Chapter 35: Fairytale
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
Destiny Takes Flight
During the couple's post-engagement interview, Hermione was asked if she had ever pictured herself becoming royalty. Miss Granger, glancing sheepishly at her beloved, proceeded to confess, "I saw myself with Draco for quite a long time, if I'm being honest, but being royalty was always a secondary thing." She looked again at Draco before professing beatifically to the world, "I suppose it still doesn't feel quite real."
Want to know something they cut out of the televised interview? Rita actually chuckled to herself and said, "Interesting," after I said that; presumably, she was irreversibly convinced I was lying through my teeth. As if it were somehow inconceivable that I might have genuinely fallen in love with the Prince of England without any sort of guile. Imagine that, right? Loving a man separate from his crown… groundbreaking.
Though, I guess by now we can all agree (not to Rita, ever, but certainly here, in private) that it wasn't as if I hadn't considered the implications of my decision once or twice before they arrived.
September 26, 2015
Nott Manor
Hermione's twenty-sixth birthday came and went without much ceremony. Draco was stationed somewhere and/or aboard something that rendered the phone call fuzzy and close to incomprehensible, but Hermione had far more to keep track of than whether or not she was being sufficiently spoiled by her boyfriend-future fiancé. For one thing, the group's annual trip to Nott Manor now involved a small baby, who was thus far managing to be more famous than any of the adults despite her primary hobbies being food and sleep. It was, as Theo often said, the dream vocation.
"Well, if I'll give Harry credit for one thing, it's his genetics," Pansy said, fussing with Jamie's wild hair until it had been reasonably tamed. It immediately rapidly sprang back up, relentless. "I can't believe I'm saying this," Pansy sighed, adopting a musing, sing-song voice as she spoke to her child, "but my goodness, you look just like your father, don't you? You little monstress," she declared, and Jamie made a small hiccuping sound of amusement, agreement, or involuntary reflex. "You're Mummy's little green-eyed monster, aren't you?"
"Charming term of endearment," Theo observed drily, and Pansy shot him a glare.
"She doesn't speak English, Theodore, and for that matter, hush."
Pansy and Harry had won the progeny-related lottery in terms of passing off their accidental love child as a legitimate product of their marriage, seeing as Jamie bore exactly zero—unsurprisingly, but still, a relief—traces of Neville. True, Rita Skeeter had pointed out the obvious math involved (specifically, that 'elopement' + 'premature' birth = the age-old cause for all 'elopements' and 'premature' births), but quickly gave it up for a lost cause. The public seemed far more interested in the fairytale of Harry and Pansy's coupling, which had resulted in what was indeed a charming, unambiguous miniature of them both.
It wasn't a total win, unfortunately. The frequent comparisons of Harry's features to his daughter's resulted in a renewed conversation about Harry's parents, James and Lily, which was increasingly noisy as the year approached the anniversary of their deaths. More unfortunate, too, was Narcissa's involvement.
"How's Harry dealing with the latest gossip?" Hermione asked, and Pansy gave the remark a brief flick of dismissal.
"He knows better than to believe what's being said in the papers," she scoffed. "I told you, everyone knows James and Lily were mad about each other. Anyone who says otherwise," she mused, inserting some incongruent enthusiasm into her voice as she directed her comments to baby Jamie, "should be placed in the bins, shouldn't they?"
It was a standard Pansy answer (or a variant of one), though Hermione wasn't so sure they were such innocent rumors. For one thing, the inclusion of James as one of the Princess of Wales' purported lovers meant a resurfacing of the Harry and Draco 'feud,' and for another, Hermione was growing concerned what that might mean for Narcissa after such a difficult year of bad press.
"Besides," Pansy continued, addressing Hermione and Theo that time and successfully reading Hermione's mind, "it's only a topic of discussion because Bellatrix and Narcissa are getting along at the moment, which I imagine Rita Skeeter loathes. There's nothing more abominable to her sensibilities than amicability."
"Are they actually getting along?" Hermione asked, surprised. "I assumed that was… less real than it appeared."
By that point, Pansy had already revealed to the rest of them that it had been Narcissa's idea to invite Bellatrix into her life over the summer, pointing out for Pansy's benefit that while Bellatrix was hardly trustworthy, she was to some degree reliable.
When Hermione had attempted to speak to Narcissa on the subject, though—to thank her, she supposed, though for what, she hadn't fully composed the words—she found herself rapidly dismissed.
"Why thank me?" Narcissa asked listlessly, cutting Hermione off with an unpleasant glance. "I've used my sister no more and certainly no cleverly than she uses me. Tragically, not all of us have the time for a memoir," she added, a hint of bitterness sliding in at the tail-end of her thought.
Hermione, who was perfectly aware that the release of Bellatrix's tell-all had once coincided unfavorably with a time she lacked the motivation to ease Draco's familial problems, tentatively ventured an apology. "About that—"
"Please. Don't flatter yourself into thinking your sympathy is necessary to me in any way. I understand my value to you, just as I hope you recognize your value to me." Narcissa had given Hermione another cool, leveled look of diplomatic impassivity, which in turn prompted the unsettling realization that, like baby Jamie, Draco's parentage was equally unquestionable. It was the same look Hermione had seen him give others many times.
"If aligning myself temporarily with my sister can be of some use," Narcissa continued, "so be it. I imagine you and I can expect to do the same for each other someday."
"Are you… offering to help me?" Hermione asked her, opting to take the statement to its most optimistic conclusion, but in response, Narcissa's expression went blank.
"Haven't you heard, Miss Granger? I've never helped anyone in my life," Narcissa told her, turning to leave. "But if it ever pleases you to use me, rest assured I won't take it as a slight."
Hermione had given a watered-down summary of their interactions to Daphne and Pansy, who both seemed to think little of it. "You forget, you know, that this is just par for the course," Daphne told Hermione. "It's nothing personal. It's just business—because this is Narcissa's business," she reminded her, and Hermione sighed.
"Sometimes I feel absolutely convinced the royal family is essentially the mafia," she grumbled under her breath. "If it weren't so archaically lawful, it'd be absolutely no different from organized crime."
Pansy, who had most recently conned her own mother, was both unsurprised and unoffended by Hermione's observation. "So what if Narcissa and Bellatrix use each other for their own personal gain?" she synthesized neatly, shrugging. "They forgive each other long enough to coexist in the end and really, how different is that from love?"
"You worry me," had been Hermione's sighing reply.
Now, though, Pansy was insistent that Narcissa and Bellatrix's reconciliation was, as far as she could tell, legitimate. "They've spent quite a lot of time together recently," she noted, which was certainly true. Every outing had been well documented by the Daily Prophet—hence the renewed interest in both women's tired histories. "As a general rule," Pansy said briskly, "I don't spend so much time with people for whom I retain a long-burning resentment."
"Well, you spend time with me," Theo reminded her, to which Pansy scoffed.
"Please, Theodore," she said, turning to her daughter. "Mummy's resentment for Uncle Theo simply hums underfoot, doesn't it?" she asked Jamie, once again employing the same too-bright voice of indulgence. "He wishes it were potent enough to burn, the silly ponce—"
"That might be the cruelest thing you've ever said to me," Theo informed her, reaching for a tightly bundled, silently observing Jamie (truly, a miracle of an infant) and cooing to her. "Your Mummy is a bully, did you know?" he said, tapping Jamie's nose. "She's going to burn me at the stake someday, isn't she?"
"Why does everyone speak to babies in rhetorical questions?" Hermione asked them, though neither were paying her any attention. Theo, in particular, seemed intent on finding baby Jamie's toes, and Pansy was drifting idly to sleep sitting up when Harry abruptly appeared, tapping Pansy's shoulder.
"Your turn," he told her, gesturing behind him. She gave him a brisk nod, absently patting his cheek, and he brushed his lips to her forehead as she stumbled to her feet, ostensibly heading upstairs to nap until Jamie required further sustenance. Harry, meanwhile, took a seat beside Theo with a grin, brushing a finger along the arch of his daughter's unbundled foot.
"How goes your Lockhart fiasco?" Harry asked, glancing up at Hermione. He had clearly just awoken from his own nap, hair standing on end precisely as Jamie's did. "Anything new to report?"
Since Blaise had pointed out that Lockhart may have stolen one of the stories from his memoir from Neville's father, Hermione had been working somewhat tirelessly to confirm or deny, to little or no avail. "Perhaps you were mistaken?" she'd suggested to Gilderoy, unable to believe him capable of intentional theft. He seemed so genuinely steeped in delusion the error had to be retractable. "You know, sometimes I find I've embellished a story with details I may have heard from other people, or sometimes I misremember the details of things—"
But Gilderoy, of course, dismissed her concerns as preposterous, claiming he'd never even heard of Frank Longbottom or of St Mungo's facility. "Perhaps it's merely a coincidence," he told her cheerfully, "or you've got it the other way round? I'm quite popular with the unwell demographic, of course, and perhaps this Bottomless fellow is the one who heard the story from me, hm?"
For months, it had been like chasing a ghost.
"Funnily enough, his publishers don't seem particularly bothered by the idea that some of the details might be plagiarized," Hermione said to Harry. "They told me to find proof, which of course I don't have." She sighed, adding, "I think they're so accustomed to Lockhart's presumed incompetence they don't consider it worth delaying the money that's already been spent marketing the book's pre-release."
"And Neville?" Theo asked, glancing up from his inspection of Jamie's toes.
Hermione hesitated. "Well, I mean, it's bigger than Neville, isn't it?"
"So you still haven't spoken to him, then," Harry deduced, leaning back with his signature smuggery. "Even Hermione Granger's philanthropy has limits, I take it."
"It's just… such a small detail," Hermione said, aware that even she thought she sounded less than convinced. "Just one little anecdote, really."
Not exactly. According to Blaise, Gilderoy's obscure story about the rescue of a Lebanese orphan during the period of his journalism career spent as a war correspondent actually belonged to Neville's father. Frank had been a reconnaissance officer in the Royal Navy at the same time and stationed in the same place, though all Hermione was able to prove was that the timelines overlapped. There was no official statement of any such event occurring within the Navy's records, but Gilderoy considered it a turning point in his career. It was also notably one of a handful of events he was able to describe in perfect, legitimate-sounding detail, which was why Hermione hadn't even thought to question it at the time.
"What could he possibly have stolen?" Theo asked, looking up. "It's not as if we know anything about Neville's parents."
"Not for lack of trying," Harry pointed out. "Though, as I recall, Pansy usually interrupted him before he brought it up."
"It's private," Hermione said quickly. Blaise had specifically requested she not reveal the details. "The problem is I have no way to prove whether or not it happened, so it's either taking Gilderoy Lockhart's word for it or Neville's, and who knows how much his father can actually confirm—"
"So you're just going to give up, then?" came a voice behind them, and Hermione jumped so clumsily Jamie made a sniffled noise of opposition.
"I thought you were supposed to be the one who cared about people," Blaise said neutrally, as Hermione turned, catching his expression of hardened disappointment.
"I—Blaise, of course I'm not giving up," she assured him, though she could feel the strain of knowing she wasn't being entirely honest. "I'm just saying, even if it were true—"
"It's true," Blaise cut in flatly.
There was a stiff, tense pause as Hermione considered what to say.
"You're not going to take any points, are you?" she asked eventually, attempting an awkward sort of playfulness despite Harry, Theo, and Jamie all giving her identical looks of skepticism.
Blaise was silent another long moment.
"No," he said. "Do whatever you want."
Then he turned and left, leaving Hermione to flinch in his absence.
"Well," Theo exhaled eventually, "that was… a first."
"You have to admit, it really is rather unlike you," Harry remarked, turning to Hermione. "Normally you can't wait to rush around for any sort of human rights campaign."
"Well, I already have several," Hermione insisted. "I have a number of clients, not to mention I'm still trying to help Minerva save Transfiguration, and besides, there's Pansy and Narcissa—"
"And you're also very busy avoiding Neville," Theo cut in, obviously amused by more than just the baby. "Which, understandable. A very time consuming activity, maintaining intentional distance."
"I—" Hermione sighed, relenting. "It's not as if I had any great hope to talk to Neville again to begin with. And besides," she added as an afterthought, "this could backfire on me, you know. I'm the one who wrote the book—what if Gilderoy blames me?"
"Well, we certainly can't help you there," Theo said with a shrug. "For one thing, we're notoriously self-serving. Immoral Bad Lads, et cetera."
"Sounds like a very niche matter of integrity, actually," Harry added, giving Hermione a troublingly suggestive grin. "Come to think of it, I happen to know a journalist of utmost devotion to her craft, should you be looking to quibble about anything in particular."
The suggestion alone—give or take the wordplay—was enough to prompt Hermione to a groan, letting Jamie reach up from Theo's arms for one of Hermione's more irresponsibly low-hanging curls. "Your father is a menace, isn't he?" Hermione said to the infant, employing Pansy's same tone of enthusiasm.
In response, Jamie gave her hair a firm tug, leaving Hermione to yelp a little in surprise.
"That's my girl," Harry said, smiling broadly as Jamie chirped in response, quietly delighted.
"I haven't seen you in a while," Luna remarked, looking up when Hermione walked in. That day, Luna was wearing oversized glasses that magnified her eyes to a startling, owl-like degree, nearly propelling Hermione backwards at the sight of them.
"You look better," Luna noted, leaning back to pick up an oversized purple latte. Her blonde hair was tied in an off-centered knot atop her head while her earrings, tiny bottle cap chandeliers, draped down to her shoulders. "Fewer nargles," she observed, scouring Hermione's aura.
"Fewer what?" Hermione asked, sliding into the seat across from Luna.
"Nargles," Luna replied, taking a sip, and did not bother to clarify. Her arm was resting on a variety of periodicals, including a copy of the Daily Prophet, from which a familiar headline peeked out: LADY BELLATRIX LESTRANGE AND PRINCESS NARCISSA UNLIKELY ALLIES IN SUPPORT OF SUCCESSION ACT.
"You wrote about that, didn't you?" Hermione said, pointing to the article. "The act, I mean. Not the family drama." She'd read Rita's version that morning, in which Bellatrix made broad claims that she and her sister's joint support of an addendum to the bill replacing the Marriage Law was part of their joyful reconciliation. "I liked your article better," Hermione told Luna. "I didn't think it got the attention it deserved."
Luna's version, unlike Rita's, focused on the political implications of act's provisions of committing sequential succession (rather than gendered, i.e., male heirs first) to law, which Hermione, not being English, had never actually pieced together was still a thing until learning it was likely to change. Unfortunately, it had been mostly swamped by resurfacing speculation about the Black sisters.
"I initially had no plans to address the subject in detail," Luna admitted, "given that this time of year is mostly devoted to the stirrings of the feverishly paranormal, but when Harry mentioned his interest—"
"Are you two still in touch?" Hermione asked, surprised.
"From time to time. His wife is excellent company."
That, Hermione thought, was too surprising a comment to discard. "You've met Pansy?"
"She told me I looked like a fairy con artist," Luna replied, sipping her purple latte as her earrings clanged noisily beside the mug.
"Oh," Hermione sighed, shaking her head, "well, don't mind her, until you get used to her she can be very—"
"Honest," Luna supplied, and then, after a moment's consideration, added, "I like her a great deal."
"I—" Hermione supposed that made an odd sort of sense. "Well. I suppose I do, too."
Luna nodded sagely. "Anyway," she said, glancing up at Hermione from her cup. "You said you needed help with something?"
"Well, your thoughts, mostly." Why Luna's thoughts, she had no idea. Unfortunately, it seemed Harry was still capable of worming his way into Hermione's moral convictions, and he'd done the unforgivable thing of reminding her precisely what sort of person she was (and wasn't being at the moment). "I have a bit of an ethical crisis on my hands, and I thought you might be able to help me with it."
"Understandable," Luna said perfunctorily, giving Hermione an expectant glance to get on with it. Luna was many things, but conventionally social she was certainly not. It was no wonder she and Pansy got along.
"Well, I've been doing some ghostwriting," Hermione began.
"Vengeful?" Luna asked, and Hermione blinked.
"What?"
"Is the ghost vengeful," Luna said, enunciating with pained deliberation, and Hermione shook her head.
"No, no, I'm not writing for a ghost, I'm writing as a ghost, for a living person—"
"Oh," Luna said, visibly disappointed. "Well, fine, carry on."
"Right," Hermione said, and then, because she couldn't help it, "You do know what ghostwriting is, right?"
"I prefer the spectral reference, but I suppose it is what it is."
"Right. Okay, well," Hermione exhaled, determining it best to move along, "I'm ghostwriting—have ghostwritten, I suppose—a memoir, and I've come to learn it's possible that the author may have unintentionally taken one of his anecdotes from, well." She hesitated, and then confessed, "A mental patient."
Luna tilted her head. "What sort of mentality?"
"Um. Ill, I suppose."
"Hm." Luna drummed her nails on the table, considering it. "What do you think?"
"Me?" Hermione asked, surprised. "Well, I don't know. The author insists it's not true, and I can't prove otherwise."
Luna's owl-eyes fixed vacantly on Hermione's. "But?"
"But what?"
"Well, something remains unsaid." Luna took a sip from her purple latte. "Some part of you does believe it's true, clearly, or it wouldn't be an ethical dilemma, would it? It would just be a Tuesday."
"It's Wednesday," Hermione said.
"Allegedly," Luna replied, and Hermione grimaced.
"Well, I do trust the person who told me. Though, it's second-hand information," Hermione hurried to clarify. "I haven't spoken to the actual source."
"Why not?"
"Well…" That was obviously the difficult question. "My hands are tied, aren't they?" she insisted. "I can't prove anything, and technically my role in the manuscript is complete, except for occasional edits. I already did much more fact-checking than I was asked to."
"How many times have you done that?" Luna asked.
"What, fact-checked? At least a dozen—"
"No," Luna corrected, "lied." She took another sip, giving herself a thin, violet mustache. "Either you already lied to someone about it before, or you've been practicing in the mirror. Either way, it sounds rehearsed."
"I—" Damn Harry and his ridiculous ideas. "I'm not lying, I'm just… rationalizing," Hermione finished weakly.
"Is that a new term for it?" Luna asked, frowning. "I have a tendency to fall behind when it comes to euphemistic language. And colloquialisms."
"No, it's—" Hermione let out a growl. "Fine, I'm lying. I don't want it to be true," she admitted. "It means I'll have done all this work for nothing. And it means my own credibility will be questionable, at best. And," she groaned, arriving at the heart of the issue, "I don't particularly want to speak to the source. He's not especially credible either, in my view." If there was one thing Hermione already knew Neville was, it was a liar.
"Well," Luna said, leaning back in her seat, "I suppose you do have a point. Probably best you didn't ask Handsome Tom," she added, looking moderately chagrined despite him being in no way relevant to the issue. "He would most likely encourage you to protect yourself at all costs. Though, given his propensity for stealing heirlooms, I would not recommend his advice."
"I'm really more interested in your advice," Hermione said, not entirely believing she was saying so herself, though by that point she was morbidly curious. "If you were in my position, Luna, what would you do?"
Abruptly, Tom the Barman appeared with a purple latte for Hermione, which she had not ordered and did not particularly want. Still, it seemed rude to refuse and Luna was thinking, so she permitted herself a sip. It had the distinct taste of yams with a hint of lavender, and she was almost positive the foam was actually closer to marshmallow fluff.
After another odd sip, Hermione glanced up at Luna, who was either thinking very intently or had fallen asleep with her eyes open.
"Luna?" Hermione asked, and Luna blinked.
"Well," Luna said with grave concern, "I really don't think Handsome Tom should be left alone with those heirlooms."
"Oh, right, but—"
"As for your situation, I'm afraid it's rather straightforward," Luna continued, fixing Hermione with another solemn stare that seemed to be her only method of eye contact. "Your obligation is to tell the truth, whatever you think that is. You're a bright sort of witch, Hermione," Luna added, which Hermione thought for a moment might have been an insult, but then realized was either a compliment or some sort of supernatural prophecy. "I imagine your intuition is sufficiently honed. Is the author of the book particularly reliable?"
Laughable, really, to imagine the quality applied to Gilderoy Lockhart. "I suspect not," Hermione admitted.
"Then you'll simply have to decide whom you trust more, your author or your source."
It was the right answer, obviously, though not the one Hermione had been hoping to hear. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, exactly. Maybe that Luna possessed some sort of magical method of turning back time to fix things, since she could also evidently talk to ghosts.
"But what about my career?" Hermione asked tentatively. "If the story's stolen, that doesn't look good for me."
Luna shrugged. "If something requires you to lie for it, perhaps it's not worth pursuing. Also true of sentient books," she cautioned firmly. "Can never be too careful with something if you can't see where it keeps its brain."
"I—well, thank you for that," Hermione managed to say through her confusion, "but as far as the fallout—"
"Excuse me," came a horrendously familiar voice. "Is this the home of His Lordship?"
"Oh, no," Hermione said under her breath, finding herself face to face with Draco's cousin Hortense. "I thought you were dead."
"Ah, so you received our invitation!" Thibaut proclaimed, materializing beside his sister. "There will be no need for gifts, of course. Our current possessions are far superior."
"Invitation to what?" asked Luna.
"Our surprise party funeral," Hortense informed her.
"Is the surprise that you'll be alive or dead?" Luna asked.
Hortense and Thibaut exchanged a glance.
"You," Thibaut informed Luna with gusto, "are onto something."
"Anyway," Hortense continued, "we simply came by to drop off an invitation for Handsome Tom. Is His Lordship around?"
"I don't think Handsome Tom is strictly a lord," Hermione pointed out, and Hortense shrugged.
"Metaphysically? No," she agreed.
"Though, he is quite strict," Thibaut said. "Troublingly so."
"He suggested some sort of matching friendship tattoo, which naturally we declined," Hortense sniffed. "Everyone knows that's effectively a jinx on what is otherwise a perfectly meaningful relationship."
"Anyway, we're off," Thibaut said, briskly aiming himself at the kitchen. "Until next time!"
Luna stared intently at their backs as they went, suddenly pensive.
"I suspect in another realm this would be an issue," she remarked, half to herself. "A very adjacent one, perhaps."
"And in this one?" Hermione asked; because again, it was nonsense, but beguilingly so.
"Oh, probably harmless. Perhaps a bit of mild property damage, or chance of a small but passionate cult." Luna took another sip of her latte, straightening in her seat to return to the conversation at hand. "In any case, have you decided what you're going to do?" she asked, earrings tinkling as she turned to look at Hermione, who sighed.
"Yes," Hermione grumbled, reaching for her phone. "I suppose so."
"Thanks for seeing me," Hermione said, rising to her feet as Neville entered the seating area of his grandmother's house. "I realize it's… not under ideal circumstances, but—"
"Given everything, I think this is close enough to ideal," Neville said, not unkindly, though with the indication he was about as reticent about their meeting as Hermione had been. "I suppose we shouldn't waste time with niceties?"
Hermione grimaced. "If you could just tell me about your father," she said, and Neville stiffened, clearly already uncomfortable. "I tried to get into St Mungo's to see him myself, but—"
"You did what?"
Neville looked so alarmed Hermione hastily cleared her throat, backpedaling. "Well, I couldn't, I didn't have your permission, so—" She broke off, realizing it was a more sensitive subject than she'd thought, even with Blaise's warnings. "Anyway, if you wanted to, um. Just tell me your version of the story, I guess—"
"I'm not sure how much I can confirm," Neville told her uneasily. "Post-traumatic stress disorder, like my father's, can be somewhat debilitating."
He seemed… disinclined to be helpful. Still, she couldn't forget Blaise's face when he'd thought she'd given up; if she was going to do this, then she'd simply have to do it. "Let's just start with what you know, then," she said, hoping to reassure him. "Your father has PTSD, you said? From his time in the military?"
Neville hesitated, glancing quickly over Hermione's shoulder. "Can I trust that all of this will remain between us?"
"Of course," Hermione said. "I have no interest in prying, but if the error in Gilderoy Lockhart's memoir amounts to, in essence, a crime, then I imagine you can see my predicament. I'd just like to be able to prove whether his story and your father's are actually the same, or if maybe there's a defining detail I may have missed."
Neville didn't look particularly swayed. "Did Blaise tell you anything?"
Blaise had made it very clear the information was private; she hardly wanted to confess the little she did know, and simply shook her head. "Nothing, really. He just told me to ask you."
Neville looked away, and Hermione sighed.
"Look, my options are limited, Neville," she said, hoping to nudge him into compliance. "I can tell you that if you say nothing, then Lockhart's memoir is definitely going to press quite soon. It will probably sell millions of copies, and everyone will believe his story to be true. If that doesn't bother you, then there's no need to continue. I can simply step back from the project. But if, by chance—"
"My father is schizophrenic," Neville confessed, flinching, and Hermione, who had been mid-sentence, hurriedly closed her mouth, nodding. "It worsened considerably during his military service before he was honorably discharged, when I was still quite young. I was placed in my grandmother's custody."
Hermione, who knew better than to interrupt, nodded again as Neville continued, "My father once told me when I was a boy that he rescued a child around my age. I remember it distinctly—he was rarely lucid, but he described the story in perfect detail. It was as if my being that same age had sparked something sane in him, and he seemed to be perfectly clear for the first time that he was speaking to me. His son."
Neville swallowed heavily, and then confessed, "It's the only memory I really have of him as a father. I never told anyone, except—" Another swallow. "Well, in any case. Naturally, I find it difficult to believe it could have happened to Gilderoy Lockhart with that degree of detail. Perhaps it's an honest mistake?" He shrugged. "He might have seen it happen and misremembered, or perhaps embellished."
Hermione nodded. She had the sense Neville was closing up from his window of confession already, and was therefore unlikely to say much more.
"Now that I've spoken to you, I can ask him again," she said, hoping to sound encouraging. "If the story is misattributed, I'm sure he can understand my wanting to include an addendum of some sort—"
"No," Neville said quickly, shaking his head. "No, you can't mention my father. You'll have to simply remove the story."
"I—" The story about the rescue was a pivotal turning point in Gilderoy's memoir. It was, narratively speaking, the nexus on which the rest of his life would eventually turn. "I don't know if I can do that, Neville, but—"
"My father's condition must remain private," Neville said firmly. "That information is for my family alone. You've seen what they're saying about Harry's parents," he pointed out, and Hermione winced, knowing, regrettably, precisely what he meant. At its worst, public interest in Narcissa's misdeeds meant James Potter's name would never really rest.
"Yes, I understand, and I'm sure there's a way t-"
"This," Neville said impatiently, rising to his feet. "This is why I didn't want to discuss it with Blaise. Of course I have no interest in seeing my father's life misappropriated for some overstuffed celebrity's ego—why would I?" he demanded, "but I simply can't condone this. My gran would never approve, and after everything she's done—"
He stopped, and Hermione blinked.
"Done for whom?" Hermione asked, and Neville fixed her with an evasive look of warning, shaking his head.
"That's enough. Please tell Blaise not to contact me any further." He turned, heading for the door. "I'll fetch someone to escort you out."
But Hermione, who hadn't wanted to speak to Neville in the first place, couldn't help a rush of temper at the unwelcome sight of his back.
"I'm not going to be the one to tell Blaise you're lashing out because he tried to help you," she snapped, and Neville paused in the doorway, shoulders going tense. "Maybe you have no problem with lying, but I do. The truth is important to me, so if it comes down to it—"
"Are you writing this under your own name?" Neville cut in over his shoulder, and Hermione stopped.
"That's different," she said, and Neville pivoted to face her, expression grim.
"Is it?" he asked, and this time, his doubt was explicitly unkind. "You don't get to consider yourself noble for preferring the lies you choose to tell, Hermione. Your stakes are different from mine, and my hearty congratulations to you if they happen to suit your ethos."
"My lies aren't hurting anyone," Hermione retorted, furious. "All you've done is hurt people! First Pansy, then Blaise—"
"If you're angry with what I've done then be angry, but this has nothing to do with it," Neville reminded her stiffly. "This is about my father, the privacy of my family. Seeing as we are no longer friends, I am requiring you as a professional to hold yourself accountable to the wishes of your source."
He continued his progression to the door but Hermione, feeling particularly wrathful after that particularly hellish proclamation, took three steps after him.
"You broke his heart! And for what?" she spat contemptuously. "Michael Corner, really?"
Immediately, Neville spun, startling her with his proximity as he took a rapid stride in her direction.
"Stay out of my personal life," he warned, but Hermione had never cared for intimidation. Not from Prince Lucifer, not from the King of England himself, and certainly not from Neville fucking Longbottom.
"Or what?" she demanded, and Neville said nothing.
He simply walked away, leaving her behind in silence.
"You did what you could," Draco reminded her on the phone. "And much as I'm sure you hate to hear it, Neville might have a point. Your feelings about what happened with Blaise and Pansy might be getting in the way of considering this all objectively," he ventured gently, "but all you can do is your job."
"WELL," Hermione began, and then rapidly withered, falling backwards on her bed. "You're right, obviously," she growled, "but still. My work matters to me, and I don't want to have written something that's… I don't know. Bullshit."
"Admirable," Draco said wryly. "But still, there are limits to what you can do about it."
"You would know, I suppose," Hermione grumbled, now diametrically opposed to the concept of limits in general. "Does it frustrate you, how little autonomy you actually have to do the right thing?"
"What, having my father and grandfather tell me what to do, you mean?"
"Yes. I guess."
"Well, I've come to understand there are certain limitations to everything, and to everyone. Even my grandfather can't do whatever he likes."
Hermione sighed. "And why not?"
"Eh, something about tyranny," Draco replied. "But that doesn't mean you can't still try to do what's right, does it? Just because the rules are against you doesn't mean it isn't worth making an effort, I suppose. Besides," he added with a sigh, "I think you and I both know you won't be able to stop thinking about it until you sort out how to make it right."
"What I should be thinking about is my costume for Blaise's Halloween theme this year," Hermione said, though mention of Blaise set her back on the frustrating spiral of Blaise to Neville to Gilderoy Lockhart all over again. "I have to say, 'bedroom psychology' is upsettingly on brand."
"Freudian slip," Draco suggested, "and anyway, just talk to him again."
"Who him? Blaise?"
"No, Lockhart."
If only it were that simple. "He's making a habit of being impossible to track down lately. He's ignored my last ten emails. Though, I suppose he never really answered my questions so much as chattered endlessly about himself until I gave up."
"Well," Draco said, "I doubt he wants a scandal on his hands. It might be worth pointing out to him that something like this could quite easily ruin his career."
Hermione sat up, balking a little at the suggestion. "Are you saying you want me to threaten him?"
"Of course not," Draco replied with a laugh, "I'm only saying you might try to reason with him. It's not as if you're the only one who could get in trouble if it comes out that his memoir is less original than he claims. Right?"
Hermione grimaced. "Yeah, I guess not."
"Good. Unless you want to be penis envy," Draco said.
She blinked. "What?"
"Instead of Freudian slip," he clarified, and Hermione rolled her eyes.
"How would I even be penis envy?"
"You're the genius, not me," he told her, leaving her to sigh, falling back against the pillows.
It took another couple of days, but Hermione finally managed to track Gilderoy down at the Chamber Club (after having asked Colin Creevey if there had been any significant sightings that day; he was surprisingly useful, at least in terms of finding high profile people in London) on the morning of Halloween. Gilderoy was sitting in one of the private rooms, animatedly detailing something Hermione hoped was less pornographic in nature than it looked when she knocked quietly on the glass door.
"Gilderoy," she said, observing the flicker of displeasure on his face as she materialized in the doorway. "May I have a moment, please? Won't take long," she added in apology to his guest, who was a small, rat-looking man with beady eyes. "I'm Penelope," she offered, and the rat-man looked up, shrugging.
"Don't care," he said asthmatically, wheezing his way out as Hermione hurried to take his seat.
"So, listen," she said before Gilderoy could interrupt, "about Frank Longbottom—"
"This again? Penny," Gilderoy said, sighing loudly, "I must tell you, all this stalking you've been doing is getting quite tiresome. I don't have any other projects for you, as I've mentioned, and while I'm very flattered by your obvious sexual advances, I really do not think it would be wise to mix business with pleas-"
"No, no," Hermione said, flustered with repulsion. "No, I'm sorry, it's just—it's not that, I simply wanted to revisit the possibility that perhaps there might have been some sort of… misunderstanding," she said optimistically, "or, if we could just go through the details of the story one more time, then maybe—?"
"Penny," Gilderoy cut in, "I really must implore that your obsession with me desist for the time being. Have you considered the likelihood that perhaps all those mental patients stole from my life story rather than the other way around?"
"Well, of course I—" Hermione broke off, frowning as she contemplated what he'd said. "I'm sorry, did you say patients?" she asked slowly. "As in plural?"
She could see immediately that she'd caught him in something. His facial expression froze, eyes temporarily darting away, before he seemed to physically discard the comment, waving a hand and leaning back in his chair.
"Don't be silly," he scoffed, crossing one leg over the other and gesturing vaguely to nothing. "I'm simply repeating back to you what you said to me, Penny."
"Actually, no," Hermione said, rendered more than a little concerned by the way he was still avoiding eye contact. "I thought it was just one story," she said, growing increasingly bothered, "but if there's more, Gilderoy, then we should really talk about reviewing the draft and—"
"May I remind you," Gilderoy cut in, his voice suddenly stark with warning, "the manuscript belongs to me, not you. You are no longer involved in the process of its publication."
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. "I understand that. I'm just concerned that if you've made some sort of mistake—"
"Tell me, how is that little non-profit you care so much about? The Transfiguration Project, is it?" he asked, reverting to his usual bouncing tone. "I understand they're looking for a profitable donor, aren't they? I'd be more than happy to offer an enticing donation. Moreover," he continued, giving her his most charming smile, "my publisher will be scheduling several public events, which will of course require venues. If Minerva McGonagall is looking for publicity, which I'm quite certain she is—"
"You did it on purpose, didn't you?" Hermione realized in disbelief, wondering how she hadn't thought to leap to that conclusion sooner. "You stole from them because you knew they weren't credible sources, so no one would ever question you." She curled a fist, frustrated, and demanded, "How many people did you steal from?"
"Now, on the other hand," Gilderoy continued, blatantly ignoring her, "it would be quite unfortunate indeed if someone were to reveal the dastardly practices of Minerva's little project. I would hate for someone like myself with so much influence to take such an unpleasant stand," he lamented, giving her a falsely mournful look. "Particularly given your ongoing concern for the organization—"
"Are you… are you bribing me?" Hermione sputtered, now unable to conceive of the idea that she'd come in here hoping to ease the consequences of an honest mistake. "You can't possibly be serious!"
"Of course I'm not bribing you, Penny dear. I'm simply incentivizing you to keep your mouth shut," Gilderoy informed her, rising grimly to his feet. "You may think you know something about me, but I can assure you, you do not. Nor do you wield any sufficient influence to combat me—particularly not, for example," he cautioned briskly, "if I happen to reveal just how many falsehoods you manufactured to sell books."
"Me?" Hermione echoed, aghast. "Gilderoy, I—"
"Think about it," he suggested, buttoning his jacket and giving her a curt look of finality. "Tomorrow morning, a very generous donation will find its way to The Transfiguration Project, no strings attached. After such point, should you decide you no longer care to maintain your reputation, I will of course have to sever myself from the organization and publicly condemn them for their gross misuse of funds—but, of course," he said, sparing her an arched look of certainty, "I do not think it will come to that, do you?"
Hermione, who no longer knew what to say, nodded dumbly, unable to conjure a word.
"Good girl," Gilderoy told her cheerfully, flashing her a glimpse of his five-time most charming smile as he passed, disappearing into the corridor.
That evening, Hermione was too unsettled to enjoy much of Halloween, failing to appreciate Theo and Blaise's costumes as their living parents/requisite halves of an Oedipal complex or Harry's furry onesie as Pavlov's dog until she had lost herself nearly twenty points for her blatant distraction. Pansy, away from her daughter for the first full evening and dressed in one of Blaise's catsuits as Schrodinger's cat, certainly wasn't much help, either.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do about this," Hermione said mournfully to her glass, having already spent the majority of the day sulking. "If the end result of me staying quiet is that Minerva gets enough money to keep the company going, is that… wrong?"
"What if Bellatrix comes by again when I'm not home? Jamie will be indoctrinated in some sort of cult for immoral women," Pansy said. "Not to mention I haven't finished plans for her christening, nor have I sorted who the godparents are going to be—"
"At least I accomplished something," Hermione sighed. "And anyway, if Neville's not willing to come forward, why should I even care whether Gilderoy's a thief?"
"I thought perhaps Narcissa, given everything," Pansy continued restlessly, "only I'm starting to think she's aiming for trouble. You don't think she's still trying for a divorce, do you?"
"Who would I even report him to?" Hermione demanded. "And who would possibly believe me if I tried?"
"Hi, just out of curiosity," Daphne interrupted, waving a hand between them and lifting a brow, "are either of you actually listening to each other?"
"What? Of course," Hermione said, distracted. "Something about the christening, right, Pans?"
"Mm, yes," Pansy replied, listless. "And that charming buffoon of yours—"
"I'm getting another drink," Daphne sighed, leaping down from her barstool and giving them each a look of disappointment. "You're both hopeless. NOTT," she called, and then groaned as Theo turned without hearing her, the handle of the fake knife in his back now facing them from where he'd angled himself towards Blaise. "Nott, does your costume extend to your ears? Get over here—"
"Hey," said Tracey Davis, sidling up to Hermione in a lace-trimmed negligee. "Been a while, hasn't it?"
"Are you a Freudian slip too?" Hermione asked her, and Tracey looked bewildered.
"A what?"
"Freudian slip," Hermione repeated, pointing to the phrases she'd pinned to her nightgown: ego, super ego, libido, aggression. Tracey looked no less confused, but she dismissed it with a shrug.
"I thought it was just bedroom things…? Whatever," she sighed, frowning after Daphne. "What's she supposed to be, exactly?"
Daphne, who took her job very seriously, had sewn sequin phalluses in a beguiling pattern onto a plain black dress. "I think she somehow managed penis envy," Hermione said, being successfully envious while looking at penises, and Tracey made a low sound of feigned interest.
"What about you?" she asked Pansy, observing the cat ears. "Didn't you just have a baby?"
Briefly, Pansy looked murderous with distress.
"I have to call the nanny," she said, rising from her seat and rushing away as Tracey shrugged again, taking her place beside Hermione.
"So," Tracey said. "What's new, I guess?"
She sipped her martini, catching Blaise's eye across the room and exchanging a lewdly telling glance with him.
"Oh, nothing really," Hermione said distractedly, trying to remember what Draco's code with Theo was for moments requiring immediate rescue. "Just… work things, that's all."
"Did I hear you talking about the Gilderoy Lockhart thing earlier?" Tracey asked, and Hermione blinked.
"Thing?"
"Yeah—the, um. The thing. The article," Tracey said, and when Hermione frowned with bemusement, she dug around in her purse for her phone. "You really didn't see it? It's wild, everyone's posting memes on Twitter—"
"What happened?" Hermione asked, growing increasingly concerned, and Tracey handed her the phone, tapping a nail on the screen.
"Apparently he stole all the material for his book from loony people or something. Can you believe it?" she said, motioning for Hermione to look at an image showing Chrissy Teigen's crying face with the caption When you plagiarized your whole memoir. "Oh, and this one, this one is hilarious," Tracey added, showing Hermione a clip of Drake dancing to an auto-tuned clip of Gilderoy's voice. "And this one—"
One left shark meme ('WRITE A MEMOIR THEY SAID—IT'LL BE EASY THEY SAID'), one Adele gif (with Gilderoy's hair flowing back as he said 'hello from a sea of lies'), and one controversy later ("Seriously, how is this dress not white? I don't see blue at all," Tracey lamented, frowning), Hermione finally had to forcibly take the phone from Tracey, looking for the source of the issue.
"Wait a minute," she said, opening the Daily Prophet article and staring down in disbelief. "Rita Skeeter wrote this?"
GILDEROY LOCKHART GUILTY OF LITERARY FORGERY!
Bestselling author, self-help guru, and four-time winner of the Women's Weekly Most Charming Smile Award (That, Hermione thought, would upset him more than anything) comes under fire as his forthcoming memoir is revealed to contain multiple instances of plagiarism.
Figured. All this time Hermione had been looking desperately for proof, but that was probably the only thing Rita Skeeter didn't need.
"Apparently she had a source," Tracey said, scrolling down in the article. "And then she went to talk to all the families of these people Lockhart stole from, which if you think about it is both really stupid and completely genius—"
"Hey," Blaise said, nudging Hermione and motioning for her to come with him. "Have to show you something." He paused to kiss the side of Tracey's neck, nipping at her ear, and then dragged Hermione away, placing her phone squarely in her palm. "You didn't tell me you spoke to him," he said in a low voice, as Hermione glanced down at the screen.
It was a series of text messages from Neville.
Delete my number
I'm serious, I can't do this
Don't call
Just tell Hermione I'm sorry
"Ignore the earlier bits," Blaise said, forcing a smile. "I just thought you ought to see the last part."
So it was him, then. Rather than chance Hermione revealing the truth about his father, Neville had chosen to expose Gilderoy Lockhart by way of the only person whose word the public would take without argument: Rita Skeeter.
"Oh, Blaise," Hermione said, glancing at the earlier messages. "Blaise, I'm so s-"
"Fifty points if you never mention this again," he interrupted, taking the phone back and slipping it into his pocket as Tracey approached them, coolly slipping her arm around Blaise's waist. "What are you dressed as, then?" he asked her, adopting his Blaise-est voice of spirited neutrality.
"Freudian slip," Tracey supplied sweetly. Blaise, to Hermione's great displeasure, rewarded Tracey with something that could only be called a kiss by its tamest definition, giving Hermione a warning look.
In response, she hastily excused herself, heading for Theo. She couldn't decide whether it was more urgent that she wash the image of Blaise and Tracey from her brain or if her time would be better spent cursing Neville's bloodline, but either way, talking to Theo usually helped.
"What's your code with Draco for when one of you needs rescuing?" she asked, sidling up to him as he was looking at his own screen. Daphne, it appeared, was elsewhere, trying to coax Pansy and Harry away from facetiming Jamie for the third time that evening. "I feel like it's some sort of hand signal, but—"
"Penelope Clearwater," Theo said without looking up, and Hermione blinked.
"What?"
"Penelope Clearwater," Theo clarified, "is who Lockhart is blaming. A little known ghostwriter who specializes in non-profit copy," he read aloud, and then glanced up, grimacing. "Well, you certainly dodged a bullet, Cali, as there's no mention of your real name," he remarked, rubbing his neck with a morose scoff of laughter. "Although," he began, and then sobered, trailing off into nothing.
"What?" Hermione said, nudging him.
Theo opened his mouth, considering it, and then shook his head, abruptly changing his mind.
"It's simple, really," he said. "We just wave over someone's head, you know, as if someone else is beckoning to us from afar, and then—"
"Theo," Hermione said firmly. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing, nothing, I just—"
"I'm in trouble," she guessed, suddenly feeling grim. "Aren't I?"
Per usual, Theo had the decency not to lie, though he seemed remorseful with the truth.
"Penelope's career is over," he pronounced without inflection, and Hermione took it like a chill, shivering unexpectedly. "I'm sorry, Cali," he told her, resting a hand on her shoulder, "but even if people could be made to believe it was all Lockhart's doing, there's no coming back from this. Penelope Clearwater would have to do an apology tour, interviews, adopt a public defense—"
"Which I can't do without revealing who Penelope really is," Hermione supplied miserably, and Theo nodded in confirmation, looking about as disappointed as she felt. They both understood without saying aloud what this meant: If Hermione wanted to be with Draco, then defending herself was not an option. Even if the work she'd done as Penelope hadn't been too controversial to start with (which Abraxas would probably rule that it was), it was certainly much worse now that she'd ended up with the blame for Lockhart's deception.
"Well," Hermione exhaled, deflating. "What do I do now?"
"Mm, will have to make sure Lockhart doesn't dig into Penelope's background too much. Unfortunately, it will probably require some help from Prince Lucifer to make sure this whole thing is dead and buried," Theo said grimly, "but I imagine, given his options—"
"No, Theo." Suddenly, Hermione's voice went ragged. "What do I do now?" she asked again, more painfully that time, hearing her own voice shake a little with defeat.
Theo must have heard it, too. He pulled her into a hug, resting his chin lightly on her head.
"I don't know," he admitted quietly, knowing better than to lie to her while she cried silently into his father's shirt.
There were positives, of course. On the one hand, the bribe was no longer a problem, which was no small relief. If Gilderoy had deposited the money the very afternoon he'd threatened Hermione instead of waiting until the next morning, Minerva would surely have lost all her remaining donors. Additionally, Abraxas' annual gala meant that Draco was coming home, both for that and for Jamie's baptism. If things were going to suck, they could at least suck less with him there.
The negatives remained, unfortunately, quite difficult to stomach. Hermione received a number of calls the following day from her clients, all expressing their sincere regret. "I hope you understand," Dr Pomfrey had fretted over the phone, "it's quite a precarious situation, and while I've so appreciated your work—"
"I understand," Hermione said dully, repeating herself several times over to Dr Sinistra and Dr Sprout, and then, finally, to Minerva, who had (thankfully) been her usual self and declined any excess sentimentality.
"I'm sure you'll think of something, Miss Granger," she said, brusque and businesslike as always. "We always do," she added, sparing Hermione half a reassuring grimace before directing her to answer Oliver's ringing phone.
"She's right, you know," Draco said later, setting down his book and glancing at her through his reading glasses. Thankfully, Prince Lucifer wasn't around to direct Hermione away on the pretense of preserving her virginity or something, as the last thing she wanted was to spend the night alone. "It's a setback, certainly, but you'll sort something out."
"It's not just the setback," Hermione sighed, leaning against his shoulder. "He's just… he's destroying everything I built, piece by piece." She burrowed a little deeper in the blankets. "I barely even got to be Penelope before Gilderoy Lockhart ruined her."
'I WAS DUPED!' CLAIMS GILDEROY LOCKHART, FRAUD, was Rita Skeeter's latest gleeful take on the subject. True, Lockhart certainly hadn't escaped his own public shaming; his career as a reputable author was over, but that hardly made Hermione feel better. He was obviously intent on bringing Penelope Clearwater down with him.
Draco hesitated, at a loss for how to comfort her. "Believe me, I know what it's like feeling helpless," he told her gently, "but the bad press does pass, eventually." He tucked an arm around her, pulling her closer, and continued, "I know you want to defend your work, but sometimes trying to fix things can accomplish more harm than good."
"But what's going to happen to my clients? To the causes I tried to help?" She knew she sounded childish and gloomy, but it was no use. "If he keeps going like this, blaming me left and right, he'll undo every tiny speck of good Penelope ever did!"
"You'll find some other way to help them," Draco suggested, though she could see he looked conflicted; knowing, perhaps, that per usual, there was very little she could conceivably do. "You'll just have to find a way to do it as Hermione Granger this time," he assured her, "who, I might remind you, is no insignificant force of—"
He broke off as the door burst open, jolting upright as Hermione burrowed lower in the blankets. True, they'd hardly been doing anything untoward, but Draco was shirtless and Hermione was braless, which was certainly enough to cause Prince Lucifer a bout of heartburn from afar.
Strangely, though, it was Narcissa who had burst through Draco's bedroom door, her blonde hair loose and wild as she stormed into her son's room.
"Mother," Draco said, jumping to his feet in alarm. "I thought you were arriving in the morning?"
"We have to go," Narcissa replied, looking at him without looking. Her blue eyes were darting wildly to the door, the windows, and then to Draco's suitcase, which she snatched with both hands and dropped on the bed beside a dumbstruck Hermione. "We're leaving, Draco, this evening. We can be out of the country within hours," she ranted, "and if we're gone before your father returns—"
"Mother," Draco repeated, half-tripping over the post of his bed to reach her. "You'll have to slow down, I can hardly understand you—"
"The one time," Narcissa said, looking up with frustration. "The one time I thought, I've done it, I've done the unforgivable, surely he'll let me go—but no," she half-screamed, slamming her hands down so forcefully Hermione leapt back, unsure what to do as Narcissa's volume increased. "He HATES her," she was shouting to neither Draco nor Hermione. "He hates her more than anyone, more than anything, and still—"
"Who are you talking about?" Draco asked, trying to coax Narcissa into something closer to tranquility. He reached out, tentatively touching his mother's shoulder. "Mother, please, if this is about Father—"
"You saw what she wrote about me, didn't you?" Narcissa demanded of her son. "You read it, what she called me? Everything she said about our family? She thought she could get away with it—she really thought I would forget, and now—"
Draco dropped his voice, still attempting to soothing her. "And now what?"
Abruptly, Narcissa seemed to recall Hermione's presence in the room, turning to look coldly at her. Her eyes, Hermione noticed, were bloodshot, the shadows beneath them darkened with either pain or fury.
"She owed me," Narcissa told Hermione flatly. "She owed me for what she did. I had every right."
It continued to be incomprehensible nonsense, but Hermione nodded anyway, hoping it might eventually become something Draco could make sense of. She wished, not for the first time, that she had Pansy's ability to translate Narcissa instead. "Yes," Hermione said uncertainly, glancing at Draco, who spared her an expression of apology. "Yes, of course you did, Narcissa—"
"She fucked my husband," Narcissa said wildly, "and then she told the whole world about it. She tried to destroy me—and for what?"
"I," Hermione began, and hesitated. "I don't kn-"
"I thought he hated her more than I did," Narcissa spat. "I thought surely he was the only one who hated her more, but do you know what he said? 'You're doing so well, Narcissa,' he said. Can you believe it? I align myself with the person I hate most and he congratulates me! He praises me! For years I do nothing wrong," she gasped, holding a hand to her mouth. "For years, I beg for him to let me out and nothing—and now—"
She turned, sobbing, to throw herself into Draco's arms, half-collapsing into them.
Hermione, entirely at a loss, mouthed, Lucius?
Draco, mouthing over his mother's shoulder, shook his head solemnly. Grandfather.
"We have to go," Narcissa said, suddenly dragging herself away from Draco. "It's time, Draco. If he won't let us leave then we have no choice, we'll have to run."
"Mother," Draco said, exchanging a look of concern with Hermione. "I… I don't think that's the best idea—"
"We'll never be free, you know," Narcissa said, swiping maniacally at dry eyes. "Your father is going to destroy me, your grandfather keeps me in a bloody cage. You and I, sweetheart," she said, reaching up to take Draco's face in her hands and abruptly switching tactics. "You and I, we're going to get away from this, alright, darling? You don't have to do this, we can go somewhere quiet, somewhere else. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she begged, looking strangely adolescent in her palpable desperation. "We could go somewhere else—just you and me, like when you were a boy? Have an Odyssey of our own?"
In the pause that followed, Hermione could see Draco's mind turning with calculation. She was certain he didn't want to refuse Narcissa or hurt her, but he also clearly didn't want to lie. It occurred to Hermione that Draco had once been a boy whose mother was ill, and perhaps his gift for diplomacy hadn't come from any formal royal training. She was saddened to think it must have come from somewhere else, watching him ease Narcissa into a chair and kneel gently at her feet.
"You know I won't abandon you, Mother," he said quietly, "don't you?"
Narcissa seemed to know what was coming. She sniffled softly, her tears less panicked and more defeated this time as she bent her head, nodding in silence.
Hermione, who could see this wasn't a moment meant for her to bear witness, slid out from under the duvet, tiptoeing to the door.
"Why don't you stay home tomorrow evening," Draco was continuing to murmur to Narcissa. "Doesn't that sound nice? You don't have to go if you don't want to, it'll just be a boring party full of stuffy old suits. You won't miss much, and then I'll tell you all about it after. We can say whatever we like when no one's around, can't we?"
Hermione glanced over her shoulder, quietly turning the knob.
"He's going to kill me," Narcissa insisted staunchly.
"No, Mother, he loves you." It sounded like something Draco had said, or been asked to say, many times before.
"No." She shook her head vigorously. "No, I can feel it, Draco—"
"Father loves you, I know he does, and I do—"
Hermione shut the door behind her, leaning her head back against the wood and contemplating something she couldn't identify, or possibly suffering a blow of everything all at once.
Was it really the loss of Penelope that was upsetting her? On the one hand, yes of course, but on the other, she was starting to suspect the root of her disappointment was something else. Being Penelope Clearwater had been safe, distant, detached. Even now, her consequences were hardly personal. Perhaps the truly difficult thing was knowing that consenting to be only Hermione Granger, the woman who would someday marry a king, meant opening herself up to what she had observed from experience wasn't necessarily a fairytale ending.
What would she do now?
Who would she be now?
She slid to the floor, waiting in silence, as gradually, the sound of Narcissa's tears from the other side of the door began to fade.
Hermione's gown for the following evening's gala was off-the-rack, made by a British designer, nothing too expensive. Daphne had warned Hermione that after the past few months of establishing herself, she had to be careful not to appear out of touch. She was, after all, still a commoner. "I'll alter it a bit," Daphne said, adjusting the bodice of what was a fairly ordinary dress: sweetheart neckline, black, with a delicately ruffled hem. "But better it be something other people can afford, hm? So you don't look too snotty."
That, Hermione thought morosely, and it wouldn't be long before she went back to being unable to afford fashionable things at all. She'd been permitted to keep the sum she'd initially received for writing Gilderoy's memoir, but given that the publishers were unwilling to release it—parts of which had somehow been distributed and were already circulating the internet, to disastrous results—she wouldn't be receiving any royalties.
She felt oddly invisible, despite knowing there would be eyes on her. Already, she could feel the inevitable outcomes; the articles she would see tomorrow about how Draco spoken to this woman or that woman but not to her, and wasn't she tired of waiting? What had Hermione Granger been doing for the past year outside of dressing marginally better and attending the odd event, appearing once or twice at Prince Draco's side? Come morning, Rita Skeeter would (again) make her out to be an ordinary girl who'd climbed too high.
Pansy, by contrast, was stepping out for her first major event following Jamie's birth, entirely refreshed and in her element. She wore a bright, cobalt blue gown that featured her already toned post-pregnancy shoulders, cinching in flatteringly at the waist. She wore her long hair in a sleek chignon, like usual, with a set of diamond earrings that had once belonged to Harry's mother.
In short, she glowed. Duchess Pansy was featured prominently among her new family, dazzling her onlookers as Hermione, the secret girlfriend who sometimes-but-not-always dressed well, tried very hard not to wish too fervently to be elsewhere.
"It's not too late, you know," came a voice behind Hermione as she lingered near the outside of the crowd, once again pondering whether it was possible to curse Neville Longbottom from afar.
"My offer, I mean," Rita Skeeter explained sweetly as Hermione spun, instantly forced to hide a scowl at the sight of her. "I could make life easier for you if you let me, dear. Surely you must have something to say about the Black sisters, hm?"
Unbelievable. The woman was relentless. Hadn't she destroyed enough lives?
"No comment," Hermione said tightly, turning to leave, but Rita caught her arm, still with that simpering smile on her face.
"You know, it's the strangest thing—it was announced that Princess Narcissa would be here tonight, and yet, funnily enough, she isn't," Rita tittered brightly. "I don't suppose that has anything to do with Bellatrix's presence, does it? I'd hate to hear the sisters are feuding again," she sighed, whimsical in her pretense, "though, I do have an obligation to inform my audience when bad blood resurfaces. It's a matter of public interest, really."
"Well, you would know," Hermione said through her teeth, and Rita smiled thinly.
"Someone like you, you must know quite a bit," Rita noted, observing Hermione with interest. "Duchess Pansy's engagement scandal, the rushed marriage… I'd say the paternity of Willow James, too, only it's quite lucky for them, isn't it? Those green eyes," she remarked, chuckling. "Must have been a collective sigh of relief in the Palace that day, hm?"
"Leave Jamie alone," Hermione snapped. "She's a child."
"Mm, well, there are of course so many other things we could discuss," Rita said, unfazed. "Truly, it's such a pity Longbottom wasn't more forthcoming, as my journalistic senses tell me there's more to gain beyond this silly Lockhart nonsense—"
"Narcissa is simply under the weather," Hermione said, "and Harry and Pansy couldn't be happier. Jamie is the perfect baby and we're all so proud of her. Now, if that's all—"
"Excuse me," came the very last voice Hermione expected to hear, finding a startling hand at her elbow. "May I? Sorry to interrupt," said Prince Draco, who nodded in genteel apology to Rita. "Are you well, Ms Skeeter?"
Rita dropped into a stunned and slavish curtsy. "Your Highness, a pleasure as always—"
"As always," Draco agreed without a trace of irony, beckoning Hermione away.
She followed, still a little numb from surprise, and he leaned over to speak in her ear as they walked. "Wanted to tell you I took care of Lockhart," he told her in an undertone, steering her with one hand floating over her lower back. "I know you generally prefer to take care of things yourself, but I'm afraid I took the liberty of making one thing in your life a little easier." He slid her a sidelong glance. "Not too cross with me, I hope?"
She opened her mouth, considering argument, and then closed it, reconsidering.
"You're talking to me in public," she remarked instead. "And in front of Rita Skeeter, no less."
"Mm, true." Draco took a sip from his glass of wine, half-smiling at her. "Pity. She'll probably think we're in love or something."
"Or something," Hermione said, suddenly feeling shy. She had rarely been photographed at these events, given her usual distance from anyone of importance, but she could see heads turning now, cameras flashing. She tried to stand straighter, imagining Pansy's inevitable reprimand of her posture, and tightened her hand around her glass, pleased she'd so far remembered not to bite her nails. "How's your night?"
Apparently she would be making awkward small talk with her boyfriend of give-or-take five years. He stifled a laugh, shaking his head. "I take it you're not upset, then?"
"About Lockhart?" She shook her head. "To tell you the truth, I'm relieved. Though, given what I know of Prince Lucifer's avoidance of addressing anything," she sighed, "I didn't really think there was anything you could do about."
"Nothing smart, maybe," he said. "But I have my moments."
In response, she felt a smile creep over her lips. "Are you saying you did something stupid for me, Your Highness?"
"Oh, every day," he assured her. "I'm more stupid by the hour for you. But the point is, you won't have to worry about him slandering Penelope anymore." He considered something for a moment, hesitating, before he shrugged, adding, "Maybe it will pass, and then you can return to work."
She had the vague sensation he deserved a reward of some kind.
"Or," Hermione said, leaning into her suspicion, "maybe my boyfriend will propose for real this time, and I'll start working for his grandfather the mob boss."
"You think?" he asked, feigning impassivity.
"Well, it wouldn't be the worst outcome," she said. "He once promised me it was a position of some influence."
"Did he? Sounds like a wonderfully supportive partner."
"That, or a compulsive liar."
"A handsome one, I hope?"
"He has his moments."
"Tell me he's good in bed, at least."
"Sure, he tells me so all the time."
He smiled down at her.
She smiled up at him.
"Pretty dress," Draco said, glancing fleetingly at her sweetheart neckline. "Will I see it again later?"
"You can borrow it at your leisure," Hermione assured him.
Elsewhere, a camera flashed; an implied promise she would see this moment again later, published within minutes and reposted across social media along with the speculation that all was reasonably well. True, it might still have the same caption it would have boasted before: she's nobody, she's done nothing, she's just a girl somehow dating a prince. Even if Draco had succeeded in silencing Gilderoy Lockhart, it was clear Penelope Clearwater was dead, along with everything she'd managed to accomplish. From now on, it would have to be Hermione Granger or nothing.
But at the moment, she didn't feel like such a terrible to be.
One thing I might have done differently? Okay, a lot of things, but one in particular: I might have been nicer to Rita Skeeter. I mean…. would it really have killed me to tell her Draco had an enormous tattoo somewhere unmentionable? That Pansy and Harry had a sex dungeon? That baby Jamie was actually some sort of faerie changeling Prince Lucifer brought back from the Underworld?
Okay, fine, so maybe it wouldn't have been that simple.
Then again, maybe if I'd bothered to try, I wouldn't be in the predicament I am now.
a/n: Okay, so next week, fingers crossed for returning to the usual day. That's my goal, but times are weird, so if I'm late again please forgive. Still here? I know the word count is criminally unwieldy, but we're making our way to the end. Thank you for reading!