Chapter 39: Icon
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
The Makings of an Icon
While there has been some controversy about the nature of Princess Narcissa's enduring mystique, there is no denying the unmistakable presence of the Princess of Wales in popular culture. As the woman who will follow in her footsteps begins to take her place in the public eye, it is quite natural to speculate what Hermione's legacy will be. Hermione's first public appearance at Draco's side following the couple's official engagement announcement has prompted many to compare her quite favorably to the woman who will be her future mother-in-law. Narcissa has been beloved for decades, both for her sense of style and for her early devotion to charity while at her husband's side. Hermione's sartorial expressions certainly have similar echoes of Narcissa's signature sophistication, but the question of how Hermione will ultimately step into the spotlight remains to be seen.
Despite their very different backgrounds, both women will undoubtedly hold a permanent place in the public eye, for better or for worse. Even with Narcissa's disappearance from the public sphere in recent years, it's clear the world simply cannot get enough of the glamorous women of the Royal Family. There can be no question that Hermione will live a life of constant exaltation, whatever role she ultimately takes.
I think what Rita wanted to say at the end there was 'well motherboarders, I guess we're stuck with this bench,' but as you can see, she preferred to write an entire book of subtweets instead. Probably the result of my unreasonable guidelines—'try to avoid slandering me for your own amusement,' 'attempt not to flagrantly lie,' etc etc—but we're getting to the end of all this now, so maybe it's best I not linger too long on Rita Skeeter herself.
To tell the whole story, we still have to zoom out, just a bit.
December 25, 2017
Sandringham House
It wasn't as if life was different, exactly, following the announcement of their engagement. Hermione had been Draco's girlfriend for years, whether publicly acknowledged or not, so the presence of photographers that followed everywhere she went remained the same. The ongoing flash of cameras, hardly some new evolution, felt scarcely distinct from before. Her treatment from the press had changed very little, at first (Helen continued to send pictures of the US Weekly covers touting the American Princess and her royal fairytale while the Daily Prophet quietly fretted over the grubby commoner's rise to prominence), so, for all intents and purposes, Hermione had not expected any new sensations. She had been all but engaged to Draco for longer than she cared to admit, and highly doubted a ring on her finger would suddenly cause some unrecognizable shift to her psyche.
Until, that is, it truly, decadently did.
"You look beautiful," Draco said, admiring her openly at the foot of the steps in Sandringham House before they walked over for Christmas Day mass. "Are you ready?"
It's against royal protocol, squawked Rita. Never has a member of the Royal Family been publicly invited to spend Christmas with the King before marriage!
"Not sure," Hermione said, giving him a wary smile. "Think they'll hate me?"
"Of course not," he assured her, offering her his arm. "I'm quite confident they'll love you."
His optimism was very him, of course, which Hermione took at first to be a severe miscalculation of what she suspected to be certain doom. Narcissa had skipped Christmas at Sandringham again, either by her own choice or someone else's, and Lucius, as far as Hermione had heard, had not taken the news of Hermione's expected presence particularly well. Not that it was enough to worsen the rift between father and son any further than it had been; outside of necessary public appearances, Lucius hadn't spoken to Draco since being informed of the engagement, and he did not attempt it upon learning of his son's request that Hermione be invited for the holidays. As far as Hermione had heard, the only outcome had been a paraphrased message from Dobby, indicating that the Prince of Wales was 'disheartened to hear their usual family Christmas would be unexpectedly disrupted.'
Sandringham as an official guest of King Abraxas was run on a meticulous timetable, which was as unfamiliar to Hermione as the rest of her newly royal-adjacent life. She had never quite understood the demands on Draco's time before—foolishly believing, as she had, that spending a few days with one's grandfather could be expected to be restful—and learned very quickly the level of protocol involved in being a guest of the King. Several dress changes were involved, leading Hermione to feel she'd brought enough clothes to survive an extremely swanky nuclear winter, and even her arrival with Draco had required choreography to bizarre and tedious perfection. They arrived before Lucius, something that was ostensibly expected, and met Abraxas for tea at precisely four in the afternoon. A whirlwind it was not; from the moment Hermione arrived with Draco every step was precisely planned, with a textbook of tradition available (should citation be necessary) to explain the resounding significance of every spare breath.
Naturally, Hermione assumed she was doing poorly. She half expected her walk to the Christmas Day service at Draco's side to be met with projectile cabbages or some other classically English expression of mob-related malcontent.
Despite all her preparation—protocol from Pansy, fashion from Daphne, and a little guidance here and there from the resident princes ("Just don't fall down," suggested Harry, as Draco nodded, apparently finding that to be perfectly sufficient advice)—Hermione discovered she had not been adequately schooled in, of all things… adulation.
Our future Princess looked absolutely stunning in a burgundy wrap coat, said a new blog, earnestly titled From The Bay to Buckingham. Unlike DRAGONFLOWER, this blog seemed to exist exclusively to cheer about anything Hermione did, said, wore, or looked at. Is it just me, or did it seem to be an homage to Princess Narcissa's first Christmas with the Royal Family? Her ring looked beautiful—and she also wore Narcissa's emerald earrings to match!
It would seem The King is positioning Hermione Granger to replace the Princess of Wales as the most prominent female member of the Royal Family, speculated one article from British Vogue. Given Princess Narcissa's troubling behaviour in recent years, it's no surprise Hermione is putting her best foot forward, and to quite commendable results.
A flawless first appearance from the woman who will be Queen, remarked another article. Hermione, who typically played a game of public opinion Russian roulette by even opening the internet to begin with, was shocked to still be finding streams of admiring commentary; typically, there were only one or two before she came across some criticism. While Hermione has been known for her sometimes brazen steps outside protocol, it is a relief to find her quietly observing royal practices with a smile on her face. And there can be no denying the obvious affection between the American and her Prince!
Hermione is finally coming into her own, concluded another source. Her welcome from the Royal Family seems to have brought new warmth and confidence to her appearances; already, one can see the difference between her relaxed posture over the Christmas holiday when compared with the photographs taken for her engagement announcement.
Only one voice seemed to point out the disconcerting.
With no sign of Narcissa once again, it seems quite clear the Princess of Wales is being forced out, wrote Rita Skeeter. The Palace's efforts to mold Hermione into a more tolerable source of public interest seems directly correlated to Narcissa's continuing fall from The King's favour, and indeed, there can be little doubt this bit of sleight-of-hand—magically replacing one woman with another—will successfully fool many among the Royal Family's captive audience. Clad in her absent mother-in-law's jewels, Hermione's royally sanctioned appearance at Sandringham sent a clear, unassailable message: This is to be a new era of expectation.
"Ominous," Daphne remarked, reading over Hermione's shoulder. She and Theo had been invited along for the Boxing Day 'sporting' events, though Hermione hesitated to find much 'sport' in the hunting that continued to exist as an aristocratic recreation, despite it being 2017 (though, she reasoned, it did render her medieval expectation to be hit with rotting produce somewhat less outrageous). Harry and Pansy, who had arrived with Jamie shortly before Hermione and Draco, were also in attendance, while Blaise and Tracey, not quite the same level of nobility, remained in London.
"I don't suppose you're panicking over this, are you?" Daphne asked, unsubtly checking Hermione for damage.
"Not especially," Hermione said. "It's certainly not the first time Rita's stirred up some—" She broke off, catching the motion of Pansy's brow. "Shirts," she grumbled, and Pansy nodded, patting Hermione's hand absentmindedly as she raised her cup of tea to her lips.
"Still, a fake rivalry with Pansy that can be easily disproved is one thing, but suggesting you're conspiring with Abraxas to replace Narcissa is a bit mean-spirited," Daphne remarked with a frown, spreading a bit of cream on her scone. "I don't suppose she's been any nicer since the book, then?"
"Who, Rita? Hardly. Though, I suppose I can't really blame her," Hermione said, shrugging. "We obviously weren't going to send her anyone actually important, so I can't imagine she's having much fun with Slughorn."
"My god, not that old fool," Theo said, falling into the seat beside Daphne with a mopey dog-Lucius at his heels. "I'm loath to consider what happens when he and Gilderoy Lockhart occupy the same room, much less the same planet. Explains the climate crisis," he deduced with a shudder. "Not sure how, exactly, but it feels like the right answer."
"I thought you were supposed to be hunting with Draco and Harry?" Daphne asked him.
"Please, Greengrass," he said with a scoff, reaching for her scone, "as if anyone in their right mind would give me a gun."
"Theodore has a point," Pansy said with another sip, "both about his own ineptitude, which is boundless—"
"Thank you," Theo said, spearing some jam with a knife.
"—and the disaster of using Slughorn as a source. Surely Rita will know he's not the intimate access you offered her," she determined, giving Hermione her usual look of doubt.
"Well, it's not as if the book can turn out badly," Hermione said. "She still has to have it approved."
"Yes, but what the Palace will approve and what's actually true are completely at odds, are they not?" Pansy prompted. "You of all people should know the truth is far too unpalatable to print. Prince Lucius would never allow even a shred of it."
"I'm sure it won't change much either way," Hermione said, seeing as she doubted that anything, good or bad, would make Lucius come around to speaking terms. "And besides, what do I care whether anything in the book is true? It's enough to have a bit of peace from her constant assault of criticism, isn't it?"
"Not that you're the only one in the news," Daphne said, now skimming the latest headlines on her own screen. "There's something here about Neville and Susan getting engaged," she read with a frown as the others collectively made a face. "Oh, and the Transfiguration Project's breaking ground on a new development," she said, surprising Theo with a sharp poke in the shoulder as he choked on a bite of scone. "Look at that, Nott! You're in the papers for something other than your debaucherous bachelordom."
"And so unfairly, too," coughed Theo, who was currently permitting a shivering Prince Lucius onto his chair, gradually burying his lap beneath awkwardly folded dog limbs and designer tartan. "After I worked so hard to cultivate this faultless image of seduction and gravitas? Unacceptable," he lamented, stealing Daphne's cup of tea.
"I don't suppose you've told that McGonagall woman about your engagement," Pansy said, turning to Hermione. "She won't be in the book, will she?"
"Actually, she heartily refused," Hermione replied. "Something about 'This is the first I'm hearing about you and Prince Draco, Miss Granger,' so as far as I know, she's currently making dodging Rita's phone calls a premiere Olympic sport."
"Ah, so this book will be almost entirely nonsense, then," Theo judged, looking as if he approved. "It's unfortunate there won't be an entire chapter featuring Helen's marital advice or Draco's secret life as a Batman impersonator," he sighed, "but, regrettably, I suppose we all must align to His Majesty's unreasonable expectations."
"I think Abraxas was pleased with the idea," Hermione admitted. "I was initially worried he'd react the way Lucius did to my being here against protocol, but I think he's starting to warm to me? He at least seems pleased with my decision to have Rita write the book, and he's been… oddly welcoming, actually," she said, thinking of the way he had greeted her with a smile, making a point to neither exclude her nor force her into any of the scheduled activities. "Maybe he's come around since telling me I was going to be a disaster."
"Well, asking Rita to write the book was a rather neat solution to your little public approval problem, which surely Abraxas can appreciate," Daphne observed. "After all, she can hardly eviscerate you once it's been released, or how would she possibly sell books?"
"It's not as if she's left me alone quite yet," Hermione pointed out, careful not to get ahead of herself. "So far I'm still the colonial upstart I always was, just slightly better dressed."
"Eh, the speculation that the book will be a scathing tell-all is a promising campaign for initial sales. Eventually she'll have to put her vitriol to rest," Theo said. "I assume she'll shift her focus elsewhere once she's exhausted her primary means to cause trouble."
Pansy, Hermione noticed, was unusually quiet, staring off over the house's grounds as she contemplated something in silence.
"You don't actually think I'm forcing out Narcissa, do you?" Hermione asked, nudging her. "It's just another of Rita Skeeter's ridiculous rumors, that's all."
To her dismay, Pansy didn't answer right away. Instead, she carefully poured herself another cup of tea, stirring in some sugar, and then leaned back, dark gaze traveling a long distance to reach a waiting Hermione.
"I expect Abraxas rather hopes you'll find it comfortable to exist in his approval," Pansy said.
Hermione blinked, expecting more, which Pansy did not provide.
"Oh, she's just being morose," Daphne said in a delicate sing-song, noticing the tension and rushing, with obvious pretense, to 'casually' intervene. "Should we talk about your dress again later?" she asked Hermione, steering her back to more diverting topics—or to what was more diverting for Daphne, anyway, since Hermione had little to contribute with regard to crafting an iconic wedding gown. "I've asked Fleur to come to London next week," Daphne said, patting Theo's hand and rapidly resolving Hermione's internal wave of apprehension. "I'm hoping she'll have some thoughts on the materials."
The thought of Fleur visiting was a welcome distraction. "Really? We haven't seen her in ages!"
"Well, she's apparently just wrapped some appearances for Dior," Daphne said, wryly shaking her head over Fleur's enviable lifestyle, "so she can finally spare a few moments for us peasants. You'll be around, won't you?" she asked, turning to Theo and retrieving her cup of tea from his hand. "I know you've got some deadlines coming, but I thought if the situation arose…"
"I'll make time," he assured her. "After all, what is time if not a myth?"
"Well, that doesn't comfort me nearly as much as you think it does," Daphne informed him, "but thank you. And as for you," she said, turning back to Hermione, "are you absolutely sure you want me to design your dress? Because you should really have something more established. Like Dior, for example," she clarified emphatically. "They've done excellent work for Fleur this year—"
"Ah yes, Fleur, who, like me, definitely has the body of a human woman and not some sort of universal daydream brought to life," Hermione drily agreed.
"—or Givenchy," Daphne continued, ignoring her. "They have an English creative director, and there's always—"
"Daph, don't tell me you're nervous," Hermione cut in, half-smiling as she watched Daphne fumble to a halt. "Who better to design my wedding gown than the person who knows my body better than anyone else?"
"Sorry, what was that?" came a voice behind them, revealing a playfully bemused Draco with a laughing Harry at his side. "Just wanted to clarify that remark, Miss Granger," Draco informed her with a kiss to her cheek, "lest you reveal to our close friends and hateful enemies how improperly I satisfy you."
"Please," Hermione sighed, taking his hand as he rested it on her shoulder. "Even with your breadth of knowledge—which is preeminent," she acknowledged, prompting him to nod with apparent satisfaction, "I doubt you could design my dress for me as well as Daphne could."
"Well," Draco said, observing her with a pensive glance, "if I were to try and choose a silhouette—"
"Oi, offer and acceptance have been made!" Theo scolded Draco from beneath his pile of huddled greyhound. "If you're in the business of poaching high profile clients, you'll have to submit an application for consideration like the rest of us."
"Whatever happened to reasonable expectation of corporal punishment?" Draco asked rhetorically, kicking a bit of mud from the heel of his boots. "You've all gotten much too comfortable. Someone will have to be convicted for treason or I shall be forced to find all new friends."
"He said that the first time when we were six," Theo remarked loudly to Daphne, "and yet the date of my inevitable trip to the gallows remains curiously undetermined."
"Scheduling conflicts," Draco assured him, though Hermione had gotten distracted, noticing Harry where he'd crouched beside Pansy's chair.
"You're quiet, wife," he observed, taking one of Pansy's hands and toying for a moment with her fingers. "You've scarcely even mentioned how roguish I look in my sporting garb."
Pansy cast him a skeptical glance. "Roguish?"
"Admit it, Lady Seven-Names," he said. "You like me most with a bit of rough."
Her smile quirked for half a second, then furiously stilled.
Harry rose, touching her cheek with his thumb before taking her chin in one hand, giving her a scrutinizing glance.
"Good?" he said.
She nodded.
"Shall we go see our daughter, then? She'll be awake by now, I expect."
Another nod.
"Good." Harry kissed her lips, setting her teacup on the table and replacing it with his hand. "Come on, then. We'll see you in a bit," he told the others, who had been continuing to discuss the merits of beheading Theo versus permanent institutional confinement.
"Pansy's a bit odd," Draco observed as she and Harry left, glancing between Hermione and Daphne with curiosity. "Anything to report?"
"Nothing I understand," Hermione grudgingly confessed, turning to Daphne. "Do you?"
"Well—" Daphne hesitated. "I suppose it's nothing," she eventually determined. "I'm sure it will pass."
That, Hermione thought, was nearly as ominous as Rita Skeeter's implications.
"If you say so," she murmured, just before Draco too-spiritedly suggested they all get changed for supper.
Fleur's visit to London in early January was the highlight of a moderately stressful time; not psychologically taxing, for once, but physically and mentally draining. Taking on a royal schedule was daunting, a bit like orientation for a new and deeply demanding job. Hermione's days were broken down by Draco's personal staff nearly to the minute, executing demands that she be in one place or another whether or not she was publicly visible at any given time.
During the weeks following Sandringham, Hermione was present at Draco's side for one major public appearance: an annual press event honoring a foundation that provided organized efforts for mental health services. Despite the fact that Hermione spoke very little and was only invited to comment regarding Draco's devotion to the cause of mental health in general, the articles that followed were largely a slew of praise, not only for her clothes and her hair but for her, quote, 'quiet dignity' on the subject. Praise for Draco's speaking engagement, too, was resounding, indicating that his natural inclination to be more outspoken on stigmatized topics than his father was an attribute met with far-reaching approval.
Requesting that Dobby set aside time for her to visit with Fleur and Daphne was immensely satisfying, even with Hermione's silent hope that a continually out-of-sorts Pansy wouldn't be present. She was relieved, upon entering Daphne's atelier, to find only Daphne, Fleur, and an open bottle of champagne, both women looking up from a large, almost architectural drawing of plans for Hermione's gown as she entered.
"Ah, there she is, the bride!" Fleur exclaimed, cheeks flushing with excitement as she opened her arms for Hermione. "How are you? No, no need to tell me, I can see that you look radiant," she answered herself, holding Hermione at arm's length. "I can't believe it's finally happening—and the ring? Ah, perfection," she sighed, holding Hermione's finger up to the light. "Beautiful, dazzling, flawless—"
"She's drunk," Daphne told Hermione with a roll of her eyes, earning herself a swat on the shoulder from Fleur.
"Hush," Fleur said, and then a lofty, "Tipsy, maybe," before dragging Hermione's arm half out of its socket, pausing beside the workspace where she and Daphne had clearly been sketching for a couple of hours. "Though, I prefer to think of it as unbridled enthusiasm. Do you like?" Fleur asked, pointing to the four separate designs they'd been working with. "With sleeves, of course, we're agreed on that, and I said it should at least photograph pure white rather than ivory—"
"Ah yes, for my virginity," Hermione drily agreed.
"—and Daphne thinks lace, but I think possibly something more modern? A bateau neckline, for example," Fleur continued, pointing, though before Hermione could say anything about the design, Fleur had wrapped her in another embrace, sighing happily. "Oh, ma cherie, you are thriving," she said, still pink-cheeked with delight. "Are you enjoying your new life?"
"I… yes," Hermione said, trying not to laugh as Daphne threw up her hands apologetically, gesturing again to the bottle. "Yes, Fleur, I'm very happy, thank you—"
"Good, excellent, good. Never mind Pansy, she will come around," Fleur added, and Hermione blinked, jarred a little by the tangential comment as Daphne chose that moment to hastily shove a glass in her hand. "She's just so used to you being the… comment dite-on… the rebel, you know? But she'll understand soon, she'll see. Now, if you do choose lace," Fleur continued, turning back to the drawings as Hermione frowned over her shoulder at Daphne, "I think I like this one, Daphne's first design. It's beautiful, no?" she said, flashing Daphne a look of approval. "A nice marriage between modern and classic, just like you and Draco—"
"What was that about Pansy?" Hermione asked, but Fleur was busy shuffling through lace samples.
"No, actually, now that we have you here, I do think Daphne's instincts are right—lace suits you," Fleur said, distractedly turning her attention to fabrics. "We don't want to overwhelm your figure with something too heavy, naturally—"
"It's really nothing," Daphne said in Hermione's ear, referring to Fleur's little slip of commentary. "Really, Pansy's just being stubborn. Don't even think about it."
"Hard not to, seeing as it keeps coming up," Hermione muttered back, taking a sip of champagne. "Has she talked to everyone but me?"
"No, she just… well, you know how Pansy is—"
"Hello?" came a voice, and the three of them spun from their various positions around the room to find Theo making his way up the steps to Daphne's private workspace, someone else at his heels. "Oh good, you're all here," Theo said, wandering inside and reaching to sneak a look at the designs until Daphne shoved his hand away. "This is Bill," Theo added over his shoulder, gesturing to the tall redhead who was ducking his head to enter the lofted studio. "He's my financial counterpart at Gringotts—Bill, my wife, Daphne," he said, gesturing to her, "and of course the future Queen of England, so please do bow with appropriate reverence—"
"Oh god, please don't," Hermione assured him quickly. "And does he mean that you're working with Minerva?"
"He means I'm the Transfiguration Project's banker, so yes," Bill confirmed drily, extending a hand to Daphne. "We were just finishing up a meeting that ran overlong when Theo said he needed to check in with you, so I hope I'm not imposing too obtrusively. Theo told me all about you," he added to Daphne, smiling before turning to Hermione. "Oh, and sorry," he said, shaking Hermione's hand and turning to Fleur, "I didn't catch your—"
He broke off, blinking, as Fleur looked up from the fabric she was holding.
"—name," Bill concluded, recovering with only a slightly fumbled cough. "I'm… Bill. Weasley," he said, as Hermione frowned, wondering how many people were possibly in the Weasley family. "And you're, um. You're—"
"Single," Fleur said, flashing him a smile that was precisely as lovely as it was carnivorous. "You can call me Fleur."
"Over dinner, I hope," Bill said, holding her hand significantly longer than he'd held either Hermione's or Daphne's.
"And again at breakfast," Fleur replied, as Hermione exchanged a look with Theo, who looked positively delighted.
Daphne, meanwhile, elbowed Theo in the ribs. "Your meeting went on so long you had to check in, hm?" she said, gesturing to Bill with a doubtful look. "Can't imagine why—"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Theo told her, trying again (and failing) to see her sketches of Hermione's dress. "What, really?" he demanded, petulant with insistence when Daphne admonished him with a glare. "After all my good work today?"
"You can't just throw two wildly attractive people in a room and call it work," Daphne informed him. "This," she said, waving a hand to where Fleur and Bill were staring wolfishly at each other, "is just basic science—"
"Which isn't technically something I've ever claimed to understand," Theo replied hotly, "so we're back where we started, Greengrass!"
"Well, anyway," Bill said, managing to tear himself away from Fleur long enough to turn, dazedly, to Theo. "Should we, ah. Continue our…? Plans," he finished, frowning. "Our, erm. The conversation we were in, uh—"
He frowned with concentration, turning to look at Fleur, who smiled up at him.
"Bed with," he finished, and blinked. "I mean—"
"We all know what you meant," Daphne said with a roll of her eyes, giving Theo a scolding glance. "And you do realize you interrupted us, Nott—"
"Oh, you don't need me," Fleur assured her, now making a point to plainly admire Bill's bicep. "Tell me," she commented, folding back his sleeve (without any protest from him) and running a finger along the line of his forearm, "what else do you keep under here?"
She'd somehow managed to zero in on a series of boldly illustrative tattoos through the material his shirt, glancing up at him with a smile of triumph.
"Oh, I'm happy to show you," Bill told her at a murmur, and unsurprisingly, Fleur's smile broadened.
"Wow," said Hermione, observing with amusement. "This is…"
"Is this how she got you?" Daphne asked Theo.
"Well, I was pining over another woman," he reminded her, "so tragically, it required even less work."
"Ah," Daphne said. "Pity."
Theo winked at her, turning back to Bill. "Shall we?" he suggested, waving a hand expectantly out the door. "My wife is correct, as ever, that we've rudely interrupted. I imagine we should leave the ladies to their brilliance," he remarked, and Bill, who looked as if a construction crane would be required to separate him from Fleur, managed a fumbled step in Theo's direction, nodding.
"Bye," Fleur said, giving Bill a wave that would probably ruin his life as Theo turned to bid farewell to Daphne.
"You've got this," Theo assured her, tugging a dazzled Bill back towards the stairs. "You're an icon, Greengrass, all on your own. Oh, and Cali," he called to Hermione, "before I forget, could y-"
But Daphne had suddenly leapt forward, taking Theo's hand and yanking him back to kiss him the way Hermione had forgotten Daphne could kiss him; with her fingers twisted in his hair and dug into his jaw, hips flush against his for the span of several seconds before reluctantly releasing him, parting from his lips with a slow, breathless look of gratitude.
Theo took a step back, looking approximately as gobsmacked as Bill, and returned his attention to Hermione with a puzzled frown.
"Well," he managed, clearing his throat, "could you, ah… feed the dog, please? Or something," he said, before appearing to dismiss the idea entirely. "Or, you know. Whatever."
"Sure," Hermione said, amused.
Theo nodded, the two of them disappearing down the stairs as Hermione turned back to Daphne and Fleur, who were wearing matching looks of satisfaction.
"So," Hermione said, eyeing the sample in Fleur's hand. "Lace?"
The simple nudge was all it took.
"Lace," Daphne and Fleur confirmed in unison, returning to the sketches at hand.
Among the everyday normalities that had become a thing of the past was walking. Now, Hermione mostly got from place to place with the aid of the royal family's security team. Along with having a private car for transportation, Hermione was also freed from the burden of closing her own car door (something she forgot at least once, rendering her a despicable plebeian once again for a brief episode of Rita scoffery) and was assigned her own personal Dobby: a lively, high-voiced, British-themed Kristen Chenoweth of a woman named, of all things, Winky, which was probably some sort of nickname, though Hermione was too fearful of being wrong to ask.
Hermione grew a new appreciation for Draco's unfailing patience after learning just how often the palace staff could call her on any given day. Typically, she woke to a call from Winky informing her of her schedule, and then fielded several more at an interval of no less than every two hours as things developed and plans either changed, might be changed, or strictly could not change, along with things that, as Winky would trillingly repeat, "So sorry Miss, but must be done." Aside from deciding what color the table linens should be and whether or not she preferred to vow to obey Draco in all things (a quick decision, actually, as she resolutely did not), there were the increasing duties of being a future working royal. Patronages were lined up for her perusal—Would she like to support early education? Or would hospitals be her pet project? Did she or did she not give a damn about starving children?—and on top of all that, there was Daphne, who would cryptically call to mumble things like, "Poppies? No, never mind," and then, alarmingly, hang up.
It was a relief to find the time to pay a visit to Minerva, intent as Hermione was on staying committed to the Transfiguration Project's work. This time, with her schedule being semi-public knowledge, the crowds outside the office were positively massive. Hermione paused to wave to Colin Creevey—who, she spotted, had finally purchased a new phone screen—before making her way inside the old haunt that had once been her place of employment.
Inside, courtesy of both Theo's eye and presumably some of his money, the relatively open floor plan had been parceled up into a series of low-walled, bustling cubicles. When a quick scan of the office showed Minerva's desk to be vacant, Hermione approached the office belonging to Oliver Wood, Chief Fundraising Officer, knocking on the open door frame and interrupting said Fundraising Officer from what appeared to be a series of weighted push-ups, with one of the smaller interns reading aloud from an email while balancing on Oliver's back.
"That's enough, Coote," Oliver barked upon spotting Hermione in the doorway, leaping to his feet the moment the intern had removed himself from Oliver's spine. "Ritchie Coote, Hermione Granger," Oliver informed the intern, who gave Hermione a low, dignified bow. "Grab Peakes, would you? I'll need him to report back on this month's figures. Oh, and have him bring the board," Oliver called, smiling incongruously at Hermione and ushering her inside, where he pulled up a chair for her beside his standing treadmill desk.
"Board?" she echoed doubtfully, taking the proffered seat. "You're not paddling your employees, are you?"
"Nonsense. Have to build up a strong core," Oliver scoffingly informed her, lying on his back in the center of his office and looking placidly up at her. "To what do we owe the pleasure, Granger?"
She opened her mouth, pausing her reply as another intern wandered in with something that looked like a large foam rectangle.
"Hermione Granger, Jimmy Peakes," Oliver said, as the intern gave her a nod and settled himself on his knees beside Oliver. "Harder this time, would you?" he said to the intern. "Hit me like you mean it, Peakes."
"Is this…" Hermione trailed off, watching as the intern, Peakes, smacked the board into Oliver's stomach mid-sit up. "Is this like, legal?"
"What? Of c- oof, of course," Oliver said, leisurely continuing his set. "Obvi- balls, obviously, Granger, I remain com- ah, committed in every conc- harder, Peakes! And start reading, would you?—conceivable way," he continued, "so—"
"For the month of January, we saw a 30% increase in annual donations with intent to renew," Peakes said in a dull voice, reading from his phone screen as he smacked the board into Oliver's abdomen at continuing intervals, "and we have a reasonable expectation for f-"
"Hi, yes, sorry to interrupt," Hermione said, leaning forward to pause whatever it was that was presently happening, "but I just came by to see Minerva. Is she around, or…?"
"Oh, you're here for Minnie? No, she's out for the day," Oliver said, pausing with confusion, which did not keep Peakes from smacking into his abdomen once again. "PEAKES," Oliver bellowed, and then turned to Hermione with a frown. "Though, it is Tuesday," he said thoughtfully, "so if you'd like me to try to reach her, I could probably triangulate her location based on what I've come to observe as her weekly samosa cravings."
"She's really not around? But we had a meeting scheduled," Hermione said with a frown, reaching for her phone and finding a series of messages from Winky. "Oh… for fork's sake—"
There was a yelp from somewhere outside as three men suddenly rushed into the Transfiguration Project office, barring the main office's doors. Hermione, unsure whether this was part of Oliver's usual workout or if something actually traumatic was happening, blinked with surprise as a particularly large man shoved into Oliver's office.
"Miss Hermione Granger," he said, "you're coming with me."
He was wearing full black except for a badge, bearing what Hermione recognized from having been around Harry so much was a Royal Army seal.
He was also, much to her dismay, holding a machine gun.
"Excuse me?" she asked, and might have gasped, only Oliver was remaining unexpectedly calm.
"Flint," said Oliver, frowning up at the man from his position on the floor. "What on earth is this?"
The man looked down, temporarily caught off guard. "Wood? What are you doing here?"
That was evidently the wrong answer. "Oh," Oliver scoffed, "so that's just brilliant, isn't it? Because if you'd come to visit me even once then obviously you'd know this was my bloody office, wouldn't you—"
"I told you," the man exasperatedly retorted, "I had familial obligations—"
"What, for the last half-decade?"
"No, I was—look, I'm not here for you, arsehole—"
"Oh, I'm sorry, did you not see my bloody name on the door, dickhead?"
"I'm at work, Wood, I'm hardly concerned with your feelings at the mom-"
"Um, excuse me," Hermione interrupted, clearing her throat. "That's… that's a gun," she pointed out, and the man gave Oliver a final glare before returning his attention to Hermione.
"Right," he confirmed. "Good work, Miss Granger. Now, if you'll come with me—"
"What? Like hel-" She broke off, uncertain whether this was an appropriate time for cursing or if the rule applied to potentially life-threatening situations, too. "Like heck I will!"
The man lowered his gun with a sigh, stepping over Oliver to approach her.
"It's part of your security training, Miss. Did His Royal Highness not mention this to you?"
"Uh," Hermione said. She vaguely recalled Draco mentioning something about Special Air Services, though she clearly hadn't been listening at the time. "Well, um—"
"I'm Officer Flint of the Royal Army SAS," the man told her, displaying his badge for her perusal, "and you'll have to come with me, as you're being kidnapped."
"This," Oliver scoffed, "is amateurish to the highest degree."
"SHUT UP, WOOD," Flint barked over his shoulder, turning back to Hermione. "You're going to come with me, Miss Granger, and then we're going to review in detail what to do if you're ever abducted, as well as how to respond if one of your rescuers is shot. Have you ever experienced live ammunition before?"
"I—" Her head spun. "What?"
Flint sighed. "My apologies for this," he said, and bent down, throwing her over his shoulder with both alarming and impressive ease before rising to his feet, making his way to the door. "We'll be airlifting you from the roof," he informed her as she struggled to see through the curtain of her hair, "and from there, you'll be transported to a secure loc-"
"Not going to say goodbye?" Oliver drawled after them.
"Oh, for fuck's sake—I WILL SEE YOU AT HOME," Flint shouted, returning to a reasonable volume as he continued carrying Hermione out of the office, flanked now by the two other officers. "Anyway, as I was saying—"
"How exactly do you know Wood?" Hermione asked him, head bobbing a little with each step he took.
"We've been inadvisably together since university, largely for reasons I will never understand or be able to explain," replied Flint gruffly, suddenly heaving her from his shoulder and setting her incautiously upright. "Can you walk from here, Miss," he asked, steadying her, "or are you still in shock?"
"Oliver has a… boyfriend?" she echoed, dazed.
Flint arched a brow. "You didn't think there was any possible chance a woman would date him, did you?"
She considered it. "Well, no," she confirmed, "but—"
"Up the stairs," Flint said, pointing with the butt of his rifle. "Unless you'd like to be carried?"
"Did you say I was going to shoot a gun?" she asked him.
"No," he said, "I implied that I was going to shoot a gun at you. You'll have some artillery training later."
That, Hermione thought, was probably going to be no stranger than anything else she'd been put through so far.
"Alright, then I can walk," she grumbled, turning to make her way up the stairs as the three Army officers trudged along behind her.
"You might have warned me I was going to be kidnapped," Hermione whispered to Draco as they seated themselves for the morning's church service; it was another in a string of memorial celebrations on behalf of the Commonwealth. "I will tell you right now, I did not particularly care for the experience. Nor do I really aspire to be surrounded by so much active gunfire again," she added with a shudder, "or to watch Dobby and Winky play dead—"
"Warning you might have defeated the purpose of the training, don't you think?" Draco replied, turning to look at her. He gave her a small half-smile, surveying the ensemble she wore that From The Bay to Buckingham would later praise for its homage to old Hollywood glamor, and raised his program to cover his mouth, remarking at a murmur, "For what it's worth, I look forward to taking that dress off you later."
Hermione blinked, startled.
"Draco," she said, "we're in church."
"Or you can leave it on, if you prefer," he said, flipping the pages and pretending to point to something near the Archbishop's name. "Why wait for a bed when there will be a perfectly good chaise in the parlor beside the formal dining room?"
"I—" Hermione could feel her cheeks reddening, tightening her legs together and wishing she hadn't been so intently schooled not to cross them. "Did you have something specific in mind?"
"Well, I thought first I would sit you down, slide your knees apart." He reached over, resting one hand briefly on her knee for emphasis. "Kiss my way up your thigh," he said in her ear, his voice now so quiet she had to strain to hear him, "and then… What kind of knickers?"
Jesus fuck. "Nude lace."
"Perfect. I'd lick you through them, of course. Slide your hips forward, part your thighs wider until you're struggling to breathe quietly—because of course there will be guests in the next room, which you can't abide. You'll say my name, intending to admonish me, but despite your best effort, I'll make certain it's a moan. I'll take the knickers off you then and there." He inspected the program in the light, turning to smile at her. "Then I'll put my mouth on you," he said, "and make you c-"
"Your Highness," interrupted a voice on Draco's other side as Hermione squirmed. "A word?"
"Certainly," he said, shifting in his seat to begin a conversation as Hermione thought desperately of Theo's dad's balls, or something of grotesque equivalence.
Across the church, Harry and Pansy had taken their seats. Harry gave a little wave, smiling at Hermione; beside him, Pansy offered something of a pleasant nod, adjusting her hat and leaning in as Harry said something in her ear.
Hermione frowned, observing Pansy's continually strange demeanor. It wasn't as if she'd been impolite to Hermione; if anything, that might have been an improvement. For the last month Pansy had been treating Hermione like a stranger—or worse, an acquaintance. Someone to whom she owed only the superficiality of her most simpering kindness.
"Careful," someone warned beside her, and Hermione jumped, failing to notice until that precise moment that Prince Lucius (the human one) had taken his seat. "You look distressed," he clarified, glancing at her, and then his grey gaze shifted briefly to his son.
It was the first time they had spoken in months despite seeing each other so frequently at these events. More often, Winky passed along messages to Hermione when they needed to interact. Given everything, Hermione rarely managed the time to ponder how much communication had been lacking, though it had crossed her mind once or twice that Draco, who had previously spoken to his father several times a day, no longer mentioned the existence of any such interaction.
"Thank you," Hermione said hesitantly, and considered saying more, but Lucius had already nodded, dismissive.
"You're welcome," he said coolly, picking up his program and scanning it in silence.
It did not particularly shock Hermione that people began coming out of the woodwork to find her, much like they had when it was first discovered that she was Prince Draco's girlfriend. She wasn't especially alarmed to hear from distant cousins or childhood friends—finding it harmless, if odd—but she quickly discovered there were limits to her state of placid unsurprise.
For example, the day Lady Bellatrix Lestrange came to visit was especially unpleasant, and if Hermione had not been entirely certain that Rita was using Bellatrix as a source for the still in-progress book, she might have slammed the door in the woman's face.
"What are you doing here?" she muttered, unwillingly waving Bellatrix inside. "I've only got half an hour, so—"
"I know," Bellatrix said, sweeping past her, and Hermione sighed.
"Did you bribe someone for my schedule or something?"
"Oh, Dobby's always been frightened of me," Bellatrix replied, inspecting Hermione's flat with obvious disapproval before turning to face her. "In any case, as I told him, I'm merely here to offer you my hearty congratulations. I have to be honest, I didn't actually think this day would ever come," she said with a little laugh, "but I suppose I have always foolishly hoped we might share more than our propensity for trouble."
Hermione set her jaw. "I know the truth, you know. That Lucius proposed to you," she said, as Bellatrix quickly masked a look of surprise. "I also know you rejected him and made yourself a victim."
"Hm." Bellatrix wandered into the kitchen, peering into Hermione's refrigerator. "Well, you always did seem to think you understood everything." She pulled out a bottle of wine, inspecting it. "Being engaged to a prince hasn't improved your taste much, I see," she noted, removing the cork and hunting through the cupboards for a glass. "Have a drink with me," she suggested, pulling out two stems and turning to Hermione. "It's the least you can do," she remarked with a laugh, "now that you're family, isn't it?"
Hermione sighed impatiently, folding her arms over her chest. "What are you really doing here, Bellatrix?"
"I told you," Bellatrix replied, pouring a glass, "I wanted to express my immense pleasure that you and my nephew are soon to be wed."
She smiled brilliantly, offering the glass to Hermione.
"To the House of Malfoy," she said, "and to you, who have so willingly taken my darling sister's role."
Hermione set the glass on the counter with a scowl as Bellatrix took a sip, shuddering.
"Terrible," she ruled. "As I suspected."
"So this is about Narcissa, then?" Hermione asked, interpreting her earlier comment, and Bellatrix fixed her with a look of disapproval.
"Not everything I do is about my sister," she said. "Surely by now you can see that I did not steal her husband, just as I did not force her into a prison of her own making. She chose to fall in line the way that I did not—and now, of course, you are doing the same. Brava," she said, raising a glass to Hermione once again. "To history repeating."
Bellatrix drained the glass, making a face as she deposited it in Hermione's kitchen.
"Well," Bellatrix said, dabbing at the side of her lipstick. "I can see you're quite busy. Now that we've had this little chat, I suppose I'll just be g-"
"No," Hermione interrupted, suddenly furious. "You came to my house to do what, exactly? Just to torture me?" she demanded, as Bellatrix's smile went thin. "Surely you already know I wouldn't do anything to help you even if you asked."
"I don't need your help," Bellatrix scoffed. "Don't you see, Hermione? You foolish girl. You're trading everything away," she said, her dark eyes suddenly sharp with irritation. "When I gave up a prince, what did I gain? Wealth. Status. Freedom. And all without even losing him from my bed."
"You also destroyed a marriage," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "You tore a man's life apart!"
"Yes, and…?" Bellatrix prompted, arching a brow. "No one has ever silenced me."
To that, Hermione couldn't fight a scoff. "Abraxas paid you off! It's the very definition of silencing—"
"Did he?" Bellatrix mused, inspecting her nails. "Or, alternately, do I now have an expansive manor home in the country to luxuriate in whatever I desire, which the King of England himself provided to me as a gift? Imagine the scandal if I ever said anything," she said, feigning a lascivious tone. "My goodness, to keep my mouth shut he'd have to very well make me a Marchioness, wouldn't he?"
The idea that anyone could be so free from any trace of conscience was positively dizzying.
"It's you I'm concerned for, really," Bellatrix continued, observing Hermione's silence with interest. "When it came to Lucius, who got the better end of the deal, hm? My sister is Princess of Wales and I'm a publicly despised widow, but what has it really meant, in the end? I am wealthy, permitted to say whatever I wish whenever I wish to. Narcissa is alone and unloved, bitter and resentful, thoroughly trapped by her own ambitions. Just another intelligent woman swallowed up by an institution of upper class male privilege, all who'd sooner bury her than let her live."
Bellatrix paused, removing a pair of sunglasses from her purse and inspecting the lenses. "I simply hoped," she said, blurring away a speck of dust, "that you would see what you've done."
She placed the sunglasses on her face, expressionless now except for the reflection of Hermione's look of startled dismay.
"Congratulations, Hermione," Bellatrix said. "Now that you've said yes to Draco, you'll never have to say another word."
She turned away, advancing to the front door, and Hermione, perhaps unwisely, called after her. "At least tell me one thing." The words fell from her tongue without much premeditation. "Did you ever even love Lucius?"
Bellatrix came to a stop, back still turned to Hermione.
"Did you honestly love him?" Hermione pressed her. "You were with him for years. Your letters to him, his letters to you…"
She trailed off, swallowing. Maybe what she wanted was for Bellatrix to confess that it had never been love; to prove, somehow, that the two of them were different. That Bellatrix was wrong about her, because she and Lucius had never been what Hermione and Draco were.
"I don't believe you truly hate Narcissa," Hermione said with a shake of her head, "or even that you wanted to cause her pain—but you came back to Lucius."
She hesitated, unsure if she should continue, but she'd already started; why stop?
"You already had money," Hermione pointed out. "You had a husband who let you do whatever you wanted, and you had your sister's heart to break. For as calculated as you are, there was no benefit to your affair."
Nothing except to have him again, which seemed entirely too human.
It was silent for several seconds. Bellatrix's attention turned upward for a moment; she angled her chin over her shoulder, giving Hermione a look she couldn't read.
Then, to Hermione's immense surprise, Bellatrix let out a little laugh, chuckling to herself as if the whole thing had been some kind of delightful joke.
"Why on earth should I tell you?" she said, her laughter gradually fading to nothing. "I think I'll let it haunt you instead."
And then she walked to the door, passing through it without another word.
The phone rang nearly five times before Hermione finally heard an answer, though she supposed she was lucky she got one at all.
"Hello?"
"Pans, don't hang up."
She could hear Pansy's eye roll through the phone. "I'm not a child, Hermione, I don't need to be informed how the telephone operates."
"I just," Hermione began, and hesitated. "I know things have been… off, lately."
She glanced down at the article in the Daily Prophet, which had covered Hermione's most recent appearance. It's a pleasure to see that after much controversial behavior in the past, Hermione Granger has come into her own as a member of the Royal Family. While there has been much speculation that Hermione—whose progressive opinions have come to light several times over the years—would be reticent to conform to the rigid practices of royal protocol, she has instead embraced her role as Prince Draco's consort, finally anchoring a family that has been besieged by scandal for decades.
"I don't know what you mean," Pansy said. Lyingly.
"Pans, come on. You're not even going to be sarcastic with me or something?"
"Sarcasm is a low form of art, Hermione, you know this."
Hermione grimaced. If Pansy wasn't going to say it, she'd obviously have to.
"Fine," she said, and guessed, "You're upset with me."
"Nonsense." Lies.
"Is it because I haven't defended Narcissa?" Another guess.
"Don't be ridiculous, Hermione. I know perfectly well you have no reasonable means to do so."
Pansy's neutral tone on the subject reminded her, briefly, of how Draco used to insist there was nothing he could do to prevent the press from invading her privacy.
Hermione sighed, raising a hand to her temple.
"Pansy," she said, "please."
It was quiet for a moment on the other end.
"You have always been the wrong person for the job," Pansy said, and though Hermione opened her mouth to protest that my god, she'd certainly heard that enough to last them a lifetime, Pansy continued, "I suppose I didn't realize until that was no longer true that it was my favorite thing about you."
Hermione blinked with surprise, her grip tightening around the phone.
"I understand I'm being rather unreasonable," Pansy said. "But I suppose I'm simply adjusting poorly to seeing you be so…"
She trailed off.
"Silent," she said, and Hermione shut her eyes.
For several seconds, they both said nothing.
"I have done such a poor job of telling you how much I value you," Pansy said. "Not only as a friend, but for the example you set for my daughter. For the woman that you are, and for the way you so furiously refused to be everything I insisted you should be. I am aware, of course, of my hypocrisy," she conceded drily. "Though, I suppose I thought you would find my lack of criticism on the subject to be a relief."
"No, actually," Hermione told her. "I hate it."
To her surprise, she heard Pansy laugh.
"I suppose you may already know this about me," Pansy said, "but I sometimes struggle to express my feelings."
"You don't say," Hermione remarked.
"What did I say about sarcasm, Hermione? In any case, I'm sorry," Pansy sighed. "I suppose I've set unrealistic expectations for you, because of course I've always known you could never simply remain as you were. I've been the one telling you for years that Abraxas would never accept you unless you changed, haven't I?" she asked, and it was strange, Pansy being so sympathetic. Bad strange, because it still wasn't the Pansy she knew, and certainly not the one Hermione wanted. "Anyway," Pansy said, still excessively polite, "I imagine I'm the one who owes you an apolog-"
"I like it," Hermione said, and Pansy stopped.
"What?"
"I like it," Hermione repeated, grudgingly confessing. If she wanted Pansy to be honest, she would have to be the one to start. "I like being liked. Finally having approval," she clarified. "I like how it feels. It's been… comfortable," she admitted, "and I thought—" She broke off. "I guess I started to like how it felt to be what Draco's family wanted me to be, because nobody ever believed I could do it."
"Ah," Pansy said, and paused. "Well, I suspected as much."
Tentatively, Hermione smiled. "Admit it," she said. "You're pissed."
"At this hour? Hardly."
"No, you're—" Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're angry, Pans. You saw me getting comfortable being their prize show pony and you were disappointed I let it happen. Right?"
"Well," Pansy said. "Prize is a bit of an overstatement."
"Oh, come on, Pans," Hermione sighed, bolder now. "You spent your whole life being told how to behave, who to be and how to look, and then I came along and I was absolutely none of it, wasn't I? And that frustrated you at first," she estimated, "but then you watched a prince fall for me anyway and you thought, 'Well, shut the front door, if she can do it'—"
"Oh, bloody Christ, fine," Pansy snapped, as Hermione smiled triumphantly on the other end. "You're not just nothing like me, Hermione, you're entirely unsuitable in general! You always have been," she ranted, "and I thought I would resent it, seeing you find happiness in spite of every qualification you lacked—until I realized you found happiness because of it. And now, it's as if you've forgotten completely why Draco fell in love with you to begin with! Yes, the press approves of you now because you've allowed them to make you over from seductress to damsel," Pansy scoffed, "but what does that prove in the end? I thought having you for a public figure would give my daughter the freedom to be nothing like me," she said, sounding frustrated. "That she could grow up in a world that did something differently, but instead, you're just—"
"I'm sorry, Pans," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry I let you down, but if I'm going to be me, then I need you."
"What? Don't be ridic-"
"No, I do," Hermione told her. "I need you because unlike everyone who works for Prince Lucifer, you never lie to me. And frankly? You are precisely the model your daughter needs," she added, "because Jamie is lucky to have a mother who knows exactly what kind of bravery it takes to stand for something when it would be so, so much easier to fall in line."
She could hear Pansy grumble something like concession on the other end of the call, then clear her throat.
"Pans?" Hermione stifled a laugh. "You still there?"
"I have to go," Pansy said, her voice a touch gravelly. "I cannot simply be at your beck and call, Hermione, and I am presently otherwise engaged."
Finally. She was back. "Something in your eye, Pans?"
"Yes. My allergies are horrific. Pollen this season is a nightmare."
"Right, of course," Hermione said, deciding their conversation had probably been more than Pansy could handle in one sitting. "See you soon?"
"Well, you have some sort of dress to wear, do you not?" Pansy sniffed. "I can't leave the details to you and Daphne or… my god," she said with an audible shudder, "the entire thing will be positively Shakespearean."
"Comedy or tragedy?"
"Both, Hermione, always both—"
"Well, I have a fitting tomorrow morning," Hermione said. "I'd love you to come."
"That's rather short notice."
"I'm aware."
"I will make an effort to clear my schedule."
"I thought you might."
Hermione paused, smiling.
"Thanks, Pans," she said, and Pansy gave a heavy sigh.
"Yes, well, I love you, though I shall deny it profusely should anyone ask," she replied, and promptly hung up the phone.
The day that Rita Skeeter's book was supposed to come out in March, Blaise arranged some sort of elaborate celebration, deciding to make the occasion worth marking. It was a 'come as your favorite Hermione' party, which was obviously a troubling prospect, but prior to the event Hermione opted to pay a rather overdue visit rather than fuss over a theme she doubted anyone would actually participate in.
"What are you doing here?" Narcissa asked, looking up with a brush of irritation as Hermione knocked on the door and slipped inside the sitting room. "I wasn't informed you'd be visiting."
"I know, I'm sorry. It's… a bit impulsive." She wandered into the room, hesitating beside the sofa where Narcissa had been reading. "May I sit with you for a bit?"
Narcissa considered her, frowning, and then set her book aside. She neither welcomed Hermione's presence nor opposed it, it seemed, though the sofa was plenty large enough without her making room.
"Well," Hermione said, clearing her throat and taking a seat at the opposite end from Narcissa. "Rita Skeeter's book is coming out today."
"Ah," Narcissa scoffed, "yes, that. I saw the title. Draco and Hermione: A Royal Love Story," she recited, and sniffed her disdain. "The women should win a Man Booker Prize for creativity alone."
Hermione was about to say that prize was specifically for fiction when she realized the book, too, was probably close enough to fictional it might have been a joke on multiple levels. "Well, I wanted to come see you before it was released."
"Why?" Narcissa turned her cold blue eyes on Hermione. "You think I've never encountered lies about myself before?"
"No," Hermione said, "but I just…" She trailed off, sighing. "Look," she ventured uncomfortably, "I understand that you don't like me. I'm probably not what you wanted for Draco, and I understand that, too. But that doesn't mean I don't care about you." She looked up at Narcissa's guarded expression, finding it impossible to read. "You and I may not get along, Narcissa, but you're Draco's mother. He loves you, deeply. And I know the press wants to believe I'm replacing you, but the truth is no one could ever replace you, and certainly not for him."
She took a deep breath, hesitating.
"I'm sorry I haven't done enough to protect your legacy," she said. "You're an icon, a role model, and if I've somehow failed to—"
"Stop." Narcissa rose to her feet, suddenly agitated.
"Narcissa," Hermione said, frowning, "I'm not trying to upset you. I honestly just—"
Narcissa turned sharply, cutting Hermione off with a long, unsettling stare.
"You gave me my son back," Narcissa said. "Did you somehow fail to notice?"
"I—" Yes, it seemed she had. "What?"
"When you entered Draco's life he and I had not been permitted to speak to each other for several years." Narcissa's tone was flat, matter-of-fact. "Lucius kept him from me, as did Abraxas, believing I was dangerous. And Draco was a boy who knew no better than to simply do as he was told."
Hermione, who wasn't quite sure how to respond, opted not to.
"However you and I may feel about each other, Miss Granger, I am heavily in your debt," Narcissa said, her tone unchanged. "My husband and father-in-law fed poison to my son and you, however you did it, brought him back to me."
Her gaze slid to Hermione's.
"No other woman would have done it," she said. "Any woman who wanted Draco for his money or his crown would have taken it without a care for his relationship with me. I have been surrounded by snakes my entire life and you are not one, and have never been one."
She leaned down, picking up the copy of the book she was reading, and handed it to Hermione.
"Here," she said, placing it on Hermione's lap. "Draco's favorite."
Hermione glanced down at the copy of The Odyssey, running her fingers along the embossed lettering of the cover.
"Narcissa," she said, swallowing, "I can't take th-"
"I have plenty of others."
Narcissa strode to the door, not waiting for Hermione's response.
"Narcissa," Hermione called after her, hurrying to her feet. "Are you okay?"
She turned with impatience. "What?"
"Are you—" God, was there a better way to say it? No, probably not. "Are you okay?" Hermione repeated. "I mean really, are you? Because if there's something you need, anything at all, I just want to make sure that—"
"I'm not sick," Narcissa snapped, her expression contorting.
Hermione hurried to unstick her foot from her mouth. "No," she said with horror. "No, I'm… I'm so sorry, I didn't mean that, I was just—"
"Someone will see you out," Narcissa replied coldly, the sound of her heels echoing like the pulse in Hermione's ears as she disappeared into the long corridor.
Much to Hermione's dismay, the others had opted to come in costume. Daphne, traitor that she was, came dressed as Hermione during finals (complete with leggings, wild hair, cup of coffee, and signature claw-clip) while Theo showed up with Hermione's Cleopatra costume pulled none-too-discreetly over his boxers, with Prince Lucius (the dog) dressed decoratively as an asp. Harry wore Hermione's old Stanford crewneck while Pansy arrived in a perfect replica of her Anne Shirley dress. Fleur, who was now dating Bill and frequently making trips to London, had opted to wear a version of the green Dior, practically blinding everyone in the process. (She, unsurprisingly, made it look much more glamorous than Hermione ever had; Hermione made a point to ask her to never wear it in public, lest there be a horrifying WHO WORE IT BETTER? spread that would yield depressingly unanimous results.) Even Ginny was there, joined by her brother Ron, the two of them wearing versions of winter outfits Hermione had worn in public: i.e., several piled-on coats.
Blaise wore Hermione's engagement dress—which was still sold out, thus proving he had incredible foresight and had probably received a tip from Daphne prior to the announcement—while Tracey wore… jeans. Hermione frowned, trying to remember if she actually owned those jeans before realizing Tracey had simply foregone a costume.
Draco, who had arrived before her, was wearing the same too-tight Hogwarts t-shirt he'd put on the day he'd tended to her projectile stomach flu. "Oh, disappointing," he judged, kissing the top of her head. "What is this, current Hermione? What a dull choice," he lamented, earning himself a shove.
"Did you all go into my closet?" Hermione demanded of the group, which was met with a variety of responses that ranged from guilty to positively gleeful. "Never mind, don't tell me," she sighed, reaching out to steal Theo's glass of champagne. "I do not want to know."
"Well, now that everyone's here," Blaise said, distributing copies of Rita Skeeter's book to the group, "I suppose we can begin. Shall we do a read-along, or—?"
"Oh, please," Daphne scoffed, flipping open the book and immediately making a face. "We all know this is total rubbish," she said, diving into what looked to be a paragraph about Hermione's recent fashion choices.
"I, for one, have no plans to ever read it," Pansy said, frowning at Hermione's glassy smile on the cover, "and as far as I know, Henry's never read an entire book in his life."
"Sweet of you," Harry said, "and also, correct."
"It's not my genre of choice," remarked Draco, feigning solemnity as he skimmed the table of contents. "I loathe a happy ending, and I can only assume I'm dreadfully out of character."
"Oh, don't spoil it," Fleur admonished him, perching on Bill's lap.
"Yes," Theo agreed, "no spoilers. How else will I be expected to absorb the allegorical complexities? For example, take the titular soft summer prince," he mused. "Uninspiring male lead, victim of parental microaggressions, or simply a cotton ball wearing googly eyes?"
"I can't believe how many people showed up to celebrate something this unbearably stupid when we can never manage to schedule a reasonable Sunday brunch," Hermione said, giving Theo a shove and turning to Blaise. "Did you really invite all of our friends just so we could celebrate a book that none of us even have plans to read?"
"Hm?" said Blaise, looking up from where he'd apparently begun poring over chapter one. "Oh, yes, ten points for failing to notice, New Tracey."
"This really is everybody you all know, isn't it?" Tracey remarked, leaning on Blaise's shoulder as she took a sip of her champagne. "Well, except for one, I suppose," she determined, and then ventured thoughtfully, "Whatever happened to that Neville Longbottom you lot used to spend so much time with?"
Across the room, Harry erupted in a series of hacking coughs.
"I believe he's engaged to Lady Susan Bones," Blaise replied, not looking up from the book. "I imagine the wedding will fill the society pages just as soon as Draco and New Tracey here have finally finished shouting about their love from the proverbial rooftops."
"Ha," said Ron, which was such a surprising interjection that nearly everyone looked up. "Oh, you haven't heard?" he asked, exchanging a glance with Ginny. "Susan and Neville broke up."
This was news to Hermione; not that she'd looked much into it. "They did? I thought they got engaged."
"Nope. Susan leveled up," said Ginny, with a tiny, telling half-smile. "Or so I've heard."
"I'm sorry," Theo said, choking on his wine. "What?"
"Neville and his grandmother had a whole row about it," Ron informed the room, observing the way the others (minus Fleur and Bill, who were a bit enraptured with each other) were staring at him with surprise. "You really didn't know? No one's heard from him in weeks," he explained, frowning. "Last I heard he was disinherited, though, I suppose knowing his grandmother, the whole thing's been fairly hush-hush."
It was Pansy who registered this news first. "Augusta cut him off?"
Beside Hermione, she noticed the color had drained from Blaise's face.
"Well, I assume so," Ron said uncomfortably, "seeing as I believe he told her he was gay."
There was a brief, startling pause as the book fell from Blaise's hands.
"Ouch," said Tracey, dodging away as the corner of the book landed on the exposed portion of her foot. "Blaise, be careful!"
On either side of him, Hermione and Tracey unintentionally locked eyes over Blaise's frozen expression.
"Sorry," Blaise said, shaking himself and retrieving the book from the floor. "Did you see this?" he asked, holding it up to Hermione and rapidly returning to normal. "She actually says your courtship was 'a love that grew from chaste and humble roots'—"
"And to think," Theo drawled. "In reality, there ought to be some sort of commemorative plaque over the toilets at the Hog's Head."
Immediately, the spell of awkward silence was broken.
"To chastity," Harry said, raising his glass, "which may or may not be a river in Egypt."
"I, for one, cannot wait for the film adaptation," Daphne added, "in which Hermione will surely be played by a glasses-wearing virgin with straight hair."
"One hundred points to Rita Skeeter for her revolutionary undertaking of the world's most riveting love story," Blaise said, slipping an arm around Tracey's waist and reassuring her with a wink, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "May she besmirch our names for generations to come."
"Hear, hear," agreed Draco and Hermione, tacitly confirming they would both be staying up late, contentedly reading Rita Skeeter's rose-colored lies to each other well into the early hints of dawn.
Hard to believe this book came out a mere two months ago, and now, the result of a sequence of events eight years in the making, everything's come down to… this.
As the kids say: Yikes.
Looking back, I'm pretty sure at least some of what happened next was my doing—or, alternately put, my fault. Though, in my defense, it was mostly an accident. After all, my face has always expressed the things even I don't have the nerve to say.
a/n: Just as a timely aside—if you've read my books, particularly Lovely Tangled Vices and One For My Enemy, you know I love a good villainess… there's something so delightful about writing a woman whose motives are shamelessly opaque. In any case, thanks again for being here. And amid all this royal news, too!