265The Princess's Guide to Popular Statecraft
Summary: What comes after you marry the love of your life? Predictably, bliss—but when your new husband is next in line for the British throne, wrangling a kingdom is just par for the course. A guide to international diplomacy, maintaining a stiff upper lip, and doing some actual good in the world. Sequel to The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal. Dramione, modern royalty AU.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and claim no profit from this work. Credit where credit is due, Joanne Rowling. Additionally, while the story is inspired by the romances of Prince William and Prince Harry, all of the accounts/characterizations herein are fictional. It will have parallels with recent events in the British Royal Family, but will not mirror them exactly.
a/n: This story is a sequel; it picks up where The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal leaves off, so book one has to be read first. If you have read the brief one-shot I posted in Amortentia, The New Royal's Guide to Bearing Princes, those events will come to pass later in the story. I expect this fic will update weekly. Thank you for joining me here, and I look forward to another story with you!
Chapter 1: A Lady Will Find a Compromise
DAILY PROPHET, The UK's Top Source for Breaking News
ProphetOnline
ROYAL FAMILY IN CRISIS! Fmr Palace source cites Hermione Granger's difficulty; terrorizing staff, refusal to appear at State functions, forcing a rift between Prince Draco and Prince Lucius
— "I made a terrible mistake!" Exclusive coverage of Prince Draco's heartbreak and regret!
— King Abraxas 'very disheartened' as tension mounts; how Draco and Hermione have 'lost all perspective' while The Firm struggles to stabilize floundering public approval
— Just WHO is advising the soon-to-be Princess of Wales? Inside the staffing nightmare and costly renovations at Kensington Palace
3:25 PM - 30 Jun 2018
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Well, as you can see, everything's going swimmingly. Ironically it isn't not, minus all this about me being some sort of Antichrist—which you'd think would be nothing new, and you'd be right. Though even I sometimes find myself grudgingly impressed by the Daily Prophet's necromancy when it comes to reinvigorating the same dead horse.
Before we get into my latest assault on Britain's constitutional monarchy and/or the apocalyptic disintegration of the Commonwealth, I think it's important to focus on the good. True, the abdication of Prince Lucius (the man) incited something of a broad institutional crisis, but he, at least, is happy, having decided to give up his claim to the throne in favor of loving his wife, reasserting his health, and working towards resolution with his father. Narcissa is also happy, having recently been reunited with her previously estranged husband (and also having escaped prosecution for the abduction of any insidious celebrity journalists, much to my considerable relief). Pansy and Harry are happy, being deeply enamored with their precocious daughter and newly thrilled for the impending birth of their son. Theo and Daphne are happy, one being deeply invested in growing the Transfiguration Project while the other expands her massively successful business. My parents are happy, having recently stepped back from their dental practice in favor of taking a sabbatical to travel the world. Blaise is Blaise, which means we think he's happy, though we won't know for sure until he tells us or we die, whichever comes first. Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart are currently too distracted by their ongoing social media rivalry to focus on destroying our lives; Luna Lovegood is somehow one of the sought-after political pundits in the U.K.; Prince Lucius (the dog) is starting to regrow the small patches of fur lost to a recent skin infection; Hortense and Thibaut are wanted for war crimes (I assume, anyway—with them, no news is ideal news); and of course, Draco and I are happily wedded, and blissfully—revoltingly, according to Pansy—in love.
All's well that ends well, as the poets say, and they're not wrong. Or they wouldn't be, anyway, if our wedding had actually been the end.
But love is tricky, isn't it? It's not exactly something you do alone, for one thing, and it's also—even with the best intentions—somewhat blind, which might be why I left out certain pieces of the story until now. In my defense, it wasn't so much failure to notice the existence of any simmering turmoil as it was having no reason to suspect any of those things would ever become my problem. After all, how was I to know that one of my friends had some foregone family history that might suddenly pop up with the arrival of an old vendetta? Or that the politics of the country I'd left behind might somehow bleed into my personal life? Or that I was going to have to be someone's employer, much less in need of an entire household staff?
Love is beautiful, and it isn't just blind; it's also really forking stupid. So, seeing as we've got a lot of ground to cover in terms of all my so-called misbehaviors, let's just jump right in.
June 5, 2018
Clarence House, London, England
"I suppose one might be wondering what a new wife does for her husband on the occasion of his twenty-eighth birthday," Hermione said aloud, surveying the still-covered furniture in the house she was to occupy temporarily for the next unknown period of time. "Difficult enough without consideration of the fact that one's new husband is the soon-to-be formally invested Prince of Wales, and therefore already in possession of most giftable items—"
"And certainly not aided by any other facts," contributed Theo, adding offhandedly, "And is it Draco's birthday again? I swear he just had one last year," before falling onto a peach-colored chaise and stretching luxuriously outwards, ankles dangling below the edge.
"Oh, he did, but just the one," said Hermione, before adding in an afterthought: "And remind me why you're here again?"
"Because I'm Draco's emotional support animal," said Theo. "And also, Daphne's not home."
"Right," Hermione said. "Just checking."
"I told you you didn't have to get me anything," said Draco with a heavy sigh, entering the room behind them and pulling Hermione in with one arm. He kissed the top of her head soundly, adding, "Marrying me was plenty—and besides, I think at this point I'm rather stupendously in your debt."
"You do make an excellent point about that," Hermione agreed, leaning into his shoulder. "I can't say I ever pictured my honeymoon being punctuated by daily conference calls with your father and Dobby. Nor did I suspect we'd be moving in with your parents."
"Well they're not actually here, and it's only temporary," Draco reminded her, looking moderately racked with guilt. "Just until our rooms are finished at Kensington Palace, I promise." Then, with his hands gripping remorsefully at her waist, he added quietly, "You don't regret it, do you?"
Silly man. "Not even a little," Hermione said, twisting around to face him. "Not for a moment."
"Well… hold that thought, would you?" Draco sighed, lifting her chin with a finger. "And give me a solid five seconds of affection before I'm forced to ask something else of you."
"Oh, happily," Hermione agreed, at which point Draco pulled her into his arms and kissed her as shamelessly as he might have done if Theo were not plainly there to witness it. (In fairness, Theo was busy pretending to read something that purported to be a very old and probably quite valuable edition of the Bible, which Hermione was intrigued to discover had not spontaneously crumbled to ash in his hands.)
Since the wedding, Hermione and Draco had come to establish a rhythm in which bad news was preceded by a five-second romantic interlude. True, it worked most obviously to Draco's benefit to soften her up before announcing something newly unsavory, but over time it was proving to be mutually beneficial. Generally speaking, a brief foray into the love that had lured her here in the first place was enough to remind Hermione that there were worse career choices to make, whatever the subsequent bad news happened to be.
"So," Draco said when they parted, smoothing a curl behind her ear, "remember how much you loathed those calls with Dobby?"
"Oh no. Do we have another one?" she guessed, grimacing. It was certainly no secret that while her new family was in the best shape it had been for decades, it was also politically in crisis. Ever since Lucius' decision to renounce his succession to the throne, there had been renewed public outcry from several anti-monarchy journalists and MPs. What was the purpose of maintaining a system of primogeniture when the role of stewardship could be so easily declined? Hermione could practically recite the contents of certain pro-Labour articles in her sleep; in fact, she wouldn't have been surprised if she learned that she actually had been. Already, Draco had picked up a habit of stress-induced, systematic teeth-grinding that now required him to wear an absurdly unsexy (albeit intensely endearing) mouthguard at night.
That was the odd charm of marriage, wasn't it, knowing that? Threaded adoringly alongside the fault lines of their union was the privilege of intimacy with him, the granular details of what he truly was, the problems that kept him awake that were also, willingly, hers. To everyone else, Prince Draco was a rich man in a navy suit who offered photographs and gave speeches; his position in the world was, to many, the result of class prejudice, archaic tradition, and very, very little else. To Hermione, however, he was the sometimes half-unintelligible boy with bleary, tired eyes, her favorite companion, who cared about his country and his family's legacy so much he nearly broke his teeth every night just to keep them safe. Her husband, simultaneously the Prince of Wales, was a man who adored time with his goddaughter and displayed unfaltering self-possession in all circumstances and who leapt at the chance to fetch Hermione a glass of water if she even hinted at being thirsty. That some might not think him deserving of every privilege in the world the same way she did was… politically reasonable. But it was also incredibly distant.
Hermione couldn't honestly say whether she would have thought much of the monarchy if she had followed the path she'd always intended to take. What had she thought of King Abraxas before marrying into his family? She struggled to remember, given everything that had come to pass, but she suspected that an alternate universe Hermione might not have batted an eye if she discovered the United Kingdom had suddenly done away with kings and queens altogether. Sometimes, secretly, Hermione's biggest source of stress was that she couldn't disagree with some of the arguments: the monarchy was a vestigial organ, a foregone source of governance that existed primarily to bloat public funding and to persist in celebration of a baseless hierarchical tradition. Do away with the aristocratic class, by all means! Democracy would always bear more fruit—or so another version of Hermione might say, had she not also hypocritically salivated over her wedding tiara.
But since she so dearly loved the man who would have sacrificed everything to fulfill the duties he was tasked with from birth—and because she really didn't want some grand institutional failure to come down like a guillotine on his beautiful blond head—Hermione figured she ought to join him in his fight to keep his family's reign alive. At the very least, she certainly owed it to him not to point out that maybe, possibly, the reason so many people took issue with his family was because they were a teeny, tiny, little eensy bit… right.
Luckily it wasn't about right or wrong; not anymore. She'd chosen her side when she chose to be Draco's wife, his partner, and now she was also his colleague, the newest member of the British Royal Family and suddenly (depending on the day) both its favorite scapegoat and its only hope. True, at times Hermione was still considered too radical, too common, too aloof, a mere distraction from its deep systemic failures—but on better occasions she was a fresh perspective, a thinking woman, an inspiration to new generations of women and girls.
There was never any telling which it would be on any given day, or which of her qualities might be called upon to dominate the narrative. So to say that even a phone call with Dobby might disrupt her newly-wedded bliss for any number of reasons was really quite a forking understatement.
"Do you want the terrible news first, or the bad news?" asked Draco, dragging her back to the point.
"Mm, terrible news first," judged Hermione.
"Oof, this Job guy," commented Theo nonsensically, turning a page. "Yikes."
"Well, thank you for that marvelous refresher on the importance of perspective, Theodore," offered Draco wryly, "but more to the point, our first formal State visit after the ceremonial investiture has been scheduled for August."
"Oh," said Hermione, surprised by how harmless 'terrible' had turned out to be. "That's not so—"
"It's with President Bagman," said Draco.
"—ba- fork no," she said, belatedly registering the name of the American president for whom she had resolutely not voted two years prior. "No. No. Are you joking? No, Draco Lucius Abraxas Wales, absolutely not, not a chance—"
"As for the bad news," Draco continued, clearly attempting to rid himself of all his burdens at once, "Dobby and Winky will be remaining on staff with my mother and father, which means we will actually not be hearing from Dobby much further and will, in fact, be needing a new chief of staff as soon as humanly possible. You will also need your own staff, ideally someone from the peerage, obviously a wom-"
"I am not sitting in a room with Bagman," Hermione cut in frankly, before retreating with sudden alarm to, "Wait, a whole new staff?"
"No, no, not an entirely new staff, or at least I very much hope not. We're good people, we don't, I mean we haven't—Nott, any assistance?" Draco stammered in a panic, sounding a lot like he was flinging a very hot potato across the room.
"You know, I hate to be predictable, but I think Satan makes an excellent point," replied Theo, crisply turning a page.
"Okay, thank you Theo, very helpful as ever—look, Hermione," Draco said, seizing one of her hands in what appeared to be a fervent attempt at reassurance. "I was really hoping to find a way out of dinner with Bagman, believe me, but perhaps there's a way to see it as a possible… advantage?"
Hermione's mind was reeling far too distractingly to produce anything sensible. "How on earth could there be an advantage?"
"I—" Draco broke off, wincing. "Well, I—"
"Here's a thought," Theo said, glancing up from his apparently very riveting text. "What if you tried considering that divine wisdom is simply… hidden from human minds?"
"Are you having some kind of delayed religious awakening?" asked Hermione.
"Of course not, I'm much too far gone," said Theo curtly, snapping the book shut and rising to his feet. "Anyway, I'm off. Dinner at ours later? Excellent. Good luck with the renovations, by the way," he added, resting a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "I hear your new neighbors have a certain… joie de vivre," he mused, and then smacked a kiss to the side of Draco's ear, strutting out of the room and whistling as he went.
"Wait," said Hermione, frowning. "Wait, did he say—? Wait. Wait." She blinked. "WAIT—"
"Right, so," attempted Draco, staring mournfully after Theo as if he hoped the latter might suddenly change his mind and come back. "I suppose it's possible I may have… neglected to add there was actually calamitous news in addition to the bad and terrible. But it's a palace, isn't it?" he offered Hermione in a desperate Hail Mary. "There's so many rooms—so many rooms, truly. Enough to stage a revolution over, I promise—"
Hermione glanced over at Draco as he stumbled to a halt; she looked, specifically, at the crispness of his fading sunburn and the newly sun-bleached tips of his hair. She recalled the mindless euphoria of their holiday, the delight of waking each morning to sit down to breakfast with him. The way he'd made her come four times in the span of ten minutes yesterday, an episode of magnanimity in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable afternoon.
Very confusing, really, to be so annoyed and yet so helplessly attracted to one's somewhat frustrating coworker. She couldn't say she'd ever experienced that specific sort of annoyance with Oliver, and certainly not with Minerva.
"You might have told me all of that sooner," she grumbled.
"I know." He looked away. "I had my suspicions about some of it, but I only just got off the phone with my grandfather and—" He sighed. "It doesn't help, I'm sure, but most of it was news to me as well."
She considered him again, optimistically recounting the bounty that had been their recent nuptials. Not that the sex hadn't been good while they were dating, but there was something different about it now. A certain… freeing sensation. He had promised himself to her, body and soul, and now there was something newly primal in it—in the ownership factor, the indebtedness. The joining of souls, the melding of lives, the braiding of two fundamentally disparate experiences. Sure it was mildly terrifying, the idea that nothing they did could possibly sever themselves from the other, but it was exciting, too, wasn't it, that everything they did from here forward was inextricably bound?
He's a job, Pansy's voice said in her head, and protest as you will, but neither of you are any good at it.
"Can anything be done about it right now?" Hermione asked him.
Draco shook his head, somewhere between guilty and relieved. "No."
"Then let's not," she suggested, taking his hand and tugging him down to the peach-pink chaise to delight for the time being in their mutual ineptitude.
"I'd completely forgotten Hortense and Thibaut were living in Kensington Palace," said Pansy with a shudder. "You're absolutely certain you want to continue with the renovations? I'd sooner burn the place to the ground."
"You say that as if you're not already a closeted arsonist, Pans," said Harry, tossing a nearly three-year-old Jamie into the air before setting her, grinning, on his hip.
Pansy gave Harry a look suggesting he ought to hush; he rewarded/punished her with a kiss that Jamie did not appear to care for, opting instead to shove Harry's face away from her mother.
"Ew, Dada," she said.
"Hear, hear," said Theo, raising a celebratory glass in Jamie's direction. "A prophet walks among us."
"Ignore him," Hermione assured Pansy, who had arched a brow. "He recently found a Bible."
"I keep telling you not to let him play with those," Pansy replied.
"Not to harp on the subject, but I still can't believe anyone expects you to attend a state dinner with Ludo Bagman," Harry said to Hermione—ignoring Theo, who was entertaining Jamie via the old spoon-on-the-nose trick. "Is it possible Abraxas has never met you before?"
Hermione stifled a groan in agreement. "I would hope he has some idea what I think about Bagman's politics. Or could at least hazard a guess." She had never made a secret of her own liberal tendencies, and surely Abraxas (or more accurately, Nott Senior) had done a thorough enough background check to see that she'd registered Democrat at eighteen and voted diligently in every election, including the 2016 one, even while living abroad. "Since Bagman took office he's chipped away at every federal aid program, he's put absolute puppets on both the Supreme Court and the cabinet, he's shamelessly nepotistic and he's a climate denier—"
"Normally I'd say there's something hilarious about our prodigal nation succumbing to madness and hysteria," contributed Theo, removing the spoon from his nose upon earning a glare from Hermione, "but admittedly, it's not quite as funny as I'd hoped."
"Even Pansy's plotting a boycott," Harry said, prompting Hermione to turn to Pansy with an expression of surprise.
"Oh please, Hermione," sniffed Pansy, "there's no need for hysterics. I'm not plotting anything so much as I am coincidentally burdened with Henry's miscreant spawn," she clarified with a hand on her stomach, though she was obviously not too pregnant to prevent herself from redistributing Theo and Daphne's servingware. "My goodness, Theodore," she muttered, scrutinizing his selection of cutlery, "were you raised by wolves?"
"Far worse, actually. A single man in his mid-fifties," said Theo.
"Point taken. And as for the other atrocity in question," Pansy said in an apparent reference to Ludo Bagman, "might we all decline to speak about colonial politics for a single evening?"
"A single evening, Pans? You say that as if it's nothing but colonial politics all the time," retorted Hermione, not even bothering to amend the reference to her country of origin. "When have we ever talked about anything American? Aside from your diligent inventory of my failures, that is."
"For what it's worth, England's hardly much better at the moment," Blaise observed upon entry from whichever mysterious corner of elsewhere he'd been hiding, pouring himself into the chair across from Hermione accompanied by the bottle of wine he'd been instructed to fetch. "Though Scrimgeour's on the outs, thankfully." To Hermione's expression of surprise, Blaise added, "The man has absolutely no conception of when it is seasonally appropriate to trot out some chunky knits. Just looking at him gives me a low-burning sensation of hives."
"God, I absolutely loathe Scrimgeour," said Hermione, making a face. "Fudge was a coward for resigning, clearly, but Scrimgeour's divisive, fearmongering, ineffective—"
"—and coming to dinner next week," Draco cut in, sweetly tapping Jamie's nose before falling into the seat beside Hermione, freshly prepared salad in hand. "So just keep that in mind, my dove," he added, giving her a pointed kiss on the cheek.
"Well, Bagman is admittedly more distasteful than Scrimgeour," Blaise acknowledged, taking a testing sip of Sancerre, "and worse, a total buffoon."
"Sartorially, you mean?" asked Pansy.
"Not at all. Sartorially he's a criminal," scoffed Blaise. "Morally he's a satanist, and politically he's a buffoon."
"Quite an opinion from you," noted Hermione, amused in spite of herself. "I never thought you'd be invested in what the American president was up to."
"Invested? No," Blaise corrected her. "Held captive, such as when someone ahead in the queue happens to be watching pornography on his mobile? Yes, very much so."
"Which specific thing about Bagman do you think is his worst bit?" Harry mused to Blaise, securing Jamie on his lap while she tugged at his tie. "The racism? The overuse of Twitter?"
"The tendency for bankruptcy? History of financial mismanagement? Refusal to acknowledge the constituents he claims—falsely—to represent? The list could go on eternally," muttered Hermione, making a face as Blaise gestured to Harry in a vague indication of sure, that. "And to think I hardly bothered worrying about his election because I thought, completely idiotically, how bad could it possibly be?"
From Theo, sagely: "Well, there's your eternal flaw, Cali. Never open the door for chaos."
From Blaise, with a scoff: "It's not Basile, Theodore. It doesn't wait outside to be invited in."
Theo, shrugging: "Still, better some guerilla stakeout on the lawn than an outright summons to the house. California's as good as shared the Netflix log-in, hasn't she?"
From Draco: "I know I'm supposed to say something sensible here, but actually I rather like the idea that chaos is some weedy, uninvited party guest who might acquiesce to sleep in the garden. That or barge in to binge-watch Grace and Frankie."
From Hermione: "Did you just describe chaos as if it were Theo?"
Blaise, with a heavy sigh: "I regret having to add this to your list of existential challenges, New Tracey, but minus ten for even suggesting the two were not clearly one and the same."
From Pansy: "Nott's inadequacy aside, I should think it quite obvious the only plausible solution is for Hermione to fall gravely ill."
From everyone: "What?"
From Harry: "Well there's no winning, is there? Why Abraxas would even agree to host Bagman is beyond me."
Draco, one hand tensing around his napkin beneath the table: "It's not as if Grandfather can simply denounce the existence of the United States, Harry."
Pansy, eyes affixed to her water glass: "Is there really no chance we could behave like civilized people and refrain from discussing politics?"
Hermione, vigorously: "None whatsoever, Pans."
Harry, to Draco: "Are you saying you think this visit's in any way a good idea?"
Draco, sensing a trap: "Blaise, a little help? I can only assume this conversation bores you."
Blaise, cheerfully: "Oh, excruciatingly yes. It makes me want to die, but Hortense says I ought to challenge my mortality once in a while, so who am I to intervene?"
Draco, sighing: "Well, naturally."
Theo, ever the firestarter: "Henry, do tell us more."
Harry, ignoring Pansy's warning glare: "I'm not looking for a fight, I'm just saying—Jamie, sweets, be gentle with Daddy's beard hair, please—I'm just saying it's not as if reminding the country that their future queen consort is an American isn't something of a questionable tactic. Look at the optics—Jamie? James, honey… thank you sweetheart, good girl, much better. So either Hermione appears to approve of Bagman's policies and is therefore relegated to being yet another in a line of sniveling, complicit figureheads—"
Pansy, drily: "By all means, darling, don't mince words."
Harry: "—or she goes, however sullen and unwelcoming in all her new jewels and gowns, and then appears for all intents and purposes to be precisely the commoner upstart she is."
Theo, impressed: "When did Pansy get so adept at ventriloquism?"
Blaise: "Ten points to Lady Seven-Names! I didn't even see her lips move."
Pansy, with a roll of her eyes: "For heaven's sake, you goons, he's merely making an extremely adequate point."
Harry, to Hermione: "I mean, I was joking about the commoner upstart part, obviously—"
Pansy: a sigh.
Harry, to Draco: "—but the point remains, doesn't it, that Abraxas is all but throwing her to the wolves?"
From everyone minus Jamie, who was playing with Harry's tie: a tepid glance at Draco.
Draco, hesitantly: "I believe Grandfather's courtiers are simply hoping to leverage Hermione's popularity while we sort out my father's exit from public life. You saw the reports, Harry. The success of her social media outreach, her patronage, her effect on the economy, plus the approval rating in Wales specifically—"
Harry, with no small amount of shamelessness: "Ah of course, so she's a political pawn for Abraxas to leverage, then. Asking your wife to throw herself under the bus for your family is a bit much, though, isn't it Draco? Even for you."
To Hermione's surprise, her anger in response to Harry's careless accusation was sharper than she anticipated. "It's my family now, too, Harry," she snapped, prickling at having to remind him, "not that I have any illusions about any of this being in my defense. You're being intentionally difficult—or do you actually think I don't understand what's being asked of me?"
Harry's face remained carefully measured while Jamie squirmed in his lap, babbling toddler nonsense to herself. "Hermione, I wasn't—"
"What a nightmare that fitting was! I am abso-lute-ly ravenous." In typical perfection—this time a matter of her impeccable timing—Daphne waltzed through the door of her own dining room, auburn hair floating loose around a mint-colored wrap gown from her own collection. She strode directly up to Theo, kissing him squarely on the lips, and gave each of their friends a welcoming hug, going so far as to absentmindedly pet Prince Lucius (the dog) before eventually registering their uncomfortable blanket of silence.
"Oh god," said Daphne belatedly, glaring at Theo as if she suddenly wished to retract her affectionate welcome. "What on earth did you do to them, Nott?"
"What makes you think it was me?" Theo demanded, tugging her into his lap. "I've been doing absolutely nothing since you left here this morning."
"It's true, he's been intentionally useless," Pansy confirmed with a sip from her water glass. "An utter waste of space."
"Thank you," said Theo, gesturing appreciatively to Pansy. "See, Greengrass?"
"Well, cheers to that," Daphne sighed, summoning up Theo's glass and freeing herself from his grip to sit properly in a chair to Hermione's right. "Well?" she prompted ambiguously, pouring herself a hefty serving of Sancerre. "Is anyone going to enlighten me on what we've all been discussing, or should I just start serenading Draco now?"
With that, the rest of the table seemed to abruptly recall the reason for that particular dinner.
"Yes, perhaps we might do with the reminder that it's Draco's birthday," Hermione suggested to an innocently shrugging Harry, "and therefore decline to antagonize him for one single evening, hm?"
"Oh, it was you, okay then," said Daphne, nodding sagely to herself at the acknowledgement that Harry, not Theo, had accosted them all with a fresh bout of unnecessary controversy. "That would've been my second guess. Anyway, where's Neville?" she asked, turning to Blaise, who took that opportunity to glance with great interest at the stem of his wine glass.
"On a date, I believe," said Blaise.
"Oh, Blaise," said Hermione and Daphne in unison, delivering Blaise to an exasperated sigh.
"Minus five from each of you," he said.
"For what?" Hermione and Daphne demanded.
"Just generally," he replied.
"But—"
"I was supposed to be marrying someone else later this month, in case that escaped your attention," he sniffed, though Hermione was certain she caught evidence of Pansy seeking his eye across the table; doubtless Pansy was gauging his response for any distress, which meant they'd been right to suspect he had some. "I told Neville that neither of us were in a position to dive into anything remotely serious at the moment. In fact it was my idea that he see someone else," Blaise added offhandedly. "Or perhaps several someones. In any case, I'm fine."
Contradictorily, he drained the rest of his glass.
"So, Lady Nott," Blaise announced, correctly interpreting Daphne and Hermione's collective silence as a prelude to any number of cooing reassurances he wouldn't enjoy, "I daresay you have thoughts on President Ludo Bagman, do you not?"
"Politically? He's a buffoon," said Daphne, who, to Hermione's continued dismay, was always woefully easy to distract. "And sartorially he's a criminal."
"Thirty points for unequivocal correctness," declared Blaise.
Beneath the table, Draco reached silently for Hermione's hand.
One of the easiest changes to become accustomed to was slipping into bed with Draco each night, which was a beautiful new addition to Hermione's conception of normalcy. Had Draco been anyone else they would have surely begun living together before now, sparing themselves the necessity of parting to their respective homes, but the circumstantial delay made that little luxury of married life even sweeter. The sensation of curling herself into the slip of vacancy he always reserved for her in his arms was better for knowing she wouldn't have to leave it until morning.
"Harry isn't wrong, you know," Draco said in her ear, and though Hermione typically would have had no problem relegating his cheek to the trials of coexistence with her mass of hair, she twisted around to face him.
"I know he isn't wrong," she acknowledged at a mutter, "but that doesn't make him right." Whatever Harry had to say about it, Hermione would always remember what life was like when she allowed herself to feel resentment about Draco or his family. She'd decided a long time ago that she was never doing that again. "If he aims for you, he'd better learn he's shooting at me, too," she grumbled under her breath, and Draco chuckled.
"Much as I not-so-secretly delight in your newfound defense of my family, I do think Harry's intentions are good. He's simply accustomed to occupying the moral high ground—and besides," Draco murmured, "didn't you say precisely the same things when I first brought up the matter of Bagman?"
Hermione bit her tongue on the instant gratification of denial—which, while satisfying, would have been supremely false. She did feel similarly about the matter, but marriage was a team sport.
"It's one thing to point out the difficulty of the situation," she demurred, feeling comfortable with a logical dismantling of Harry's argument. "That's a given. But it's a completely separate issue to accuse you of doing this to me, as if I had no choice in the matter."
"Ah, because doing it next to you is so distinct," Draco said, and she rolled her eyes.
"Are you trying to argue Harry's side now, Draco? I swear, there's no winning with you two—"
"Of course not," he assured her quickly. "But still, I know who I married." He kissed her forehead, a reassuring brush of affection. "It's not as if I'm not aware that another version of you would sooner nail Bagman to the wall than dine politely with him."
"He's an idiot and a tyrant," Hermione confirmed, unable to suppress a bit of causticity now that she no longer had to defend anyone or bite her tongue. "I knew the moment he was elected that politics were taking a turn for the unimaginable. And now to have to acknowledge him, publicly, and to be seen with him—"
She broke off, repulsed, and Draco's expression sobered.
"If you want me to go to war with my grandfather over this, I will," he said. "I owe you that much, believe me. Harry's not wro-"
"Yes, yes, Harry's not wrong, I know. I'm fully aware I'm being leveraged," she grumbled, opting for levity. "But on the bright side, it's probably making Theo's father furious to think I'm your family's best option, right?"
Gratifyingly, Draco laughed, unrestrained, and Hermione had to admit he seemed easier these days. Lighter, and less alone.
"You're right, it probably is. Granted, Grandfather can't actually make sense of the fact that our wedding photo broke an Instagram record," he said. "I tried to explain it to him and he just asked me to start again from the top, which was somewhere around the invention of the smartphone. But he at least understands that globally, people adore you. Almost as much as I do." To punctuate his point, Draco slid forward, one hand finding her hip. "But whatever Grandfather thinks about it, I don't want to take advantage of you. I'm not interested in making you feel like you're being used."
"Oh Draco, for fork's sake. Use me." She kissed his cheek, then the little crease of worry between his brows. "I'm your partner. I'm yours—or better yet, we're ours. If I can help dig your family—our family—out of the grave that your parents inadvertently dug for us, then by all means, I'm happy to do it. But as far as it goes with Bagman…"
She grimaced, and Draco briefly closed his eyes.
"What about a compromise," he suggested, his hand slipping under her pajama shorts. "You agree to come to the dinner, and we find a way to make your stance on his politics clear beforehand."
Obvious questions were obvious: "How?"
"Some sort of… public address?" He nudged her chin up with his nose, pressing a kiss to the base of her throat. "You could give a speech. Empowering women, or supporting some relevant cause. Maybe you and Pansy can make a conspicuously timed joint appearance—"
"My goodness, what a dastardly revolt this is," Hermione said wryly, humming a little with approval when he slid her underwear aside.
"—seeing as you're both very popular. Very." His thumb brushed her skin, stroking. "Anything the two of you did would vastly outweigh his presence here. And maybe there's some wardrobe code you could try," he said in her ear, easing her onto her back and positing an invitation between her thighs. "Some significant color or designer or a piece of jewelry or something. Daphne would know, wouldn't she?"
"Ah, the secret language of fashion," Hermione said, though her mock-contemplative and half-sarcastic 'ah' turned out to be more of an ahhhh, as in keep going, you devious prince.
"Must I go on? It's my birthday," Draco lamented, feigning a look of melancholy as Hermione wriggled against his touch. "And you didn't even get me anything—"
"Oh alright, that's quite enough from you," Hermione growled in disapproval, shoving him onto his back and ignoring his stupid look of entitlement once she'd pinned his shoulders to the bed. "Didn't you specifically say not to bother with gifts?"
"I'm not a saint, Hermione," Draco said very seriously. "I require attention. Sentiment. Sexual favors. I have needs, you know—"
"And to think I could have just married a humble blacksmith," Hermione sighed, though of course she couldn't have, because even while she pretended to be exhausted by him she was enamored, enthralled, exhilarated. And besides, he wasn't completely useless. She'd watched him tighten something in the sink just that morning, and he even knew what to do about tomato stains.
Blessed, wretched man.
"Well, come on, then," she offered in capitulation, tugging laboriously at his pants. "Away with these, Your Royal Highness."
"I'm supposed to undress myself? Honestly, modernity is such a disappointment—"
His phone buzzed once on the nightstand and Hermione glanced over from where she straddled his hips, frowning.
Draco groaned. "I can't believe I'm the one saying this but ignore it, Hermione, it's just an email—"
"Who's Severus Snape?" she asked, catching the unfamiliar name on the screen.
"What? Oh, Dobby's replacement," Draco said, bucking his hips beneath hers. "Or potential replacement, anyway, provided his interview goes well, though it's mostly a formality. And you were saying about undressing me?"
"Sounds familiar," Hermione said, still trying to match the name to a face. "Was he on Prince Lucifer's staff?"
"Yes, he's the next in line for a promotion and anyway, about my birthday gift—"
"You're just going to give him a promotion because he's 'in line' for it?" Hermione asked, glancing down at Draco with amusement. "Don't you think you should have a better reason for choosing the person you work with every day than just 'he's next in line'?"
Draco propped himself up on his elbows. "Well, that's not quite fair, is it?" he asked, suddenly turning very grave and princely. "It's a very British concept, you know, to have a sense of duty, an expectation to uphold. And if he weren't good at his job, he wouldn't have risen to where he is."
"Ah, well, in that case." Hermione shifted downward, peeling Draco's boxer-briefs from his hips and allowing him to watch her as she slid them down his legs. "Am I supposed to just promote someone from your mother's staff, then?"
"Well—" Draco inhaled swiftly as Hermione stroked her palm over his cock, feeling it jolt appeasingly in her palm. "No," he concluded at an exhale, grey gaze still attentively following her motions. "No, you can… choose your own staff."
"What am I looking for?" she asked, running the tip of her tongue over the head of his cock, swirling it lightly as he braced himself. "You know, in terms of specifications."
"Um." He swallowed, groaning. "You want to talk about this right now?"
"I'm a very good multitasker." She slid her lips over him to prove it.
"Right. Yes, you certainly are." She watched his fingers twist into the sheets, grasping them like reins. "You'll want… a good background. The right… education. Family. Fuck. Christ. A good… understanding of… fuck." An exhale. "Public relations."
"Anything else?"
He tipped his head back, exhaling obscenities.
"Language, darling," Hermione said.
"Birth." He reached out to take a loose fistful of her hair. "Matters," he mumbled.
"Hm?"
"God, I don't know. Hermione. Hermione, stop, I'm—" He broke off, pulling her up and tossing her on her back in the same fluid motion, a satisfied laugh bubbling up from a sigh. "Sorry," he said, catching her lips with his and kissing her, kissing her again, kissing her more. "Have to have you now," he mumbled to her mouth.
"Have me, then." Oh, how easy it was for them now. Have me, I'm already yours.
He stroked between her legs, easing one leg onto his hip. She nudged him, expectant, but he stayed where he was, contemplating something for a moment while he looked at her.
"About… the other thing," he said softly.
Right. The other thing that sometimes (usually) came after marriage.
A thing that Hermione, unlike other wives, was professionally obligated to do.
"Not… not yet, okay?" she said, hesitating. "Just not quite yet. Let's get through the summer first and see, because I just… I want to have you to myself right now." She glanced up at him, running her fingers over his brow. "I want you, just you. All mine." A nip at his lips, half-bitingly. "No sharing."
He smiled at her, handsome and golden and totally, resolutely hers. Something she'd waited a long, long time to have.
"Okay," Draco agreed, kissing her again until they both gasped.
Severus Snape turned out to be much younger than he looked, at least according to Draco. Hermione was less than impressed, finding him to be rather unwelcoming. It was a very brief introduction—merely accomplished in passing as Draco emerged from the office he was using in Clarence House until their renovations were finished—but it was enough to find herself vaguely put out.
"I'm not sure what it is aside from instant, baseless dislike," Hermione grumbled to Pansy, who had invited her to Grimmauld Place under what was surely the pretense of tea. "But Draco seems to like him."
"I think Draco is predisposed to like anyone who's served his father as long as Snape has," said Pansy diplomatically. "More than likely the man's been in Draco's orbit since he was a child. Even I can recall seeing him around, come to think of it."
"But can't we just hire someone new?" Hermione asked. "British things are always inherited, it makes no sense. Shouldn't there be some consideration of merit?"
"Says the inheritress to a kingdom," Pansy pointed out, adding somewhat snidely, "Surely you hear yourself, Hermione?"
"Oh, whatever," sighed Hermione. Whenever Pansy got excessively aristocratic, she seemed to combat it by becoming exceptionally juvenile. "I guess I'm just a bit uncomfortable with all the changes."
"Which is precisely why Draco intends to keep Snape around, I expect," Pansy reminded her. "And anyway, you ought to be careful. People are bound to misinterpret you and Draco losing so much of your staff to Prince L-" She stopped. "To Lucius," she said, and then frowned. "No," she sighed, "I can't do it."
"That's part of the problem, I think," Hermione admitted. "As unpopular as Prince Lucifer was, his absence from public life is somehow equally disliked. There's all this nonsense about him giving back the taxpayer money he and Narcissa spent on their residences," she grumbled, "as if he wasn't working on behalf of the country at the time—"
"They don't want him to be king, but they also don't want him to not be a prince," said Pansy, aptly summarizing the issue. "In the end nobody actually knows what they want, hence the importance of an appropriately commanding head of state—Abraxas, for now," she acknowledged, pouring more tea into Hermione's cup, "and eventually Draco."
Hermione considered her for a second. "You actually think that?"
"I do," Pansy said. "Tradition is everything. The importance of ceremony is, contrary to your wild beliefs, everything. Which is why you will accept Snape's presence as your chief of staff," she added firmly, "and you'll select an appropriate private secretary for yourself, too. Because appearances are very much a part of your job, and so is following protocol."
"Gross." There it was again; anarchistic teenage reflexes. "Can we talk about something else?"
"Yes," said Pansy, with suspicious ease. "Have you started trying yet?"
"Trying what? Drugs?"
"For a baby, you obstinate cow," said Pansy, unblinking when Hermione kicked in irritation at her ankle. "Don't act like you didn't know precisely what I meant."
"Okay, that's enough from you. As your guest and coincidentally also Princess of Wales, I'm officially pulling rank," said Hermione. "No talk of babies, private secretaries, diplomacy, my hair—"
"My god, the entitlement," noted Pansy, adopting a mocking version of Hermione's voice. "Nothing's changed, she says. I'm still the same Hermione, she says. All lies, every last word of it—"
"Why am I hanging out with you? I should call Daphne," Hermione grumbled, and Pansy gave her a curt, mischievous smile that Hermione might have assumed Jamie had gotten from Harry if not for knowing perfectly well it belonged to the woman sitting before her.
"Good luck with that. Daphne's close to unreachable these days," Pansy said, raising her cup to her lips. "I won't be surprised if you'll have to hire a new stylist quite soon."
"What?" That, unlike Pansy's previous teasing, successfully rocked Hermione's sense of stability. "But Daphne—"
"Is doing all of this as a favor to you, Hermione. I don't have to remind you that her dream was to have a successful line of haute couture, not to be at your beck and call." Pansy sipped her tea, giving Hermione a pointed glance. "If you truly want to be helpful—as you so relentlessly claim you do," she demurred with a hint of guile, "you'll find a way to offer her an out."
"But—" Hermione withered. "But she's the only one I trust to help me with this state visit," she said helplessly, and Pansy gave a dainty shrug.
"I'm sure she'll be happy to help in some capacity, but your obligations are about to render your daily life into someone's full time job. I do not think Daphne will ever refuse you, but I also doubt she'll thank you if that position falls to her."
"So now I'm supposed to hire a stylist and a secretary?" Hermione groaned. "You do realize that means I'm supposed to find two people I can stand to talk to every day, right?"
"I rarely speak to my secretary," Pansy said with a shrug, which Hermione supposed was meant to be helpful. "What would we possibly say to each other? Most often she schedules my events and hands me my umbrella, which inevitably Harry holds anyway."
"Speaking of Harry," said Hermione, desperate for any change in subject. "Is he still up in arms about all of this?"
"Not at all," came a voice from behind her. "You know me, Hermione. Like my wife, I'm only violent on the tennis court."
Hermione turned, observing Harry's slender presence in the door frame. "Hi," she offered somewhat cautiously, trying to gauge whether he'd come for a fight.
He inclined his head, proving otherwise. "Hi," he replied, stepping inside.
"Excuse me," Pansy said, rising to her feet as Harry entered the room. "Just have to check on Jamie."
She rested a hand briefly on Harry's chest, advising him with a warning glance, and allowed her cheek to be kissed once before slipping out of the room.
"So," Hermione noted aloud, setting her cup down as Harry approached. "This is why I was summoned, then."
"My wife does have certain feelings on how a proper apology should take place," Harry confessed, settling himself across from Hermione. "Though in my defense, I was already aware one was owed."
"There's no need," Hermione said. "What happened the other night—"
"Was a failure by me to understand that you're not the same person you were seven years ago," Harry supplied for her. "None of us are, but especially not you."
He was wearing his glasses, and a jumper that gave him a particularly fatherly air—a soft knit that somehow made him look unquestionably like a man with a young daughter.
"I am accustomed to criticizing Draco, given our diverging opinions on how his role should be handled," Harry said, "but I forgot that he is no longer himself alone."
"Yes, you did forget," Hermione said with as much sternness as she could muster, though it was difficult to stay angry with Harry. "But I know you mean well," she offered in a resigned afterthought.
He smiled at her. "Draco and I are immensely lucky to have found you and Pansy. You're not very different from my wife, I'm sorry to say," he told her, chuckling when she made a face. "You're both willing to face hell for the ones you love. Bloodshed and carnage," he mused. "It's all just part of the contract with you women. You can only love in lethal doses."
"Am I to believe your love is any different?" asked Hermione, arching a doubtful brow.
Harry gave a knowing shrug. "I'd burn the world down for her," he admitted. "But it's comforting, I'll admit. She'll have already done it first, so there's never any need for me to bother."
Things between them felt comfortable by the time Pansy returned; by then Hermione and Harry had returned to their usual equilibrium, discussing the engagements she was attending to in the coming weeks—including what would be her first solo appearance with the King.
"Have you seen much of the Prince of Darkness recently?" asked Harry, earning himself an elbow to the ribs from his wife. "Pans, please, he may not be Prince of Wales, but he still has a rightful title—"
"Actually, no," admitted Hermione. "Though I know it's coming. Draco mentioned there's speculation of a rift, so I have no doubt we'll all go on some sort of outing soon."
"Probably church," Pansy ruled. "For which I must firmly request that you not appear to be some sort of schoolgirl at an academy for lady wizards," she added to Hermione, who made a face.
"But I liked the little neck bow," said Harry, frowning. "Is that not fashion?"
"Of course it is," Hermione protested. "Daphne said so, and anyway it was Elie Saab!"
"Of course it was," Pansy echoed smoothly, communicating to Harry with a glance that he must never make such wild assertions again so long as he hoped to live a full and natural life. "Though again, I do think it would do you some good to work with a new stylist. Daphne is much too lenient with your oddities in taste."
"Ah, I meant to ask," Harry said, conveniently chiming in before Hermione could have another mini-crisis over losing her best friend's fashion expertise, "who's been hired to your household? Because if Draco's looking to promote from within, Ron's brother is up for consideration."
"But I thought Bill was a banker," said Hermione with confusion.
"The Weasleys are infamous for the size of their broods," said Pansy, scoffing once again at Hermione's inadequate social knowledge. "They have a virility that would have driven the Tudors to murder."
"Almost anything drove the Tudors to murder, but she's not wrong," contributed Harry. "His name's Percy and he works somewhere in Abraxas' offices. I can give you a reference, if you'd like—"
"Draco's already chosen a new head of staff, unfortunately," Hermione sighed. "And there's allegedly nothing wrong with him."
Harry: "Allegedly?"
Hermione: "Allegations of 'normality' have been made."
Pansy: "You're both being foolish. I told you, Hermione, Snape's been with Draco's family for years. Probably since bef-"
"Did you just say Snape?" cut in Harry, using the harshest tone Hermione had ever heard him take with anyone, much less with his wife. Pansy, in fact, clearly balked at the sound of it, a little glimpse of girlish apprehension appearing on her face.
"Sorry." Harry cleared his throat. "Sorry, love." He reached over, sliding an arm around her waist, and she must have been considerably startled by his tone, because she didn't bother preventing it. "I'll have to have a chat with Draco about that."
"Oh no, don't," said Hermione hastily. "You two aren't exactly…" She paused. "I just mean, Harry, you haven't really been—"
Pansy: "Sane."
Hermione: "I was going to say 'accommodating,' but for all intents and purposes—"
Harry: "Draco and I have a rapport, Hermione, it's nothing to worry about. We've managed not to kill each other for… Well, going on twenty-eight years in a row now, isn't it? Brava us, come to think of it. We ought to commemorate our success."
He poured himself a fresh cup of tea, giving Hermione an easy Prince Harry glance.
"Draco's my cousin," he reminded her. "He's all but a brother. We have our disagreements here and there, but ultimately we resolve them. I have no plans for anything more than a little chat."
Pansy and Hermione exchanged a doubtful glance.
"I'll make sure to be there," Pansy assured Hermione, who nodded in relief. "To mediate."
Harry, impatiently: "We don't need a mediator, Pans."
Pansy: "Then I'll be there to translate."
Harry: "We don't need—"
Pansy: a scathing glance.
Harry, with a sigh: "Thank you, sweetheart, I accept."
"And as for you," Pansy said, returning her attention to Hermione, "have you decided what you're going to do about the Bagman visit?"
"Are you really not attending?" Hermione countered, hoping not to answer right away.
"No." Pansy's response was flat.
"Okay, but—"
"I may not appear to draw many lines, Hermione, but I like to think I know one when I've found it." She took a sip of tea. "Of course, that being said, I will never wear a crown, nor will I ever call myself queen." She gave Hermione a look that—to Hermione's surprise—appeared to be quite sympathetic, even understanding. "For you everything is less simple."
"So you… support me, then?" asked Hermione, somewhat taken aback. "If I go, you won't blame me?"
"I would not presume any right to hold your decision against you either way." Pansy paused for a moment, smoothing her skirt before settling her teacup carefully back in its saucer. "I," she began, and plucked an imaginary loose thread from her lap, "am."
Another long pause.
"On your side," Pansy finished eventually.
Then she raised her cup to her lips again.
Seeing how it was the closest thing Hermione had ever gotten to a pledge of devotion from Pansy, she didn't waste a moment of it.
"Move," Hermione said firmly to Harry, shoving him gracelessly aside before wrapping her arms around Pansy, who gave a deep, long-suffering sigh.
When Hermione returned to Clarence House, it was to find Draco in conversation with both Snape and (speaking of the Prince of Darkness) Lucius. She paused a moment in the threshold of his temporary office, recognizing the signs of ongoing conversation, and felt a little pang of surreality. Draco sat behind the desk, one hand held to his mouth in thought while he faced two much older men, both of whom appeared to be awaiting his answer. The light of the study gave Draco's blond hair a noticeable glint, and for the first time, it was less difficult to picture him without a crown than it was to imagine him with one.
"Oh, Hermione, come in," said Draco, rising to his feet and crossing the room to her, saving her the awkwardness of entry. "How was Pansy?"
"Oh… fine. Great, actually." She was unaccustomed to the conventions of her new position; Lucius didn't bow, instead inclining his head in her direction upon standing at her entry, but Snape did.
Not deeply. Not… reverently. But noticeably.
"Lucius," Hermione said, nodding to her father-in-law as she accepted first Draco's kiss on the cheek and then his offering of his own chair behind the desk. "And, um." She glanced questioningly at Draco for clarification on what to call his new chief of staff, but Snape cleared his throat quietly.
"Your Highness, if I may," he said, addressing her with another bow. "Snape will do."
"Right. Yes. Snape. Excellent." She sank heavily into the chair Draco had pulled out for her. "You were all discussing something?"
Draco chose not to sit, instead leaning against the arm of her chair. "We're just working out the transition between households. Snape's just confirmed we'll be ready to begin the move to Kensington Palace by the end of the week," he said, giving Hermione a reassuring glance that suggested this was a relief to him. "Mother and Father will be returning to Clarence House shortly after."
"Narcissa is coming to London?" Hermione asked, surprised, and Lucius nodded.
"We felt it would be most convenient," Lucius said. "There will be several joint engagements in London throughout the summer."
"An odd way to step back from public life," Hermione observed before feeling her cheeks heat slightly, noticing the way Snape's brow furrowed in apparent disapproval. "I just meant—" She cleared her throat. "I just hope Narcissa doesn't feel she's on display, that's all."
"Actually, I think for once she feels she is being included," said Lucius. He seemed perfectly comfortable with Snape's presence in the room, almost as if the man weren't there at all. "Though I hope I may confide in you that she has made it quite clear she will make no appearances without you."
It took a moment for Hermione to register that Lucius was speaking directly to her. "Me?" she echoed, surprised. "Draco and me, you mean?"
"One would think," Draco said with a chuckle, "but no, just you, love." Draco glanced down at her, half-smiling. "It seems that now the two of you've gone through the trenches together, she'll not go to war without you."
Hermione glanced at Snape, wondering what he knew about Narcissa's imprisonment of Rita Skeeter on the eve of her wedding to Draco. By the looks of it, everything.
What else had he learned about her in the time she'd spent not even noticing him?
She shifted in her seat. "Well, that's… I'm surprised, definitely, but happy to hear it. I've always liked your mother." In a strange, incredibly uncomfortable way, she didn't add, though presumably Draco already knew that.
"There's no denying Mother's always liked you," Draco replied happily. For a moment, Hermione felt a glimpse of optimism; she had claimed Draco's family for her own no less than a few days ago, and now, in some karmic glimpse of favorable reprisal, Draco's family was claiming her back—in its stuffy, cumbersome way, but it was doing so nonetheless.
"Narcissa has always been a gifted tactician," said Snape tonelessly, rupturing Hermione's moment of contentment. "No doubt she recognizes that any appearance between the former Princess of Wales and her successor will inevitably be a study in contrasts. Better to present the best possible face for the family."
"Ah." Hermione felt her posture stiffen at the passive correction—which Draco must have recognized, because he set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Of course."
"We can discuss the logistics later," Draco said, dropping a kiss to the top of her head in a motion that was as reflexive as it was kind. "Father, will you be staying for dinner?"
"No, I think not," said Lucius, buttoning his suit jacket. Snape, obviously well-rehearsed in Lucius' behaviors, did the same, preparing to rise to his feet the instant Lucius expressed his intention to do so. "I'll return to the Manor tonight. But thank you for the invitation," Lucius said to Draco, appearing to mean it. "I'm pleased to see you're not too resentful of the headache I've caused you."
"Not at all," Draco replied. Three words, and thus a very, very small container for what Hermione knew to be lifelong relief. Ironically, this was the first time Draco did not resent his father. Hermione knew he not only respected Lucius' choice, but was deeply grateful for what it meant to his mother, just as she knew Lucius was not only grateful for the small indication that Draco would have wanted him to stay for dinner, but also for the implication they might soon ease the suffering that had been their perpetual rift.
But all they exchanged was a nod.
"Dobby will be in touch," said Lucius, departing, and Snape bowed to Draco and Hermione before following, leaving the two of them alone together in the room.
"Well," Hermione sighed, turning to Draco. "I have to find myself a Snape, huh?"
Draco nodded, resting his hands on her hips. "And quickly, I'm afraid. There are some… unfortunate rumors going around."
"That nobody wants to work with me, you mean?" Hermione joked, but when Draco didn't immediately respond, she groaned in horror. "Oh my god—seriously, that's what they're saying? That's mortifying!"
"It's absolute nonsense," Draco assured her. "But unfortunately your name is one of the most clickable things on the internet right now. Any little detail about you—from the time you wake up in the morning to who gets chosen to work on your staff—is enough to go viral."
"Ugh, these messy benches. Fine." Hermione gave a theatrical sigh. "And I'm supposed to choose someone that's like… fancy?"
Draco laughed, tucking her hair behind one ear. "Suitable, yes. Fancy I'll leave to your discretion."
"Okay, but won't they find it kind of… um." She squirmed a little. "Demeaning, I guess, to work for me? I mean because it's basically an administrative position," she said quickly. "It's like, office manager, but for…" Forks, the next word that came out of her mouth was going to sound severely underwhelming. "Me," she concluded lamely, feigning a look of Pansy-esque disdain.
"You," Draco reminded her, nudging her chin up to meet her reluctant gaze, "are Hermione, Princess of Wales." He kissed her lightly, scouring her face. "To work for you is an honor."
"I mean, you say that," Hermione grumbled, "but—"
"Yes, I do say that, and I'm the Prince of Wales. The least you could do is take me at my word." He leaned forward and kissed her again, undoing any possible formality by sticking his tongue into her mouth, making her laugh. "I've had Snape draw up some candidates for you," he said, nudging her nose with his. "The two of you can coordinate and take meetings as soon as tomorrow."
"Oh," Hermione said, her face falling at the thought of being alone with Snape. "I thought he was just your private secretary?"
Draco shook his head. "He'll manage things primarily through me if you prefer, but no, he works for both of us equally. Do you really dislike him that much?"
She hesitated, then allowed her expression to communicate a response for her.
"Well." He laughed, kissing her again. "Fine. You ought to get familiar with Percy, anyway," he said, looking as if he were mentally consulting his diary for what needed to be done next. "I'd refer to him as Weasley like we do with Snape, but unfortunately that's much too unspecific—"
"Percy? Oh good, Harry likes him," Hermione recalled, relieved.
"Oh, no," Draco corrected, "Harry doesn't like him. But Percy's the ambitious sort and the Weasleys have a reputable name, sort of. Well… never mind. Regardless," he continued, recalibrating himself, "we may as well sort out whether you prefer Percy's bedside manner to Snape's." He paused. "Though, I still don't fully understand your opposition," he qualified, with his usual masterly diplomacy.
Hermione shrugged. "Personalities, I guess?"
That, and Harry's own visceral reaction certainly hadn't helped things.
"Well, I won't argue that. He's not particularly warm, I'll give you that much, though I suppose I'm rather used to it." Draco shook himself, suddenly brightening. "But is this anything to be discussing at the moment? We've been married less than a month," he announced, leaning forward with a growl. "I should be devouring you at all hours, not scheduling interviews."
"That's true," Hermione agreed, arms fitting easily around his neck. "Traditionally new husbands are expected to perform all sorts of sexual acrobatics, I hear. I think I read that somewhere in the guidebook."
"My god, to think I've been so remiss," Draco said, pinning her hips to the desk and sliding gradually to his knees. "I'm so terribly sorry," he murmured to the direction of her underwear, carefully smoothing his hands below her skirt. "I hate to think you've been neglected—"
"Draco," Hermione said with a laugh, "anyone could walk in at any time." She smoothed her fingers through his hair, gesturing over her shoulder to the study's open door.
"Well, I'm out of sight," he reminded her, gesturing to the desk that stood between them and the door. "If anyone tries to come in, just tell them you're meditating or something."
"Why," she sighed facetiously, "so I can be the hippie foreigner that no proper Englishman wants to work for?"
Draco glanced up at her, grey eyes wide, and nudged her knees apart.
"Fine. Then tell them the truth," he said with a rare display of wickedness, "that you're the commoner who bedded a royal and you'll be damned if you stop now."
And because there was no arguing that, Hermione simply reached back and gripped the desk with a stifled moan, inviting him to do his worst.
So things are good, right? Mostly good—in the same sense that royal news is mostly nonsense, wherein the 10% of uncomfortable truth is always the tricky bit to navigate. Admittedly, my English Literature degree didn't include any helpful courses on how to run a massive staff or appease a constituency, nor did Shakespeare have shirts to say about weaponizing social media. Though, he did know a thing or two about blood feuds and tyrants and mobs, so maybe I should have seen Umbridge coming? And certainly the Dursleys.
So anyway, I guess never let people tell you an English degree is useless is all I can say about that.
a/n: Yes hello, the gang is back! I promise this will be shorter than the original, though already the chapter length has gotten away from me—my apologies, but also, you knew it was a snake when you picked it up. Unknown as of now how many chapters there will be, but you can expect weekly updates. Thanks for being here!
