprised to discover she'd given it absolutely no thought. "Wow, I never once thought about how Tracey took it. Surprisingly well, I assume," she answered herself with a laugh, "if she's back now."
"Mm," Blaise said noncommittally, taking a sip of his drink, and Hermione felt a low, painful sinking in her stomach.
("Ah, right," Draco said uncomfortably, "about that—")
"Oh, no," Hermione sighed.
"Hm?"
"You didn't."
"Didn't what?"
("He did," Draco confirmed.)
"Blaise—"
"New Tracey, you'll have to start using your words or I shall have to deduct—"
"You didn't tell her!" Hermione accused, and at Blaise's lack of expression, she groaned, "BLAISE!"
"Hold on—before you have some sort of colonial meltdown and threaten my stamps, it's not what you think," Blaise said quickly, though Hermione doubted that, and she told him so with another glare. "Tracey and I were never official, and certainly never committed. By the time I was seeing Neville with any regularity, she and I were together so infrequently I don't believe either of us considered it a relationship."
"But Blaise—"
("In his defense, he has… well, not a good reason," Draco said tentatively, "but a reason.")
"I can't tell her," Blaise said stiffly, his hand clenched around his glass. "I can't, because then I would have to tell her how it ended, which I have no interest in doing. And besides, it isn't as if she's asked me—"
Hermione scoffed at that, grumpily disapproving. "Blaise, I certainly doubt she's thought to ask 'oh, hey, did you happen to have an affair with someone else while we were maybe, sort-of seeing each other? Just wondering, okay thanks'—"
"Things with Neville are finished," Blaise said firmly, "and I see no reason to bring it up. After all, Neville has Michael Corner now, so it goes without saying that—"
"But I thought—" Hermione blinked. "Michael Corner?"
("One of you is going to cave one of these days and tell me!" insisted Draco.)
"Of course," Blaise said, scowling a little at the thought, and Hermione frowned.
"But how do you know? I mean, have you and Neville spoken recently? Because if you have—"
"No. No, not that." Blaise shook his head, drumming his fingers on the bar counter. "I just know."
"But how can you possibly know, if—"
"You don't honestly believe he's interested in Susan Bones, do you? Please," he scoffed, "she's just a lesser Pansy." He drained the remainder of his glass, giving Hermione a pointed look. "Besides, it worked once, didn't it? He convinced one man to hide with him, so he can easily convince another."
Blaise eyed his empty glass, contemplating it a moment.
"The world loves a pretty picture," he murmured, more to himself than to Hermione. "It's such an easy thing, isn't it? Misdirection." He set the glass on the counter. "People only see the easiest explanation, New Tracey. They're only capable of seeing the things they've seen before, and they're happy with that, aren't they? I would have thought you'd come to realize that by now."
("He's," Draco began, and sighed. "I'm just happy you're spending time with him.")
One of the things Hermione had learned from Draco was that silence, even when she would prefer to ask questions, was sometimes the best way to persuade people to continue. Whether it worked or not, she wasn't sure pestering Blaise would help, and in lieu of pressing him for perhaps the thousandth time, she rested her hand lightly on his.
"Plus twenty for correctly reading the room," Blaise remarked in answer, and turned to her with something of a half-smile. "Though, much as I'd like to tell you what happened with Neville, I don't know that I can."
Sometimes, though, her instincts won out. "Why not?"
"Well, because I don't really know." Blaise paused for a moment, and then continued, "It was almost as if someone had gotten to him first. Fair, I suppose, since I did take my time about it," he said, giving Hermione a wry, lifeless smile. "But either way, the door had been open once, and it was locked by the time I arrived."
"Oh, Blaise." She leaned against him, contemplating it. "I'm sorry that happened to you."
"Ah, I'm not," he assured her. "There's some closure, I think. At least I know I must have actually loved him, which is… comforting, in a way. I'd hate myself more if I had made Pansy suffer for nothing," he explained, and Hermione glanced up, observing his face; a bit of wistfulness, tinged with loss. "Not to be dramatic, that is," he said, "which, as you know, is something I prefer to do in a more appropriate outfit."
"Do you," Hermione began, and, per usual, stumbled. "I mean, Tracey, is she—"
"Words," Blaise advised.
She rolled her eyes. "Do you have feelings for Tracey, then?"
"Mm, of a sort. I feel more for her than most, but less than… I have felt. Or have been known to feel, on occasion. A single occasion." He glanced down at her. "Do you suppose there's a word for that?"
"I'd hate for it to be complacency," she said.
"Well," he sighed, "as would I."
They were quiet a moment, Hermione sitting upright to sip from her glass of wine, when Blaise resumed his usual persona.
"I suppose we should return to your problem," he said, and Hermione made a face. "I know how valuable my advice is to you, New Tracey," Blaise warned, wagging a finger in her direction. "I can hardly withhold it in favor of my own inconsequential traumas."
"Blaise, they aren't incons-"
"Is it that you want Lockhart to be truthful?" he asked. "Or to be less… Lockhart, I suppose—"
As with all her friends, there was no point pushing him back to the topic of conversation. They all had monarchical reflexes: dismissal was dismissal.
"I guess," Hermione began with a sigh, and then grimaced, "I guess it's not so much a problem with Lockhart. It's just frustrating," she admitted, shrugging.
"What, that he's such a beautiful idiot?"
"That," she confirmed reluctantly, "and that he gets so much more attention than far worthier subjects, you know? Minerva's non-profit is circling the drain, but Gilderoy just got paid to give some magazine a tour of his house. Just makes me feel sort of helpless, I guess."
Blaise made a little humming sound that wasn't precisely agreement.
("Hmm," said Draco.)
"What?" Hermione asked, glancing swiftly at him, and he made the same sound again. "Blaise, honestly—"
"Minus five for rushing me. I'm simply wondering whether there isn't more you can do," Blaise commented, giving her a pointed look. "You're a person of some influence, aren't you?"
"What, me?" Hermione asked, scoffing. "Hardly. I think I've been warned not to cross the line enough, haven't I?"
"Who says you have to cross anything?"
"You just said—"
"You, New Tracey, are an arrow," Blaise said, and Hermione blinked.
"An arrow?"
"Yes, an arrow," he replied smartly. "You can show others where to look."
"I—" Hermione broke off. "What?"
"You're a public figure, whether you like it or not," Blaise reminded her. "What you have is an audience. They will see whatever you want them to see."
"But Draco already supported The Transfiguration Project himself. If even his support wasn't enough to save it, then what am I supposed to do?"
"I certainly don't know," Blaise said, shrugging.
"But—"
"But what?"
"I can't exactly step out of line. There's, you know. Rules," she finished lamely, and Blaise shrugged, reaching forward to take her glass from her hand.
"Well, you can work within the system, can't you?" he asked her. "Not everything you do has to be some sort of reckless rebellion against authority. Surely you can conjure something of interest to aid in your philanthropic pursuits."
Then he finished her wine, prompting her to her feet.
"Come on, then," he said, "let's go Skype Steve. I haven't heard from him in ages."
"Have you not?" Hermione asked, surprised. "I've always suspected him of incredible communication dexterity."
After all, Draco was extremely excellent about keeping tabs on all his friends. She'd caught Pansy on the phone with him the other day for what she was almost positive was, strangely, fashion advice.
"Well. I'm sure loads has happened since yesterday," was Blaise's lofty response, ushering her out the door and in the direction of her flat.
("I wondered when you'd finally come to me for help," Draco said later. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
Hermione sighed heavily. "Are you saying you've had an idea how to help this whole time?"
"Oh, only a small one, but yes," he told her. "I've just learned it's best to keep it to myself until you ask."
"Oh, no," she grumbled, "I really am predictable, aren't I?"
"Is it such a crime for me to know you?" he asked.
"No, I suppose not." A pause. "So, what do I do, then?"
"Well, Miss Granger," Draco said happily, "from what I've heard the past few months, I suspect a solution is quite conveniently right under your nose.")
June brought with it a new version of Pansy; her most pregnant yet, and therefore her strangest. She was a mix of highly emotional—bursting into tears at the sight of any small animal—and also highly irritable, which was not aided by her state of physical discomfort. The particularly warm start to summer meant Harry had urged Pansy to spend some time outside the city, prompting them to recuse themselves briefly from public appearances.
("So, Pansy was good, then?"
"She was," Hermione assured Draco, "…sort of."
"Ah yes, sort of," he remarked drily. "The preferred state of good.")
Luckily, Daphne and Theo had come along to stay for a few weeks, with Hermione and Blaise joining them from London for a weekend. Godric's Cottage, known for being the house of James Potter's boyhood, was certainly smaller than any of Theo's father's properties, but it was a very quaint manor house with a lovely garden, located just outside a village that was equally charming.
"Oh, you're finally here!" exclaimed Daphne, hanging up her phone from where she'd been pestering someone in the garden as Blaise and Hermione approached. She threw her arms around them, expressing some combined degree of elation and relief. "Thank goodness," she said, giving Hermione in particular a lethal squeeze, "as Pansy's driving me absolutely bananas—"
("Ah, I bet it's the syndrome," Draco predicted.
"What syndrome?" asked Hermione.)
"Daphne, are you thirsty?" came Pansy's voice.
("Hostess syndrome," Draco replied.)
"I told you, I'M FINE," Daphne shouted back, giving Hermione a tightly-forced smile. "It turns out Very Pregnant Pansy is so caring and considerate I half want to drown myself—"
"Well, surely you could still stand to drink some water," Pansy said, stepping out with a tray of glasses. "You've been on your phone all m- oh, you're here," she said, maneuvering her considerably swollen self over to where Blaise and Hermione were standing before calling over her shoulder for Harry and Theo. "They've been cooking all morning," she informed Hermione with a roll of her eyes. "Something about me not being PERFECTLY CAPABLE OF PREPARING A SIMPLE BRAISE MYSELF," she added at an enraged shout, before suddenly sparing Hermione a lovely, maniacal smile. "Anyway, are you hungry? Thirsty?"
"Please feed us whatever you would like," Blaise wisely replied, permitting Pansy to lead them to the table set up in the garden as Daphne slid an arm through Hermione's, clearly relieved to have at least one level-headed woman in attendance.
("Not that it matters, but Harry's hardly even a disaster in the kitchen," Draco said. "His godfather was very proud of his culinary prowess and passed along some tricks, I believe. Something about the importance of seduction via food."
"Good to know," Hermione said. "Weird, but good."
"This is why Lockhart preferred Harry," Draco sighed mournfully. "I know it.")
The spread set out by Harry and Theo—who was apparently staying out of his wife's way as she worked, also quite wisely—was a very pleasing brunch, including eggs and bacon and a cheese plate Hermione suspected Blaise of requesting in advance. It was also an extremely beautiful day, the sky crisp and blue overhead, and within moments, conversation had turned from remarking on the weather to what Harry and Pansy were planning to call their future spawn.
From Harry: "It'll have to be James for a boy, which it won't be."
From Pansy: "Which it will, and anyway, no."
Harry, affronted: "Sorry—what do you mean 'no'?"
Pansy: "Apology accepted, and I mean I'm not naming my son after your dead father, Henry. It's simple math."
Theo, with some doubt: "Is it?"
Pansy, to Daphne, while waving a hand dismissively in Theo's direction: "Do something."
Daphne, with an exhausted sigh: "Nott, please. We're just trying to live our lives."
Theo, with obvious enjoyment: "My pleasure, sweetheart."
Harry, who was continuing to insist: "What do you want to name him, then?"
Pansy, with a scoff: "Not Theo, that's for certain."
Blaise, with a chuckle: "Plus five for an excellent leaping off point."
Hermione, thoughtfully: "Personally, I've always liked the name Hugo."
Pansy: "Hermione, are you feeling well?"
Hermione, with a frown: "Why?"
Pansy, without any change in tone: "Because you should really eat before the rest of your obvious delirium sets in."
Harry, sighing: "You know this is pointless, Pans. It's a girl, and we're calling her Lily."
Pansy: "Absolutely not. A disastrous name."
Daphne, rolling her eyes: "Your name is Pansy, lest you've forgotten, which is the same concept only infinitely worse."
Theo, gingerly venturing a point: "Just curious, are we submitting all our dead mothers for consideration? Because if so—"
Daphne: "Nott, for the love of god!"
Harry, interrupting: "Hang on, I want to know why we can't name our child after my parents. Don't you remember I'm an orphan?"
Pansy, sniffing: "I haven't forgotten, Harry."
Hermione, aghast: "Pans, are you crying?"
Pansy: "Only physically. Please ignore it, it will pass."
Blaise, with palpable glee: "Plus ten! Only because I'm enjoying myself immensely."
Hermione, tentatively, to Pansy: "Is this about Harry being an orphan, or…?"
Pansy, crying: "Absolutely not. I was just thinking about the slim but conceivable chance my child would be born with red hair and it saddened me deeply."
(Draco, later: "I actually have to give her that one.")
Harry, coaxingly: "Well, Daph's right, Pans, why don't we give our girl a flower name? A tribute to both you and my mother?"
Daphne, hastily: "But not Dahlia, of course. Not your mother, obviously—"
Theo, clearing his throat: "Again, if dead mums are still on the table—"
Hermione, thinking: "What about Daisy? That's a sweet name. Or Rose?"
Harry: "Oh, I like Rose—"
Pansy, sobbing quietly: "Are we just yelling out plants, then? What's next, Juniper? Amaryllis? OAK? PINE?"
Hermione, tentatively: "I think you've transitioned into trees, actually, Pans."
Pansy, sniffling again: "Might as well name the poor girl Maple or Apple or Willow—"
Daphne, cutting in with a revelatory blink: "Actually, that would be a bit cool, don't you think? Willow? Not Apple, that's been done—but you could even give her your dad's name for a middle name, Harry. Boy's names are very fashionable for girls these days."
Harry, frowning to himself: "Willow James, you mean?"
(Draco, with a little humming sound: "Willow James. I quite like that."
Hermione, in a relieved confession: "I know. I was afraid to say it in case Pansy tried to feed me more, but I thought so, too.")
Theo: "I agree with my wife, actually. And that's not even a matter of being afraid she'll withhold sex. I just genuinely like it."
Blaise, considering it aloud: "Greengrass is right, Willow James Potter is quite a cool girl's name. She gets twenty starter points just for that."
Hermione, sighing heavily: "Great, so even the unborn baby is beating me."
Theo, kindly: "We all knew that was inevitable, Cali."
Harry, turning to Pansy, who had her face buried in her hands: "Pans? Any thoughts?"
(Draco: "She loved it, didn't she? No, you don't have to say it. Of course she did.")
Pansy, with a choked out sound: "It's a tree, you idiots."
Harry, gently: "Well, if you don't like it, then—"
Pansy, in wails that turned rapidly to incoherent shrieks: "NO, I LOVE IT. You wretched idiots, you've made me love it, AND NOW IT'S A TERRIBLE NAME THAT I LOVE, and I hate all of you, and besides, SHE'S A BOY."
Harry, settling an arm beside a now hysterically-laughing Pansy: "Well, suppose for a second she's a girl, Pans. A lovely little girl named Willow James, and then I'll have to chase boys and probably some girls away the moment she appears on this earth, won't I?"
Pansy, hiccuping: "BE QUIET, HENRY."
(Draco, lamentingly: "I wish I'd been there for this."
Hermione, sympathetically: "I know. I wish you had been, too. But on the other hand, I can't wait for the baby to be born, because pregnant Pansy is kind of… a lot."
Draco: "Well, you can't merely skip to the parts you want, you know. You have to sit through all the pieces of the story, even if they don't happen the way you'd like. Otherwise, how can you really be sure you understand anything?"
Hermione, after a pause: "Having a deeply philosophical day, I take it?"
Draco, with a sigh: "It's a speech I've already given myself more than once today, I'm afraid.")
Once Pansy had recovered from her episode of feelings ("Pregnancy feels a bit like having all your emotions at once," she explained to Hermione, after thanking Harry very tenderly for his help cleaning up but before barking at him to 'stop looking at her with his smug face'), Theo and Harry showed Blaise where he would be staying, and Hermione pulled Daphne aside.
"I wondered if I could ask you a favor," she said, and Daphne blinked, surprised.
"You never ask me for anything," she noted, and then permitted her eyes to narrow. "You haven't gone and impregnated yourself, have you?"
"No, god, no, extremely the opposite—"
"You're… the opposite of pregnant? What does that even mean—"
("I don't know what she found confusing. Makes perfect sense to me," said Draco. "Though, get on with it, I want to know what she said.")
"Look, I want you to dress me," Hermione said. "Like, actually style me," she clarified, as Daphne's eyes widened. "Not just advice—I won't even wear anything publicly without consulting you first."
"I—" Daphne blinked. "You understand, of course, that this is quite literally my dearest wish—"
"Yes," Hermione sighed, "I've been assured of that since the day we met, yes."
"—but… are you sure? It's rather unlike you, don't you think?"
"Well, actually, Draco convinced me to consider it."
("I'm an arrow," Hermione clarified slowly, "and I have to point at the right things. Right?"
"Right," Draco said. "And it's an innocuous thing, but you do have an easy way to do it.")
"I wouldn't even have to say anything," Hermione explained to Daphne, having thought it through by then. "I'll get in the blogs, and while they're talking about what I'm wearing, I'll still be drawing attention to important things. I have an audience, so—"
"It's a big ask," Daphne warned her. "Financially, for one thing—"
"Well, I'm making a bit of a stupid amount of money off Gilderoy, so I might as well put it to use helping Minerva—"
"—okay, fine, but I know how you are about your principles—"
"I know. I know, and I do want to be considered for more than my clothes. But I've been overlooking the obvious, haven't I? I have you, I have Pansy—who, I think we both know, is a paparazzi darling. She's polished and perfectly dressed all the time," Hermione pointed out, "and the things she's done for Prince Lucifer have gotten a lot of press. They circulate all over social media."
"It's true," Daphne said, nodding slowly. She exhaled in thought, considering it. "I just want to be sure this is really something you want," she warned, "because Rita Skeeter will still find ways to belittle you, you know. No matter how impeccably dressed you happen to be with my help."
"I know."
"And the tone of the narrative will be… different. They'll judge you on your looks, Hermione, which I know you hate. And you've seen what they say about Pansy's nose—"
"Yes. I know," Hermione said, grimacing, "but even bad press means they're talking about me, right? About what I'm doing, hopefully. Where I'm going, at least."
Daphne considered her at length, scouring her in silence.
("Well?" Draco demanded.)
"Yes," Daphne agreed eventually. "Yes, of course, it's my pleasure, Hermione. It's not as if I was ever going to say no."
("See? I knew she would," Draco said, satisfied.
"Oh, sure. Then why were you so impatient to find out?"
"Only because I had something to tell you."
"Something more interesting than Daphne agreeing to style me?"
"Well, maybe not more interesting. But certainly interesting.")
"So this was Draco's idea?" Daphne said, surprised. "I guess that makes sense. For a boy, he does have pretty good fashion sense."
"I honestly have no idea whether he does or not, but I'll take your word for it," Hermione said. "Certainly don't tell him that, though, he's arrogant enough as it is."
"Well, fair. By the way, do you know if he's going to be around soon?"
("So, what's this 'interesting' news, then, Draco?")
A spark of possibility flamed in Hermione's limbs for a moment. "I think so, maybe. Hopefully. I definitely hope so."
("Oh, only that I'm coming home next month," Draco said casually. "For an entire week, in fact.")
"Well," Daphne said, giving her a suggestive nudge, "does that mean he's won you over yet?"
("And—?" Hermione prompted, momentarily breathless.)
"Mm… yeah," Hermione said, half-smiling to think of the countless conversations they'd had by then, about anything and everything. Mostly everything. "Yeah, I'd say so."
("And," Draco murmured, "you may as well burn your clothes, Miss Granger. I don't foresee you needing them.")
"Good," Daphne said approvingly, sliding an arm around Hermione's waist and turning her face to the sun.
("See you soon, Draco.")
"You know, I think this is going to be quite a good summer," Hermione predicted, leaning her cheek on Daphne's shoulder.
("Very soon, Hermione.")
"Yes," Daphne agreed, blissful. "I think that it already is."
It was a very good summer; particularly that July, which was very nearly perfect. In fact, if not for Gilderoy, it would have been a deeply picturesque and, dare I say, idyllic time—but, of course, there was Gilderoy, who certainly can't be circumvented.
And who, in case you couldn't tell, was a future problem as yet in the making.
a/n: The new chapter of Modern Romance is now available. Thank you for reading!