Four
Orion
The palace is both an imposing fortress, a bold display of the kingdom's wealth and power.
At Harry's insistence, Hermione joins a group tour of the grounds. She lingers in the back, listening to other ladies whisper about what they will wear to impress the king.
Hermione ignores the insipid chatter in favour of admiring the architecture as they walk down wide corridors lit by flaming orbs of magical light. The guide, a servant named Mrs Figg who smells of cabbage, allows them to explore the castle's many rooms. They wander through the labyrinth of libraries, studies, art galleries, portrait halls, sitting rooms, courtyards, gardens, throne rooms, grand halls, training pits, and even the armoury. Everything is exquisitely decorated in ornate finery.
"And to think, Leanne, one of us will be queen of all this," one woman sighs.
"If it is not me, Romilda, I hope it is you."
Hermione disguises her distaste when the two tittering ladies join hands. Who could find imprisonment appealing?
Heavy footsteps approach, and Mrs Figg makes them all step aside.
A dozen palace guards rush past with wands drawn, shouting, "Search the woods!"
Something is not right. The group moves on, but Hermione stops to look after the men.
She is left behind.
At first, she is worried, but then realises she is in no hurry to rejoin the group. Being alone is preferable to the company of catty, ambitious women.
She takes a different path.
The silence makes her more aware of what lies beneath the sheen of splendour on the surface of the palace.
A feeling, a wrongness hangs heavy around her, marring the magnificence. Magic pulses a haunted melody from the very stone beneath the floor. It hints at secrets Hermione does not want to learn.
"Are you lost?"
Startled by the brusque question, Hermione looks over her shoulder at the man watching her. Shorter than Harry and broad-shouldered, his eyes are as dark as his hair. The stranger is dressed in a white tunic and fine navy overcoat that wash out his pale complexion. The silver dragon pin on his lapel is a symbol of the crown.
"I was separated from my tour."
"And you are?"
"Lady Hermione." She curtsies with newly-learned grace. "Daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Grimmauld."
His demeanour changes and he bows low. "Forgive me, I thought you were one of the crowned princess' companions. She abruptly abandoned her duties of greeting the royal guests upon their arrival. I am on the king's Royal Council and was tasked to find her. I am Lord Marcus Flint."
"There is nothing to forgive, Sir." Hermione looks around. "I have not seen Her Highness."
She would not know what Princess Pansy looked like if she had.
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Hermione."
"Likewise."
"Shall I reunite you with the other ladies?"
"I thank you."
Lord Flint maintains a polite distance during their walk, offering little beyond mundane conversation until he notices her lingering at the wide doorway of a grand room. Its interior is absent all furnishings, save for pedestals featuring exquisite artefacts and walls lined with stunning paintings.
"Would you like a tour of this gallery?"
"I would, if it will not inconvenience you."
Lord Flint walks beside Hermione as she explores.
"Do you appreciate art?" she asks to break the silence.
"I am no expert." Flint touches an ornate vase. "The late queen created rooms all over the castle for the priceless relics inherited from dissolved kingdoms or taken from the conquered. She believed it was better to display them than store them, as the king wished."
"Stolen art?"
"The spoils of war cannot be described as stolen."
Hermione does not agree. She takes a step back, the beauty of the room now tainted by what she has learned. "Shall we continue on to my group?"
"There is still much to see here."
"Perhaps another time."
They leave with no further argument.
"Apologies if the room offended you. Many do not care about those who have lost their lands, but I suppose relics are better preserved than destroyed."
"I cannot imagine seeing my kingdom's relics in the palace of those who destroyed my home."
"It is odd," he concedes. "There is another room like this with art from my ancestral lands."
"Are you from the same Flint family that were part of the original Sacred Twenty-Eight?"
He nods. "My ancestors gave up their land to protect the Flint bloodline from a life of destitution."
"Yes, your territory was annexed by the Greengrass kingdom some three hundred years ago. They were conquered by the Avery kingdom who fell to the Malfoys under King Lucius."
"You are intelligent." Lord Flint sounds impressed.
She does not know whether to take offence or accept the compliment. "I am knowledgeable. This does not make me intelligent."
"And what does?"
"How one leverages knowledge determines one's intelligence."
"And how do you intend to leverage yours?" He casts a curious glance at her. "Or are you doing it now with me? I mentioned that I am on the Royal Council, but you have made no effort to inquire about the king."
"I have no reason to."
"Answering the summon means that, should the king choose your hand, you have no choice but to accept him."
"I am aware, but with sixty options the odds are dreadfully low."
"They are not zero," he argues. "You truly do not wish for information?"
"You have mistaken me for someone who aspires to be chosen."
"But you are a woman."
"This does not mean that I desire to be the fourth queen in less than half a year."
Lord Flint's eyes narrow. "Either you are playing coy in hopes to gain my favour, or you are far more honest than anyone in this Court."
"It is certainly not the former."
A fist over his mouth fails to disguise Flint's amusement.
They pass a large aviary with flowers and tall trees.
Hermione pauses only a moment. "May I enter?"
"Of course. You are a guest." He leads the way, the doors opening as they approach.
Looking around in awe, she enjoys the warm sun and ambiance provided by the chirping birds. "I am curious. How many species of birds live here?"
"Quite a few. The king's late mother loved birds. This place is kept in her memory." He lingers while Hermione explores, joining her as she watches the peacocks strut by. The silence is weighted until he speaks. "I feel I must apologise for my assumption that all women would feel honoured to be queen."
"I am certain the woman the king chooses will be very honoured, but I am not here of my own accord. Once I complete my audience, I will return to my home and to my life."
"Then I wish you well, Lady Hermione."
Tutors are beneficial in some cases, but there are not enough lessons in existence to prepare Hermione for Court.
Draped in an elegant lilac silk creation, Hermione says nothing when the dressing elves are sent away and servant girls take over. They chatter nonstop while they style her riotous hair, add stain to her lips, and spray her with a pungent floral perfume that stings her eyes.
Hermione is proud of her independence, but she has never felt as alone as she does standing in the receiving line outside the banquet hall waiting nervously for Harry—who is late. She wonders if she should have listened to the earlier gossip. If nothing else, she may have heard clues about tonight's events, those in attendance, and what to expect.
When Harry finally joins her, she feels woefully unprepared and overwhelmed.
"Sorry I am late, there is much happening around the castle." He is dressed as a knight, not as a Duke's eldest son. "I thought I would have time to change into something more suitable."
"It is fine." Hermione smiles. "I am just happy you are here."
The doors open, and the presentations begin.
It is far easier to focus on refining her behaviour and interactions to the formalities of the king's Court than it is to ignore the eyes and whispers that follow her from the moment she is announced.
Her father knows she does not belong here. It is why he does not present her himself.
She is not a true Lady.
This is insulting. How was a common-born invited?
A Lady in name but not blood.
She is nothing.
Hermione pretends not to hear, but when nerves begin to blur her vision as they walk the room, Harry's kind eyes help settle her urge to run.
For now.
"If Father were here, he would tell you that you look beautiful. He would also say that you are every bit a Potter as he is—as I am. Blood does not make a family."
Love does.
With emotions tight in her throat, Hermione chuckles, fighting to maintain composure. "If—if Father were here, he would have accidentally tripped a few of them with his cane."
"Or a jinx," Harry offers.
"Or both," they say as one with matching grins.
"I could blow someone up like I did Aunt Marge when she told Dudley it was okay to insult you because you weren't my real sister."
"Tempting, but no." Hermione tries to hide the jitters. "There is just tonight and the summons to conclude without incident before I can return home. I would rather endure countless dinners with Aunt Petunia trying to convince Father to match me with Dudley than to spend another fortnight here."
"Dudley?" He recoils. "You must jest."
"I do not." Hermione winces in the face of her incredulous brother. "Dudley is insufferable and spoiled, and his parents cannot convince anyone with common sense to marry him. However, since we are of no true relation…"
Harry shudders. "Are you certain you do not wish to marry the king? Surely he is a better match than our dear cousin."
"A dirty shoe is a better match than Dudley." They both chuckle at this. "It is also preferable to the other people in this room."
Harry catches her fading smile. "What is it?"
"They are right about one thing." Hermione looks around uncomfortably. "I do not belong in this world."
The welcome feast is as extravagant as it is entertaining. The affair is filled with magical theatrical plays and more food than Hermione has ever seen in her life.
It is far more enjoyable than the people who sit closest to her. They do not stop staring, their scrutiny making it clear that she has no right to be there in their eyes. They are bold with their disapproval.
But Hermione is not the only one they scrutinise.
Everyone is in competition.
Those who are odd, unattractive, or do not fit their personal vision of who should be allowed to have an audience with the king are scorned the worst. Right and wrong mean nothing, and trying to reason with them is pointless. Hermione remains silent and tries to enjoy the evening, resigning herself to the fact that her appetite will not return.
Between one play and the next, Harry nudges her. "You need to mingle."
Hermione would rather face a nundu.
The very idea makes her sweat with nerves, even as she rises to do so. Her feelings only worsen when she passes a group of women several seats down.
What a waste of a beautiful gown, a blond woman with curly hair whispers. They all laugh together.
Given the day she has had—the incident with the rider and the stress of tonight—Hermione does not have her wits about her to respond. Her thoughts are too scattered.
She is flustered.
Hot.
Nausea rises from the pit of her stomach.
She trembles.
Itches.
Harry notices her altered mood and watches in careful silence until her breathing grows laboured during the second play's first act. "You are panicking. What can I do?"
Everyone in the room is boisterous, clapping and laughing as the actors perform a sanitised history of their kingdom to rousing approval.
It is too much.
Her senses are in overload.
What can he do?
Nothing.
She wants to crawl out of her skin.
Or run.
Harry's hand on her arm is the only thing stopping her. The last thing she wants to do is cause a scene, but she will if she remains indoors a moment longer.
"Get me out of here, please."
Harry does just that.
It is not until they are on a balcony that she takes a breath.
Then another.
It feels like salvation.
Deep inhales and long exhales help her slowly unfurl and take in her surroundings: the star-filled sky and crescent moon. The breeze that cools her flushed skin. Slowly, Hermione rebuilds her wits.
Harry touches her shoulder. "Better?"
"Much."
"You still do not care for crowded rooms?"
"Admittedly, I have been battling anxiety all night."
"You should have said something." Her brother's concern is rooted in care. "I thought you were upset about what people were saying."
"That too, but it also appears my predilection has not changed over time."
It is why Hermione clings to all that is familiar despite the feelings of change growing within her.
Harry starts to speak, but the door opens and a tall, husky knight emerges. He stands and straightens. "What is it, Sir Goyle?"
"The king is summoning you."
"Of course he is." Her brother rolls his eyes. "Is he still—"
"Refusing Healer attention because he is fine? Yes."
"He will be the death of me, I know it." Another hint of fondness in the way Harry shakes his head makes Hermione curious about their friendship. "The king was attacked with a banned weapon, but has little recollection of the event," he explains. "I cannot jest about putting him out of my misery when the list of those who seek to put his head on a spike grows daily."
Sir Goyle smothers his laugh with a cough.
"We also have four missing foot soldiers and children in the town claiming there are people in the forest." He turns to address Sir Goyle. "What of the search?"
"Nothing on the children's claims. As far as the attack on the king, we have recovered the weapon and found its crafter. Arrests have been made for the arch—" Sir Goyle eyes Hermione. "Uh. The king wishes to prepare for the four interrogations."
Her brother looks torn between family and duty, but Hermione makes his choice for him. "Go. There are more important matters than me tonight."
Harry attempts to smooth his hair, then shakes his head ruefully. "It has been chaotic since our return, to say the least."
"I can find my way back when I am ready, but when you finish I expect a most entertaining story."
"Of course." After squeezing her hand, Harry leaves.
Alone, Hermione seeks the guidance of the stars to ease her troubled thoughts.
She finds nothing.
In her mind's eye, she can hear the amusement in Vasades' voice.
Now, of all times, you commune with the stars you refuse to understand in hopes that they will give up their secrets.
"No, I hope to find you." Hermione closes her eyes and rubs her temples. "Gods, I am talking to myself. Indeed, these are troubling times."
Hermione.
Her name on the breeze makes her jolt, her heart racing as she looks around the empty balcony.
It—no. That is impossible.
And yet.
"Vasades?" she whispers.
Each breath is harsh in the night's silence.
She waits.
And waits.
The wind does not so much as whisper again.
The emptiness that follows stretches wide over everything, heavy with meaning Hermione cannot decipher.
But she centres herself and finds contentment in the brief contact.
Peace in her settling heart.
Direction in True North.
Hermione does not return to the feast.
Bells toll in the city square the following morning.
Hermione emerges from her chambers to people rushing by. Whispering guests crowd the large balconies, watching from every east facing window. It is hard to find a spot to see what they are all aghast over. Hermione walks around until she passes an open room where a man in a turban stands alone.
She clears her throat and he turns, smiling when he sees her. "H-hello."
Hermione recognises him as the man she bumped into at the Market. "I apologise for the intrusion, Sir. I was looking for a spot. May I join you?"
"Y-yes, of c-course." The man returns to the view, slightly nodding before his head whips back to her suddenly. "W-who are you?"
She introduces herself with a curtsy, and the man tilts his head to the side.
"And you are?"
"Q-Quirinus Quirrell." Stepping aside, he creates a space for her. "I-I-I am a t-travelling s-scholar h-here to st-study in the p-palace libraries."
Hermione takes her place at his side with a gracious nod, but she is ill prepared for the sight.
Though she looks away immediately, there is no question what she has seen.
She has a feeling the image will never leave her.
The results of the interrogation are grotesque.
Four impaled bodies on pikes line the castle wall, their rotting carcasses provide a feast for wild birds.
She has to swallow and take a deep breath before she can speak.
"What prompted this?"
Quirrell looks thoughtful yet grim, his eyes fixed on the sight with grisly interest. "T-the king's j-judgement."
In the two days before her summons, Hermione does her best to avoid the troubling sights and disturbing rumours. She has no desire to reminisce about the scene that haunts her.
She visits Percy in the library, where he offers her books to read. Because Harry is often busy with duties, she enjoys meals with Lord Sirius, who has just returned from abroad.
True to his nature, Sirius sneaks Hermione out of the palace the first chance he gets under Harry's invisibility cloak. She dresses like a boy and has her first taste of ale in a tavern, which she enjoys more than she admits. Sirius lets her run amok in the stores, experiencing the carefree joy that can only come with being born a man.
When a harried Harry finds them, Sirius claps her brother on the back. "Do not be such a bore. She is safe with me."
"I know, but much has happened since you were away." They both look at her, then at each other. "Much we need to discuss. In private."
Hermione squints in suspicion.
"All in good time, Harry."
"I read the instructions from Dumbledore. Prince—"
"We will speak on all I have missed, including your wedding. I understand that these are trying times, but allow your sister a bit of adventure today. Her summons is tomorrow."
"Fine," Harry relents. "But nothing dangerous and have her back inside the palace by sunset. As far as anyone knows, Lady Hermione reads alone in her chambers and must not be disturbed."
"It is quite a thrilling book indeed!" She smiles wide. "About hunters and weapons forged in fire."
Harry rolls his eyes but laughs.
Sirius places his hand over his heart. "I solemnly swear that we will have an extraordinarily dull afternoon."
Obviously, it is the opposite.
They fly on Buckbeak. Explore the deep forest on the far reaches of town. She runs freely alongside Sirius while he is in his Animagus form, a black dog.
But the mood shifts when he drags Hermione away from a cave whose wrongness she can feel. She wishes to explore, but Sirius transforms back and they return to town. He distracts her with a visit to the bladesmith to sharpen her dagger. While they wait, Hermione picks up a sword and challenges Sirius to a playful duel to test the weapon.
"I am far too old to fight." He raises both hands in surrender.
"You are not."
"Tell that to my bones that still ache from tackling a werewolf."
Hermione scoffs at his joke. "You just do not want to be bested by a woman."
"Lily used to best your father and I, even when we teamed up against her," he admits with a laugh. "But instead of duelling, I want to take you to the gaming hall to meet a poltergeist named Peeves."
She perks up. "A real poltergeist?"
"And a ghoul." Sirius grins mischievously. "Do not tell your mother. Or Harry."
"I swear it." Hermione vibrates with excitement.
"Good." He offers his arm as the bladesmith returns her sharpened dagger. "Let us enjoy the chaos."
Hermione hears gossip from an unlikely source:
A house-elf named Winky, who is assigned to clean her chambers.
A single moment of Hermione's kindness makes her open up.
She is sweet and talkative.
On the morning of her summons, Winky helps her dress while rambling on about how the king grows frustrated with the selection process.
It gives her hope for a quick day.
Before she leaves to join her group of twelve, Hermione thanks Winky for everything she has done during her stay. "It is likely my last night here and I did not want to leave without you knowing my appreciation."
The house-elf sobs, loudly, grateful for something other than cruelty.
She throws herself at Hermione's feet. "Miss is too kind!"
Hermione's group lines up in two rows.
Six on the right and six on the left.
With their backs to the empty throne, Hermione stares at a spot on the wall to keep her nerves calm. It is warm, bright, and the murmurs of the crowded room make her uncomfortable.
Noble families. King's guards and knights. Soldiers. Royal Advisors and staff.
All watch and wait.
Hermione spots Harry, Percy, and Sirius—all give her encouraging looks.
Trumpets blare to announce the arrival of the king.
Much has been said about King Draco: his ruthlessness, his dragon, his pale features, and the disfiguring scars on his face.
Hermione expects someone godlike and invincible.
Yet, when he enters through the heavy doors and proceeds down the aisle towards them, with people bowing reverently as he passes, she finds that he is just a man.
A tall, imposing man.
As he draws closer, she sees that it is him.
The king. The rider.
They are one in the same.
He continues past her to the throne without a glance. Hermione's curtsy is late. She is reeling from the revelation.
"Proceed."
A hush befalls the room.
Rooted to the spot, her mind races though her body remains still. The Court's herald stands and addresses the room.
"You have been summoned before the king…"
What he says next is lost.
Breathing shallowly, Hermione blinks in disbelief at the rider—no, the king. He dresses neither like royalty nor a dragon rider, but ceremonially for battle in a gold chestplate and pteruges. His red cape is fixed in place with gold brooches.
King Draco is not here to impress. He is here to command.
She wonders if he intends to find a wife at all.
Once the herald finishes, they are ordered to turn around. The king begins by approaching the first woman on the far left. His voice pierces the silence. "When is the right time to begin?"
"Whenever you like, Your Majesty." She simpers with a low bow.
"Your answer is incorrect. Step back."
Hermione lowers her eyes upon hearing the quiet, disappointed sniffle at the king's blunt rejection.
King Draco asks the question to the next woman.
And the next.
And the next.
They all are told to step back.
It goes on.
Something about this process calms Hermione's nerves. Her answer does not matter. Not only does she not seek the king's hand, but her existence is not hinged on one moment.
"When is the right time to begin?"
King Draco is now with the woman beside her.
Hermione does not raise her head to stare, but she does sneak a glance in deadly curiosity. He stands with an arm tucked behind his back; a bold stance for someone whose life is constantly under threat.
"I do not know, Sire." The Lady shifts on her feet. "Given the incorrect answers of the others, the question is impossible to—"
"It is not," he interrupts coolly. "Step back."
Hermione hears the woman wordlessly follow his command. Seconds later, her choked sob fades into an unsettling silence.
It is Hermione's turn.
"Raise your head, girl," whispers a man in the front row.
Her pulse kicks up a notch, stomach churning in reminder of the hours that have passed since she has eaten. The king takes his place before her just as Hermione lifts her head to the familiar face.
He appears… agitated.
Until he truly looks at her.
Pale eyes narrow in a recognition neither are foolish enough to vocalise.
"When is the right time to begin?"
For as long as Hermione has been waiting, she has not given her answer any thought. She could give the same answer as the others, but the question sings a different tune now that it belongs to her.
It inspires Hermione's honesty.
"Now."
Something unknown flickers into existence.
An awakening.
It feels like creation.
A shift of her universe.
"Why is that?"
Startled by the additional question, Hermione fumbles. "N-now is when you have the most power."
Hermione is keenly aware of the subtle shift in the king's stance.
The set of his jaw. The narrowing of his eyes. The unconscious sound that escapes him.
It is akin to a beast waking after a long hibernation.
"Who should I listen to most?"
Hermione glances to the side, ignoring the blatant stares and murmurs of the now captive spectators to seek reassurance from her brother. She finds none. Harry looks nervous and worried.
The impatient king clears his throat.
Her head snaps to him. When first there was nothing beyond recognition, now his focus is entirely on her.
"Shall I repeat the question?"
"No, Sire." Hermione's tone is too sharp, and she knows it. "You must listen to one person: yourself."
"And why is that?"
"Right or wrong, you must live with each decision you make."
The whispers swell when King Draco brings his hands to his side. Even though she wants to grow wings and fly away, Hermione stands firm in the face of the growing tension pains in her legs.
"What is the most important thing I should do?"
"You should be fair and good to those under your rule." Hermione's hands shake as hard as her heart pounds, but her voice does not waver. "And why? Because as a king, this is your purpose alone."
Their eyes hold the other's for an infinite stretch of moments as the murmurs rise.
The king raises his hand.
Silence falls like a veil.
"Clear the room."
His command leaves no space for question. Lowering her eyes, Hermione moves to leave with the others, but the king stops her with three words.
"You will stay."
The great doors shut with a resounding echo.
Hermione jolts as the harsh sound cuts through her jumbled thoughts, scattering them like wind to the four corners of the Earth. She stands in the silence with her back straight, legs locked, and eyes on the king who has pinned her in place with one look.
Faint and tired, she refuses to show the discomfort she feels. Bringing her hands behind her back, Hermione clutches at her gown to rid herself of a fraction of her anxiety.
When the king finally moves, he circles her like a predator. Each step is silent. The strangling cord of tension mercilessly suffocates her, but his lack of questions gives her time to fight off the feelings and rein in control of her heart.
He is biding time.
Patiently waiting.
The urge to follow his every move is tempting.
"What is your name?"
Fear shoots through her veins. "I-I am Lady Hermione, the adopted daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Grimmauld."
"Adopted?" he says softly with a slight roll of his eyes. "You are Potter's younger sister. I did not know you were of no blood kin to him."
"I am older, Sire," she corrects with an edge. "They adopted me before he was born." Her grip on her dress tightens then releases.
"And your birth parents were?"
"Poor peasants from Kald Village. They hid me when they were attacked by the Carrows. I was found in the debris by a centauride."
"What else do you know of your family?"
The question sparks her curiosity. "The family I was born into? I know little else. But if you are inquiring about my parents, the Duke and Duchess, I have told you all I know."
"Interesting."
King Draco circles Hermione twice more. She curls her hands into fists at her side. His silence leaves her more rattled than ever.
"Why did you come?" He stops before her and once again holds her hostage with his eyes. "You want something."
"Despite my exemption due to my status as an orphan, I was brought here under your orders."
"You could have evaded."
"My father is a Duke and my brother is your knight, but this does not mean we are above the law."
"Very well, but you knew the wrong answers, did you not?"
"I did."
"You could have answered as the others before you. Instead you—"
"I was honest," Hermione scoffs. "Had I known this would warrant an interrogation, I would have lied."
"This is not an interrogation."
"It certainly feels like one," Hermione snaps, then winces. "Apologies, Your Majesty. I did not mean to speak so freely."
"Yes, you did." The barest hint of a smirk curves his lips. "Do not start lying now."
She does not know what to say.
"Have you enjoyed your time in Wiltshire, Lady Hermione?"
"I have," Hermione replies carefully. "I accomplished everything I set out to do."
"Which was…"
"I wanted to learn about life at Court and bring my stories back to my duchy." Hermione subtly tries to shift her weight, painfully aware of the tension in her legs. "I intend to teach my students as much as I can about the many paths one's life can take. I have never been presented at Court and cannot teach what I do not know."
"You are both a Lady and a teacher." He tsks with patronising amusement. "Next you will tell me that you know how to fight."
"I am capable of defending myself." She only just manages to keep the offence out of her tone. "You might be dismissive of my skill with a sword, or of me because I am an educated woman, but my station allows me to teach orphans and those who seek an education but cannot afford a tutor."
The king steps close enough that he has to lower his chin to hold her gaze. His body is completely still, a study in control. "You speak too freely."
"And you are far too close." She re-establishes the polite distance between them. "Do you care at all about propriety?"
"I care about it as much as you care about keeping your opinions to yourself."
"Am I not allowed to have an independent thought? Or would you prefer me to speak at your command like a trained beast?"
"There is no need for sarcasm."
"Just as there is no need for condescension… Sire."
She expects to be cast out for her cheek, but the king brings his hands behind himself once more. "To my surprise, I prefer your candour to the empty words of those who tell me what I want to hear. I would like your opinion on a matter."
"And then you will dismiss me?"
"Perhaps."
Frustration blooms as she stares at the man, unable to believe that her ignorance has gotten her into this predicament.
Everyone knows the Dragon King, the sins he bears from a long line of tyrants, his bond with the familiar he is named for, his triumphs in a war they are now winning. In hindsight, Hermione should have pieced the jagged clues together before now, but realistically, she has not seen his painted likeness since he was a boy.
He looks much different as a man.
Hermione cannot help but wonder…
King Draco has been at war for as long as he has ruled.
She wonders if he has lived.
How can he?
Empathy rises, but it is tempered by its equal and opposite, which reminds Hermione of what people on all sides have lost.
Their lives and liberties. Their homes and lands. Their peace.
None of which can be regained.
"I have been away for years. Tell me, Lady Hermione, what is your opinion of my kingdom?"
"I cannot answer, Sire."
The small tic of his jaw is the only hint of his irritation. "Why not?"
"I would rather keep my life."
What is hers when he has taken hundreds?
"Very well."
It takes the king eight steps to circle her. Hermione does not hastily speak to fill the silence. Instead, she counts each step while ignoring the ghost of him on her skin. The way he smells faintly of smoke and wood.
"Should I allow you to speak without consequence, then what might you say?"
"I-I might ask a question."
"Go on."
Nerves settle and bravery rises. "I have no opinion on the kingdom, but I am curious about you."
"Oh?"
"Do you intend to rule as the tyrants before you or as a king?"
The same wand that has killed hundreds of the king's enemies is now in her face. He reeks of power and passion, of aggression and rage. King Draco wears it all like a crown upon his head, emphasised by the lock of white blond hair that falls over his eye.
He is ready to draw blood.
Hers.
One word and Hermione will join every other person who has seen the end of his wand.
Fear squeezes her stomach tight, but defiance pumps to the rhythm of her pulse. It floods her veins and pours to the tips of her fingers like magic.
The king notices. "You should be afraid."
"Every living thing dies." She stares past the tip of his wand into stone grey eyes. "I do not fear death, nor do I fear you."
"You are lying." King Draco's voice chills her. "You are afraid. I can hear it."
As he emphasises the word, she feels something brush against her mind before retreating. A cold caress that dries her mouth. Hermione knows those with familiars can see into the minds of others, but knowing this is different from standing before someone who can slip into her thoughts as freely as breathing.
"I have killed for less than the offence you have caused me." The tip of his wand brushes against her throat.
Hermione swallows and lifts her chin. He lifts a single blond brow but she ignores it. She never backs down.
"Strike me down. I may die knowing my answer to how you will rule."
Moments stack on each other.
One by one.
Ten by ten.
At last, King Draco makes a choice.
He lowers his wand and tucks it away. Hermione exhales, trying to shake the jitters that come with facing guaranteed death.
"I am no tyrant." His voice is low and edged. "But I make no apologies for my actions or how I punish those who commit crimes. I intend to rule not as my fathers before me, but with a firm, decisive hand. Like my mother. It was her three questions you answered correctly."
Hermione watches him and waits until she can no longer do either.
Until she must ask.
"And what of the people, both from this kingdom and the others you have conquered? How will you rule them?" She shifts her weight from one tired leg to the other. "A kingdom is only as strong as its foundation. Yours is suffering and has been ignored for too long. If you continue down the same path as the kings before you, your kingdom will crumble. You will be left in the rubble as the king of nothing."
"You are a brave little lion." It does not sound like a compliment. "Even under threat of death."
"I am tired, hungry, vexed, and I will confess, afraid. Either kill me or release me to my chambers or a cell—somewhere where I can sit and have a meal in peace. I care not what or where."
"If you are hungry, you should request for food." Low yet rough, he sounds like silk feels between her fingers. "If you are tired, you should request for a place to sit. If you are vexed, you should address the source of your stress."
"How might I address my fear?"
"As you are now." He leans in slightly. "Boldly."
"May I go now?"
"No." King Draco's proximity flusters her to the brink of tears, but when she tries to look away he stops her. "You were not trained to guard your mind. Your thoughts are so loud I could hear them before I knew they were yours."
The news only makes her mind spin harder.
"You need to learn to shield your thoughts as well as temper your emotions." King Draco tilts her chin up to meet his eyes. "When you become my queen, I will teach you how to do both."
As if physically struck by his words, Hermione sways.
Stoic in the face of her shock, he is impossible to read and remains so close it leaves her feeling hot and cold.
"When I am…"
She turns away, her vision blurring and swimming.
Queen.
Her pulse is a dull roar that grows louder.
Then louder.
It fills every crevice in her mind and leaves room for little else.
King Draco moulds himself to her back. The cool chill of his chestplate sinks through the thin silk to her overheated skin—cold enough to burn. His hands on her shoulder feel like a rough, exploratory caress.
Lips brush her ear. "My queen."
Relief lasts but a moment when the world fades to black. Her knees give way and the ground rushes to meet the sky.
Orion: represents the mythical hunter, who is often depicted in star maps as either facing the charge of Taurus, the bull, pursuing the Pleiades sisters, or chasing after the hare with his two hunting dogs.
A/N: And here is King Draco. Here we go!
A couple of things:
1. Draco's questions are based on Leo Tolstoy's short story called Three Questions: www. plough en/ topics/ culture/ short-stories/ the-three-questions (no spaces)
2. Lots of people we've met this chapter, hints dropped, things happened. Lots of canon weaving. *rubs hands together*
3. Locking your legs for too long will make you pass out. As will the stress of having a wand in your face and being selected as Queen, lol.
4. Chaotic Sirius Black is clearly a self-insert for me. Obvs. I'm kidding. Sorta.
5. I wouldn't be who I am if their official meeting wasn't full of tension.
6. Reminder of the art on ao3/Jaxx's instagram