The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal

by olivieblake

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

41. Calm

Chapter 41: Calm

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

As the Wedding Day Approaches

As this book releases in advance of Prince Draco's forthcoming nuptials, London already finds itselfs abuzz with what will be the biggest royal event since the wedding of Prince Lucius to Princess Narcissa. Given the scope of celebration—which, indeed, far exceeds our fair nation's watch—many across the globe will soon be formally introduced to Hermione Granger in her official capacity as a working royal. Despite what may seem to be Hermione's predominance in the public eye, many of the Palace staff will attest that thus far in their courtship, Prince Draco has tried in earnest to shield his bride-to-be from excess media spotlight. Says one anonymous source, "What I have been most struck by over the past eight years is how devoutly he has been willing to protect her."

It's quite obvious that Prince Draco's intentions stem not only from his devotion to his bride, but also from his experience following the intense scrutiny of his parents, particularly with regard to his enigmatic mother, Princess Narcissa. While it is perfectly understandable that Draco might undergo considerable efforts to insulate his beloved to some extent, one does wonder how things will change once Hermione takes on the difficulties of royal life on her own.

Oh, does 'one' wonder, Rita? Well, then I suppose let's just kick this baby bird out of the nest, shall we?

---

April 27, 2018
Clarence House

"To our forebears? On behalf of…" Draco trailed off with a grimace, squinting at the screen of his laptop and moving two words around, then switching them back. "Or do you think 'forebears' is the problem?"

"What I think is that you're overthinking it," Hermione said with a yawn, resting a hand idly on his shoulder before dropping a kiss to the top of his pale, ruffled head. "Though, if the question is does 'forebears' make you sound stuffy, I suspect the answer is yes."

"All I can think about now are bears," Draco said, frowning into space. "Is this what happens to everyone when I speak?"

"You're clearly delirious," Hermione told him, giving his arm a nudge. "Even Rita had something nice to say about your last speaking engagement."

"Yes, well, that's because she's decided mental health is my pet issue, hasn't she?" Draco sighed in something of a mocking imitation, permitting Hermione to lead him to his bed before collapsing, limbs outspread, on top of it. "Which, by the way, she keeps insisting must be due to some scandalous secrets I must be keeping about my mother," he muttered. "Very Freudian of her, really—"

"Well, she's allowed to be right about some things," Hermione said, and then, because she'd obviously said something crazy, she hurried to add, "You know, one or two, here and there."

Draco gave something of an indecipherable groan, rolling onto his stomach and burying himself face-first in the duvet.

"There, there," Hermione said, nudging one of his splayed arms aside and climbing in beside him, patting his head. "She's hardly had much to say about Narcissa recently, has she? She's already so busy as it is, what with speculating about my gown or my uterus or you and your father and your princely feud."

"Which, by the way, is utterly ridiculous," Draco informed the mattress before looking blearily up at Hermione. "It's a rule, you know, that heirs can't travel together. A simple matter of safety, securing the throne, not succumbing to violent overthrow by our friends and rivals in the event of catastrophic loss, et cetera."

"Ah, right," Hermione drily agreed. "That's the only reason you've been traveling separately, I'm sure."

"As far as she knows? Yes," Draco replied curtly. "My father and I are—"

"Perfectly fine? Draco, I'm not the Prophet," Hermione reminded him, and he gave her something of a half-sulking, mostly-tired glance. "I think you and I both know his non-answer about attending the wedding is a bit of a problem."

"He'll be there," Draco sighed, returning his face to the sheets and saying, "He'd never disappoint Grandfather," or something probably similar.

Hermione knew better than to press the issue. Admittedly, she had the same suspicions Draco did; that Lucius was being difficult in advance of the wedding to demonstrate his reluctance to accept its existence, but that he would ultimately never disparage the family by committing some public display of opposition. That his ongoing temper tantrum might have been damaging only to his son seemed the least of Lucius' concerns at the moment.

Outwardly, the entire family appeared to be doing fine. Narcissa had been spotted multiple times in London, even taking residency in Clarence House once or twice when Lucius was elsewhere; Abraxas was in good spirits; Hermione was now appearing regularly at Draco's side, reliably (thanks to Daphne) at her sartorial best. When they were present in tandem with Lucius, the worst Rita could possibly say was that interactions between father and son 'lacked warmth,' but any look back into the archives would reveal Lucius' stiffness even on his best days. For the most part, it was a strange sort of silence that had Hermione simultaneously relieved and deeply afraid that the calm would lead, in some way she couldn't yet envision, to a storm.

Wedding planning, too, had mostly settled down as the day approached, leaving Hermione with little more than meticulous details. All she had left were one or two final fittings with Daphne, plus small fires here and there, like which diplomatic guests, late to reply to their invitations, couldn't be seated near each other. In general, all that remained for Hermione to be concerned with were the minutiae. Drinking wine in public so as to make sure people knew she wasn't pregnant, for example. Choosing an all black outfit to carry with her on every international trip, which was apparently required in the event of King Abraxas' death. (A gloomy talisman, to say the least, though Daphne cheerfully assured her that should Draco need to suddenly don the title Prince of Wales, Hermione would look poignantly well-tailored in her devastation.)

Lately, Hermione's daydreamy moments of worry and contemplation had been mostly steeped in domesticity. Where would they live? How soon would they have children? It felt both very small and heighteningly massive. She now found it oddly stressful to do something as small as observe Draco playing with Jamie.

"Ah, Mignonette!" Draco would say when he saw her, opening his arms to the child who was frighteningly Pansy and Harry's miniature and tossing her in the air, both parties equally flushed with delight.

It left Hermione, who had never particularly craved motherhood, with the foreign realization that perhaps she wanted to see the scene play out again—only this time, with a little blond girl, or maybe a frizzy-haired, grey-eyed boy. Was that bizarre? Was it normal? A life that had once felt so cramped and stifling and small had begun to call to her, leaving her to wonder if maybe her grand ambitions had shrunk.

Had Pansy been right about her? Was being comfortable—wealthy, titled, and fully in love with her future husband—enough to make her drowsy? Make her weak?

Draco lifted his head, inspecting her.

"You've gone somewhere," he observed. "Looks troubling. Prince Lucifer again?"

"No, not Lucifer," Hermione assured him, sliding down on the pillows as Draco crawled up to reach her, one hand finding its way to the exposed bone of her hip. "Why, were you thinking about your father?"

Draco gave a lying shrug, bending to kiss the bone of her clavicle. "Just lamenting my night away from you," he said, and Hermione laughed.

"What, the night before the wedding?"

"Yes," Draco groaned, peeling back the collar of her shirt and dropping lower. "I've gotten entirely too used to having you with me."

"I doubt one night apart will cause much damage," said Hermione. (In retrospect, she had never known what she was talking about, and certainly couldn't have known then.) "Besides, imagine what Rita would say if she knew we were together the night before our nuptials—scandalous," she tutted.

"True," Draco said, beginning to undo the buttons of her top. "I can't wait to lose my virginity."

Hermione laughed, sliding her hands under his shirt to run her fingers down his back. "Should you be doing this, then?"

"Probably not," he replied, pausing to look up at her. "Should I stop?"

"What, for the sake of the realm?"

"For the sake of the realm," he replied solemnly, "and the blessings of Christendom."

"Probably a good time to roleplay, then," Hermione suggested. "That's a loophole, right?"

"If it wasn't before, it is now," Draco agreed, looking solidly convinced. "Maybe I could be some sort of ruthless politician with a devil-may-care outlook and a rugged sense of justice? In which case," he determined, "you would be my up-and-coming speechwriter, who sees through my mask of false confidence to rid me of my disillusionment and return me to the man I used to be."

"This seems highly specific," Hermione observed, "and also very much as if you're still trying to convince me to help with your speech."

"Does it? Strange," Draco said. "And here I thought it a very straightforward and perhaps even tired bit of trope. Perhaps, instead," he murmured to the length of her torso, "we can be on opposite sides of a magical war?"

She wriggled lower, catching his ribs between her thighs. "Am I, by chance, a guerilla heroine who's been recently captured and forced to write the speeches for the Dark Lord?"

"Why," Draco lamented with a huff, "are you simply presuming I would occupy the dark side in this sex-based hypothetical?"

"You're literally the product of centuries of imperialism," Hermione pointed out. "Not to mention the inheritor to an actual empire."

"Oh." Draco shrugged. "Well, then yes."

He returned his attention to his descent into her nethers, prompting her to sit up with a sigh.

"Draco," she said. "What's the deal?"

"I should probably change my name to something more appropriate," he pondered aloud. "Within the hypothetical, I mean. Perhaps some sort of anagram? If, that is, you use it alongside the House of Malfoy—"

"Lord Coma Fay," Hermione said, "perhaps you might consider expressing something more relevant to the topic?"

"Coma Fay, really? I was leaning 'Mayor of Clad,' though I appreciate your effort at titling—"

He permitted himself to be rolled onto his back as she shoved him with a sigh, swapping places.

"Hey," she said, hair falling into his face. "What's the deal with this speech?"

"Hm?" he said, brushing it back. "Speech, you say?"

"Draco."

"It's actually 'Your Mayorship' now."

"Are you going to tell me," she sighed, "or am I going to have to force it out of you?"

"Oh, subversion," Draco said, apparently delighted. "Though, fair warning, I bruise like a peach—"

She sighed, dropping to give his recalcitrant mouth a long, exhausted kiss, or so she suspected. He slid a hand around her cheek, fingertips darting along her jaw,, and broke away with another kiss, then another.

"Fine," he said. "Only because you asked so nicely."

She arched a brow, waiting.

"It's not about the speech," he admitted.

"MY WORD," she gasped. "IT ISN'T?"

"Well, I do want your help," he sighed, "but no, it's… more a matter of my father."

Hermione sat up. "This," she said, "is completely unexpected news to me. Go on."

"You can't blame me for finding it stupid," Draco said, ignoring her unsubtle mockery. "You'd think by now I'd be used to my father making threats, or arbitrarily disappearing from my life until I listen—"

"Actually, I think the disappearance is new, isn't it?" Hermione asked him, giving him a nudge with her foot. "The Prince of Darkness was always on your case, as far as I know. I have to imagine silence is confusing."

"Well… it is confusing," Draco said, looking particularly wounded. "I thought I'd prefer it to the alternative, but it's been months now. And if he's really not going to give an answer about the wedding—"

"You think he won't go?"

"Of course he'll go, but that's not the issue, is it?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"It's not," Draco gloomily confirmed, and at his expression of mild trauma, Hermione fought a laugh, beckoning him closer. He sighed, dragging himself up the duvet to collapse against the headboard beside her, tucking her under one arm. "I suppose I thought he might manage to come around," he said, kissing the top of her head. "But it seems the more praise I get from the press for my work, the more he resents me."

"Well, you're more like your grandfather than he is. To the public, anyway."

"Am I?"

"I'd say so. And more popular, too."

"That's his own fault," Draco said with a frown. "And when it comes to my mother—"

Hermione rifled quickly through her own observations of Narcissa, who, in perfect contrast to Lucius, had seemed in fairly good spirits recently. By all accounts within the private channels of the Palace, Narcissa had been transformed by the promise of Draco and Hermione's marriage, agreeing to behave herself in public and submitting with what Hermione would even call docility to ensure she was part of her son's wedding.

"Well, nothing," Draco said, retreating to non-answer, and Hermione shook her head.

"Go on," she told him, and he sighed.

"The truth is that I'm feeling a bit guilty," he admitted. "I believed my father and my grandfather for so long when they told me she was ill, and now I wonder if she hasn't been right all these years about being… well, captive." His expression turned solemn. "I suppose I'm starting to wonder how much my father influenced me, while at the same time wishing he was still around. It sounds," he began, and grimaced. "Well, it sounds mad, I assume."

"You were in a difficult position," Hermione assured him. "You had no reason to believe they were lying to you, and certainly not at that age. Besides, it's not a crime to miss your father."

"Isn't it, though? Seems a bit odd to suddenly long for my contract with the devil," Draco reminded her, "don't you think?"

"Things are changing," Hermione said with a shrug. "It's a lot of change at once, and your father certainly isn't helping. Even if it's good change," she clarified, glancing up at him, "you can't expect to feel nothing."

To her surprise, he gave her a wistful smile in response, lips quirking up in something that might have even been laughter.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said. "It's just… well, it's just so worth it, isn't it? Having you. Starting a family with you." He tightened his arms around her. "Seems silly to think I'm letting my father continue to plague me when I'm getting precisely what I wanted."

A warm thought. Quite warm.

This close to him, it even seemed a bit…

Hot, really.

"Well, I suppose I'm what you wanted," Hermione said. "Unless you were expecting a virginal bride, that is."

"Oh?" he asked, letting her pull away to straddle his hips while he beautifully feigned ignorance. "Miss Granger, you can't possibly mean what I think you mean."

"Oh, but I do," she told him, sliding his shirt up his torso and pausing with her hands on his chest, watching her nails dig into his skin. "Shall I teach you?"

"Are you the seductress speechwriter?"

"Sure," she said. "And you're the innocent prince who's never so much as dared to glance at his royal penis."

"Scandalous," Draco said, feigning shock.

"I know," Hermione agreed. "You did say you wanted subversion."

"Still. Totally unexpected."

She shifted his trousers down, sliding her tongue over him with a murmur of, "Quite."

"I do believe something strange is happening to me, Miss Granger," he said, with a flattering touch of awe. "I had no idea I could become so—"

"Don't say engorged," she warned, popping her head up.

"I wasn't going to say engorged," he said, frowning. "Were you thinking engorged?"

"I mean, it's in the same word family as 'forebears,' so—"

"Hm. A valid point."

"Why, what were you going to say?"

"Well, it's my first time," he reminded her defensively. "I've no idea what to say."

"You know, the whole 'defiling a virgin' fantasy might be totally baseless," Hermione noted. "Maybe we should both be experts at our craft instead."

"Or," Draco suggested, "you could tell me precisely how you want it and I, your hapless love slave, will simply follow instructions."

A compelling option. She glanced down from where she remained above him, considering it. "Is that what it's like to be prince?" she asked him.

"For the most part," he said with a shrug. "That and some public speaking. And some hats, when required."

He sat upright, pulling her into his lap, and then determined, lips against her ear, "You know, come to think of it, it's about time you get used to your new title, Your Highness."

Hermione shivered, letting his hands slide under her shorts.

"I'm doing you no favors by putting it off," he mused, his thumb stroking lightly over her clit. "I should be asking your permission, helping you adjust. May I touch you, Your Highness?" he asked, withdrawing his hand when she gasped, keening a little beneath his touch. "I'd hate to be too forward."

She gripped a handful of his blond hair from the back of his head, rolling her eyes. "Really?"

"Really. Ma'am." He bit lightly on her ear. "May I?"

"You—" She sucked in a breath, the tip of his tongue finding its way to her neck. "You may."

"Excellent." He shifted her, lifting her around the ribs with one arm to tease the slit of her cunt with his fingers, stroking her with the head of his cock. "Perhaps Your Highness would like to inform me how she wishes to have her evening gratification?"

"Is that an official royal term?"

His lips were pressed between her breasts when he laughed. "More of a convenient euphemism. Does Her Highness disapprove?"

His fingers pulsed around her, dipped inside her, darted out.

"You may continue," she managed, head falling back as she swallowed. "Though, is this productive? You do have a speech to write."

He eased her legs apart, guiding her until she felt him slide inside her with painfully deliberate slowness.

"I consider pleasing my future Queen to be compulsory, as with my other royal duties," he said, inhaling sharply as she let out a quiet moan, probably pulling a little too tightly on his hair. "Does Her Highness disagree?"

"Disagree? No," she said, easing slowly into a rhythmic pace. "Though, I should think whoever you are in this scenario could do with taking on a little more of the work."

"Oh?"

He flipped her on her back, graciously accepting her constructive criticism.

"Impressive," she said, running her fingers over the lines of his abdomen. "I think I'm taking to royalty quite nicely."

"You do have a natural aptitude," Draco agreed, slowing down as she sank her heels into his backside. "Very commanding," he added, a little groan slipping out as she angled his head to the side, leaving tiny scrapes of her teeth along the side of his neck.

"Are you a prince still, or a love slave?" she asked. "I'm unsure how to address you."

"It's a fairly careless improvisation," he acknowledged regretfully, her fingers tracing the thin film of sweat that began to cover his shoulders. "Under the circumstances, I think I'm both."

"Well, then—" She propped herself up on her elbows, wrenching his head to one side. "Your Highness," she murmured, "you'd better fuck me harder or, narratively speaking, there'll be hell to pay."

He sat upright, yanking her hips up and towards him, fingers digging into her skin.

"It is my sincerest pleasure to obey as Her Royal Highness wishes," he said, at precisely the moment she let out a gasp.

---

"You two," Daphne said through a mouth full of pins, "are such honest to god nerds."

It was time for Hermione's penultimate fitting, which meant the pins were mostly being used for tiny, finicky adjustments. She impatiently bent her knees, trying not to go lightheaded from how long she'd been standing there while Daphne fussed with the placement of the lace overlay on her bodice.

"What, you and Theo don't roleplay?"

"We do, from time to time," Daphne acknowledged, "but we don't usually progress straight from sex to congratulating each other on how many adverbs we managed to cut from our speeches."

"Don't be ridiculous, Daphne," Pansy said from her chair, rolling her eyes. "That's not what they do."

"See?" Hermione said, waving a hand to Pansy. "Thank you, Pans—"

"Hermione's never managed to cut an adverb in her life," Pansy concluded, taking a sip from her bottle of Perrier. "If anything, they congratulate each other on how many adverbs they can fit into a single sentence."

"Thanks," Hermione repeated drily, as Pansy made a tiny hand motion of yes, yes, you're welcome. "Is that all, or do you have any additional comments about my sex life?"

"Hm? None at the moment," Pansy said, "though I suppose it's worth noting that Henry and I do not engage in play-acting of any sort."

"What, never?" Daphne asked, amused. "I assumed your costume affinity extended to the bedroom."

"Oh, certainly," Pansy agreed. "Fortunately, we are better in bed than anyone we could possibly emulate, so the pretense is, if anything, discouraging."

"Would you call that sexual hubris?" Hermione asked, twisting around to commiserate with Daphne.

"Don't move, Hermione, or I'll stab you on purpose—but yes," Daphne agreed, "it's certainly hubris."

"Well, the stabbing is highly appropriate, then," Pansy said.

"Not for me," Hermione growled, as Daphne jabbed her somewhere beside her spine. "Ouch—"

"Roman senators is definitely a concept," Daphne said thoughtfully. "A little Blaise-ian, though, don't you think?"

"Oh, I guarantee Blaise has done that one," Pansy said, making a face. "Though I'm loath to consider whether he or Tracey was playing Caesar."

"On the contrary," interrupted Hortense. "It's my understanding that historically, the pretty one prefers the forum to the empire, or else extends his historical kinksmanship to the Medici. By my calculations, he nearly always prefers to play the Pope."

"Jesus balls," Hermione gasped, accepting the pinprick of warning from Daphne in favor of not toppling over at the unexpected appearance of Draco's cousin, who was advancing up the stairs and seating herself on the arm of Pansy's chair. Alarmingly, Pansy herself remained unperturbed, instead offering her glass of Perrier to Hortense, who withdrew from her purse a small cocktail umbrella.

"No, no, you're confusing that one with the other one," said Thibaut, who was apparently also present. "Betwixt the two of them, it can be very disorienting."

"What, do you mean the loony one?"

"Well, I certainly don't mean Handsome Tom," Thibaut supplied. "Everyone knows he prefers to play a maniacal dictator in bed. Papal loveplay involves considerably different costuming, though the Venn diagram of similarities may well be a circle."

"Oh, too true," Hortense sighed fondly. "Either way, he has such an appetizing propensity for madness."

"Are you noticing this?" Hermione asked Daphne, who shrugged, making a small adjustment in the placement of her pins.

"It happens," she said, as Hortense, alarmingly, returned her attention to Hermione.

"Are you in need of some bedroom theatrics?" Hortense asked, grey eyes expressing something akin to unsurprise. "Understandable. Might I suggest something from my abduction kit?"

"Should I… ask?" Hermione said warily, but Hortense was already wrenching open her purse, removing items one by one.

"The abduction kit," Thibaut supplied, perching on the opposite arm of Pansy's chair. "Do you not carry one around?"

"One never knows when one might need it," Hortense advised, having removed a loosely knotted amount of rope, a vial of something bright purple, a small jar containing at least 4-7 (hopefully false) teeth, and what appeared to be several rolls of blue painter's tape, all of which she placed in Pansy's lap.

"Why," Hermione sighed, "would anyone need an abduction kit?"

"Well, if you have to ask," Thibaut scoffed.

"Hush, Thibaut," Hortense told him, pulling out a tube of lipstick that Hermione couldn't decide whether or not she was disappointed to discover was, indeed, a tube of lipstick. "Not everyone is blessed with high profile enemies."

"Hermione has almost no vendettas," Pansy offered in apparent commiseration, and Hortense frowned, staring into space for a moment.

"Well, I just can't imagine what that would be like," she determined, and then replaced the lipstick in her purse, pulling out an enormous ring of keys before frowning. "Did I leave the stove on?" she asked Thibaut.

"Unlikely," he said. "Though, it's possible the basement door's unlocked."

"Well, how much damage can he do, really," Hortense said. "Basile's home."

"I hardly think Basile's capable of chaperoning. Isn't he anemic?"

"I doubt that has anything to do with the horcruxes."

"Isn't Basile your… dog?" Hermione asked with confusion, and Hortense and Thibaut both looked at her.

"This dress," Hortense observed. "Is it what you intend to be buried in?"

"No," supplied Pansy, who had uncovered a copy of Vogue from Hortense's purse and was flipping through the fashion editorials. "I believe she intends to wear it to the dentist."

"Oral surgery?"

"In white? Hardly. Annual cleaning, at best."

"Good," Hortense said approvingly. "Anything else would be exceptionally morbid."

"Done," Daphne said, finishing with her pins and spreading out Hermione's train, eyeing it. "I'll get the veil," she added over her shoulder, and then, to Hortense, "Are you here for your fitting as well?"

"Well, it's certainly not a kidnapping," Hortense sniffed.

"Yet," added Thibaut. "And only because we might have either left the stove on or set the vampire loose. Otherwise, who knows."

"Wait a minute, what?" Hermione asked, struggling to turn over her shoulder without pricking herself. "You're designing a dress for Hortense?"

"Oh, it's a favor for Prince Lucifer," Daphne supplied with a disinterested glance, returning with the cathedral veil in hand. "Apparently the Prince of Darkness is concerned his preeminent cousins may opt for something inappropriate if he doesn't specifically request something on their behalf."

"You talked to Lucius?"

"Did you say vampire?" Pansy asked Hortense.

"Of course not," Hortense said, scoffing. "Thibaut did."

"I thought you knew," Daphne said, frowning as she began loosely compiling Hermione's hair into some semblance of a messy chignon. "Didn't Theo mention it to Draco?"

"We're not technically the same person," Hermione reminded her.

"He's also anemic," said Thibaut, as Pansy frowned.

"Is that relevant?"

"That's what I said," Hortense exclaimed.

"Oh, well, it was a request from Dobby, technically," Daphne said, folding the veil over the hairpiece and considering its placement. "I didn't think it was particularly noteworthy."

"A personal favor to the Prince of Wales isn't noteworthy?"

"Compared to the vampirism, it's really not much of an issue," Hortense informed Pansy. "Though, if he has conquered death, he's not even the first person in the house to have done it, is he?"

"At this point, it's just redundant," Thibaut remarked.

"Do you like the poppies?" Daphne asked, folding the veil over to show it to Hermione. "I thought, you know, what with Nott calling you California for so long, it might be a nice touch."

"It's beautiful," Hermione sighed, momentarily distracted as she looked at it, "but hang on, about Prince Lucifer—"

"In fairness, I don't think it's the conquering of death that concerns me so much as the excessive use of third person," said Hortense. "That, and at what point are there too many snakes in the house?"

"—do you even know if he's coming?" Hermione asked. "Has he asked you to design anything for him?"

"No," Daphne said, fanning out the veil. "But why would he? I don't do much in the way of menswear, and I believe he has a preferred tailor."

"How many snakes, exactly?"

"Well, just the one, really, if you don't count the cursed locket. Which, really, can be quite charming company on a quiet Tuesday evening."

"Too many snakes," Pansy advised, licking her finger and turning the page. "And you should probably count the locket."

"I just don't know if I should interfere," Hermione said, wistfully eyeing her reflection. "I just feel constantly as if I'm in an unsavory position lately."

"Oh, with Tracey, you mean?"

"The thing is, there's so many kinds of curses," Hortense said. "It seems rather close-minded to simply jump to conclusions."

"Yes, but also with Draco and his parents. At what point am I obligated to step in?"

"You know, I think I did leave it on," Thibaut said thoughtfully. "But as far as cauldrons go, I don't see it doing much."

"Maybe you're worrying prematurely," Pansy remarked.

"I agree," Daphne told Hermione. "You can't fixate so much on things that haven't even happened. It's not as if Prince Lucifer would ever defy Abraxas like that, and it's certainly not our job to interfere with Blaise and Tracey."

"You only say that because you don't like her," Hortense said. "But you'd miss her if she were gone, you know."

"Eh, I've known nicer snakes," Thibaut said. "I could certainly do without this one."

"I just hate feeling so powerless," Hermione lamented, watching Daphne adjust her veil in the mirror.

"You're not powerless," Daphne said. "There's a difference between influence and meddling."

"I've told him that at least a thousand times," Hortense said, "but he really insists. At this point, there's been so much sanguinary grandstanding that even Basile's begun to feel nauseated."

"You'd think… why would he care, right? It's not his blood—but no," Thibaut sighed. "He seems to find the whole thing personally offensive."

"Well, can you blame him?" Pansy said, accepting the piece of gum Hortense offered her. "It's difficult to get out of the carpet. Though, you could try salting it."

"I know, I know, you're right—"

"Have you given any thought to Abraxas' advice about keeping a diary?" Daphne asked. "It might help you keep from bottling everything up, you know."

"I haven't, no," Hermione admitted. "I've always tried, but I lose interest in it so quickly. It feels a bit pointless, I guess, talking to something that doesn't talk back."

"Sounds like you're not doing it right," Thibaut remarked.

"Oh, just try not to worry so much, would you?" Daphne said, smiling at Hermione's apprehensive reflection. "Look how beautiful you are, how lovely your life is. Enjoy the moment," she advised, resting her hands on Hermione's shoulders. "You're marrying the man you love, and that's a rare and wonderful thing."

"You look a bit ill," Thibaut said to Pansy.

"Might have something to do with all the blood talk," Pansy replied.

"Well, my dear," Hortense sniffed, "I simply can't think how to horrify you less. You've seen the drape options."

"Careful," Hermione remarked to Pansy with a laugh, resting her hand on Daphne's and shaking her head. "If you look that revolted at the wedding, Rita Skeeter's probably going to announce to the world one or both of us is pregnant, Pans."

"I can't imagine why anyone would think something so ridiculous," Pansy said with a half-retching grimace. "Aren't there other things to discuss in the world besides whether or not a woman might be pregnant?"

"I certainly can't think of anything," Hortense replied, removing a small silver diadem from her purse and placing it beatifically on Pansy's head.

---

"You look nervous," Abraxas said.

"Do I?" Hermione echoed, suddenly very conscious of her teeth. "Can't imagine why."

The King of England smiled thinly, beckoning for her to follow as he and Theo's father exchanged a glance, heading towards something Hermione troublingly assumed were dungeons.

"Though, just out of curiosity," she ventured, tentatively following them both down a set of narrow stairs, "in terms of, you know, where, exactly, we're going—"

"Theodore?" Abraxas said, glancing at Nott, Sr. "You had something to say before we continued, I presume?"

Interesting. Hermione paused her idle chatter, deciding that even if Draco's grandfather was doing the most (locking her up for treason, condemning her to a quiet murder, having her impersonated by a sea witch… the possibilities, in her mind, were endless), it was probably worth it to see Nott's face contort in a grimace that meant he was being admonished.

Possibly even scolded.

"Yes," Nott slid through his teeth, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Hermione. "It has been brought to my attention that I may have…"

He appeared to choke on his next words.

"Misjudged you," he concluded, and Hermione blinked.

"And?" Abraxas prompted, clearly enjoying himself.

"And," Nott gritted out, "I hope that your future endeavors mean we will be able to work amicably in the future toward a united front in our mutual respect and admiration for the sovereignty of this great nation."

He expelled it like a toxic breath, concluding with a grimace.

"Huh," Hermione said. "Interesting."

This time, Abraxas slid her a prompting glance. She, unlike Nott, pretended not to comprehend it.

"May I ask what brought this on?" she asked, a little giddy about her opportunity for torment as Nott's face shadowed with loathing.

The truth was that Hermione knew precisely well what had brought it on. The previous week's event, which had been the speaking engagement for which Draco had been so anxious the week prior, had gone off without a hitch.

Well, the opposite, really. It had gone off with one very big, extremely noticeable hitch, if you wanted to call it that.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is an honor to be here today to discuss with you the importance of education in the lives of young people," Draco said, reading the speech he and Hermione had written together from the screen of a teleprompter while she stood in her usual position behind him. She had been wearing a trench dress designed by a biracial, up-and-coming designer Daphne had found who specialized in gender-fluid clothing. "This task force, which will be dedicated to raising awareness of the difficulties facing young people while highlighting those organizations who have devoted themselves to engaging with students in various fields, is of special importance to myself and my family. The difference these organizations make, particularly for young women from underrepresented communities—"

He broke off, falling to a dead halt, and looked up into the crowd.

Behind him, Hermione could see the front row of observers begin to whisper to each other. One, a correspondent from the Daily Prophet, was almost certainly reaching out to Rita Skeeter amid Draco's overlong pause, typing frantically and sneaking (not particularly sneakily) a picture of the prince's unusual break in composure.

"My apologies," Draco said, abruptly remembering himself and glancing over his shoulder to Hermione, who gave him a small, encouraging nod. "I've just realized something very important, and I'm afraid I can't continue."

Hermione was careful not to let her smile fall, though she could hear Dobby scurrying around in a panic somewhere out of sight.

"I believe most of you are familiar with my future wife, Miss Hermione Granger," Draco said, and immediately, the crowd's whispers rose in volume, cameras flashing once again as Hermione struggled not to frown with confusion. "Perhaps some of you have heard I'm getting married in a couple of weeks?" Draco joked, ever at ease with his audience, and the press correspondents laughed heartily in response. "More relevant, I'm sure, and something you may not read in the coverage of our wedding, is that she and I wrote this statement together. You see, I was struggling a bit with something at the time; I worried I wouldn't get it right, and now I understand why."

He glanced over his shoulder again, smiling this time.

"It's because I'm not the person to deliver this address," he said, still looking at her for a moment before turning back to the microphone. "In this day and age, with so much demanding our attention, it's not enough to simply point to an issue or a cause. It's about giving that cause a voice—the right voice."

Astoundingly, he took a step back from the podium, beckoning for Hermione to join him.

"Miss Granger is not only the inspiration for much of my interest in this area, but she is also a passionate advocate herself. A proponent of advancements in science, technology, and the arts, she is a woman of tireless efforts in community organization and civic engagement. Ladies and gentlemen," Draco said, setting a hand briefly on Hermione's lower back and guiding her to the microphone, "Miss Hermione Granger."

To everyone's surprise—including her own—Draco took the few steps away from the podium to fill the place she had been standing. Hermione, understandably taken aback, had glanced back at him, and he merely shrugged, beckoning to her: Go on, you do it, you know the words.

She glared, and he smiled.

Later, the cover of the Daily Prophet would show Hermione Granger, a woman of unremarkable birth, giving a speech to a room full of aristocrats while surrounded by a sea of kings' portraits. She would never be entirely sure how the photographer managed it, but the photograph, taken at the moment she had begun reading the speech she and Draco had written, showed a little gleam of light on her hair that gave her a low, radiating glow.

The future of the British Monarchy, read the caption. Miss Hermione Granger praises advocacy task force for education programmes, calling for increased efforts on behalf of women and girls pursuing careers in historically male-dominated industries.

Is it possible the upstart American has found her stride? wrote Rita Skeeter. The Hermione Granger we have known up to this point has been relatively silent, but today gave voice to generations. While I would have willingly praised Prince Draco for his dedication tothis worthy cause if he had delivered the very same words, even I have to confess to a moment of surprising emotion. Watching a woman advocate for other women in a room where so many have stood silent before her seems a relatively small thing, but for so many young girls, who will now see a face like their own at the forefront of a cause instead of standing behind her future husband's, it eclipses everything.

Nott's little throat-clearing sound of reluctance dragged Hermione back to the moment, and back to her feeling of satisfaction. Maybe she couldn't get everything right, but she could certainly do something.

She wasn't some carbon copy of Bellatrix or Narcissa. She was herself, and she had proven for the first time that she was valuable—even to a man who judged her by what the tabloids wrote about her.

"Yes?" she prompted, as Nott gritted his teeth around what she giddily hoped was a serving of crow.

"Your speech," Nott managed. "It was… well-received."

"By whom?" Hermione said, feigning innocence. "You, I presume?"

"I—" Another swift glance from Abraxas delivered Nott to a scowl. "Yes," he grunted perfunctorily. "It was very well-delivered. An excellent strategic move by Draco," he added with feeling, and Hermione, temporarily out of Abraxas' line of sight, rolled her eyes.

Fine, whatever. She was about to have a lifetime of proving him wrong, so she didn't have to settle for a single moment of satisfaction. She'd make him eat his words until the day he died.

"Very gracious of you, Sir," she said, and Nott, finally delivered of having to spare her such effusive praise, made a gesture to Abraxas that indicated he would have to spend the next several minutes in silence, probably draped over a fainting couch.

"Yes, very gracious, Theodore," Abraxas said with a chuckle, making a small motion to a pair of guards and beckoning for Hermione to follow. "Now, let's see, I was hoping to have another set of eyes, but—"

"I'm right here," came Narcissa's voice, followed by a curtsy to Abraxas and a glare at Nott before she turned, expressionless, to Hermione. "I'm late," she said in apparent explanation, though it seemed more like an obvious fact.

"I've asked Narcissa to stay at Clarence House until the wedding," Abraxas informed Hermione. "I imagine you may find her presence useful."

"It should be known the wearing of a tiara is positively ludicrous," Narcissa said. "Its sole purpose is to express wealth and ownership by one's husband."

"That being said," Abraxas attempted gently, but Hermione had already begun indulging her confusion.

"Tiara?" she echoed, surprised.

"Surely you didn't think Draco would let you go without one," Narcissa said briskly, as the guards propped open the door to what Hermione was now piecing together must have been a secure vault. Narcissa swept forward, beckoning for Hermione to follow. "Naturally you'll have to receive Abraxas' approval, which is why, I presume, Theodore is here," she said, glaring again at Nott, "but I would be remiss if I permitted you to select one without someone of taste being present."

In an intensely cinematic moment, Narcissa had slid open a drawer containing a series of blinding diamonds, followed by another, and a third.

"These are out," Narcissa said. "Too ostentatious."

"Agreed," said Abraxas. "If I may rule out the kokoshnik styles, too?"

"Naturally," Narcissa sniffed.

Still, she permitted Hermione half a glance inside the drawers.

"Oh, totally," Hermione said weakly, a little dazzled by the ornamental twists and turns and the glittering diamond bars as Narcissa promptly shut the majority of the drawers, beckoning her attention to the next.

"These are your conceivable choices," she said, pointing to the final remaining drawer. She gestured to one with a centered diamond brooch, her expression indicating some conflict. "This one is lovely, but a bit… much."

"Not this one," Hermione said, looking wistfully at the tiara. It was beautiful, but she could hear Pansy's voice in her head: Do you want to look like a small child playing dress-up, Hermione? "Maybe something that won't overwhelm the, um. The lace?"

Narcissa gave a curt nod of agreement.

"Pearls?" she asked, directing Hermione's attention to a tiara that hung with them.

This time, it was Blaise in Hermione's head: Are pearls really ever appropriate for someone under the age of forty? Asking for a friend. Me, I'm the friend. No? I thought not, moving on—

"Maybe no pearls," Hermione guessed, chewing her lip. "This one, with the emeralds?" she asked, pointing to it.

"An option," Narcissa said, shrugging. "Emeralds are a family emblem."

As if Hermione weren't already perfectly aware she was being absorbed into Draco's family. She was currently standing with her future husband's mother and grandfather, wasn't she? Her own mother, much to her sudden lamentation, wouldn't even be there until a week before the wedding. Helen, like everyone from Hermione's pre-Draco life, had no say in the dress, the jewelry, the wedding party, anything.

The little piece of a younger Hermione who had dreamt of her wedding as a girl suddenly reared up in protest.

"I want something that feels like me," Hermione said firmly, and for the first time, Narcissa's mouth seemed to indicate something like approval.

"This one," she said, crooking a finger for Hermione to follow and maneuvering to one of the other areas inside the vault. "I, of course, wore a tiara belonging to my own family, so I did not have this particular issue. You'll want something understated, I think. Something… quietly distinct."

She nudged open a drawer that contained only one tiara. Given its size, it was almost mistakable for a necklace, placed beside a series of other types of jewelry: a bracelet, some earrings, a brooch. It was perhaps a little forgettable compared to the blinding nature of the other jewels, though Hermione had a feeling Narcissa had intentionally saved it for last.

"Here," Narcissa said, glancing at Abraxas before removing the tiara from its little cushion of velvet and holding it out for Hermione's perusal, letting the delicate diamonds flash in the light. "This one is… how old, Abraxas?"

It seemed a question she'd thrown to him for ceremony; Hermione doubted Narcissa ever asked a question she didn't already know the answer to.

"A little over half a century," Abraxas said. "My father gave it to my mother, though she preferred to wear more elaborate jewelry."

"It has never been publicly worn," Narcissa told Hermione, proving her prior suspicions correct. Surely Narcissa had already known every detail about the item well before she'd plucked it from its case. "Unappealing, I'm sure, since you won't have Rita Skeeter speculating about whether I gave you permission to use it, or if it's some sort of homage to me. I imagine the lack of intrigue would make it a dull choice."

It took Hermione a moment to realize what Narcissa was doing. She bit her tongue on the response I don't need intrigue when she realized that… of course.

Of course. On a day that would be about Draco and Draco's family—when even the ring so famously on Hermione's finger belonged, in part, to the woman who would become her mother-in-law—this would be one thing from which the Princess of Wales was wholly, completely unconnected.

Narcissa was doing her a favor.

"So I'd be the first to be photographed wearing it?" Hermione asked, tentatively craning her neck to take in the tiara's details before Narcissa made a face of impatience, instead arranging Hermione's hair and resting it carefully atop her head.

"Yes," Narcissa said. "Just you."

Just you.

The tiara was small, understated. Nothing too showy or grand. At first glance it hadn't looked like it belonged with the other opulent jewels, but upon closer inspection it was beautifully crafted, skillfully made, and shone just as brightly. Its beauty was in its intricacy, in its complexity, and Narcissa had clearly chosen it for her.

Hermione bit back something she assumed was going to be an embarrassing display of emotion, forcing a smile.

"Does it look right?" she asked, adjusting it slightly.

Narcissa scoured her face for a moment, scrutinizing her, and then, after an impossibly long time, she reached out, tucking a loose lock of hair behind Hermione's ear the way that Helen might have done.

"It'll do," said Narcissa.

Some embarrassing displays of emotion couldn't be helped. Tearfully, with a mix of gratitude and relief, Hermione managed a smile.

"Are we done?" Nott asked gruffly from behind them. "How long does it take to pick a diamond?"

Hermione ducked her head, wiping discreetly at her eyes.

"We're done," Narcissa confirmed, plucking the tiara from Hermione's head and turning to Abraxas. "You may inform Lucius my rooms are adequate," she said, handing the tiara to him and then turning without further comment, pivoting away and trotting out of the vault with her Chanel suit perfectly intact.

---

Helen and David arrived in London to great and spectacular to-do, garnering photographers from the moment they set foot in the airport.

"My word," Helen told Hermione, collapsing onto the loveseat in their room at the Goring. "Is this what your life is always like?"

"Nearly always," Hermione confirmed. "It's probably best if Dad doesn't go for any bike rides in all that cling-fitting spandex, just in case the press gets wind of it."

"Nonsense, David keeps it tight," said Helen, which was something Hermione immediately scourged from her brain as Draco and Theo entered behind them, chatting with David.

"—bears pointing out you're joining our family, too, doesn't it?" David was saying to them. "I've never had a son before and now look, I've got two—"

"I'm only marrying Draco, Dad," Hermione reminded him, turning over her shoulder.

"That's what she thinks," Theo said, earning him a side-swipe from his wife, who happened to materialize from the doorway with Pansy and Harry at that precise moment.

"Sorry we're late," Daphne sighed, enveloping Hermione and Helen in her usual rush of perfumery and elegance as Pansy, wandering in beside her, offered David a smile that might have been closer to an invitation to admire her teeth, and Harry fell onto the loveseat beside Helen, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

"Where's Jamie?" Helen asked him, and was quickly answered when a little swarm of toddler entered the room with a shriek, one hand tugging a doubled-over Blaise.

"Oh, there she is," said Harry. "Sometimes she just blends into the upholstery, you know?"

Jamie launched herself into Theo with something that was more of a tackle than an embrace, wrapping her arms around as much of him as she could reach from her minimal height.

"It continues to evade me how this one," Theo said, with a wave of reference to the little girl clinging to his leg, "is permitted to go wherever she likes, and yet I'm forced to leave my perfectly well-behaved emotional support animal at home."

"He's not an emotional support animal," Daphne said. "He's basically our very quiet roommate who can't use the toilet without help."

"Every time you say that, it damages my psyche a little more," Theo informed her, undertaking several attempts to reach Helen while Jamie refused to release him. "A little help from one of her caretakers, perhaps?" he asked, turning to Pansy.

"Fascinating," David said, holding Pansy's chin in one hand and scrutinizing her canines. "And you've really never had braces? You must be genetically very gifted."

"I'm aware," said Pansy.

"Never mind," Theo sighed, as Harry winked, still lounging comfortably beside Hermione's mother.

"Jamie, it's very rude not to greet your guests," Draco said, scooping her up from Theo and presenting her, Lion King-style, to Helen. "Have you said hello to Hermione's mum, Jamie? You've met her before on Mummy's phone, remember?"

"No," said Jamie.

"Well, that's fair if you don't remember," Helen said, tapping Jamie's nose. "We met when you were onl-"

"I met her on MUMMY'S COMPUTER," Jamie shouted, throwing herself to the floor and then sprinting over to her mother before stopping, alarmed, at the sight of David.

Blaise, falling beside Helen on the sofa that now had minimal space for its occupants: "This is all going swimmingly, minus the time we allowed Pansy and Henry to combine their propensity for trouble. If I'd known their progeny was a possibility, I'd have done a better job of keeping them in separate rooms."

Harry: "Jamie's really quite shy, actually. No surprise you lot bring out her dark side."

Helen, while fondly watching Jamie untie David's shoe from where she was sitting on the floor: "I love that precious angel and she could never do anything wrong, ever."

Draco, equally fondly: "Agreed."

Hermione, with a pensive frown: "I'm starting to get the feeling we're all collectively raising a child who will one day become exceptionally difficult to control."

Harry, with a shrug: "I came to terms with that reality a long time ago."

Helen, turning to Blaise: "Where's your lady friend, Blaise?"

Blaise, with a shrug: "Oh, I didn't think Tracey would enjoy this much. She's been a bit stressed lately with work."

Hermione, who observed a hint of reservation from Blaise: "How goes the wedding planning?"

Blaise, cheerfully ignoring what he clearly knew to be her intentions: "Well, seeing as they do not involve the Archbishop of Canterbury, the details are a bit more straightforward. How goes the very public feud between the Prince and Princess of Wales?"

Harry, with a stifled laugh: "Subtle."

Blaise: "Hm?"

Helen, sympathetically, to Draco: "Oh, honey. Is that still going on?"

Draco, with false brightness: "Well, when Blaise says my parents' 'feud,' he is of course referring to their marriage in general."

David, who now held Jamie on one hip as she showed him her front teeth: "What is the deal with them, exactly?"

Hermione, hesitating: "Draco, you don't have t-"

Draco, waving a hand: "No, no, it's fine. I think it started with my father sleeping with his former mistress who is also my aunt, which began a series of retaliatory affairs by my mother, which then led to what was either a psychotic break or the worsening of an existing condition—"

Pansy, nudging him: "You know she wasn't quite right, Draco."

Hermione and Daphne: A silently exchanged look of surprise that 1) Pansy had not brought up her mother's friendship with Narcissa yet, and 2) that she was speaking against Narcissa at all.

Pansy: "As you know, my mother was her closest friend—"

Theo, with obvious relief: "There it is."

Pansy, continuing without acknowledgement: "—but it's true, Draco, there was always something a bit off with your mum. No need to rewrite history just because you feel guilty now."

Draco, hesitating for a moment: "Well, whatever might have been wrong before, she seems perfectly fine now. But my father, on the other hand, is being resistant for entirely unknown reasons. Shame, possibly. Or simply that he doesn't want the bad press that would follow a divorce."

Helen, who had previously told Hermione that US Weekly was speculating Lucius and Narcissa had already divorced in secret and that Narcissa was currently having a dalliance with either Brad Pitt or Chris Martin from Coldplay or possibly both: "I'm sure everything will be fine."

Daphne, brightly giving Draco's shoulder a nudge: "Let's just get through this week, shall we? I'm sure most of the trouble can wait until after the wedding."

Harry, with a laugh: "Polite, really, for it to hold off."

Helen: "Well, better this than something else Rita Skeeter might accost you with, right?"

Blaise: "I shudder to think what else."

Helen: "You're not pregnant, are you?"

Draco, Hermione, and Harry: "What?"

Helen, with a shrug: "I'm just checking boxes. Seeking out possible tabloid landmines, et cetera."

Hermione, enumerating on her fingers: "No pregnancies, no drug scandals, no sex scandals—"

Draco, with a nod: "No scandals of any kind."

Hermione: "We're practically pristine. You know, minus me and all the things I've done."

Draco: "And the mere existence of my parents."

Hermione and Draco, in unison: "Everything is fine!"

"Sounds that way," David agreed, having made quick work of befriending Jamie and squeezing in beside Helen, Blaise, and Harry with the toddler in his lap. "What exactly do we have to do for the rest of the day? Anything?"

At that precise moment, Hermione's phone buzzed in her pocket, followed by a ring from Draco's phone.

"Hello? Oh, Winky, hi—"

"Dobby? I told you, I'll be there in twenty minutes—"

"Balls," Harry said, glancing at his screen. "Pans, did y-"

"Five minutes ago," Pansy said, holding up a message on her phone. "Daph, can you t-"

"Hang on—hello?" Daphne said, answering her phone. "I told you, I need it pressed today, she's coming in for her final fitting and I need to finalize the stitching on the veil—"

"Wood, I'm going to need you to stop yelling," said Theo, frowning. "Where are you?"

Blaise glanced down at the screen on his watch, frowning. "That's Tracey," he said, smacking a kiss to Helen's forehead. "Have to run—"

"Take my car," Draco called after him, still on the phone with Dobby. "Harry, can we—?"

"Yes, car's downstairs," Harry confirmed, rising to his feet to look for his wife, who was already halfway out the door.

"You've got Jamie, Henry? Ring the nanny—"

"Why? David has her!"

"You're fine, right?" Draco asked David, shifting to address a wide-eyed Jamie as she blinked up at him. "You're good here, aren't you, Mignonette?"

"Yes," Jamie replied, with the serene sweetness she could conjure whenever she felt up for it. Presumably, she had identified David as someone she could newly wrap around her little finger, which he almost certainly was.

"Wonderful, we won't be long. Hermione?"

"Coming," Hermione called, turning to follow without thinking the moment she hung up with Winky.

Then she stopped as she reached the doorway, pivoting quickly to rush back to her parents.

"I'm so happy you're here," she told them, wrapping her arms around them with relief and taking a moment to feel… well, everything.

Just to feel, really.

"Love you," Helen murmured in her ear, David kissing her cheek as Jamie gave her hair a small tug, indicating with babbling protest that she was squished just before Hermione turned and ran out the door after Draco.

---

"Ready for all of this?" Draco asked, toying with her hair. It was their final night in Clarence House before they went on their honeymoon, after which they would temporarily linger before moving into their own apartments in one of London's palaces. Hermione's flat, which she'd kept through the month of May despite hardly setting foot in it for days, was currently in boxes, the majority of her things packed away and labeled for either their trip or their eventual move.

"I'm feeling strangely calm about it," Hermione admitted, twisting in his arms to look up at him. "Probably because it's mostly out of my hands at this point."

"A comforting feeling, really." He kissed her forehead, eyes already falling shut. "I find the lack of control to be unexpectedly relaxing."

"I know. And I usually have trouble with that—"

"Yes, I'm familiar."

"—but I guess," Hermione continued, ignoring his extremely valid and thoroughly unhelpful side commentary, "it doesn't really seem worth it to worry at this point, does it? Things are coming together, finally." It left her like a wistful sigh. "They feel… good, I think. They feel right."

"Between us, you mean?"

She shook her head. "No, we've always felt right. It's more like… everything else. Everything outside of us."

Draco nodded. "Well, I think I should tell you to just enjoy it," he advised, yawning. "It's my understanding that nothing really gets easier. The difficult things just become more worth doing the longer you go along."

True. And things would definitely be different. She'd probably be a duchess soon.

She'd be a mother, a statesman.

A princess, and someday a queen.

A wife was just the beginning.

"And to think," Hermione murmured, soothing herself with the rhythm of Draco's chest; the way it rose and fell, steady and peaceful. "All this," she said quietly, "just because I was in the right place at the right time."

His arms tightened around her, pulling her impossibly close.

"Seems like a possible oversimplification of the facts. Though, I believe Margery Kempe would consider that divine right," he advised, and she nudged him away with a laugh, the two of them now fully drowsy with warmth.

---

It was a whirlwind of a week, unsurprisingly. By the time Hermione finally finished her last run-through at Westminster Abbey, she was helping her parents out of their private car with a palpable sense of relief. All she had left was one dinner. Sure, there would be one night to get plenty of sleep, and then the beautifying and headache of wedding preparation would begin in the morning—but until then it was just one dinner, and then she would spend her last night apart from Draco before she never had to sleep without him again. (Logistics notwithstanding, of course. Theoretically, it would be different. Everything would be different.)

It seemed highly doable, until it very rapidly didn't.

"Stay calm," Daphne said, catching Hermione's arm and pulling her aside, "but Narcissa just arrived alone."

"Doesn't mean much, does it?" Hermione asked, stifling the instant rush of concern and meditating for a moment on Draco's advice: just enjoy it. "I mean, Lucius could just be, you know—"

"At Malfoy Manor," Daphne said with a wince. "Maybe. Possibly."

"What?" Hermione asked, startled. Amazing how easily just enjoy it faded away, replaced with rapid indignation. "But that's hours away, why would h-"

"Calm, calm. Breathe in," Daphne said quickly, flailing a bit in her attempt to keep Hermione relaxed. "Yes, good, and out—"

"Where's Pansy?" Hermione asked, not entirely soothed by Daphne's frantic breathing exercises.

"Oh, she's…" Daphne glanced over her shoulder. "Well, she was right behind me, but I think she's a bit under the weather—"

"Is Draco here yet?" He'd had to miss the final run-through at Westminster, but was joining them for dinner along with his grandfather and what Hermione had previously expected to be his father.

"He just messaged me, he's on his way."

"Oh, good—my parents followed us from the church, right? Or did they stop at the hotel first?"

"Arriving now," Daphne said, pointing to where the car had pulled up and then, hesitantly, pausing Hermione another moment before she could leave to join them. "Have you seen Blaise and Tracey?"

"What? No, not yet," Hermione said, frowning. "Wasn't Blaise with Theo? I thought they were right behind us."

"He was, but then—"

"Greengrass," Theo called, materializing behind them. "A word?"

"Hand on one second, Nott—"

"Just go," Hermione assured Daphne, giving her hand a squeeze. "I'm just going to get my parents ins- oh, no," she exhaled, spotting Rita Skeeter's unmistakable platinum hair. "I didn't think she'd get here so early."

"Was she really necessary?" Daphne asked, making a face.

"Well, it's a courtesy, really—and at least if she's here, she can't do as much damage from her little cave or grotto or wherever demons usually live."

"True, true. Oh no, is that Hortense?"

"Probably," Hermione said with a shudder. "Troubling, isn't it?"

"Yes, deepl-"

"GREENGRASS!"

"For heaven's sake—I'm coming, Nott," Daphne said over her shoulder, rolling her eyes. "See you in a few minutes," she said, departing as Hermione made her way over to greet her parents.

She was cut off, though, by the sight of Tracey Davis launching herself from her private car.

Hermione recalled with inconvenient timing the moment of Blaise's accidental slip at the book party those few weeks earlier, when Tracey had caught her eye and frowned with obvious suspicion. Not for the first time, Hermione wondered if she hadn't committed some sort of terrible sin by staying silent.

She realized in her moment of contemplation that Tracey, who had remained sort of an unremarkable fixture amid the chaos of wedding planning, had gotten quite thin; probably thinner than she'd intended. She hadn't been eating much, a subject Hermione hadn't been sure how to broach, and at the moment she considered it, she felt a nudge of unexamined memory: that Tracey had looked out of sorts all afternoon.

"Everything alright?" Helen asked, frowning at Hermione's expression as David helped her out of the backseat, and Hermione shook her head, asking her mother to wait for a moment while she approached an obviously fleeing Tracey.

"Tracey! Are you alright?" she called, pausing her, and then stopped, catching sight of Blaise over Tracey's shoulder.

She knows, he mouthed, looking breathless and pained, and in the same moment, Tracey's eyes narrowed with recognition, witnessing the reaction that must have spread plainly across Hermione's face.

"You should have told me," Tracey said in a low voice.

A voice, Hermione registered with dismay, that was shaking.

It's not your business, Pansy had said. You told me about Blaise, I know, but it's not your job to tell Tracey.

I love her, Blaise whispered in Hermione's mind. I love her, and I can't tell her, because she loves herself enough to know that she should leave me. She'll know I don't deserve her, no matter how much I beg her not to go, and if she knew everything—

What do you mean everything?

"I… I wanted to," Hermione admitted, hurrying to pull Tracey aside. "Believe me, I did, but it wasn't my place, and—"

"You don't know what your fucking place even is!" Tracey spat at her, tearing free from her grasp. "You're just some nobody who got lucky, aren't you? So who cares if my heart breaks!" she ranted, and beneath her anger, Hermione saw something familiar: a woman who was struggling not to cry, because she shouldn't. Because her emotion was weakness; because it was unwelcome; because it had no business here. "So long as you get your prince and your friends and your happy ending," Tracey gasped, "what else is there?"

"I'm so sorry," Hermione managed to say. "Tracey, please, I—"

But she was gone, tearing from Hermione's grip as Hermione was left to wince in silence, turning back to find her parents observing her with twin looks of concern.

"Well," Hermione exhaled, beckoning them inside. "That's…" She shook her head. "That's a problem I can't fix. Shall we?" she said, feigning brightness. Just enjoy it! "Just have to get through dinner, get through the night, get married—"

"You make that sound very simple," Helen observed. "Will it be?"

"Oh, sure," Hermione said, like an idiot. "Why not? Come on, you two should sit with Narcissa, she's somewhere inside—"

She led her parents into the palace, aiming for the State Room. Luckily, David and Helen had already been introduced to the royal family earlier that week, and had mostly gotten their excitement, their awkward curtsies, and their ascot-related questions out of their systems. By now, the grandness of the room (and its overuse of chandeliers) had lost just enough of its awe that David could prevent himself from taking pictures.

Hermione passed Rita Skeeter as she went, noticing the journalist's eyes on her and deciding, with a grimace, it was best if she handled the situation early. She seated her parents and made her way to Rita, who wore a crimson, feline smile that Hermione prayed was more trustworthy than it looked.

"So," Rita said. "Should I call you Your Highness, or will Hermione do?"

Hermione fought an eye roll. "As you know, Rita, I'm not technically married y-"

"Or," Rita cut in beatifically, "perhaps I should call you… Penelope Clearwater?"

Something launched itself into Hermione's throat.

"Who?" she managed to ask, but to her dismay, Rita's smile broadened, revealing that she'd had her cell phone tucked under her arm.

"My god, you may as well broadcast it to the room," Rita remarked with a chuckle, gesturing to Hermione's expression. "I admit, I didn't quite believe it at first myself, but having re-read the articles—oh, and these blog posts," she said, gesturing to her screen as Hermione caught the Spew logo and winced. "As if the piece you wrote under your own name wasn't troubling enough—"

"Speculation," Hermione said through her teeth. Not even just enjoy it could drive her to use full sentences.

"Ah yes, isn't it just?" Rita said, looking delighted that Hermione had been the one to say it. "And what, pray tell, excites the public more than speculation? Why, all I'd need is a fairly basic linguistic analyst to confirm these were all written by the same person," she mused, tapping her mouth with feigned thoughtfulness. "Say, perhaps, a literature professor? One like Horace Slughorn," she proposed, as Hermione struggled not to grimace, "who would almost surely identify all of these as belonging to his most beloved student?"

"It won't do anything," Hermione warned. "The wedding is tomorrow, and there's nothing you can d-"

"Oh, there's plenty of time for marriages to fall apart after a wedding," Rita said, adding a delicate, bell-tone of a laugh. "My goodness, look at the Prince and Princess of Wales! Only a matter of time before the constant scrutiny of your controversial ethics and your radical opinions means you're kept out of sight, away from the press, and—"

"Draco and I are not Prince Lucius and Princess Narcissa," Hermione cut in firmly.

"Hm," Rita breathed, "so he's never shown you any doubt, then? Not a shadow of it?" To Hermione's distress, a little image of Draco lamenting the loss of his father slid its way into her brain. "Maybe there's nothing yet," Rita conceded to herself, half-smiling, "but my goodness, how would your marriage suffer, my dear, if your mistakes forced you back into the shadows of a highly conservative monarchy? Everyone knows you're willful, as headstrong as Narcissa, and history does love to repeat itself—"

"You couldn't have stumbled on this yourself," Hermione interrupted, unwilling to hear whatever came next. She didn't want to believe anything could come between her relationship with Draco, but hadn't Rita managed it before?

Just enjoy it. She wanted to, only her stomach was turning with memories of how she'd felt when she'd been hidden; remembering how small she'd felt, how insignificant, how lost.

"Yes, well, such a pity something's come between you and Miss Davis," Rita sighed, as Hermione grimaced, cursing her lack of foresight. Would she have really cared whose right it was to tell the truth about Blaise and Neville if she'd known that failing to do so would mean Tracey giving away her secrets? At the moment, she was thinking probably not. "You know, when Lockhart initially suggested you were hiding something, I thought my god, what a buffoon, why would a woman bound for the throne of England do something so idiotically reckless? But of course," Rita exhaled with a laugh, "of course it would be you, who has never belonged here at all."

"Is that all this is?" Hermione said, hoping not to draw attention to their argument but feeling color rise in her cheeks regardless, Narcissa looking over briefly from across the room. "You want to punish me, is that it? Because I don't deserve to be here?"

"My dear, if I want to punish you, it's only because I do it so well," Rita assured her, shrugging. "Do you genuinely think this monarchy has a place in the modern age? Of course not," she tutted, tucking her phone back into her pocket. "If writing about this family hadn't produced my summer home in Cornwall or secured my right to have extremely decadent taste, I'd be the first to suggest we do away with them altogether so I can begin working on the next great English novel. But the truth, Miss Granger, is that this institution is little more than a cult of celebrity, and among the rich and famous, happy endings do not sell," Rita remarked, as Hermione felt her mouth tighten. "I have no opposition to you personally. Does it bother me that you've climbed beyond your means? It doesn't thrill me, obviously, but it hardly keeps me up at night."

"Then why—"

"Your happiness gives me… oh, about a month, maybe a year of news coverage," Rita said, smile falling away mid-calculation. "Possibly until your first child is born, but if your husband remains loyal to you, then what is there to say? Princess Hermione ages well, enjoys cheese and sunlit holidays on the beach, fulfills life aspirations and practices mindfulness along with daily yoga? Of course not," she scoffed. "If you're not pregnant or Draco hasn't strayed by this time next year, then the real work begins," Rita mused, as Hermione struggled to keep from doing something inadvisable; like, say, lighting her on fire. "Could Hermione Granger have infiltrated the monarchy to force her radical agenda?" Rita posed, salaciously adopting the exact voice Hermione might have used to mock her. "Is Hermione Granger a compulsive liar who deluded a family and ensnared her prince with falsehoods?"

Hermione blinked away the headline COLONIAL UPSTART STRANGLES JOURNALIST WITH PALACE DRAPES AT REHEARSAL DINNER and struggled to regain her composure.

"I won't let you do this," Hermione said tightly. "I'm smarter than you think I am."

"Oh, I hope so," Rita said. "I'd rather not have the ashes of another failed royal marriage on my hands, but if that's what it takes…" She trailed off, shrugging. "My kitchen could use some updating. Oh, and congratulations, by the way," she added, batting her false lashes at Hermione. "As of this morning, your book has me at the top of the bestseller list for the tenth consecutive week."

Then, to Hermione's disbelief, Rita gave a brilliant smile.

"Do enjoy your nuptials," she offered sweetly.

Hermione turned away, seething as she went.

"Hey," Draco said, half-jogging over to her and sweeping his hair from his forehead. He had all the markers of running late, cheeks flushed and hair not quite as slicked back as it usually was, breathless when he reached her. "Sorry, sorry," he exhaled, "the city is positively gridlocked—is everything alright?"

Just enjoy it, just enjoy it, just enj-

"We'll survive anything," Hermione forced out, swallowing, "won't we?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Narcissa's pale brow furrowing.

"What?" Draco asked, taking her shoulders and gesturing her aside. "Is everything—"

"Everything's fine," Hermione said quickly, breathing hard. Rage? Fury? Sadness? Desperation, maybe. It seemed marrying into this family meant none of this would ever end. She would constantly feel hunted down, judged, criticized, and as much as he was worth it, nobody would ever know the truth.

She wasn't hurt by Rita. She wasn't afraid of her, either. She wasn't even angry at Tracey.

She just understood for the first time that nobody, ever, would understand the truth about who she really was, or how deeply she loved, or how much it had cost her to make this choice, and that had knocked the wind out of her.

But it was Draco who helped her catch her breath, lifting her chin to meet her eye.

"Of course we'll survive anything," he assured her, touching her cheek. "I promised you a lifetime, didn't I?"

"Yes. I know. I know." Hermione tucked her face into his palm, closing her eyes. "I just—"

"You have nothing to worry about. Nothing to be afraid of. I'll prove it to you for the rest of my life." He pulled her in close, resting his chin on her head. "I love you," he promised her, and she sighed, going a little limp in his arms.

There were probably easier loves. Smaller ones, surely, but easier ones. Loves where she could say things like I can't do this, I'm not enough, this wasn't what I wanted.

But this love was the one she chose, and she would choose it again, over and over, whether Rita Skeeter threatened them or not.

"Is there any chance your father decided to show up?" she asked too-optimistically, curling her hands around his elbows.

She felt him shake his head.

"Oh," she said, regretting that that, too, would be yet another thing for Rita Skeeter to witness, but he pulled away, dismissing it with a shrug.

"Draco," interrupted a voice behind them, and they both jumped at the sudden appearance of his cousin Hortense. "Have you seen Narcissa?" she asked impatiently. "I followed the usual scent of gardenia and barely suppressed mania, but I'm afraid I've found myself empty-handed."

"No, no, that would be more of a jasmine," Thibaut corrected her, materializing on her other side. "You're thinking hysteria."

"Her name is Daphne, Thibaut, that one's her sister."

"I'm sure my mother's around here somewhere," Draco sighed as they continued to argue, nudging away from them and gesturing Hermione to the center of the room, where their friends, family, and a handful of extremely important strangers were currently sitting. "Come on, forget my father," he told her firmly. "We're here to celebrate our wedding, aren't we?"

Just enjoy it. Hermione managed a nod.

"Good. Then let's celebrate," he advised her, giving her hand a squeeze before leading her back to the dinner.

---

With Draco by her side, things were easier. She pushed Rita Skeeter out of her mind, trying to center herself in the moment. If anything was going to go wrong, it would be well into the future. For now, she simply had to worry about getting married, which she'd already practiced doing twice that week alone. The dress was finished, with even Daphne's fussy-perfectionist seal of approval, and was already waiting for her in her hotel suite. Everything, Hermione thought, was simply about getting from tonight to tomorrow.

One foot in front of the other. Just enjoy it. One step at a time.

She was relieved she didn't have to wait long for the evening to be at an end. Abraxas excused himself fairly early, bidding farewell to their guests with Draco following in his wake. The absence of the King of England meant the end of any event as far as most guests were concerned, so Hermione corralled her parents and sent them back to the hotel, promising to invite them up to her suite as soon as she'd returned.

She'd hoped for a moment with Blaise, who had done little but glance apprehensively at his cell phone all night, or at least talk with Pansy, who was usually helpful when it came to plotting against possible enemies, but by the time she'd left her parents, only Theo remained.

"Greengrass is just having a final chat with Winky about the details," he told her, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. Then, after a moment's pause, he added, "Knock, knock."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not Draco."

"Well, it was worth a try," he said, shrugging. "Everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's f-"

"Oh really, everything's fine?" he echoed, blatantly skeptical, and she sighed. "Did Rita Skeeter get to you?" he prompted, arching a brow. "You've looked a bit out of sorts all night. Conversely, last I saw her, she looked entirely too euphoric."

"Well, she's…" Hermione shook her head. "Nothing," she decided. "There's no point talking about it right now."

"Ah. Makes sense." Theo gave her a small smile, tipping her chin up with one finger. "You know, Cali," he mused, "you're marrying my best friend tomorrow."

"You married mine, didn't you?"

"Oh, I know," he assured her, "but I thought I'd put it in perspective for you."

She managed a smile, and he released her.

"There's nobody else for him, you know," Theo said. "All his life he just wanted someone to want him for who he was."

Her heart filled a little. "I know."

"And you really fell for him. Blond smuggery and all."

"Eh, there was some other stuff."

"Please, California, my virgin ears," scoffed Theo, and once she managed a laugh, he seemed to have accomplished his mission, gesturing her to the door. "Shall we?"

She swept a glance around the room, sorting out who was left. "Let me just say goodnight to Narcissa," she said, frowning. "Have you seen her?"

Theo shook his head.

"Go ahead," Hermione said. "I'll just say goodnight and meet you and Daph outside."

"Yes, Your Highness," Theo said with a wink, turning away and leaving Hermione to wander in search of the Princess of Wales.

"Narcissa?" she called, peeking into the corridor. "Are you here?"

She heard a muffled reply from around the corner, following it to one of the palace's ornate bathrooms.

"Narcissa," she said with a frown, nudging the door slightly ajar. "May I come in? I just wanted to say goodn-"

She cut herself off as Narcissa's face appeared in the doorway, startling her half a step backwards.

"Is anyone with you?" Narcissa asked bluntly, peering over Hermione's shoulder.

"Hm? No," Hermione said, frowning. "I was just—"

"Good."

Narcissa shoved the bathroom door open, yanking Hermione inside so sharply she stumbled.

"Holy… shirt balls, Narcissa, I just wanted t-"

She broke off, pulse quickening, and looked down at what Narcissa had been concealing behind the door.

"Narcissa," she croaked, and blinked. "What," she attempted again, and stopped.

From the floor, a tied-up Rita Skeeter—whose arms were bound with rope, Hermione registered with alarm, something that would be extremely difficult to procure unless one had access to, say, an abduction kit—sat on the marble floor, propped unconscious against the bathroom sink.

"Motherboarding hellforks, what did you do?" Hermione gasped, but like usual, Narcissa appeared to have neither the time nor patience to deal with her concerns, instead giving Hermione a look as if she were the one acting crazy.

"Someone," Narcissa said, "had to do something. I saw her threatening you." She picked up a roll of tape, roughly apportioning herself a piece. "She destroyed my marriage, Hermione. She ruined my life. Now she's going to do the same to yours? To Draco's? No. No, I don't think so," she said neutrally, tearing at the tape with her teeth.

"But…" Hermione stared down at Rita, entirely unsure what to do. "Narcissa, you can't just—"

"You might want to call a car," Narcissa interrupted coolly, bending down to place the strip of tape over Rita Skeeter's red mouth.

"What? Why—"

"Because," Narcissa said, expressionless. "Rita and I are going to take a little drive."

---

Well, Rita, what do you think now?

You wanted to see how I handled a problem, and… surprise!

As you can see, I've got one.

---

a/n: Sorry for last week's delay, but we're off and running. Reminder that Death of a Con Man (nottpott, background dramione, Anastasia AU) is currently posting in Amortentia. See you next week!