Chapter 42: Voice
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
The Promise of the Future
As Hermione prepares to marry Prince Draco, I am quite sure we can all confess to curiosity about how her story will end. How did a girl from a small town in California rise to prominence as the future wife of the world's most celebrated monarchy, and what does the future hold in store for whatever she does next? I suspect only Hermione herself knows. The world can only watch, and wait, and wonder, as the grandest Royal Wedding in recent memory takes shape before our very eyes, beckoning us to witness the spectacle that marks the culmination of Draco and Hermione's fairytale romance for our times.
Coincidentally, I'm coming to the end of my actual story now, or at least the end of the parts I already know. Which is mildly terrifying, seeing as whatever happens next has a very strong possibility of being disastrous. Calamitous, even, and that's not a word I use lightly.
Though, I guess before I keep going, I should probably explain how I got here, first.
May 18, 2018
Buckingham Palace
"Narcissa," Hermione said, trying very hard not to panic as she glanced between the Princess of Wales and the unconscious journalist at her feet. "You can't be serious."
In reply, Narcissa gave her the look Pansy typically used when she was telling Hermione not to make thoughtless comments, or to stop biting her nails.
"Are you going to help," Narcissa replied, bending to heft Rita upright with a shoulder beneath one of her loosely-tied arms, "or are you just going to stand there gawking?"
Under the circumstances, she hoped standing there gawking was a genuine option. "I—"
Nothing. The only thing that came to mind was that there had to be something shy of kidnapping; surely some other option existed on the table, aside from being an accessory to a highly questionable and very real crime. "Look," Hermione managed, "I'm sure if we just get someone from Palace security in here, or if we tell Dr-"
"Why, so I can be locked up again? Brilliant suggestion, Hermione," Narcissa replied, coolly brushing a loose hair from her cheek. "And what do you suppose Abraxas will do when he hears I've abducted a high profile journalist, hm?"
In fairness, Hermione wasn't aware Narcissa had any knowledge of what she was doing, and was unsure whether it was good news to discover that she had. "I'm sure that he would, um. Well, he's—" Hermione flailed a little mid-stammer, watching Narcissa wait impatiently for her to arrive at the inevitable conclusion.
Regrettably, none of the outcomes she spun in her panic were ideal. Regardless of what happened next, even Hermione could see that Narcissa would not walk away from this unscathed.
"Look, you just… you can't just do this!" Hermione stammered, a last attempt at clinging to what remained of the sanity in the room, and Narcissa straightened long enough to give her a scrutinizing glance.
"I do not require your assistance," Narcissa informed her, unfazed. "I'll not see my son's life ruined, nor watch his heart be broken over anything this woman does. If that means I'm punished for it, so be it," she said, with a little shrug of haute couture. "But believe me, Miss Granger, I will not allow you to stand in my way before I've done something to ensure his happiness."
She returned her attention to Rita, struggling to lift her up from beneath her right arm, while Hermione's mind unwillingly projected the scenarios that would follow. Surely Narcissa would be caught, one way or another, and if that were the case, Rita would surely skewer all of them in the press. (Unless Narcissa's plan was murder, in which case… nope, not even Hermione's mind would go there without misfiring.) Even with the best case scenario of a royal cover-up—MAD PRINCESS OF WALES flashed briefly behind Hermione's eyes before she hastily dismissed it, assuming massive amounts of bribery and/or extortion would precede any such PR disaster—Abraxas would never permit Narcissa loose from the royal family's handlers again. As far as Hermione could predict, Narcissa would be censured, trapped in her marriage and kept away from her son like she'd always been, and Draco would be devastated.
Worse, how could Draco possibly argue with the consequences after finally learning his father had been right about Narcissa all along?
Hermione groaned aloud and rushed to take Rita's other side, helping Narcissa drag her unconsciously to her feet. "Do you have any sort of plan?" Hermione hissed, and Narcissa, who was either genuinely unsurprised by Hermione's acquiescence or perfectly trained not to show it, didn't even bother with a sidelong glance.
"Yes," she said. "I told you. We're calling a car."
To Hermione's astonishment, Narcissa began walking without any further instruction, Hermione hurrying to follow as she continued holding up Rita Skeeter's left side. Rita's head lolled counterclockwise and then fell forward, her hair sticking briefly to Hermione's lipstick as she struggled to make her way through the bathroom door in Narcissa's wake. Either fortunately or unfortunately—Hermione couldn't tell whether the spasms she suffered near her intestines were due to disappointment or relief—the anticipated uproar at seeing the Princess of Wales supporting a tied-up Rita Skeeter had no visible effect on the security guards, all of whom Narcissa strolled past without hesitation.
"Your Royal Highness," said one of the guards near the doors, bowing as she approached him. "Do you require any assistance?"
"A car," Narcissa said. "We're craving a bit of fresh air."
Hermione marveled that Narcissa could lie (or not lie? Was that the plan?) so successfully the guard didn't blink, not even bothering to glance at Rita or Hermione. "Shall I request a driver for you as well, Your Highness?"
"Just the car, thank you."
Hermione blinked, twisting under Rita's weight to clumsily face Narcissa as the guard disappeared, ostensibly keen to obey. "Are you planning to drive somewhere in particular, Narcissa?"
"Me? Of course not," Narcissa replied. "I don't know how."
"But—"
"You're going to drive," Narcissa clarified.
Somewhere in the back of Hermione's brain, the word 'accessory' upgraded to 'accomplice' in the midst of their rapidly escalating felony trial.
"But—"
"You're going to have to make up your mind, Hermione," Narcissa informed her with a sniff of disdain, striding forward as one of the valets pulled a car around. "Either you plan to help or you don't."
"Your Highness?" asked the valet, opening the town car's back door. "You requested a car?"
"Yes, thank you," Narcissa said, sending him away with a flick of her wrist. He scurried off, evidently blind to the fact that two people, one considerably less conscious than the other, were currently being held against their will. "Well?" Narcissa prompted, gesturing Hermione to the vacant backseat.
Hermione grimaced, and then sighed, lowering Rita in through the open door before nearly colliding with Narcissa upon retreat.
"Wrong side," Narcissa observed with disapproval, arching a brow. "Eight years living in the United Kingdom and you still don't know where to sit?"
Hermione bit her tongue on the variety of reasons this was an absolutely maddening thing to say. "I've never even driven on this side of the road before!"
"Well, you're a clever girl, aren't you?" Narcissa remarked snidely, opening the passenger side door and taking her seat with enviable grace. "You'll figure it out."
Hermione fought yet another groan, hurrying to the other side of the car and climbing in. She had removed her phone from her purse to text something—what, she had no idea—to Draco, or to her parents, or to… someone, when Narcissa reached over, removing the cell phone from Hermione's hand.
"Narcissa, I was just going t-"
Without a word, Narcissa disposed of the phone by tossing it with a surprisingly impressive arm from the passenger side window, rolling it back up and then directing Hermione's attention to the steering wheel.
"But," Hermione sputtered, "I just have to tell someone where we're g-"
"Drive," Narcissa said.
"But—"
Behind them, Rita gave a small snort from where she was facedown in the car's leather seats. At the sound of her muffled groan, Hermione jumped, startled.
"Is she waking u-"
"Drive," Narcissa repeated.
Hermione started the car without another moment's hesitation, determining that the time to turn back was already well in the rearview.
"Jamie's fast asleep," Harry said, bounding down the stairs of Grimmauld Place to the informal sitting room on the first floor, which he and Pansy typically used when they were alone. "How's it going down here?"
Pansy gestured from the sofa to her feet. Blaise was sprawled on his back with his head propped on one of the cushions, sipping gin through some sort of coiled straw.
"About as expected," she said, and immediately turned a dull shade of chartreuse. "If you'll excuse me," she informed Harry with a nauseated look of grandeur, exiting the room with her usual grace and departing to the nearest toilet.
"You know," Harry remarked aloud, falling into the sofa where she had been and addressing the intruder on his floor, "you might have seen this coming."
Blaise replied with a disenchanted slurping sound from his straw.
"You're right," Harry said. "No need to take points, I'll see myself out."
Blaise fluttered a hand dismissively in answer and Harry chuckled, rising to his feet and meandering through the corridors to find Pansy emerging, unsettled, from one of the smaller bathrooms.
"It is," she said with a little gag of repulsion, "so much worse this time."
Harry paused to observe her in the low light from the corridor, half-smiling to himself. Her hair had fallen from its dramatic chignon, tumbling in haphazard waves in front of her face. It was always much curlier when she was pregnant, which she despised, but Harry found it charming. She was sporting one of her lovely post-vomit afterglows, cheeks flushed with a bit of sweat clinging to her forehead, and she'd half-unzipped her gown, leaving it loose around her waist.
"You," he told her, "are so fucking beautiful."
She gave him an exhausted look. "Shut up, Henry."
Two strides had her in his arms. Funny how that was all it took; the woman was prickly by nature, self-proclaimed difficult to love, and yet a few steps here and there whenever he wanted would manage it every time. Life was cheeky that way, playing games with all of them as it wished. Gratifyingly, the irony that was their marriage did not escape him.
When had he actually fallen in love with her? Somewhere between always and a moment very like this one, if he thought about it long enough. She'd had less 'morning' sickness with Jamie, but it had been a similar sensation of seeing her undone that had first alerted him to the truth: that he wanted to see all of her, in all her glorious indecencies, forever.
She leaned against his shoulder, collapsing just a little in his arms from exhaustion and probable dehydration, and bizarre as it was, he reveled in it. No one but him was allowed to see her this way, and he had earned that. If fighting for her love had been more difficult, then it had been more rewarding, too. He'd watched her pretend all evening her feet weren't hurting in her Louboutins, that her breasts weren't swollen and her back didn't ache, knowing she'd come home to him; that once they were alone, he would peel away all her layers of pretension to reach the hidden sweetness at her core, coveting it like a secret. As if he hadn't loved her enough just for being the mother of his daughter.
"If you'd like," he said, stroking her wild hair, "I can be the one to stay up with Blaise."
"Don't be ridiculous." She mocked him with a scoff, as if she weren't the one with her custom evening gown gaping open, slunk halfway down her waist. "You're no help at all, Henry, it'll have to be me. And what if Draco needs you?"
He stifled a laugh. "For what?"
"I don't know," she said. She softened for a moment, reaching up to parse her fingers through his hair. "Go to bed," she told him. "We'll be fine. You get terrible shadows under your eyes when you sleep insufficiently," she added, "and given the pomp and circumstance tomorrow, I simply won't stand for it."
She stroked his cheek, looking fond for half a second, and then gave him a firm directive to the stairs.
"One thing before I go," he said, pausing her, and she made an irrepressible sound of annoyance.
"What, Hen-"
He picked her up by the waist, carrying her back into the bathroom, and sat her roughly on the lip of the sink, bunching the fabric of her gown and ducking beneath it.
"Henry," she sighed, squirming a little as her back must have hit the faucet behind her. "I hardly think this is—"
The rest was lost to a sigh, as he knew it would be. If there was one thing he enjoyed most about Pansy's pregnancies, it was how positively insatiable she became. He slid his tongue beneath her underwear and caught the sound of her gasp somewhere above his head.
"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "Once, and then you're going to bed."
He slid out from under her dress, pressing a kiss to her unsuspecting lips and smiling his usual smile of satisfaction.
"Sure," he replied insincerely, and resumed his patronage of her knickers, sliding them down her legs and resolving to make sure he disobeyed at least twice with his head securely fastened between them.
Of all the things in Hermione's mind as she drove, only one was particularly useful.
Should things go wrong, Miss Granger, I want your assurance you will come to me.
It was time to call Prince Lucifer on his bluff.
At that time of night, the drive to Malfoy Manor was about two hours; manageable enough, if not for Hermione's fear that Rita might wake. She gave a few snorts and huffs, drifting in and out of her coma-like sleep and terrifying Hermione each time, while Narcissa did little outside of staring out the window.
"There," Narcissa said at one point, indicating Hermione's exit. Hermione gratefully accepted, turning left and glancing at Narcissa, whose expression remained unchanged.
"You know where I'm going?"
"I've been trapped there for years," Narcissa replied tightly. "I should think I know how to find my cage."
Hermione, despite her best efforts, hardly knew how to respond to that.
"Where were you planning to take her before I arrived?" she asked, unsure if she really wanted to know. At the moment, it felt close enough to casual conversation.
Narcissa shrugged. "Doesn't matter where, does it? I suppose the Manor is as good a place as any."
"Did you have a plan, or…?"
"Aside from repaying her in kind? Not particularly." Narcissa stared out the window, gazing into darkness. "I suppose you think that's mad."
Hermione hesitated.
"Actually," she said, "I'd be lying if I didn't say I'd considered it myself."
Narcissa turned to her, half-smirking. "Oh?"
"Well, I thought about lighting her on fire," Hermione clarified, and then, realizing who she was talking to, hastily added, "which we should not do, just to be clear—"
"Witches don't burn," Narcissa said.
Hermione started to laugh, and then stopped herself.
Narcissa slid a glance at her, rolling her eyes.
"You're too high strung," she said.
Hermione didn't point out that was probably because there was a woman passed out in the backseat of a car she may or may not have stolen but either way, was definitely driving without a valid license or insurance.
"If you know where we're going, then I assume you know Lucif- Prince Lucius is going to be there," she said, deciding it was better to broach the subject now than to wait and see what happened when they arrived. "What are you going to do if he tells King Abraxas?"
In the following moments, Hermione observed two things. One was what Narcissa said aloud, which was, "I think it's fairly obvious he owes me enough to keep his mouth shut." A fairly straightforward answer, considering the source.
The other thing, however, was the look on Narcissa's face, which Hermione had recognized before and was finally able to place. It was the look she'd seen Narcissa give in private at least twice when she was looking at her husband; specifically, a look of longing, which was quickly obscured by something else, by nothing. Smoothed out and replaced, with only a moment's blemish to let Hermione believe something else had ever occupied it.
It occurred to Hermione that this might have been what Narcissa wanted all along: her husband's attention. Was it possible that this was all an elaborate cry for help?
Not that she had long to wonder.
Over the years, Hermione had learned to recognize the importance of symbolism in the British royal family. For example, she had learned that when Draco traveled, his presence at a royal residence was usually signified by his Royal Standard; a version of his father's with four quadrants, the most prominent of which featured a green snake on a silver field. Draco's also had a raven from the Black family crest, an homage to his mother. Lucius, as the heir to the throne, had a far grander Standard, with a Prince's coronet in the center. It was easily recognizable; even from afar, and even to Hermione.
And it was especially easy to see when it was absent.
They had scarcely pulled into the private road when Hermione noticed the Union Flag in place of the Prince of Wales' Standard, stomach twisting as she registered that Lucius was not, in fact, in residence.
"Maybe he just didn't want the press to know he wasn't in London for the wedding," Hermione hurried to say, turning to Narcissa, but it was already too late. A little glint of mania flashed from Narcissa's blue eyes, sparking to undeniable fury.
"Well, that was Helen and David," Daphne said, hanging up the phone and rejoining Theo in their bed, frowning to herself. "I guess Hermione told them she would call after dinner, but they haven't heard from her. I rang her myself, and nothing."
Theo's brow creased in thought. "Nothing?"
"Nothing," Daphne confirmed, and the thought gave her an inexplicable wave of panic. "You don't think—"
"No, I don't," Theo said, correctly assuming the trajectory her usual neuroses had taken. "Is everyone so sure she's already back at the Goring? We didn't see her leave the Palace."
"I suppose that's true," Daphne sighed, and then caught the expression on his face. "What?"
"Hm?"
"Nott," she warned under her breath. "You're making that face like you know something."
"Me?" he scoffed. "I've never known anything in my entire life, Greengrass. I thought for sure you'd be the first to attest to that."
"Nott," Daphne repeated, concerned, "if something's wrong—"
"What could be wrong that you could possibly fix?" he retorted, shrugging. "The woman has a village's worth of bodyguards."
"Who, Hermione?"
"No, I meant—well, yes," Theo said. "Doesn't she? Anyway, if it'll make you feel better, I'm sure we can inform Dobby or Winky, but I highly doubt there's anything you can do."
Daphne reached for her phone, sending a message to Winky. They had already been in almost constant contact over the past few weeks; what was one mysterious 'Hermione is missing' among the thousands of texts about the dress?
"Still," Daphne said when she was finished, reaching to set her phone back down, "I'm just not sure if I sh-"
Theo cut her off with a needy kiss; the grabby kind, with both hands in her hair, clinging to the sides of her face. Daphne, surprised, let the phone fall just shy of the nightstand, ignoring it when it clattered to the floor. From the bed near the fireplace, dog-Prince Lucius looked up briefly, then yawned, returning to the ball he'd curled into with a loud, melancholy sigh while Daphne returned Theo's kiss, breathless.
"What was that for?" Daphne asked when they parted, running her thumb over the bones of his cheek.
"Eh, nothing," he said. He'd twisted over her somehow, pressed up against her like they were the same pair of idiots they used to be, still desperate for each other after so many years in denial. "Just thought you needed to get out of your head a bit."
"Did I?" she asked dizzily, and he nodded.
"That," Theo said, "or perhaps the prospect of Draco's wedding is making me a bit emotional."
Daphne swept a glance over him where he was propped on his elbows above her, shirtless with one leg slipped between hers. "This is you being emotional?"
"Well, I was channeling it into something productive," he said, nipping haughtily at her jaw. "I suppose for a moment I envisioned a world where I didn't have you, and it made me a bit… disgruntled."
"It appears I should disgruntle you more often," Daphne said approvingly, letting him kiss her neck.
Theo paused, leaning away to look at her.
"Would you have done anything differently?" he asked. "Knowing how our story ends. Does that change anything?"
Daphne traced the shape of his dark brows with the tip of her finger, contemplating him.
"Feeling nostalgic, Nott?" she asked.
"Just curious, I suppose."
He kissed her finger, and she sighed.
"You know, I don't think you'll want to hear it," she admitted, "but I don't actually think I'd do anything differently. Even if it means having you sooner, I don't think so." She pressed the pad of her thumb into his cheek, affectionately molding him beneath her fingers. "I might not have learned to value you," she reminded him. "We might have dated and broken up, stumbled around, toxifying our dependence on each other. You needed Fleur, and I needed to be alone. We might have never figured out who we were apart before choosing each other."
She leaned forward to kiss his brows, his temples, the corner of his half-smiling mouth.
"I might have needed you more than I loved you," she murmured to his lips, "and I think that would have been a terrible mistake."
Theo tightened his arms around her. "So even though I always knew it was you," he said, loftily mocking her. "You'd still do everything the same, knowing how it ends?"
She rolled over him in the bed, letting her hair fall in a curtain around his face before she kissed him.
"Who says this is where it ends?" she said, straddling his hips and catching the sound of his indelible laughter on her tongue.
Hermione had scarcely finished tying a drowsily waking Rita to one of the Green Room's high-backed chairs before Narcissa was halfway through a glass bottle of transparent liquid, which Hermione was certain was not water. Narcissa stumbled, accidentally (or perhaps not) slapping Rita's cheek as some of the liquid sloshed onto Rita's dress.
"Good, you're up," Narcissa declared with half a laugh. Hermione, upon noticing that the Princess of Wales was not exactly her best self once she discovered Lucius' absence, had clearly been correct in her hasty warning to the house's staff to stay away, claiming Narcissa needed her rest.
The bottle fell from Narcissa's hand, shattering to the floor beside Rita's chair as she and Hermione both jumped, startled. Narcissa, however, merely laughed, picking up another glass bottle (dark liquid this time) and proceeding to fall backwards against the sofa. The liquid, probably whisky, spilled onto the emerald Edwardian sofa cushions, and after a moment's frown, Narcissa leaned over, pouring a shot's worth of alcohol into a spiral pattern on the rug. "There," she said triumphantly, raising the bottle back to her lips. "Always hated that rug."
"Narcissa," Hermione said, hoping nobody else in the house had heard the shattering of glass and stepping carefully over it. "Listen, we should really talk ab-"
"I bet he's fucking her right now," Narcissa said, a throaty-something that was too ominous to be a laugh escaping from her lips. "My sister, she's a… what's the word?"
She glanced expectantly at Hermione.
"Seductress?" Hermione guessed optimistically.
"Whore," Narcissa corrected with a grimace, pouring a little more of her whisky into the floorboards. "She always has been. That was her way to get Mother's approval, you know, being… popular. Easy to do, the way she did it," Narcissa said, and hiccuped, kicking off her shoes and rising to her bare feet as Hermione glanced at Rita, who was staring narrow-eyed around the room with confusion.
"You know," Hermione said, carefully steering Narcissa away from the broken glass on the floor, "maybe we should go somewhere else. To a different room, maybe—"
"No, let her hear it," Narcissa said, waving a hand to Rita and shrugging so wildly she nearly dropped the second bottle. "She almost had it right, you know. Did you know that?" she asked, directing the question at Rita. "You have it right, you awful witch. You're terrible," she accused, brandishing the bottle at Rita's face, "but you're not stupid. You're just… the worst."
She swayed slightly, and Hermione caught her arm.
"Narcissa, I don't think—"
"The truth is I knew," Narcissa said, collapsing in a heap on the floor and taking Hermione down with her. "I knew he loved her," she clarified, turning a bleary glance to Hermione. "I'm not stupid, you know. Rita and I," she said with another hiccup, "are not stupid."
Narcissa pointed to Rita, offering her the bottle. "Want?"
Rita made a muffled sound through the tape across her lips.
"Well, you can't have any," Narcissa said, changing her mind and sipping from the bottle herself before turning back to Hermione. "As I was saying," she continued, as Rita made another series of outraged sounds, "I knew h-" Another hiccup. "His father was never going to ap-" Hiccup, followed by a pause. Narcissa held her breath for several seconds, then exhaled. "His father was never going to approve of Bellatr-" Another hiccup, and then a loud, sweary shout of, "CUNTS."
She took a long sip from the bottle, shaking her head.
"Abraxas was never going to choose Bellatrix," Narcissa managed, turning her attention back to Hermione. "She was… you know what she liked? She had sex, is what she liked. Sex." Another hiccup. "Loads of it."
"Narcissa," Hermione said, growing a bit concerned that Rita was clearly listening. "Are you sure you want t-"
"I was a bloody virgin," Narcissa continued, ignoring her. "Regret that more than anything, really. I thought, men like virgins, right? Easy. But… no. Nope." She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "Whatever tricks Bella had, he wanted them. He still wanted them. Wants them." Abruptly, she stopped, her eyes filling with tears. "Don't listen to them," she said, turning to Hermione again and blinking them back. "It doesn't matter if you look right, look the part. Doesn't matter what you look like at all." She shook her head, returning the bottle to her lips. "If he doesn't want you, you can't change his mind."
Hermione winced. "Narcissa—"
"They're mostly gay, you know. My alleged adultery accomplices," she said in a mocking tone to Rita, who had probably coined the term. "They're gay. Don't print that," she added with a jab of her finger, pursing her lips. "Or do," she sniffed, "seeing as their horrible wives know anyway. Do you know how many times I tried to sleep with someone who wasn't Lucius?" she scoffed tangentially, turning back to Hermione. "I may have managed it a couple of times, but it doesn't matter, they don't taste like him." She shook her head, raising the bottle back to her lips. "None of them taste like him."
She sobered for a moment. Not literally, but just enough for Hermione to think she could gently remove the bottle from her hand.
Not so. Narcissa slapped Hermione's knuckles, giving her a warning look.
"I caught him in bed with her," Narcissa growled, yanking the bottle close to her chest. "I saw him with her, and somehow, I still don't know whether I hate him or want him. I just want to be away from him," she snapped, incensed all over again. "Maybe if I get away, he'll stop—" She broke off, swallowing, and glanced down at the bottle. "Disappointing me," she finished, her voice small and thin.
"Narcissa." Hermione slid closer, watching Narcissa flinch away. "I just… I think we should put this away," she said, reaching for the bottle, "and if you want to talk, I'm happy to list-"
Narcissa cut her off, rising to her feet and stumbling forward, the bottle raised to her lips again as she wandered over to the window; the same window, Hermione realized, where she had been watching Draco during the birthday party where they'd first met.
Hermione winced, watching her go, and accidentally met Rita's eye as her attention shifted.
To her dismay, even beneath the tape, she could see that Rita Skeeter was smiling.
It was with a mix of feelings that Draco wandered through Clarence House toward his rooms, striding past his father's empty office after parting with his grandfather. He lamented not seeing Hermione off, or better yet, changing his mind entirely and suggesting she scrap the silly concept of a premarital night alone. Unfortunately, she'd made it clear they ought to do one thing traditionally, if only because it was logistically simpler. He smiled to himself at the thought of something so quintessentially her, then felt a little unexpected burst of sadness, or possibly nostalgia. He paused in the corridor and glanced around the house where, tomorrow, he would no longer live, and probably no longer be welcome.
A little tightness filled his throat and Draco leaned his head against the wall, contemplating better things. Brighter things. Like Hermione in a wedding dress, taking his hand, the two of them finally a team. In private, his grandfather had hinted that evening at the gifts he would save for tomorrow; a new title, a new house. True, there would also be a new batch of international tours to politicize the marriage and use the positive press to their advantage, but that was a small cost, little more than minutiae. Draco thought of all the nights he'd spent alone, the countless hands he'd shaken while waiting for his mobile phone to buzz in his pocket with a message from her. He thought of the times he'd almost lost her and considered replacing them, rewinding the sequence of events and recording over them with memories of her laugh, the smell of her hair, the way she felt beside him in bed, but at the last second, he opted not to. Better that he never forgot the way life had dulled without her. It was one way to secure himself in the knowledge he'd never take her for granted again.
He slid his phone from his pocket, checking to see if she'd replied to his message wishing her goodnight. She hadn't, but that didn't mean much. She was busy, most likely, having agreed to spend the rest of the evening with David and Helen. He hardly needed to intrude on that.
He did, however, have a message from Dobby. Miss Granger has not yet left the Palace, it said, and Draco frowned, about to send a questioning reply when he heard a small, throat-clearing cough.
He looked up to find his father standing in the corridor, wearing his usual travel suit. A man beholden to the dominance of habit, the Prince of Wales. Always highly predictable until he wasn't.
"You'll have to forgive me my tardiness," Lucius said. "I'm afraid it took longer than I had hoped to come to my senses."
Draco pushed himself upright from the wall, facing his father, and contemplated what to say.
When nothing arrived, Lucius spoke for him.
"You have to understand," Lucius said, approaching Draco with one hand in the pocket of his tweed blazer, "I worry about you."
"Father," Draco sighed, disappointed already. "If this is about Herm-"
"No, no, it isn't," Lucius said, cutting him off with a shake of his head. "For once, Draco, this is about you and me. About me," he corrected himself, adding a small grimace. "I admit that I haven't always been a role model for you, and not everything I've done has been… easily explained."
Draco waited, sliding his phone back into his pocket and saying nothing. It was a tacit indication that he was listening, which was all he felt his father really deserved at the moment.
"I love your mother," Lucius said, and when Draco reflexively opened his mouth to argue, Lucius cut him off with, "Listen to me, please. I have loved her irresponsibly, carelessly. Cruelly, at times. Condemn my actions if you wish, but don't belittle my truths," he cautioned, and when Draco conceded to listen, Lucius' mouth set itself in a grim line. "I love her, and I loved Bellatrix. I wanted badly for Bellatrix to have loved me—though, if she did, then perhaps that's where my deficiencies take root. I was young when I met her," he reminded Draco. "Young, enraptured, careless. I was astounded by her, by her intelligence, and by the way she was my opposite—so defiantly in rebellion, refusing to be contained."
He paused, grey eyes meeting Draco's, and said, "But if I learned anything about love, real love, then it was from your mother. Because she did it unselfishly. She loved me when I didn't deserve it. She did everything I asked of her, rose above all my expectations for her, and when she needed me, I didn't listen." He swallowed, briefly tormented. "I have betrayed her a thousand times, a thousand ways, and there is no apology I can make that will heal the wrong I've done; but I've always thought the least I could do for her was to protect the thing she loves most—you."
Draco blinked, surprised.
"I thought Hermione would be like Bellatrix," Lucius explained. "Impossible to please, always forcing you to turn your back on what you love, relentlessly challenging you until you become some other, more twisted version of yourself. The version of yourself who harms those around you." A deep breath, and then, "But I should have known that your story and mine were not the same. Your life is not mine to rule, nor your choices mine to make. Hermione has all of Bellatrix's fierceness with the ardor of your mother's loyalty, and even if she did not—"
Lucius broke off, reaching out to place a hand on Draco's shoulder.
"Even if she did not," he said, his voice softening more than Draco could remember having heard it, "I have a son who is steadfast and determined, honorable and brave. If I have asked too much of you, it is only for knowing I have a son who makes a far better man than his father—which is something I have tried so desperately and failed to be. Whatever Hermione really is, and however she chooses to love you," Lucius finished, "it makes no difference. She is your choice, and that is all I need to know. I would be a fool not to trust your judgment."
Draco bent his head, bringing one hand to his mouth in silent contemplation.
They were politicians, but still. It was rare they spoke things so effectively to one another.
"You missed dinner," Draco managed to say, voice breaking, and felt the low vibration of his father's laugh.
"I know, and I do apologize. Traffic entering the city was a nightmare."
Draco nodded, still eyeing his shoes.
After a moment, Lucius cleared his throat again, addressing the silence.
"You should sleep," Lucius advised. "Tomorrow will be a long day."
It was Draco's turn to speak again, he knew, but he couldn't quite conjure anything to say.
"There will be plenty of time for us to talk tomorrow," Lucius said, answering for him. "And if not then, then the day after, or some time after that. I will not be going anywhere."
Draco lifted his eyes gratefully, nodding in reply, and Lucius' hand tightened on his shoulder.
"Sleep well, Draco."
"Goodnight, Father," he replied, resting a hand briefly over Lucius' knuckles, and then he pivoted away, the house suddenly filling with warmth as he went.
"Do you remember what I told you?" Narcissa asked Hermione. She was lounging half-upside down in one of the armchairs, leisurely eyeing the ceiling with one eye closed. "When we met, and you were telling me about that article you planned to write?"
Hermione glanced at Rita, who appeared to be mentally jotting everything down.
"Yes," Hermione admitted, and she did. You can't have a voice, you foolish girl, and certainly not a critical one. You can only have the voice they give you, and believe me, silence would be just as good. "I remember." She scarcely, if ever, forgot.
"Good," Narcissa said, suddenly struggling to lift her head from the chair. "They'll break you eventually, you know. Oh, she'll make it worse," she added, glaring blearily at Rita, "but the thing you'll hate most is you'll always find a reason to let them do it. For me it was jewels, gowns, prestige—the prospect of my mother finally having to admit I was better than her favorite," Narcissa spat, venomously splashing more liquid onto her dress. "For you it's Draco, and possibly you find that noble," she judged with a scoff, "but it doesn't really matter what it is, does it? Love anything in excess and it will corrupt you eventually."
Narcissa rose to her feet, meandering around the perimeter of the room with clumsy, barefoot steps that looked, from afar, like an exotic, troubling dance.
Hermione, noticing that Rita's look of devilish enjoyment had only intensified, crept forward, peeling the tape from her mouth.
"Well," Rita said, wincing as the adhesive pulled free before returning to her prior amusement, "this is… enlightening, to say the least."
Hermione hushed her, glancing over her shoulder to be sure Narcissa wasn't paying attention before giving Rita the most threatening glance she could manage. "What will it take to shut you up?"
"Oh, my dear," Rita said with a darkened laugh, "we are so beyond bribery at this point. You think I can be paid to be silent after this?" she demanded, gesturing to where her arms and legs had been bound. "The Princess of Wales lured me into captivity, restrained me, kidnapped me—and then, with the help of her future daughter-in-law, attempted to silence me, as if there were possibly a price high enough after everything I just heard? You absolute fucking fool," Rita snapped, her true colors finally revealing themselves within the depths of the too-long night. "I will destroy you. I'll destroy this whole family. I'll start by making sure your wedding never takes place, and th-"
Hermione quickly shoved the tape back over Rita's mouth, rising to her feet with a grimace. That was about what she expected, and she paced for a moment in distress before remembering one of the Manor's most antiquated features.
The prehistoric landline, which was carefully framed by Georgian architecture on the wall.
Hermione checked that Narcissa was still distracted—she was, having begun to play a surprisingly lovely melody on the piano—before darting over to the phone, dialing the first number she could recall (a miracle in itself; thank god for Flint and his zealous abduction training).
Two rings, three. Hermione kicked herself as she glanced at the clock. Surely at this hour no one would be aw-
"Hello?"
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Pans, listen, I—"
"Hermione. Listen to me carefully," came Pansy's measured voice. "You are not, under any circumstances, to interrupt my sleeping patterns, nor are you t-"
"I need something," Hermione interrupted. "Can you help me?"
"I feel as if I'm not being clear, which is of course preposterous. What could you possibly need at this hour?"
"Oh, just a favor," Hermione said weakly. "But it'll have to be you."
"Hermione, may I remind you that for one more night, you do not outrank me, and while I applaud your instincts I must nevertheless ins-"
"Narcissa kidnapped Rita Skeeter," Hermione said, deciding expediency was her most practical option. "I'm at Malfoy Manor and she's spilling all her secrets, and Rita's threatening to destroy both of us and the entire royal family the moment we let her go."
There was a long, silent pause.
"Well," Pansy sighed. "You might have said so to begin with."
"Help me," Hermione hissed, as Narcissa banged loudly on the piano's keys, startling Rita so abruptly she nearly toppled to the side where she was bound in her chair. "I came here to find Prince Lucifer, but he's not here."
"He's not? Where on earth is he?"
"I don't know, but I need you to find him and bring him," Hermione pleaded desperately. "I think at this point he's the only one who can calm Narcissa down."
Pansy considered it. "That's either a terrible lapse of judgment on your part or a very correct assertion," she murmured to herself, not bothering to confirm where her suspicions fell. "What did Draco say?"
Hermione hesitated. "I… haven't told him."
Another dull pause.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I called you first, Pans!"
"What," Pansy exhaled, "could possibl-"
"This is his mother we're talking about," Hermione reminded her, pained. "Even if he could help, I don't want him to see her like this. I—" She broke off, glancing again at Narcissa, who had abandoned the piano in favor of taunting Rita, offering her the bottle of alcohol and then snatching it away with a laugh. "I just can't," she slid between her teeth, and Pansy sighed.
"Well, even if I do handle this for you, I'll still have to say something to Draco," she warned. "I'm going to have to get in touch with him, Hermione, and that's non-negotiable."
"Just—" Hermione considered it, dizzied by the prospect of how to condense all of this into a single message. "Tell him… tell him I'll see him tomorrow. No," she amended, observing as Narcissa began plucking books from the decorative bookshelf and tossing them over her shoulder, "just send him this, verbatim: Odysseus, I'll be there when you arrive."
She could practically hear Pansy frowning through the phone. "Is that an Abba lyric?"
"Pans!"
"Right, yes, fine. Though, one thing," she said, and Hermione winced, recognizing the sound of Pansy's forthcoming instruction, which was a tone that typically did not leave room for argument. "You need to leave."
"What?" Hermione demanded. "I can't just—"
"If you want to marry Draco tomorrow, you need to go," Pansy said firmly. "Whatever happens next will be a scandal, Hermione, and you'll need to get as far away from it as possible."
"But—"
"Go back to the Goring. I'll send my own staff to sneak you in if that's what it takes, but you have to leave, and you have to go now," Pansy repeated. "I will take care of the situation myself when I arrive. Do you understand?"
The prospect of relinquishing control was never Hermione's favorite thing. "Pans, I really don't think—"
"In eight years, have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?" Pansy interrupted.
"I—" Hermione grimaced, chewing her lip. "No."
"Have I ever let you down?"
"No."
"And have I ever given you any indication that anyone else's happiness is more important to me than yours and Draco's?"
Hermione wanted terribly to argue, but conceded, "No."
"Then go," Pansy said. "I'll be there soon."
Then she hung up, leaving Hermione to watch Narcissa collapse onto the emerald green sofa. Her perfectly manicured fingertips grazed the whisky-soaked carpet as she hummed out a girlish sigh of exhaustion, finally falling asleep.
"Where are you going?" Blaise asked groggily, lifting his head from the toilet. Pansy, who had been doubled-over above the sink when she answered Hermione's call, turned to give him a bleary look of displeasure.
"You're not going to remember that this happened, are you?" she asked him, struggling not to sink back to the floor. "I will literally have you beheaded if you tell anyone what you saw from me tonight."
Blaise shrugged. "I will almost certainly remember nothing beyond dinner," he informed her with a salute. "Twenty points to my memory for being a conveniently flighty hound."
"You," Pansy reminded him gruffly, "are going to have to deal with this mess eventually."
"Which mess?" Blaise asked, retching quietly in a way that prompted Pansy to gag, fumbling with the screen of her phone to reach Harry's contacts at the Palace. "The time I fucked up my life and the lives of everyone around me, or the time I was briefly convinced I could successfully wear salmon? Be specific."
His Royal Highness arrived at Clarence House late this evening, came the reply, and Pansy gave a brief sigh of relief, returning her attention to Blaise.
"You messed up," she informed him. "Get your house in order, Zabini."
He lifted his head, squinting at her. The bottle of gin beside him was long empty.
"How, exactly?"
"I have no idea," she assured him, and he nodded.
"Twenty thousand points," he told her.
"For what?"
"Existing," he replied.
"Marvelous," she said, holding up her phone. "Say it again?"
"I think," Blaise mused, "maybe it would be best if I just married Hortense. Or," he amended spiritedly, "alternatively, if I simply flung myself into the sun."
"Not that," Pansy said. "The bit about points."
"Hm? Oh yes," Blaise said. "Twenty thousand points."
"To whom?"
"To the Duchess of Grimmauld," he declared, lifting his empty bottle and toasting her before letting it collide with his teeth, "for pure panache."
"Wonderful," Pansy said, hitting stop on the recording and placing the phone back in the pocket of what she regretfully acknowledged were trousers designed for leisure. Hatefully, Hermione had invaded her life in more ways than one. "I'll be back tomorrow at some point. Tell Henry to plait Jamie's hair in the morning," she added, "so it's not a hopeless mess before she arrives at the Abbey."
"Henry?" Blaise echoed. "He braids?"
"Yes," Pansy said. "He has very deft fingers. Excellent fine motor skills."
"I knew it," said Blaise, approving.
"Yes," Pansy agreed, turning to leave.
"Thirty thousand points to Prince Harry," Blaise called after her, and Pansy paused.
"That doesn't count," she said, "does it?"
"Hm?" Blaise said, slowly melting until he lay face down on the floor.
She considered it, then shrugged, heading quickly out the door and making a call as she hurried to Clarence House.
To her relief, Lucius was already waiting for her when she arrived. "How bad is i-"
He broke off, frowning.
"I've never seen you like this," he remarked, pausing (regrettably) to observe her recreational hippie-trousers and the sweater Daphne had forgotten once in her room about nine years ago, the victim of a particularly noteworthy tryst.
"You look… ill," Lucius added suspiciously, and Pansy sighed.
"Yes, I know, I'm feeling a bit under the w-"
"You're pregnant," Lucius guessed, sounding unexpectedly pleased with his detective work, and before Pansy could argue, he said, "It's unmistakable. Narcissa looked precisely the same way when she was carrying Draco," he remarked, shaking his head with something that might have been nostalgia as he beckoned her to the car. "Speaking of my wife, have you heard anything new?"
Pansy blinked, a little trapped in one of her wandering thoughts, and then rushed to follow in his wake.
"No, Sir," she said. "Only that she and Rita are at Malfoy Manor."
Lucius nodded grimly, opening the passenger door. "We'd better go alone, then," he said, dismissing his valet and ushering her inside. "Thank you for coming to me," he added.
"It was Hermione's request," Pansy said, but could hardly focus. She pulled out her phone, selecting Harry's name and struggling to type amid her demonically racing thoughts.
Don't worry about me if you wake up and I'm not there, she said. Just taking care of something for Hermione. I'll explain in the morning.
She paused, thinking for a moment as Lucius started the car.
Henry, I think it's a boy.
I suppose that's foolish of me to say, she amended, heart fluttering, but even so, I think we're having a boy.
Then, conclusively,
I love you.
Then she tucked her phone in her pocket, painting on a mask of emotionless calm as Lucius fixed his attention on the road before him.
The sky was already beginning to lighten by the time Hermione set out from the Manor, making her way back to London. So much for a good night's sleep, she thought grimly, stifling a yawn as she pulled out of the private road and back into time and civilization. She doubted she would need help staying awake for the rest of the drive; adrenaline or something like it—stress, probably—coursed through her limbs, buzzing alongside her pulse.
Could everything she had built over the last near-decade really fall apart in a single night?
After about an hour of driving, the sun slowly peeking up over the rolling hills of the English countryside, the subtle vibration of fear started to fade from Hermione's thoughts, just enough for other things to process. There was only so long she could replay the worst case scenarios in her mind; instead, the silence began to appeal to her, and unlikely as it was, her mind treated her to the first real moments of peace she'd had in weeks, possibly months.
Maybe even years.
Hermione realized it was the first time she had been alone—truly alone, rather than caught in a place of temporary seclusion between comings and goings—in ages, and it occurred to her with a little tingle of surprise that it was also, perhaps, the last time she would be alone for quite a while. Was it luxury, the peace that came with solitude? Were moments like this, which were impossible in the life she'd chosen, the real reward for human existence?
It popped into her head that she could take this car anywhere she wanted. It didn't have to be London, or the Goring, or Westminster Abbey or Buckingham Palace or anywhere else under the watch of the London Eye. Once she arrived back where she'd been, the future was out of her hands. Marriage or no marriage, it would belong to someone else once she returned. From now until forever, it would always be someone else's job to tell her story.
The thought deflated her, depressed her. The idea of disappearing became enormously appealing, even tantalizing. She could rent a tiny flat in Rome instead, learning to make pasta and spending her days looking at art. She could adventure in the Amazon, getting lost in the canopy of trees. Okay, so practically speaking she could no longer expect to return to true anonymity, but there were still a million versions of her life that were less cinematic, less accursedly grand than the one she was in. She could do a better job of teaching literature than Horace Slughorn, couldn't she? She could certainly write a more worthy book than Gilderoy Lockhart. She could reinvent herself whenever she liked, as often as she wished to, if she made any other choice but the one she was choosing. She could leave the mania of the Prince and Princess of Wales behind her and slip into obscurity, living a pleasantly boring life as a village witch deep in the woods.
Inevitably, Draco crept back into her thoughts in flashes, little sunspots of memory. She saw him sprawled out with her on the Nott Manor lawn, pulling her in for a kiss. In his Batman mask, dancing for the first time in his life like he had nowhere to be and no one to please. In his most princely suit, facing a nation who respected him, supported him, revered him. She saw him in the future, in his grandfather's insignia while wearing his grandfather's crown, and thought of the song God Save the King, knowing that for him, she would gladly sing every word of it until the air in her lungs gave out.
By the time she reached the outskirts of London, she felt a mix of sadness and exuberance; some sensation that was part melancholy, part joy, all of it still shivering beneath a looming blanket of dread. She was leaving the past behind her, moving forward. What that would be, she had no idea. She was beginning to surrender, however unhappily, to the idea that she might never know. It was a strange thing, faith. Incalculable and unpredictable and probably doomed to destroy her marriage (via Rita Skeeter, anyway), so was it really still worth doing? Worth believing? Even if it meant she'd never have another moment like this one, driving alone into the city that had just begun to open its tired eyes?
Hermione gave herself a few lurid beats of time to indulge her own hesitancy, her teetering of mistrust in her future, thinking that surely there was something she could do to uncloud her mind, or un-obscure her judgment. Even if she deserved nothing else for her mistakes, she wanted to possess a moment she didn't need to share with anyone; a brief period of wondering if maybe everything she'd done and felt had led, in some way, to something she could try to believe in.
She pulled into the Goring's private entrance and stepped out of the car, taking a long, deep breath of uncertainty and inviting it, whatever came next, to ravage her or redeem her, whatever it chose to do, so long as she could have this one moment of absolute, uncontested truth.
Maybe there was something she could do to make it last.
Blaise woke to a little nudge from someone's foot, opening his eyes to find that the room, whatever room it was that was not his bedroom, was spinning.
"Oi," Harry said, holding baby Jamie in his arms. "What's this?"
"What's this," echoed Jamie, who had her head tilted in a perfect imitation of her father. She wore a meticulous crown of plaits above her disapproving expression, and she looked, for a very unsettling moment, exactly like Pansy.
Blaise struggled to sit up, and then rapidly abandoned the effort.
"I need a minute," Blaise managed, trying to draw moisture to his mouth, and Harry shrugged.
"Breakfast in fifteen," he advised, turning to Jamie. "What shall we make for Uncle Blaise, sweetheart?"
"Ice cream," she said, and then, after another moment's contemplation, "Tacos."
"Good idea," Harry trumpeted with approval, stepping over Blaise's leg and heading into the corridor as Blaise called out something in incoherent gratitude—"Points," he managed, waving his hand ambiguously—and fished around beside him, looking for his phone.
He took hold of it and propped it up, checking the time overhead. It was nearly seven, though it felt far more ungodly an hour than that, and he slid open the screen, checking the damage.
There were fourteen calls to Tracey, no surprise there. He was pleased to note he hadn't appeared to have left any voicemails, and she clearly hadn't rung back. He sighed with relief, opening his messages, and then bolted upright at the sight of the one he'd sent, suffering the immediate retribution of a loud, ear-ringing wave of nausea.
need to talk it's impRtant you bloody ducking bastard fcuk fCk ducking shut i love you i hate y
Below his incoherent message, much to his dismay, was a response.
Meet you at the usual pub in Diagon. Eight o'clock.
Blaise swore aloud, pressing his fingertips to his throbbing temples.
By the way, Neville had said, concluding sometime around two in the morning, if you decide to bail, it doesn't matter, I'll come to you. I'm done with running.
You're right, Blaise. It's been long enough.
I guess this brings me… pretty much to the present. I mean sure, as we speak, I am definitely waiting to hear from Pansy about Rita and Narcissa, and if I'm being honest, then yes, I have spent the last couple of hours hiding from everyone and ignoring the calls to my room while scribbling furiously to get this whole story out. I think Daphne was right about journaling, in the end. Sure, I'm writing to no one and therefore the 'you' I'm addressing isn't actually real (and, as far as I know, you're not going to come to life and possess me), but at least I got it out of my system. At least now that I've laid everything out, I can finally understand how I got here. Maybe I can finally appreciate how far I've come.
Even if it's all about to burn to the ground, metaphorically speaking.
I'll admit, when I started writing this I was full of doom and gloom, sitting in my wedding dress like some kind of frizzy Miss Havisham and lamenting the possible loss of my future. Now that I've worked through everything, though, it's starting to look a little bit clearer. True, I have no forking idea if this wedding is even going to take place, and yes, I'm scared, and sure, I have no clue what's coming—but hey, isn't this book proof I've already been through worse?
I once thought I'd lost the love of my life only to find him again; to rebuild our past into something better, stronger, truer. How many times did I question myself or fight with my best friends—and how many times did I believe a chapter of my life was over?—only to turn the page to something new and different, more determined than before? Maybe there's no such thing as having the perfect life, or the most complete one, or even the right one. Maybe the real question is how you put yourself back together when everything falls apart. If today everything collapses, will I be able to stand again? If I walk out of this room, out of this hotel, if I face down a monarchy while Rita Skeeter destroys my good name, if my life as I know it ceases to exist, if I have no choice but to start over—can I do it? Will I be able to persevere? Am I that resilient?
If there is one thing that finally writing all of this down has taught me, it's that getting to be who I am now—a person that so many strangers will be quick to judge or scrutinize or envy—it hasn't been the result of perfect choices. It was a whole bunch of falling downs and getting back ups and climbing and reaching and plummeting and learning to stand on my own two feet. Failing, in big ways and small ones, all so that one day, I would remember how it felt to rise up.
If I've learned anything from this, it's that there are gaps in life. There are times when there won't be enough… enough you, to sustain the things you thought you wanted. But there's also no way to try to fill those gaps as desperately as you feel you need to; at least, not without driving yourself crazy in the meantime. So I will feel weak again, I know, many times. But at the end of it, I will still be here.
In the end, my voice will still be mine to choose.
I am resilient; I know that now. If whatever happens next calls for the upper limits of my strength, then so be it. I've been through enough to know that whatever happens, I won't be alone, and for that I will come back stronger than before. When I open that door, whatever waits for me on the other side will not be too big for me to handle. It might be terrible; it might feel like the end of the world while I'm in it, and almost no matter the outcome, I understand that it's probably going to hurt. But it will not be bigger than me.
So, that's it, then, I guess. Time to set the pen down, at least for now, and start to move forward. It may not be particularly beautiful or especially wise—and it's certainly not, as Rita Skeeter claims, a fairy tale—but it is wholly, unequivocally mine. This is my life, my story, and it's all true, even if it isn't perfect.
This is the commoner's guide to bedding a royal, and for better or worse, it will always be my favorite book.
a/n: I am so sorry, but I have one more extended trip this summer (back to Iowa, where I had BETTER NOT get stuck in another snowstorm or so help me I will riot) and, rather than tease you with the false hope that I might manage to get my shit together under severe time constraints, I'm going to have to skip the week. I will be back with the rest of Hermione's story on June 18. Once again, I cannot thank you enough for reading.