Chapter 38: Family
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
The Engagement of the Century
There can be no denying the global excitement surrounding Prince Draco's announcement of his intended marriage to Hermione Granger, who looked radiant with pleasure upon finally taking her Prince's arm before the public eye. Both Hermione and Draco expressed their joy at being able to openly profess their love at long last, and indeed, the broadcast that followed attracted over twenty million viewers worldwide, indicating the tremendous popularity attributed to the couple after such a long, devoted courtship.
Oh, was our courtship long? Hm, I hadn't noticed, Rita, thank you for reminding me. She's also not being particularly specific, but the 'over twenty' in question was twenty-nine. Twenty-nine million people watched me fumble through my attempts not to accidentally describe Draco's penis while on camera. Twenty-nine million, and then there were the countless others who casually scrolled through Instagram plus the ones who not-so-casually dug up my old school photos and posted collections of suspected improvements to my face (and hair, and clothes, and teeth—though who among us has not benefited from extensive orthodontistry?) throughout the years.
While speculation continued that perhaps King Abraxas and Prince Lucius retained some doubts about Hermione as Prince Draco's bride, the Palace was quick to put such rumours to rest with a glowing statement of congratulations. Still, as the wedding approaches, there are many eyes on the royal family—some staunchly supportive of the American Princess, while others remain wary about her fortitude surviving the pressures of public life.
When it comes to public pressure, 'survival' certainly feels like the right choice of words. Fortunately, I had plenty of other things to worry about before attempting any measly fortification.
September 25, 2017
London, England
"Draco Wales, did you say? The Draco Wales?"
After noticing Hermione's not-so-covert agitation about all the steps required in order to reveal their betrothal (a word Pansy had once used unironically and which Theo had then adopted for relentless, fervent use), Draco had been the one to suggest they tell David and Helen first, hoping the Grangers' particular method of receiving weighty news would dispel Hermione's anxieties about speaking to Prince Lucifer and King Abraxas.
Predictably, the process of informing Hermione's parents about their engagement was about as solemnly received as any personal information had ever been. Still, it was a relief, in a way, that while their engagement remained a secret to the public until they spoke with Draco's parents, she could at least express it to someone. That David and Helen would then have to keep the announcement and their subsequent visit to London a secret was less comforting, though they were doing an excellent job of not remotely acknowledging the impending stress of the situation.
"Yes, Mom, Draco Wales, you may have met him once or twice. Anyway," Hermione continued, ready to swear them to silence, "we just wanted to tell y-"
"Draco," Helen said very seriously, directing her attention to him. "We need to discuss something very serious at once."
"By all means," Draco said in his best prince's voice, "do proceed."
"I refuse to be Nana. It will have to be Grandma or a fight to the death, no alternatives."
Hermione groaned, determined to set the conversation back on track. "Mom, listen, it's just that with all the leaks to the press recently—"
"To be honest, I suspect my mother would prefer to be called Narcissa if it were up to her," Draco remarked, still unwisely indulging conversation with Helen. "Or Grandmother, or perhaps even Grandmamá—"
"You're joking. What is this, English royalty or something?"
"Mom," Hermione barked, nudging Draco forcefully into silence and addressing her parents. "You're going to have to keep this to yourselves, okay?" she implored them. "Really, I mean it. No telling Grandma, even, and—"
"It occurs to me suddenly that we'll have to meet your parents, Draco," David said, choosing an unfortunate time to chime in with his opinion on the matter as Helen eagerly agreed. "I don't suppose your father is a cycling enthusiast, is he?"
"Hm, not so much an enthusiast as a fervent avoider, no—"
Hermione buried her head in her hands, sighing, as David and Helen continued bombarding Draco with questions.
"My god, are we going to meet your grandfather?" (Jesus.)
"Well, I can't imagine you'll be able to get around it, truth be told—" (A disaster waiting to happen, surely.)
"I saw a picture of Hermione's curtsy once—remember, David?—no, in the checkout line, I showed you—anyway, is hers any good?" (Hermione considered interrupting but to what end, exactly?)
"It is, actually, and I'm sure she'll be quite happy to teach you—" (More likely Pansy would, but that was close enough.)
"Marvelous. It's about time we put her to work aside from all this world-saving she's been chattering about since she was in primary school—" (Sigh, a thousand times sigh.)
"A very solid base, actually, the world-saving aspirations. I should really thank you for that." (Sweet of you to humor them, Draco, but let's move it along, shall we?)
"I believe her initial career choice was president-astronaut-ice cream shop owner, wasn't it? I'm not quite sure where to place Queen Consort on the list comparatively. Is it higher or lower?" (Thirty minutes into the FaceTime call and this was where they had arrived, honestly.)
"I have to imagine it's on par, wouldn't you?" (There would, at least, be ice cream. Presumably.)
"Well, thrilled as we are for you, Draco, I do have one thing to say on the topic of marriage," Helen announced, sobering enough that Hermione managed to pause her internal narrative, re-focusing purely out of curiosity. "It is nothing to enter into lightly. I hope we can count on you to invest without restriction in our daughter's enduring happiness."
"I promise, there won't be a day that she questions my affections," Draco said, glancing at Hermione beside him. She smiled, tightening their interlaced hands, and nodded as he turned back to her parents. "I will care for your daughter's heart for the rest of my life."
Hermione leaned her cheek against his shoulder, touched by the sentiment. "Draco, that's such a lovely—"
"Yes, yes, her heart as well, very lovely indeed," Helen interrupted. "But I am, of course, speaking of her other needs."
There was a brief, temporary pause.
"It really cannot be understated," Helen insisted. "Can it, David?"
"No, it cannot. Certainly saved us from dire marital conflicts more than once," David replied cheerfully.
"Like we always say, children, the two most important factors in a committed relationship are trust and lubric-"
"Mother!" Hermione erupted, and beside her, Draco quickly smothered a laugh into the back of his hand. "Your grandchildren are going to be British royals!" Hermione barked, tossing her hands in the air and nearly smacking Draco with the impact. "Perhaps it's not too much to ask that there be no discussion of lube on the occasion of our engagement?"
"Hermione, I simply—"
"Have you even thought about the realities of this?" Hermione demanded, as David and Helen exchanged a glance that read, much to her irritation, she's doing it again. "A year from now, you'll both have to refer to me by a title. Have you realized that? I won't be able to visit you without some sort of grand to-do," she ranted, "and unless the King of England decides he'd rather send me to the Tower than let me marry his grandson, my own wedding will have to include foreign dignitaries, seeing as they're now my casual family friends!"
It was madness, really, that her parents could so easily overlook the way things would now undeniably change—if they were even allowed to. She broke off into something of an abrupt, cliff-edge halt, which was followed by a moment of contemplative silence.
She wondered, momentarily, if perhaps her parents were making the same calculations that she had.
"Well, as long as we're all clear on the lubrication topic," Helen said, shrugging. "Are we?"
It appeared that wasn't the case.
"Oh, indubitably," Draco assured her.
Hermione groaned, giving up.
"Though, on the subject of clarity," said David. "What exactly is an ascot?"
Hermione supposed that was the most normal version of a serious conversation that she was going to get. She couldn't recover from the idea that telling Prince Lucifer—and worse, Narcissa—about their engagement was sure to be some other kind of disaster, and though she figured she ought to be grateful Helen and David were capable of such a distressingly reasonable reaction, she couldn't help continuing to fidget with nerves.
By contrast, Draco was so calm he practically radiated serenity. "I'm so pleased you asked," he replied, giving Hermione's knuckles a reassuring kiss and delighting in relaying the intricacies of aristocratic day dress.
To Hermione's relief, she didn't have long to wait. For as tranquil as he seemed to be amid everything that needed to be done, Draco's sense of purpose was directed to logistics. He had arranged a visit to Malfoy Manor within hours, offering her the simple (too simple? Perhaps even 'famous last words' simple?) reassurance of, "Everything will be fine."
"And if it isn't?" Hermione asked, continuing to fret. "If your father refuses to allow it?"
"He's the Prince of Wales, not the universe," Draco said, as if they had not collectively been referring to him as a satanic figure for the last seven years and, in fact, most of his entire lifetime.
Hermione spoke very little, finding her intestines in knots. She expected Lucius to be displeased, sure, but the mystery of Princess Narcissa was quite another thing altogether. She found herself fixating on the idea that perhaps, out of everyone, only Narcissa would be able to worm herself into Hermione's head, or else into Draco's sense of certainty. If Lucius opposed the marriage, Hermione doubted Draco would be bullied into changing his mind.
If Narcissa opposed it, on the other hand…
She glanced at Draco as he looked out the window, equally contemplative.
Yes, Hermione thought, it would be Narcissa whose final word on the subject could make or break something they'd been building for what felt like their entire adult lives.
Unhelpfully, neither Narcissa nor Lucius made an effort to make anything easier. They sat in silence as Draco spoke, his hand in Hermione's, the sound of his voice moving in and out of her head in an odd form of hypnosis. It wasn't until he stopped talking that the hazy ringing in Hermione's head slowly cleared, and she was able to piece two things together.
One: that they were standing in the same room she had first met Narcissa all those years ago, at which point the words get out while you can filled the vacancy of silence.
They'll break you, Narcissa's voice said in her mind, they'll take everything from you, they'll either turn you into something lifeless or they'll rob you of everything you are—
The second thing, which Hermione didn't notice until after she had forcefully shoved Narcissa's warning away, was that Lucius and Narcissa seemed to have been fighting even before her arrival with Draco. There was an energy that had been in the room even before they entered that Hermione registered, but was unable to place until she did: that remnants of argument floated throughout the the room, reflected in Lucius and Narcissa's postures.
"Well," Narcissa said, after several beats of silence. Lucius, who didn't look surprised by the news even if he didn't look particularly overjoyed to hear it, did not shift his gaze from his son, despite Draco having long since ceased talking.
"If you're going to go through with this," Narcissa said to her son, and then to Hermione, brandishing the conditional as if they had come into the room less than sure of their decision, "then you'll need to be certain nothing is going to come out against her. No secrets, no surprises."
She glanced at her husband, asking spitefully, "Isn't that right, Lucius?"
Lucius said nothing.
They had definitely been fighting.
Draco stole a quick glance at Hermione, reassuring her with a nod before turning to his mother. "I know everything," he assured her. "Even the bad things."
"Like what?" Narcissa asked neutrally, with another quick-but-invasive glance at them both. "We should all be prepared. Now that we're going to be family," she added, turning a pointed look of speculation at Hermione.
"Mother," Draco began tentatively, catching the passive accusation, "I don't really think it's—"
"It's fine." Hermione cut him off with a shake of her head, turning to Narcissa. "If you think I haven't told Draco what skeletons are in my closet, believe me, I'll do it for you now," she said, hoping to achieve Narcissa's own degree of frankness. "In fact, I'm happy to. I have nothing to hide from him or from you."
She caught the motion of Lucius' gaze flicking briefly to her, somewhere between surprised and expectant.
"Hermione," Draco said, reaching for her. "You really don't have to—"
"No, I want to. Your mother's right," she said firmly, still fixed on the obstacle she had always suspected Narcissa would be. "You want to know everything I've done? Here it is. I wrote the article you told me not to," she said, and she could see on Narcissa's face that their first interaction hadn't been forgotten by either party. "In fact, I kept it from Draco for over a year because you told me I'd never be allowed to publish it if he'd known. I also kept the fact that I wrote anonymously for a blog for years. I wrote about politics," she said pointedly, watching Narcissa's pale brow arch. "I even wrote about Brexit."
Beside her, she heard Draco quietly clear his throat, anxious.
"You want to know what else? I had a career as a writer. Secretly," she clarified, with a helpless laugh that time. There was something amusing about it, reliving her first conversation with Narcissa in some warped, retrospective rearview. "The ghostwriter in the papers, Penelope Clearwater? That's me," she said, and caught Lucius' attention snapping up, brows furrowing as beside him, Narcissa's mouth thinned.
Hermione glanced again at Draco, steadying herself. It would need to be said, however Narcissa reacted.
Now or never.
"I was involved in the Lockhart scandal," Hermione admitted, confessing her dirtiest sin and feeling it leave her system with relief, even if Lucius would admonish her for revealing it to Narcissa after the fact. "Though, I didn't know Gilderoy Lockhart was a verified fraud until it was too late," she hurried to explain, "and when my source reported it to Rita Skeeter before I could, I didn't know how t-"
"Why didn't I know about this?" Lucius cut in, his voice low and angry.
He wasn't looking at Hermione. Narcissa, however, hadn't looked away.
Which meant, unfortunately, that Hermione was forced to conceal her look of surprise at becoming aware that Lucius hadn't been informed.
"You know there's a leak somewhere in the Palace," Lucius was admonishing Draco, rising to his feet to address his son in his usual tyrannical way while Draco, still at Hermione's side, set his jaw, resolute. "If this had somehow gotten out—"
"I took care of it," Draco said.
"You say that, but if something had—"
"I told you, I took care of it."
"And how," Lucius began in a contemptuous drawl, "could you possibly be sure that this wouldn't have landed in the hands of Rit-"
"Because there isn't a leak," Draco cut in, rebuking his father in neutral tones as Hermione glanced at him with surprise; there was a leak, as far as she knew. How else had pictures gotten out? Details? The fact that someone close to the royal family had been sharing private information was undeniable, even to her.
"There's not a leak," Draco repeated, his tone slightly less combative that time. "Nor is Lockhart anything to worry about, because he's been taken care of. By me," he clarified firmly.
Lucius went rigid with fury, his jaw too tightly wired to speak.
Hermione, meanwhile, pieced that information together at the same moment that Narcissa, catching signs of trouble, rose to her feet.
"Explain," she beckoned her son, who looked relieved at being able to turn to her.
"I tried to reason with Lockhart," Draco said, not looking at Hermione. "After he first started accusing Hermione under her pseudonym, I thought I could salvage her career. But he knew as well as I did that I am not permitted the resources of my grandfather, or my father," he said, shooting Lucius a frustrated glance, "and we both knew that if I told anyone what had happened, they would happily throw Hermione to the wolves if it meant I could no longer marry her. You expected her reputation to be spotless," Draco accused his father, "and he knew that. So, when he tried to extort me, I told him I would feed him information that the press would be willing to pay for instead. It had to be true to pay off," he added, this time looking apologetically at his mother, "and I'm sorry about the things I had to give him. I'm sorry if it hurt you, giving him insight into our lives like that, even if it was nothing especially important. But it had to be done."
It was Hermione who interjected, finding herself more than a little shocked by learning what 'taking care of it' had meant. "But Gilderoy, he thought I was—"
"The moment I intervened there was no question who you really were. He threatened to 'accidentally' let it slip—he said that even punitive damages from a contract violation would still be less damaging to him than the scandal it would cause for us, and he was right. He could have always made it worse for me than I could have ever made it for him." Draco gave a grim, disheartened laugh. "Trust me, he's not as hapless as he seems."
Learning the truth of Gilderoy Lockhart's manipulation infuriated Hermione, paralyzing her for a moment. She felt certain she could see the conversation playing out; the way Draco had probably been lured into the trap of thinking himself properly informed until the moment Gilderoy's false pleasantries suddenly evaporated.
Yes, the more she thought about it, the more she could see what had probably happened. Draco had probably thought he could reason with Gilderoy; maybe even show sympathy or consideration for his feelings, precisely as she had approached him once. It would be quite unfortunate indeed if someone were to reveal the dastardly practices of Minerva's little project could so easily have been repurposed for I'd hate to see your marriage ended before it even began, Your Highness.
"You—" Hermione swallowed. "You sold him information to keep him quiet?"
Draco nodded. "Photographs, occasionally. Scheduling details from Dobby, tips about where we might be at certain times. Descriptions of private events that made it sound as if he had been there." He glanced up at his mother, who was watching him in silence. "You wanted your divorce," Draco said simply. "So I tried to make it look inevitable."
Narcissa blinked, astonished.
Beside her, Lucius seemed to shake with rage, the very air between them beginning to tremble.
"You sold our private lives to Gilderoy Lockhart?" Lucius said through his teeth, rising to his feet and meeting Draco's eye. "You went behind my back?"
But Draco, Hermione was surprised to see, didn't show an ounce of hesitation in response.
"I gave him trivial details," Draco said flatly. "I revealed nothing of importance and I'd have done it again, Father, easily, if it meant ensuring Hermione's privacy the way you refused to do so many times."
"Are you listening to yourself?" Lucius raged, color rising in his cheeks. "You sold out your family!" he snapped, and in response, Draco shook his head.
"Is this still so difficult for you to understand? Hermione is about to become my family. In fact, she always has been," he said staunchly. "She's the family I choose—and unlike you," Draco warned his father, his voice taking on an edge of spite, "I won't let anything stand in the way of what she and I have built."
For a moment, the room was deathly quiet. Even Hermione could hear nothing but the sound of her own heart pounding, unsure whether to be overwhelmed by the proclamation or fearful of its repercussions, or both.
Then, before she could regain the presence of mind to speak, Lucius had made a full-bodied lunge for Draco, surprising him so fiercely that both men had toppled to the ground before either Hermione or Narcissa could have done anything to prevent it.
"HOW—DARE—YOU—"
"Lucius," Narcissa snapped, and Hermione lunged out of the way, narrowly missing the piled motion as Draco attempted to wrestle his enraged father into submission. "Lucius, for heaven's sake," she growled, "get ahold of yourself this instant, there's no need to exert yourself so childishly—"
"I HOPE YOU LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO SEE YOUR OWN SON TURN HIS BACK ON YOU," Lucius shouted at Draco, attempting to hold his son in something of an amateurish chokehold until Draco, losing his patience, had thrown him onto his back, shoving him down. "Don't you dare ask any favors from me when your own son resents everything you've done!" Lucius snarled, and Draco, red-faced and equally angry, pinned his father's shoulders to the ornate carpet on the floor.
"I choose her," Draco spat, a handful of uncharacteristically out-of-place blond strands falling into his eyes as he held his father down and then, abruptly exhausted, released him. "That means something to me," he mumbled, falling to a seat beside a limply unresisting Lucius. "You were always a prince first, Father, and a far better son than me, but I can't live your life. I can't repeat your mistakes."
He looked wearily at his father's face, searching him for something. Acceptance, most likely.
"I love her," Draco said, shaking his head. "I'm going to marry her, Father, because she's the woman I love, and because she makes me better. Because if I'm going to follow in your footsteps and succeed, then I need her at my side. Can't you understand that?" he implored Lucius, who said nothing. "If you can't see that she's the right choice for me, then at least understand that. That she's the right choice for this country, for this family."
He leaned his head back, pausing for a moment, and then gave Lucius another long glance.
"Please," he said, so quietly it would have been inaudible if not for the hollow silence in the room.
Please, from one prince to another.
For several pulses—Hermione's heart suddenly much too loud to be in the room—Lucius said nothing, did nothing, made no conceivable response. He merely closed his eyes, contemplating something in misery.
Then he sat up slowly, and Draco shifted to help him.
"Father, your heart, be careful not t-"
Lucius pulled away, struggling to drag himself up with one hand against the leg of an antique side table as Draco waited, temporarily suspended in his attempt to help.
Then, with a last glance at his wife, Lucius exited the room in silence, slamming the door shut behind him as Draco, who had scrambled to his feet in his father's wake, was left to wince, then straighten.
"Well," Narcissa said, sliding an arched look of disapproval at Hermione. "That was quite a spot you put him in."
"Mother," Draco sighed, but Hermione shook her head, stopping him again.
"Don't pretend you think this has been easy for me," she warned Narcissa, suddenly a bit riled up by the idea of playacting. "For years I avoided this because I wanted to have a voice—the voice you warned me would be robbed from me if I chose Draco. I fought a life with him, in spite of everything—in spite of how much I loved him," she said, turning to make sure he knew. That he understood, in some way, that whatever he had sacrificed for her, it hadn't been in vain. If marriage to her had somehow cost him the meager scraps of his father's love, then he would have all of hers, unrepentantly.
"Once upon a time there was nothing more important to me than my voice, and now, if being silent is what it takes for your family to consider me, I'm happy to give it up," she said, facing Draco as she continued to address Narcissa. "So if you think you're going to scare me off or stop me, Narcissa, believe me—"
She reached out, lacing her fingers with Draco's, and stepped closer, facing him.
"Believe me," she said, "I am not the kind of girl who frightens easily."
They had promised to be brave together, for each other, and for once, Hermione really felt it. That he was not only her inevitable future—the result of some undeniable chemistry that had begun when they met by chance—but the future she had chosen, too. That for everything he stood for, she would stand beside him, and vice versa. That from now on, she would make no decisions alone, or suffer any isolated pains. He would carry her burdens with her. She would be the other half of his convictions.
They were getting married.
They were getting married, and that meant something.
It meant that from now on, they would always find a way forward. Together. And—
"I'm afraid you're quite mistaken," Narcissa said, waking them from their moment of contemplative pre-marital bliss. "For some reason you're under the impression I would try to stop you? But I am hardly the petulant fool your father is."
She took a step forward, sliding a ring from her finger, and handed it to Draco.
"For you," she said, and then, catching the furrow of Hermione's brow, she added with a bitter laugh, "Oh, no, this isn't my engagement ring, don't worry. That's cursed. No, this," she said, closing her son's fingers around it. "This is what your father gave me when you were born, on the day he loved me most. The day we became a family."
She paused, her fingers still resting over Draco's hand, and slowly, the chilled smile she so often wore gradually warmed to something like fondness, or nostalgia.
"Never mind your father. He'll come around. And as for this ring—I treasure it," she told Draco solemnly, patting his hand with brisk, maternal certainty, "and now it's yours."
Draco cleared his throat, somewhere between grateful and anguished. "Mother, I… I already have a ring, but—"
"What, some ordinary diamond? Don't be silly," Narcissa scoffed, though Hermione wanted to persist the ring was hardly ordinary, considering it could house a small colony of fugitives. "She ought to have something meaningful, darling, not some apathetic cluster of lifeless rock. After all, what are we if not our traditions?" she sniffed. "Just a house that requires remodeling and a few dynasties of pretenders, I imagine."
"I… suppose," Draco said carefully, and turned to Hermione. "Unless you'd prefer to—"
"No," Hermione said, shaking her head and reaching out, taking a startled Narcissa's free hand. "No, this means something to me. Thank you," she said, expressing the sentiment with a surprising immensity, and though Narcissa secured a mask as expertly crafted as Pansy's, Hermione felt sure she saw some infinitesimally small, barely perceptible evidence of appreciation.
"Have someone bring some tea," Narcissa said, releasing them both abruptly. "What with all this unacceptable misconduct, I'm feeling rather parched."
"So, where's the ring?"
"Being expertly recrafted," Draco said, "with some amateurish assistance."
"Mine, he means," Theo loftily confirmed, apparently choosing to skate over the aforementioned amateurism. "My assistance."
"What?" Pansy demanded, glaring at him. "You were allowed to help with the design but I wasn't?"
"Why, Lady Seven-Names," Theo drawled, "I cannot possibly imagine the cause for your surprise. Where is our arbiter to take points?"
"Minus ten," Blaise confirmed, arm slung around Tracey, "as surely Her Grace should have known her own fine tastes would exceed even that of a prince's means."
"He's not wrong," Draco said, though Pansy wasn't having it.
"Since when does anyone trust your taste in anything, Nott?"
"Well, since I've become a highly sought after patron of the arts, I imagine," Theo replied, stealing his wife's glass of wine and smugly toasting Pansy with it.
It had been a relief to meet the others at Nott Manor for a weekend away, in something of a miniature engagement celebration after Narcissa assured them that, provided Abraxas lent his support, they would ultimately have Lucius' approval. Lucius, who had not come out of his room for the rest of their stay, refused Draco's requests to speak to him, and they'd gone to Theo's estate in something of a collectively unsettled mood.
Luckily, joining their friends was enough to nudge them out of their funk. For one thing, it was distinctly fascinating to see the way they'd all morphed and changed since they'd first begun the practice. No longer were Theo and Daphne at odds, nor Harry and Pansy in competition with their respective significant others. Something in Hermione's chest went slightly tight at observing Daphne taking a well-deserved nap on the stuffy furniture with her head in Theo's lap, or watching Harry and Pansy attempting to coax Jamie away from her canine conspirator Prince Lucius and into a highly necessary bath. The reminder of how far they'd all come was enough for the knot in Hermione's stomach to loosen, finally permitting her the chance to breathe.
The engagement hadn't been much of a secret among their friends, seeing as Draco had told Theo who had told Harry who already knew because he'd been informed by Pansy who had also told Blaise who had already heard it from Daphne, who had been informed (in tandem with the aforementioned Pansy) by Hermione in whispers while loitering around the toilets at Astoria's reception. In fact, within perhaps twenty minutes of the proposal, all of them had already known. Somehow, they had all tacitly agreed not to discuss it as a group until Draco and Hermione arrived, revealing that only Tracey and baby Jamie (who nodded solemnly, green eyes wide but largely uninformed) were hearing it for the first time.
Tracey's reaction to the news—a dainty scoff of "Finally"—had set off the long-awaited outcry of congratulations, including a slowly thawing interaction between Draco and Harry (which, as Hermione learned from Draco after a brief but intensive investigation into his Lockhart-related antics over the past year, had not been an intentional leak on his part but rather an unavoidable conclusion after the two were visibly uncomfortable with each other for so long). It was the first place Hermione was able to actually enjoy her engagement instead of stressing about it, and even the knowledge that it would probably be the last wasn't enough to ruin the moment.
"Well, it's been said that a single man in possession of a great fortune must be in want of a wife," Daphne remarked. "Pity it wasn't also explicitly stated he would take his sweet time going about it."
From Draco, with a sigh: "Ah yes, wonderful, I'd so hoped this would happen, carry on."
From Harry, nudging Draco in the ribs: "In fairness, it's also been said that 'the sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new,' so there's that."
From Hermione, with a fond lean towards Draco: "Well, if we're just quoting first lines of novels, then I'd like to add that it was a very great pleasure to burn."
From Blaise, groaning: "Boring, minus ten. Duchess Pansy, your take?"
Pansy, neutrally: "It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York."
Blaise, with delight: "Marvelous! Plus fifteen."
Theo, in a drawn-out proclamation: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair—"
Pansy: "This is the saddest story I've ever heard."
Draco, with a grave nod: "Call me Ishmael."
Blaise, with glee: "Lolita, light of my fire, fire of my loins—"
Tracey, interrupting: "Is this a game? Or is it just nonsense?"
Harry, toasting her: "Is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy?"
Daphne: "If this turns into karaoke, I will never forgive any of you."
Theo, with a dismissive wave: "Carry on, friends. She said the same thing when I asked for my grey coat last week and yet here she sits, amuck with pardon despite her violent assertion the garment was green."
Daphne, exasperated: "It is green!"
Theo, with a pointed sip: "Darling, you simply cannot change me. Tragically, I am what I am."
Draco, sympathetically: "It's true, I've tried to change him many times and he nearly always comes out worse."
Theo, wiping moisture from his eyes: "Thank you."
Pansy, with an irritated sigh: "Have we perhaps lost track of the point?"
Hermione, to Pansy, with pointed innocence: "You mean the one about how I'm about to end up with the job I'm unqualified to hold?"
Pansy, who had been teary upon hearing the news of Hermione's engagement, charging her with never telling a soul upon pain of death and insisting such an event had never occurred: "Yes, that's the one. The apocalypse is nigh and call me Cassandra, but none of us are even mildly concerned."
Blaise, sagely: "An excellent point. It's all there in Genesis, isn't it? Plagues, locusts, June weddings—"
Draco, exchanging a glance with Hermione: "May, I think."
Theo: "Oh, well good, Taurus season should be perfectly fine. Everyone knows what happens during Gemini."
Tracey, frowning: "What happens during Gemini season?"
Theo: "An acute sense of weirdness and a morbid longing for another life inside ourselves."
Tracey, doubtfully: "Is that… science?"
Pansy, with a scoff: "Please, it's not even statistics."
Blaise: "Which, as everyone knows, is the con man of math. Ten points!"
Harry, as a musing aside: "It's also Draco's birthday."
Theo, nodding solemnly: "So you can see how this would be troubling news for everyone."
Draco, with a shrug: "None taken, thanks."
Hermione, sighing: "Well, everyone seems to have handled this news rather well. Are there any additional remarks?"
From Jamie, who had been quietly playing with her food: a wordless shriek of glee as Prince Lucius licked her nose.
Harry: "She says she's very pleased for you both."
Pansy: "Don't put words in her mouth, Henry."
Daphne: "Hair extensions."
Hermione: "I… what?"
Daphne: "They'll photograph better. Make it look fuller, et cetera."
Hermione, frowning: "Well, I'm not sure if—"
Pansy: "No, she's right."
Hermione: "I mean—"
Blaise: "I'll give you fifty points."
Hermione, bemused: "Is my hair really that bad?"
"Of course not," from Daphne, at the same time as, "Yes," from Pansy.
From Draco, with a glance at Hermione: "I say you do whatever you want, so long as you don't look too terribly different."
Pansy, with a scoff: "Please, I've been trying to change her for years. It's not happening."
Hermione, with a sigh: "Sweet of you, Pans."
Daphne: "Have you given any thought to the dress?"
Hermione: "Me?"
Daphne: "Would you prefer I ask Pansy?"
Pansy, opening her mouth: quickly silenced by a kiss from Harry, which was followed by his smile of perfect innocence.
Hermione, frowning: "Well… I guess I thought you'd design it, Daph."
Daphne: "There are other designers in the world besides me, you know."
Blaise, with a stroke of an imaginary beard: "She would need someone British, though, wouldn't she?"
Daphne, turning skeptically to Blaise: "Oh, so now you have thoughts on this?"
Blaise, indignantly: "Minus ten for the implication I would not!"
Harry, with a weighty sense of admonishment: "He isn't wrong, Daph. Nor is he ever, might I add."
Blaise, delighted: "Plus twenty to Prince Harry!"
Draco, in an undertone to Harry: "He really buys it every time, doesn't he? Unbelievable."
Harry, in an undertone back to Draco: "Oh, are you not enjoying the sensation of coming in second?"
Draco, with a slyly innocent response: "Well, imagine the terrible responsibility of being first. Everything to lose, don't you think? The enormity of the position would be positively grueling."
Harry, with a subtle smile: "Not to mention the rigor of competition."
Draco: "The effort of having to maintain such a faultless reputation, you mean?"
Harry: "That, or having such a dastardly handsome rival for attention."
Draco, rolling his eyes: "Must keep you up at night."
Harry: "Explains my dickish behavior, I imagine."
Draco: "Ah, so we agree?"
Harry: "I've lost my place in the metaphor. Am I you still, or am I me?"
(Hermione: riveted observation as elsewhere, Blaise, Daphne, and Tracey argued the merits of contouring.)
Draco: "I suppose it depends whether or not you would forgive you."
Harry: "Me as me, or me as you?"
Draco: "You as me and me as you."
Harry: "Dizzying, as ever. Perhaps easier to agree to mutual forgiveness?"
Draco: "Mutual? That would mean I'd admit to doing something wrong, which I never do."
Harry: "You as me?"
Draco: "Me as you."
Harry: "Well, perhaps you as you are worth a concession or two."
Draco: "May I quote you on that?"
Harry: "If you do I shall firmly deny it."
Draco: "Even so, you concede?"
Harry: "Me as me? It seems inevitable I should concede."
Draco: "Inevitable? Possible, perhaps even plausible. But inevitable?"
Harry: "Yes, in that I have no control over my feelings on the matter whatsoever."
Draco: "Would your wife be able to enlighten me on the subject?"
Harry: "I imagine she could, though you'll be hard-pressed to get her to do it."
Draco: "Perhaps you could summarize?"
Harry: "In sum: yes."
Draco: "Marvelous."
Harry: "Splendid."
Draco: "More wine?"
Harry: "Please."
Hermione, staring between them with bewilderment: "What on earth just happened?"
Pansy, making a face: "Something revolting."
Theo, with equal repulsion: "And right here on the table, where we eat—"
Blaise, pleased: "The ending was a bit excessively sentimental, but overall I enjoyed it."
Tracey: "What?"
Jamie: another shriek, this time something that seemed to be a mix of actual words and additional incomprehensible babbles.
Pansy, nodding sagely: "She's right. You're both soft summer princes."
Harry, loftily: "Please do not put words in our daughter's mouth, Pansy."
Daphne: "No, even I heard that one, she's right."
Theo, to Hermione: "Will it be strange for you, marrying a man who's just promised his devotion so flagrantly to another?"
Tracey, with a shake of her head: "For the record, any of you marrying any of the others is practically incest already."
Hermione, glancing around the room at her dearest, strangest friends, four of whom were already married: "Well, in the sense that we're all each other's family, then yes."
Blaise: "That is what incest means, New Tracey. But ten points for the intended sentiment."
Tracey, with palpable confusion: "Are you actually taking that as… a compliment?"
But by then, they had all raised their glasses.
"To Hermione and Draco," said Daphne, smiling across the table. "May they always be the weird ones and the lucky ones."
"To the commoner who bedded a royal," Pansy added airily, "much to the detriment of society."
"Hear, hear!" Blaise exclaimed, taking a long sip from his glass.
"And to you, our family," Hermione said (with a roll of her eyes at Pansy), "which is, for whatever reason, the one we chose."
"Lack of better options, I expect," Harry said.
"Funny you should say that," Theo informed him, earning a smack to the gut.
"Mildly related, I'm concerned you've all taken what I said to a troubling degree of misinterpretation," Tracey commented, which they mostly ignored.
"To us," Draco concluded, rising to his feet to deliver the toast properly. "To the rest of our lives together. And, most especially, to you," he said, turning with a smile to Hermione, "for deciding to spend your fall term at Hogwarts all those years ago, and for all the strange and wonderful things that came after."
She smiled up at him, rising to her feet to slip under his arm as the others raised their glasses.
"To us," she agreed, and kissed her prince; consenting, for the time being, to live happily ever after, even if it was just for now.
Not that it was really that simple. The next few days were a whirlwind of preparation, from the highly secret arrival of David and Helen Granger in London to the endless preparations imposed on Hermione by Daphne, Pansy, and, strangely, Prince Lucifer's aide Dobby, who had apparently been temporarily displaced since it was discovered he had helped Draco pull off some of his Lockhart-related sleight of hand. Daphne, who still insisted on making sure Hermione's hair looked as bouncy and jubilant as her engagement news itself, had also chosen an emerald green wrap dress for the occasion, insisting it be something moderately affordable from an accessible British label.
Pansy and Dobby, meanwhile, were charged with ensuring Hermione's manners and mannerisms, along with refining something of a pseudo-script for the post-announcement interview, which was to be covered by—of course—Rita Skeeter. For once, Hermione didn't argue with Pansy's methodology; the last thing she wanted was to be trapped by something that Rita said, implied, or even thought about saying or implying. Hermione sat without protest as Pansy fussed with her hair, her nails, her posture, and her pronunciation of certain words.
Not that it was easy to manage perfect obedience. "This is all a bit fu-" A sigh. "Fracking ridiculous," Hermione amended, once Pansy had made her practice the word 'always' (which was hell on the California accent she hadn't even known she had) at least forty times.
"Fracking remains an altogether unpleasant topic," Pansy said, jabbing a perfectly manicured finger into the area of spine between Hermione's shoulders to force her savagely upright. "A marginal improvement to your vocabulary, but still hardly ideal."
"Personally, it was the facial expressions I always had trouble with," came a voice behind them as they all turned, startled, to find King Abraxas with his hand poised to knock against the open door frame. "A moment, Miss Granger? Pansy," he added in greeting, as she hurriedly curtsied.
"Sir," she said, "a pleasure, as always."
Abraxas looked amused, even a bit doting as Pansy and Dobby were quick to vacate the room, leaving Hermione to curtsy to her future grandfather-in-law.
"I didn't think I'd be seeing you until later, Your Majesty," she admitted, pleased now that Pansy had made her practice so many curtsies in a row. She'd certainly been given enough instruction from Daphne to last a lifetime, but the forced repetition came in handy now that Abraxas' unexpected presence had her wobbly with nerves. "I thought Draco and I would be speaking with you this afternoon?"
"We will, but I thought I'd see you alone for a moment." Abraxas leaned against the desk of Draco's study, idly considering her. "So," he said. "I imagine you don't require me to leave you with any particular warnings as to the realities of your position."
If she weren't already as tense as possible, she might have gone rigid. As it was, no change. "No, sir."
"Some advice, then." He cleared his throat, contemplating his hands. "Perhaps you don't know this, but I've always required members of my family to keep a journal. Somewhere to put your thoughts and feelings. Helps," he added. "When it seems there is no place for your authentic self, a blank page can sometimes do the trick."
Hermione, unsure what to say, nodded silently.
"Draco keeps one," Abraxas said. "Lucius, too. I believe Harry and Pansy do, as well. Certainly young Theodore."
They had never mentioned it to her before, but she supposed they wouldn't.
"I'm sure I could start," she said, and Abraxas nodded obligingly.
"You know, I was wrong about Pansy," he remarked, crossing one leg over the other. "I thought she would be… different."
Hermione, who wasn't sure what that meant, cleared her throat. "Sir?"
"Well, I suppose I saw her as something harmless, possibly even unremarkable. As it turns out, she's poised, graceful, eloquent. Easy to admire, and she is, widely so. She's a credit to this family, and to the monarchy itself." His smile faded slightly. "I do hope I will be wrong about you."
Hermione blinked, startled. "What?"
Abraxas rose to his feet, regarding her silently. "You will not be surprised to learn that my friend Theodore considers you a threat, I imagine."
The mention of the elder Nott certainly did nothing to ease Hermione's misgivings.
"I regret to tell you I believe he's quite right. He likes you, of course, as do I," Abraxas said, "but you are… unpredictable, which means you are—"
"Uncontrollable." Hermione's mouth tightened. "You think I'll be like Bellatrix?"
"My god, no, I think you'll be your own form of trouble," Abraxas assured her with a shake of his head, "and believe me, at this point I fear the outcome of a second Narcissa far more than I fear a second Bellatrix." He paused. "I often wish I had not pushed so hard against Bellatrix, truth be told. As it turns out, she's far easier to manage than I thought."
The little whisper of rumors, the talk of Bellatrix's retirement to some private country home, resurrected like a warning in Hermione's head, along with Narcissa's voice: They'll break you, they'll take everything from you, they'll either turn you into something lifeless or they'll rob you of everything you are—
"Pansy married a reckless boy and made him a man overnight," Abraxas remarked, interrupting Hermione's thoughts. "You, my dear, are marrying a prince. What will you make of him, I wonder?"
The implication was infuriating, made more so by the knowledge that losing her temper would prove him right.
"Draco is responsible for his own behavior," Hermione said tightly. "If Harry changed, that was never Pansy's job."
Abraxas shrugged. "I'm not here to determine your obligations, Miss Granger. Only to warn you that I have expectations for my grandson, and for you, as well. You make no secret of considering our practices antiquated, do you not? Write it in your diary," he advised, apparently unfazed by how patronizing he sounded. "Conspire among your friends, I don't care, but if I am going to regard you as a valued member of this family—" Something, Hermione thought grimly, that Narcissa was clearly not. "Then I will expect you to behave appropriately in return."
Abraxas strode to the door in her silence, unbothered by her lack of response. She curtsied numbly, eyes fixed on the floor, but he paused to glance over his shoulder, regarding her a final time.
"In the end, Bellatrix could be bought," he commented. "You have proven time and time again that you cannot."
Hermione said nothing.
"For what it's worth, I do admire you," Abraxas said. "It is not lost on me that of everything in the world that could matter to you, it is my grandson above all. Your sacrifice is noble and it does not go unnoticed."
She lifted her gaze. "But loving him isn't enough for you, I take it?"
The corner of Abraxas' mouth twitched, satisfied.
"I'll see you with my grandson this afternoon, Miss Granger," he said, and slipped out the door, leaving her behind in contemplation.
16 October, 2017
Clarence House
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE DRACO OF WALES AND MISS HERMIONE GRANGER ARE ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED
The Prince of Wales is delighted to announce the engagement of his son, Prince Draco, to Miss Hermione Granger.
The wedding will take place in the Spring of 2018 in London. Further details about the wedding day will be announced in due course.
Prince Draco and Miss Granger became engaged in September on a private holiday in Northern England. Prince Draco has informed The King and other close members of his family. Prince Draco has also sought the permission of Miss Granger's parents.
Following the marriage, the couple will live in London, where Prince Draco will uphold his various patronages at The King's request and continue his service with the Royal Air Force.
"Well, that's done, then. Grandfather's approved, Father's sulking in silence, the entire world's been informed… and now we just have to deal with Rita Skeeter," Draco said, setting the phone screen down and kissing the top of Hermione's head. "Any ideas?"
"Actually," Hermione said, glancing up at him with a hazy sense of fruition, "I kind of think I do."
Ultimately, Hermione would associate the date of October 16 with a blinding sensation, as dazzling in her memory as the green of her dress and the glints of flash photography, and with all the foreign marvel of the sparkle on her finger, displayed prominently where her hand rested on Draco's arm. The new ring, a combination of Narcissa's gift and the ring Draco had purchased, featured the massive oval-shaped emerald in the center of a nest of smaller diamonds, blinking from every conceivable light source whether Hermione moved or stood perfectly still. It was outrageously heavy, consisting of more carats than she properly knew how to process, and she couldn't help staring at it, feeling like its existence on her finger and the implications of owning it were impossible to ignore.
Hermione was relieved once again that Pansy had been unrelenting when it came to punishing her bad habits. Remembering to smile through her nerves was difficult, particularly when it came to their televised interview. What Rita Skeeter called 'the world's first proper introduction to Hermione Granger' felt less like a neighborly welcome than it did stripping her naked and parading her in front of a crowd of millions—theoretically, of course. In reality, her emerald green dress that morning was stunning but constricting, and either the new extensions that kept her hair in falsely enviable curls were starting to itch or some other nameless anxiety was manifesting from her scalp.
"As we all know, Clarence House released the official announcement of your engagement early this morning," Rita said, beaming falsely at Hermione before turning to Draco. "Clearly your father is overjoyed. Is it fair to say His Majesty is equally pleased with your choice of such an… unconventional bride?"
"Oh, I'm sure he prefers it, in fact," Draco said with a laugh, ever the showman. "My grandfather is incredibly fond of Hermione." He reached over, placing a hand on her knee. "In fact, he congratulated me on the wisdom of my choice a number of times. He is, as we all are, greatly admiring of her cleverness and courage, and he expressed great joy and, admittedly, very little surprise in learning our intentions."
I am so very happy for you, Draco, Abraxas said upon being informed, enveloping his grandson in an embrace so warm Hermione was concerned she'd imagined his visit to her in some kind of wide-awake fever nightmare. What a marvelous choice you've made in this delightful young woman.
"Mm, of course," Rita said, clearly uninterested in hearing any more of Hermione's alleged qualities. "We'd all love to learn the story of your meeting," she went on, eagerly awaiting any sordid details. "You will agree, I'm sure, that much of what the public knows about your relationship has been kept under proverbial lock and key."
"Ah, not much to tell, I'm afraid. I was drawn to Hermione right away, and I hope she'd say the same," Draco said, exchanging a lighthearted glance with Hermione, who was becoming increasingly certain her smile was starting to look a bit insipid, "but we were definitely friends first. In fact, we first bonded over our mutual love of medieval literature, if I recall correctly."
"How quaint," Rita said, turning to Hermione. "So it was his book smarts, then?"
Hermione bit back a Theo-esque comment about the girth of Draco's intellect. "Yes, definitely," she said instead, resting her hand on Draco's. "I've always been very fond of Draco's mind. I guess it's strange to say, but I do love his book collection."
Books. That seemed safe. And appropriately dull. And, most crucially, did not reference or even hint at anything having to do with Draco fucking her for the first time in the bathroom of a college bar.
Forking. Whatever.
"Ah yes, our pensive prince," Rita said with a touch of boredom, clearly surmising as much. "And when did you know it was love, then?"
"Oh, I don't know if I can pinpoint an exact moment," Hermione said, glancing at Draco. "In some ways it seems like I always knew, and in other ways it just… snuck up on me. After a certain point, it seemed inevitable."
"And for you, Draco?"
"For me?" he echoed, scouring Hermione's face briefly and turning to Rita. "Well, there was a time I didn't feel I could be myself, I'll admit, and Hermione showed me otherwise. I believe I fell in love with her the very moment she promised to be my friend."
Hermione blinked, surprised; aware, the way Rita couldn't possibly be, that he was referring to their very first meeting. Specifically, to the kiss in the Slytherin common room that should never have been a kiss, and yet was only the first in a lifetime of unavoidable collisions.
"Well," Rita said, no less bored. "Is it true, Hermione, that you had a picture of Prince Draco from a magazine displayed on the wall of your dorm?"
Just like that, the moment of sentimentality between them was shattered. "What? No," Hermione scoffed, remembering at the last moment to regain her sense of perfectly manufactured decorum. "I mean, no, I just—"
"I believe she had several dozen pictures of me," Draco said, covering her slip with a bit of light banter. "Wallpapered the room with it, didn't you?"
"Now that you mention it, yes, just pictures of you and books, that's all—"
Stay, Draco had said the night they'd told Abraxas, taking her hand in his office when they had a moment alone. I want you here with me tonight, so stay.
But I thought I couldn't stay overnight?
We're engaged, he reminded her. Soon to be married. We don't have to hide anymore, he promised her, taking her face between his palms, and we don't have to keep any secrets. Maybe just one or two, he mused, pulling her close and sliding his hand under her dress, maneuvering her back against his desk as she inhaled sharply, his fingers sliding the lace of her underwear aside.
It had been two hours behind the locked door of his study, him on his knees with her thighs on either side of his head and then his back pressed into the floor, the cheap red marks from expensive green carpet now covered by his jacket and her skirt. Just one or two secrets, what would eventually count among one or two thousands if they were lucky, all belonging to the whisper of space between them.
Every private detail of their lives moving forward would belong to them both. The issue of their former secrets was, as far as Hermione was concerned, simply a matter of tidying up old messes.
Just one thing, Narcissa had said, pulling Hermione aside after the disaster that was their announcement. Lucius wouldn't speak to them again following his tantrum—he and Draco had only communicated through a very nervous Dobby since—but Narcissa would insist on having a moment alone with Hermione. It was the thing that lingered in Hermione's head, determining the rest of her decisions up to the announcement of their engagement.
Be careful who you choose to tell your story, Narcissa had said. Be cautious who you entrust with your truths.
A simple warning. Elegantly crafted.
Decide who tells your story.
It had sparked an idea in Hermione's head, which had grown to a plan, which, with Draco's help, had evolved to a certainty.
"Rita," Hermione said when the televised interview was over, pulling her aside. "I wondered if I could ask you a favor. You don't mind, do you?"
Rita looked devilish with pleasure as she followed Hermione. "Taking me up on your offer, are you?" she asked in an undertone, to which Hermione managed a smile. Now that the cameras were off, things were much, much easier to enjoy. Even better, Draco had let her borrow his study for this particular project, which was a space they were soon to share. She'd always liked it there.
"Actually, I wanted to introduce you to someone." She opened the door, ushering Rita inside and fighting a smile as the latter fell to a dead stop, noticing the unmistakable head of hair waiting at Draco's desk.
"Gilderoy," Rita said darkly, and Gilderoy Lockhart rose to his feet, feigning his usual buoyancy. It flickered only once, upon seeing Hermione's face, and then returned to normal.
"Rita, darling," Gilderoy said, leaning forward to kiss a stunned and hilariously furious Rita on the cheek. "Such a delight to see you again!"
"Oh, do you know each other?" Hermione asked, feigning surprise as if she and Draco had not stayed up half the night looking up every instance of Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart butting heads in public. "I thought I'd have to introduce you! Gilderoy is of course my dear, dear friend," Hermione said, as Gilderoy gave her a blank look, plainly confused about her intent. "We met at Harry's birthday party some years ago—well, it feels like ages. What was it, five, six years ago now? Surely you were there, weren't you?"
Rita's attention volleyed doubtfully between Hermione and Gilderoy.
"Ah, but how could I have missed it!" Gilderoy said, stepping successfully into the trap Hermione had set for him. "Yes, as I'm sure everyone knows, Prince Harry and I are terribly close," he said, predictably Gilderoy-ing the story. "My goodness, it must have been the year we all had that marvelous gin tourney, wasn't it? Or no, perhaps it was the Royal Ascot—"
"Absolutely, who can forget? In any case, we've known each other intimately for ages," Hermione concluded, turning to Rita, "which is why you'll need him, I'm sure, in order to write the book."
"The… book?" Rita asked, frowning. "What book?"
"The book, Rita," scoffed an equally uninformed Gilderoy. "Aren't you listening?"
"Well, you said yourself that people are going to want to hear the story behind my relationship with Draco," Hermione commented. Best to let Rita think it was her idea, in her opinion. "Why let someone tell it based on speculation? No," she said with a sighing shake of her head, "better that we provide someone access to family and friends who know the story, don't you think?"
The word access practically had Rita salivating. "An official, sanctioned biography, you mean?"
"Yes," Hermione said with a nod. "Approved by the Palace."
That sent a little flicker of opposition across Rita's face. "With oversight, then?"
"Oversight," Hermione agreed, "in addition to exclusive interviews, private family pictures… and, of course, close personal sources for collaboration," she said, with a gesture to Gilderoy. "Hence the introduction."
"But I can't include Gilderoy Lockhart's name," Rita said, repulsed. "His credibility's been dragged through the mud!"
"By you," Gilderoy muttered, which Rita promptly ignored.
"That, and I certainly don't collaborate," Rita informed Hermione, lips pursed. "So unless you're willing to offer me—"
"All the royalties," Hermione cut in, and immediately, Rita's mouth snapped shut. "I'm sure you can determine the details with your publisher, but it's not as if Draco and I plan to profit from this in any way. We simply feel it would be best that we prevent any terrible lies from circulating," she said, smiling sweetly at Gilderoy, "and choose someone who can portray our upcoming marriage in a positive, compelling way."
She could practically see Rita's stomach hurting at the idea of treating the subject with any positivity or even decorum, but even Rita could not deny the paycheck. An unauthorized biography, even with the freedom to slander Hermione all she wished, would surely not distribute so widely as one sanctioned by the Palace.
"I imagine there might even be film rights, certainly international distribution. Perhaps even some recognition from the royal family," Hermione said. "Damehood, perhaps?"
That, she could see, had certainly sealed the deal. Even the mere whiff of possibility to become Dame Rita Skeeter was clearly enough to convince her.
"Lockhart will have to be involved anonymously," Rita said firmly, cutting a sidelong glance at him. "Money and that's it. Are we clear?"
Gilderoy's mouth opened, which Hermione deftly intercepted.
"Oh, Gilderoy, it would be such a favor to us," she implored, cutting off any reply of indignation. "You do know how dearly Draco thinks of you, don't you?"
She could see him struggling between his need to argue and his compulsion to align himself with someone, anyone, of celebrity. Fortunately, his ego won out (as it always did) in the end.
"It's true, I have been quite a confidante to our young Prince," Gilderoy declared, unable to keep himself from confirming it. "Shall we discuss details later, then?"
Rita gave Gilderoy a ball-shriveling glance that seemed to be some version of my people will call your people before narrowing her eyes and turning to Hermione.
"If it's a book you want, I'll write you a book," Rita said in a low voice, "but don't expect me to believe we're suddenly friends now."
"Oh, I just want the world to know the truth behind our love, Rita," Hermione said, playing up a look of girlish injury. "Is it such a crime?"
Rita gave her an impatient glance, and then a sigh.
"I'll be in touch," she said gruffly, giving Gilderoy a final glance of skepticism before nodding to Hermione, who walked her to the door.
"Until next time," Hermione called after her cheerfully, turning back to the office to find that Gilderoy, having recovered from his episode of surprise, had lurched over to her side.
"I see what you're doing, you know. I can always tell her later," Gilderoy cautioned. "Don't forget, I can still destroy you with what I know."
"Ah yes, right," Hermione said, smiling. "Like this, I imagine? 'Well, little does anyone know, Prince Draco's future wife was in fact my personal ghostwriter!'" she mused, out-Gilderoying Gilderoy himself with the jaunty imitation. "I'm sure you've heard about the orphan I saved as a war journalist? I'm positive I've mentioned it before! Oh, and let us not forget that it was I, of course, who invented the Toaster Strudel—"
"I can bring you down no matter how many lies you tell," Gilderoy said in a low voice. "You're not safe just because you've got that ring on your finger."
"Oh, but Gilderoy, you silly goose, why would anyone believe you?" Hermione replied sweetly. "I'm quite popular with your readership demographic, you know," she mused, "and a washed-up celebrity con artist who plagiarized his own books would be precisely the type to try to bring down the future Queen of England, wouldn't he? At least, I'm sure that's what Rita Skeeter and her constituents would believe," she said, knowing full well that even if he tried, Gilderoy Lockhart couldn't string enough truths together in a sentence to make Rita Skeeter believe blond was his natural hair color, much less that they had ever conspired.
To Hermione's private exuberance, a red-faced Gilderoy couldn't quite sputter out a response.
"What is it, Gil?" she asked neutrally, channeling the countless nights of answering messages sent to Penny as she feigned confusion. "Surely you're pleased with the news? After all, I couldn't think more highly of you, so you really shouldn't consider this a misfortune," she said, finding his particular brand of cheer quite easily accessible now. "I'm simply incentivizing you to say as much as you'd like to your own detriment."
He glared at her, furious. "If you think this means you've won—"
"Ah, there's that award-winning smile," Hermione said approvingly. "What was it, four times? I think that's what Rita said, wasn't it?"
In response, he merely let out a wordless yelp of frustration, pivoting away as she waved him out the door, rolling her eyes and falling into the chair in the corner.
Within minutes of Gilderoy's unceremonious exit, Draco had joined her, stepping into the room and smiling.
"Well," he said, shutting the study door behind him. "How did it go?"
Hermione glanced up, sparing him a look of what she hoped was reassurance. "Worked, believe it or not," she said, rising to her feet. "Did you have any doubts?"
"Certainly not," he told her, taking her in his arms. "In you? Never. Though I wish I were clever enough to have put a stop to this sooner myself."
"Well, you have me now," she reminded him. "We handle our shit together."
He arched a brow, and she sighed.
"Our… shirts," she amended, and he laughed. "We handle our shirts together. From now on."
She reached up, brushing his hair back from his temple. They let a smile pass between them before he leaned away for a long look at the ring on her finger, drawing her knuckles to his lips.
"And so it begins," he said, twisting the emerald around on her finger and eyeing its shine in the light until they both looked up, satisfied.
"And so it begins," Hermione agreed, lifting her chin for the kiss he would happily give her.
Well, I seem to have mentioned once or twice that this book of Rita's is full of lies, haven't I? Honestly, I'm not sure what I really expected when I made the request. Some parts of it were deliberately misled, true, but most were just the result of Rita's delightful personality, so maybe I should have known what I signed up for when I thought it would be the answer to my problems. I knew it was a snake when I picked it up but, then again, I had every intention of setting the snake back down until everything that's happened to me over the last twenty-four hours.
For the record, I was mostly right when I considered the consequences of what might come from letting others in to see my secrets. Unfortunately, the operative word there is 'mostly.'
I guess it's no surprise that hubris is a bench.
a/n: Sorry I wasn't able to provide a link to those who asked (time got away from me), but I heard today this story won Best Love Story in the dramione category of the Granger Enchanted Awards! Thank you to those of you who voted. I'm so happy to know this monstrous story is loved.