"I can't believe you're just running off to a little sunny island, and with so little notice! Who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger?" Jackie, who was both a close friend and Hermione's agent, had demanded when she called to explain her eleventh-hour travel plans. "Oh, you just have to write an article while you're there. Isn't it supposed to be packed with infamous snobs, scoundrels and scallywags?"
Hermione had laughed at Jackie's theatrics. She was aware of the reasons the well-heeled wizarding set were exiled in Cythera. After the end of the War and the defeat of Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy had fled back to the small principality to enjoy the power he still held there. Those Death Eaters who could pack up their family estate and flee fast enough to escape prosecution by the Ministry had followed him, as had many who had been suspected of having ties or who harboured sympathy to Voldemort's cause once they realised the old ways had very much been thrown out. But the "old ways" continued on the tiny island; that is to say the powerful few with large enough bank accounts and long enough family histories were favoured and those who weren't deemed rich or pure enough were largely ignored. That was how it had been for centuries, but as they say, that was in the past. After the death of Lucius Malfoy the tide had slowly begun to turn. The rich and powerful were still very rich and very powerful, but there was now growing dissent at this inequality. The Pureblooded minority, as much as they preferred to ignore the fact, were still very much a minority and as such were vulnerable to the might of the masses. Especially when those masses had just as much ability as the favoured few and had started to question their lack of political and economic power. Magic tended to level the playing field somewhat.
She agreed that it would make for a rather interesting article to research, but there were practicalities to consider. Hermione Granger was easily recogniseable and the role she played in the defeat of Voldemort was well known. That in itself would close more doors for her than it would open among those who were voluntarily exiled on Cythera. If she was not pureblooded enough, she was certainly not rich enough to blend in either. The few times she had visited the small country, she had stayed at Draco's hospitality in the palace, which was both Draco's principal home (although Hermione knew he kept the Manor in England) and the seat of the country's government. She might earn a decent enough wage now, but she was certainly in no financial position to be able to afford the lifestyle she had seen the affluent purebloods live on her short visits. And Hermione imagined that little would have changed in that regard over the past eight years.
And yet so much else had changed…
Thinking back to the outrageous sum that she had been offered for 'services rendered' after her final visit, Hermione pursed her lips in annoyance at that particular memory. Sighing, she closed her eyes and turned her face up towards the sun as she stood on the deck of the ferry bound for Cythera. This was the calm before the storm. Her last chance to soak up the peace before she unleashed hell…
She was in no hurry to get to Cythera to deliver her message… revenge, so they say, is a dish best served cold.
Hermione had decided against apparating directly to Cythera or travelling via the floo network. For one, she wanted to enjoy the sun for as long as she could before the short ferry ride over from the French coast, and two, with a little coaxing from Jackie, she had decided to take a sort of working holiday.
After the misery of an extended cold and wet Spring, a few days of the warm French climate was a welcome relief from the bleak British weather. Despite her fair English skin Hermione had always felt that she was more suited to the sun than her home country's grey skies and the months of perpetual sodden trouser legs and shoes. The Scottish weather during her schooling years at Hogwarts had been even gloomier. Even so, the multiple layers of scarves, jumpers and overcoats that were necessary to brave the cold did hide a multitude of sins, especially over the indulgent Christmas period, and Hermione was incredibly thankful that she had such an effective form of camouflage during her awkward adolescent years.
It was probably the summers spent with her mother and father in the south of France that had given her such a taste for blue skies and sunshine. Both her mother and father were retired now. Like Hermione, they also disdained the drab English weather and were currently travelling around Australia, having admitted to feeling a suprising affinity with the country after (unknowingly) relocating there during the Horcrux search and battle at Hogwarts. Her father, for one, had become absolutely hooked on Australian Rules Football and Hermione had quickly become bored with his continued complaints about the lack of a proper British alternative. For all of its Muggle-roots, the indecipherable nature of the game, with its complicated rules, unnecessary violence and the seeming chaos of play, had reminded her a lot of Quidditch. Although the fact that the players ran around in only tight shorts and vests, instead of long pants, shirts and billowing cloaks, did bump the game's favour up a few notches in Hermione's eyes.
Luckily the weather in Cythera favoured the French more than the English rain and fog. The island was located closer to France's coastline than England's – in fact it was closer to Spain than the United Kingdom – and it had been more influenced by the Gallic way of life than the English. Its people spoke mostly French, and privately Hermione thought that they had considerable more joie-de-vivre than the emotionally repressed Malfoys, who so personified the worst of the class conscious, stiff-upper lipped British.
Hermione had never forgotten the cruelty of the way Narcissa had spoken to her, just as she had never forgiven Draco for giving his mother the authority to do so. The nineteen year old she had once been, graceless and unsure of herself, had grown up very quickly since then. A brief melancholy darkened her eyes before she pushed unwanted memories away as the small boat drew closer to the island's bustling harbour. She wiped at her eyes, cursing the salty sea air for making them water so.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
The colourful sight of people milling around the weekend market stands along the shoreline greeted Hermione as the ferry approached the island's main harbour. Cythera had never been promoted as a tourist attraction, tourists would have been far too common for the Malfoys. The jetty the ferry docked at was bustling with locals, yet still seemed quiet, and she was one of only a handful of visitors arriving. Taking a deep breath of the warm fragrant air, Hermione smelled the warm mixture of the ocean and sunshine.
An official-looking guard stepped forward as she disembarked from the ferry. Handing him her identification papers, Hermione waited as he inspected her before handing them back with a brief nod. It was only as she walked away from the man that she realised she had been holding her breath for the entire process. Why was she worried? After all, Draco shouldn't have ever thought she would deign to step foot in the country again after his callous treatment of her, never mind having had the forethought to put her name on a list of 'persons not to be admitted entry'. That was, if he could even remember her name!
After making her way to the end of the jetty, Hermione hailed the Cytheran version of the Knight Bus. As it drove further inland she alternated between staring unseeing at her reflection in the window and watching as the beautiful scenery rushed by (the driver of this bus had a better track-record for staying on the road than Ernie). Centuries ago, before the country had been gifted to - or, depending on whose account you went by, usurped by - Draco's ancestors, Cythera had been home to a reclusive order of agriwizards. The careful husbandry of the land had been passed down, mostly unchanged, to the people of the area since that time. As Hermione continued towards the capital she couldn't help but admire the neat, orderly rows of vines, trees and fields. She had been the one to encourage Draco to make the populace of Cythera as self-supporting as possible. Yet she had never seen the result of her advice until now. Every acre of agricultural land was used as productively as it could be, and as the bus drove further from the shore Hermione could see the sun flashing off the glass that housed the country's much sought-after crops of organically-grown magical plants (less magical residue and impurities for more accurate use in potions). The road had started to climb now, below her was the small port and the sea, whilst ahead there was–
Hermione's heart beat in a slow, heavy rhythm as the terracotta walls of the city towering over the surrounding landscape came into view. Built on a rocky outcrop and surrounded by plains, the castle commanded an excellent position. The steep incline of the road momentarily cut off the bright sunlight, making Hermione shiver a little at being caught in the cold shadow cast by the imposing castle. She remembered how she had cringed when Draco had first taken her on a tour of the castle, including the ancient dungeons. "We have nothing like this at the Manor," he had laughed.
As the bus slowed down just after the narrow, tunnel-like entrance into the main city, Hermione jumped off, blinking rapidly as she emerged into the crisp sunlight from the unnaturally darkened bus. Pansy had told her that Narcissa would be in residence at her favourite apartment in the castle that spring, rather than staying at her country villa. Hermione quickly shrank and then pocketed her luggage, shaking out her thick hair and squaring her shoulders before making her way through the market stalls lining both sides of the street up to the castle gates.
OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
In his private offices high above the dust and rabble of the city, Draco Malfoy, His Highness, Prince and Supreme Ruler of Cythera stood frowning and massaging his temples. Having just returned from Geneva, where he had been involved in protracted and complex negotiations with regard to his country's financial and political status, he wanted nothing more than to lie in a dark room and catch up on his sleep. However, immediately on his return to the castle he had been informed that the civil unrest which had been simmering between the traditionalist conservatives and the more outspoken and radical members of the population had reached crisis point.
Still frowning, but now moving on to begin rubbing his brow, Draco listened as the Prime Minister, a cousin somewhere down the line who looked old enough to be his great grandfather, lectured him tersely.
"… and so the people want to see you married, Draco. The fact that you, as the last of your line, don't as yet have an heir makes this country insecure. Show the people that you are committed to them, this country, to your responsibilities! We all remember your late father's untimely, and most ignoble, passing. This only further highlights the importance of producing an heir as insurance against any unforeseen circumstances. Besides, your wedding would also solve that other problem. The fuss and spectacular of a royal wedding would help take people's minds off all this political fuss that's being stirred up by all these brash young things who are claiming that we are guilty of allowing criminals and murderers to make use of our country to hide both themselves and their 'blood money', as these radicals insist on calling it, from their home government."
Draco barely suppressed a sigh as he only half-listened to his relative and advisor, at the moment, the loud pounding inside his head was a far more pressing concern. From a personal point of view he completely sympathised with the opinions expressed by the so-called 'brash young things' (for one, they were completely correct) but his shaky position and the power of the elite meant that he could not publicly take sides. Besides, he felt honour-bound to protect not just the reputation of his late father and grandfather (news of both Lucius and Abraxas' misdeeds had miraculously not filtered into the country through international channels), but also the remaining members of the government who had been their peers.
"I thought I had already made my position on this issue clear, Philippe. Listen again, marriage is not the answer to anything. I don't intend to allow those guilty of the murder of other human beings, or any other illegal activities, to use this country as a safety net," Draco began quietly, "but given my father's history, any actions I do take are very open to criticisms of hypocrisy. Furthermore…" he was tired of this conversation, tired of the never ending concerns. He was finding it increasingly difficult to stop himself becoming distracted as he looked down from his window into the market square below.
Standing off to the side of the square, with her back turned to him, and the sun shining down on her was a young woman. Lifting a hand, she raked her fingers through her tousled, and quite bushy, brown hair, as though impatient with it's waywardness – not that it looked like her hair was ever anything but unkempt and wild. Immediately Draco stiffened. There was something about her posture, the squaring of her shoulders and the set straightness of her spine, that he instantly recognised.
As if the hair hadn't been enough of a clue…
Any thoughts of his tiredness or headache were quickly forgotten. "My apologies. Philippe, but you will have to excuse me. We can continue this discussion later."
Whilst the grey-haired man watched in silent confusion, Draco pushed open the large double doors and strode purposely through them.
OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
Hermione had no need to ask for directions to Narcissa's quarters. She knew exactly where the suite of rooms she usually occupied were, if only because she had purposely tried to avoid them on the few occasions she had been in Cythera previously. She also knew, from those visits, just how to avoid the formality of entering through the main doors to the castle and making herself known to the impressively uniformed guards stationed there. The traditional attire and swords were more for show than anything else, an acknowledgment of Cythera's history. That was not to say that either the palace or its inhabitants and employees were unprotected. The castle was very efficiently and discreetly patrolled by plain-clothes ex-aurors who formed the bulk of Draco's security staff.
As she slipped through a small side door a hundred memories flooded back to her. Such simple things; the smell of the palace, a mixture of dust, furniture polish and ancient stone; even more so, the scent of Draco's cologne which had complimented and enhanced the castle's atmosphere of intrigue, power and–
Hermione blinked in surprise. She shouldn't allow her imagination and her memories to play tricks on her. She had to remember the purpose for her visit. Angrily, she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, trying to ignore the melancholy brought on by her short trip down memory lane. Better that she remember the icy hauteur in Narcissa's voice, the barely concealed contempt and the cruelty with which she had been treated, under Draco's directives after all, as well as the pain she had felt when–
"So it was you! I thought so!"
A/N: Firstly, I'd like to extend a big welcome to Draco, who is joining us for the first time in this fic. Second, yes, I killed off Lucius. Hopefully Narcissa is evil enough to compensate. You are free to imagine up any perverted or grisly ending for him you desire. Personally, I like to believe he fell over in the shower and chocked on a large hairball. But that's just me...
Thanks to all those who have taken the time to read this, special thanks to those who added this story to Favourites and Alerts and extra special thanks to those who chose to review. Thank you all for your encouragement so early in the story. I'm beaming good karma your way as we speak. Anyone else who wants good karma should know what to do!
... Apologies for the mushiness. There's been no fluff so far in this fic, so I'm forced to use author's notes as my outlet ...