The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal

by olivieblake

Objectively speaking, Hermione Granger knows Britain has a monarchy, just as she knows Prince Draco (the grandson of the King of England) is probably off somewhere living his royal life in total unrelation to hers. Seeing as she isn't delusional, she doesn't really expect to be his friend. She doesn't expect anything that comes after, either. Dramione, modern royalty AU. COMPLETE.

37. Sartorial

Chapter 37: Sartorial

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

The Rise of a Princess

While the so-called 'Hermione Effect' applies to nearly everything Hermione Granger is seen wearing, using, or consuming, there are some vestiary statements which are particularly unforgettable. Whether she is quietly expressing political support or indicating she has not forgotten her humble origins in her quest for Prince Draco's heart, the evolution of Hermione's public persona has been marked by attention to detail. Some of her most beloved looks—the sailor-inspired dress and its nod to Commonwealth politics, the jauntily daring Wimbledon dress worn in attendance with Duchess Pansy, the festive tartan dress designed by Daphne Nott, and, of course, the emerald dress worn for her public engagement announcement—are surely only the first glimpses of what will be a timeless sartorial legacy.

From the charming displays of her 'normal girl' trainers and casual 'husband' shirt (a rare bit of cheek on that occasion!) to her first embrace of the classically British Twilfitt and Tattings hats, Hermione's evolution to future princess has been a remarkable journey to watch.

Let's see, where to start…

Oh, I don't know. How about with everything Rita Skeeter missed?

---

The Anne Shirley Dress
April 22, 2016

"I don't know, Daph," Hermione said, turning to observe herself in the mirrors of the recently completed Daphne Nott atelier. "Don't you think it's a bit…" She paused, considering her available vocabulary. "Twee?" she asked, before determining she'd never used the word before and likely never would again. "I feel like I look a bit like Anne of Green Gables. Or like I'm about to play some old-timey tennis."

Daphne was more than a little distracted, fussing with the tie on Hermione's ivory sweater dress. "That's the point," she said, frowning as she shifted the knot one way, then the other. "It's thematic," Daphne tossed over her shoulder, wandering away to sort through the earrings she'd requested Hermione bring to the shop. She had been finding less and less time to leave it, as Hermione knew, given the increasing volume of work. "You did say Prince Edward Island was having an election Draco's in the business of supporting," Daphne called, "didn't you?"

It wasn't often Hermione considered herself un-impressed with Daphne, but she still managed to be taken by surprise now and again. "Good memory, Daph," she said, newly appreciating the effort Daphne had built into the politics of styling. "Though I suppose I should expect that sort of brilliance by now."

"Hardly," Daphne scoffed, returning with a pair of medium-sized studs she held up beside Hermione's face. "I wouldn't have remembered my head this morning if I'd had any other choice. A bit of sleep tonight will be ideal."

She rejected the earrings in hand and turned away, distractedly fishing for something else. Hermione, amused, called after her, "I take it you've forgotten, then?"

"Forgotten what?" Daphne replied, eyeing a pair of ruby drops and weighing them against a second, deeply similar pair that she continued to insist were perfectly distinct.

In response, Hermione stepped back from the mirrors with a sigh, abandoning any further questioning of her appearance in favor of diverting attention from Daphne's styling to Daphne herself. She fetched the half-empty bottle of sauvignon blanc from Daphne's private mini-fridge (it was occupied by nothing else, except for a bit of clotted cream) and plucking two glasses from the counter.

"Here," Hermione said, pouring Daphne a glass, first, and then herself. "Drink this," she offered, carrying it over to where Daphne was standing.

Daphne, whose perfectly curated appearance had changed little over the years minus the thin gold band she wore on her finger, looked up with a crease in her lovely brow, brushing at the nonexistence of her stray auburn strands. "What?"

"Drink it," Hermione said, nudging it into her hand. "We have time for one glass."

Daphne clearly disagreed. "Hermione, we still have work to do," she said, disapproving, "and if I'm going to finish that piece I was working on for SPEW, I need t-"

"Tonight's your birthday dinner," Hermione reminded her, pressing the glass more firmly into her grip. "Remember?" she prompted, as Daphne winced, rapidly dejected. "We're supposed to head to yours in twenty minutes."

"Rats," said Daphne, accepting the wine immediately upon recollection. "Poor Nott," she sighed, taking a long, indulgent sip as Hermione continued coaxing her into something of a relaxed position. Like, for example, a seated one. "He's been reminding me for ages," she groaned, unwillingly permitting Hermione to shove her away from the jewelry, "but of course I told him I wasn't stupid, I certainly know my own birthday—"

"Hey, you're busy. I'm sure he understands," Hermione assured her, nudging Daphne into the decorative chair in the corner and perching across from her on the footrest. "What's Theo been up to while you've been working, anyway?"

"Honestly?" Daphne asked, cutting a sidelong glance at Hermione, who nodded. "He's been a bit… nesty."

Hermione stifled a laugh. "Nesty? Is that a word?"

"Yes, nesty, he's nesting. There's the dog, for one," Daphne pointed out.

Ah, yes, the dog. A cast-off from Theo's father's estate, the mopey-looking greyhound was one of the most tragic things Hermione had ever seen. He was typically found with his head buried in blankets while nudging Theo for warmth, or else huddling beside the fire like a Dickensian orphan.

It was impossible to forget the first time Hermione had been introduced to the Nott household's family dog. "Prince Lucius is in the kitchen," Theo had informed Hermione, who had nearly jumped at the horrifying news before realizing that Theo had never actually referred to the Prince of Wales as anything other than Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness, or, on one or two occasions, Satan's Handmaid.

Naturally, the reluctant trotting out of dog-Lucius had been both a relief and a massive oddity, though he was usually referred to as His Highness (even, and in fact most especially, in Draco's presence) or, alternatively, the Duke of Ruff-say and Lord of the Smiles. Subsequently, it wasn't particularly confusing.

"He asked me to design the dog a coat," Daphne sighed, rolling her eyes and taking an appropriately long sip from her wine. "He actually specified, 'tartan, please'—and obviously I'd say no," she remarked with a conspiratorial look of exasperation, "only I'm a bit behind in wife points."

"Wife points?" Hermione echoed doubtfully. "Not a real thing, I hope."

"Not in the sense that they exist, no," Daphne admitted, "but I have to admit, I'm not home nearly as often as I expected I would be. And," she exhaled, "seeing as he's my primary investor, it's a bit difficult to… draw the line, I suppose."

"You're sleeping with the chairman of the board?" Hermione asked, half-laughing, and Daphne gave her a brief look of uncertainty.

"You know, I'd so appreciate if you could find a way to keep him busy," she said, lamenting a little as she toyed with the chair's re-upholstered velvet. It, like everything in Daphne's shop, had been specifically chosen by Lady Nott herself, perfected down to the details. "All he seems to be doing lately is watching Jamie or fussing over the dog. I seem to exclusively come home to my husband in slippers with a rag thrown over his shoulder," she sighed, "cooking the dog supper with a nappy in one hand and a bottle in the other. I worry he's going a bit mad shut up in the house all day."

The domestication of Theo Nott had been a strange thing to watch, Hermione had to admit. "I'm happy to help you if you need it. At the very least, I can help with S.P.E.W.," she offered, and Daphne nodded eagerly. "And I could certainly spend more time with Theo, assuming Rita Skeeter doesn't determine my carousing with him to be evidence of sinister infidelity."

"Well, why wouldn't she? He's a Bad Lad, after all," Daphne said.

They managed to keep it together nearly an entire moment before coughing up laughter at the old reference to Draco, Theo, and Harry, who were now so properly docile it was hard to believe they'd ever been up to no good. (There was Blaise, too, of course, but he was hardly tame. At least not optically.)

"My god," Daphne sighed, nudging a little moisture from the side of her eyes after a few more peals of entertainment. "A bit impossible to believe now, isn't it?"

More than a little. "When was their last antic, do you think?"

Daphne shook her head. "Ages ago, poor things." She paused for a moment, eyeing her glass, and said, "How are things with Draco, then? Going well, I assume," she said, gesturing to the dress Hermione was wearing, "seeing as you're going on a mini-break so soon after the holiday with your parents."

Draco had taken all three Grangers on a skiing trip, not unlike the one he'd once intended for the two of them privatelt. Rita Skeeter had torn them to shreds, of course—HERMIONE GRANGER SHAMELESSLY ROBBING TAXPAYERS BLIND WITH OPULENT SKI HOLIDAY!—but all in all, the whole thing had been wonderfully relaxing.

"Things are quite good," Hermione confirmed, taking a sip. "Really good, in fact."

And they were. Draco was permanently in London now, and while he was as busy as he had always been, he was certainly making time for her. The trip they were taking into the countryside would be a welcome reprieve for both of them.

Daphne conspicuously eyed her glass before musing aloud, "Any new thoughts on the public engagement?"

Hermione cleared her throat, hesitating.

"I want to marry you," she had told Draco over the ski holiday, "you know I do, but I can't abandon Minerva. Things are still very touch and go," she pointed out, "and with as much as I'm doing to try to help, I can't walk away from the Transfiguration Project just yet. And," she sighed, smoothing the hair at his temples, "you and I both know I can't cross any more lines. Certainly not after Lockhart."

Draco nodded. "I understand," he assured her, looking, for the most part, as if he meant it. "There's no rush, is there?"

"No, certainly not," Hermione told him, relieved. "So you don't mind, then?"

"Of course not." He leaned over, kissing her forehead. "It's a pleasure just to date you, Miss Granger. In as much as that's a thing we're doing."

It was an unconventional progression from a secret engagement, perhaps. Then again, unconventional was precisely what they'd always been.

"Ah," Daphne said, eyeing Hermione's expression with a laugh, "so… no, then?"

"I can't leave Minerva yet," Hermione insisted, as Daphne gave her a spectacularly doubting look. "What? I can't!" Hermione protested. "She gave me a job despite not having the budget for it," she reminded a still-skeptical Daphne, who sighed.

"It's essentially the same job you were once so desperate to leave," she pointed out. "Don't you wonder if you're just a bit scared to move forward?"

The idea was ridiculous, of course.

(She hoped.)

"Scared?" Hermione scoffed. "What would I possibly be scared of?"

"Oh, I don't know." Daphne sipped her wine with pointed deliberation. "Change? Failure? Disappointment? Rita Skeeter? Feel free to stop me whenever you like," she said in an obnoxious sing-song, and at Hermione's silent eye roll, she continued, "Prince Lucifer, Nott Senior, King Abraxas—"

"Oh, please," Hermione said, with only a scarcely noticeable touch of bravado. "As if I'm afraid of a bunch of old men."

"Ah, so I missed one," Daphne observed sagely, looking as if she'd uncovered something of note. "Narcissa," she guessed with certainty, and as much as Hermione wanted to refuse, she felt something stick unhelpfully in her throat.

"I—" It was something obstructing, like hesitation. Or, possibly, truth. "It's not that I'm afraid of her," Hermione insisted, "I'm just—"

Daphne's expression was patently knowing. "Afraid of turning into her?"

"No. Of course not." Of course not. Aside from their shared love of Draco, Hermione and Her Royal Highness Narcissa, Princess of Wales, had absolutely nothing in common. "I'd never turn into her, I'd just be—"

"As trapped as she is?" Daphne supplied, and Hermione sighed, relenting. But only a little.

"You saw what happened with Lockhart," she said, still a bit prickly in her defense. "If I mess up again as Draco's fiancée, or even worse, as his wife—"

"Is it that you're afraid to mess up?" Daphne asked, frowning. "Or is it the fact that you'll never be permitted to mess up again that's bothering you," she said, and while Hermione had every intention to deny anything Daphne attempted to use as a rebuttal, she found herself unwilling to answer.

No, not unwilling.

Unable.

She eyed her glass, contemplating how to explain it; to make Daphne understand that, for one thing, the Lockhart situation hadn't even been Hermione's fault. She could have defended herself, only doing so would have drawn unflattering attention to her. She could have held him to the terms of their contract, only doing that would have meant a legal battle that would defeat the purpose of a non-disclosure agreement to begin with. That, or it would backfire entirely once Gilderoy realized who she actually was.

She wanted to believe she was lucky Draco had done something—something which, come to think of it, he was conspicuously reluctant to reveal—to make Gilderoy go away, but in reality, she wished he hadn't. She wished, privately, that she had been permitted to have the nasty, despicable scandal she had been given no option but to avoid.

Hermione had never been afraid of being antagonized before. Lockhart was the first battle she'd fled rather than fought, and she didn't love the feeling. Even defeat would have sat better with her than forfeit, only the inevitable damage to her reputation would have certainly ruled Draco out forever. Like he always said, people rarely cared whether or not something was true. It was enough to believe something was whatever Rita Skeeter said it was, and there was no doubt she would paint Hermione as a liar. At best, a controversial figure like Lady Bellatrix, and at worst, a total fraud.

"How about we talk about something else?" Daphne said gently, noticing Hermione's prolonged silence and giving her arm a nudge. "You know, Astoria's got a new boyfriend," she attempted brightly.

It was a relief to talk about something else, even if it was Astoria. "Oh? Another footballer?"

"You know, I thought so," Daphne remarked, "but as it turns out, no. She did meet him while she was off on a romp with a rugby bloke, though," she admitted with a laugh. "Viktor Krum," she explained, which Hermione faintly recognized as someone Harry had mentioned once or twice or a thousand times in addition to one of Fleur's prior flings, "but then she met one of his former teammates. Alex is a hedge fund manager, believe it or not."

"Alex?" Hermione echoed with surprise, and Daphne nodded.

"Alexander Poliakoff. Verified adult," she added with a bit of cheek, looking entertained by the thought. "I had every expectation to uncover face tattoos or a still-attached umbilical cord, but I suppose her string of post-Draco liaisons must have tired her out. To my surprise," she remarked, "he's perfectly respectable."

"High praise," Hermione commented wryly, and Daphne laughed.

"Come on," Daphne sighed, rising to her feet and setting her now-empty glass on the side table. "Let's head off to my birthday party, shall we? You know, if you make a scene, maybe everyone will go home and let me work," she added optimistically, looping her arm through Hermione's.

In reality, the dinner was perfectly pleasant. Hermione didn't make a scene, though she did agree to help Daphne with a few relevant SPEW articles (one which would be a touch political, but crucially so, in both Hermione and Daphne's opinions). Theo did not wear slippers, and Draco spent the evening with his arm around Hermione's waist, murmuring to her every now and again how much he looked forward to their weekend alone.

The weekend, too, didn't disappoint.

"Very Anne of Green Gables," Draco said upon seeing her dress, which would later appear in the tabloids beside broad, public exclamation of their little private tryst. ANOTHER LOVER'S GETAWAY!, the papers would screech. IS IT POSSIBLE PRINCE DRACO FINALLY PROPOSED? EXCLUSIVE PICTURES INSIDE!

"Well, of course," Hermione assured him. "It's an homage, you know. Prince Edward Island, et cetera."

"Ah, Avonlea," Draco registered, pleased, and while they rarely touched in public—or, indeed, in private-but-publicly-visible country gardens—he brushed his fingers beside hers, his touch briefly skating over her knuckles. "You clever minx. You should wear it to Wimbledon," he remarked.

"Oh, absolutely, old-timey tennis was definitely in my initial—wait. Wimbledon?" Hermione echoed, suddenly startled. "Am I supposed to be attending Wimbledon?"

"Oh," Draco said, patently surprised. "Didn't Pansy tell you?"

---

The Wimbledon Dress
July 4, 2016

"Sleeveless?" Pansy said, eyeing Hermione's dress with obvious skepticism. It was a white Temperley sundress with tiered layers, paired with a set of nude pumps Hermione wore so often these days she was beginning to think of them as just an alternative set of feet.

"What? It's hot," Hermione protested. Whatever Pansy thought, she was fully satisfied with not having to worry about sweating through the fabric. "I'm not royalty, Pans. I think I can scandalize some people with the sight of my arms without too harsh a penalty. Besides, Daphne said it was fine."

"Well, if Daphne said it," Pansy echoed, lazily doubtful. She paused to smile genially for a nearby camera, skillful as always, and then turned back to Hermione with an arched brow, remarking, "I suppose it could be worse."

Hermione was pleased to be wearing sunglasses, saving her from any rebuke for her expression. "Thanks, Pans," she said drily. "Glad to have your approval."

"I wouldn't go that far," Pansy said, but her expression flickered slightly from its public mask, extending to something like actual warmth. "I'm pleased you came along. Should be an interesting match."

It was the American Daisy Carnegie against Angelina Johnson, the British favorite. A very popular match indeed, even with Hermione's complete lack of knowledge about tennis. Pansy, who had made a point of insisting on attending the women's matches, had extended the invitation to Hermione several weeks early and, now that they'd arrived, Hermione could see why. The stadium was packed; combined with the expectations for the match, the announcement that Duchess Pansy would be attending with Hermione Granger meant the press was especially eager to be where they were.

"Arrow," was all Pansy had said when she'd initially told Hermione why she wanted them to be jointly present at this particular match, suggesting she had perhaps been on the receiving end of one of Blaise's motivational speeches as well. Pansy was always enthusiastic about supporting successful women, but had been especially so since the birth of her daughter.

"I had hoped Daphne would come along," Hermione said. "Did she tell you what came up?"

"Oh, something about clients, her profession, et cetera," Pansy said with a flick of her wrist. She was wearing a crepe wrap dress with a coordinated blazer, her hair left in precise, voluminous curls that were pulled back, half-up. Hermione's own hair was something of a continuing travesty, though she'd done her best to coax her wild curls into fashionable waves. "She was profusely remorseful," Pansy said, unimpressed, "which of course I couldn't abide. I hung up somewhere around her third verse of apology."

Hermione laughed. "So she's still on the guilt thing, then?"

"Unrepentantly," Pansy sniffed. Hermione, too, had been on the receiving end of Daphne's rushed explanations more than once, along with the frequent promises that things would surely quiet down soon. "As if that's the apology I require," Pansy scoffed. "The busier Daphne is, the more opportunities Theodore has to teach my daughter all sorts of incomprehensible behavior," she said with what Hermione suspected to be fond disapproval. "Imagine what sort of disruption his presence would be in my life if Jamie could speak beyond monosyllables."

"What's been added to the babble retinue?" Hermione asked, a bit devastated she didn't know. It was truly unbelievable how quickly human children developed, though she supposed with how much Pansy and Harry were in a constant state of rapid banter, their daughter was bound to join in.

It was rare that Hermione went more than a couple of weeks without spending time with Jamie, but it had been a particularly busy summer. After having lost Demelza to some corporate poaching (by virtue of what Hermione guessed to be a far more competitive salary than what a struggling non-profit could offer), Minerva and Oliver were particularly adamant about finding partnerships to complete their still-halted Knockturn revitalization project. As a result, Hermione was hardly ever in the office, and her weekends had recently been devoted to site visits and meetings.

Inconveniently, Hermione's previous promise to Daphne to keep Theo from melting into the furniture was also proving a more time-consuming project than she'd expected. When Theo could be convinced to leave the house, it was usually to take long, meandering walks with his tartan-collared dog in tow. He seemed to have an agitated sort of itch to him that could only be sorted by stretching his interminably long limbs, usually for more spare hours in the day than Hermione was willing to devote to such an aimless activity.

"Well, I'd hardly call Jamie conversational," Pansy said, making her way to their seats and carefully smoothing her dress. "Mostly if she's going to speak, she shrieks, usually at that ridiculous creature that's always moping around at Theo's heels. Her most recent word, tragically, was 'Nott,'" Pansy sighed, "which either means I've let her spend too much time with Theo and Harry or she's astoundingly adept at sarcasm."

Hermione hid a smile, knowing full well Pansy's neutral tone was highly deceptive. Jamie's first word, 'Mama,' had been an event meriting a shouty phone call at four in the morning, courtesy of Pansy's rare but certainly undeniable maternal excitement. Hermione had politely not informed Pansy that Harry had been using the word incessantly in Pansy's absence ever since Jamie's birth, figuring it sweeter if she didn't know.

"Is Theo over often?" Hermione asked, and Pansy cut her a look of total annoyance.

"Incessantly," she said, glancing around to survey the other members of the audience. "If Daphne doesn't have a baby soon," she ventured in a low voice, carefully keeping her expression neutral, "I suspect Theo's going to strap Jamie to that ridiculous dog's back and run off with ours."

"You think he's got some sort of… baby fever?" Hermione asked, surprised. "Seems like more of a, you know. Biologically female thing."

"Well, perhaps his childhood traumas have necessitated an opposite, psychologically unsound reaction. Some sort of acute longing for fatherh- ah, now I've done it," Pansy said, mouth tightening slightly as she spotted something over Hermione's shoulder. "I've summoned him."

"Summoned wh-"

"Ah, Your Highness, Miss Granger," came the voice of Theodore Nott the elder, unfortunately requiring Hermione and Pansy to acknowledge him formally or risk the mockery of the Daily Prophet. "How interesting to see you at this particular match," he commented, looking pointedly at Hermione as he said it.

"I love tennis," Hermione said, feigning brightness, and in return, Nott spared her a grim bit of laughter.

"I meant the nature of the match," he said, gesturing to where Daisy and Angelina would soon be appearing on the court. "An American and a Brit, hm? Difficult to choose your loyalties, I imagine," he remarked, and before Hermione was quite ready to comment that her loyalties were hardly at issue, he added, "Have you given any more thought to your renouncement?"

"Of what?" escaped Hermione's mouth before Pansy could give a small shake of her head, obviously identifying the direction of the conversation before she had.

"Ah," Nott said with relish, catching Pansy's motion. "It was my understanding the conversation would have been had already, but perhaps our young Prince hasn't quite made a decision. Explains things," he added, flicking a glance at her bare ring finger and then smiling his thin smile, sparing them both a nod. "Enjoy the match, ladies. Your Highness," he added to Pansy, offering her a curtly formal bow and making his way to wherever he was supposed to be seated.

Hermione frowned after him, disturbed. "What was th-"

"Not yet," Pansy said through her teeth, pairing it with an incongruous laugh and turning to smile dazzlingly at Hermione. "Imagine the headline," she murmured, hardly moving her lips. "Duke of Norfolk, close friend and advisor to His Majesty, colludes publicly with Hermione Granger, whereupon she immediately turns to whisper with palpable concern—"

"Alright, alright, point made," Hermione said as Pansy pointed aimlessly to the court, playing out a theatrical conversation about theoretical tennis, or possibly the condition of the grass. "Is there something I don't know?"

"Many things, I imagine," Pansy said unhelpfully, and Hermione slid her an admonishing glance. "In particular? That you and Draco have not yet had a conversation about renouncing your citizenship."

"Renouncing?" Hermione echoed. "I just assumed I could have both."

"Not if you're going to be Queen Consort," Pansy said, which Hermione supposed was probably a good point, though not one she'd considered before. "If you were in my position, fine, but you'll be the mother of the next monarch, Hermione. They should be British, through and through."

"Is that what Draco thinks?" Hermione asked, and though it wasn't in Pansy's nature to hesitate, she did seem to have traces of not wanting to answer.

"I imagine it's what he expects," was Pansy's diplomatic reply. "You've not been back to the States in some time, have you? Surely it won't cost you much to give it up. Besides, given our recent push for nationalism," she said sourly, "you can't possibly be surprised."

"Well, no, but I—" She paused, suffering a sharp jab from Pansy that meant she was probably chewing her lip, or otherwise visibly concerned. "Sorry," she grumbled, and Pansy shrugged. "I just don't understand why Draco hasn't brought it up. If it's something I'll have to do before we can be engaged, shouldn't I have heard about it by now?"

"Well, how could he?" Pansy replied smartly. "The last time he asked anything of you, you ended things with him."

It was such a blunt synthesis of a complicated situation that Hermione was momentarily stunned. Was that really what had happened? Possibly, but even so.

"Pans, I thought—" I thought you were on my side was on the tip of her tongue, though she bit it back, remembering where she was and how firmly this was not the right place for that conversation. Pansy, however, gave her a long look, possibly estimating as much.

"You still don't get it, do you?" Pansy said quietly. "This isn't personal, Hermione. This isn't me being his friend or yours, it's just what it is. There are boundaries you can push and some you can't. Do you think I enjoy wearing pantyhose in this weather?" she asked, gesturing to Hermione's bare legs. It would surely be tabloid fodder tomorrow, but by now Hermione had presumed any and all criticism of her appearance to be a foregone conclusion.

"There are rules to be followed," Pansy said, "and Draco has the strictest of them all, particularly now. Politics are turbulent," she pointed out, "and the monarchy is not as loved as it once was. Draco is a man without much freedom of choice being torn between what you expect of him and what his station demands."

What stung, outside of the obvious, was the implication that this was an intimate conversation Pansy and Draco had previously had. "So he's talked to you about this and not me," Hermione said, and it wasn't a question. She suspected it had been quite a recent conversation, too.

"He wanted my advice," Pansy said simply. "On how to broach the subject."

"And you said…?"

"Oh, naturally I advised him to wait until Nott could inconveniently accost us in a public setting, of course," Pansy said drily before turning to Hermione with an arched brow, shaking her head. "What do you think I told him, Hermione? Obviously," she scoffed, "seeing as you're just hearing of this now, he didn't listen to my advice."

Strangely, Hermione's gut instinct was to defend him. "Waiting to get engaged was my idea, Pans. He probably didn't think it was necessary to have the conversation now. And besides, his parents have been in the news more than once, which isn't helping." Narcissa's recent appraisal of her personal jewelry had lent a bit of flame to the rumors that the Prince and Princess of Wales were dividing their assets, potentially considering a divorce. Not particularly timely for any engagements, especially because Hermione struggled to imagine how such information might have even been discovered.

Pansy gave a shrug that meant she disagreed, but had no plans to push the topic. "He shields you," she said. "Unnecessarily, in my opinion, but I suppose he has his own private concerns. He protects your relationship by isolating you."

"From what?"

But by then, Daisy and Angelina had both taken to the court. Pansy and Hermione were forced to turn their attention to the match, leaving Hermione's goblin brain to toy with the conversation as it wished in the meantime.

"It's not a matter of isolation," Draco said when Hermione recounted the conversation to him later. "Just… timing," he said, with an air of having expressed a similar concept before. To Pansy, Hermione imagined, or to someone else.

"But you clearly are keeping things from me," Hermione said, and Draco shook his head.

"Renouncing your American citizenship will probably be necessary, it's true, but hardly at this precise moment," he said. "Once you and I are both ready for a public engagement, then we can move forward with your decision."

"But the decision will have to be made before the engagement, wouldn't it?" Hermione pointed out, frowning. "What if I were to refuse?"

She could see on Draco's face that was precisely why he hadn't brought it up.

"Oh," she said dully. "So you still think I could be convinced not to marry you, I take it."

Draco took a moment to collect his thoughts before saying, quite deliberately, "I didn't know whether you might oppose the idea. Asking you to change your citizenship or your faith, that's all very—"

"My faith?" Hermione echoed with surprise, as Draco cleared his throat, obviously having tripped into revealing more than he'd intended.

"My grandfather is head of the Church of England, as I will be someday," he explained. "And we have something of a minor turbulent history with the Vatican," he added, attempting one of their usual historical banters, but Hermione wasn't entirely in the mood.

"Okay, so I'm not British enough to marry you," she deduced, which Draco was in no rush to deny. "That's hardly news. We've always known that I'm not Pansy—"

"Believe me, she's not without her own problems," Draco said quickly. "She doesn't care much for being under my grandfather's thumb either, and I certainly don't blame her."

Hermione supposed there could be something simmering under Pansy's pristine surface. Doing everything perfectly was its own form of exhausting, particularly with a soon-to-be public rival poised to disrupt things the way Rita insisted Hermione was, but she wasn't quite ready to veer from the topic of conversation.

"Still," she pressed. "You didn't think I could understand what you'd need from me?"

"It's not just a matter of understanding, is it?" Draco asked, and the implied reality—I'm not convinced you'll agree to everything I have to ask of you—was, unfortunately, valid enough that Hermione couldn't conjure up the ability to deny it.

"Is this something I have to decide right now?" Hermione asked, and she couldn't tell if Draco was relieved, disappointed, or a little of both. Compromise, she thought glumly. A scenario in which both bargaining parties believe they've given something up.

"No, certainly not," he assured her. "It's hardly the right time, is it?"

If they'd tacitly agreed on one thing so far, it was that somehow, they would both know when the timing was right.

"Shall I put my shirt back on, then?" he added, gesturing to where it had been deposited pre-conversation, and the idea was such undeniable idiocy she half considered stealing his crown to teach him a lesson.

"Don't be ridiculous," she assured him, resting her hands on his hips. "Engagements can wait, Your Highness. This can't."

---

The Tartan Dress
December 11, 2016

"In honor of my little sister's engagement," Daphne said, holding her champagne flute aloft and turning to Astoria. "To you, Astoria," she said, eyes bright with affection. "May you and Alexander have a wonderful adventure together."

"To Astoria," the rest of the room echoed, as Astoria leaned into her new fiancé's arms and Hermione caught the motion of Theo leaning in to speak in Draco's ear.

"Less than a year of dating and already engaged," Theo commented, gesturing to where Astoria was delightedly flaunting her ring. "Do you think Poliakoff's aware he could have drawn it out for at least another half decade, or…?"

"You," Draco said with a muted groan, "are an unbearable swine."

Theo glanced back at Hermione, winking, and she sighed, gesturing for him to join her as Draco stepped forward to congratulate the Greengrass family.

"Draco's right, you know," she informed Theo, and he gave her a merciless grin. "As if Rita Skeeter isn't giving us a hard enough time without your help."

"Oh, he's fine," Theo said with a shrug. "Besides, he ought to get on with it, anyway."

"Why, so you two can live in happily married bliss adjacent to each other?" Hermione asked pointedly, and Theo chuckled into his champagne flute, glancing up at his wife.

"She looks perfect, doesn't she?" he remarked, taking a sip. "One of the charming features of seeing so little of each other is that I get to repeatedly marvel anew at the absurdity of knowing the most beautiful woman in the room chose to marry me. No offense," he added with a cheery glance at Hermione, who rolled her eyes.

"Believe me, I'm aware she wins in any given room," she said. "I'm just pleased she continues to find time to dress me."

If Daphne's continued success of her fashion line weren't enough to keep her busy, being Astoria's maid of honor certainly would. Hermione suspected Astoria wouldn't be pleased with any minimal affair, which meant Daphne's load was unlikely to lighten. More of a problem for Theo than for Hermione, though he seemed to be handling it well.

"This piece is a tour de force," Theo said, eyeing Hermione's dress with pleasure. He wasn't the only one; the dress would later put Daphne's fashion line on the map for its modern shape and perfect tailoring, plus its distinctly British charm. "You look precisely like Prince Lucius."

"I know you mean the dog, and yet I'm still not particularly flattered," Hermione sighed, glancing over her forest green plaid and trying not to recall that it had, in fact, been inspired by the coat Daphne had made for their family greyhound. "I told her I needed to look more British, so I suppose I should have expected this."

"And so festive, too," Theo said, toasting her. "You have to admit, the cut is perfection."

"Hush," Hermione told him, though, per usual, she was fairly certain he would not.

Hermione and Theo were continuing to spend an inordinate amount of time together, both because it was a busy political season for Draco and because Daphne's line was rapidly expanding. The SPEW blog, too, was particularly active around the holidays; Daphne's post about what to buy for friends, family members, colleagues, and acquaintances had gone viral.

Which wasn't to say Hermione wasn't equally busy with Minerva and the Transfiguration Project, which was struggling to move forward with one of its older projects in Knockturn. Opposition to the possibility of gentrification was so strong that the neighborhood council was voting to end all development, including the planned art installation, and Hermione was constantly having to attend last minute action committee meetings opposing the project.

Once, she'd had to inadvertently drag Theo along, after forgetting entirely that she was supposed to be keeping a promise to Daphne to watch him. In the end, canceling their dinner plans to observe the council's arguments against any further Knockturn developments had proven a bit of a mixed blessing.

"The problem isn't that they oppose development, it's the fact that this particular development is such stifling bollockery," Theo had said in his usual drawl, not bothering to whisper despite Hermione's desperate attempts to shush him. "Given the choice between this bit of… art, I suppose—which requires maintenance, by the way," he informed Hermione, still too-loudly, "and some sort of organic grocery store bullying in to increase their rents, I can't say I blame them for all this oppositional squawking, either. Why shouldn't they push for a moratorium on all development in the area?"

"Theo, please, I—"

"What would you do, then?" came the voice Hermione had most hoped not to hear, as Theo turned to face Minerva McGonagall herself. "You seem to have thoughts on the matter."

Having witnessed more than one of Theo's rants, the idea that he might speak unfiltered to Minerva about anything was, appropriately, sharply worrisome to Hermione. "Dear god, no—"

"Well, it's hardly brain surgery. Give them something they can use," Theo said, ignoring Hermione's distress completely. "There are businesses here already, aren't there? What they need is an injection of income, not the aesthetic burden of the pearl-clutching upper class," he said with oozing disparagement, despite being a primary inheriting member of just such a class.

"The Transfiguration Project is a public art organization, young man," Minerva said, frowning. "I hardly think pearl-clutching is at issue, do you?"

"Isn't it? They've hired an artist to 'revitalize' the space, but why the absurd morbidity? It isn't dead," Theo declared bluntly. "Considering the transfiguration concept, the word they mean is 'undesirable,' I assume," he said, as Hermione winced. "But there's an ecosystem in place already. If they're going to disrupt it, they'll have to do it in a way that brings people here."

"Wouldn't art do that?" Minerva countered, as Hermione struggled not to bite her nails.

"Sure," Theo said insincerely, with precisely the voice he used before getting into an argument with Daphne, usually over the merits of something outrageously niche, like whether or not Da Vinci had ever actually seen a naked woman and not simply put wigs on men. "It would bring people, fine—but only to look for five minutes," he scoffed, "and then leave for somewhere else to eat their avocado toasts. What you need is a way to bring people's wallets here," he announced, which was a comment Hermione felt certain Pansy would have considered deeply crass. "Draw in business. A venue," he said, apparently having just invented it as an option. "Somewhere that can host events, conventions. Guests would need to buy local food and beverages, plus the lessees would need to hire local services. Caterers," he enumerated, "florists, custodial services—"

"Sounds like a job for a private developer, not an arts organization," Minerva cut in, and Theo shrugged.

"Unless the venue itself is an art installation," he said, and though Hermione continued to feel some concern about the way Theo clearly had no idea who he was talking to, she was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, he might have actually thought some of this through.

"They could hire a local architect," he said. "Host a design competition, even, and let Knockturn businesses choose. Knockturn doesn't need to be Covent Garden or Diagon Alley," Theo added with a sniff of distaste. "It doesn't need to be anything at all. It can be something that's both everything and nothing."

A bit unnecessarily cerebral, as Theo's ideas often were, but clearly, something about the statement had stuck with Minerva.

"An open venue," Minerva murmured, turning it over in her mind. "Something that can be everything and nothing."

"Talk about transfiguration, am I right?" Theo said with a laugh, apparently amusing himself with his own wordplay. "Make it over into one thing one day, another the next. A wedding hall, a conference auditorium," he said, waving a hand. "A market for basket weavers and rare exotic jams. It doesn't define the place because it has no definition."

"Interesting," Minerva said with a pensive frown, and Theo shrugged again.

"Well, it's been a pleasure or something, but my friend Cali and I have plans to go see a small baby now," Theo said, nudging Hermione's arm and gesturing evasively to the time. "That, and Prince Lucius needs to be walked. He hates to be left alone too long, it reminds him of his time in the war."

"Prince Lucius?" Minerva echoed.

"I'd have used his full title, but I'm short on time," Theo replied airily, meandering away before waiting to see if Hermione had followed.

That had been the previous week. Minerva had since pressed Hermione repeatedly for details about Theo, including his business acumen. "I don't know if he has acumen, exactly," Hermione said with a frown. "He's only ever invested in his wife's clothing line."

"You mean Daphne Nott, I presume?" Minerva asked, and then shouted, "WOOD!"

"Yes, I'm here," Oliver barked in reply, bounding in with an electric scooter that he would later crash tucked under one arm. "You rang, Minnie?"

"Do you have the folder on Theodore Nott?"

"What, the Duke?"

"No, the younger one."

"Ah, right—" Oliver disappeared, then reappeared with a remarkably meticulous file in hand, flipping it open and reading aloud, "Only son of the Duke of Norfolk, partner and financial backer for the couture line Daphne Nott. Graduated with double firsts from Hogwarts University in English Literature and History of Art, with a speciality in architecture—"

"Theo did what now?" Hermione said, startled.

"—increased Daphne Nott sales by… my goodness, is that a number? And all during this year, too—well," Oliver said with glee, "that's certainly not unremarkable—"

"Well, Daphne's very good at what she does—but hang on, hold on, stop," Hermione said, cutting Oliver off before he could continue and turning to Minerva, bewildered. "Why are you researching Theo, exactly?"

Minerva gave Hermione a grave, unsettling look. "Miss Granger," she said, removing her glasses and looking more exhausted than usual at having to explain herself. "Are you unaware that your friend… Theo," she said, sounding positively dismayed at being forced to use a diminutive for the man/dog owner in question, "is one of the wealthiest men in this country?"

"I—" She wasn't unaware, no, but it was easy to forget. "Well, of course, but—"

"Miss Granger, even I am not above admitting I cannot take this project further without help," Minerva said, fixing Hermione with a pointed look. "I would do all of us a disservice by not considering what he could potentially bring to the table as an investor."

She paused, eyeing Hermione for a moment.

"Do you doubt him?" she asked, and while Hermione's first instinct was to suggest Theo might lack the experience necessary to invest in a large-scale public development, she paused to consider it.

"Theo has… a fascinating eye," she admitted, recalling Fleur's thoughts on the matter. She had once remarked to Hermione that Theo made an effort to see things that others didn't. "He interprets things in a very interesting way, and it doesn't limit him."

The 'it' in question was usually reality, which was its own form of questionable, but Minerva seemed mostly unbothered.

"Discuss it with him," she advised. "See what he says."

"No," was what Theo said when Hermione broached said discussion.

"But why not?" Hermione insisted, displeased to be met with such reflexive refusal. She'd gone so far as to prepare a powerpoint presentation on the subject, and was a touch miffed it was apparently not even going to be viewed. "You clearly enjoyed telling her what to do at the meeting!"

"Yes," he agreed, "but as you know, I'm hardly interested in the details. What do I care about whatever it was that I said?" he asked, scoffing lightly under his breath. "My focus is my wife, thank you, and I have no particular interest turning my attention elsewhere."

"But—"

"Now, if you'll excuse us, Their Highnesses and I are otherwise engaged," Theo informed Hermione, wandering away with his tartan-coated dog in tow and Jamie tucked under one hand, her two bottom teeth on proud display in a series of spirited babbles. (By then, she had progressed to calling Hermione 'Herm-ow-ninny,' which Hermione considered close enough.)

Now, three days later, Theo cut Hermione off before she could ask him again.

"Stop," he said, apparently having learned to read her mind. "I'm not interested in a job, California. Look at me," he said, gesturing to… nothing relevant, as far as Hermione could tell. "Do I look like someone who aspires to a profession? I already have my hands full securing appearances for Greengrass as it is."

"That clearly doesn't take up enough of your time," Hermione said skeptically, but Theo, true to form, wasn't listening.

"A pity Jamie isn't here," he said. "I'd rather have her improperly singing the alphabet while untying my shoes than talk to Greengrass' father one more time about his investments."

"I'm sure, Theo," Hermione said, already exasperated with losing his attention, "but if we could just—"

"I just don't understand the pleasure of seeing money increase," Theo remarked, raising his glass absentmindedly to his lips. "Isn't there far more pleasure in watching something develop? A wonder Blaise can stand it. Oh, look, Prince Lucius will love those," he said, catching sight of some sort of meat pie going by on a platter and disappearing as Draco nudged Hermione, materializing at her side.

"Still not into the idea, hm?" Draco guessed, and Hermione shook her head, fighting a scowl. "Well, he can be quite stubborn. The trouble with Theo is you can't tell him to do anything," he sighed, "you merely have to let him dismiss you outright or see if he comes around on his own."

True, but unhelpful. "How do you think he's doing?" she asked, turning toward Draco, who shrugged.

"Always hard to tell with him. His natural state is typically a bit restless." He contemplated Theo's back for a moment before adding, "Though, I do think it's quite possible he's ready to put down roots, et cetera. Harry tells me he spends quite a lot of time with Jamie." He glanced at Hermione. "Has Daphne said anything to you?"

"About children?" Draco nodded. "It's…" Hermione hesitated. "Not promising."

"I think there might be something wrong with me," Daphne had recently whispered to Hermione, pulling her aside during one of the Sunday cream teas at Grimmauld Place. Notably, Pansy had asked Daphne to hold Jamie while she took a phone call with her press secretary, presumably about her upcoming public engagements.

It was the first time Hermione realized that, unlike the rest of them, Daphne rarely held Jamie at all. Initially she thought it was because Daphne was particularly busy, having less time to spend with the baby than the others, but when Daphne confessed the avoidance was actually quite purposeful, Hermione somehow managed to be both surprised and unsurprised.

"It's not that I don't love Jamie," Daphne had confessed, looking pained by what seemed to be a long-withheld admission, "because of course I do, but—"

"Daph, you don't have to love babies just because you have boobs," Hermione pointed out, and Daphne grimaced.

"It's just… Nott's so good with her," she admitted. "I suppose he makes me feel a bit inadequate. I thought for sure he'd loathe it, being made to talk to a toddler all the time when you know as well as I do he can't stand boredom, but I think he's a bit of a, well. A nurturer," she said, and winced. "Unlike me."

Protesting that it wasn't true didn't go particularly far, as Hermione expected it wouldn't. All that was clear to her was that if Theo wanted a baby, Daphne clearly did not.

"Well, I'm sure they'll sort it out," Draco said, drawing Hermione's attention back to the subject at hand. "That, or we'll all finally have something new to bet on when it comes to them."

"But don't you think it could become a strain?" Hermione asked him. "If one wants children and the other doesn't," she clarified, "and particularly with Daphne so busy all the time—"

"I'm sure there will come a right time," Draco said.

Hermione paused for a moment, hesitating, and then turned to speak to him more privately, drawing him slightly out of earshot from the rest of the party.

"Anything new from your grandfather?" she asked.

"Aside from Brexit?" At her grimace, he continued with a sigh, "Astoria's engagement means our relationship's been back in the press." That much Hermione already knew; the old headlines about Draco's 'misconduct' with Astoria had resurfaced, much to her chagrin. "And my mother's refusal to join us at Christmas is, unfortunately, a missed opportunity to put rumors of their separation to rest."

"So," Hermione sighed. "Not the right time, I take it?"

He reached out, toying with her fingers for a moment.

"I could propose now," he suggested. "Would be a refreshing take, wouldn't it? And besides, who could say no to you in this dress," he remarked, smiling at her festive plaid. "You're practically wearing our flag."

"Too bad nobody will even know," she grumbled. "Daphne finally talked me into one of those fancy blowouts, too. I nearly look like I can keep up with Pansy, don't I? Or at least not sweep her chimney," she lamented, and Draco laughed.

"Well," Draco said, "you never know. Maybe someone will let something slip."

---

The 'Normal Girl' Trainers
May 20, 2017

"Well, this is… a look," Blaise remarked, glancing down at Hermione's sneakers as if she'd shown up in galoshes. "Or a lack of look, I suppose."

Hermione groaned. "Look, after the tartan dress photos leaked, I've had to wear more normal things. Apparently I've started to 'try too hard,' if Rita's opinion on the subject is to be believed." (After this particular outing, the headlines would read: HERMIONE GRANGER TRADES HER TRUSTY NEUTRAL PUMPS FOR COMFORT! ROYALS, JUST LIKE US!, which was evidently what Daphne had insisted was a necessary reaction in a text message sent between cake tastings and dress fittings.) "Besides, since when is a football game cause for high heels?"

"Don't ask Pansy," Blaise advised, gesturing to where she was wearing a pair of espadrilles with her summer sundress. It was a comparison to Hermione's artfully fitted (she hoped) skinny jeans that would ultimately both cost and earn her publicity points, depending on whether people found her to be unpolished or relatable.

It was another group outing, this time on behalf of sporting queen Ginny Weasley. Harry, who remained a close friend, had procured them all tickets, forgetting what it meant on the occasions his two social circles came together.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked Blaise, gesturing to where Neville was sitting with Susan Bones. "I can't imagine you two are going to speak to each other, but—"

"Ah, minus ten for worrying, New Tracey, but plus twenty for sincerity." He flashed her a thinner version of his irreverent smile, adding, "Besides, Old Tracey's around here somewhere, in the event I find myself thirsting for sentimentality."

"You should probably stop calling her Old Tracey if you're planning to marry her," Hermione pointed out. "Just a thought."

"Eh, she knows what she's getting into," Blaise countered with a shrug. "It's my primary reason for affection, in fact, that she's so very clear on having low expectations."

It was—or was clearly intended to be—a joke, but being who she was, Hermione grew enormously concerned. Catching her expression, Blaise shook his head, admonishing her with wink of, "Minus fifteen, New Tracey. You mustn't fret so often or we'll both wrinkle before our time."

"Blaise—"

"Darling, much as I treasure your concern, I hardly think it's worth the fuss," Blaise said. He, like Pansy, was predictably overdressed in a royal blue suit, and Hermione's look of pity was greatly emphasized by her reflection in the mirrored lenses of his aviators. Regrettably, she guessed she could stand to turn it down a bit.

"Have you given any more thought to the… well, you know?" she asked optimistically, watching his expression fail to change as she danced into a different subject. She didn't want to discuss the ring so close to where Tracey could be listening, but still. Blaise had informed her over a year ago that he'd bought it, and she'd heard no further news of it since.

"More thought to Theodore's financial portfolio? Yes," Blaise said. "I've concluded after extensive research that he does, indeed, have sufficient expendable income."

"Blaise," Hermione sighed.

He spared her a mirrored glance. "Hm?"

"What exactly are you waiting for?" she asked, exasperated she even had to clarify the question, and Blaise, to her dismay, chuckled outright.

"An interesting choice, you broaching that particular subject," he commented, giving her a pointed look. "Or is there some reason that you, too, lack a—"

"Financial portfolio," she supplied quickly, deciding that was going to be their euphemism for the day. "And yes, I know it's a bit counterintuitive that I should have to ask," she said, grumbling a bit at the admission, "but it's just not the right time, that's all."

"Well, there you have it," Blaise said, shrugging. "If it's a good enough excuse for you, New Tracey, why should I require any further explanation?"

"I—" Unfortunately, he had a point. "Well, as long as you're happy, I suppose."

She couldn't prove it, but she was almost certain that beneath the glassy lenses, Blaise's eyes had flicked momentarily to Neville and back.

"You know," Blaise said, "now that I think of it, the trainers are a good choice. Refreshing," he said, reaching out to pat her knee. "Makes you a bit of a cheeky normal girl instead of a dastardly pretender to the throne."

"Do I get points?" Hermione asked.

Blaise considered it. "Yes," he said. "Five."

"Five?" Ridiculous. "Come on."

"Fine. Eleven."

"Eleven, really?"

"I agree, eleven is a travesty," Draco said later, having been absent for an international summit. Predictably, the interview conducted after his appearance began with the subject of climate change and ended with demands about his parents, his mysteriously forthcoming (or not?) nuptials, and whether or not he was fussed about Harry's growing popularity thanks, to his marriage to Pansy.

"Well, I haggled him up to seventeen," Hermione said, "though I certainly think I deserve more."

"You'll get there," Draco offered reassuringly. "Personally, I liked the casual look."

"Certainly better than pantyhose," Hermione scoffed without thinking, and caught Draco's wary expression at what she might have been implying. "No, sorry Draco, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine, I understand. I ask a lot of you." He rose to his feet, unsettled, and glanced over his shoulder at her, either consciously or unconsciously putting distance between them. "How's the situation with the Transfiguration Project?" he asked her neutrally. "Any better?"

It didn't seem worth trying to return to the conversation about his grandfather's expectations just yet; she knew he wasn't ready to discuss it. "Minerva actually followed through with Theo's idea for a design competition," Hermione said, standing to join him as Draco pretended to look at his bookshelf, mind clearly elsewhere. "I found architectural plans for something similar to his suggestion on her desk the other day. I mentioned it to him, actually, hoping it would encourage him to be involved—you know how he hates when people interpret his concepts incorrectly—but nothing, so…"

She trailed off, noticing that Draco's mind was clearly still fixed on her previous complaint.

She stepped forward, resting her cheek against the blade of his shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him, letting him gradually lean against her, and attempted to explain.

"It's hard," she told him softly. "Giving up so much. My name, my country, my upbringing. All the things I used to define myself with."

She felt him swallow, one of his hands rising to rest on top of hers.

"I know bare legs should be the least of it, but it still feels like such a hardship," she admitted with a muffled laugh. "The only one that's small enough to really feel. The rest of it just makes me go a little numb. Do you know what I mean?"

He hesitated.

And then, "If it's too much—"

"It's not too much. But it is… a lot. A lot all at once." She exhaled deeply, more forcefully than she intended, and when he turned to take her in his arms, she felt a strangely mixed sense of relief. "I can't decide whether I'm glad you're giving me time to adjust to the idea," she admitted, "or if I wish you'd just make demands so I don't have a choice."

Draco stroked the notches of her spine, comfortingly.

"Well, if it comes down to patience or possible resentment," he said, "I think I'll take the waiting."

She was grateful, despite some strange, morbid wish that he'd bullied her into it somehow.

"Unless, that is," Draco murmured, "you can think of a reason for me to be in a rush."

Later, she would consider that if it was meant to be a sign, she'd blown right past it.

"No," she assured him. "I'm happy as we are."

---

The Husband Shirt
July 30, 2017

"Oh god," Daphne wailed. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's really not your fault," Hermione said with a laugh, taking the phone from Daphne's hand and letting the screen go dark on the headline: HERMIONE GRANGER SENDS SUBTLE MESSAGE TO RELUCTANT PRINCE DRACO WITH MISHA NONOO 'HUSBAND' SHIRT… IS IT A SIGN SHE'S GROWN TIRED OF WAITING? "So what if it's called that, Daph? Rita Skeeter needs to stop reading into everything, I swear—"

"I really thought it was just a white shirt," Daphne continued lamenting, clearly not remotely at ease despite Hermione's attempts at reassurance. "I thought 'oh, what lovely hardware on the buttons,' and it didn't even occur to me to think what the design was called—"

"Hey," Hermione said soothingly, or in a fervent attempt to be. "Really, Daph, it's fine, I honestly thought it was funny—"

"It's not," Daphne said, half-gulping it. "I haven't seemed to get anything right lately—first this," she said, "then the mix-up with Astoria's reception gown, and I swear, I—" She broke off, giving Hermione a teary look of desperation. "You should have seen what a mess Theo and I were last night," she said, dropping to a whisper. "Everything was off, it was revolting, and then halfway through I actually cried, and—"

"Cake?" Harry asked brightly, appearing at Hermione's elbow, and Daphne promptly gave an alarming sound that may have been a sob, pivoting away and disappearing into Harry and Pansy's country house as Harry stared after her, bewildered. "Huh," he said, handing the plate to Hermione. "And here I thought passing my birthday along to my daughter would rid me of the annual party curse."

"She's just a bit… stressed," Hermione said, grimacing as she portioned herself a bite of Jamie's buttercream cake. "She'll be fine, I'm sure. She just needs a nap." And an orgasm, by the sounds of it, though Hermione thought it better not to suggest that to Harry, of all people.

He gave a listless indication of agreement, shifting to sit beside her on the garden table he and Pansy had set out for the party. "Understandable. Nott seems a bit out of sorts as well," he said, gesturing to where Theo and Draco were in deep conversation across the garden. Lucius, Prince of Dogs and Lord of the Smiles was nearby with baby Jamie, huddling pathetically beside her in the sun. "Trouble with the disaster twins?"

"I think it might be a matter of procreation," Hermione said. "That's the last I heard, anyway."

Harry shrugged, shoveling a large piece of cake into his mouth. "More babies, I say," he said around the bite of pastry. "Though, I'm not entirely sure the world is ready for a third Theodore Nott, what with the first two being such polarities of difficulty."

"Is the Elder Nott on your case, then?" Hermione guessed, and Harry gave her a look that suggested they were about to have a long, frustrating conversation, starting now. "I really thought the two of you were going to get away with not having to deal with him."

"I thought so myself," Harry admitted, wiping at his mouth with the napkin Pansy had ordered with Jamie's name embossed in the corner, "but considering the way things are going, it's been a bit frustrating to sit quietly. It's one thing to take orders in the Army," he said, green eyes cutting to hers with a look of grim defiance, "but having the power to influence things and doing nothing with it is…"

He trailed off, mouth tightening.

"Displeasing," he finished, which was as much a Pansy statement as Hermione had ever heard.

"I never thought of you as the political type," she commented, and Harry turned to face her, shaking his head.

"I'm not. Or I wouldn't be, if it were up to me. But doing nothing is—"

He stopped.

"Displeasing?" Hermione guessed wryly, and Harry chuckled.

"Yes," he said, taking another bite of cake.

In the silence that followed, Hermione pieced something very surprising together.

"Sounds like that alleged feud between you and Draco is real," she guessed, and Harry said nothing, merely chewing his cake in silence. She frowned, nudging his arm. "But you've been perfectly fine every time I've seen you, haven't you?"

"We're not feuding," Harry said, in a way that wasn't at all convincing. "Draco's simply taking his grandfather's side. Or, at the very least, not taking a side at all," he said with palpable disapproval, "which is worse."

"Draco's not an elected politician, Harry. I don't really think he can comment freely on anything controversial," Hermione said, carefully schooling her reply, and Harry scoffed aloud.

"No, he can't, because he's more concerned with the preservation of the monarchy than he is with changing times. You do realize it's possible your children may no longer have a throne to inherit, don't you?" Harry said, prompting Hermione to blink with surprise. "That's what's worrying Abraxas, in the end. That's all it comes down to. Prince Lucifer is extremely unpopular, and Draco's still young," he remarked darkly. "They can certainly remove the monarchy during his lifetime if public approval remains low."

Hermione, who didn't know what to say, opted to say nothing. It wasn't as if she wasn't aware that Prince Lucius and King Abraxas both opposed anything shaking the monarchy's codified protocol for that exact reason. Draco had never had to express his concern directly for her to understand that she was, in almost every possible way, a risk to the very institution they represented.

"I know you wrote an article," Harry said in an undertone.

Hermione turned sharply. "I'm sorry?"

"Pansy left Daphne's blog up on her computer," he said, and Hermione bristled. "You think I didn't know that Brexit post was you?"

Calling it a 'Brexit post' was an immediate misnomer, in Hermione's opinion. It was merely a question and answer piece about the election, and it was over a year old. "It wasn't a politically driven article," she insisted.

"Actually, it very much was. It certainly would be if people knew you wrote it," Harry pointed out, and Hermione grimaced. "And really, why shouldn't you discuss the motivations behind it? Or the tone of politics, even when it comes to culture? It does have an impact on everything. You shouldn't be limited and neither should Draco," he said, and uncomfortably, Hermione began to see where the friction was coming from.

"You have different roles," she began, but Harry cut her off, setting the plate aside.

"We certainly do," he agreed. "He's going to lead this country and I'm not. So which of us is more important?"

"I just meant—"

"I want more for Pansy," Harry said, surprising Hermione once again into silence. "She has things to say, you know. That speech she gave at the opening of the children's hospital last month? She wrote that, delivered it perfectly. She deserves a voice," Harry said, sounding frustrated, "and instead that's being wasted on Draco, who talks constantly in public and still says absolutely nothing—"

"Harry," Hermione warned. "That's not fair."

"Maybe not," he said, insincerely. "But I'm getting a bit tired of what's supposedly fair. Aren't you?" When she said nothing, he continued, "What's fair about Draco having the privilege that he does because he was born to it? He should set the tone for future generations. Should my daughter be more privileged than other children simply because of her blood?" he asked Hermione, who was trapped in an extremely inconvenient place of both agreeing with him and trying desperately to avoid it. "If Draco's going to profit from his birth, he should at least stand for something that benefits others. If he wants to claim divine right, it calls for more than theatrical diplomacy."

From across the garden, Draco turned, catching Hermione's eye. His ears must have been burning, she thought, sparing him a small wave she hoped looked innocent enough before turning back to Harry.

"What exactly do you want me to say?" she asked him, and Harry shrugged, nudging his knee into hers.

"You forget, this royalty thing is a job," he told her. "You marry him, you get everything that comes with it. You're his coworker," he pointed out. "You're the face of a company that is capable of much more than wearing jewels and pretty dresses."

It didn't feel like a slight, even if it could have been. It felt more like a reminder of something she hadn't considered in that context before.

"He listens to you," Harry said conclusively. "He doesn't listen to me, but he listens to you."

Hermione eyed her empty plate, unsure what to make of that.

In her silence, Harry leaned over, kissing her cheek. "Just something to think about," he said, and removed her plate from her hands, carrying it back into the house as Draco headed towards her, watching Harry disappear with obvious suspicion.

"I can't imagine that was pleasant," Draco said, settling himself where Harry had been. "Though, I did have to have a very long conversation with Tracey earlier about her plans for the wedding," he sighed, "so that might have been worse."

"You know, it's funny," Hermione said, deciding to remain on the topic of Tracey. She wasn't sure she wanted to recap her conversation with Harry just yet. "I do sort of understand why Blaise likes her."

Draco's brow furrowed with surprise. "Yeah?"

"Well, she doesn't really feel the need to be one of us, does she?" Hermione said, shrugging. "When she came with Theo and me to that neighborhood Minerva's looking into—"

"Last week, you mean? I didn't know you brought Theo."

"Well, I keep trying to convince him to get on board with the Transfiguration development sites, to no avail," she sighed as Draco nodded sympathetically, "but anyway, it occurred to me that she's not really like Fleur or Neville, you know? She doesn't care if we like her. Sometimes I think she doesn't even want our approval," she said, gesturing to where Tracey and Blaise were wrapped in each other's arms, standing beside the table piled high with gifts for Jamie. "It must be refreshing, for him. Something to give him a reprieve. It's almost like he lost too much when he nearly lost us," she said sadly, "and now he isn't willing to have something if it's going to hurt too much to have it gone."

Draco slid an arm around her, pensive for a moment.

"It can be hard," he said. "Being afraid to lose something." He paused, and then, "Being afraid, in general."

They sat for a few minutes in silence, watching Jamie toddle to Pansy in her pink dress with one hand on Prince Lucius' tartan collar. Jamie seemed to have found a bit of mud to play in, Hermione noted, observing the stains on her dress and on the dog's paws, but Pansy didn't admonish her daughter for the mess. Instead, she ignored it entirely, picking Jamie up and allowing her spotless white Emilia Wickstead to suffer the consequences.

"Funny how afraid we are for things to change until they do," Hermione remarked, watching the woman who had once been so convinced she'd be a terrible mother and marveling a bit how things turned out.

In response, Draco turned to look at her, gauging her for something.

"Sorry Astoria stole your birthday," was apparently the thing he went with. "If it helps, I'm sure we can get her back for it."

An odd thing to say, but a successful one.

To her relief, Hermione tilted her head back and laughed.

---

The Twilfitt and Tattings Hat
September 24, 2017

"Vengeance is ours," Draco announced, showing Hermione his phone screen. "Pictures of us from the ceremony are all over social media."

"Well?" Hermione asked, feigning suspense. "What's the verdict, then?"

"Your hat is unanimously divine," he replied with a grin, sliding his phone back into his pocket and tapping the ribbon detailing atop her head.

Astoria's wedding was, predictably, a grand affair, taking place on the very weekend they had all made a tradition of heading back to Nott Manor. Whether that particular plan was coincidental or not, Hermione found she was happy for Astoria. She seemed radiant enough, though it was even better news that Daphne, who would finally have something removed from her overflowing plate, had managed to make it to the altar upright.

It was another collision between Blaise and Neville, though Hermione watched, hawk-eyed, the entire ceremony and observed neither eye contact nor occasion for conversation. Blaise and Tracey sat comfortably beside each other instead, chattering away to anyone who expressed congratulations on their recent engagement. As for Harry and Pansy, the two were more affectionate than usual. Later, pictures would circulate of Pansy's hand resting warmly on Harry's knee, further cementing the pair as beloved fairytale figures.

The only questionable factor was the tension between Theo and Daphne, which did not resolve itself until a strange moment en route to the reception, held at a so-called 'house' that was more like a castle, from the ceremony at the church. The four of them were making their way through the small courtyard of the venue from the private car when Theo suddenly paused Daphne with a touch to her elbow, keeping her back before she could enter.

"Greengrass. Before we go in, can we talk about something?"

Hermione caught a flash of panic on Daphne's face and frowned, pulling Draco to a halt.

"Can't it wait?" Daphne hissed, looking… afraid, Hermione thought. An odd reaction. "We just have to get through the reception, Nott, and then you can tell me whatever wild realization you just had in the car—"

"Actually, it's not that, I just wanted to ask you something. I know the timing's not… ideal, shall we say," Theo said, with a little bit of awkwardly manufactured cheer, "but now that the wedding is essentially over, I just thought—"

"I don't want a baby," Daphne blurted loudly, and Theo blinked, startled.

Hermione, unsure whether Daphne was going to need any sort of emotional support, opted not to leave, glancing up at Draco with confusion. He, too, seemed equally concerned, frowning a little as Daphne continued to rant.

"I know the wedding is over, Nott, and I know you want to start a family, but I just… I'm not ready. And I don't know if that means I'll never be ready," she went on, cutting Theo off before he could speak, "but it certainly means not now, and I can't make any promises. What if I never change my mind?"

"Greengrass," Theo said, blinking. "I wasn't—"

"I know I'm not the wife you thought I'd be," Daphne flung at him, rapidly dissolving to what Hermione considered one of her more pitiable breakdowns. "And I know I'm not around to keep your life exciting the way it was in the beginning, but it's—but I just… I'm just so close to having something I never believed would be possible for me," she said tearfully, suddenly dragging a hand to her temples in distress. "I wake up excited about my work, about my clients, about everything in my future, and I can't stop for a baby right now. And I don't know when I'll be ready, and Theo, if you can't wait for me, then—"

She broke off, chin dropping as Theo stared at her in continued disbelief.

"I know," she said, quietly fighting tears, "I know that it must seem like nothing is about you right now. That it's all a matter of what I want, or what I need. But you have to believe me," she begged, glancing up with a pained look of desperation. "You have to know, I wouldn't be standing here without you. I asked to use your name for a reason, Theo," she said, struggling to speak, "because I couldn't be standing here, doing this—being this—without you. And I know I owe you so much more for that, but I—"

"Hang on. Greengrass. Stop."

Theo took three long strides forward, snatching Daphne up in his arms with so little warning that even Hermione gasped a little, watching him give Daphne a look of total, unambiguous fixation.

"Daphne," Theo said, "I was just going to ask you if you wouldn't mind that I've been working on California's little Transfiguration Project."

Hermione blinked, and so did Daphne.

"What?" Daphne asked, still looking a bit shaken from being pressed so abruptly against him.

"I drew up some architectural concepts. A market, plus a convertible venue. I had some design thoughts," Theo said neutrally, "and when I realized there was no possible way that McGonagall woman could do it without my help, I started doing it myself. Blaise looked over the funding, by the way—he says it's all there," he added, as Hermione reminded herself she would really have to pay more attention to the strange things Blaise said from time to time, even if that included an offhanded reference to Theo's financial portfolio. "I just wanted to know you'd be alright with my working on something else. I'll be a primary investor," he said seriously, "so this is a financial decision. Certainly not one I could make without you."

"I—" Daphne stared at him. "You want… to run a company?"

"I'd like to be a primary investor in a not-for-profit arts organization, yes," Theo clarified with a shrug, "but sure, close enough—"

"So… all that about wanting to watch things grow, and nurturing development," Daphne said slowly, "that was… about a company?"

"Again," Theo insisted, "it's a not-for-profit arts organiz-"

"Nott, my god, I thought you were going to leave me," Daphne exhaled, suddenly half-collapsing in his arms. "I've been so terrified for weeks," she said, voice muffled into the lapels of his jacket. "I really thought you were going to tell me I wasn't enough for you anymore, and I just—"

"Daphne Nott," Theo scoffed quietly, tilting her chin up to look at her. "I'm your partner. This thing we have? We built it together. Which means," he added, taking her face in both hands, "I give you permission to take more than you give from time to time. I know you're good for it in the long run," he said in his usual drawl, and Daphne let out a gulp of a laugh, "and I know that someday, I might ask the same of you, just like I know without a trace of doubt that if I ask, you'll give it. Because we're partners," he repeated. "Because I'm your partner, and you're mine."

Daphne's eyes shut, a little glint of relief flashing on her cheek.

"Theo," she said, and whatever would come next, it would be only for him.

"Come on," Hermione whispered to Draco, pulling him away.

She tugged him after her, lost in thought as she traversed the courtyard arch into the outer corridor, contemplating everything Daphne and Theo had said. The first thing that occurred to her, surprisingly, was a sense of a burden being lifted. If Theo was on board with the project, then she could stop worrying about Minerva.

What else was there? Citizenship? Religion? Pantyhose?

Rita Skeeter?

Suddenly, it all felt irrelevant.

All that was left, in fact, was the one thing she had so adamantly denied to Daphne she even felt.

Fear.

"What if I fail?" Hermione asked aloud, and Draco paused, turning to face her in the corridor.

"Fail what?" he asked.

"You," Hermione said.

He observed her quietly a moment. "You think I'm not afraid of that?"

She shook her head. "No, I think you are, and that's a problem, too." She drew him aside, permitting themselves a private moment. "If you need something from me, anything at all, Draco, just ask. Whatever it is, however big or small, I promise I won't resent you, I won't abandon you. I won't leave." She stepped forward, taking his hand, and told him with as much deliberation as she could muster, "I'm here with you, Draco. I'm your partner, so ask."

For a second, he stared at her.

And stared.

Later, she would remember her heart racing when he shifted slowly to lower himself in front of her, on bended knee for the second time. She would remember, specifically, the feeling of synchronicity, when the 'right time' they'd so aimlessly wandered towards would strike them both with clarity, chiming like a chord rung true. She would recall the slight ringing in her ears, and the way the setting sun made the stone beneath their feet look golden. The vines in her periphery would curl out in tendrils from her memory, blossoming improbably on a warm September night in her mind.

"Hermione Granger," Draco said, reaching into his pocket. "Will you renounce your citizenship for me?"

For a second, she thought she might laugh. It came out like a coughed up sob instead.

"Yes," she half-hiccuped, nodding firmly. "Yes, I will."

"And will you convert to the Church of England?" he said, very seriously.

She sighed, trying not to roll her eyes.

"Yes," she said, "fine. That, too."

"And will you, until your death," Draco said, gravely solemn, "promise to support British athletes in the Olympics?"

"Draco," Hermione growled, and in response, he held up the box from his pocket.

The same one he'd shown her on an occasion that felt like a thousand years ago.

"You know, I've just been carrying this around with me, waiting," he informed her, eyeing the box in his hand. "I never really knew what I was waiting for, but I get it now." He looked up, grey eyes finding hers, and said, "I promise not to be afraid."

Hermione held her breath.

"I promise not to fear failure," he said, "but to be brave with you."

He snapped the box open.

"Holy fucking shit," said Hermione, "that diamond is the size of New Zealand."

"Just for the record, you'll have to stop swearing," Draco said apologetically. "Try, I don't know. Holy forking shirts," he offered, looking as if he considered it to be quite the clever suggestion.

Not that she could appreciate it at the moment.

"Draco," Hermione sighed, "are you going to ask me?"

"Well, I can't actually give you the ring now," he said. "Poor taste, I think, to waltz into someone else's wedding reception with this sort of news. Unless you happen to carry around some sort of conveniently long chain on which to host it temporarily? That would be fine, I imagine—"

"Draco," Hermione groaned.

"On second thought, perhaps my instincts were off," he mused, glancing around at where he was kneeling. "Oh, and we can't tell anyone until at least tomorrow," he added, suddenly perturbed. "Not until I tell my grandfather, and—my god," he realized, suddenly going pale. "What have I done? I have to ring Helen immediately—"

"Draco!"

"Does a third proposal seem reasonable?" he asked, frowning. "I can always just—"

"DRACO," Hermione shouted, "FOR FUCK'S SA- ah, sorry," she sighed, catching herself. "That's going to be hard to get used to, so sorry—"

He, however, looked perfectly amused.

"Finally tired of waiting, I take it?" he asked. A bit smugly, in her opinion.

Though, in fairness to him, it had been something of a wait. It had been a good road, and a worthy one, but certainly an altogether overlong one.

"So, so tired," she told him. "Suddenly exhausted, actually."

He smiled, and so did she.

"Please," he said. "Fucking marry me, Hermione."

Later, Rita Skeeter would comment that Hermione's red dress looked particularly rumpled in the leaked pictures from the reception. It was if it hadn't been properly ironed before she'd gotten in the car, Rita would spitefully declare, not even stopping to question if, in reality, Hermione might have simply gotten on her knees in the middle of a stone walkway, all to kiss the man she loved.

"Yes," Hermione said to Draco, because of course she did. Because of course, of course, of course.

Yes, yes, yes.

---

The Emerald Dress
October 16, 2017

Now this one, I think, is a story I'll have to save. As you can probably guess, this one is one of my absolute favorites.

Even with the unnecessary violence.

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a/n: Thank you to those of you who nominated this story in the Granger Enchanted Awards! It's an honor to know you enjoy my work, and I am very grateful to you for reading.