Chapter 43: Ascend

"Greengrass, you're going to have to—"

Theo wisely broke off before advising his wife to calm down, recognizing that particular choice of words had not served him well in the past.

"Daphne," he amended, catching her arm, "I'm sure Cali's fine."

Unsurprisingly, Daphne rounded on him in frustration, eyes wide with the unholy look of vehemence she so thoughtfully reserved for him.

"Have you lost your mind?" she demanded. "Harry's just told us Pansy's run off to Malfoy Manor!"

"Yes," Theo sighed, having been present for the entirety of the phone call along with this, its subsequent hysteria. "And…?"

"And," Daphne supplied in what he suspected was a rather unflattering imitation of him, "nobody's heard from Hermione since last night!"

"Well, Pansy must have heard from her, don't you think?"

"Yes, which is worse! If she's called Pansy, then that means—"

"It's probably dire, yes," Theo conceded with a sigh. "Point taken, but still—"

He broke off as his own mobile phone began to ring in his pocket. "You see? There's Draco now," he said, hitting answer. "Now, listen," he assured Daphne, who still looked radiantly fretful, "I'm sure she's just at the Goring, so let's all just stay c-"

"Nott," Draco said, sounding impossibly dire. "Something happened with Hermione and my mother last night."

Theo, who had observed Hermione staying behind at the Palace for Narcissa-related purposes, had already come to that conclusion. "Marvelous. Anything else?"

"My father showed up last night too, only to turn around and go back to Malfoy Manor early this morning. Apparently my mother's there."

A bit weirder, but still. "And?"

"Well, he's… he's just told me something very, well." Draco cleared his throat. "I probably shouldn't discuss it now. In any case," he said, amending his Tone of Distress to his Prince Voice, "I'm afraid I'm going to need to trouble you for a cocktail."

"You can't possibly want a cocktail at this hour," Theo said, scoffing. "With the amount of eyes on the Goring?"

"What's he saying?" Daphne hissed, jabbing Theo in the ribs. "What is it?"

"Just one second," he told her, watching her glorious scowl turn murderous and knowing he would pay for that dismissal later. "Draco, truly," Theo muttered, returning his attention to his mobile phone, "I can't even begin to explain how difficult a task this will be."

"I know," Draco said, sounding very firm and thus, like someone who did not, in fact, know how difficult a task it would be.

"You're supposed to be getting married in a matter of hours, in case you've forgotten."

"Yes, Nott, I'm aware. But I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

Damn it all, he really wouldn't. Theo chewed lightly at the side of his thumb nail, considering their alternate options.

"You're sure a message won't suffice?"

"Theo." Draco had said it in his most luxuriantly intimate timbre; something of a reflect on our friendship in silence, Theodore, lest I be forced to do something foolish such as confessing my burdensome affections to you aloud, like animals. "I take care not to inconvenience you too often or too painfully, but I'm afraid this is a matter of utmost sensitivity. I would not come to anyone else."

Balls.

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well, you know who we need, then, don't you? The prince of strategy and flagrant noise-making, as it were."

"That's the thing," Draco said. "I can't get seem to get ahold of him."

Neville was relatively unmissable. It was, after all, much too early for anyone else to be in a pub, particularly on the morning Prince Draco of Wales was set to marry Hermione Granger.

"I imagine it doesn't require my saying so that I have places to be," Blaise grunted in pseudo-greeting, nudging his sunglasses up on his face to massage the aching channels of his eyeballs before letting the lenses collapse back down, askew. "You have fifteen minutes."

Neville, fuck it all, looked more than good. He'd recently had a haircut and a shave and smelled like whisky and orchids. No, Blaise reminded himself, the whisky was him. It was currently emanating from his pores. The orchids, then, could have been anything.

"Coffee?" Neville asked, sliding it across the table to him. Like always, Neville's hands were distracting, his nails as cleanly manicured as Pansy's. Little crescent moons of meticulous care, agonizing perfection. Outrageous.

"Yes, fine," Blaise replied, raising the coffee to his lips and eyeing Neville from across the table, glancing beneath the rim of his glasses and over the lip of his mug. "So, you wanted to talk?"

"You're hungover," Neville observed, neither amused nor unamused.

"Yes." The coffee turned ashy in his mouth. "Tracey broke things off last night."

"Ah." Neville at least had the decency to pause, permitting the statement to settle. "Well, I admit," he said, leaning his head back against the booth, "I had my guesses."

If it wouldn't have pained him greatly to do so in his weakened corporeal state, Blaise might have gotten angry about that particular remark. About what in particular, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was Neville's knowing tone. Possibly it was the fact that Neville was calm while Blaise so brutally wasn't. Maybe it was the notion that Neville's mouth was precisely the shape Blaise remembered and fucking bollocks it all—great, heaving, trollopy cock it all—he still wanted him. In the span of a single night he had loved and lost and, heavens almighty, he'd drunk his weight in remorse; but still, even with the haze of alcohol and the heartache that was entirely his doing, Blaise still wanted to leap across this table and taste the man who'd caused it all, just to see if that mouth had ever been as worthy as he remembered.

Lacking the energy to indulge either his rage or his inadvisable impulses, Blaise simply waved a hand, indicating in as dismissive a manner as he could conjure that Neville should cease wasting both their time and, for fuck's sake, speak.

Neville seemed unsurprised. "I imagine you've heard that Gran and I had something of a falling out."

Blaise forced down a swallow of black coffee, staring at the porcelain of his cup and wishing he'd ever learned to prefer it this way.

"The phrase 'too little, too late' comes to mind, I'm sure," Neville continued. "I know how much you loathe my fondness for idioms; too common for you, but still, it bears mentioning."

"Then what do you want?" Blaise muttered. He couldn't quite decide who retained the right to be angrier between them, but seeing as he could claim no moral high ground with Tracey, he was stubbornly taking advantage now.

"You," Neville said.

He took the cup from Blaise's hand, depositing a lump of brown sugar and stirring it in, clockwise and then counterclockwise. "However," he remarked to Blaise's infuriated silence, "I recognize that we, as a unit, are somewhat… destructive."

He set the spoon down, glancing up.

"I am available," Neville said, shrugging. "There is no longer anything to keep me from you. If that isn't the case for you, I'd like you to tell me. I have what I would call fond aspirations for a life in which I finally move on from you; perhaps even settle down with someone who isn't quite so…" A pause, and a long glance. "Exacting."

Blaise said nothing.

"I need you to let me go," Neville continued. "Have me, all of me, or cut me loose. If you don't," he added, tapping his manicured fingers lightly on the table, "I'm afraid I'll be in love with you for the rest of my very unremarkable life."

"This," Blaise said impatiently, "is a terrible time for this conversation." He took a sip from his cup, loathing how much sweeter it tasted. "Your timing is, as always, irreconcilably flawed."

"Yes," Neville agreed. "This has occurred to me as well."

"I've just lost my fiancée."

"Yes."

"And no one has heard from you in, what is it? Months?"

"Yes."

"Me included."

"Yes."

"I have a wedding to attend today. A rather important one."

"Yes."

"And yet," Blaise said, gritting his teeth, "knowing all this—"

"Knowing all this," Neville supplied for him, "I continue to be sitting here, in love with you, wishing I weren't." He glanced at his watch, observing it for several seconds, and then glanced up at Blaise. "My allotted fifteen minutes have nearly elapsed," he commented, "so, if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer you use the time remaining to tell me to move on with my life. Admit you never loved me, should you wish to, and then inform me that you have no desire to ever speak to me again. That should take about two minutes, if you do it as vitriolically as I imagine you wish to," Neville remarked idly, "and then you should probably dress for the ceremony."

If he were anyone else, Blaise might have given Neville points for fastidious timing.

Instead, as he often did, he decided to be cruel. Or candid.

With Neville, he was never entirely sure which was which.

"Do you honestly think it was ever love between us?" Blaise asked him, peering with enough intensity to let the sunglasses slide down his nose. "Or was it, as I suspect it was, only selfishness this entire time? Just two cowards, taking from each other and from everyone else," he muttered darkly, "and then dressing it up, giving it a pretty name."

"I don't know," Neville replied. "Probably."

"Probably what? Which one?"

"Blaise." Neville's voice was dull. "I don't have the energy for a battle of wits with you. For all that I've done, I apologize. It was never my intention to harm you or anyone else, and I imagine I have enough guilt to last me the rest of my life whether what we had was real or not. So just tell me to go and end this, or—" He broke off. "Just end this, if that's what you want," he amended, "and let's not bother with the analysis."

Blaise's mouth tightened. "So. Still a coward then, I see."

"Is that what you think?"

"Isn't it obvious? Or are you not, in fact, waiting for me to be the one end it?"

"Perhaps you misunderstand my intentions." Neville leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. "If I wanted, Blaise, I'd have had you in my arms by now. I wouldn't have waited through your song and dance of pretending you don't care; I wouldn't have even waited for you to sit down. I'd have taken you home and fucked you through the morning, knowing the timing was wrong. Knowing you have friends whose approval I need in order to truly love you. Fully aware you've only just ended a relationship with someone else. I'd have asked you nothing about what you wanted and taken exclusively for myself without regard for the consequences, just as we have always done. So if that's what you consider the brave option, then yes, fine, I'm a coward, and you'll be pleased to know I'm embracing it." He paused, glancing down at Blaise's cup. "Though, I prefer to think of it as telling you that, for once, either we will do this right, or we won't do it at all."

Blaise dug his nails into his palm, fighting the rush of old feelings. New ones, too. The little bits of softness, the gaping of old wounds, that were stung by the bitterness of knowing the man in front of him wasn't the same one he'd loved before.

Even worse—that this man was, quite possibly, a better one.

"I'm in no position to choose anything right now," Blaise said, annoyed to the imperfect quick on the loathsome fingers of his destructive, indelicate hands.

"True," Neville said.

"Just because I can't repair what I've done to Tracey doesn't mean I can erase the years I spent planning a life with her."

"I know."

"I can't just—"

"I know, Blaise, I know."

"No, you don't," Blaise snapped, head throbbing. He brought a hand to his temple, massaging it gruffly. "You can't just—"

"Fine, you're right. I don't know," Neville supplied listlessly, "because unlike you, I've never loved anyone else. And I don't fault you for that; I envy you. I wish you happiness, wherever you find it and whoever you find it with. I hope your life is full of love and my god, Blaise Zabini, if it were up to me, you'd live a lifetime with more of it than you could carry—but I'm not like you. I don't have room for anyone else while you're taking up so much space in my head. So," Neville said, rising to his feet, "either you let me go, or—"

"Blaise," came a voice behind them, and Blaise blinked, turning to find Theo heading for him like the too-tall, weedily unavoidable missile that he was. "Steve needs us. Oh, and here, by the way," he added, tossing Blaise the mobile phone he must have left at Harry's.

Blaise fumbled, nearly missing it as the phone fell into his lap. A pity he was too hungover to deal with one of these problems, much less both. "What does he need?"

Theo glanced at Neville, then back at Blaise. "A cocktail."

"Jesus, Nott," Blaise growled, rubbing his temple again and glancing down at his screenful of missed calls. "I don't know your bloody code—"

"He needs to get into the Goring," Theo clarified, looking miffed at having to do so, "now."

This information did not remotely help Blaise's headache. "What?"

"The Goring, he needs to get in," Theo repeated. "I've been led to believe the two of you have your methods for staying under the radar."

The last thing Blaise wanted to do at the moment was operate a motorbike, but that was clearly the least of his concerns. "What, with everyone watching Clarence House?" he scoffed. "You're mad. You're both mad. Minus ten points each."

"Vetoed," Theo boomed in answer, prompting Blaise to wince, and then glower.

"It's not completely mad, is it?" Neville interjected, choosing a terrible time to be helpful. "You just need to send someone out in Dr- sorry, Steve's," he amended, as Theo arched his brow in warning, "car. Just send a decoy straight to Westminster," Neville advised with a shrug, throwing a handful of coins onto the table. "You and Steve should have no problem leaving in secret if they're all looking at something else."

"You still need someone approximately his height and build," Blaise pointed out, pressing down on his eyelids again beneath his sunglasses. "Someone who'll look enough like Steve behind tinted windows."

Rather troublingly, Theo glanced at Neville, observing the blond hair and regal posture that had been drilled into him as militantly by Lady Augusta Longbottom as it would have been by Prince Lucifer himself.

"Say, Neville," Theo commented in his most musical, mischief-managed sort of tone, "I don't suppose you've given any thought to attending a wedding this morning, have you?"

Pansy dragged herself up from the sofa, observing (unfortunately) the slightly sallow tone her coloring had taken from the mirror opposite the spot she'd attempted to briefly lie down. The more Pansy considered the ill-effects of this pregnancy to her hair and skin, the more she was confident this particular baby was a boy. Clearly, the patriarchy had a habit of draining women right from the start.

Pansy struggled to sit up, retching once before making a hasty lunge for a nearby bin, immediately vomiting what little she'd had to eat in the past few hours.

"So," Rita cackled from her perch in the chair, "you're clearly pregnant, then."

Pansy slid a loathsome gaze to Rita, wishing she hadn't been explicitly tasked with keeping her alive while Lucius and Narcissa had locked themselves away for what was now approaching two hours. If her instructions had been any less thorough, they'd all be done with this nonsense by now.

"Believe me," Rita assured her with a laugh, "it's the least of what I've learned so far. Promising, though," she remarked, musing idly. "Think what I could do with that information—royal wedding derailed, secret pregnancy. Oh, and you did arrive here alone with Prince Lucius, did you not? What a beautiful coincidence," she sighed contentedly. "That, along with all the speculation prior to your Jamie's birth?"

Pansy, losing a battle between her faultless breeding and her sleepless night, spat loudly into the bin, setting it down on the ground and turning to glare at Rita.

"You will not," Pansy warned, "come between me and my husband. And if you even breathe your vile rubbish in the direction of my daughter, I will do far worse than kidnap you. Are we clear?"

"Ah, threats now, excellent," Rita judged with a click of her tongue, chuckling. "You know, there's very little I can do when it comes to Prince Draco—but you," she breathed, flushed with pleasure at the thought of it. "You and Prince Harry are perfectly fair game. The spare royals, with all their secret depravities and their lies—"

"Lies," Pansy echoed, struggling with her fury. "After everything you've printed, you have the nerve to call us liars?"

"Oh, but aren't you?" Rita said, tilting her head. "You can't really expect me to believe your marriage to Prince Harry wasn't a cover for your inopportune pregnancy. And we all know Prince Harry, do we not?" she added with a scoff. "The only person in the royal family with a worse reputation is you, my dear, and you won't always have a baby to use as a shield for your misdeeds, will you?"

It occurred to Pansy to argue. Her little demon brain whispered to her that if Rita Skeeter's chair were dragged slightly closer to the window, perhaps a fall could be reasonably explained away.

But then again, impulsivity was not her game.

"You do realize your threats against Hermione mean you're interfering with Prince Draco's wedding," Pansy commented, rising slowly to her feet and concealing her phone behind her back, and Rita gave a loud, unrepentant scoff.

"To that common little psychopath? I could do far worse than destroy her wedding," Rita sniffed. "The Princess of Wales is obviously deranged, and as for Miss Granger—"

"So you'd interfere with a marriage sanctioned by King Abraxas himself?"

"Interfere? I could do more than interfere," Rita warned sharply. "Prince Lucius proved it himself when he refused to speak to me just now—one word from me and the entire marriage is clearly off. The King would have no choice but to retract his approval, wouldn't he? Any other option would be an embarrassment to the whole family, not to mention a scandal for the monarchy itself."

"Quite a stressful thing," Pansy observed. "Particularly given King Abraxas' age."

"My god, the man is positively ancient," Rita muttered, making a face. "And, if the rumors are true, Prince Lucius' health is no better."

"You know about his heart problems?"

"I know everything there is to know about the royal family," Rita snapped. "Do you doubt there is anything which occurs in the Palace that doesn't reach my ears?"

"So you know, then," Pansy mused. "That a scandal like this would be… rather stressful, wouldn't it. Perhaps even quite threatening?"

Rita's eyes narrowed haughtily. "Do you really think I don't know when I've levied a threat?"

Perfect.

And, for a final flourish—

"You know what else is interesting," Pansy remarked, half to herself. "Nobody ever did sort out who the leak was in the Palace, did they?"

"The Palace has leaks all the time," Rita scoffed. "Do you have any idea how easy it would be to find a source for anything I wanted to say? Everyone can be bought, Lady Parkinson."

And if they couldn't be bought, Pansy thought, then they could certainly be… persuaded.

"Actually, it's Potter," Pansy corrected, "and under these circumstances, I should think it obvious you're to call me Your Royal Highness."

"And what circumstances are those?" Rita asked doubtfully, as Pansy raised her phone to her ear.

"Henry, sweetheart," she said, "remind me. What is it Nott's always blathering on about?"

"Why, love," came Harry's cheerful voice, "I believe the word you're looking for is treason."

Harry waltzed through the private entrance to Clarence House, whistling a little as he went. He wondered why it was that some men found intellect in women so off-putting; in his opinion, having a clever wife was a rather flattering feather in his cap. Sure, she bordered on demonic at times, but there was something to be said for a woman who possessed a fair hand at devious plotting, along with a working understanding of English jurisprudence.

Besides, it had been so long since he'd gotten to be a decoy. All in all, a very good day.

"Ah, there you are," Harry said, spotting Neville looking exceedingly uncomfortable in Draco's red Guards' uniform. "Thanks for this, Longbottom. You wear the Guard of Honour well," he added, clapping a hand on Neville's shoulder.

Neville, obviously startled by Harry's pleasant mood, gave him a questioning glance. "I didn't think you'd be so pleased to see me."

"Well, I think the time for wanting to punch you has passed," Harry offered genially, leading him to the car. The plan was simple; let people see blond hair and princely decoration already sitting in the vehicle while Harry, who was quite obviously Harry, entered the door with some showboating on the public-facing side, prompting everyone to fill in the blanks that Prince Draco of Wales was on his way to Westminster Abbey to be married. "After all," Harry assured Neville, "you and I might have been in each other's places, wouldn't we?"

Harry didn't forget that there existed some alternate universe (and with such minor alterations, too) where Neville was the man married to Pansy while he himself carried on mindlessly leaping from woman to woman, unable to grasp what was missing while his daughter grew up in someone else's care.

No, the time to resent Neville had come and gone. Truth be told, Harry had never spared a thought for him at all from the moment he'd started waking each morning with Pansy beside him. Neville would probably never understand what his presence in Harry's life had been worth.

"You know, I suppose all this is a lesson in gratitude, in a way," Harry remarked once he'd climbed into the car, gesturing for the driver to move. "After all," he said, turning to Neville, "I suppose you did have every opportunity to tell Rita Skeeter everything you knew, didn't you?"

Neville looked sheepish. "I might have done more than I did to help you, too."

"Well, we all might've done things differently," Harry said, shrugging. "Doesn't mean it isn't worth mentioning that you could have betrayed us and didn't."

He could see Neville was relieved, or at least less bothered.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask what's going on," Neville said, looking contemplative, "but…"

"To be honest with you," Harry said, "I hardly know myself. Fortunately, the women seem to have it fairly well in hand."

Daphne had pounded at least fifteen times on the door by the time Hermione appeared in the frame, looking flushed and also, not particularly sane.

"Oh," she exhaled, "it's you."

She turned, walking away, and Daphne frowned as she went, observing the scene one detail at a time. The most obvious bits and bobs of oddness were the countless sheets of hotel stationery, all of which seemed to be covered in a slightly messier version of Hermione's already quite messy handwriting. The Rita Skeeter book, Draco and Hermione: A Royal Love Story, had been deposited face-down on the floor; Daphne, curious what Hermione had been up to, bent to pick it up, observing the series of underlines and scribbles in the margins that seemed to cover the majority of the pages.

The other, possibly more pressing thing to take stock of was Hermione, who was wandering around her hotel suite in her wedding dress, her hair piled high on top of her head while her bare feet trailed over the carpet.

"Um," Daphne commented, glancing around the suite. "Should I just tell your mum you lost your mind, or…?"

"Hm? Oh." Hermione's cheeks flushed slightly, noticing Daphne's eyes on her gown. "Yeah, I, well." She swallowed, admitting, "I wasn't sure I'd get to wear it."

"Oh, Hermione." Daphne sighed, stepping forward to pull her into a hug. "You mad bride."

Hermione gave a muffled laugh, resting her forehead on Daphne's shoulder. "It's been… a really long night. A shirty night. A really forking shirty night, in fact."

"You do realize everyone thinks you're dead," Daphne pointed out, "don't you?"

"Somehow, I think only you thought that, Daph."

"Well, if that's the case, it's only because I love you most."

Hermione pulled away, smiling unconvincingly. "Have you heard from Pansy yet?"

"Yes. Well, Harry," Daphne amended, "but I've been given strict instructions not to worry you via proxy. Oh, and I've also come to tell you Draco's on his way," she added, as Hermione blinked, startled. "Nott's taking care of the security details as we speak."

"What?" Hermione asked, immediately panicked. "But he can't possibly, there's photographers all over the hotel—"

"Yes, yes, we know. More importantly, though, that means we have less time to get you ready." Daphne pulled away, frowning at Hermione's hair and then at the empty room. "Shouldn't about a million people be here by now? You ought to be having your hair done, at least."

"I… sort of refused to let anyone in," Hermione admitted, wincing. "It was a bit depressing, really, carrying on as normal without knowing whether Rita Skeeter was going to destroy me before the wedding even arrived."

"Hermione," Daphne sighed. "Were you really just going to sit here alone until you heard from Pansy?"

"Well…" Obviously, the answer was yes.

"You foolish girl. Don't you know we'd never allow anything to spoil this?" Daphne asked her firmly, leading her to the bedroom of the suite. "Now, take that off," she instructed, "or I'll have to murder you for getting makeup on the lace. Yes, yes, I know," Daphne sighed, pausing Hermione before she could argue, "you took lessons for weeks to be able to do your makeup perfectly, I'm aware, but still—this is couture, not some sort of peasant smock. And besides, I think it's time we called in reinforcements," she added, reaching into her pocket for her phone.

Hermione's eyes widened. "But I don't w-"

"No professionals," Daphne assured her, rolling her eyes. "What do you think this is, my first day? Well, not a conventional professional, I should say," she amended, and raised the phone to her ear. "Helen? We need you upstairs, please."

And to Daphne's immense satisfaction, Hermione's smile broadened, finally set at ease.

"You're being quiet," Blaise observed, glancing blearily at Draco. Or so Draco assumed Blaise was doing, given the times he'd encountered this particular dehydrated version of his usual friend, though it was difficult to tell through the helmet. "And, might I add, suspicious."

"Is being quiet always so suspicious?" Draco countered.

"No," Blaise said, shrugging, "it just happens to be in this case."

"What about you?" Draco asked him. "You're being equally quiet."

"Minus ten for deflecting," Blaise replied. "And I'd watch your step, Your Highness, or I'll tell the others you're in danger of losing your precarious lead."

As Pansy had thoughtfully sent him a video of herself all but winning last night, Draco doubted now was the time to quibble about points. "I'm not deflecting," he said instead, deflecting-ly. "You're the one who met your ex for coffee this morning, are you not?"

"Who told you that?"

"Oh, you know. Read it in my morning agenda."

"Criminal. This is what concerns the empire? Dobby ought to be sacked."

"It was Harry, actually."

"Well, even worse. Prince Henry is a notorious rake," Blaise advised, "who shouldn't be relied upon for sensible news."

"Marvelous hair, though, for a scoundrel."

"Excellent hair, debauchery or no."

"I would even venture lustrous."

"As you should, though certainly no further."

"Was it good?"

"This morning? Outstanding. Exceeded expectations."

"I meant the coffee."

"Drive," said Blaise, pointing to the traffic light, and Draco sighed, taking off again as they made their way to the Goring.

The bikes, funnily enough, were Theo's. He'd never ridden them, given that he couldn't and, more importantly, shouldn't, but after watching Draco get in trouble more than once for taking his own recognizable motorbikes out and about, Theo had made the purchase of not one, not two, but four bikes, all distinctly un-distinctive. Someday, Draco was really going to have to thank him for his paranoia.

Luckily it was less than a mile; perfectly walkable via direct path through his grandfather's house, had Draco ever been the sort of person who could walk places without unnecessary gawking and pointing, or had his grandfather's residence not been a palace presently surrounded by potential gawkers and pointers. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case, and was unlikely to ever be the case, which meant that a simple task like visiting with his fiancée in advance of their wedding without arousing mass public suspicion was exceptionally more difficult. Particularly when the conversation they were about to have, which was itself the result of a conversation with his father, was so dreadfully important. So much so it was causing him to sweat a bit inside his helmet.

Daphne and Theo met them by the side door, Hermione's father beside them with a hotel key.

"Is this something you kids always do?" David asked the moment Draco and Blaise disembarked their respective vehicles. Unlike Daphne, who appeared to have absorbed some of Hermione's usual anxiety, and Theo, who was trying very hard to communicate with Draco via silence, David looked fresh-faced and delighted. "It's very exciting."

"We try to save it for special occasions," Draco assured him, permitting Daphne to take his arm and give him some firm instruction.

"Now, she's all dressed up, so you'll have to talk to her through a door. We'll leave you your privacy, of course, but I won't have you ruining this. You won't be ruining this, will you?" Daphne demanded, pausing Draco before they reached the elevator. The hotel had been cleared out, probably by Theo, which had been a relief until it meant there was nothing to stop a surprisingly strong Daphne from giving his arm a good wrench, jabbing forcefully into his helmet. "Tell me you're not going up there to break my best friend's heart."

The idea momentarily froze Draco's pulse. "Wait, she doesn't actually think—"

"Well, she hardly knows what to think, does she?" Daphne huffed. "All any of us knows is that you insisted on seeing her in private before the ceremony. And may I remind you, Draco Wales, that if any of the press found out you were here, they'd certainly presume the same!"

"Daph," Draco said firmly, "it's nothing like that. It's just… private, that's all."

"Well, is the wedding going forward or not?"

"I… well, I—"

"Draco," Daphne hissed. "If I have to murder you right now, I swear, I'll do it. I won't even need a murder weapon, I'll just… curse you. I'll do it with my mind, I'm that cross with you—"

"Greengrass, come on." Theo coaxed her out of the way, beckoning for Draco to get in the elevator. "Go on up," he said, nudging Blaise in after him. "Just—" He broke off, catching the elevator door before it shut and lowering his voice, brow furrowed with concern. "You won't hurt her, yeah?"

"Theo." Draco shook his head. "It's not her I'm worried about."

Theo blinked, concerned, but reluctantly removed his hand, letting the elevator door shut as Blaise turned to Draco, expression still unreadable through the polarized glare of his helmet.

"What the fuck have you done?" Blaise asked, and Draco smiled weakly.

"There's still a chance she'll call it off, mate. I just… I don't want to talk about it with anyone else before I know."

Blaise was silent as the floors ticked by.

Then, to Draco's surprise, he muttered, "He wants me to choose him."

Given how little time they had for conversation, Draco tried not to hesitate.

"Then choose him."

"What," Blaise said drily, "and chance destroying everything all over again?"

"Well, you're older now. Wiser, in theory."

"In practice, however, very doubtful."

"Do you love him?"

"God, yes," Blaise said, repulsed, "almost as much as I hate him."

"Well," Draco replied smartly, "excess or death, as they say."

"My god," Blaise groaned. "How does one even assign sufficient points for such sublime depravity?"

"Abundantly," Draco predicted. "And with panache."

The doors opened to the top floor suite and Draco stepped out, Blaise catching his arm at the last possible second as he went.

"Not everyone is you and Hermione," Blaise said, sounding moderately tormented by the thought, or perhaps still by dehydration. "You two make each other better. Some people make each other worse. Not everyone who has love deserves it."

"Sometimes it's not about what you deserve," said Draco, who felt he had learned that lesson better than most.

Blaise released him with an uncertain nod and hung back, clearly intending to wait outside while Draco and Hermione spoke privately. Draco, steadying himself, took a step forward, knocking lightly on the doors of the Royal Suite.

"Hermione," he said. "It's me."

Hermione Granger, notorious commoner and seducer of princes, was standing behind the door of the suite's master bedroom, listening to her mother permit Draco entry to the room. To her immense relief, Helen did not take the opportunity to monologue at length about the importance of lubricant. Hermione couldn't tell if it was better or worse, actually, that even her mother, steadfast in every way, sounded a little bit nervous.

She listened, curling and uncurling her still-cramped fingers (focusing on applying eyeliner to her waterline was a difficult motor skill after so many hours spent scribbling her thoughts) as Draco's stride grew closer, pausing on the other side of the slightly cracked door.

"Hermione?" he said.

She caught the shadows of his shoes, listening to the sound of his breathing.

"Hi," she told him, and then, finding that underwhelming, she added, "I… may have made a bit of a mess last night."

It was a relief to hear him laugh, even faintly. Even through a door.

"Can I—" Draco stopped, clearing his throat. "I don't have to see you, but can we…?"

"Touch?" she guessed.

"Yes." His exhalation was filled with relief. "Please."

She considered it. "Stand on the other side of this wall," she determined, knocking on the particular wall she intended. "I'll stay on this side, and we'll—"

"Yes, right, okay." She heard him shift around, placing his back to the wall. His footfall was heavy, clad as he probably was in full motorcycle regalia. "Okay, I'm here."

She opened the door, aligning her back with her side of the wall, a mirror of him. She slid her hand behind her, reaching for his, and he caught the flutter of her fingers.

"I have to ask you to do something," he said.

She fought the urge to laugh, or possibly cry. "Another thing? I'm still working on the last thing you asked me to do."

"Yes, another thing." He sounded tentative. "I'm afraid it's rather important."

"Well, go on, then." She wasn't sure how much more waiting she could take.

"It appears my father has had a rather… unconventional idea." She heard Draco give a tentative swallow. "Pansy's successfully threatened Rita enough to scare her into silence about last night specifically, but the problem isn't exactly resolved. She still knows too much about our family, and my father doesn't believe my mother's mental health can take any further… damage." A pause. "He's decided further action will be necessary."

What would it be? A public apology tour? A delay of the marriage until Hermione had proven herself worthy? She hated to find out what torture the Prince of Darkness had in mind for her.

Still. "Whatever I need to do to make this right," she promised him, "I'll do it."

Draco's fingers tightened around hers.

"Actually, it's rather more… something I need to do," he said. "But I can't do it without you, so I'm—well, to tell you the truth, I'm—" He broke off, leaning his head so heavily against the wall she imagined she could feel it. "I'm rather afraid," he confessed reluctantly.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat.

"Draco?"

Silence.

Then, in a slightly smaller voice, Draco murmured, "He's abdicating."

Hermione blinked.

"He's… what?"

"Well, he's giving up his claim to the throne." Draco cleared his throat. "He says he'll do it whether the wedding goes forward or not. He's been thinking about it for a long time, apparently, but wasn't sure my mother would agree. He's asked her to… well, to stay with him, it seems. To work on their marriage in private. He knew it would take some effort to convince her, but…"

Hermione, who'd spent the entire last night getting to see Princess Narcissa's many secrets, knew better. Narcissa was in love with Lucius, and probably always had been.

Maybe Lucius had finally sorted out how to love her back.

"She did agree, as it turns out," Draco continued, "and now he plans to give up his title and his entire royal income, essentially retiring from public service to live with my mother as private citizens." The more Draco spoke, the more he seemed mechanical, as if he were reciting from a dossier. "My grandfather knew," he added softly, "but told my father he would only accept the renouncement of his title if I agreed to succeed him."

Hermione's free hand rose to her mouth. "But that means—"

"That I would be invested as Prince of Wales. Very soon. Sooner even than our honeymoon soon. And—" Draco broke off again. "Hermione, my grandfather is eighty-three years old. I'm… I'm not even twenty-eight. I'm currently at least ten years younger than every other head of state, so how could I possibly take his place? It was supposed to be my father, then me, and I'm—"

She laced her fingers through his, giving his hand a pulse of pressure.

"I thought this would happen incrementally," Draco said, sounding increasingly panicked. "I thought it would happen in steps. First I would ease you into royal life, then we'd have some years to ourselves, then children, and then—however many years later, in some very, very distant future—someday, I'd ascend the throne. I had it all planned out, and now—"

"Oh, Draco." Hermione severed his rambling with a sigh, shaking her head. "Keep your eyes closed, okay?"

"What? But—"

"Just keep them closed."

She walked around to the other side of the wall, half-smiling as she took in the sight of him.

"Hi again, Bruce."

She reached up, struggling a bit with her gown and veil to reach his helmet, and removed it from his head, taking his face in both hands.

A pity she'd told him to keep his eyes closed. She would have given almost anything to see that familiar grey gaze fall on hers, but for now, this would have to do.

"Draco," she said, touching his cheek as his hands blindly found her waist. "You can't honestly tell me you're afraid I'll refuse."

His mouth twisted up slightly, wryly. "I didn't want to make assumptions."

"Oh, you idiot prince. You stupid boy." She'd have kissed him if she hadn't wanted to get lipstick all over his face. "Do you really think, after all we've been through, I could possibly be anything but willing to handle whatever comes our way? After all that, you'd think I'd be used to surprises."

He gave a low laugh, leaning into her palm. "Well, when you put it that way."

She ran her thumb over his jaw, his lips, fondly tracing the shape of him.

"You're never going to feel ready, Draco," she informed him, and his mouth quirked, a little wince of half-humor at what was so disastrously true. "You could be your father's age and still not feel ready. But you're not alone, are you? You have us, all of us. And you have me." She swallowed, her throat going a little tight. "Whatever happens, you'll always have me."

His hands tightened on her waist, his eyes still forced shut as he pulled her into his arms.

"Careful," she warned him, giving a wobbly laugh as she struggled with her gown. "Veil. Train. Et cetera."

"God, I can't wait to see it." He exhaled, burying his face in the side of her neck. "I can't wait to see you, truly. I'm just so very desperate to be married to you, Hermione, you wouldn't even believe it. You'd simply change your mind on the spot and decide I was a very soft summer prince indeed."

"Draco, we all know that." His shoulders shook with silent laughter, and she slid her fingers through his hair, suppressing a smile. "Though, for what it's worth, I'm relieved you wanted to talk to me about it first."

"I couldn't just… surprise you with it," he told her. "It would have felt unfair."

"True," she admitted. "And I wasn't quite expecting to be—"

"Hermione, Princess of Wales?" he supplied.

"Holy shirtforks." She shivered at the prospect of it. "Yeah, I completely see what you mean about not feeling ready. It doesn't sound real at all."

He laughed, pulling away with his eyes still closed.

"So," Hermione said, "Pansy really threatened Rita Skeeter with treason, then?"

"Well, she has a very good argument for Rita conspiring to influence the crown. In addition to intent to commit regicide, by virtue of her threat to my father's fragile health."

Hermione arched a brow. "Sounds like a stretch, doesn't it?"

"Oh, it's absolutely a stretch," Draco said, amused, "but Rita, it turns out, frightens rather easily when the threat of life imprisonment is involved. Personally, I think the more sensible plan was Pansy's backup accusation of unlawful surveillance," he said with a shrug, "but I suppose her instincts were spot on. Treason's got a better ring to it, anyway."

"Surveillance?" Hermione echoed. "What, like… bugging?"

He shrugged. "Why not? I'd be surprised if she hasn't tried already."

"I bet Bellatrix would agree to be a witness against her just to watch the whole thing burn," Hermione grumbled. She probably would, too, being the chaotic demon that she was.

"Oh, almost certainly, I agree. Either way, Rita's been rather effectively silenced, and to sweeten the pot, my father offered her exclusive rights to the renouncement story. Provided she says nothing about what happened with you and my mother last night, an article will be released as a Daily Prophet exclusive first thing Monday."

So all was taken care of, then, it seemed.

Except it… wasn't.

Hermione pulled away for a moment, thinking, and Draco, still struggling not to open his eyes, frowned at her distance. "What is it?"

"Well, it's just—" She hesitated, half an idea forming in her brain. "It doesn't really solve the Rita problem, does it? Even if she doesn't specifically say anything about what happened last night, she still knows too much. She can still ruin us somehow, or try to, later down the line."

Draco nodded, wincing a little. "There's no doubt she'll require quite a lot of hushing. My grandfather isn't particularly thrilled about it, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"Well, the reason she can't be hushed is because she's the sole source of royal gossip, isn't she?" Hermione said. "Which will only be cemented by her releasing this article. People will continue to believe everything she says about us, just as they've always done." The problem, whatever it was, still nagged at her to be solved.

Expectantly, Draco's mouth twitched. "I can see you've caught on to something, Miss Granger. Go on."

"I'm just thinking… what if we create another source of information?" Hermione mused, stepping away to clarify her scheming as she paced. "Rita's article will run Monday morning with details, but what if we leak it to someone as a rumor first? Specifically, someone who is already a very natural leak?"

"You can't be serious." Draco was already laughing, shaking his head. "My god, you really are brilliantly unhinged, aren't you?"

"No, listen—don't laugh, this is a real idea!—we can fix this, here and now!" Hermione exclaimed, shushing him. "Just tell Gilderoy and he'll, I don't know… tweet about it or something. Everyone will see the tweet, say 'well that's bloody mad, isn't it, Reginald?' and—"

"I love you, Hermione, but your accent really hasn't improved, please don't do that in public—"

"—and then Rita's article will come out, proving him right. Then," Hermione continued excitedly, "from there, we'll start feeding both of them information. Sometimes truths, sometimes lies. So if Rita Skeeter says one thing, Gilderoy Lockhart says another—frack, maybe we'll even tell Luna Lovegood things from time to time," she decided, feeling triumphant. "If one or the other is wrong as often as they're right, people will no longer automatically believe anything Rita says—or anything anyone says, for that matter. They'll just come to believe that half the time, anything the press says is complete and utter bollocks!"

Draco was fully smiling now. "Bollocks, hm?"

"Sorry, it's…" She frowned. "Balderdash?"

"Balderdash. Interesting." Draco raised a hand, running it over his mouth. "You know, you might really be onto something."

"Might be? Draco, please," Hermione scoffed. "It's the obvious solution, and now's the perfect time t-"

"Hermione." Helen's voice came tentatively from where she'd been waiting in the other room, emerging into the living area. "It's nearly time, sweetheart. Are you two…?"

"Us?" Hermione glanced over her shoulder at Draco, who waved blindly to something approximately fifteen degrees away from where Helen was standing. "Oh, we're great, Mom. Just having a bit of honest conversation. Plotting vengeance, you know."

"Can it wait?" Helen asked. "You've got the rest of your lives to do that, you know."

God, how blissfully true that was. Hermione turned, looking at Draco, and fought a smile at the sensation of having him there, by her side. At knowing he had her back.

Hang the lipstick. What did it forking matter, compared to this?

She forgave herself her more reckless impulses and rushed into his arms, sending him against the wall with a tiny 'oof' and lifting onto her toes, catching his parted lips in a kiss that thrilled her, calmed her. Promised her a thousand more like it, and a thousand more after that.

"Just open your eyes," she sighed, conceding. "I'd rather you see me like this, anyway."

His brow knitted with concern. "Isn't it bad luck?"

"Oh, come on, Draco, we don't need luck. It's us." She kissed him again, reveling in it. "We're bigger than luck."

He cracked one eye, tentative.

Then both eyes fluttered open, taking in the sight of her where she waited, smiling, in his arms.

The dress had an ivory satin bodice with a lace overlay, tucked in at the waist and padded slightly at the hips, giving it a Victorian shape with an almost 1950s sweetness. It was a perfect mix of contemporary and traditional, the likes of which only Daphne could so effortlessly accomplish. Better than the gown's obvious beauty, in Hermione's opinion, were its secrets; the little details she got to know, which others would spend the day puzzling out: the embroidered flowers from the Commonwealth mixed with the California poppies; the design of what Daphne had dubbed "Helen's lace." The silhouette, which would surely influence wedding gowns for generations over, would be well-suited to nearly any body shape, but it was perfect for Hermione. It was demure and soft, while still fashionable and modern. A touch of vintage, but timelessly beautiful. The emerald engagement ring glittered from her finger; the snake ring, sewn into the bottom of her dress, was wrapped in a bit of blue silk. The veil, held in place by the tiara of Narcissa's choosing, was long and elegant, floating around Hermione's furiously tamed hair—for which she had employed witchcraft, prayer, and several tons of hair product.

As satisfying as the effect was in the mirror, it still somehow managed to look best reflected in Draco's grey eyes, which were wide with astonishment.

"You look," he began, and Hermione made a face.

"Really, don't, I just—"

"Hermione." He took her face in both hands, bending his forehead to hers. "You're right," he said softly, "this is much, much better."

Just the two of them, as they had always preferred it.

That time, the kiss between them was gratitude. It was the admission of I can't believe my luck. It was the comfort of you, only you, for always. And it was precisely the saccharine rush of super trouper lights are gonna find me, shining like the sun.

Smiling, having fun.

Feeling like a number one.

"Thank you," Draco said, his voice a little ragged with sentiment, and from behind them, Helen snapped her fingers, summoning the heir to the English throne like a dog.

"Well, come on, then, Your Royal Highness," she said, resolutely spoiling the mood. "Chop-chop, unless you plan to be late."

"Oh, balls. Alright, see you," he told Hermione, roughly pressing a kiss to her forehead and darting out of her room, the ringing sound of "BLAISE, GET THE BIKES" emanating from the elevator door.

Just like that, the pleasant chaos of Hermione's life re-erupted.

"Ready?" called Daphne, poking her head inside the door. "The car's downstairs."

"Yes, nearly," Hermione said, glancing around. "Mom, go ahead with Dad and Daphne, Winky's down there somewhere… Where's Pansy? And Jamie?"

"We're here," came a thinly impatient voice. "Now move with some expediency, you colonial diva, or I'm going to have to—"

Hermione came barreling forward, throwing her arms around Pansy with a sigh.

"Thank you," she said, ignoring Pansy's growls of protest. "Really, thank you."

"Yes, yes," Pansy grumbled, though for a moment, Hermione was sure she'd tightened the embrace. "Come on, then, you've taken long enough—"

"Just one thing, though, Pans." Hermione turned her head, whispering it in Pansy's ear. "You were wrong, Lady Seven-Names."

He's a job, and you're unqualified to hold it.

How very, very far they'd all come.

"Yes, fine, so you're a treasure, what of it," Pansy retorted, nudging her away as Hermione grinned, feeling a brief tug on her skirt that meant a tiny, floral-wreathed Jamie was indicating her presence from somewhere near the floor.

"Mione," Jamie said solemnly, "Daddy told me Mummy's got a baby in her tummy."

Hermione glanced up, stunned. "She's got a what?"

But by then, Pansy was already out the door, shouting over her shoulder for Hermione to move with a sense of urgency, please, before the whole thing became an unrepentant calamity.

The schedule was so militantly planned it was nearly laughable. 1020 the wedding party would leave the Goring for the Abbey, arriving at 1027. 1042, Narcissa and Lucius would arrive from Clarence House, presumably shocking everyone when they did so arm in arm. 1045, King Abraxas would arrive from Buckingham Palace. Those were the royal guests, of course, which didn't include the ones who were less noteworthy, albeit still hugely important. Minerva McGonagall and Oliver Wood, for example. Fleur Delacour. Luna Lovegood. Hortense and Thibaut, who were stopped by security and immediately asked to turn over their belongings, just in case. Even Lady Sooz had received an invitation, and Hermione had grand plans to shake her hand, making up for cursing her so many times in silence. Neville Longbottom, a last minute guest who had filled Tracey Davis' last minute vacancy, was somewhere inside as well, probably awaiting Blaise's confession that it wouldn't be today, and probably not tomorrow, but maybe in a few weeks, when his better judgment and his heart could mutually conceive of reconciliation. Horace Slughorn, unfortunately, would have to watch from home, though Hermione had no doubt he would happily assure himself his invitation had only gotten lost in the wretched post.

At 1045, Hermione got in a Bentley with David and Helen, which brought her to now, having revealed the gown and stopped, waiting, for the procession to begin. At 1215, she and Draco would leave for Buckingham Palace. At 1325 he would kiss her on the balcony, observed by millions across the globe. 1330 would host a royal fly-past, followed by an intimate lunch for six hundred.

But right now it was 1055, and in a matter of minutes, Hermione would walk through those doors and lock eyes with His Royal Highness, Prince Draco Lucius Abraxas of Wales, and she would finally, finally marry him.

A little shiver flew up her spine in anticipation, and Daphne reached over, squeezing her arm.

"Nervous?" she asked.

"Daphne, please," Pansy said from her other side. "Do not encourage her."

"Encourage her to what, feel?"

"To emote unnecessarily, yes."

"Pans, honestly—"

Hermione rolled her eyes, pulling both women into her arms.

"You know, in a weird way, it's like we're all getting married," she remarked, watching them both groan with repulsion. "I'm joking," she assured them with a sigh.

"Well, desist immediately," Pansy sniffed, as Daphne pulled a face of agreement. "Nothing's changing, really."

"Sure. Only everything," Hermione said, "which is, essentially, nothing."

"True," Daphne contributed. "You'll have more tiaras, though."

"And more rules."

"Rules are good for you," Pansy said. "You're unbearable without them."

"Earrings," Daphne added. "More earrings, also."

"Yes, though I think 'jewelry' is something of a time-efficient catch-all—"

"More security, ideally," Pansy scoffed, reflecting on Hermione's evening with an expression of distaste. "And fewer abductions, I would hope."

"That's really not a guarantee," Hermione said, and to her relief, Pansy chuckled.

Then, abruptly, Pansy began to cry.

"Oh, no," Hermione said, alarmed. "Daph, how does that song start again? Can you hear the drums, Fernand-"

"No, no," Daphne barked at her, panicked, "that'll only make it worse—"

"It's just hormones," Pansy informed them both, sniffling furiously while Daphne coaxed her away from Hermione's gown. "It's this wretched boy!"

"Aren't they all," Daphne said soothingly, smoothing a hand over Pansy's shoulders as the latter straightened, briskly discarding her own unnecessary emotions.

"Well, anyway. Shall we?" Pansy said, nudging Daphne as if it had somehow been her fault to begin with, and Daphne exchanged a knowing glance with Hermione, both shaking their heads.

"See you down there," she mouthed, giving Pansy a sharp nudge in the ribs and winking over her shoulder at Hermione as the procession began.

Hermione already knew the schedule. It was 1100 now, which meant it was time for Daphne and Pansy to traverse the aisle, joining Theo, Blaise, and Harry on the other side. At 1102, approximately, Jamie would be next, along with a gaggle of royal-adjacent children, two of which were carrying Hermione's veil. Around 1105, Helen and David, each on one of Hermione's arms, would pause halfway down the aisle, permitting her to walk the remaining distance to the altar alone, where by 1106 she would clearly see Draco in his red military uniform, his pale hair gleaming, forehead slightly sweaty from changing in such a hurry and swapping clothes with Neville. At perhaps 1145 she would even say things to him; things like I promise and I will and I do, and then he would say them back to her. Somewhere around 1200 he would kiss her, more ceremonially and with less intimacy than they'd had in her hotel suite, but it would be the kiss that meant they'd bound their lives together; woven them like a tapestry, tied together in a bow.

Then, somewhere around 1215, she'd be back where she was standing now, only she would be his, and he would be hers.

Suddenly, Hermione could no longer stand the wait, linking arms with her mother, first, and then her father.

"Ready?" Helen asked her, half-smiling, half-teary. David, who had already started to cry, wiped furiously at his eyes; saying nothing, but fondly echoing the sentiment.

It was a bigger question than the single word implied, Hermione suspected. Not just an are-you-ready for a wedding, or even an-are-you ready to walk this aisle alone, but an are-you-ready for everything? For happiness, for joy? For challenges, for struggle? Are you ready for everything that happens next? For the crown they place on your head, for the expectations they place on your existence? For the country they want you to lead, for the person they want you to be? For the man who waits for you; for the prince whose life, whose love and whose loyalty, is promised so delicately to yours?

Are you ready for all the things you can never possibly be ready for?

It was a very big question, in fact. The biggest, really.

But if Hermione had ever been sure of anything, it was, without question, this.

"I'm ready," she said, and took her first step forward, warming herself in the glow of the Abbey's golden light.

19 May 2018

HRH PRINCE DRACO OF WALES WEDS MISS HERMIONE GRANGER

His Majesty The King is pleased to announce the marriage of his grandson, His Royal Highness Prince Draco of Wales, to Miss Hermione Granger. Miss Granger wore a gown designed by Daphne Nott, a close friend of the bride and groom, while Prince Draco wore the frockcoat uniform of the Irish Guards' Red.

Full details of the wedding and the couple's future plans will be revealed in due course.

GILDEROY LOCKHART, 5-Time Winner of Women's Weekly Most Charming Smile
gilderoylockhartofficial

EXCLUSIVE NEWS: my close & prsnl Palace srce says HRH Prince L. to ABDICATE in favour of son Prince D., who is mrryng H. Granger TODAY Westminster Abbey. SHOCKING NEWS! CAN U BELIEVE? :-D

10:42 AM - 19 May 2018
87 Retweets 50K Likes

20 May 2018

TITLE ANNOUNCEMENT FOR PRINCE DRACO AND HERMIONE GRANGER

The King has today announced that the titles conferred upon his grandson Prince Draco and his new wife Hermione Granger will be announced forthwith. His Majesty The King expresses great joy for his grandson's marriage and requests The Royal Family's privacy be respected during this time of celebration.

Further details will be revealed in due course.

GILDEROY LOCKHART, 5-Time Winner of Women's Weekly Most Charming Smile
gilderoylockhartofficial

HMM, y no title anncmnt? Waiting for Prince L.'s ABDICATION, PERHAPS?

12:45 PM - 20 May 2018
120 Retweets 137K Likes

RITA SKEETER, Bestselling Author and Royal Correspondent for the Daily Prophet
RitaSkeeter

To everyone tweeting me for confirmation of gilderoylockhartofficial's nonsensical claims, please be patient. Nothing has changed. I remain the utmost source of accuracy for all things Royal News.

7:45 PM - 20 May 2018
320 Retweets 685K Likes

21 May 2018

HRH THE PRINCE OF WALES TO RENOUNCE SUCCESSION

The King has today announced that his son, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, will renounce his claim to the Throne and be succeeded by his son, HRH Prince Draco of Wales.

THE FOLLOWING STATEMENT IS ISSUED BY THE PRESS SECRETARY TO THE KING

The King has announced today that his son, His Royal Highness Prince Lucius Armand Abraxas, Prince of Wales, has chosen to renounce his claim to the Throne to serve his obligations to his family, effective immediately. The happiness and prosperity of the people of the United Kingdom are of the highest importance to His Royal Highness, and with the full support of His Majesty, Prince Lucius intends to pursue his resignation from public service as the course of action most suitable for the Throne.

Prince Draco thus becomes His Royal Highness Prince Draco Lucius Abraxas, Prince of Wales, and Miss Hermione Jean Granger will become Her Royal Highness Hermione, The Princess of Wales.

Further details will be revealed in due course.

GILDEROY LOCKHART, 5-Time Winner of Women's Weekly Most Charming Smile
gilderoylockhartofficial

. RitaSkeeter WE KNEW IT. WHAT ELSE R U HIDING?

7:45 AM - 21 May 2018
210 Retweets 401K Likes

RITA SKEETER, Bestselling Author and Royal Correspondent for the Daily Prophet
RitaSkeeter

We mustn't listen to the noise. If you'd like the truth behind today's #RoyalResignation, please see my latest article in the DP.

7:48 PM - 21 May 2018
230 Retweets 442K Likes

GILDEROY LOCKHART, 5-Time Winner of Women's Weekly Most Charming Smile
gilderoylockhartofficial

. RitaSkeeter ur article is BOLLOCKS. RT if u agree

8:14 AM - 21 May 2018
991 Retweets 723K Likes

DAILY PROPHET, The UK's Top Source for Breaking News
ProphetOnline

THREAD: Today's fascinating article by our very own RitaSkeeter features EXCLUSIVE interviews with Prince Lucius and Princess Narcissa. "It became apparent that my primary obligation was to my family, and especially my wife."-Prince Lucius

—"I understand there is some confusion, but I have complete faith in my son and daughter-in-law. Narcissa and I could not be happier." -Prince Lucius, RARE INTERVIEW. AGAIN, RitaSkeeter EXCLUSIVE. ONLY FOUND IN TODAY'S DP.

—SEE ALSO: In-depth coverage of the #RoyalWedding, PLUS new revelations from the Duke and Duchess of Grimmauld. Will it be another #RoyalBaby this summer?

9:15 AM - 21 May 2018
340 Retweets 342K Likes

DRACO AND HERMIONE, Official Account of the Prince and Princess of Wales
MalfoyRoyal

Times change. We're changing with them. Thank you to everyone for your support and kind wishes. Let's get started!

#OurFirstTweet

9:30 AM - 21 May 2018
576K Retweets 1.2M Likes

FIN

a/n: Balls almighty, what a ride this has been. Thank you for sticking with it… all half-a-million words of it. I am very, very thankful for those of you who have shared your love of this story with me. We're all such different people now from where we started. Special thanks to aurorarsinistra, without whom I would have accomplished significantly less.

Edited 3/3/2020 to add: The sequel to this fic, The Princess's Guide to Popular Statecraft, is currently in progress. Find a preview here as chapter 45.

Some things: reminder that the playlist for The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal is available on Spotify, and I delight to inform you, it is full of bops. As always, if you enjoyed this story, I would be immensely grateful should you wish to leave a review or recommend to any friends/groups/blogs; it's always nice to know my work has been appreciated, and please know that I am incredibly indebted to you for your support. If you enjoyed the story AND you're curious about my original work, you can find my books at olivieblake dot com. My latest, The Lovers Grim, volume III of my fairytale collections, will be available this Friday, June 21.

Lastly, an introduction to my next WIP: Divination for Skeptics.

The latest in magical advancements is an enchantment that reveals the bearer's romantic compatibility with another person. Effectively eliminating uncertainty from dating, the charm can tell you whether or not you've found The One with a precise, Hermione Granger-approved calculation of traits and preferences. It's a foolproof method of predicting relationship happiness. It's also, for Hermione, positively dreadful news. Dramione, post-war, soulmate AU.

We're back in the Potterverse for this one (for the record, it includes a pairing I considered using in this universe but didn't, which is an extremely vague statement that probably doesn't help) and is now available for you to follow, should you wish to do so. I've left a little preview here as chapter 44. Hope to see you there!

As ever, it has been an honor to put these words down for you; I sincerely hope you enjoyed the story.

xx, Olivie