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Chapter Text

The forest is dense, sentient with magic older than memory.

Older than civilisation.

Older than life.

Neutral, yet neither silent nor colourless, it saturates everything: the air, the water, the world.

Hermione has spent her life learning the language of nature. Each facet of the forest has its own dialect. The world is as alert as her centauride companion, Vasades, who trots beside her, gripping her spear as if anticipating an attack.

"It has been five hundred years since a graphorn has been sighted in this forest," Hermione teases. "Do try to relax."

The comment earns her a sharp look most unimpressed, but Vasades remains silent.

Hermione's gaze returns to nature.

Ancient trees dance to the wind's song, changing direction when a dragon races above the treeline. Slicing through the air like a crack of thunder, the branches sway and treebound creatures scatter, the rustle of leaves and wings and feet adding a chorus to nature's sombre tune.

But nothing falls.

The forest remains sturdy, graceful and elegant.

A cloak of moss connects the base of the trees that line their path, and plant life and fungi flourish in pockets between. Thickets of thorns and ropey vines serve as unconquerable obstacles.

This place is home to many creatures. They live in harmony under Vasades' protection.

But today, there is something different in the air.

Something Hermione cannot articulate.

A sensation. A shift.

The scent of resolution and the inception of an unidentifiable something.

"I do know the way." Hermione adjusts her quiver and bow, offering yet another warm look to loosen the stubborn tension. "Have I not spent every year of my life at your side?"

"You have." There is fondness in her tone, but Vasades stomps it out with a particularly hard trot.

Taller than any human and far prouder, the centauride looks ahead as she leads them to their destination. Her headpiece and the chimaera teeth dangling from either side both tell of her hardest kills and her rank in a herd that no longer exists.

A leader.

Nothing that lives within the forest challenges her rule. It—

Distant buzzing distracts Hermione. Fairies. They are near and animated, which is peculiar as noise attracts predators.

She wonders if the source of their agitation is the same as Vasades' silence.

"I do not need a guide if you are troubled."

"It is not safe for you. Not as it once was." Vasades' hoofbeats add a soothing rhythm to the melody of the forest. "Soon it will not be safe for me."

Which means there is a threat approaching.

Hermione's silence does not last long. "Will you fight?"

It is a fair question. She has helped Vasades defend in the past. Five summers ago, they created traps to fool an invading centaur herd into believing there were more than one centauride and one human ruling this part of the forest.

"I cannot fight what is coming. It has been foretold." The trees part overhead and the sun breaks through; Vasades stares at the shining path before them. "This land is not my destiny."

Concealing her surprise as they walk on, Hermione reaches, placing a hand on her withers.

The sentiment is not rejected. It is always hard to leave home and Vasades has done this twice.

"Where will you go?"

Her companion does not answer.

"You are cross with me."

As they venture deeper in the forest, the silence grows heavier. Soon, it will be too much to carry.

Their adventures always involve Vasades ruminating on the history and wisdom of centaur-kind: showing Hermione nature's secrets and cures, testing her knowledge on poisons and potions by smell alone, or riddling her future as a mother of constellations.

Now a deep frown mars Vasades' beautiful features.

They are not alone, but there is no danger.

Voices and heavy, fumbling steps behind them keep the wildlife away.

"They are too loud." Vasades casts a sharp look over her shoulder. It makes the children fall silent. Temporarily. "They disturb the tranquillity of the forest."

"I believe at one time you said I did the same." Hermione touches the trunk of an oak tree as they pass.

"You have always been different."

"Am I not an orphan like them?" Hermione challenges.

"Do not eagerly step into the shoes of others. They may fit but they are not yours." Vasades' irritation is more emphatic than the children, but Hermione can read between her lines well enough. She is expressive only in the set of her jaw, the stiffness of her shoulders, and the change in her trot. "You are an orphan, but in title alone. You negate the near lifetime being raised as a Potter to focus on the few months when you were not."

"I may not remember my parents but I love them. I am allowed to." She swallows the lump in her throat. "Just as I am their daughter, I am also a Potter—a Lady, and they treat me as such, but allow and encourage me to honour my parents' memory whenever I can. You do the same with your family. We were orphaned the same night."

Moments pass and Hermione knows where Vasades' thoughts are.

On the night when the Carrow armies came to kill and destroy.

The town's wards fell and dark curses poured from the wands of the invaders.

Fire rained from arrows, scorching everything.

Dementors gorged on the souls of the survivors.

In the morning, Vasades' grief over losing everything was interrupted by a baby's cries.

"You were near death when I found you." The centauride's brown hair catches the breeze. "I thought to raise you to save myself from loneliness, but from the moment I picked you up, I saw fragments of your future. You needed to become part of a family and I chose the best humans I knew."

"But you never left me. There were herds who would have taken you in, but you chose to stay with me these twenty-two years." The air passes through Hermione's fingers, charged with a sense of change.

Tension. Urgency. Magic.

"My most stubborn student," Vasades says proudly. "We have learned much from one another. From you, I learned the purpose in loss, to find joy and meaning in the unexpected."

Hermione smiles. "And from you, I learned to respect nature. To give as much as I take. I learned to heal without a wand, fight with weapons, and read the stars. I aim to do the same with my students, Vasades."

"You did not take so kindly to Divination." A slow smile grows. "Much to my eternal disappointment."

The very name of the subject makes her scowl. "It is not exact."

"Perhaps your disinterest in foresight will serve you well. Knowledge is powerful, but this would diminish your fearlessness."

"Cryptic as usual." It feels like the tension shrouding the walk since they met in the clearing has somewhat lessened.

Vasades dips her head, voice low as she says, "I wish your students would not stare."

"Apologies." Hermione gives them a sharp, chiding look. "It is not polite to stare." Her words leave them collectively humbled. "I speak of you often, but they have not seen a centaur outside of art. They are fascinated and have been excited to meet you since I suggested the trip."

The centauride's face softens slightly, then more when one of the boys, Angelus, stumbles over a tree root and apologises to it. She bites back a smile. "Perhaps not all are predestined to destroy."

Hermione grins before addressing her students. "My mother, the Duchess, taught me that humans are not one way or another. We are both and everything that lies between."

"Is it true centaurs hate us?" another student, Cassia, asks bravely.

"Indeed, it is. Centaurs have little love for your kind," Vasades replies as they walk. "Our history is a complicated battle for dominance."

Thousands of years of uprising caused by wizards invading herd lands to expand speak to this. Humanity's extensive history fighting all other intelligent beings who refuse to be oppressed reinforce it as well.

"Why?" The little girl is almost as curious as Hermione was at her age. It warms her heart.

"Humans believe their intelligence and magic makes them superior to all life when we have both as well." Vasades never minces words. "Our ancestors foretold that should centaurs unite under one herd and declare war against humankind, we will lose. This is why we keep to the forests and are territorial with our lands."

Hermione has heard this story before, but the eight students listening have not.

"As there are exceptions in nature, the same exists in humans." Vasades' glance tells Hermione that she is no longer speaking to her students. "You and the Duchess may not share blood but you are both the exception to the cruelty of humanity. There may be more, but I find it is safer to distrust what I do not yet know and make my decisions after I learn."

"I understand." Hermione lowers her voice so they cannot hear. "But they have no families to learn from. They deserve to be given the same opportunities as those who do, as I have. They may belong to the orphanage my family patrons, but more than that, they have a lot in common with me."

The ambitious desire to learn and understand.

To hone their magic, create, and build a better future any way they can.

Wands are for warriors, noble men, and royalty. Like those with mothers or tutors, Hermione teaches them to tame their magic by helping shape their natural gifts while teaching them new skills. To protect, transfigure, and charm. To create potions and gain an intuitive understanding of beasts, beings, and nature.

Those here today are interested in the other part of her lessons.

Maths, history, instruments, speech and writing, languages, and magical theory. Hermione teaches them a world beyond magic, beyond learning trades or becoming a soldier. Unlike some, she believes they should acquire more than the basic skills to run a home by becoming someone's partner.

Knowledge is more than power, it is freedom.

The light that drives away darkness.

"We are here." Vasades stops in front of an archway covered with vines. "I can go no farther."

She can enter but never does. The memories are too strong, the feelings too profound.

The tendrils of pain are still deeply wound around her heart and will likely never unravel.

Vines part to reveal the source of their mutual grief.

A hush befalls the students as they look around their destination.

Destruction stretches as far as the eyes can see.

The charred ruins of the town in the centre of the wasteland speak less of its bustling past and more on the sorrow of loss and the cruel side of magic. Few structures have survived, and what has endured is close to crumbling. The earth beneath their feet is still scorched by fire.

Time has transformed this place into nature's wasteland of debris. Soon enough, nature will reclaim it.

The awe in their eyes resembles fear, but as Hermione guides them deep into the burnt husk of history, it evolves into a blend of confusion and curiosity.

The merciless sun overhead marks the peak of the day. No trees or clouds can protect from its wrath. The five hippogriffs she's left in the clearing fly overhead, chasing both birds and each other.

"I have been here many times. It is safe," Hermione says. "Form a circle around me."

After they are arranged, she remains silent, waiting for the first brave student to speak.

"Why are we here?" It is hard to determine if it is fear or excitement that causes the tremble in Emilia's voice. Both the youngest and smallest, her dress is orange and held together by a brown belt around her waist.

"This is a forgotten village." Hermione gestures to the destroyed landscape. "I brought you here to see my history. Vasades' as well. She does not enter this place, as it causes her great pain. I, too, would struggle if I had any memories of what happened." Hermione lowers her head in respect to those who died here. To her parents. "This was the Kald Village."

"What happened to it?"

"The village's magical protection runes were destroyed. Soldiers from the Carrow Kingdom raided it and razed it to the ground. They also murdered the centaur herd when they attempted to fight. Vasades and I were the only survivors."

"How old were you?" Manius, a quieter boy, stares at his leather boots. He is the newest addition, orphaned last year after Vanishing Sickness ravaged his village. Hermione has been working to determine his interests.

"Nearly a month old." The others are familiar with the answer that troubles the boy. She never lies about her origins. "The Duke and Duchess are the only parents I know."

When Hermione begins her lesson, she notices the smudges of black ash on their clothes and is glad they are wearing their worst as instructed.

It is everywhere, coating every surface and lingering in the air. Time has not washed it away, only hardened it into the ground.

"In light of word reaching us of the latest battle, we will review your knowledge about the Great Wars."

The fall of the Carrows feels like vindication to Hermione, but it expands the Malfoy Kingdom's territory to new lengths. A terrifying prospect, as a third of the realm is now under one crown. Good for those who care for such things, but bad for those whose fathers, uncles, sons, and brothers are soldiers.

It makes her miss Harry more.

It is unlikely he will return home soon.

"Shall we start?" She points to Cassia. "From the beginning."

"The First Great War began when the Sacred Twenty-Eight rose up to stop He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Correct." Hermione points to the boy next to her. Angelus is short for his age but healthier now than he was when he was jailed in a nearby town for stealing. Father paid his fine at her insistence. He has never stolen anything since. There is no need. "However, you must be careful. Why, Angelus?"

"Fear of a name gives it power."

"Yes, but naming said fear can strip that power away. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was the name given to Voldemort, the last ruler of the Gaunt Kingdom." Hermione taps her chin. "Remind me, why are the kingdoms of the realm called the Sacred Twenty-Eight? Are there twenty-eight kingdoms?"

"It is a misnomer, Milady—I mean Teacher." Angelus blushes.

Out here, she is no Lady. "Go on."

"There were twenty-eight, but now there are ten. Some like the Weasleys, Greengrasses, Notts, and Parkinsons lost land and power over time. Their descendants are both upper and lower nobility in the remaining kingdoms. Some were united through marriage—like the Malfoys and Blacks. Others died out completely and their lands were absorbed. The last six who fell were conquered."

"Very good, now can you list the kingdoms that remain?"

"Shacklebolt, Shafiq, Fawley, Longbottom, Macmillan, Malfoy, Slughorn, Crouch, Abbott, and Selwyn."

"Excellent as always, Angelus," Hermione says proudly. "Now, someone else tell me about Voldemort?"

"He was cursed to feel no love for all his days." Cassia's hair is so red it is a surprise she is not a Weasley. "He heard a Seer's prophecy and seized control of the Gaunt Kingdom from his uncle and grandfather."

"Which was?"

"That he will fall to the heir of an enemy kingdom that has thrice defied him. He was to be born as the seventh month dies. Neither could live while the other survives."

"To prevent this," Hermione clasps her hands together, "Voldemort sought to destroy the entire bloodline of his enemies by marking future generations for death. He then broke the realm's peace treaty and attacked what is now the Lost Kingdom. Why is it lost, Selene?"

Selene is an older student, only six years younger than Hermione and clever enough to absorb all her teachings. Her aspiration is to take over for Minerva, who runs the orphanage with a firm yet kind hand. "Voldemort used dark magic to wash away the memory of his crimes, but the survivors who were not touched by the rain told the tale, proved its truth to the other Sacred Kingdoms, and protected the heir's identity."

"What are they called?" Hermione opens her hands, inviting all to answer.

"Unspeakables!"

"But how is it that you know the story?" Emilia asks.

It is not a question Hermione has been asked before.

"I was taught, just as I am teaching you."

But Hermione keeps a secret. She has seen the ruins herself; the abandoned castle that sits above the ghost town serves as a haunting presence. Only survivors can enter without being tainted by the cursed magic. Vasades' ability to come and go unharmed is the only clue of her past before their paths crossed.

Two destroyed homes.

Hermione feels a pang of something she knows all too well.

Empathy.

"Antoninus, tell me what happened next in the story of Voldemort's fall."

"When V-Voldemort attacked Queen Augusta Longbottom, the other Sacred Kingdoms banded together and declared war."

"How long did it last?"

"Thirty years, but Voldemort was not defeated until King Lucius betrayed him. He learned that Voldemort was seeking to sever his soul into fragments to guarantee immortality." Not exactly accurate, as Manius struggles with history, but it is close. It lifts her hope to see his improvement.

"Did the prophecy ever come to pass?"

"Yes, when he killed Prince and Princess Longbottom," Selene answers. "The princess' love for the unborn Prince Neville saved him and destroyed Voldemort."

"Very good, but is that the end of the tale?" Hermione asks. "Does the realm live in peace?"

"No!"

The collective answer makes her smile. "Tell me more." She sweeps a hand down the front of her breeches, ignoring the hint of soot and rubbing her hands together.

"King Lucius took over the Gaunt kingdom." This is Varius' favourite part and he tells the story with passion. Hermione will not be surprised when he joins the ranks as a Malfoy Kingdom soldier when he is of age. "He wanted to bring unity and peace to the realm once again, but the others were jealous of his power and declared war on us. The Second Great War began. It wages on today, but we will win. We are winning. The Carrows have now fallen to the Dragon King, just like the Yaxleys did within the last year."

The answer is both correct and incorrect, but Hermione is too wise to speak the truth.

Royal propaganda.

It has an expansive reach and her students are influenced by the lies woven in the web of truths. She values her life too much to squander it by being caught speaking ill of the long-since-dead kings of the Malfoy line: the tyrant King Abraxas who—before Voldemort's rise—refused the peace everyone sought in favour of a generational war. Or King Lucius, who went mad and waged war against the entire realm. Or even King Draco, the warrior Dragon King, who assumed the throne seven years before and has continued his father's war.

"Having a dragon is no guarantee for victory," Hermione says. "There are many with dragon familiars, just as there are many who tame beasts for combat." She raises a finger. "Who can tell me the difference?"

"Beast tamers have no magical connection to those they tame." Festus is the only student with a familiar—the mouse currently sitting on his shoulder. He often speaks as if he is the only one knowledgeable on a topic she has taught him.

The others roll their eyes.

Hermione suppresses her amusement. "Those with animal familiars are magically connected at birth and are natural born Legilimens. Go on, Festus. Tell me what makes you different."

"Nothing, except I'm bound to Rollo and will be trained as a Royal Legilimens when I am of age."

Had his familiar been a flying beast instead, his destiny would be that of a soldier.

"That—" Only then does Hermione notice one student drifting from the circle. "Emilia?"

The girl looks back, deep concern making her appear ill. This is not the nature she loves.

"What destroyed this place?" Her voice shakes, brown hair catching the breeze.

"Dark magic and fire," Hermione answers. "The forest hides this wound while time heals it."

"How long will it take?"

"As long as it needs, but there is hope." When Emilia returns after Hermione's gestures for her to come back, she breaks through the hard layer of ground with the heel of her shoe. Then she picks up the piece to reveal what is hidden beneath the ruins.

Life.

Her students are audibly amazed when she touches the ground, closes her eyes, and focuses on the life beneath her hand.

A whispered spell—one Vasades taught her to perform without a wand centring her magic—breaks the cracks in a perfect circle around her.

They rush to uncover the grass beneath.

Real and alive.

"Just as life and death are cyclical, war leaves destruction." Hermione watches them reveal more and more grass, the hardened ash forming a pile away from the circle. "It transforms what is familiar into places like this, but nature will heal and life will return better and stronger."

"Does that mean war always makes life better?" Emilia's eyes fill with tears. "War killed my papa."

He was a soldier. Sickness took her mother and siblings soon after.

For a moment, Hermione struggles to answer the child in a way that will ease her mind, but then she settles for honesty. "We are all boats in the middle of the ocean. We cannot control the tide of war, or stop its ebb and flow, but we can ride its waves and learn magic to protect ourselves."

"But what if we want to stop war?" Festus asks softly.

"We cannot, but we can do the opposite."

"Find peace?" Cassia asks with wide blue eyes.

"No." The grass dances beneath Hermione's fingertips. "Create."

The hippogriff launches into the afternoon sky with the last of Hermione's students on its back.

One remains.

Although eager to take to the skies, Buckbeak waits for Hermione. He belongs to Harry, but after he left to train and later fight, he has become her companion. She does not bow, only touches his steel-coloured beak while Vasades lowers to check his chipped talon.

"There is no further breakage." Vasades dusts her hands before standing. Buckbeak lowers for Hermione to climb onto the harness. When she is settled, the centauride pats his side. "Your master shall return."

Harry.

"Have you Seen his return?"

"Among other things." Vasades gives nothing away. "This is the last time we will meet as we are now, Hermione."

Dread blooms like a flower. "I thought you were not fighting the invading herd."

"I am not, but the stars speak of you." The centauride's words seize Hermione's attention. "Our paths overlap and change in ways that are unclear."

"What does that mean?"

"This is not goodbye. I will see you again."

No matter how reassuring, it feels like an end Hermione has not prepared for.

From the damp meadows, the morning dew beads to greet the rising sun.

Hermione forages in the clearing with little time to spare. After a night of indulging in elvish wine to avoid a dull conversation with Viscountess Weasley, her mother will likely have a late start.

With bottles and vials clinking in her bag, she leaves Father with the promise of returning in time for breakfast and a morning sparring session.

Ingredients for potions and salves are best found in nature, rather than purchased in the Apothecary. Hermione seeks what she can find. Beetles, ants, and flobberworms are easy to fill jars with. Hermione captures a few lacewing flies and picks a few caterpillars off the trees. After shaking off the strange sensation of being watched, she is about to whistle for Buckbeak when she notices them.

A kaleidoscope of Monarch butterflies.

It is far too early in the day for them to be so active.

Something has disturbed them.

Hermione follows the swarm through the meadow, into the thick mist, then loses sight of them and her direction.

But she finds both on the other side.

Along with something else she does not expect.

A dragon.

Hermione has never seen one up close. The free dragons that roam the skies are green and red, but this one is the colour of darkness and by far the largest she has ever observed.

Brave curiosity will always win over her good sense.

She fully emerges from the mist.

The dragon notices immediately. The pupils of its red eyes contract into slits as it takes a huffing breath in warning. She is undeterred, even when it spreads its massive wings and casts a shadow over her, blocking the sun.

It is majestic, more graceful than frightening, and awe keeps her still.

Motionless.

Hermione is entranced.

Its scales look like solid lava—impenetrable wings weathered with rips and holes. This dragon has seen much war and violence, and Hermione cannot stop looking for all the signs of suffering.

The missing claws. The burns on its legs. The wounds.

There is a harness strapped to its back and—

She was not alone in the meadow.

A stranger sits on the saddle.

"You."

He is too far away to hear her, or for Hermione to see any distinguishable features except his hair. She does not know anyone with hair so blond it is white or a noble with a voice that sounds like a cold breeze.

"Wiap!"

The command is in a language she does not speak, but the dragon takes flight as if obeying. The force produced by its flapping wings clears the mist and nearly takes Hermione off her feet.

Her heart beats wildly in her chest long after the dragon and stranger vanish from sight.

Chapter Text

The orchards are peaceful.

Morning dew dampens the ground, and the air hangs heavy with the cloying sweetness of ripening fruit.

Mid-morning sun warms her back as Hermione walks the grounds, a quill in her hand and parchment on a flat slab, greeting the elves who work diligently to care for the trees. Only disturbed by the occasional small rabbit or bowtruckle scurrying past, she inspects the harvest while plucking several of each fruit for the orphans as treats.

A whisper of rain shifts the breeze.

Hermione dismisses the elves and returns to the estate where today's grain awaits inspection.

"You shouldn't do that."

Fist over her racing heart, Hermione turns.

Then exhales through a smile. "You startled me!"

"Apologies." Her father's hazel eyes are as warm as his voice, and amusement tips the corner of his lips. "But you should allow the staff to handle the count."

Dressed to travel into town, his cane is a constant companion, bearing all the weight he cannot since suffering an injury during his service as a knight. As the Duke, it is his duty to see to the people in each town in their duchy. The task will take a full day. He should be gone already but as a rule, Potters never leave without saying goodbye. His late departure means he will not return until well into the night.

"Hermione, love, at least allow Maximilian to conduct the count during the harvest so he will not complain about being reduced to a common farm elf."

What her father does not know is that she sent him to tend to the livestock hours ago. The chore will only further sour his mood, but the foreman is always cross with her.

"I like order and you are much too busy."

Hermione inspects the barley.

It is excellent.

"Yes, but as a Lady, you must assist your mother with managing the staff of elves. Tonight you both are to dine with the Viscount and Viscountess Weasley. She will need all the assistance your presence provides to avoid wincing as the Viscountess reads every new letter she has received from each of her children."

It will take hours.

They have seven.

Hermione is closest to Ron and Ginny. There was a time when she was close to Percy, who challenged her mind. But she has not seen the newly appointed Royal Historian since refusing his hand in marriage.

"Your mother needs your presence."

"Father…"

"Hermione…" he mocks with a playful nudge. "You should help your mother with preparing for the dinner or perhaps you can work on your embroidery or dancing. How about a new book? I know how much you enjoy reading."

"I do." But the prospect of a new book is not enough to keep her from squinting in suspicion. "Did Mother send you to talk to me?"

"Of course." The corner of her father's eyes crinkle in amusement. "You have not sparred with her in over a fortnight. She has missed it."

"You mean she misses besting me."

They both grin and Father wraps an arm around her shoulder. "And I miss stirring trouble with you, so I eagerly look forward to my return."

"I promise not to free any goblin-held dragons until you return."

"And?"

Hermione sighs. "I won't bother the bridge troll, but if he chases my students I'll be forced to act."

"Naturally." Father's grin takes a mischievous edge. "Use the spell I taught you to break the wood beneath his feet. It will send him falling into the river and he'll gorge on fish until he falls asleep. If your mother finds out and asks—"

"You told me nothing."

"This is why you are my favourite daughter."

"I am your only daughter, Father."

"That does not make you any less favoured!"

At best, Hermione's upbringing has been unconventional, but the word does not fully encompass Duke and Duchess Potter. Different from others of their station, they march to the beat of their own drum in many ways. Fair and just, they hold the same expectations for the lower nobles under their rule, and extend equal kindness to peasants as they do elves.

While the Potter name may now be synonymous with the title of Duke and Duchess, it is the newest addition to the kingdom, and the only one not a relative of the current king. Father's grandfather was the first to hold the title after purchasing the land from the crown for an obscene price. To this day, they're charged an excess grain tax, due whenever the palace elves appear.

But she doesn't know much about the arrangement. Each time she tries to inquire, for some reason she…

Hermione tries to recapture the thought, but it is gone.

Lost.

"Vasades has been beyond contact for a fortnight now." Father gives her a knowing look. "I know you walk to the forest in search."

"I do."

Each day she dissects their final exchange. During quiet moments between teaching and helping, she wonders about the timing of her departure. While delivering donated supplies and food to the poor, she thinks about the promised arrival. And while handling the count and working in the herb garden, Hermione tries to think about everything Vasades did not say.

Her thoughts get lost in the mist.

"Lily will never speak on such things to not discourage you," he says.

Something she will never do. Her mother encourages and challenges her to do and be more.

"But she does miss you. She finds the company of the local nobility rather droll."

"I will do better, Father." Hermione focuses on Vasades' comment. "When is Harry coming home?"

His face twists in confusion. "How did you—Vasades?"

She smiles.

"After defeating the Carrows, the king has put a hold on warfare while he assesses the spoils of his victory. Harry is to return while the king returns to the palace."

He sounds worried and she understands why. If King Draco is anything like those who came before him—or worse, his Queen—his return will only spread misery that will stain the kingdom.

Her parents are loyal to the crown, but not always to the one who wears it. They keep this a secret out of necessity. Hermione has never been to Court, but her parents appear only when summoned and do not play politics to gain the favour of the Cruel Queen.

Lucius the Mad has been in his grave over seven years, and still, there is little known of King Draco, the boy crowned at the age of fifteen. There are his successes on the battlefield, his swift yet brutal justice, and the battle scars that cover his body. But few know about who he is as a king or even as a man. Harry does not write of him in his letters. He could be either similar or different from his queen who rules in his absence.

Tales of her callousness are widespread, but King Draco's arrival means she will need to step aside and give up the power she wields with cruelty.

It sounds like a nightmare.

News out of the palace keeps the gossip wheels churning fast. Hermione is grateful for her peaceful and quiet life far enough away from the clutches of royal politics. She does not seek more than what she has.

Perhaps this is why she is an oddity.

Not only is Hermione allowed privileges unheard of to an unmarried woman in her station, she is free to teach, free to assist on the Duke's behalf and sometimes without his explicit permission, and free to marry for love over duty. Whispers follow her daily but Hermione does not care; the Potter's wealth and generosity keep everyone silent.

"Come." Father offers a hand. "Have rose water with your mother and I before I leave for town."

The walk to where her mother sits is slow but companionable.

"Lily, I found our wayward daughter inspecting the grain."

"Ah." Mother rises from her chair in the drawing room. She is beautiful with striking red hair that stands out against her deep green dress. "I thought she would be in the meadow again. Or picking fruit from the orchard to bring to her students."

"I did that already," Hermione replies with a wide smile, walking into the open arms of the only mother she has ever known.

Inhaling, Mother holds her close before pulling back with a smile. "I wish for another archery lesson or to watch you shoot fruit from the tops of the trees. In exchange, we will cross swords as soon as your father leaves. We will try to channel your magic into the blade."

While Hermione loves sword-fighting, there is something that interests her more.

"Mother, will you teach me a spell?" Though not permitted to carry a wand, she knows far more spells than Father.

"Of course, my love."

The heat turns the walk from the town into an intolerable trudge.

Hermione suffers in silence. The sight of rolling hills and green grass helps her temporarily forget about the rising level of discomfort in her gown. Brewing and delivering extra potions to the Healers to suppress an outbreak of spattergroit in the lower town leaves Hermione worn.

And the day is not yet over.

There is a small smile playing on Ginny Weasley's lips, and beads of sweat trickle from her hairline. She dabs away with a cloth as her cheeks tint a pinkish hue. Her state is not due to the heat, but from the combination of anticipation, excitement, and her absolute need to talk.

"Harry will arrive in three days' time."

Instead of reminding Ginny that she knows, everyone does, she smiles at her friend. Hermione is just as excited for her brother's return.

If not more.

"Are you ready?"

"I am. For everything." Ginny sobers to a degree, looking a little self-conscious. "I was not excited about the conversation about our wedding night with my mother, but it does not matter. I have been waiting for this since last year."

When Harry's stag Patronus glided into the room and delivered a marriage proposal.

Unconventional, yet oddly romantic, Ginny was speechless, more when she learned Harry wrote letters to their fathers stating his intentions. It was no surprise the Viscount consented to the advantageous match. Even now, many are still shocked by the Duke's blessing considering Ginny's small dowry.

But that is their Father.

He accepted Harry's decision as easily as they adopted Hermione into their family when they were already preparing for a child of their own.

Seamless.

Without question.

"Do you think they are still planning?" The face Ginny pulls is the same one she wears when Hermione carefully plucks the wings off of lacewing flies to store for future brews.

"Likely."

Since Harry's letter, their mothers have been planning for a floral wedding on the estate upon his return. The guest list is long enough for Hermione's eyes to cross—the Weasley family alone is extensive. Add in nearby nobles and friends and, well—Ginny is overwhelmed.

Hermione likes to use these potion deliveries to escape the clutches of their mothers.

The bride cares nothing for wedding details or lace, but the duchy is abuzz.

News of their long-awaited nuptials finally broke that morning alongside word of Harry's return, and many of the town's peasants stop Ginny to wish her a happy and fruitful union. It slows their progress, but neither are in a hurry to return.

"I was thinking." Ginny's three words earn her a raised brow, which she ignores in favour of linking their arms. "Instead of returning, we should walk to the Burrow and play shuntbumps."

Hermione can think of only a few things she would rather do less. "I am still disturbed about your idea of fun being limited to broomstick-jousting."

"You only hate it because you lose."

Ginny is not wrong. Hermione is as competitive as they come, but not about everything. "Being knocked off my broom is not a sport," she protests with a slight lift of her lips. "Reading under a tree is a far better way to spend one's time when it is hot."

"Of course you would say that." Her friend rolls her eyes. "You are hopelessly mundane."

"You sound like Vasades when she is frustrated with me."

As she often is.

Hermione's laugh fades when her teacher's parting words replay in her mind.

The stars speak of you. Our paths overlap and change in ways that are unclear. This is not goodbye. I will see you again.

Due to a lifetime of stubbornness, she has thrice visited their meeting spot and walked the forest, replaying their conversation and looking for any sign of the centauride.

There is none.

Hermione should not worry. This has happened before.

Still, she feels… unsettled.

Just as she does about the strange dragon with red eyes and battle wounds. And the rider's voice.

More than ever, Hermione is drawn to the skies—not in interest of the future Vasades sees in the stars, but in anticipation of what or who she might see on the horizon. It is why she returns to the meadow each morning. Her thoughts are always active. There have been several moments of silence when Hermione nearly divulges everything to Ginny.

But she does not.

It feels like a secret she must keep.

"You are in your mind again, Hermione."

She does not deny, nor does she answer. Instead, she offers Ginny an abashed smile. "Perhaps we both can clear our minds with a detour to the Burrow's lake for a swim."

Ginny cheers and drags them off the path.

Stripped down to their chemises, they swim together until the sun passes its peak.

In the hot, dry weather, the water is refreshing—reviving. Hermione and Ginny play and splash as their laughter echoes over the water. When they tire, they drift on their backs, joined hands tethering them as they gaze at the changing skies.

"I know I am marrying your brother, but I hope to still have days like this, just you and I."

"Of course." Hermione fondly squeezes her hand. "Nothing has to change."

Except she feels she is lying to both Ginny and herself.

Everything must either change or perish. It is a law of life.

After retreating from the water, Ginny calls for her family's elf, who dries them both with a snap of his fingers. Without protectant salve, any longer and Ginny's pale skin would start to redden.

To avoid cross stares from their mothers or the misery that comes with a sunburn, they dress and continue to the Potter Estate. Ginny's red hair is wavy, her skin sunkissed, and the house-elf's drying magic has once left Hermione's curls frizzy and tangled. There will be no denying their trip to the lake.

Relaxed and reset, an energetic Ginny shifts from talking about Harry's return to the latest palace gossip.

"Queen Millicent has levied taxes by another Sickle ahead of the King's return."

"Again?"

It is the fourth raise since the start of winter. There are peasants far and wide who are barely managing from the previous increase and whispers of discontent are in the air all over the kingdom.

This breath-taking example of foolishness can only be explained by one thing: greed.

Between the latest kingdom to fall to the Malfoy's might and every Sickle increase, the Kingdom's vaults should be overflowing, but the queen's desire for more has not been sated.

It never will be.

During King Draco's absence, Queen Millicent has terrorised those under their rule.

The spreading social unrest accompanies every decree and levied tax. It stokes the fire of Hermione's anger as kingdoms fall to the Malfoys.

The disregard for the safety of the conquered people unfamiliar with the kingdom's customs and practices; the segregation and unchecked violence they experience simply because they were conquered by a kingdom that already ignores the needs of their own people—everything increases Hermione's brewing ire.

Her disgust is not only with the royals, but also with the nobility who watch in silence to protect themselves and their own interests.

Word of public flogging and executions of those who seek change raise internal questions about the society in which they live. The society that blindly follows one tyrant after the next.

"Yes, it is egregious." The eyes and ears of the Palace do not reach this corner of the country, but Ginny is careful about her volume. "It has been done at the suggestion of the advisors. They seek to make certain the treasury has enough to keep the war funded."

"I thought the war would be paused for some time."

"It has been, but our kingdom's enemies will rally. Harry tells me that soldiers are returning home and guards will be deployed to maintain what we have gained. Scouts are being sent to assess the Carrow Kingdom. He tells me of the people's cries and happiness at being liberated."

The sadistic Carrows have ravaged hundreds of towns and villages in the Malfoy Kingdom since the start of the Second Great War. Hermione holds them responsible for the death of her parents, but even she cannot imagine anyone celebrating the exchange from one tyrant to another.

"King Draco has delayed his return, which is why Queen Millicent's extravagant celebration plans grow more and more ludicrous. Every noble and all the knights are invited. Last I heard, she is to release peacocks upon his arrival." Ginny rolls her eyes as they pass through the wards of the Potter Estate, the magic warm and accepting. "Do not ask me the purpose. I have no answer. It will be a grand affair."

Ginny's sarcasm is as dry as ever, but Hermione cannot laugh, much less speak. She has no words left to describe how she feels about the queen's indulgence in the face of the kingdom's troubles in the midst of war that has no end.

She stops walking.

"Hermione?" Concern etches itself in Ginny's brows. "What is it?"

"I wish to hear no more of the queen's plans. I only care about how we will combat this to help those in need. I will form a list of ideas and present them to my father."

"You are a Lady, this is not your fight."

"But these are our people. The heart of every kingdom. It is unwise to treat them so poorly."

"You and your family do far more for those who live in your duchy. Not all nobles are like you. At worst, nobles see peasants as expendable. At best, a source of income." Ginny takes her hand and they continue with the setting sun at their backs. "I am constantly in awe of you. I have been since we were children. Stubborn like a bicorn, yet kind and fair. I wish to see the world as you do."

"There is no correct way to see the world. We all struggle to process the constant changes both within us and around us. This world is not built in a way that we can all be equal, but we can treat those beneath us fairly and with respect." Hermione exhales as they approach the entrance walk. "I—it is a radical way of thinking, I know, but my mother started me on this path and my understanding of nature has set my course to do what I can. Fight what I can. Help who I can."

"You and Harry are alike in that way. You both are fighters. He is bound by duty and you—"

"I fight for what is right."

But as they walk, Hermione thinks more about the brother who left to fulfil his familial duty and train alongside the Prince as a knight.

She wonders if he is still weedy with the same scar and spectacles. If he has messy hair and carries the same wand.

Or if war has suppressed the boy who used to laugh too free, smile too wide, and talk too loud.

The same boy who thought the war would be won by the time his training was complete and nothing would change in his absence.

She fears he will return knowing everything has.

Hermione holds to her quiet wish that Harry will return the same as he left, but hope does not have a place on the battlefield.

Like life and death, time will burn it away.

Nevertheless, Hermione thinks as she greets her mother who frowns knowingly at the state of her hair. It will be good to see him again.

"You are distracted, Hermione."

It has been one hour since they started sparring and Mother has not yet grown weary. This is normal, but it is also the day before Harry is to return and she has anticipatory energy to burn.

Dressed in a simple blue gown and her red hair out in waves, her mother is in ready position, knees bent with her dull practice sword extended. Its tip edges close to where Hermione takes her defensive stance.

Although far from unskilled with a sword, she envies how Mother fights. Not only does she fight with a wholehearted will to win, she possesses a natural grace forged from steel.

Hermione has never fought like her. With an eye for detail and technique, she has never been able to manage her sword in a way that is instinct-driven or natural. Mother's sword can glow with magic at her will and command, allowing her to cut through marble. She wishes to teach Hermione the same skill, but Hermione has never been able to maintain the focus needed for such a trick.

"I have killed you thrice today, my love. Do give me a challenge this time."

"Yes, Mother." Humidity and exertion leave Hermione's hair as wild as she looks in a deep red gown she will never wear again. "But if you kill me quickly, I might have time for a bath before dinner."

Father chuckles from his seat on the edge of the veranda. No longer able to spar, he looks wistful but entertained.

Everyone loses to her mother.

Hermione wonders if Harry will, too, upon his return.

"Lily, darling," The quirk on his lips denotes amusement. "Go easy on Hermione. She looks tired from her early morning walk in the meadows."

His words do exactly as he intends.

Instead of defence, Hermione goes on the attack.

There is a gleam in her mother's green eyes that hints at her excitement. The jarring sound of clanging swords and Hermione's heavy breathing fill the air as they fight. This round goes longer and harder, and when Mother lunges for the third kill, Hermione slides to the left without thinking. The sword goes past her body, and leaves Mother open for the defeat.

With the blunt tip of her sword at her mother's neck, Hermione pants for air. "Do you yield?"

"I do." Her smile widens as they both straighten. "Excellent work." To her father, she inclines her head. "James, thank you dear for the proper motivation."

"I have learned that telling Hermione she cannot is enough to fuel her determination to prove the words wrong."

They know her best.

A house-elf appears to return their swords and daggers to the armoury.

"Thank you, Dobby," she and her mother speak as one.

"Mistresses is kind." He bows and leaves with a snap of his fingers.

With the assistance of his cane, Father rises to his feet. Mother approaches, planting a simple kiss on his cheek before wrapping her arms around his waist.

Father rests his cheek on the crown of her mother's head. "As always, you remain a magnificent terror, Lily."

The compliment earns him an expected nudge in the ribs that makes him laugh in the face of Mother's glare.

Then something soft settles over them.

Years of marriage have made their movements fluid and easy, their bond strong.

Although their wish is for their children to marry out of choice and love, their match was not one born from either.

Betrothed as children, they hardly tolerated one another before they married. Father admitted he was spoiled, arrogant, and cared for nothing beyond his mates—Lord Sirius and Sir Remus—and his service as a knight under the Mad King. Mother aggravated him with her wit and the fact that she cared too much about things that were not Ladylike—like the starving people in their duchy.

His very existence vexed her.

Even now, they disagree on much, but when Hermione first asked how they grew to love each other as they do, they exchanged looks and spoke the truth.

War.

Two winters before Hermione was given to them, the Mad King Lucius sent his Knights on a suicide mission that only her father survived. His Thestral returned home and would not leave until her mother mounted. It carried her off into the night, delivering her to the battlefield, where she found her husband alive, surrounded by the bodies of his fellow knights. She took him to safety, nursed him back to health, and though irreparably injured, she stayed by his side, helping him regain his strength and independence.

"Clarity waits for the moment you stand to lose everything," her mother once told her. "But love is the moment when you decide you simply refuse to."

Harry is different than Hermione remembers.

Taller.

Broader.

He has grown out of many things but the kindness in his eyes remains. It has not yet been tainted by war. Despite rough hands, his hug is gentle, and even now his charmed glasses remain crooked. The scar he was born with still stands out; it is identical to the one on father's neck.

Harry freely speaks of his happiness about his return, his enthusiastic reunion with Buckbeak brings a grin to her face, and she nearly cries with him when he and Ron hug. His shoulders sag when he crouches to hug Mother, then upright to hug Father.

They are the same height now, and he is the spitting image of Father.

But with their mother's eyes.

When he sees Ginny, it is as if the world slows. The moment they share is incomparable.

He picks her up like she weighs nothing and hugs her like she is everything.

They are to marry at sunrise.

Hermione will be Maid of Honour.

After their reunion, Ginny is called away, leaving Harry and Hermione alone with Ron.

"The Golden Trio, reunited at long last." Ron grins.

It is an affectionate name given to them by their parents at five when Harry found an injured golden snidget and the three decided to adopt it. It did not take long for their parents to find out and make them give the rare bird to Hagrid and the Scamander family for care. The moniker still lives, as does the bird, now with several generations of hatchlings.

Trolls, werewolves, a basilisk, a Voldemort zealot disguised as Ron's rat who speaks in riddles about Harry, lost Inferi—these strange experiences bind them for life.

The first thing they do is return to their roots—not trouble, there is plenty of time for that—revisiting their favourite childhood hiding spot. A large field far from the Potter Estate. They lie in the grass at the top of the hill, eating fruit and nuts, and enjoying the bond forged as children.

Ron is the only one of his brothers who remains near home. He is also the first of their trio to marry, having done so four years ago to the daughter of a Lord, Susan Bones. They have two children Hermione calls goddaughters, who sometimes join her lessons despite not being orphans. Ron is always busy whenever Hermione calls on him, but today he enjoys being away from it all.

"Was it hard getting the King's permission to marry?"

"No." Harry bites into an apple and chews. "He permitted us to return to our families but expects us back next week upon his arrival for the welcome feast."

Hermione's look sours. There is much she needs to tell Harry, but it is his first day back and she doesn't want to trouble him with her causes.

"Good." Ron shoves a handful of berries into his mouth. "It was annoying how much she talks about your letters, so for that, I am glad you are home to marry her."

When Hermione laughs, her brother tilts his head. "I am surprised you are not yet married."

"I am not inclined to marry. My students are my brood."

It is the same response she gives to every suitor who asks for her hand: the handsome Marquess named Viktor Krum when she was but fifteen, and an arrogant son of a foreign Duke named Cormac McLaggen two years later. Not to mention, Percy, who made his offer last year.

Her parents supported her refusals.

"Are you certain?" Harry asks.

"I enjoy helping the people in our duchy, teaching the orphans, handling the duties Mother and Father cannot, and brewing potions for those who need it. Someone must. I doubt any marriage I enter will afford me the time and choice to live as I wish."

"But you will be a spinster."

"A happy one." At Harry's worried look, she nudges him with a smile. "I do not mean riches when I say there is only so much fortune found in marriage. You and Ron have found it all and there is none left for me. I am happy you both are happy."

Ron scratches his head. "I still do not know why you refused my brother. You like him."

"He is a good man. I enjoy his company and conversation, but I do not love him, nor will I ever. I choose no one and instead choose to make certain the people within our duchy will not be left to ruins due to the greed and actions of the crown."

"I have heard… stories." Harry looks into the distance and picks at a blade of grass. "I am hoping with the king's return, things will change."

"Is the war over?" Hermione asks.

"No, but—"

"There is no change when corruption and greed continue to be the source of suffering. The queen is horrid, wasteful, and brutal. She cares nothing for the people she rules or those displaced by the war. And those who advise her are no better. I, for one, am tired of war. The kingdom has not known peace in years and we will never know peace with King Draco's single-minded desire to conquer the realm—"

"You have done it now." Ron sounds fondly exasperated, rolling his eyes just as Ginny does when Hermione gets too passionate during her rants. "You have gotten Hermione started."

She throws a pecan. He catches it with his mouth and they all cheer and laugh.

Everything settles for just a moment.

"I have opinions."

"We know!" Harry and Ron say simultaneously.

Their laugh is so similar it is hard to remember there are years between now and their last goodbyes, and mere hours since their latest hellos.

Some things never change.

Until they do.

Chapter Text

Harry and Ginny's handfasting is as expected: intimate and elegant.

They stand at the altar, framed by flowers in full bloom.

The very picture of flourishing young love.

It radiates in their eyes, more valuable than any gold or precious stone.

Light pours from Viscount Weasley's wand as he chants the spells. The ties glow in a beautiful display of magic that weaves intricate strands with no end or beginning. When it fades, it is done. The couple kiss for so long Father clears his throat and Mother nudges him because it does not matter.

They are now man and wife.

The couple gives Ginny's dowry away during their walk through the town in their wedding clothes. Two Galleons to each person standing on the street, waving flowers and cheering in celebration.

There is enough for the entire town. It is most generous. Two month's wages for some, more for those who have children with them. Life-saving for the most dire.

The twinkle in her parents' eyes tells her this is their solution to the tax levy problem.

Hermione walks between her parents, holding each of their hands as they follow behind the bride and groom who hand out Galleons to all. She is happy her brother still values community; he has not changed in that regard.

They fly on hippogriffs back to the Potter Estate, where the guests await to begin the wedding feast. Despite being nobles, they are modest, but today they celebrate a new addition to their family with cheese and bread, oxen and mutton, capons and boars head, fish and waterfowl. Wine they have saved for years is consumed without restraint.

An excellent night is had by all.

Hermione allows herself the evening to relax.

More than half of the wedding guests are from Ginny's side: all six of her brothers are in attendance, along with their wives and families. The Potter family is small, with no other living relatives. The rest of their guests are childhood friends Hermione likes well enough.

This is the first time Hermione has seen Percy since her refusal. She hopes to quickly move past the awkwardness of the encounter. "How are the palace libraries?"

"Vast, easy to hide in." Percy straightens his shoulders, polite yet distant. "There are few in power who care about the information and history found in the written word. My days pass in peace so long as I keep out of the sightline of Queen Millicent."

It sounds dangerous, not at all worth the life he dreams of outside his family's shadow.

"Let us not speak of troubling topics tonight." His contemplative look softens, then he offers his hand. "Dance with me, Lady Hermione."

She places her hand in his. "Only if you stop being so formal."

"As you wish."

They dance twice on a floor covered with lilies and roses. The sweet fragrance rises with each coordinated step. When they shift to other partners, his smile makes Hermione feel as though they are on better footing. Their friendship may be on the path to being renewed.

Spirits brightened, Hermione dances with others and drinks more wine than she has ever allowed herself to indulge in.

She is light on her feet, smiling and enjoying the night.

It feels good.

And then a silver orb appears. An official communication.

Everything stops.

It hovers in front of Harry, and his grin melts away.

The king has returned early to a coup led by the queen. Come now.

The orb's message sobers Hermione instantly.

Harry pulls out his wand, kisses Ginny in apology, and leaves on the back of Buckbeak.

Gossip always outpaces the official news.

Word travels fast in the night.

There is no trial. No audience. No attention.

Only whispers tell the tale after her defeat in a duel with the king.

Queen Millicent is given the Dementor's Kiss for treason.

Rumours claim that even as her soul was sucked from her body, she did not plead for her life. She held her head high with no regrets, and used her energy to spit on the king, then curse his name with her final breath.

The next part of the story varies depending on who is whispering in the shadows.

Where it happened, how, and who was present are not constants, but everything else remains steadfast in each retelling: the Bulstrode family, who benefited heavily from the late queen's power, begged to take her body away to live the rest of her days as a shell. But King Draco denied the request and made them watch as he beheaded her before burning her in a pit of dragon fire.

Then he turned his wrath on them, stripping the entire Bulstrode line of both titles and wands, and banishing them to Azkaban, the frigid island of the forgotten.

The stories do not grant Hermione peace, only a foreboding feeling of impending calamity.

When Harry returns over a month later, the entire kingdom is still reeling—not from sadness at the death of the queen, but from the swift and brutal justice.

Restless, Hermione plans to leave Harry and Ginny to walk to the town and meet the elves who are to deliver the grain to the baker—a trip Father usually takes. She is surprised when the pair joins her.

"You do not have to come," Hermione assures them. "Rest. Enjoy all the days you have missed as newlyweds."

"I would like to." Harry smiles. "I thought perhaps we might visit your students, too. I have heard many stories and I wish to meet them while I am home. Perhaps we can also celebrate all the birthdays I have missed, including this last one."

"Ginny, reason with your husband."

"I cannot because I agree. Come. Let us make a day of it."

They all make the trip, with Ginny between them, arms looped through both of theirs. Hermione casts a wary eye over her shoulder at the barrels of grain that follow, hovering off the ground.

Hermione knows charms: how to ignite and extinguish candlelight, how to break the dirt beneath her hands, how to summon orbs of light to read under the cover of darkness. All practical spells to defend herself if needed. But it is nothing like what Harry is able to do with his wand.

The power he carries runs off of him in waves. His magic makes him confident. Calmer. Her brother has more than learned to fight and survive, he has learned to control his magic and thrive.

It is extraordinary.

During the walk, Harry tells of his arrival during the coup. "The battle within the palace was evenly matched, but at the first sign of the changing tide, those fighting for the queen began to flee."

Hermione cannot fathom the chaos, the innocent blood spilled, the lives lost. It sounds worse than she realised when Harry continues.

"It took us the next fortnight to hunt down every conspirator following Queen Millicent's execution. We learned how deep the treachery went from their memories, tried them all in a court presided over by the King's Council, and executed them all after a guilty verdict."

"Why does none of this seem surprising to you?" Hermione finally asks.

"It was a surprise—not the coup but that it happened as soon as the king arrived."

Ginny gasps. "Wait. You mean—"

"The king has known for years that Queen Millicent was plotting against him."

"Yet he did nothing?"

"We have been busy with warfare. It is a higher priority than the late queen's actions."

"To the king, perhaps." Hermione's anger sparks. "But to the thousands who have fallen victim to her cruelty, who have starved because of her oppressive greed, who have died because they dared to speak for what is just and—"

"Hermione," Harry says patiently, "there is much you do not know. There is much I cannot tell, either, but the queen was not always this person. Time and hatred poisoned her. The king has his faults in this, he knows, but defeating the Carrows finally gave him time to return home to handle the situation."

"I wonder." Hermione taps her chin. "Were you present for the queen's interrogation?"

"Yes. She confessed with and without Veritaserum. However…" His brows furrow as if struck by a memory. "I do recall her memories of some of the conspirators being wiped."

"Convenient, which means there are more that you all did not catch."

"That is exactly what the king said."

Something else that makes little sense? "Why did the king return to the palace knowing there would be a coup?"

"Sometimes you must become the bait in your own trap," Harry says. "Draco delayed his return with a flying tour of the kingdom alone. Easy to believe he was arriving alone when word was I was getting married. The rest of the knights hid in the towns around the castle, within the palace disguised as workers, and in the forests—all in communication, all prepared to defend at his dragon's call. It was a wise decision, even if it did not yield all the answers we were looking for."

"You speak highly of the king." Hermione cannot ignore the almost friendly regard in which her brother refers to the man who rules over them all.

"I know him better now than when I first met him. He was horrid. Arrogant, elitist, and often cruel to those beneath him. But also angry and terrified in ways I did not yet understand. I was there when his mother died, and what we all learned is she was the last strand that held his father's sanity together. Without her…"

Hermione looks down in understanding.

"How did it change?" Ginny asks quietly. "Between you and the king, I mean."

"Not all at once. I nearly killed him a few times during our training, and not all by accident either." Harry chuckles ruefully but then his smile dims. "The day his father died, Dra…never mind."

Desperate for information, Hermione wants to push but the haunted gleam in his eyes makes her stop. She and Ginny exchange worried looks at the darkness that befalls him.

But then like a storm, it passes with a forced smile. "I suppose another benefit is his familiar. Neither he nor I would be alive today were it not for his dragon saving us from Fiendfyre during the latest battle. We went back to save Sir Crabbe and Sir Goyle when they fell through the floor."

Ginny gasps. "You did not tell me about this."

"I did not want you to fret."

She swats him in the arm. "I do not care. I wish to know everything, good and bad. Remember that the next time you are called back to the battlefield."

"I agree." Hermione looks at her brother. "We should do better with corresponding. I wish to know the world you get to see, just as you wish to know the world you have left behind."

Harry is quiet for several moments, adjusting his glasses. "Sometimes it is difficult to speak about it, about my life in service to the crown. The knights are my family, too. We were brought together, we fought together, and we took each loss personally. Sir Crabbe being the latest. The king is a knight, too. I have fought by his side in a war you do not agree with. I have taken lives. I—"

"You were acting on orders." Ginny soothes the place she just struck him.

"I was, but I know the king and what we all face well enough to give my loyalty unquestioned."

"Spoken like a true knight," Hermione teases to lighten the mood.

"I am but my loyalty is not bound by duty, blindness, or complacency. The king is a man, just as I am. We are now strangers in our own lands. In some ways, he is as unprepared to rule as I was to be a knight."

"But you were trained and given the tools needed to fight. You learned."

"As will he."

The delivery is quick.

While Harry counts the Sickles from the baker, she and Ginny buy four loaves of fresh sweet bread and make their way to the orphanage to deliver the treat to the children.

As well as introduce Harry to the brood.

Every exposure is a learning opportunity to the children; they have not seen much of the world.

He talks to the group about being a knight, about the wand he carries, and gives them a highly abridged tale of the war he has been fighting.

He crosses wooden swords, recites one verses all, his rallying battle cry, before he is tackled at the legs by Emilia. The whole scene makes the ever-serious Minerva laugh out loud. He runs and plays on brooms, happy and free while she and Ginny look on, their arms linked.

On their way back hours later, Harry tells Hermione of their plans now that they are married.

"Ginny and I are to spend spring and summer at Court." He gives his worried wife a reassuring smile then looks at Hermione. "Perhaps you might visit, Hermione. You would be welcomed as a Duke's daughter, a Lady, and my sister."

"The Court will see me as nothing more than their adopted daughter of common birth."

"You are more than that. Father is bequeathing half of everything to you upon his death, including the title of Duchess."

"What?" Hermione did not know this. "Why would he—"

"He wants you taken care of, should anything happen to him, or even me. Mother, too. And he knows you will care for the people in the duchy." Harry lays a hand on her arm to draw her from her spiralling thoughts. "Ask him for yourself. Or not. I just think you should come to Court and see what life is all about. Mother and Father hate it. You might, as well, but I am sure it will be an interesting tale to bring home to your students."

Hermione's mission is to show them as many facets of life as she can. "I will think about it."

"Do not decide now, but I am set to leave in a fortnight. The Royal Counsel will be selecting his new queen from the noble families, as you know. The king wants us present." Harry looks at her. "As always, you are exempt."

The status of her parents excludes her from the selection pool for an unfortunate arranged marriage to a temperamental and brutal king.

Nothing about this upsets her. It is a blessing.

The next queen does not survive a fortnight before she, too, dies by the king's hand.

"It was a merciful act." Harry—a man who has seen war and death and violence—returns home the morning after the ordeal clearly shaken. There are burns on his hands, and the tips of his fingers are as black as his clothes. "Queen Katie could not be saved from the enchanted necklace."

When the king woke moments before the dagger she was wielding plunged into his chest, her eyes aglow, the necklace began to scorch the new queen's skin. The Royal elves called for the knights and Harry tried to rip it off. His hands are burned in service to another.

"It was too late. The king tried to scour her mind in her final moments to determine who had given her the necklace, but found she had put it on freely thinking it would give her the strength to kill him."

Ginny looks on in worry as Hermione blends a paste for his burns and wraps his fingers in cloth before helping him into gloves. "Do not take the cloth off until morning. Your burns will be healed."

"Thank you." He rises. "Vasades has taught you much in my absence."

"She has."

While Hermione cleans up, Harry guides his wife to the other side of the room to apologise for delaying their honeymoon. He is due to return to the palace post-haste to meet with the king.

"I do not care about our travels," Ginny whispers fiercely. "Only your safe return."

"I love you."

Ginny closes her eyes as their foreheads touch. "And I, you."

Hermione gives the leftover salve to her brother as he prepares to leave.

"My fingers feel better." He flexes his hand inside his armoured glove but accepts the tin.

"It is not for you." She feels odd putting words to an act that should be natural. "Share it with anyone who might have similar burns."

Harry cannot disguise his surprise. "I will see that it is used."

There is no gossip when the next selected queen does not make it to her wedding due to her involvement in yet another attempt on the king's life.

This time, the weapon of choice was poison.

A hush falls over the kingdom as winter blankets the land in snow.

The nobility is left unsettled. Another family is stripped of everything.

The amount of chaos within the palace signals disorder.

Instability.

For good reason, people begin to wonder if this will affect them. After all, everything does.

More than armies and King Draco, a kingdom is only as strong as its people, only as united as the loyalty of its subjects. The continued assassination attempts put King Draco's ability to rule into question.

The next month is filled with silence from the castle.

No news. No official decree. Not even a sighting of the king.

By the time the cold wanes, Harry has neither returned nor written.

Ginny takes long walks with Mother, who tries to ease her mind. She brews with Hermione to keep busy, but is so quiet she agrees to play games she hates. Her attempts are met with a decline.

As silence and tension spread to all parts of the kingdom, Hermione continues her tasks, delivers everything promised, and teaches her lessons with each different group of students.

But even they start to ask questions she cannot answer.

Each night, Hermione sits with her parents, her hand clasped in Mother's while Father reads aloud from a book of their choosing. Sometimes they suffer through her attempts to play the Chalumeau—her desire to play as many instruments as Mother is almost as insatiable as her thirst for knowledge. But she is not talented. Ginny is no better but Hermione's mistakes and clumsiness make her smother a smile.

It will do.

At the end of the second month with no word, Hermione walks to the forest's edge to seek Vasades' council. She is in need of it now more than ever.

Yet still, she is not there.

A wrongness sits in the stilted silence between the trees. A chill sends Hermione home.

It feels like a warning.

Hermione is in bed when she hears Harry's arrival.

She pulls on a cloak to greet him, but finds her parents, Harry, and Ginny gathered in the foyer dimly lit by candles. The room is heavy with apprehension. It is not directed at Harry, but at her.

"What has happened?"

"Come," Mother says and Hermione obeys. There is something strange in her green eyes. Sadness. Worry. "You must prepare."

"For what?" Hermione is confused.

"We will need to teach you the ways of Court as quickly as possible." She seems uncommonly frazzled. "Perhaps, we have time to fit you for new gown or lace or—"

"Mother, please answer me." Hermione's heart is racing faster and faster.

"I am to return to Court with you," Harry says as if that is enough of an explanation. "The king is to choose his own bride."

"I have always been excluded. I am adopted, my birth parents—"

"You are not exempt," Father says. "Not this time."

Like a flower, Mother's silence blooms with each passing day since Hermione's summoning.

Alive yet coloured by the things she does not say, half-formed sentences starve for a conclusion her mother cannot vocalise. But Hermione's mind paints what she cannot conceal. Emotions are the watercolours and life is the canvas on which she works.

The morning she is set to leave, red fear, purple nostalgia, and blue sorrow drip on her canvas during their walk at dawn. Their impending separation is something Hermione has reservations about as well, but she feels there is something missing.

Something her mother knows but does not tell.

Something they all know, but she…

Hermione struggles to reach the thought, tries to grasp…

But it is gone.

Like sand between her fingers.

It leaves her feeling empty, twisted, longing for something to fill the silence—perhaps the clang of metal meeting metal, laughter and energy—anything to pierce the mood.

But since Mother cannot, Hermione decides she must. "Shall we spar once more before I go?"

The breeze catches her mother's red hair. "No."

Disappointment deflates Hermione, but she is determined. "I will be home in a fortnight with much to tell you of Court. I will likely return with your understanding of why you hate it so. And you will laugh at your own intense sorrow at seeing me go."

Mother looks at her, really looks at her, but her gaze is unreadable. Soft yet heavy with the weight of a thousand unsaid words. She stops walking and catches Hermione's hand, bringing her to stand before her, the sun on her back. Only then does Mother's smile turn genuine.

It is a relief.

"You are everything I did not expect but also everything I wanted you to be. Stubborn and courageous, strong and intelligent, but most of all fair and kind." Her lips quirk in a hint of amusement Hermione has missed during dress fittings and emergency lessons on Court etiquette. "I want nothing more than to hide you away, to protect you. It is instinct for me to want to keep you to myself, but Vasades was right. You cannot fly if I clip your wings before you learn to use them."

"I would not be who I am without your example."

"And you have much to learn without me." Her face turns serious. "Your loneliest place is not of this world, it is within you." They are the same height but she feels small when her mother's hand caresses her cheek. Hermione leans into her touch. "You must go into the darkness to understand your light."

"Is—is this what Vasades told you?"

"When she left you with us, yes." Mother brings their foreheads together. "I will miss you."

"You speak as if you will never see me again."

"I will see you… soon."

Wiltshire looks nicer than Hermione expects.

At least from above.

Harry guides Buckbeak to their destination while his Thestral follows.

Anticipation builds to its peak when the wards welcome them warmly after they fly between two stone pillars. She holds onto her brother a little tighter. It makes him turn his head quickly before steering Buckbeak along for the scenic view.

Patches of forests give way to farmland. The houses are few and far between until they reach the edge of the castle town where hundreds of homes are tightly organised in rows on the outskirts. The homes slowly get larger and more spaced out as they approach the palace walls. Likely where the rich live.

All streets lead to the centre of Wiltshire.

It is a large, open space where many gather today.

There is nothing Hermione wants more than to get her fill exploring the sprawling town from within. She is eager to experience the culture and discover this place.

But there is only one destination in their travel plans, and they are here.

The castle.

Now that they are close, it is her final focus. Light stone walls and unused green land separate the castle from the town. It stands taller and is larger and wider than any structure she has ever seen, with plenty of towers and courtyards tucked within its walls.

The stunning architectural feat is only made more impressive when Buckbeak flies around the back. The castle's rear entrance is built into the small cliff that overlooks a vast lake. The grassy beach at the bottom of the cliff is a surprise, as is the isthmus that leads to a large peninsula of open space with trees and barns.

It is where Buckbeak lands gracefully and trots until he stops.

The breeze makes Hermione feel as if she is still in the air.

Only when Harry helps her off the saddle does she fix her cloak and look around.

It is a stark contrast to the castle town. Thestrals roam freely, as do horses, domesticated wyverns, and other flying beasts. There is a young stablehand, Dennis Creevey, Harry tells her, who is excited to see Harry. After they talk, the boy bows reverently to Buckbeak.

Not a moment passes before the gesture is returned.

He reaches into his bag and offers Buckbeak his favourite—ferret—before the young boy leads him away by the reins and towards the other hippogriffs, who begin to take notice of his presence. He tosses up a second ferret, which is snapped out of the air in spectacular fashion.

Hermione smiles and turns to Harry. "There are no wards that I can feel. How do they keep all the animals here?"

"There are wards you cannot feel. They stretch higher than the tallest tower and extend to both ends of the lake. It does not prevent them from flying or hunting for fish, but they cannot go beyond unless they have a rider on their backs." Harry takes out his wand. "The wards also repel the wild dragons who prey on smaller creatures. There is plenty of land here, and they are all safe and cared for."

Despite his reassurance, Hermione is not inclined to leave Buckbeak until she sees him being accepted by the other hippogriffs gathered around him, bumping beaks in greeting.

"Raised by the Scamanders?"

"Yes."

Harry points his wand at her. With a spell, the colour of her gown changes from fine red to olive green. Her cloak transforms to brown.

"There is a welcome feast tonight that the king will not attend." Harry offers his arm and she takes it without question. "The selection meetings begin tomorrow, but you are on the third day out of five. Should he choose before your day, you will be free to return home."

Which is likely.

"Since I am not certain how they plan to occupy your days, I figured you might want the luxury of spending the afternoon exploring to your heart's content."

Hermione's smile grows. "I would."

Time and distance mean little. Harry still knows her best.

Wiltshire's town square is noisy, lively and full of magic as young and old alike enjoy a Market Day. Children run about, playing with magical toys, while guards patrol the streets for safety.

The only difference here versus home is the crowd and the number of vendors selling Sickle flowers, grains, seeds, animals, produce, and wares.

But there is one major difference.

The palace looms over it all.

Its shadow is a sentient presence presiding over everything.

It takes Hermione time to get her bearings, but once she does, she thinks it will be easy to become another face in the crowd. She catches a few curious people looking, not at her, but at Harry, who walks beside her with the posture and wand that identify him easily as a knight or a member of the nobility.

"Must you arm yourself?" Hermione glares at her brother. "It brings much attention to us. I cannot explore if I am escorted around like a Lady."

"You are a Lady."

"Out here, I shall be free to be whomever I wish. I will be a Lady when I enter the castle and not a second before."

"If you mean to be a pain in my arse, you are doing a fine job."

"Likewise!"

The two glare at each other before they break out in smiles, then laughter at their squabbling. It has been years but they are back to it like no time has passed. Harry pulls her into the entrance of an alley between two stores. "Do you remember where we are meeting?"

"Yes, by the North Entrance at sunset."

"Do you have enough Galleons?"

"Yes." She gives Harry a cutting look. "I also have my bezoar and Wiggenweld, as well as my quick wit and Mother's favourite dagger she gifted me to cut the throat of anyone who means harm. Anything else, Father?"

His mouth drops. "Take that back."

"I will not." She raises her chin and folds her arms across her chest.

Her brother's mock offence grows. "Father might not discourage you from freeing trapped dragons and healing dangerous beasts, but he would not allow you to explore alone."

"Fine." Hermione knows he is right. "I recant."

"Good. Be sure to keep to the crowds. There are oddities lurking about. We have had an influx of Inferi sightings and unicorn deaths. Keep clear of the deep forest."

She cannot believe how casually Harry speaks about horrors. "Oh my goodness, are—"

"We will speak more on it later. I will use this time to investigate. There are other soldiers milling about, keeping an eye out for trouble. You are safe here." Her brother rests a hand on her shoulder. "See you in two hours."

Once he is gone, Hermione heeds his warnings and remains in the crowded area. It becomes much easier to vanish. Hermione buys hemp, peppercorn, and other fruit seeds she has never seen at home—all with the plan to introduce them to the land, the town, the people.

A pale man wearing full robes and a turban bumps into her. "P-p-p-pardon me."

"It is all right." Hermione lowers her head and continues on.

After perusing the linens and cloth, allowing her fingers to graze the silk for quality, she gives advice to the man selling grains on how to improve his yield. At the Apothecary booth, run by a witch who introduces herself as Domitia, she stops to see what she has to offer and finds there is nothing available that she cannot brew for herself with the correct ingredients. When she begins to leave, Domitia dips below the curtain and comes back with a vial.

"Since nothing else interests you, perhaps Amortentia will. That is, if you are in need of love. The king seeks a queen and, despite your lack of an escort, the way you carry yourself tells me you are here as a contender."

Before Hermione can deny it, the woman gives her the vial.

Her smile grows at the same rate as Hermione's interest in the contents.

"I assure you, it will work. Ten Galleons and it is yours."

It is an astronomical price for a potion, but Hermione knows she looks like someone who can afford it.

To play along, she takes a closer, more critical look. "Is it your only?"

"It is, Milady." Her words drip with an unmistakable disdain.

Hermione grinds her teeth but does not correct her. Instead, she swirls the contents of the vial and cuts her eyes to the woman. "Amortentia is very difficult to make."

"I am very talented at what I do."

"I can see. Your other potions are of good quality, but this is something else." Hermione's sharp politeness and the way she steps closer makes the taller woman's smile fade. "Amortentia does not create love, it creates dangerous infatuation. Not only is this potion illegal, what you are trying to sell to me is little more than a mixture of sinopia and lime white. Nearly the proper colour, but still incorrect. It is missing the mother-of-pearl sheen that is impossible to replicate."

Caught, the witch lunges to snatch it back but Hermione is ready. She brings a hand to the woman's chest. The same push of magic she uses to break through dirt leaves the woman disoriented.

"There are two guards within yelling distance." Hermione pockets the vial. "And since you have so kindly reminded me of my title, I will use it to draw attention to your fake, illegal potion."

Domitia instantly turns remorseful. "Please, I beg you, do not. I have littles and—"

"My title does not mean I am an easy target, just as yours does not make you one either." Hermione places one Galleon on the wooden stall. "I feel this is more than enough compensation, yes?"

"Yes." Domitia rubs the sore part of her chest. "It is."

"Excellent." Hermione smiles and begins to leave but stops. "Oh, and should I hear any whisper of anyone else purchasing Amortentia, I will gladly give my memory of our encounter so that they may find you swiftly. If I do not, this will be the last you see of me."

The woman stares at her with wide eyes. "You mean, you will not send the guards?"

"No." She steps back and inclines her head. "The rest of your products are of good quality. You would do well to sell them instead of lies."

When she reaches the end of the vendors, there is still time to spare before she has to meet Harry.

There is but one thing left to do.

Hermione wanders, walking up one cobblestone street and then down another, over and over, observing how the people of the town live. It does not appear to be much different, just larger in scale. The homes in this part of town seem to belong to merchants but—

Hermione stops at the end of another street that leads to the forest.

She remembers what Harry said about oddities, yet her curiosity does not allow her to pass up the opportunity to venture out. As soon as she steps off the cobblestone and onto dirt, she exhales a breath she did not know she was holding.

This forest sings a different tune.

As she wanders deeper, touching each tree she passes in greeting, she learns this forest is neutral but shows signs of discontent. Magical wildlife is all around her—hints of fairy whispers and distant hinkypunk sounds.

They hide as if she is the danger.

Perhaps she is, simply because she looks like any other human in town.

Trash on the forest floor speaks of those who invade without care. When she picks up a discarded cup, she notices footprints of creatures she cannot identify, and—

Wait.

Is that water?

Hermione follows the sound and finds the river she expects.

But also something she does not.

Not only is there an unconscious man leaned against a boulder with white blond hair that contrasts the black sand on the large river's edge, there is also a very familiar black dragon drawing shallow breaths beside him.

She recognises the dragon and its rider from the meadow.

Hermione sprints to the man's side and drops to her knees.

Deathly pale, the rider's lips are slowly turning black. The stranger sweats profusely, and his eyes are moving rapidly under closed eyelids.

There is an arrow sticking out of his side.

The two arrows already on the ground and blood on his hands tell of his attempts to save himself.

Before she reaches to pull it out, Hermione stops and inhales, just as Vasades taught her.

Something smells like death, like—

White ooze slides from his parted lips before he starts coughing and gagging.

Choking.

The pieces slide into place.

Poison.

Hermione pulls out her dagger and cuts open his tunic, expecting to find blood. But it is merely a few flesh wounds, and it is easy to pull the final arrow tip out without making him bleed further.

Tossing the arrow aside, she fumbles with her cloak, pulling out the vials of bezoar and Wiggenweld. Hands shaking, she fumbles with them both, but picks up the bezoar and feeds him one, using handfuls of river water and two drops of Wiggenweld to make sure he swallows.

It is all she can do.

Thankfully, it does not take long for the combination to work.

Colour begins to return to his cheeks, warmth seeps into his skin, and his breathing eases. She uses the damp ends of her gown to clean his mouth before moving to her second patient.

The dragon.

Hermione only knows what she has read and gathered from Ron's brother, Charlie, who tames them.

Approaching slowly, she checks for injury, and finds the culprit in the same arrows that were in its rider. They, too, are shallow wounds, likely shot from the ground while they were in the sky. When she pulls each free, the dragon's skin heals over instantly.

Human poison cannot kill a dragon, but it acts as a paralytic, slowing them down.

The beast stirs when she returns to its rider's side, resting her hand on the wound that has long since stopped bleeding. She remembers her lessons and heals him with a simple spell.

"That is better."

A long, low rumble from the dragon makes Hermione jolt. She scrambles away when its eye opens, red iris focused on her. It does not attack, so she slowly continues working under its observation.

"You can trust me. I will not harm either of you." Another two drops of Wiggenweld for the unconscious stranger should be more than enough to finish healing him from the inside. "Now we wait."

He needs rest—protection, at the very least—until he can move on his own. From his stature, and the litany of healed scars that cover his body, she can tell he is capable of protecting himself once he is well, just as he has for what looks like a lifetime.

Impulse makes Hermione brush the hair from his forehead. Her cautious fingertips linger on his cool skin.

Who are you?

He looks no older than her. Handsome in an elusive way, with hard lines and angular features, yet his hair is as deceptively soft as his skin.

Have we met before?

These questions will go unanswered as long as he remains unconscious, which sets her back into action and onto her feet, planning how she is going to find Harry and drag him here as quickly as possible.

But first she washes her hands in the river.

Hermione does not notice the dragon move until it is too late.

It does not charge, nor does it burn her alive. Still, instinctive fear makes her scream and stumble, cowering as the beast spreads its wings and lifts itself from the ground.

Even in fear, she still finds it beautiful.

Panting, Hermione shields herself from the force of wind produced by its massive wings. All she can do is watch as the dragon carefully picks up its rider with its claw and carries him into the setting skies.

Long after they vanish, she sits in stunned silence, wet and dishevelled.

"Why are you late?" Harry looks her over when she stumbles to their meeting spot. "And wet?"

Hermione has no excuses, so for the first time, she lies, "I fell in the fountain."

Clearly suspicious, Harry tries to catch her gaze, but guilt keeps her eyes averted. "Fine, I will allow you to keep your secret."

He dries her with a charm and leads the way to the palace.

But she does not know the path they take.

Instead of their surroundings, her eyes watch the sky.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

Darkness releases Hermione from its shackles, but its grip is slow to fade.

Everything is too bright.

Her eyes burn and her throat stings. Her lungs cry for air. The steady throb at her temple matches her heart's beat.

As the brightness ebbs and her surroundings settle, Hermione wonders if her mind and eyes are conspiring to play tricks on her sensibilities.

She is still in the castle, but this is not her bedchamber.

The mattress is far too plush, with pillows softer than fur. The cool breeze is soothing from the large, open window, quite unlike the small one in her guest chamber. Bold fabrics drape across the dark, wooden bedposts and the ornate, gold flaked ceiling. Everything is elaborately decorated to the tune of excess vanity.

Her hazy descent into the conscious world is disrupted by the recollection of one voice.

She crash lands into a reality where even the softest linens cannot soften the blow with the memory of a chestplate at her back and lips at her ear.

With the weight of two words.

My queen.

Hermione bolts upright, immediately under siege from nausea, which she forces into submission by pinching the bridge of her nose.

She opens her eyes to a most welcome sight.

Harry.

A throat clears from the foot of the bed.

A woman watches. She is dressed in an intricately woven gown, far finer and more fashionable than the other Ladies of Court. Small and dainty, her fair skin is striking against her black hair and bright eyes.

The set of her shoulders reminds Hermione of sparring with her mother.

This Lady is ready for battle.

"You are awake." Her voice is of a higher, nasally pitch, and edged in a politeness that raises Hermione's suspicion. "I was sent here to attend to you. I am the king's sister, but you may call me Pansy or Your Grace. Do not call me Your Highness. I prefer the title of Duchess, despite my lands no longer existing."

Hermione has only heard of the last Parkinson, a royal of sacred blood and appointment.

Princess Pansy Parkinson's presence is far larger than her slight stature.

Winky appears with food; it might as well be spoiled for what the sight of it does to Hermione's stomach. A bucket materialises in front of her just in time for her to be sick.

"After the war he waged with the council for his right to choose, this is who Draco has chosen?"

Hermione is too busy heaving to vocalise her offence. Harry speaks on her behalf. "She is my sister and the smartest person I know."

"You mean woman." Pansy sounds full of contempt. "The smartest woman you know."

"No." His words are inflamed by indignation. "I mean person. You do your own sex a disservice with such remarks."

Hermione has never heard Harry speak like this. It is usually her defending him against those who mistake his kindness for weakness or who inexplicably wish him dead. She grapples with this change in their status quo.

"Your Grace, the king brought her to this room, returned to Court, and announced his intentions," Harry says. "Just as he asked you to attend to her, he tasked Sirius and I with sending word to our parents."

"Then you best be off."

Harry does not flinch. "I will not leave without your word."

"Where is my brother?"

"That I do not know. Draco took his dragon and left his guards. He did not inform anyone of his destination."

"Of course." Pansy's sigh is one of unquestionable exasperation. "Draco flies about as if he were not shot out of the sky mere days ago."

"You know your brother takes his role as king literally. He believes he can do as he wishes."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Idiot."

"He has left a mess in his wake. The Court is up in arms over his declaration. Those who have not had their audience are upset and refuse to leave until their daughters are seen." Harry stands and rests a hand on Hermione's back. "My sister is vulnerable and wandless. Without me here she will also be alone in a pit of snakes. I cannot leave her without an ally. I won't."

Hermione tries to speak but ends up vomiting.

"You could go and Lord Sirius can stay," Pansy suggests.

"I cannot break this news to my parents alone."

"You and I both know what Draco faces within these walls and beyond."

"Just as you know what I face, Your Grace."

She scoffs. "It is not enough of a reason to stick my neck out and fight the Court in support of her."

"But Draco is. He has chosen my sister as his wife. I know not why, but I will be damned if she ends up like the others."

Hermione's stomach gives her a moment's peace. She uses it to catch her breath and pull her head from the bucket. Harry offers a cloth to dab her mouth.

"If you sought to protect her, you never would have brought her here."

"And disobey the summons?" Harry scoffs. "If anyone were to have discovered our disobedience, my family would have been endangered. More than we already are. I thought he would choose a more advantageous match, but he did not and—" Harry exhales. "You know what it is like to lose someone."

Pansy looks away, hand on her chest to steady herself, but when she turns to them, her eyes are cold. "Do not use my past to elicit empathy."

Hermione pockets the information. All of it.

Her questions are innumerable, but the main one, the most important: How is their family in danger?

"Very well, what might I use to earn your help?" No different now than when they were children, Harry's frustration makes him restless. "My sister was not bred and groomed for this life. She cannot navigate politics, dangers, or duties—"

"Enough." Pansy waves a hand and looks at Hermione for the first time. "Lady Hermione, if you would like my help, you must accept my criticism."

The corners of Hermione's eyes pull tight as irritation spikes. "I do not want either."

"Hermi—"

"No, Harry." Hermione grimaces at the distaste in her mouth and the attitude of the woman before her. "If you are my only option to learn how to navigate Court politics, I will teach myself."

Pansy looks affronted. "I may not use the title of princess but I have been crowned as such. You are not yet queen and are thus below my station." Her eyes narrow to match Hermione's. "I suggest you remember yourself."

"I know exactly who I am," she sits straighter in bed, glare pointed in challenge. "I know what I will and will not tolerate from you or anyone. My lack of knowledge or understanding of life at Court will not set a precedent for disrespect."

Contempt shifts into curiosity. "I see."

Hermione gives the bucket to Winky with an appreciative smile. "You may go."

"Milady is too kind." The little elf vanishes.

After ignoring Pansy's raised brow from the exchange and Harry's singular focus on the Duchess, Hermione thinks about how to proceed. She touches her throbbing temples. Teaching herself is not impossible, but how? What she needs to know is not found in books.

Hermione closes her eyes.

What would Vasades do?

The answer wears the irritated face of a Duchess.

Pride is a bitter potion and Hermione must swallow a dose.

She needs allies. Who better than the sister of the king?

"Your Grace." Hermione smooths the sharpness in her voice. "Though I am not…"

Queen.

More than a title and duty, it is a life Hermione does not want, one she has not chosen.

Reality seizes her by the throat and clenches tight, robbing her of air.

The gravity and consequences sink into her skin.

Weariness weighs on her.

Fear steals her peace.

Heat leaves her too warm.

Hermione's rising panic is culled by Harry's hand in hers.

Stone by stone, she rebuilds her resolve.

"I may not be queen." This time her voice does not quiver. "I do not know why the king has selected my hand, nor do I know why our brothers wish you to guide me. Perhaps we are not so dissimilar, but I would like to discover this for myself. I make no apologies for my words and neither do you. Going forward, I would like us to start anew."

Surprise washes over Pansy's face.

"Will you help me?" Hermione feels… vulnerable, something she is unused to, even in the most trying of times. "Not for any reason except your own free will."

"Yes." A smile appears where none was before.

Armed with a list of items Hermione must have from home, Harry leaves with a bemused Sirius to deliver the news. Hermione rests until Pansy returns over an hour later with a slight flush to her cheeks.

"I have handled the ire of the Court. For now." She exhales then frowns. "Surely you are not lounging about." Pansy waves her hand to open the rest of the bedchamber's windows. "Up. There is much to do."

Hermione gets to her feet. Sore legs and an aching back leave her miserable and dizzy until the sea breeze fills her lungs. Like butterflies against her skin, soft and ticklish, the salty air rejuvenates her.

"Turn."

When she does not move fast enough, Pansy gives an impatient huff and steps behind her, forcing Hermione to stand straight. When the bodice strings of her gown loosen, it allows her to breathe easier, which leaves her pliant while Pansy works to undress her. The dress pooling around her ankles is a freedom like no other.

"Your gown is not charmed," Pansy says. "Given the combination of stress and the weight of your garments, it is no mystery why you fainted."

"I have not had a need to charm my clothing."

"You do now." Moving to stand in front of her, the Duchess draws a wand with elegant etching and light wood. The gown vanishes with a flick.

Hermione is fascinated.

It is the first time she has seen a woman carry a wand.

"Warming and cooling charms are essential, as are extension charms," Pansy prattles on. "It is also wise to add a permanent shield charm. I will have the elves weave magic into your existing wardrobe. It will not protect you from everything, but anything helps."

She is learning there is no difference between Court and war.

"How—how is it that you can carry a wand?" Hermione asks. "You are not the head of a noble household."

"Technically, I am, though my duchy no longer exists. This is why I prefer the title of Duchess, as princesses are not wanded until they become queens. My choice grants me freedom until it is my turn to wed." She smiles at her own cunning, but notices how closely Hermione stares at the chestnut wand. "It was my father's. He gave it to me before he and my mother were murdered by Voldemort during his quest to prevent the birth of a Chosen One."

Hermione tilts her head. "I have studied many history texts. They name Prince Longbottom the Chosen One."

"History is oft written from the victor's perspective." Pansy summons three gowns with a silent spell. They land on the bed in a tidy row. "But there is more than one way to record history. Sometimes those who lived through the events may wish for the future to know the truth. What do you think about the blue gown?"

"It is nice." Hermione does not look, nor does she care when her curiosity is roused like this.

"I do not care for the colour." Pansy lifts her gaze to Hermione and frowns. "Your complexion suits each. How fortunate you are to not look like a corpse when someone dresses you in yellow."

"Orange makes me look like I have Spattergroit." Self-deprecation earns her a smirk, the comradery she needs to keep Pansy talking. Hermione's senses hum in anticipation when she steps closer to the shorter witch. "How many Chosen Ones were there?"

The Duchess moves to the next gown. "My parents knew of at least two. I have been betrothed to one—Prince Neville—since I was a child. We are to marry upon Queen Augusta's death, or at her whim, I know not which. King Lucius adopted and named me Crown Princess when my parents were killed to maintain that alliance. It is partly why the Longbottom Kingdom does not engage with the Malfoy's realm war."

Partly?

Hermione needs time and space to digest what she has learned.

"You will get your own wand when you are queen for longer than a year, but it is not well-known that I carry one. I wish to keep it that way."

"Of course."

Pansy clasps her hands together. "Come, you need a bath."

Clean, and with her mouth no longer tasting of bile, Hermione feels far more willing to compromise on a gown.

There is a knock.

Hermione makes herself decent, tightening her robe quickly, before Pansy waves the doors open. Two women enter, escorted by guards who close the door behind them.

"You both are late." Pansy huffs in disappointment.

"Forgive our tardiness." The blonde sounds so unapologetic it makes Hermione smile. "We were gathering rumours from the frantic Court. They know everything about our future queen."

"Or so they think." Hermione folds her arms.

The brunette gives her an appraising look.

"I believe introductions are in order. This is Lady Daphne." Pansy points to the blonde who curtsies formally. "She will be one of your Ladies in waiting. The rest we will select today when you meet the candidates."

"I need no Ladies."

"Yes, you do." Pansy glares. "They are your attendants. They will accompany you everywhere, assist in dressing you, and handle correspondence. Those you trust most will become your eyes and ears around the palace."

Hermione looks at the second woman. "Are you to be a Lady in waiting as well?"

"No, this is Astoria, Duchess of Havia." The woman does not bow upon introduction. She merely stares until Daphne clears her throat. Then she inclines her head. "She will assist in keeping you alive in Court."

Hermione is surprised to discover they are sisters.

The women share eyes of the same shape and shade of blue, and wear exquisite gowns that complement their figures. This is where their resemblance ends. Down to their hair colour and temperament, they contrast like sweet apples and bitter oranges.

Daphne is warmth.

She wears her blonde hair loose, with a flower artfully placed above her ear. Outside of easy smiles, her features make her look closer in relation to the king.

Astoria is chilly.

Beautiful with long, dark hair, she is almost too thin—a side effect of a blood malediction—but she radiates composure and strength.

The only reason Astoria is not a Lady in waiting is because of her recent marriage to the Duke of Havia, Theodore Nott, one of the king's ten advisors. Hermione needs to like her—especially given her role—but Astoria's presence instinctively leaves her on edge.

As does the woman's visible contempt.

"Draco announced that he will marry her as soon as possible." Astoria does not look pleased. She eyes Hermione as if she is a contamination of which they should rid the palace. "I was able to convince him to wait a fortnight. There will not be enough time to prepare her for anything."

"We will have to do what we can," Daphne says simply. "You know why he will not wait."

Astoria and Pansy wear matching grimaces, but Hermione remains silent.

She does not know.

For the nobility, marriage is a political necessity, not a luxury, and certainly not a union that requires love.

Their union is unconventional. Controversial.

No matter her parents' beliefs, Hermione is not their natural daughter and comes from a common bloodline. Muddy. Many will find her not fit to be queen despite her technical qualification. That she comes with no political advantage is worse.

Two paths exist.

Hermione can prove that she is unfit and end her betrothal.

This will grant her freedom.

Or she can prove them wrong.

This will end with her as queen.

Hermione has contributed much in her life to the betterment of people, but a quiet, ambitious voice whispers what she can do for the people as their queen.

Winky appears when Pansy calls, bowing demurely.

She is no longer the chattering elf she is when they are alone. Quickly, Hermione sees why.

"You are to dress Lady Hermione up to meet her appointed Ladies." Although not abusive like others can be to their elves, Pansy is dismissive in a way that makes Hermione grind her teeth.

"Yes, Your Grace." Winky approaches her. "Mistress is—"

"Do not take forever." Astoria's voice is cold.

Winky trembles.

Hermione whispers, "Thank you kindly, Winky."

The house-elf's lip trembles but she does not cry. She manages a smile and snaps her finger to begin the transformation. It is not long until Hermione stands before the three women dressed in teal. Winky applies the requested charms to her gown and is dismissed without praise, but grins again upon Hermione's approving nod.

"I see why Draco picked you." Lady Daphne's smile grows. "Your thoughts are loud."

"You can hear me?"

Pansy chuckles but no one answers.

"From a young age, we are trained in Occlumency." Astoria's lack of complaint is as good as approval of Hermione's appearance. "You need to learn. Quickly."

"I should have nothing to worry about." Hermione does not back down. "You all might be trained, but I see none of you have familiars. Only the king, and he told me he would teach me."

All three women look at each other, then her.

Hermione frowns. "I am right here."

"What do you know of Legilimens?" Astoria asks.

"Enough to question how Lady Daphne can hear my thoughts."

The woman in question grins and whistles.

A bowtruckle sits up in her hair and waves its tiny branch hand.

"This is Elm, my familiar. Many people have familiars they cannot hide, but there are more of us who can hide theirs in plain sight. I can hear you, but only if I wish to listen. You have already unconsciously tossed me from your mind. Draco said you did the same to him."

Hermione is puzzled. "How have I done this without knowing?"

"I can see flashes, fragments of what look like recent memories." Daphne's grins fades and Hermione feels something cool pressing against her mind. It differs from the king's invasion. It is softer, but still the pressure is present. "But when I try to look deeper you—" Her focus shifts. "There, you have pushed me out. Perhaps it is your will or innate knowledge."

How strange.

Hermione turns to Pansy and Astoria. "Do either of you have familiars?"

"No, just Daphne, which is just as well. I do not need to hear your thoughts." Pansy is at an armoire, scanning its contents until she finds a vial. "You wear your heart on your sleeve and speak as if you have Veritaserum in your veins. I do not know if this will be to our benefit or detriment." She offers the vial to Hermione. "For your pain."

After uncorking it, she subtly sniffs the contents. True to her word, it is a pain potion, but that does not make her accept it. "I am unharmed."

"I am aware you did not hit your head when you fainted. Draco caught you." She does not take the vial back. "But your legs are likely still sore and this will provide you comfort. Perhaps a sip of Calming Draught will help your nerves during the selection process."

Daphne sulks and Elm settles back into her hiding spot behind the flower. "I will need one, too, if I must suffer through pretending to like people."

Hermione chuckles.

"I suggest we continue dressing Lady Hermione." Astoria looks her up and down. "There will be little anyone can say about your figure, but your hair is a mane at best. Perhaps we should call Winky back to—"

"I prefer my hair as it is, but will agree to a single plait."

Daphne volunteers, summoning a chair with a sharp wave of her hand.

Pansy does the same with the platter of smoked meats, cheeses, and fruits, leaving it to hover in front of Hermione. "This is to hold you. Draco said you yelled something about preferring a cell just so you can sit and eat in peace."

The brush in Daphne's hand stops. "You actually said that to him?"

"I did not yell." She frowns. "I had been standing there for ages and—"

"You could not hold your tongue?" Astoria cocks a brow.

"No." Hermione peers at the food, barely able to stomach it.

While Daphne begins what feels like an intricate lone plait, Pansy stares in disbelief then her expression turns thoughtful. "Your best attribute is your mind. You command respect, regardless of who it is, and you do not cower. Draco does not understand what he is getting himself into by selecting your hand, but I am most entertained."

"Did you speak to each of his wives?" Hermione asks.

"No," Pansy replies. "My friendship with Millicent soured over the years. The other two cared little for anything beyond killing my brother for reasons that were wiped from their memories."

"Millicent was manipulated, just like the others. Twisted over a long time." Daphne sounds torn. "We played together as children and she threw me in the dungeons for weeks whenever I disagreed with her. I do not condone what she did, but as one of her Ladies, I bore witness to her descent."

"Part of her hatred for you was due to me, but also whoever was in her ear. Millicent tried to have us killed during the coup." Astoria touches the comb that keeps her dark hair up. "Little do they know, I am never unarmed."

Pansy clears her throat. "She does not know about the depth of Draco's problems."

Hermione grows more curious by the second.

Inferi sightings, unicorn murders, assassins, missing soldiers, and people in the woods.

What more is there? What else is possible?

It is far too heavy a load for one person—even a king—to carry.

"He is a fool for choosing an outsider." Astoria folds her arms with visible irritation. "You will need to learn if you wish to stay alive. You are replaceable, but Draco cannot die without issue. It will throw the kingdom into chaos."

"One would say you stand to gain from his death." Pansy glances at her. "With your husband being on the council."

She rolls her eyes. "Theo would rather tinker in his lab than be king."

"I do not understand what you are discussing," Hermione says.

"Order of succession. If Draco is killed without an heir, the next king of the Malfoy Kingdom will be selected from the Royal Council in The Walk of the Qilin. Only those with Sacred Blood can participate—Weasley, Nott, Flint, Avery, Rosier, and Black. All who sit on the council, due to either appointment or nepotism, are eligible."

"Why is this a problem?"

"Unlike the other Sacred Kingdoms, the Malfoy Kingdom has never been ruled by an outsider," Pansy replies. "When the Selwyn family fell, the war between the nobles nearly destroyed everything before the Zabinis conquered all. We have far more noble families due to conquest, and they are hungry for power. If Draco dies, this kingdom will see bloodshed unlike anything we have ever known. Everyone, both within the kingdom and outside, will wage war to rule. None of those who are qualified are strong enough to hold this kingdom together."

"As queen, it will be your duty to keep him alive," Daphne says.

"I am certain he can defend him—"

"No," Astoria interrupts with a glare. "He needs an heir. Sooner rather than later. Preferably more than one and before we discover who is behind these attempts on his life."

Hermione blinks, not at all prepared to think about heirs. "It might be easier to uncover who does not wish him dead first."

Daphne stops while Pansy and Astoria look at her with varying degrees of disbelief. Daphne is first to resume plaiting. Astoria is so offended on the king's behalf that she storms out, but not before offering cold advice. "He is not what you think. Do yourself a favour and learn him."

Stunned silence remains in the wake of her departure.

Hermione almost apologises but the remaining two start to laugh.

"Ignore Astoria, she is protective of him." Pansy shakes her head. "Finally I see why Draco chose you, even if he is not truly conscious of his reasoning." Pansy's smile fades. "He does not need a warm body to bear heirs. He needs a queen with an incorruptible mind who will challenge him in ways that make him sharper. You are not ideal, but you are better than the Council's choices."

Daphne finishes her plait, and while it is technically what she asked for, it is far more intricate than anything she is used to. Oddly, there are no mirrors in this chamber, but she takes Pansy's nod as approval.

"Now that we are ready, let us begin interviewing your Ladies."

After an exhausting afternoon and evening selecting her new Ladies in waiting, Hermione questions every choice that has led to her waking in this very room in the middle of the night. Kicking off the blanket, she stares at the dark ceiling, restless beyond measure.

She cannot sleep.

The walls are closing in. The sound of sliding stone and tapping makes her heart pound relentlessly.

It is hard to breathe.

She scrambles out of bed, grabs her trusty bag, and dresses in the most inconspicuous gown she can find. Hermione means to leave—to flee. To where? She does not know, but she cannot do this. She cannot stay here, give up everything, and become queen.

She cannot.

Hermione closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths to calm herself down. When she is ready, she sheaths her dagger on her waist and slowly opens the door to her chambers, ready with an excuse to dodge her guards.

But they are not present.

Odd, yet she cannot complain.

Hermione flees down an adjacent corridor, the dull glow from the orbs lighting her path. When she turns a corner, she runs into a firm body so hard the force takes her off her feet.

She looks up. "Lord Flint!"

"Lady Hermione."

He offers his hand. When they touch, a spark shocks her palm. He apologises as he helps her to her feet. His hand is so clammy Hermione subtly bunches hers in her dress to dry it. There is a faint scent of—

"Why are you out of your chambers?"

"I was going for a walk," Hermione says. "The moon is high, and I could not sleep. Why are you out?"

"My duties are best completed at night. Should I summon your guards?"

"No," she replies sharply, wincing when he narrows his eyes.

"Do not tell me you were running." Marcus makes a small noise in the back of his throat. "Not only will the king find you, but where will you go? You cannot return to your life now that you have been chosen."

His words make her shoulders sag as every shred of flighty senselessness vanishes. She knows he is right.

"You need to accept your fate." Lord Flint's voice lowers slightly. "There are positives to becoming queen."

"Let me guess: you think jewels and gowns and power are what I desire?"

"I think I know you better than that."

"You do not know me at all, Sir."

"I could."

Hermione recoils, giving the man a careful look. "State your business, Lord Flint."

"I have none."

"Then do not stand here and spin the lie that as queen I will be able to control my destiny." From the pit of her stomach, anger rises, mixing with her lingering unease. "You see the benefits, but I see shackles. You see the title, but I see the truth. I will no longer be myself. I will be a womb, a tool, a scapegoat, and an avenue to manipulate in order to obtain the king's favour."

"You can find allies who do not see you as an object, but as a queen." He shifts and she takes a careful step back. "You are a fearsome woman. I bet you can compel many to answer your call, should you need it. The Princess has chosen your ladies, allow me to help choose your friends."

Hermione takes a careful breath. "Why?"

"I am not surprised you were chosen." Flint's dark stare chills her. "I saw your potential the moment I saw you."

"I care not for flattery."

"Facts are not flattery," he says earnestly. "You and I are similar. We see the world for what it is and seek to make it better. Freedom and equality for all by righting the wrongs of the past and building a better future. I see a world where this is possible."

Hermione is inclined to agree, but there is a flaw in his design. The world he seeks can only be created atop grounds coated in spilled blood.

That is not what she desires.

"You are right in some ways," she says. "I cannot run, but I do not need help choosing my friends, not even from you. I bid you goodnight."

Each step of her departure is unnaturally heavy. Thoughts plague her mind. A chill like death fills the air, but Hermione forges on. When she turns the corner back to her chambers, five of the king's knights are gathered outside her doors.

"Pike. Search the—" Sir Goyle sags in relief. "Lady Hermione! Are you harmed?"

The other four turn suddenly.

"Harmed?" Hermione shakes her head. "Not at all, Sir. I—"

She notices the blood.

The bodies of her guards, their faces swollen and disfigured, eyes open in shock. She steps back.

"Corner and Boot, take the bodies to Snape." Goyle steps between her and the grim sight, noticing her obvious discomfort.

The two draw their wands and leave with corpses floating behind them. Hermione is alone with two knights and far more questions. "What happened, Sir—"

"Goldstein." The man next to Sir Goyle steps forward and bows. "I do not believe you have met all the knights. This is, as you know, Goyle, and that is Wood." He points at a tall, kind-looking man.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"It is ours."

"A juvenile acromantula was released into the palace," Wood informs her. "Your guards were bitten and died before we could administer an antidote."

"We secured the beast and questioned it, but it did not know how it came to be in the palace and claimed to have bitten the guards out of fear when they attacked. It has been released back to its home. I—" Goldstein pauses and looks at her in increasing confusion. "Why did you leave your chambers?"

For the second time, Hermione does something she lacks the talent for—bending the truth. "I was out for a walk to clear my head."

None appear to believe her but they say nothing.

Only the promise of her parents' and Ginny's impending arrival keeps Hermione's mood positive through a long first day of getting to know her selected Ladies.

A knock on her chamber door sours what remains of it.

She turns in time for the king to make his entrance. The same man who has been gone since announcing his intentions.

Dressed in a fine turquoise tunic, breeches, and boots, he looks more like a king than she has seen him thus far, save his riding gloves with sharp talons. The house-elves leave after bowing, and the guards shut the door when he lifts his hand.

It is not proper for them to be alone, but nobody goes against the king. Hermione considers demanding that he leave, for the sake of needing an escape for her own frustration, but his composure tempers her.

For now.

Twice, King Draco opens his mouth to speak, then changes his mind. After scanning the room, the furniture, and peering out the open windows, he extracts his wand from its holster and casts a spell she hears Father use when he wishes to speak to Mother without interruption.

Or extra ears.

"I see you have recovered."

Hermione brings her hands together. "I have, Your Majesty."

The king walks to the window that overlooks the sea. The distant mountains are a backdrop to beauty. "Do your new chambers suit you?"

What a peculiar question.

"I—it is comfortable, but the decor and furniture are too rich for my tastes." All the gold in the room may appeal to a Niffler but not anyone with good sense. "I prefer my guest chamber over what is clearly the chamber of one of your dead queens."

His fist clenches at his side before he brings it behind him. "That would be in poor taste if it were true. My character—"

"I know nothing of it or you," Hermione snaps with diminishing patience. "Except that you have selected my hand in such a manner that my wishes no longer matter."

"You know more than that." His voice is low, barely a whisper, but it pierces the quiet, above the shush of the sea and the swoop of flying animals. "Should you choose to, you will find out more."

King Draco reaches out the window just as the setting sun is blocked by black scales. His fingers graze his dragon's scales as it flies past.

Curiosity brings her to his side.

The dragon makes a second pass, but Hermione does not try to touch. She watches it fly high above the invisible wards and towards the horizon, black against the backdrop of colourful brilliance. Hermione sighs wistfully, but the pervasive silence leaves her realising one thing.

She is now under observation.

"My mother stayed in this chamber during her betrothal. She found the sea calming." When she turns to him sharply, Draco's gaze has returned to the horizon, his eyes on his familiar. "If it does not suit you, then you are free to return to the guest chamber."

Chastened by the truth, Hermione bites the inside of her lip. "I-I will remain here."

They stand together, tracking the dragon when a gust of wind teases his hair. She catches him brushing it from his eyes, irritation marring his features. It leaves her with a mixture of emotions she does not like.

The king leans against the stone wall beside the window, angled towards her. She wishes to notice anything other than his proximity, but finds she cannot. He is distracting when near.

"My advisors are keen to meet you over dinner tomorrow. Some approve, but the majority are prepared to show me the error of my choice. Astoria has made it very clear that you are not well-versed in the ways of the Court."

"I am not."

"Neither am I. Much has changed in my absence."

His honesty is intriguing. "Your Majesty—"

"Draco."

She is hesitant to extend the same courtesy but does so for the sake of parity. "Hermione."

"Very well, Hermione." Each syllable of her name is dragged out a fraction too slow. Like he is testing the way it sounds.

A spark makes her belly clench.

She does not say another word.

"Pay attention to everything and everyone. It will be to our mutual benefit. We both stand in the same fire."

"You were born to withstand the flames. I was not," Hermione notes. "I would not burn if you chose another."

"Perhaps, but I did not choose you for your ability to navigate Court. You answered my questions." Draco does not meet her eyes, leaving Hermione to wonder what all he hides. "Furthermore, you are unconnected to my enemies. Percival Weasley and my cousin, Sirius, speak highly of you. According to Potter, there is no problem you cannot solve."

And Draco has many.

"Harry speaks too highly… and too much."

"It is not uncommon to talk of home when we are not fighting." Which means he knows stories from their childhood. "From the way your brother speaks of you, I thought you might be… more."

"More?" She does not like how that sounds. "More what, exactly?"

"You are both naïve and wise." His backhanded compliment makes Hermione's hackles rise even higher. "Also you do not lie, which is unnatural, but I suppose you have never been in a position where you needed to do so in order to live."

"Then perhaps I will not make a proper queen."

"All teachers start as students."

She shakes her head in disbelief. "You really will not change your mind?"

"No."

A slow exhale escapes as the last flicker of her fight on this matter burns out. "What is it that you want me to do at the meal tomorrow?"

"Observe. We will speak after. I am certain my sister will keep you busy until then."

Hermione thinks the conversation is over. She moves to leave his side when Draco stops her with one question.

"Are you finished running?"

Flint.

It is not a betrayal but it stings like one.

"Are you going to punish me?" Hermione asks.

"For running?" Draco tsks. "I could. Flint thought a tour of the dungeons would humble you, but I think… it is not a crime to not want to marry the king."

"He suggested a tour of the dungeons?" Anger warms her face. "To show me where I may end up if I do not relent."

"There are those who would suggest worse."

"As if I am an animal that needs a reminder of my place." She glares at him and notes his surprise when she boldly steps closer. "Is that what you think, Sire?"

"I think you will submit on your own terms. This is why I do not command. Instead, I ask." Grey eyes hold hers. "And now I am asking. Again. Will you run?"

"No." Hermione squares her shoulders. "Against my wishes, I will stand in the flames with you."

"Then I offer you this." Draco opens the hand that has been curled into a fist all along. "A declaration of my intent."

There are two rings.

A smaller one for her and another for him.

A whisper of magic and his riding gloves vanish.

She looks at him then back at his open hand.

A king wears rings that speak of power and status, but there is a space on his left hand that is empty. He places his own ring there and after several long looks, Hermione offers her hand for him to place its match.

It fits perfectly.

She does not ask how.

"Millicent believed being queen gave her certain… liberties with my mother's jewellery. I hid them before I left for war." A whisper from his lips makes the engraved Malfoy crest on the band flare to life before fading. "I left to retrieve them from my aunt."

"This is your mother's ring?"

"Yes." Draco does not release her hand. "It has not been on another hand."

The simple contact and the sentiment that comes from being given a ring the king values enough to protect leaves Hermione subdued and curious. "You recognised me from the meadow."

"I was already there when you arrived," Draco says without hesitation. "You looked familiar. It was when I learned your name that I realised why. I have seen your younger self in Potter's memories."

"What?"

Draco suppresses his amusement by looking away. "During Occlumency lessons, I would see more than your brother wanted, which angered him."

The rising bubble of humour vanishes when Draco tilts his head in observation of her. This unknown feeling grows from a spark and thickens the air. He touches her pendant with warm fingers that feel like cooling flames.

"The Deathly Hallows." His thumb brushes over the symbol. "You wore this at the summons."

"It is my family's crest."

He stares at her closer. "Yesterday, when I asked about your family—"

"You did not ask about my family." Hermione shakes her head. "You asked about my…"

She frowns, struggling to hold on.

There are questions in his eyes that he does not yet ask.

"I-I recall being at the end of your wand. Your test, I now realise. Our entire conversation was an assessment of me."

"That you passed."

Draco's gaze returns to the window. He appears to ponder something. Hermione watches him to find the answers she seeks, but all she can do is wonder how long it will take to learn him.

"Did you tell stories?" The question hovers in the space between them, not dissipating, only waiting.

His demeanour changes. "What?"

"I—you said that it is not uncommon to speak of home while at war." Now that she is resolved in her fate, she can feel the flicker of desire to know him. "What stories did you tell?"

Draco appears as off balance as she has been during their short acquaintance. He begins to release her hand, but she does not let him go.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I do." Hermione is a mixture of stubborn impulsiveness and bold impertinence, but now both leave her linked to a man by their joined hands and shared breaths. The world beyond this room and what is to come no longer exist as they shamelessly observe the other.

A force draws them closer.

What will happen when they collide?

"Tell me," Hermione implores as she brings a hand to his jaw. Hesitating. Hovering. Retreating. "You chose me. If you cannot be honest with me—"

"My father was a tyrant who could never decide if he loved me or resented me." Draco struggles to find the words. "But there were moments when he was not so mad, when he saw me as his son and not…" Wistful loneliness ripples beneath his surface. "I-I spoke of those times."

Hermione is speechless.

"The day grows late." Discomfort makes him look younger. Vulnerable. "I must go."

Only when Draco is gone does Hermione finally breathe.

Chapter Text

The palace portraits do not only move, they also speak.

At least, they try to.

The portraits appear to yell and scream and curse everyone's existence, all while eternally suspended in silence. The curse, placed by a Malfoy king, keeps the family's secrets close, safely hanging on the walls like twisted tales.

Some subjects beat against the canvas and others throw around the items painted alongside them. A few are docile. Several are content with those painted next to them, but most of the former kings and queens glare at their fellow residents. Many are painted with those who held no love for them in life, it makes sense they would hold even less esteem in oil.

One queen gleefully watches her husband sip from a poisoned goblet.

Another king is depicted mercilessly torturing his queen.

Generations of dysfunctional brutality are captured and showcased, lined up along the walls of Legacy Hall like something to be celebrated.

Hermione walks the hall where she will one day be doomed to silence, falling farther behind Astoria and Pansy.

They want her to learn every name.

Hermione has not told either that she already knows them and their stories. Every atrocity they committed is burned into her memory. Every act written in the history books and every reason they have earned their ignominious epithets—the Accursed, the Mad, the Conqueror, the Bloody.

The list goes on.

She does not walk to learn. She walks to see what she has not.

She stops at the portrait which sits next to that of a much younger King Draco, painted shortly after he was crowned.

It is of King Lucius and Queen Narcissa.

Hermione stares at Lucius first. He and Draco favour each other so much it is startling. She sees the madness that killed and displaced so many, but also the love he feels when he looks at Queen Narcissa.

In his son, Hermione sees a man capable of the same extremes.

Their last conversation and the new weight of his mother's betrothal ring leave her contemplative.

Curious.

Confused.

She touches her temple.

Lucius has turned away, but she notices Narcissa is watching her.

Or rather, one part of her.

The ring.

Hermione moves closer, eyeing the painting just as the woman in the canvas mirrors her own interest.

She is beautiful, blonde, and painted with a healthy glow that she did not have for the last years of her life. Still, there is coldness in her demeanour at first, until whispers of warmth curve the corner of the painted queen's lips.

People are not all one parent or the other; they are a mixture of both. Hermione wonders how much of Queen Narcissa's warmth lives inside of her son.

Despite living in the shadows, and bedridden for the last thirteen years of her life, she was beloved, not only by the kingdom, but by those who knew her best.

By those who honour her memory by preserving the things she loved.

By her husband who massacred thousands to save her.

By her son who used her wisdom to select a wife.

By those she protected: Pansy, Astoria, and Daphne.

"If I knew more about you, I might be able to understand your son. I…" Words fail her when Narcissa's eyes soften as if the mention of her son roused her.

She mouths two words.

Help him.

Flustered by her encounter with Queen Narcissa's portrait, Hermione walks the corridors alone to try and collect her thoughts after leaving Pansy and Astoria. But familiar voices halt her footsteps.

Harry and the king.

What they discuss is none of her business, but her curiosity has grown far beyond a simple drive to learn more.

It is a rose that further unfurls with every morsel of information. And Hermione wishes to see the world in full bloom, knowing and understanding all aspects. For now, though, she settles for lingering outside the open doorway and sneaking peeks inside the room.

Her brother is restless, pacing from one side to the other. His hair looks as it often does when stressed: mussed from his raking fingers and standing upright in every direction. Draco appears calm, sitting and eating one of the tart green apples from the palace orchard.

Hermione ducks out of the doorway.

"Another unicorn was found dead in the forest," Harry says.

"Where?"

"An hour's ride east. Not far from that cave Sirius sent us to."

"The one that was emptied before our arrival?"

"That one."

Hermione wonders if it is the same Sirius steered her away from. She can visualise the scene as though she is standing with them in the next room. Draco's fingers tap against something; his steady rhythm is loud in the silence as the king and his most trusted knight debrief in confidence.

"And the Inferi you found yesterday?"

"It wore Lestrange battle armour, but none of that is why I wanted to speak to you." Harry pauses and the moment draws tense. "Why do you have designs on my sister?"

"Did I question your choice in a wife?"

"No, but—"

"Then I do not owe you an explanation for mine."

"After everything we've been through, you owe me something! It is not too late to choose another."

The king takes a bite and chews. "I stated my intentions before the court. We are as good as married."

"You could change your mind. You are king."

"I am, but I will not. My choice is made."

Hermione peeks around the threshold.

Harry looks ready to step on the king's face. Repeatedly. "She does not know anything."

"Which is a benefit to us all."

"She will be isolated."

Irritation sparks within Hermione, but she does not march in. She waits, willing herself to remain where she is, all while wondering what they could be referring to.

"Many families would consider it an honour to marry the king, yet here you are, chastising me—"

"Because she is my sister!" He does not shout but it is close. "I am duty bound to protect you, but she is family. You know we are marked, and still you have put me in a terrible position."

Marked? As she wonders what that means…

Hermione shakes the buzzing from her head, closes her eyes, and listens harder.

"I am aware of the… circumstances," the king replies carefully. "I have written to Firenze who looks for another way that does not involve drastic actions."

"Are you really—"

"I am not your friend, nor am I benevolent. All my actions, even this one, are self-serving."

"Tell that to someone who is not your brother in arms."

"Soon I will be your brother in marriage as well." King Draco sounds awfully smug.

"You absolute prat."

"Yes, I am," he says. "Are you going to break my nose again, or curse me with more scars in a fit of rage? My father is not alive to carve my face up any further. Perhaps you could do the honours instead?"

"I reserve the right to if you hurt her." Harry sounds sincere. "Three queens in as many months. Two executed. One cursed."

"The burns on my hands might have healed, thanks to your salve—"

"My sister's salve, you mean. She made it to heal my burns and gave me extra. She did not know it was for you."

"What else should I know?"

"Sire—"

"I am clearly aware of how many queens I have had. The process of choosing was tedious. I do not intend to call for a repeat summons."

Hermione's heart sinks at further confirmation of his refusal to change his mind.

"It is deeper than that. Hermione is… better than us all. You and I, we have fought side-by-side since Dumbledore set our course. Since you became king."

"You mean when he manipulated a scared, grieving boy into believing that either I fight for him or against the entire realm?" Draco's bitterness is loud, even when his voice is not. "A realm that already wanted my head on a pike because they feared I inherited my father's madness. He kept me in the dark about many things and all of a sudden I had this war and this cause I knew nothing about—not to mention a man telling me I had to pick up both or risk my crown, my family's legacy."

Harry audibly inhales. "Sire—"

"Or do you mean when he set your course to fulfil his Greater Good?"

"We all play our roles."

"And we play ours perfectly, don't we, Potter?" His tone darkens. "Our families, linked in a deal he helped create because he knew what it would come to—you at the mercy of my crown, and me a pawn in his agenda. I know you are not blind. Only those marked can destroy—"

"I trust Dumbledore." Harry's interruption makes Hermione want to curse him. "His methods are questionable, yes, but the end always justifies the means."

There is a heavy pause. "You know what he has planned for you, Potter. He stayed with Queen Augusta as her advisor and raised the Prince to fight, but he is not the only weapon. In his eyes you are nothing more than a lamb he has fattened for slaughter."

"Yet I know that despite saying we are not friends, you seek a different path to another outcome." Harry's pacing echoes around the room. "We are almost finished. One more. The last. With what is coming, you must understand my concern. I want to protect my family, even if something happens—"

"As long as your sister is not treasonous or tainted by those who conspire against me, she will live under my protection for life."

"That does not give me comfort. Hermione is brilliant, but in no way is she ready to be a queen. She knows nothing of life here or anything about her blocked me—"

"I will wed her as she is." His resolve leaves her unsettled.

"But why?"

"She will not—"

"Whatever you are about to say, you must know that Hermione absolutely will. You must learn to expect the unexpected. It is who she is. You cannot and should not change that."

"She is fearsome. I put a wand to her throat and she still called me a tyrant with her next breath. Told me to strike her down or let her leave, she did not care which."

"That sounds like my sister." Harry chuckles. "There are many reasons I say that I would not have survived long enough to come into your service had it not been for Hermione. You already underestimate her. I fear it is your first mistake."

"And my second?" Draco drawls, clearly bored.

"You must learn for yourself if you insist on her hand."

Hermione peeks in time to see Draco take another bite from his apple. "She will serve a purpose."

"You speak as if you were told—"

"Firenze will not speak of what the stars say about me. No centaur will." Draco's condescension sounds familiar. He almost sounds like her; she'd laugh if she wasn't afraid of being caught. "He gives cryptic, nonsensical hints about balance and other things, but nothing like what he has told you."

"He knows you will fight what is foretold. I will not."

Draco chuckles. "He is not wrong."

Harry joins him until the two fall into silence. "You can be honest with me, Sire. If you selected your wife for political means, you would marry Lady Alicia Spinnet. Her father has married the Shafiq Kingdom's widowed Princess. He is to be King Consort."

"I have my reasons, Potter, and they do not concern you."

Hermione peeks again in time to see Draco place the apple core on an empty plate hovering beside him.

"I grow tired of this conversation, and of your whinging. I will marry Lady Hermione in one week's time."

Hermione leaves, making a list of questions she will demand her brother answer, but by the time she sees him next, she knows there is something she must ask.

She simply does not know what.

Ten Ladies walk in pairs behind Hermione.

Some whisper their complaints about not being allowed to attend tonight's dinner, but none hint at what is to come or what Hermione should expect from the Royal Council. She glances back at Daphne, who is situated in the middle, a position that allows her to hear every conversation for strategic purposes.

Murmurs of wedding plans reach Hermione's ears from a pair nearby. She hopes her wince is disguised.

Guards lead the way through the lit corridors. The fragrant remnants of herbs the elves use to freshen the air linger, but there is a stale undercurrent of magic she cannot ignore.

Conversation shifts to the king's last wedding, which lasted longer than the witch lived as queen.

"The king did not even take the consort's hand after their betrothal was announced."

"Only because he knew she was there to kill him."

It makes no sense.

A man appears in the corridor, startling Hermione and halting everyone behind her. His focus is on Hermione, ignoring both the palace guards and her Ladies in waiting. "Might I escort you the rest of the way, Lady Hermione? We are nearly late."

She does not recognise him but instinct tells her to be careful. Besides, she is early, but she keeps that to herself.

"I am already being escorted, Lord…" Hermione offers a pointed look.

"Pucey." He bows low with added dramatic flare. No different from the men she has seen in Court, he is performing. "Lord Adrian Pucey, one of the king's advisors."

She curtsies. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"You are well spoken for an orphan."

Silence falls like a stone in the deepest well.

Everyone watches, waiting for her reaction.

Hermione wills herself to maintain her composure, but Pucey's comment angers her into action and it is impossible to hold her tongue.

"Pray tell, how should an orphan speak? I did not know the murder of my natural parents left me with a lifelong ailment whose symptoms might include the inability to engage in polite and civil conversation. I suppose I should also exhibit both low intellect and a lack of manners. That would make me little more than a beast."

Lady Alicia's delicate cough rattles the silence.

Another—Lady Marietta—clears her throat.

"Lady Hermione." Lord Pucey laughs as if amused.

It might be charming if it were not grating on her nerves. She knows before he speaks that he intends to smooth over his faux pas.

"Please accept my apologies. I meant no offence."

"Of course." It is as blatant a lie as the smile on her face, but civility dictates Hermione should keep her opinions to herself, and she has already said too much considering present company.

Acclimation will take some time.

Being inside the walls of the palace and under the watchful eyes of her Ladies makes the task much harder, but she gestures politely and Pucey falls into step beside her. Whispers resume, though much quieter. Hermione knows the palace gossip will gorge on this exchange later.

"How are you finding Court?"

Hermione keeps her eyes fixed ahead. "I have not yet formed an opinion."

"Understandable." He hums. "You have never been presented to Court, yet after less than a week's time, you wear the late Queen Narcissa's betrothal ring and sleep in her chambers. Indeed you are most fortunate."

Lord Pucey is trying to guide the conversation in a direction she does not know.

Fortunate is not the word she would use by any means, but any other would draw scrutiny. Hermione is saved by their arrival to the dining hall. The guards wave the doors open before they step aside and bow, but do not leave.

Lord Pucey gestures for her to lead the way.

Hermione does not move. "You may take your seat, Sir."

"I do not mind seating—"

"She waits for me."

Draco.

While the Ladies and Lord Pucey bow to the approaching king, Hermione steals a moment to school her features. She turns to find him dressed in fine clothing, a deep blue tunic and breeches.

He wears no crown but there is no doubting his power.

She curtsies low. "Your Majesty."

The king gives one look to Lord Pucey, who excuses himself to take his seat.

Hermione bids her Ladies farewell, and they make their exits, no doubt to gossip in her absence about all they have seen.

Draco and Hermione stand just inside the doorway together.

Alone yet without privacy.

They are within sight of everyone who awaits. Hermione is painfully aware of the attention.

Silently, Draco offers a hand and she places hers into it without hesitation.

Dinner is as Hermione expects.

With fewer people, it does not rattle her nerves as badly as the Welcome Feast, but the audience keeps her alert. Draco barely spares her a glance. Instead, he encourages dialogue between his advisors and knights, starting conversations he does not finish, and making certain every man speaks. Hermione wonders if he does this on purpose.

In addition to his advisors, there are four knights in attendance: Harry, Goldstein, Wood, and Goyle. The other three are canvassing the woods.

As Hermione observes bits of each exchange, she realises his advisors are not what she expects. Half appear old enough to have served under the Mad King, which is unsettling.

Goblets of wine appear before them.

Followed by their plates, overflowing with food cooked to perfection.

Hermione is sure before the elf tastes the king's wine and food that it is clean, so when the elf comes to do the same to hers, she covers the top. "It is free of poison."

"How do you know?" Goldstein asks suspiciously.

Harry's eyes widen at her lapse.

It is a talent she does not want to explain, just as she does not want her years of Vasades' tutelage to be common knowledge. A skill like that is equally as beneficial as it is dangerous.

"Oh, the king's was safe so I assumed but I—I guess I do not." She uncovers her goblet, allowing the elf access. "Go ahead."

The elf confirms it is clean before the rest of the meal passes dreadfully slow. As the only woman in attendance, the men ignore her presence, but those who disapprove of her make their opinions known, albeit through subtle means.

Hermione notices but does not respond.

She is too busy learning through observation.

Names, ranks, and families—she files away every piece of information she catches, which includes what they say and all the ways they contradict themselves to align with the king's opinions once he vocalises them in order to curry favour.

It is easy to tell.

Five of the advisors are younger: Percy, Smith, Flint, Pucey, and Nott.

The rest are older: Avery, Mulciber, Rosier, Snape, Sirius, and Lord Rabastan.

Lord Rabastan is another member of the king's family. Brother to King Rodolphus, who married the king's cruel aunt, Bellatrix. Lovers of war for the sake of it, they joined Voldemort's quest and, after his defeat, continued to invade other kingdoms at will. Or request, if the stories are to be believed—and she does.

They were stopped by their own hubris.

Expecting the Malfoys to break their treaty with the Longbottoms, they went to war with their island neighbours and were surprised when they were left unaided. After the bloodbath, prosperity took root in the former Lestrange lands, which were absorbed by the fierce yet peace-loving Longbottoms.

Hermione goes down the line and finds each advisor, even Sirius, has a reason to want the king dead.

Her head spins.

"Now that the Carrows are defeated, we should turn our fight south to the Macmillan Kingdom," Lord Pucey suggests.

The knights exchange looks.

Perhaps this is not the first time this suggestion has been made.

"As you know," he continues, "their lands are rich with valuable resources and creatures. The kingdom is small and the king is weak. We could conquer it with little effort."

"I would sooner conquer the Crouch Kingdom to rid them of their useless king." Draco scowls. "But I will not. It is no longer the season for warfare that far north."

"King Barty wishes to ally with us." Lord Snape's nasally draw is unmistakable.

"He is no true ally," Mulciber sneers. "He only wishes to save his own skin."

"Skin that I have no current interest in," Draco says before sipping his drink.

"What should we do with the people of the Carrow Kingdom?" Lord Smith glances at the other knights. "They are not as populated and there are no nobles who live in their lands. All were driven into our kingdom after the invasion."

"It is better to utilise their population over making them citizens and installing nobles to rule over them." Mulciber takes a generous sip from his goblet. "There is always a need for peasant labour. Especially free."

Rabastan agrees with a grunt, as do Rosier and Avery.

Snape and Pucey suggest meagre wages, but still reject integrating them into society. By Hermione's mental calculations, they wouldn't be making a living wage for even the hardest labour tasks discussed.

The rest disagree with either proposition, but before the debate turns fierce and anything becomes physical, King Draco dismisses all proffered ideas.

"Our victory over the former Carrow Kingdom freed these people. We will not trap them now. The Malfoy Kingdom will expand the land of the closest three duchies—Grimmauld, Diagon, and Havia—to cover the Carrow lands. Integrate them into our society. Do not enslave them."

The king's declaration sparks heated arguments. It is far from popular, but the decision is final.

Long after, Hermione remains shaken, disgusted at the ease in which the subjugation of an entire kingdom is discussed, debated, and decided upon.

Like sport.

"Does the king permit you to speak tonight, Lady Hermione?" It is the first time she has been addressed. And it is by none other than an amused Lord Sirius. "I remember you to be a clever girl. Talkative, too."

Others shift at the mention of their prior association. She sees multiple wheels begin to turn.

Sirius' comment is testing dangerous waters and he knows it.

Thrives on it.

Percy looks right at her and shakes his head in warning not to speak too freely.

Hermione tries to give the safest answer. "I do not speak because I have nothing to contribute."

Rabastan slams down his empty goblet. "This is who you choose to be your queen, nephew? A girl with dirty blood from nothing with little to add to—"

"Uncle." Draco's tone is deep with danger even though he looks calm as he eats.

Lord Sirius sits back, now entertained. The others shift. The tension is suffocating.

Harry's hand rests on his wand holster. Goldstein is ready to draw, too.

"Leave it, Rabastan." Mulciber waves his hand as if bored. "He chose his broodmare, just like he wanted. Despite her questionable origins, she is inconsequential. Let her give him the heir he needs so he can return to war."

Nott clears his throat. "You do realise she—"

"Can hear you," Hermione says as every eye turns to her.

Then up.

The chandelier trembles.

Lights dim before reigniting.

Harry winces. Sirius' grin widens.

Wood almost looks impressed.

Hermione turns to Draco. Instinct begs her to apologise for her uncontrolled magic. But just as he previously watched her answer his questions, he watches her now in a way that feels like another test.

Rabastan scoffs. "Doing uncontrolled magic, having no opinion. You are no more fit than a child, practically a savag—"

"Sir, you are mistaken," Hermione says before she can stop herself. "I am no child, nor am I a savage, as you were about to say. My lack of contribution is not due to ignorance nor an inability to express myself. It is a decision I have made to not waste my breath on those who do not wish to hear my words."

Every eye is on her.

Goyle starts eating faster.

Hermione's heart races at a speed that leaves her hands trembling, but she curls both into fists and squeezes tight to settle herself.

Her nerves are not enough to keep her silent.

"The majority of the Royal Council has made their collective disapproval—as well as their opinion of my purpose—quite clear." Hermione looks at each, her gaze lingering on Mulciber longest. Then she glances at Flint. "Perhaps I should speak no further, lest I earn myself a tour of the dungeons to humble me."

He shifts in his chair. "Lady Hermione—"

"With suggestions like that, it is no wonder treason runs rampant amongst the king's subjects, particularly his previous wives and those who wiped their minds of their crimes." Hermione catches Draco glancing at where her hands are folded in her lap. Her knuckles are pale from squeezing her dress.

"You should not speak on what you do not know," Avery warns.

"I know that this council has chosen three queens who have made attempts on the king's life. Either you collectively conspire against him or are as foolish as those who do. I can see why he did not afford you this opportunity to choose his queen, lest she, too, turn out to be his next attempted murderer."

The tomb-like silence breaks when Draco clears his throat in faint amusement. The corner of his lips twitch for half a heartbeat.

Goldstein laughs first, then the rest of the knights succumb. Harry removes his hand from his wand.

Sirius drinks from his goblet as if his mission is accomplished.

"It appears you may be more than what meets the eye," Rabastan says.

It is followed by scattered nods from the men who doubted her.

It looks and sounds enough like approval for Harry and the others to relax, but Hermione remains on edge.

She knows this is a warning.

Dusk leaves the sky, and takes with it the last touch of colour. Its beauty is lost on Draco as he walks beside her, his attention everywhere except up. They have been walking this stony path away from the palace for so long that Hermione's questions about their destination have reduced Draco to irritated looks.

He finally stops beneath the largest archway yet. The high stone walls make her curious enough to follow him through.

Hermione does not know what to expect, but where he takes her is magical.

It is alive.

Breathtakingly so.

The trees are spaced just far enough to whisper with the borrowed breath of the sea's breeze. Fairies and dragonflies fly out of reach. Their buzzing melds into an inextricable chorus of chirping crickets and grasshoppers. Pockets of varied plants, bushes, and flowers are scattered everywhere. Some flowers glow and pulse, some do not. Other plants unfurl and flowering bushes bloom resplendently.

The order of it all is a mystery to everyone except nature itself.

Dim orbs line the stone wall that protects this place from outside view. They add little utility beyond denoting the barrier. The light already provided by the nearly full moon in the cloudless sky illuminates every patch it can reach.

They walk along the path while Hermione takes it all in.

Even what looks like a doorway in the darkness. Odd.

A light, floral fragrance sweeps through the breeze. Winged horses and hippogriffs share the same dusky sky with dragons, at least until Draco's familiar momentarily eclipses the moon. His dragon makes the beasts scatter in all directions, only to come together once again when the black dragon is gone.

Lit by the moon, his features are ethereal. "You prefer nature."

"I do, but it is less about being outside than it is about having freedom. I enjoy exploring places I wish to learn about. I like to read, too. There is much I have learned from books."

A fairy flies too close and Draco grouches as he swats it away in an oddly human moment. "Hate these blasted creatures."

"Every beast and being serves a purpose, even if you do not see it." Hermione laughs lightly. "Fairies are not pests or decorations. They are sensitive to changes in nature. That they fly too close to us instead of hiding in the trees speaks of brewing trouble in your land."

His shoulders tense. "Is that so?"

"Yes, Sire. Something nearby scares them." Hermione looks around. "Regarding your previous comment, I am inclined to remind you that I speak for myself in all matters that I am allowed."

"The reminder is unnecessary."

"Very well. Instead of asking my brother about my preferences, you are permitted to ask me… that is, if you wish."

"I did not learn about your affinity for nature from him." Draco's voice often carries authority when it should not, like now, when they should speak as people, not king and future queen. Or two people who are betrothed.

"Oh?"

"I pulled it from your mind during our walk."

"My mind is not yours to roam." Hermione's agitation flares. "You cannot—"

"It is." The cold heat in his tone makes her fists curl. "Until you learn to shield it from me."

Hermione scowls.

"I also caught that you overheard part of my conversation with your brother."

She shakes her head. "I…"

"Do you remember?" Draco inspects her closely. "I know you were there, just not what you heard. Potter was too busy berating me on your behalf to realise you were standing there."

"Sounds like Harry." Hermione rubs her temples. "I… there's something…"

"Do not strain yourself." He gestures for them to walk on. "Tell me, what did you learn during dinner?"

It is obvious this is the question Draco has been waiting to ask.

"Enough." Hermione stands before a group of pulsing flowers that will bloom beneath the full moon. They are rare, used for both potions and poisons, and she wonders why the king allows their presence near the palace.

King Draco clears his throat.

"Perhaps you might teach me early to conceal my thoughts since they irritate you. Or not listen at all." When he does not answer, she turns to him fully. "Or is it that you do not trust me?"

"I do not know you."

"Nor I you, yet you have chosen me."

"I have." Draco is obviously still firm in his choice. "I did not bring you here to discuss trust."

"Perhaps it is something we should discuss."

"Very well." His slow approach reminds her of his dragon flying in the sky. "You have two secrets. I can pull them from your mind during moments you unconsciously let me in or you can tell me now."

"I do not know—"

"How did you know your food and wine were free of poison?" Draco is now close enough to look down at her hands, then into her eyes after tilting her chin up.

Hermione looks away from what is now a habit, but his grey eyes always bring her back.

"You are a terrible liar, so do not try."

"I am a student of the centauride who found me as an infant." Hermione steps back. "I have spent my entire life learning centaur magic, how to read the stars, how to heal, how to find what I need in nature. I happen to know how to identify potions and poisons, even those that are odourless."

"Poisons?"

"Poison often smells like death."

"And what does death smell like?"

"Cold, rotten almonds. Sour, but not necessarily strong. Like a dying star, there is always one last spark of energy before it ends."

"Hm." Draco appears impressed. "That is useful. You were right to conceal this. Just as you are wise to conceal your second secret."

A single raised brow and Hermione feels him once again brushing against her thoughts. She shakes her head.

"You are nervous around me now, but your second secret is that you do not like crowded rooms. It is much worse when the attention is on you. You use boldness to cover your fear."

"Yes." Hermione pauses. "I know no other way to combat this without broadcasting my weakness for others to use for their benefit."

"Is that something you learned from my sister?"

"No, it is the law of nature. The longer I am here, the less I see the difference between this place and the wild."

"I would argue one is more civilised."

"Do not make me identify which."

His laughter is as much of a surprise as his smile. They escape before he can suppress either. They look at each other and soon Hermione's amusement mixes with his, echoing in the field.

"Perhaps your anxiety might improve when you learn to shield your emotions." Draco runs fingers through his hair to fix what the breeze has mussled.

She folds her arms. "Did you bring me here tonight to start Occlumency lessons?"

"No, I brought you here to have a private conversation."

"There are plenty of places within the castle to talk."

"No, there are not. Spies are everywhere," Draco says by way of explanation. "The mirrors are charmed to have eyes and ears. The only places without mirrors are your new chambers and the outdoors. I should not find myself too often in your chambers before the wedding or there will be talk."

He has a point.

Not for the first time, Hermione flushes. She seldomly thinks of the duty she has to perform, happy the distance between them and the moonlight hides the warmth that has surely coloured her cheeks.

"You are the king. You can rid the castle of both the charmed mirrors and spies."

"Why should I? Those who conspire against me would find a different means. I would rather know the dangers than nothing at all, or worse, alert them that I am not as ignorant as they think."

"Do you know who it is?"

"Missing guards, Inferi, and strange occurrences aside, I have my suspicions. Until I know for certain, I will gather evidence and wait."

The decision is wise, both surprising and not. Hermione is reminded that war is not limited to the battlefield. She has a terrible feeling it continues within the castle's walls as well. But Draco is experienced in many ways she is not.

Warriors are rash. They know nothing but war, how to survive and kill. It is a brutal, primal existence that can turn a man cold.

But generals are different. They know strategy.

As a child of war and a king, he knows the roles well.

Hermione is not sure what to make of him. "You trust me with this knowledge?"

"I could always make you forget."

Draco touches the holster that carries his wand, but it does not sound like a threat.

"How do you know that I am not your enemy, Sire?"

"Are you?"

"No." It is only then Hermione notices she has closed half the distance between them. "I have no reason to want you dead, Your Ma—Draco. In fact, your death could lead to a future that is much worse—ruled by men with the power to put an entire kingdom in shackles to suit their own means."

"I do find enslavement morally reprehensible."

"Good that we both agree."

"However, in other kingdoms, it is a way of life." He looks at her closely. "You should know my dislike for the institution has nothing to do with my earlier decision."

"Then why did you decide against it?"

"When one adds up the costs of keeping slaves, as well as paying toward the forces needed to prevent the inevitable revolts, it is expensive."

Anger burns through her veins like lightning. "An entire kingdom has their freedom—not because of your morality but because of your frugality. I—"

Her ire dies in a single breath.

Vasades.

Her lectures about Hermione's judgmental nature used to annoy her. But now, in Draco's presence, it is all she can think about.

One in particular lingers.

Are humans their deeds or their thoughts?

King Draco might be both.

A paradox.

"Speaking of frugality, there is also the matter of your dowry. I will leave it for you to decide what to do with it."

That is completely unheard of. "How much is it?"

"Fifty thousand Galleons."

Hermione sways on her feet. A dowry of that size explains the number of suitors who sought her hand over the years. The king allowing her to oversee its use is beyond unconventional; it is inconceivable. She wonders why, but he might change his mind if she asks.

It is enough for real, fundamental change. She can build orphanages, fund quality education for those who cannot afford such luxuries, construct gardens to feed the hungry, and create places to treat the sick.

All changes that will outlast the coins.

Draco examines her like he is searching for the single flaw that will unravel her. "You truly do not know about your family?"

"Why do you ask this?"

"You are blind." He looms closer, studying her with a frown. "But it is not your fault."

"What?"

"Nothing." He is still distracted by his thoughts. "I will give you time to decide how to use your dowry, but tonight is the only night you are allowed to address the terms of our marriage."

Terms?

The corners of her mouth quirk. "I was unaware I could negotiate."

"I find it is easier to get what I want through agreement than force."

"You do not need my permission, as I wear your mother's betrothal ring, but you want me to agree to marry you?"

"Yes."

Hermione observes him, just as he does her.

They circle each other once under the light of the rising moon.

Then again.

"My terms," Hermione starts. "First, I want the ability to re-negotiate any terms we set tonight."

"Very well." Draco's lips tip into a frown when he realises what she has done.

"Good. I would like a private space, without mirrors, to do as I please. And a safe place to brew and store ingredients for potions. I wish for time away from the palace in the forest of my choosing."

"That can be arranged."

"Oh, I want to meet your familiar, too."

"Kaida."

"What?"

"My familiar." Draco points to the skies. "Her name is Kaida."

"Oh."

"She wants to meet you, as well. And I agree to your terms. All of them. Though I may need time to arrange things."

"Very well. And what are your terms?"

Draco is not prepared for her question, but it does not take long for him to answer. "Be my ally. Help me secure control over my kingdom and protect the throne. Aid me in this war. Do not betray me."

She feels there is more but instead of pushing, Hermione bridges the gap between them. Tentatively, she reaches out, but her resolve stumbles when their fingertips touch.

Hermione hums. "Lady Astoria was right."

"What does that mean?" His response is but a low whisper.

"From the moment our paths crossed, your actions have made no sense. You threaten and insult me, but you want me to agree to be your wife. You demand my secrets, yet tell me things that feel private—like clues you want me to explore. You wish for me to not betray you, which means you want the trust of a stranger. You and I argue and debate, frustrate and exasperate one another, yet here we are…"

Standing too close.

Neither move.

"You are no prisoner," Draco says. "You are free to leave."

"Am I?" Hermione's eyes drop to his mouth for a second. "Intent aside, I wear your ring and now we have terms. I cannot lie and say I chose this willingly, but I have agreed." She looks down at her ring then back at Draco. "I do not understand your reasoning for this decision, just as I do not understand why you ask questions about my life and interests. Beyond our duties, neither matter—"

"I ask what I want to know." Fingers ghost hers as he leans closer, not in menace but in caution. As if Hermione is the danger she knows he is. "For my own reasons."

His lips brush hers, seeking an answer to the permission a king never needs. Still, it is an obvious request. Hermione leans back, but she does not run.

Her heart pounds and she is warm all over as she searches his face.

Draco is a king.

He is also a warrior and a general.

A masterpiece painted in hard angles and detailed with battle scars.

Everything she is not.

But tonight, he is not harsh or battered. He is neither at war nor on a throne right now.

He is something new. At least to her.

A man.

A question.

A curiosity.

"I am untouched, your Majesty, but you are not. What were you about to do?"

"You ask questions when you already know the answer."

"You are right." Impulse gives her the fortitude to make a demand. "Kiss me."

Draco does before she can change her mind.

It is not passionate or sweet, but it is thorough.

Hermione is left fumbling. Clumsy and inept, she leans forward and their teeth clank painfully as their noses bump, but then his hands frame her face and he slows her down.

Draco teaches her the value of savouring: his lips, this kiss, him.

Everything about this moment is meant to be remembered.

Lips brush her upper lip, then her lower—again and again, over and under, until she parts hers and they start kissing properly. Deeply. Draco's mouth softens against hers as he relaxes and she finally lets instinct take over and follows his lead.

The world ceases to exist as Hermione learns with her hands fisted in his tunic.

Explores with the growing awareness of the world of flesh.

She feels. Aches. Burns.

This sensation is a new sentiment.

She feels like she is drowning in pleasure, all while ignoring every spark of fear.

Like she is struggling for air, but cannot bear to pause and breathe. Letting her lungs collapse would be preferable to stopping at this point.

She is lost in a man who is no longer asking for permission. He is taking something she has never wanted to give before now.

Hermione should panic. She still might later, once her head catches up to her body's reaction, but Draco's tongue slides against hers and it sends them plunging into new depths. Recklessly tasting and touching, they fondle with a desperation as undeniable as the ache deep in her centre.

Draco's low groan is liquid fire searing through each of Hermione's attempts at thought. She wants so badly to understand this newfound hunger.

She lets it boil her blood, fuzz her brain, and blur her vision until their fingers lace and lock and hold—

Draco drags them both back to the surface.

Hermione opens her eyes and learns the stars behind her eyes match the ones emerging in the sky above.

Matching shaky breaths mix and mingle, playing across their lips.

Their noses brush one last as he steals another taste without any resistance.

When he pulls away again, there is a resolution in his eyes she has not seen before and cannot identify.

They should return to the palace, but they do not.

Like their hands, their shadows remain as one beneath the moonlight.

Chapter Text

On the eve of Hermione's wedding, the castle is alive.

A hum of excitement permeates the air.

Magic emanates from everywhere: the guests' rooms, the house-elves preparing for the celebration, and added layers of warding that secure the castle. It is easy to forget until Hermione stands still and the sensations return to her. Hardly pervasive, but ever present nonetheless.

As she has often since her arrival, Mother settles down in Hermione's bed. Her presence is an anchor in the storm.

But even now, Hermione cannot find rest.

She paces and contemplates.

She listens to the Abraxans and Thestrals neighing loudly from their island home.

She would trade her soul to experience the world and life without worry, even dreams of it.

Hermione allows her imagination to run wild and free.

The possibilities are endless.

Then Draco's presence invades her mind.

Just as she is always with her Ladies or drowning in wedding plans she has no care for, he is with his advisors or training soldiers and knights, establishing order in his name. They are never alone, nor have they spoken since the night beneath the moonlight.

Hermione wonders if he keeps his distance on purpose.

As if Hermione is the danger she knows he is.

"You should lay beside me and find rest." Mother's suggestion cuts her thoughts into pieces.

"I cannot. I have too much…"

It is a struggle to describe what agitates her. It fills her veins, and keeps in her a perpetual state of unrest.

Mother gets out of bed and stands in Hermione's path, blocking her each time she tries to dodge, then places both hands on her shoulders. They wear silk bedclothes, but Hermione's do not bear the wrinkles that come from rest.

"You always think too much, my love. What do you feel?"

"I feel…" Frustration builds. "I—"

"I wish there was another way." Regret is etched into every line of her mother's pale skin. "The life of a queen is not one I wished for you. I wanted you to live, to learn, to find love that is not born of duty, and choose for yourself. But I knew—" Tears gather in her green eyes, but Mother seems determined not to weep for what she cannot control. "I knew when you left that we would be here as we are now."

"Did Vasades…"

"The stars speak of you, your potential as the Healer of the realm and much more I do not know, but I do not speak of this now." She sighs. "Deep down, I knew that if your paths were to cross, the king would choose you."

"All mothers say such things about their daughters."

"I do not speak now as your mother. I speak as someone who has watched you grow and change into the woman you are today. I only wish I had prepared you better."

"I have years of experience hearing examples of how not to rule from Queen Millicent."

"It is not always about ruling. You also have a heart." Mother cups her cheek. "Do not forget that you are more than a title and a role, you are a woman, too. Men often forget they need us, but we do not need them. Despite this arrangement, do not lose yourself. You are half of a pair. Love is always a surprise, even if unwanted."

Hermione scoffs. "Regardless of our interactions, I think—"

"Do not think. Logic, rationale, thinking—believe me, none of it will do you any good beyond Court."

Mother leads her to the window where they listen to the song of the sea. Waves lap against the shore. With predators grounded by sleep, nocturnal birds take flight without worry. Hermione watches them soar under the light of the moon, leaning on her mother as she always has.

She hopes this will never change, but knows it must.

"The rest of your life begins when the sun rises." Mother presses her lips to the crown of her head then hugs her close. "Let us enjoy the night."

Hermione spends sunrise in deep meditation, both hands laced with Mother's and Ginny's.

The view is as beautiful as a painting, a poem, a thread of light.

The world looks the same, but hers is forever changed.

Thoughts of what she is leaving behind plague her: her life, her parents, and everything else she will miss. The ache is overwhelming, much like the journey she begins today. It brings tears to her eyes; a sob rises from the very pit of her. Motherly arms surround her and Hermione leans into her embrace. Ginny joins and they hold her close, breathing words of comfort into her hair.

You have our support, our love.

I will not leave until you are ready.

You will make a fine queen.

Hermione inhales the morning air and allows their presence to calm the storm brewing inside of her. They become her strength to grant her serenity and clear her mind of the fears.

She has to remind herself that there is no life to ache for, no home to return to.

This is her home now.

Hermione is determined to not only fulfil the role, but also to make the best of this new life.

King Draco flits into her mind. He has been fair in ways he did not have to be. Although distant, he is still intriguing. She has only just begun to explore his depths with her daily visits to his parents' portrait. Hermione has never failed, and quietly promises Narcissa that she will help, not only by becoming a queen to the people, but to Draco as well.

Just as he wishes.

When reflection is complete, the elves arrive to pack her belongings, including everything she asks Harry to retrieve. Trinkets. Memories. Precious books she tucks out of sight. Everything is going to the new chambers she has designed for herself.

Winky brings them breakfast and that is the last thing she remembers.

The rest of the morning is a blur.

From the time Pansy arrives to the time Hermione is dressed for the ceremony, draped in ivory silks and weighed down by jewels, she does not focus on anything. The flurry of activity does not stop, even after she notices the streets outside the palace begin to fill with people.

The kingdom, Ginny tells her, is a mix of excitement and apprehension, especially the duchy she calls home. Her students miss her dearly, but Ginny and Susan intend to fill the hole she leaves behind.

By the time they are ready to escort her to the hall, Hermione can hear the cheers. The celebration. It comes from beyond the palace walls.

Hermione is the epitome of every little girl's dream: an orphan turned queen.

Pansy, dressed in beautiful robes of her own, takes in the sight of her as she stands in the centre of her chamber.

There are no mirrors, so Astoria serves as hers.

Along with Daphne, they have spent every day since their initial meeting with Hermione, who absorbs their teachings of life in Court like a sponge. Hermione and Astoria clash while Pansy gives her a tour of the castle's dressings for the day. She and Pansy argue in the gardens while Astoria tests her on various customs for the ceremony. Daphne laughs while the three fight over everything and nothing.

When Astoria leaves to find her seat in the wedding hall, Pansy stands before her, takes her hands, and holds them. Despite their bumpy start, Hermione knows now they are kindred spirits.

Women who are too strong to tame.

Sisters.

"Are you ready?"

At midday, Father walks her down the aisle where Draco awaits at the end.

He takes her hand and they approach the altar.

A shaman speaks at length about the bonds of magic and love and life before instructing them to recite the bonding enchantment in unison.

The cords around their fastened hands spark to life.

Hermione gasps when she feels the hum of power. It glows as bright as the sun, ensuring a bond to last the rest of their days. Although blinding, she does not avert her eyes, entranced by the magical display.

For the first time since taking her place by his side, since the crown was placed on her head, Hermione glances up at her groom.

Draco is beautiful. Stoic. Fierce.

The perfect picture of a king.

Dressed in decadent ivory robes made of the finest silks and draped in so much regalia, it is a wonder he can breathe. The charms lining her gown allow her the ability to move freely but do nothing for the crown that feels foreign and heavy on her head.

Draco's crown looks far heavier; it is the symbol of a duty he has been groomed to carry out since birth.

He does not watch the handfasting.

He watches her.

Just as she now watches him.

Hermione does not understand why.

Their first kiss is a simple press of dry lips. A quick capture that leaves her with a feeling she cannot define.

Unlike the one in the field, this kiss feels like a nonverbal seal of agreement.

A covenant and transaction.

Witnessed by many, her ten Ladies stand behind her, his seven knights behind him—Sirius, Nott, and a newly arrived Crabbe even out his side.

When it is done, they turn as a united pair, hands still entwined. Some guests cheer, those who do not approve look on. Most of the rejected women fill the seats in the room with their families, dressed in noble colours, looking sour. The council has a wide variety of reactions—Rabastan does not stand while Sirius obnoxiously whistles and cheers.

Hermione's hands tremble but Draco does not let go, nor does he look at her.

Not when they walk from the hall and down the corridor, with a trail of subjects and nobles alike trailing behind them.

Not even when they greet the sea of cheering people while standing on the balcony high above them. There are people packed in the streets as far as the eye can see. Kaida soars overhead. Her fiery roar feels more like celebration than destruction.

Flower petals fall from the sky like rain.

They turn into gold coins once they touch the ground.

A gift to the people.

Hermione looks at Draco, eyes wide, shocked by the display. She finds him watching her reaction carefully, and wonders if it is also a gift to her.

The wedding feast is a loud, crowded, and grand celebration of their union.

While similar festivities rage outside the palace walls, with fireworks and bonfires in Wiltshire, the ones within the walls go into the night. She meets his aunt, Andromeda, who seems kind. She has left the royal life behind to live with her common-born husband and daughter, Hermione learns. The king is supposed to shun her, as the nobles do, but he never has. The hints of affection are in the softening of his eyes when they speak out of earshot. He goes from visible irritation to something akin to fondness.

Hermione wishes to see more of their exchange, to speak to Andromeda and ask questions, but she is distracted by the celebration. The performances from bards and actors. The exotic array of food and drink. There are wines and spirits Hermione has never heard of before, much less seen or tasted. People dance merrily on flower petals and the fragrance touches her senses from her place at the king's side.

Draco does not smile once, something Hermione notices each time she catches herself being entertained. He keeps a watchful eye over the room, as though there are not guards at every corner to do the job.

A warrior through and through.

When the time comes, Hermione is led out; the charms on the room render the hall silent once the doors shut. Mother waits in her chambers, Ginny at her side, both a comforting presence after an incredibly long day. Hermione does not hide her exhaustion.

The elves bathe her in water warm enough to soothe her aching muscles and sore feet. Rose petals and lavender ease her headache, and the soap they use smells like a blend of flowers that makes her feel at peace. Nerves return when they dress her in exquisite lavender silk robes and ornament her with gold armbands.

From Mother, she receives advice: "You must endure the pain and ignore the spectators."

The humiliation of her chastity test the evening before is fresh. She shudders.

It gets worse?

From Ginny, who has recently gone through this, she gets silent encouragement: a hand on her shoulder as she braids Hermione's long hair.

From Pansy, who arrives with the guards tasked with escorting her to the king's chambers, she receives a full cup of Elf-wine.

Hermione rejects it.

"You want this," Pansy insists. "It will relax you."

She glances over at Mother and Ginny, who nod in agreement, before she accepts the goblet. When she finishes, the guards lead the way.

Draco waits for her in an ornate chair in white robes, no crown upon his head.

"I know you take no pleasure in this duty, and neither do I, so I will make it quick."

It sounds like mercy.

With a quiet nod, Hermione stands before him, slowly stripping while looking away. Silk robes puddle around her feet. She feels his eyes, grey and bold, searing across her skin. But when she looks, Draco is unreadable.

The marble floor is cold as she stands before him in nothing but armbands. He stands, strips off his robe, and leads her to the bed.

She has seen parts of his body, though things are different tonight. She tries not to stare at the scars of war that cover his chest or the cock that hangs heavy between his thighs, but Draco catches her staring at both while dipping his fingers in the oil beside the bed.

They get on the bed together. The sheer curtains fall in a false veil of privacy.

The room fills with those assigned to bear witness to the consummation. Hermione listens to her mother's words, ignoring the men behind the canopy. Or she tries to. She does not see their faces, focusing instead on Draco as he settles between her parted legs.

He kisses her, but it is nothing like the night in the field.

Stiff.

Dutiful.

His touch is perfunctory.

One oily finger dips into her core.

Then two.

First shallow, then deep.

Stifling her discomfort with shuddering breaths, Hermione closes her eyes tight while his fingers twist and stretch her in a way she has never known. She tries to adjust to the sensation but she cannot. When he pulls them out, it is a relief until she realises what is next.

And braces herself.

The earlier glass of wine does little to dull the initial stab of pain.

Hermione has no expectations, is under no delusions that this will be the gentle and tender experience Ginny hints about. Still, it hurts more than she expects. More than uncomfortable and foreign, as he sinks his cock into her, it feels like being torn apart. Slowly. Miserably. Hermione starts to panic, breath coming short as she turns her head to the side to stop from sobbing.

The king looks equally as uncomfortable, but they have a duty to complete.

Draco is not a lover, he is a fighter, and he treats her body like a vessel he owns.

Hermione is full and engulfed, but neither is a good feeling.

The wine only makes it worse. Sick with regret, she bites her lip to stop from crying. Draco watches, close enough to see tears gathering in her eyes and hear the thoughts in her head if he so chooses.

If he notices, he ignores it, rutting against her by instinct alone, rushing to the end as promised.

The sound of their consummation fills her ears.

She feels…

Nothing.

Only numbness, as though her heart is petrified.

But just when she begins to turn to stone, a surprise comes in the final moments, when it is thankfully almost over. Draco presses deep and holds himself there long enough for something to spark.

Come alive.

A strange, fluttering feeling. But it is fleeting.

Then Draco is back to it.

The snap of his hips edges on brutal, punishing and—

He pushes up on his knees then pulls out just enough to spill onto the sheets with low grunt. A whispered spell makes the mess of blood and fluid vanish.

Draco brings a finger to his lips.

Hermione nods.

It is a secret they shall both keep.

The kingdom holds its breath for a fortnight, exhaling slowly when days continue to pass with no news of Hermione's execution.

Pansy says things are returning to normal at Court, and it will trickle out to the rest of the kingdom over the coming months, but Hermione cannot tell, and she is scarcely had the time to spare normality a thought.

The crushing pressure of her new crown is too distracting. It is hard not to break under the foreign weight she does not know how to carry.

Reality is a painful truth; a contrast to dream's beautiful lies.

Hermione expects a new sense of purpose, but being queen is akin to life inside a cage where she must now hide inside herself too while under the scrutiny of the kingdom. As an outsider, she straddles cultures and families and values, barred by her position from the intimacies of friendship and the thrill of ordinary life.

Even with her parents, Harry, and Ginny here with her, she is isolated in the ways that matter.

Loneliness eats at her, slowly and painfully.

Hermione cannot stop it.

Cannot talk about it.

Cannot even hint about being anything other than okay.

Every day exposes Hermione's inexperience, steals her confidence. All of her attempts to join the king's meetings with the Royal Council and reporting scouts are met with opposition from the majority. They say she is not yet ready, that the king intends to stay and there is no need for her attendance.

Hermione hates when Draco acquiesces and dismisses her. It makes her feel useless in a way she has never experienced, but she tries to adapt.

There are other matters of Court Hermione has to tend to—things Millicent did not care for.

Handling disputes between the elves and the human attendants, who serve no purpose except to tend to things people do not want elves to touch. Banquet planning teaches her how the castle operates. Inspecting ingredients for meals helps her learn how everything is prepared. Etiquette lessons assist with her growing understanding of who carries the sway of the Court. Time with her Ladies help her learn more about each person. Accepting wedding gifts from near and far introduces her to the people who give them.

Perhaps it is not all useless.

She tries to see the good.

Learning the ins and outs of the kingdom with Pansy is the most useful part of each day, but Hermione's brittle impatience with herself leaves them both frustrated. There are moments when they feel close enough for her to speak her true feelings, but a flowing river of insecurity carves a deep valley between what she feels and what she can express.

She stays silent.

Observant.

Quiet, even as she comes across twin open doors to the veranda where Draco speaks with Pansy.

"When I marry, I hope to not be draped in finery, given jewels, and placed in a corner for people to observe and mock." Pansy meets Draco's glare with one of her own. Hermione steps out of the doorway. "There is already talk of how you ignore her both publicly and privately."

"There are always rumours," Draco says dryly.

"Yet you do not deny this."

"I… was advised to give her time to adjust."

"Adjustment might be easier if you were not so distant, if you let her in and stop concealing her from what you face as both king and man."

"You know what is happening all around us. I have no time for—"

"You made her queen but do not treat her as one, nor do you correct those who disrespect her title."

"They will bend, eventually. One might say I am shielding her."

"She does not need protection, brother, she needs support. And knowledge."

"That I cannot give. You know why."

Pansy makes a low, frustrated sound. "Then figure out how to change that."

"As I told Potter, I am working on it."

Hermione frowns. It?

"Good." She pauses long enough for Hermione to steal a glance. She sees them standing side by side, leaning on the marble banister, staring at the sky where free dragons fly overhead. "Where is Kaida?"

"Canvassing for me. North, near the borderlands of the Lost Kingdom."

"So far? Is she—"

"Kaida is fine, nagging incessantly about the same topic, day in and day out." He exhales a frustrated sigh. "I cannot find rest with her in my head and you in my face."

"I cannot speak for your familiar, but I do not need to see how you look at her to know that you are conflicted. You watch her, yet you keep your distance. Your behaviour is confusing to everyone. Her, me, even your dragon. Do not be… yourself about this."

"I am not conflicted."

"You are lying," Pansy says. "And she will be the consequence of your hasty action, just as Millicent was. Do not allow her to be poisoned, by any means. What was the purpose of choosing a wife at all if you did not intend to—"

"Remember yourself."

"I will not remember myself. I am not here as crowned princess. I am here the advocate of hers that you made me. I am also here as your sister. You and I may not be blood but we are family. We have been since your father brought me here after my parent's death." A harsh breath escapes her. "Andromeda—"

"Has given me her thoughts."

"Then stop acting as if you do not understand. You gave her your mother's betrothal ring and chambers, allow her liberties, and keep her under constant guard as if she is a rare book on a shelf. Now she wears your mother's crown and jewels you never let anyone so much as touch. You cannot tell me that you feel no—"

"I can tell you whatever I like."

"Marriage is a duty you and I were born to fulfil, but it does not mean—"

"What do you know of marriage?" he asks harshly. "Least of all to someone who did not choose you, who will never choose you despite agreeing."

Hermione's breath catches.

"This is a circumstance I face daily," Pansy snaps. "And I do it with grace. To honour my family and their memory. For the good of the kingdom. To strengthen your rule." There is a pause. "She is your wife, Draco."

"I have given her allowances."

"She is not the sort to be controlled or coaxed." Pansy's voice settles with a sigh. "I understand that you do not know her, nor do you understand her, but this is an entire life change for someone who never intended to marry."

"Pansy."

"Try."

"I highly doubt she—"

"If you continue to leave her adrift, Hermione will be lost in waters so treacherous you will not be able to save her. You will lose her before you begin to realise what I already know."

"And what is that?"

Hermione's guards return before she can hear the answer, realising they left her behind. She swallows the lump in her throat and joins them.

Hermione notices things.

Like Draco's ability to interact with anyone other than her.

When he is not meeting with the Royal Council or overseeing the training of soldiers, he calls on his closest knights—particularly concerning the unicorn killings in the forest beyond Wiltshire.

Draco also seeks out Pansy or Astoria for reasons neither divulge. He does not return to her chambers after their wedding night, nor does he request her presence in his or anywhere else. Hermione is both relieved and perplexed. It took days for the soreness to fade, but with it gone, she is now left to wonder.

Then she realises she has a problem.

The king is not unkind, but his distance isolates her further. The rumours start, both looks and whispers, some even from her Ladies.

The man who kissed her in the field cannot be the same one she married.

Are they incompatible?

Perhaps he is as inexperienced at marriage as she is.

Perhaps he does not care.

Perhaps—

"You should not find yourself alone, Your Majesty."

Hermione tenses.

After only three visits, her hiding spot by the window beneath the stairwell has been discovered. So unnerved by this, she does not pay attention to the voice until turning to face the intruder.

Percy Weasley. The sight of wavy red hair, blue eyes, and a familiar expression makes her shoulders sag with relief. Hermione tucks away his warning to smile at her old friend. "You and I have known each other far too long to be reduced to such formalities."

"We have." He lowers his head in reverence, as serious as ever. "But you are queen now."

"I am reminded of this tiresome title each waking moment of every day." It is the closest her truth comes to being spoken. "If you wish to be formal, you may take your leave and allow me to continue in this moment of peace."

Percy's smile is slow and apologetic. "Hermione."

"That is better." She returns the gesture before watching the window again, which shows nothing but blue skies and rolling clouds. "Perhaps I should visit your library more. Speak to the travelling scholar about the other places he has been, the things he has seen."

"Who?"

"The scholar with the speech impediment. With the turban."

Percy looks even more confused. "I do not recall such a man in my libraries."

"Hmm. He must have left."

"Perhaps."

The occasional flying beast accompanied by a rider crosses her sight line. They patrol the skies above Wiltshire with increasing frequency since their wedding.

"You must know that your Ladies are in the courtyard. They wait for you." He joins her at the small window. Not much taller than her, Percy stands straighter in the robes that note him as a council member. "Why are you not there?"

"I am leaving them to their gossip. They have little else to do." Hermione waves her hand. "Who told you I was here?"

"Winky, but only after much bribery."

"I do hope she does not sense my displeasure and punish herself. The house-elves here punish themselves far too much. It is disheartening that they expect so little decency."

"I told her not to." Percy adjusts the sleeve of his embroidered tunic. "You are right. The elves here are far different from the ones I know. I try to be kind but I am one of few."

"Cruelty is the ugliest aspect of life at Court."

"You are right. It adorns itself in the finest robes, the largest jewels, and the highest titles, and thus believes itself above reproach."

"It does not make the act morally permissible."

"No, but I choose my battles." Percy gives her a meaningful look. "As should you."

They both turn when a door opens, spotting Lords Flint and Avery, who stop upon seeing them. She and Percy are at a respectable distance. There is nothing untoward to see, but Hermione feels as if she will hear of this later.

Lord Flint and Avery bow wordlessly and turn away, taking a different path down the corridor.

Percy frowns. "Perhaps we might change our location?"

"Where are you walking to?"

Percy's question stops Hermione, shaking her from the haze she does not remember entering.

She looks around.

They are close to the entrance where Draco took her the night they agreed to terms. The flying fairies are visible, buzzing in a blur of motion. A clear sign of panic.

"I do not know." Hermione's lips lower into a frown. This does not sit well with her, but she finds it difficult to express her concern. "I felt the strangest urge to come here, but I do not remember why or when the urge struck."

"Then let us turn back."

They walk along the stone path back towards the castle. Above them, birds flee as clouds gather in the distance. It will rain soon, but Hermione enjoys their walk with an obedient attendant trailing behind them, head bowed.

Percy casts a spell to keep their conversation private. The path they take is a popular one with a varied view—grass transforms into gardens against a backdrop of the forests, which then turns into a stony walkway that leads to a view of the sea and the island of winged beasts that graze upon the land. They pass other nobles who also enjoy the fresh air.

"I have not seen your parents today."

"Nor have I." Hermione inhales the breeze, savouring the hint of sweetness from the lilac trees where the elves pluck their blooms. "Father has reunited with Sirius. No doubt they are causing mischief in town. Mother is busy teaching Ginny how to use a sword and sparring with Harry and the other knights. Winning, no doubt."

They both chuckle. Hermione catches sight of a Demiguise before it vanishes.

Interesting.

She sees all sorts of creatures within the palace walls. They are domesticated gifts from other lands. Contained within wards and cared for by Magizoologists, they are left to be as free as they are in the forest. With restraints, of course.

She can relate.

"I will confess," she looks at Percy, "it is nice to see a familiar face in a sea of strangers who view me as unworthy or a means to an end."

"I cannot imagine you see many people at all when you hide."

"Queens do not hide," she says in her best impression of Pansy.

"I thought you were not a queen when we converse."

"You are right." Hermione's smile fades.

They pass Pansy and Astoria, who appear to be in a deep debate, their lips moving as each argues their unknown point. Like always upon seeing Hermione, the latter's eyes narrow and the corner of her lips twitch with discontent.

Percy ends the spell.

He addresses Pansy first. "Your Grace." Then Astoria. "Your Grace."

"Lord Percival," they say in unison with a polite nod and greet her in kind. "Your Majesty."

Pansy smiles. "I see you have found her, My Lord."

"I know the king asked you to seek her out," Astoria supplies.

Hermione burns with irritation but schools her features, something she has learned to do in Astoria's presence.

"He did and we are discussing matters now," Percy says.

"Very well. We shall leave you to it."

With another polite bow, they continue on. Hermione casts a glance back and meets Pansy's gaze, a silent agreement to meet later is passed.

Percy resets the privacy charm before pocketing his wand. "It is obvious Lady Astoria does not care for you."

"I am aware. She assists in teaching me the ways of Court at the behest of the Duchess and the king, but I do not wish to discuss such topics. I am not good at holding my tongue, you know this, so instead I crave solitude or else I do not know what I will say."

"Are you not already alone enough?" His question is soft, like he is genuinely curious. Or concerned.

It rattles her, rings in her head, and leaves her speechless. "I… I…"

"Perhaps you need something different to occupy your mind and time." He brings his hands behind him. "I hear you are in need of assistance with your dowry."

The only person who knows this is—

Hermione turns sharply.

"I am one of a few the king confides in privately," Percy offers.

Her stomach twists. She knows the others.

"What is it?"

Hermione starts to answer but stops. Outside of the closeness of their families and her bond with Ron, she and Percy have always been like-minded, sharing a common world view and similar moral compass. They talk and debate for hours. Hermione enjoys his company as an outlet to express some of her more controversial thoughts, but Percy has never been someone she trusted with her secrets.

This will not change today.

"Just a thought." Once she pushes all the negative emotions aside, all that remains are her own inquiries. Percy has been the palace historian since his predecessor's execution under Queen Millicent. Draco has been at war longer. "You had not laid eyes on Draco until his return as king. How is it that you have garnered such a position?"

"With my predecessor, I spent years observing and gathering evidence of those here who conspired against the king. He was caught and executed by Queen Millicent's accomplices, but they did not suspect me. I warned the king of the coup via letter."

"You are loyal to him. Just like Harry. Frankly, I am surprised. Are you still a pacifist or has joining the council changed your morals?"

Percy considers her as they walk. "There is no good or evil. There are actions and consequences, the realm's perception, and how history will remember your deeds. My feelings on violence have not changed, but there is the war you see and the war you do not. The reason for war is always multifold, but there is more that you do not understand. That most do not see. It runs deeper than power. It is about freedom. Our freedom."

Hermione is shaken by the normally quiet Percy's vehemence. "Tell me what I am missing."

"You will learn, but for now I am tasked to assist you on the matter of your dowry. Have you decided what you plan to patron?"

"I want to do more than patron existing charities. I want to use my dowry to build, not only within Wiltshire but the kingdom as a whole."

"Oh?" Percy is stunned. "This is…"

"Uncommon, I know, but I am thinking of how my work might survive me." She proceeds to vocalise the ideas she has only thought about.

When she finishes, Percy looks impressed. "I will draw plans and assist with ideas. In the meantime, might I suggest a better place to hide from your Ladies than under the stairwell?"

"Please."

"The king's private reading room lies untouched, as do the books within. He permits you to use it. There are no mirrors." He gives her a knowing look.

"How long have you been on the Royal Council?" Hermione's interest overshadows her frustration that the king has not told her of his permission himself. "I was not aware of this change when I saw you at Harry and Ginny's wedding."

"I was not on the council then. Normally, the Royal Council consists of ten members. He appointed me after Queen Millicent's coup as the eleventh. It was not a popular decision amongst the others, but I keep to myself and observe, just as he wishes."

"Who do you suspect?"

"Several. And you?"

"At this point it is a matter of who I do not suspect."

"You are right." Percy makes a small noise. "There are those who find my sudden presence suspicious. I was never a knight or a prominent Lord, nor am I a member of the royal family, which are the typical paths to joining the Royal Council. I believe the general belief is that a historian has no business on the council."

"I can think of more than one reason why you should." Hermione looks at him. "Who better to advise the king of the future than someone who has studied the past?"

Hermione looks up from her book.

Two of her Ladies—Lavender and Romilda—stand before her, smiling too brightly.

"What is it?" Her suspicion grows when the two exchange looks and giggle.

"Come with us," Romilda begs, dramatically folding her hands together and pouts. "Please."

Hermione flips a page. "I am not finished with my daily reading."

"How very dull. There are far more interesting things happening." Lavender waggles her brow. "Trust us. You will want to see this."

They will not leave, but Hermione waits long enough to make it appear she is not conceding too quickly. "Very well."

Her Ladies lead her out, arm looped with Lavender's while Romilda leads the way. They take the path to a set of stairs, then farther to an alcove overlooking a large courtyard. The sun is beginning its descent for the evening, casting long shadows on everything. Soldiers crowd around a large wooden platform. Murmurs rise among them, but Hermione does not understand why.

Others peer over the iron railing—Nott stands closer to her, with Lords Sirius and Pucey at his side. Lord Flint stands on the opposite end. Their eyes meet; he lowers his head properly, as do all the others around them.

She leans over to Lavender. "What is happening?"

"Soldiers," the excited woman replies. "New recruits."

"The king is to duel." Lady Romilda looks a bit lovesick. "It is quite the sight."

"Why?" Hermione asks.

"A display for soldiers who have just been given wands. It—"

The crowd parts and King Draco steps onto the platform. He is dressed in leather breeches and a plain tunic with a wand holster over his shoulder. His garb may appear simple, yet the way the king carries himself is anything but.

Broad shoulders, composed expression, and set jaw, the aura of authority rolls off of Draco in intoxicating waves.

Hermione finds herself standing straighter, bracing her hands on the iron.

Draco raises his wand to his throat, voice amplifying. "Today marks the beginning of your training. You will learn to fight, and to win. But first, I will demonstrate the skill that is expected. Potter will assist."

Harry joins Draco on the platform, similarly dressed. After he pulls his wand from his holster, the two take their positions at opposite ends of the platform.

The crowd falls silent.

"Duelling is different from war," Harry explains as they both sink into a fighting stance. "There are rules here, whereas the battlefield has none."

They start with simple disarming spells, taking turns making their wands fly from the other's hand. Both are formal: they show and explain how each spell is cast and how it works, but it does not take long for the demonstration to shift.

It starts when Draco dodges a hex he was supposed to take.

Then Harry throws a protective charm, which rebounds the spell back to the caster.

Draco makes the red beam dissolve into mist.

"Really, Potter?" Draco's voice is dark as the two circle each other.

"Come, Your Majesty," Harry jests, a taunting smile stretching wide. "Let us give them a proper show."

And they do.

Spells fly as they fight, beams of all colours. It is stunning to Hermione; she has never seen a duel like this. They fight with wands, wielding streaks of magic as swords. As they duck and dodge, sidestep and twist, the stench of magic twists, becoming more complex until the spells turn silent and the mood darkens.

This is no longer a playful spar, but something far more competitive.

Draco takes off his holster and throws it on the ground. Harry does the same.

They circle each other once more. Predator and prey, though who is which, she is not sure.

"I will not let you win, Sire," Harry calls.

"You never have before."

Draco goes on the offence, a quick set of spells that ends with him being struck by the last. Harry's defensive shield, cast expertly, sends him to the ground. He coughs, as if trying to regain his breath.

Lord Sirius spells a Galleon to float before the assembled. A bet. Nott adds two more while Harry addresses their stunned spectators.

"This is the only time using magic on the—"

A jinx from Draco cuts Harry off and sends him sprawling to the platform.

"Here we go." Theo rubs his hands together.

The two rise, wands pointed.

The fight turns brutal—elemental. Draco sweeps Harry into a maelstrom of sand that sends him tumbling, head over feet, feet over head. With a shout, her brother dispels the sandstorm, dissolving it through a powerful burst of wind and water. It leaves them both soaked.

Hermione is engrossed. She does not know who to watch, but the question is answered when Draco rips off his tunic.

Next to her, Romilda sighs dreamily. Hermione ignores her.

After ducking and dodging an array of spells, two beams of light collide, sending both Draco and Harry flying backwards.

They are rebounded by the invisible wards. Draco lands on one knee and raises his head, while Harry rolls into a fighting stance.

Onlookers begin to cheer and shout, watching the back and forth with rapt attention. The crack of Harry and Draco's spells connect and collide like lightning. They stumble back again and—as if by unspoken agreement—draw their wands back like swords. The tips glow with coloured light.

"Scared, Potter?" Draco smirks, sweat dripping from his brow.

Harry sheds his tunic. "You wish."

Three spells later, and they both lose their wands in glorious fashion.

Then summon swords and continue on, barely missing a beat.

All Hermione can see is Draco.

She watches the way he moves: swift and silent, every act purposeful and precise. He duels with finesse, whereas Harry moves on instinct. Draco's muscles ripple with each jab and parry, every strike and withdraw. Despite the obvious signs of irritation, the king is in perfect control of himself.

She does not ogle him like her Ladies, but she wonders if anything can challenge the way Draco steadies himself, if anything can push him to his breaking point.

He is human after all, maybe…

Harry loses his sword and casts wandlessly. "Flagrante!"

With a hiss, Draco drops his now molten hot sword.

Harry swipes at his feet, and the king falls.

With a victorious grin and his wand back in hand, her brother stands above Draco, chest heaving.

"Do you yield, Your Majesty?"

Draco does not answer. Harry smirks, offering his hand.

Draco flips him over onto his back, making him lose his breath, then picks up his sword, the blade glowing much like her mother's does when she fights. He brings the tip to Harry's throat.

"I yield." Harry says with a cough. "Cheater."

"The first rule of battle is to never fight fair." Draco smirks, then helps Harry up. He shoves the king exactly like Hermione has seen him push Ron when they were young.

Playfully.

They both smile.

Lord Sirius sulks over his loss to Lord Nott.

Harry returns his attention to the recruits and Hermione is about to leave when Draco looks up, tilting his head upon seeing her. If he is surprised, he does not show it. Lavender and Romilda giggle, whispering back and forth when Hermione steps forward, boldly holding his gaze. Where there was cool playfulness before, there is now heat.

Dominance.

Displeasure.

The realisation that his restraint is not so perfect makes her turn and run.

Flee.

Her Ladies call after her as Hermione descends the winding steps with every intention of returning to her book in the safety of her private chambers. There she can think and—

At the bottom of the landing stands Draco.

Sweaty and exhilarated from duelling, she should find the sight disgusting. Instead, her attraction grows.

Warmth spreads to her belly and races through her veins.

There must be more than what she sees, their wedding night, how he speaks to her, what she—

Hermione fans her face as her cheeks burn.

"Are… you well?" Draco asks with a familiar edge. He sounds out of breath. She wonders if she was not the only one who ran.

"I am, Sire."

Two steps from the bottom puts them at the same height.

Up close, he looks more imposing now than while he was fighting. It should not be this way. Hermione can hardly look at him, choosing instead to pick a spot behind him at which to stare.

"Did you enjoy the demonstration?"

"I did."

"Then stay."

It is not until Hermione is back with her Ladies, looking at the sight below as the recruits pair off and duel, that she secretly admits the rest of the demonstration is disappointing.

She enjoyed watching Draco far more.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Consciousness returns in waves.

Slow. Hazy.

Everything feels just out of reach.

Awareness strikes like a bolt of lightning.

Followed by a blinding pain.

Hermione cannot react or express her shock. She cannot even move.

Rigid binds hold her tight. A cold breeze rouses her senses, making her shiver. Numbness tingles her feet and hands.

Her vision slowly clears but the world is still disjointed.

Blue fire floats above the middle of a clearing, casting the forest in its dangerous glow. Beneath is a dead unicorn with its throat torn. Silver blood stains its coat and pools on the ground.

Hooded figures are everywhere; only a few are without the protection of anonymity.

A woman with wild, black hair.

A familiar face from her childhood.

And another. Rabastan.

Hermione wants to laugh, but mirth is stuck in her throat.

Quirrell turns. And there is a… face on the back of his head. But that cannot be right.

Is she hallucinating?

"Go." The voice speaks, though it is but a sinister whisper. "Find the other."

Several hooded figures leave to do its bidding.

Hermione is desperate to flee, but her legs are weak and her feet throb, as if she were dragged here without care. Rough wood pokes at her back, scraping her skin.

And the binds.

Pulling tightens them to the point of breathless discomfort. She gasps, eyes adjusting further to her surroundings. Tied to a tree, Hermione is bound with glowing, golden ropes. She is barefoot, stripped of her royal gown, and left in only an underdress.

There is no time to feel ashamed.

She notices Daphne is gagged, stripped, and tied to the tree next to her with ropes that do not glow. Dirty and roughed up, Daphne bleeds from a gash on her forehead, and one eye has the start of a bruise. She breathes with barely controlled terror and stares directly at Hermione before cutting her eyes as far as she can.

She is trying to communicate. It takes a second to figure out what she is saying.

Elm is hard at work biting through the ropes. The bowtruckle is not alone, others scuttle down the trees to help.

One pulls the cloth from Daphne's mouth before she whispers, "Thank you, little friend."

It preens.

"Where is Luna?" Hermione keeps her voice low.

"She is the one they seek." Daphne grimaces. "Your head bleeds."

"So does yours." Peering down at the bowtruckle trying to chew on her gold binds takes much effort. It tries to pull but movement tightens them more. She hisses in pain.

"Our guests are waking up. Let us greet them."

"Step aside, Wormtail." The woman shoves a short man out of her way. "My niece is awake."

Cold hands seize Hermione's chin. The grip is too tight, craning her neck painfully. She stifles her need to scream.

"Rodolphus tells me you are but a common, mud blood. Draco was raised better." The barest hint of rotten teeth makes her skin crawl. "My sister with her soft heart, betraying her family so Draco can sully our blood with the likes of you."

Dread sparks in her chest as a cold realisation hits her.

"You are…"

Queen Bellatrix.

"I—" Hermione forces out. "You died at sea."

"Is that what they tell everyone?" Bellatrix's laugh sounds like a nightmare. "Rodolphus and I were adrift in the ruins of our defeat and floated north. Azkaban is large. We hid on the island amongst those who were banished for years before we were found. We slew everyone." She smiles with black teeth. "Draco got my call directly but searched from the skies instead of the ground. I expected better."

"Do not," Rabastan hisses. "He is a coward who hides behind the might of his dragon."

Oh. The arrow Hermione pulled out of him was hers.

"Now, now Bella." The face on Quirrell's occipital morphs into something akin to a charming smile. He approaches, his movements oddly smooth and confident despite moving backwards. "While my body rests after feeding, you will have your fun. There is much I need to know."

Bellatrix instantly humbles. "Apologies, my king."

Hermione's blood turns to ice.

Voldemort.

Inhabiting Quirrell like a parasite.

"What do you want from me?" Hermione asks.

"Wormtail saw you when you were a child."

The short man steps closer. Wormtail is more than a familiar face; he is the man who disguised himself as Ron's pet rat for years. "Did I do well, my king?"

"Excellent." He pets Wormtail like a prized animal, red eyes on her. "You carry secrets, Queen Hermione. The burden of this makes you unnaturally anxious when you are around too many with the skill to notice."

"I—I know nothing."

"I believe you. I do," Voldemort says with spine-chilling gentleness, every word soaked in charm and tinged with dark magnetism as he nears. He comes close to touching her but recoils. "I see the block on your memories so clearly. A web so perfectly woven. There is but one way to free you. I am afraid this will not be painless."

Bellatrix's smile widens as she taps her wand against her sunken jaw. "This is going to be fun."

"Do not play too hard with your food, Bella," Voldemort says as he retreats. "I do not want her to break."

Hermione braces herself, looking at Daphne's horror-filled eyes.

"Crucio!"

As if from the outside, Hermione hears herself screaming.

White-hot pain explodes behind her eyes. It rattles her head and runs rampant through her veins.

It clogs her senses until time slows to a crawl. It could be seconds or minutes or hours. Each would equally feel like forever in the grip of the visceral agony. Pressure builds and crashes through every nerve. Her world burns with a pain worse than anything she has ever felt.

Ice and fire slice through her skin, shredding muscles then nerves, and cracking open her bones to melt the marrow until every cell is twisted with torment.

Her lungs attempt to pull in air, but she cannot breathe.

She cannot stop feeling. Cannot stop wailing. Cannot stop convulsing.

Black spots flicker in her vision when the pain suddenly ceases.

Hermione tries to move, desperate to flee or fight, but her will to fight has dissolved to dust.

"There is nowhere to run, my love." The endearment burns like acid. "I am only getting started."

Like ocean waves, pain pulls Hermione into the abyss.

Each time she thinks it is over, more follows. In and out, she fights the current with all her might, but it drags her back. Enduring is her only option. The alternative is giving in.

She fights and claws.

Relents and sobs.

An endless cycle.

That stops.

Hermione drifts.

Let me into your mind.

Splotches dance in Hermione's eyes as she breathes. Her lungs are screaming, begging for oxygen.

She remembers what little of Draco's teaching she can and builds her wall high.

No.

The anguish starts to pull back like water reaching the shore.

"She is unyielding. Again."

The water is gone, a figment of her imagination. Only reality remains.

"Crucio!"

And then the pain returns. One word robs her breath. Her body goes rigid as the claws of agony flay her open to the bone. Hermione's heart thunders.

Torment burns her senses and something starts to rip inside her mind.

No.

Screams tear from Hermione.

She cannot stop.

She cannot stop.

A mournful cry is a bristling alarm that sweeps through the pines with a shivering sigh.

Like smoke, it fades away, leaving garbled voices to tell broken stories of past and present.

Faces flood her mind. They flex and change, bend and compress, until the world tilts and colours bleed into a mass that forms a face she knows.

Her father.

A memory.

"There are those who seek to prevent a future by destroying the potential."

"I thought you were telling me about my parents, Father," Hermione says with a nudge and a smile, hoping to alleviate the serious mood he has been in all day.

"Prophesy is fickle and uncertain. You cannot rely on it, but you must not ignore it. Some run their course and change nothing, others never come to pass, but there are some prophecies that entwine, and together, they can change the world."

"Father, I do not understand—"

Hermione's memory blurs. Her skull throbs.

Reality bends until someone new stands in her father's place.

This man does not belong here.

Intuition whispers his name: Voldemort.

A blend of the parasite he is and the king he once was, he is handsome with dark hair and red eyes. Something makes her want to trust him, but a deeper impulse eclipses this.

He is darkness pretending to be light.

"Do you wish to be free?" Voldemort's fingers graze her face like she is a precious thing.

Hermione shudders, chilled from the icy trail of his touch.

This is no longer her memory but they are still within the confines of her mind. She summons every bit of strength she possesses to push him out but he will not go.

"I have the power to give you what you desire, to make you a queen in your own right. I can make a world where you can control your own destiny. You would answer to no man."

"Except you, tyrant," Hermione sneers. "I would answer to you."

"A small price to pay." A haunting smile grows as he tilts his head, looking at her with different eyes. "True power awaits once you are rid of the thing that holds you back."

"I will never bend." She jerks away but he seizes her by the throat. First, his hand is a burning caress, then his grip is stronger, firmer. Hermione tries to pull away and fight as he cuts off her air, shaking from the effort.

"You will or you will die."

Hermione screams Voldemort out of her mind.

It shakes the earth.

Nature hears her cry, but does not answer.

"Crucio!"

Hermione grits her teeth and shakes.

Sobs.

Help me.

"There is no one here but you and I." Voldemort's voice is faint in her mind. "You will lose."

Light burns the darkness out.

Hermione.

The familiar whisper is a comfort that does not last.

"Crucio!"

Torture is the deranged's choice of art.

With practised ease, Bellatrix joyfully traverses the line of pain and endurance, life and death, bringing Hermione to the brink of unconsciousness then back.

The lines blur between each and teach her that torture is not always physical.

It is mental. Emotional. Spiritual.

Bellatrix curses her until her vision blurs, but she also shows benevolence by healing her bitten tongue and strained muscles. She fills Hermione with magical euphoria before snatching it away all over again.

The true torture is that she makes no move that ends with mercy.

Hermione wishes she would.

Bend to me.

No.

Pain returns.

Numb, cold to its call, Hermione sputters and coughs.

"Crucio!"

She can no longer scream.

Both in her body and floating above, she is aware of the world and apart from it.

Sounds meld and morph together but she can still separate and identify them. Bellatrix's cackling. Daphne's shuddering, whimpering breaths; her pleas for mercy that draw insults and scorn. She can hear the laughter, the amusement and glee of the robed figures who gather around and take pleasure in her pain.

Voldemort is always in her mind, trying to strip it bare.

"Why?"

"The identity of the lost chosen one is within my grasp. You know who they are."

"I do not know what you are talking about!" Hermione's throat is raw.

"You do," the voice in her mind whispers. "His line bears my cursed mark."

All she can think of is war.

In sudden realisation, she opens her eyes to darkness.

Is this what she does not see?

The truth only hinted at by those around her?

"You are like me. Born with common blood yet given the world," Voldemort whispers. "You see a world that is better. I want it, too. Under one banner—my banner—we will build a new realm and scourge the filth of kingdoms. All you need to do is let me unlock your mind. You will be safe as long as you give me what I need."

What Voldemort seeks, Hermione knows she will not give. She will die before she allows him to have it.

"Very well. I will tear it out myself."

Hermione imagines death is like biting into fresh fruit.

It is like taking a walk on a misty morning in a field, laughing at nothing with Ginny, listening to Vasades talk about the stars. Death is the scent of flowers and pine, the breeze in her hair, the ease and joy of feeling the sun on her face.

This is her paradise. Her sanctuary. Her dream.

Death is not drowning, the ebb and flow of crushing suffocation, or even the torrential misery undermining all resolve. It is not the gargled cries and wails, the begging and brokenness, the wetness of tears and blood.

No, it is a reprieve.

Hermione embraces the inevitable without fear. She is at peace knowing there is freedom from this hell.

Then the torture begins again.

Time bends against all reason. Thoughts and memories twine together as she slips between life and death.

It stops. It starts.

Cyclical. Endless.

A different scream stops the pain.

The world fades and returns in a rush.

Hermione wakes to a battle.

Clashing metal, magic, and might.

War.

Hooded figures fight with soldiers, knights, and centaurs. People on both sides fall before her eyes. A white spell strikes the blue flame. The forest descends into darkness as the flame rises high above the trees then explodes in the sky.

Fire falls like raindrops.

It spreads.

Something nudges her leg desperately and she squirms, looking down only to find a shaggy dog.

Sirius.

Hermione tries to move but cannot, still tied to the tree with magical binds. He tries to free her but the binds do not relent.

Bellatrix lies unconscious at her feet.

Daphne is nowhere to be found.

A wolf tosses a soldier like a ragdoll and bears down on them. Hermione screams and Sirius moves in front of her with protective fury. They battle with teeth and claws until the dog has the wolf by the neck. Jaws locked, Sirius rips into the pelt and tears out its throat. The death rattle is louder than the clang of weapons and magic around them. The wolf morphs into a naked man before he hits the forest floor, his eyes still open and unseeing.

Sirius is thrown into the trunk of a nearby tree with force .

A sneering Quirrell appears in front of her and undoes her binds.

"You are coming with us." Voldemort's voice infiltrates her thoughts.

Hermione clumsily surges forward. Her legs shake. Her body aches, but she refuses to accept this fate.

When she catches Quirrell's arm, his skin sizzles beneath her fingers. He screams.

They both stumble back in stunned shock.

And then she lunges.

She grabs his face, pushes her thumbs into his eye sockets, and holds on as his skin burns beneath her grip. He tries desperately to wrench himself free. Hermione does not let go, digging in with all her might.

Quirrell screams.

Voldemort's agony smells like smoke. Or perhaps it is the fire.

His host's cries do not stop, even as his skin melts at her touch. Blood splatters on her and bones disintegrate into dust.

The remnants spread in the breeze, rising, gathering together.

Voldemort's body reforms from the dust.

It is not quite corporeal, but Hermione's heart clenches in terror nonetheless. Still, she pushes through. With wild determination, she stumbles forward, chasing the ghostly figure through the chaos of magic spells as it fights to melt into Rodolphus' body.

"Rodolphus," the shadow calls to a man that looks like Rabastan.

"Yes, My Lord." He stretches and shakes.

Then seizes.

His head snaps to her.

Brown eyes glow red in the flames.

Rodolphus' grin is no longer his own.

Hermione jumps, falling backwards into something—no, someone.

Daphne.

Elm sits on her shoulder; they both look worse for the wear. Behind her is Goldstein, fighting off three Death Eaters. For a second, she is stunned by what she witnesses, but then the knight's voice snaps her out of her daze.

"Daphne! The king's regiment is not far. We will hold them back, get the queen and go! Hide! We will find you!"

Daphne surges into action, pulling Hermione away from the fight. Adrenaline gone, Hermione leans heavily on Daphne, who gasps at her weight.

A hand grabs her ankle. Bellatrix yanks with enough force to drag Hermione to the ground.

The hard landing steals her air.

"Not so fast—"

A rock strikes Bellatrix in the head, rendering her unconscious.

Stunned, they look up and find Luna hanging upside down from a thick tree branch. Her dress is torn and hair wild, but she appears unharmed. Hermione nearly laughs from relief when Luna flips over and drops, landing safely on her feet.

Waving, Luna points at the bowtruckles gathering in the next tree over. They are cutting and munching on another limb, which misses Bellatrix but crushes a rat scuttling towards them.

It transforms into Wormtail, now injured beyond repair.

Bowtruckles flee from the cursed fire, running from tree to tree by overlapping branches as it spreads. The first person the fire touches is the enemy. It engulfs him in mere moments, leaving ash that corrodes the earth.

Luna steps over Wormtail's body and picks up Bellatrix's wand.

"Periculum!" Red sparks burst from the tip of the wand, racing towards the sky and exploding like fireworks. Luna is wide-eyed. "Wow."

It continues to explode, which alerts everyone to their presence.

"Do not let them escape!" Rodolphus' barks.

Voldemort has complete control.

Panicked, Daphne helps Hermione to her feet as Luna shakes Bellatrix's wand again. "Petrificus Totalus!"

The spell strikes another robed person stalking towards them with a white light.

They freeze solid.

Luna stares at the wand in awe. "This is incred—"

"Never mind that, run!" Daphne grabs her hand and takes off.

Words and voices bleed from her mind between fits of pain and confusion.

Chosen… Prophecy… King…

They make no sense.

Hermione grits her teeth and tries to wade through. The blaze from the fight is barely a speck behind them. The forest is damp, drenched in a ghostly shade of blue that dims the farther they flee.

Exhausted, hurting and numb, more broken words fill her mind.

They cannot know…

She is losing grip.

"Where are we?" Daphne looks around as they keep moving, putting distance between themselves and the battle.

It is too dark for even the moon to light their path. Trees sway and branches scratch her hands and arms. Bare feet make every step miserable. Rocks and twigs dig into her already tender soles, and shattering pain shoots up her legs.

Hermione's body is beyond its limit. It hurts to breathe, but she does not stop. She cannot.

Secrets… Charms… Your memories… Vow…

"They are coming!" Luna warns.

She turns to find robed figures closing in behind them.

Hermione hears a bird overhead.

Then an answering roar.

"Wand!"

Luna gives Bellatrix's wand to Daphne and picks up a large branch to use as a weapon instead. More proficient with a wand, Daphne casts a spell to make those who chase them trip and fall over their own feet. When they try to get up, they fall again.

They run farther, leaving the path and finding another. This one is much darker. Hermione tries to wandlessly conjure an orb of light, but it fizzles to nothing. Her magic is weak. Her hands tremble as badly as her legs.

"I do not know where to go," Daphne says. "I do not know the forest that well."

Hermione does not—wait.

She inhales a familiar sweet scent.

Looking closer, she focuses on what she can see and feel versus what she cannot.

The soft dirt beneath her feet.

The smooth bark of the tree she leans again.

The thick vegetation.

And then she hears it.

The sound of water.

She knows this place.

Hidden… Rain… We came to this land…

Hermione shakes the fragments away just as they are accosted by two figures who emerge from the trees. Luna swings the branch as if it is an axe, striking one in the head. Daphne stuns the other. They wait with bated breath for another attack, but there is only silence.

It gives them a blessed moment to stop, breathe, and think.

"Keep watch while I figure out where we are."

Luna wields her branch like a sword.

Daphne holds Hermione's waist. It feels like the only thing keeping her upright.

The truth is that…

She wills the voices to stop and turns her focus to the sky. Here, the trees are thin enough to give her a clear view. Hermione reads the stars with a desperation she has never known.

True North gives her direction. The positions of the constellations orient her.

A realisation and an idea.

"This castle is that way. North. At least three miles. You two take the wand and go, follow the path, and use it to prove Bellatrix lives." Hermione turns east with her plan fresh on her mind, not knowing at all how to execute it.

"Where are you going?" Luna asks.

"For help and a diversion."

"I refuse to leave you. I cannot!" Daphne argues, looking close to tears. "You are not well. I watched Bellatrix torture you until your heart stopped. I watched you bleed and sob. I cannot leave—"

A branch cracks.

They are no longer alone.

"You cannot escape us." Robed figures approach in the near darkness. More come from the trees and into their path.

A revived Bellatrix pushes through the group, screaming for her wand. "Get them!"

Hermione, Daphne, and Luna split up.

Everyone converges on her.

Dead leaves crunch beneath her feet as Hermione hobbles away, using the darkness to duck behind a large bush. She closes her eyes, trying to steady her breath as steps draw closer.

A snapping twig sends her pursuers running towards the sound.

Hermione takes several seconds to pull herself together before forcing herself to her feet. She limps through the underbrush, which grows thicker on the downhill slope she tries to navigate.

Vision swimming, she trips. It gives her position away.

"Over there!"

Panic makes her clumsy.

She falls the rest of the way.

Helpless to stop the fall, Hermione clips a tree stump before landing sprawled in the clearing. She pants from the pain, but nearly sobs her relief with her next breath.

The sound of water means she has made it.

Black sand is beneath her.

The rush of a familiar waterfall sounds like hope.

She knows what lives on the other end of the lake. But Kaida is not here.

A hippogriff flies overhead. White in the darkness. More begin to circle. They squawk.

Winged horses answer their call.

Hermione struggles to her feet, bones popping, ankle turned painfully from her fall. She limps closer to the water, desperately hoping one of them will notice her.

A stinging pain buckles her legs.

Magic seizes her limbs, forcing her to turn around.

Dozens of robed figures surround her in a semi-circle, blocking every direction except the water behind her.

Bellatrix smiles like she has already won.

"Stupid girl." There is a dagger in one hand, and a murderous gleam in her eyes. "Return my wand or I will retrieve it myself."

Hermione holds up her empty hands.

Chapter Text

We are the sons of prophecy.

Hermione jerks awake.

Heart racing and lungs burning, she can't place the phantom tingles lingering in her half-conscious mind.

As they fade, her vision clears. Her senses rouse.

Smoke rises from floating bowls near her head.

A rich, herbal scent fills the air. A low, harmonious hum surrounds her.

She is in a hut with a large tree in the middle. Branches stretch high beyond the domed ceiling. Shelves covered in books and vials are notched into the trunk, starting from the floor and spiralling to a roof partially covered in moss. The windows look as if they were broken in their frames and perfectly pieced together one jagged edge at a time. Layers of grass, herbs, and flowers line the walls and grow wild like a garden, and a long table covered in plants and tools curves against a wall. A fireplace tucked into the wall next to it catches Hermione's eye, playing host to a cauldron floating above cooling embers.

This strange place looks like paradise.

Hermione hears movement, then sees a familiar face.

"Love." Her mother sags in relief.

Hermione tries to speak, tears springing in her eyes and grazing her ears, but nothing comes. Panic rises as she squirms, the lump in her throat growing, but her mother's touch tempers her.

"Your voice will return." A hand slips into hers and squeezes. "I know you have many questions. We are in the home of the forest centaurs. Ginny, your father, and I were smuggled out of the palace and brought here for safety and to be with you."

Hermione turns her head slowly.

There is a familiar sword that no longer glows. Next to it is a bloody chestplate.

"The king is here, Harry as well. Both have been healed of their wounds and—" Mother looks over her shoulder. "Vasades! Firenze! The antidote worked! She is awake!"

Hermione can only stare when Vasades appears next to another centaur with white hair and electric blue eyes.

"Welcome to my home, Queen Hermione," he greets kindly. "I have heard much about you."

"Hello again, my friend." Vasades comes to stand beside her mother.

The sight of them together brings Hermione a feeling of completion.

"You gave us quite a scare," Firenze says.

"Your body is healing and the block we have on your mind is temporary until we decide how to repair and remove it." Vasades moves, returning with a cup.

Mother slips a hand beneath her head and carefully lifts, helping her bring the cup to her lips. The liquid is thick and gritty. Hermione nearly spits it out, but she barely manages to swallow instead. A cool trickle starts in her throat and spreads through her limbs.

"This will heal you from the inside." Firenze's voice is deep, soothing. "It will take much more."

Hermione starts to relax, but an explosion of pain shifts her reality.

It shocks like lightning behind her eyes and roars.

She hears and feels the scream tear from her throat.

It is raw. Primal.

Something is waking, growing, battling for control.

"It should have held!" Firenze places a hand on her head and closes his eyes, mouth moving with words she cannot decipher.

The pain settles into a shaky numbness that leaves Hermione panting with relief.

"Our measures will not work. I am holding it for now, but it fights back. We need another plan."

"Firenze, it cannot be fixed," Vasades argues. "We have been trying all night."

"Removing it outright is risky."

"But it is the only way," Mother says. "Do what needs to be done. I know they meet with the elders for negotiation talks, but I will—"

"Lily, wait." Vasades lays an arm on her shoulder. "Make sure the king comes. He will anchor."

Hermione feels the pressure growing.

"I cannot hold it much longer," Firenze says shakily, breath now coming in pants.

"I can serve as an anchor."

"No." Vasades shakes her head. "You cannot."

"I am her mother," she argues. "Am I not enough?"

"The love that exists between parent and child is strong, but a more visceral tie to her emotions exists with him."

"I see." Mother steps back and is gone without another word.

Firenze's hand on Hermione's head begins to tremble. He lets out a cry and rips his hand off, stumbling back on shaking hooves.

Pain rushes in like a tidal wave.

But Vasades is there to brave the storm with her. To keep her from drowning.

"Your mind is in distress, Hermione. It fights but I need you to fight harder and stay awake."

She cannot.

Twisting and snarling, the nightmares never end.

A sneering laugh cages her in a forest of terrors.

The curse pierces the fog and seizes her by the throat. It is his face. The wrongness of red eyes. They beckon her to walk to the edge. She cannot stop.

Her mind is not her own.

You and I are alike.

Blood spreads across her undergown, coating her tongue, dripping from her lips, sliding down her cheeks like tears.

Bend to me or die.

Death exhales fire and ice.

She tumbles over the edge, falling into emptiness.

Head over feet. Feet over head.

Reaching desperately, clawing at nothing but air and force.

Her screams create a terrifying melody.

Falling is endless, suffocating and cold.

There is no rest.

Only pain.

Hermione chokes on her own breath.

Overheated and dazed, she fights against the hands holding her down. A cool palm presses against her forehead.

Of all people, it is Draco.

Bruised and battered, he is here.

"Draco, you must anchor with touch. Do not let go. If she projects thoughts, look. Do not ignore them. If she speaks to you, speak back. I will reach into her mind and begin to peel away the block. Firenze will monitor." She looks over her shoulder. "I will need you all to stay here during this if the king's anchor is not enough."

Vasades closes her eyes and begins chanting words in a language that makes Hermione jerk against the weight holding her down, strain against the pressure, and sob in pain. Screams tear from her as pressure fills her skull and pulls it tight. She feels herself breaking from the inside.

"Your mind is fracturing, Hermione." Firenze's voice is but a whisper. "I know this hurts, I know you are scared, but there is no time. We must remove the block now or you will drown in darkness."

Hermione twists and sees her parents, afraid and worried, hands clasped tight. Harry and a teary-eyed Ginny stand next to them.

Block?

Vasades' voice fills her mind. I will show you.

Her world peels open and burns with light.

The lake water cools Hermione's feverish skin.

Floating next to Ginny, she relishes the sight of the sun sitting low in the sky on a golden afternoon, casting long shadows in the wrong direction. This sky is unnaturally blue. The trees sway against the wind.

Fragments of this world split at the corner of her peripheral before mending. Ginny's hair changes from red to blonde, from brown to black, eyes from brown to green to blue.

She is a blend of comforts Hermione's mind cannot choose from.

This world is not real.

"Torture changes your mental landscape." The voice of her blended companion sounds like Vasades. The ever-changing eyes look sad. "But, my friend, there is more pain here than ever before. Torture could not have done all this damage."

"I have missed you so." Hermione cannot stop the tears from falling; emotions make it hard to speak, to breathe. "This life is harder than I thought."

Teardrops grow black, twisted wings and fly away.

Hair drifts from blond to black while the eyes stay Ginny's warm brown. "I am sorry for my absence, but there are some paths we must walk alone."

"I—has it been long?"

"Two days."

"I thought centaurs would not heal my kind. Elders—"

"They owed my old herd a debt that I lived to collect," Vasades says as they drift towards the centre of the lake. "What the centaur elders meet about is not our concern just yet. Right now we focus on you."

"What if I am lost forever?"

"You are not lost."

The comforting words give her none.

Logs float by with dates and times carved into the wood.

"What are these?" Hermione asks.

"Your blocked memories. You were tortured into releasing fragments of them. We tried to piece them together and set them back, but we could not fix them all. This is the only way to save you."

"What do I do?"

"Touch a branch. It contains a piece of the truth."

When she does, Hermione is transported to the night when she, Harry, and Ron were chased in the forest by a transformed Remus; the night Wormtail tried to kidnap Harry.

Only now, Hermione remembers more.

She remembers everything.

Father adjusts his glasses while Mother cleans a cut on Harry's leg with a minty salve.

"Like the Longbottoms, our bloodline is marked by Voldemort's Curse." Father breaks the silence. "My father thrice defied him on his rise to power. I was born with that mark, just the same as Harry. The only difference is Harry was born as the seventh month died, which makes him—"

"A chosen one," Hermione blurts out.

Her brother's eyes widen. "But I am just… me."

"Exactly," Father says with a sad smile. "You are you. Brave and loyal. You fight and will not bend. It is a family trait. Passed down from my father to me and now to you. Just like the mark on your forehead and my neck. Like the Deathly Hallows, it is a symbol of our strength."

The lightning bolt mark that Harry was born with now has new meaning.

"Voldemort cannot return to his full strength without the blood of the chosen ones."

"But he knows that the prince lives. He could go after him instead," Hermione says hopefully.

"Although chosen, the prince was not naturally born. His birth required magical assistance and this is why he bears no mark. Still, he is protected by magic and might. Voldemort fears Dumbledore and he sits at Queen Augusta's side as her advisor. But you are not as protected here. Voldemort did not know of your existence until after you were born because we were hidden."

"How can we protect Harry?" Hermione looks at her terrified brother.

"We will send him to fulfil our family oath by training as a knight alongside Prince Draco. Voldemort will not attack. This will keep him safe for now."

For now.

Harry looks shaken, voice trembling when he asks, "Mother, did you know?"

Their mother nods. "I was bound with an Unbreakable Vow when I married into the family. We had to place a charm on you and Hermione when you were babies. Each time you two get too close to the truth, it causes you to forget."

Hermione's pulse kicks up. "I will forget this?"

"You both will—not that today happened but why." She sounds sad. "You two attract trouble and have been exposed to shards of the truth too many times. Like tonight. This is not the first time or the last, but we will tell you each time, no matter how often you forget."

She touches Harry's face, drying his tears as they fall.

"I do not want this, Mother."

"And we did not want this for you, Harry. Fate has dealt you a terrible hand, but we will not give up. You must be strong."

"I will be, but I am scared."

Hermione limps over to Harry and hugs him. He holds her just as tight. Just as long.

Mother wraps her arms around them both. "The only benefit of this spell is that you both are free to live without this truth darkening your lives."

Hermione cannot stop thinking about one small thing.

"Father."

"What is it, love?"

"The chosen ones are royals."

His shoulders sag and it takes him minutes to speak after exchanging looks with their mother.

"It is true. We are not of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but we are royal. We served a sacred family and when the king died with no heir, he named my ancestor, Ignotus, his heir. We were the first non-sacred family to rule in the realm."

Hermione's mouth drops.

"I am the missing king of the Lost Kingdom, and Harry is my heir." He turns to her with sad eyes. "In our way, we tried to tell you both the truth."

When Hermione resurfaces from the memory, the sun is gone and the sky is full of stars that spill across the stretched canvas of darkness.

She lays at Kaida's side trying to catch her breath, barely able to grasp anything. Flushed and confused, so many emotions war within Hermione. She is exhausted to the point of numbness.

"Each star is a memory broken loose. Past and present. Touch them. They are within your reach." The dragon's lilt is too much like Vasades to be a coincidence. "This time they have the answers you seek."

"I am scared of what else I will learn," Hermione admits quietly.

"It is natural to fear change. This knowledge will change everything. Knowledge is freedom, yes, but it can also bring about pain, which is a vital tool for survival."

"I feel as though I will bear these fears, these scars forever."

"You will," Vasades says as the dragon shifts, breathing deeply in an invitation for Hermione to match its breaths. "But this does not sadden me. Without a past, there is no future. These scars will remind you where you have overcome."

"How do I touch the stars from the ground?"

"You reach." Vasades makes it sound simple. "You reach with the boldness I know is within you. The same bravery no amount of darkness could destroy. The same strength that faced evil and won."

"I did not win." Hermione hugs the dragon's leg, closing her eyes. "I faltered. I died."

"Yet you live."

"I am hollow, lost in my own mind. This world is not real, Kaida is not here, and you—"

"You cannot be lost if I am guiding you." Vasades voice accompanies an easing pressure in her head that makes her shoulders sag. "You are experiencing trauma, Hermione. It is what lingers now that the danger has passed."

"I want to go back to who I was."

"Be patient. Give yourself time to heal, to cope, to learn and figure out who you will become in the aftermath. But unfortunately, my friend, there is no going back. You are forever changed. Yes, you may be scarred, but do not let trauma control you. Feel your emotions, express them, but do not become them."

Hermione nods, still struggling with the truth. "I was ready to give up when Draco found me. I was ready to die. That is my shame."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Hermione." The dragon's stare probes her in a way that reminds her of Vasades. "I do not see a victim, I see a victor. A warrior. A survivor. And there are many who see the same."

"I am tired." Tears turn to glowing stardust and scatter amongst the black sand. "I do not know where to begin."

"The road will be hard, but you cannot quit now. Climb on my back. I will bring you to the stars."

There is no wind as she climbs on Kaida's back and they take off for the skies.

Hermione grabs the first star she reaches.

Father looks rough from a long night that has ended now that Hermione is awake from petrification. Mother sleeps next to her, their hands locked.

He helps her sit up and she knows the lecture is about to begin even before he clears his throat.

"You walked into an Acromantula colony."

"Yes," Hermione says. "And I found out where the Basilisk was hiding."

"You are lucky Hagrid was there with you."

"I knew they would not harm me if he were there. He raised Aragog."

Father pinches the bridge of his nose. "And then you went after a Basilisk? In spite?"

"I did." Hermione cannot lie.

"You nearly got the Weasley boy killed, Hermione. What were you thinking?" He does not sound angry, he sounds hurt. Worried.

"I—" Frustration brings tears to her eyes. "I thought we were a team, but you were keeping secrets from me, Father."

"Not about the Basilisk. I wanted you to wait for me before we took care of it together."

"But you and Sirius and Remus were talking about it. I heard you. You were trying to figure out how it came. What it was looking for. If…" Hermione shakes her head. "I do not remember why."

"You misheard, Hermione. At least about this."

"What do you mean?"

"I keep many things from you, but only because you are a child."

"I am no child. I can marry at this age."

"Over my dead body."

Hermione cracks a smile. They both do. The tension starts to ease only to return when Father takes her hand.

"I thought I only wanted sons until you were brought to us," he says with a smile. "The truth is, with Harry gone, we were trying to figure out if the Basilisk was sent after me or you."

"Why would it be sent after me?"

"Because the Carrow Kingdom did not kill your birth parents."

Hermione recoils. "What do you mean? The village—Vasades found me in the rubble."

"This is true, but your village was destroyed after your parents were given a choice to hand you over or die. They chose death."

"I thought—"

"We all are plagued by fate, but it is extra cruel to be part of prophecy." He smooths down her hair. "The stars speak of a common-born who will rule these lands. Born on the final breath of summer, she is to be the half of a whole that will bring about a new age, not only here, but in the realm. There is more out there that we have yet to discover. You are destined to be the mother of a bloodline that will expand this world beyond what we know."

"That is—"

"Impossible?" Father cocks a brow. "Three must fall before you rise."

She blinks in shock. "What?"

"The many pieces of a clock must fit together just right before the hands will turn. Fate is like that clock. Every person has their own and there are pre-established rhythms, precise times. Remove one piece and the clock will not run."

"I do not understand."

"There are those who sought to kill you so that you would not play your role: a pebble in the water that causes a ripple which would change everything, including other prophecies. Your parents were warned by Unspeakables, but before they could hide, their village was attacked. The magic from your parents' sacrifice made them unable to touch you so they destroyed the village instead in hopes to destroy you with it. But they did not succeed."

Angry tears track down her cheeks. "Who was it?"

"Evil wears more than one face. There are other evils beyond Voldemort, others who seek power and want to send the realm plunging into darkness. Sirius searched and we found no trace of those who destroyed your village. They will not return."

"How did it really happen?"

"Your village fought back and trapped them with magic. Nearly everyone escaped and scattered, except the elders who sacrificed themselves and burned with their enemies. Those beyond the spell fought with the centaurs in a gruesome battle that destroyed the herd. The very last was killed by Vasades before she found you."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because the burden of knowledge is one I will carry for you until it is your time. I do not keep secrets from you because I want to, I hate it, but I do this as your father, out of love and my duty to protect you and your brother."

"What protection does Harry need?"

"Far more, for he cannot truly live while another survives."

Hermione stands in the aviary, birds flying above her head in time with a melody she cannot hear.

There are dates written into the feathers.

"Touch one."

Hermione looks down at the sound of Vasades' voice but the person before her resembles Queen Narcissa. She is a work of art painted in this false reality, tiny flakes peel away from her cheek.

"How are you here?"

"She is but a fragment of your subconscious." The beautiful queen now stands before her. "But he is not."

Behind her stands Draco.

There are two of him. One is the king and warrior she knows, the other is a painted portrait without a frame. A broken boy who carries burdens and a sword too large for his small body. They stand side by side, watching, blending, becoming one in the same before her eyes. Parts of him are painted, parts are real.

Draco vanishes then reappears next to his mother, but his eyes stay on Hermione.

"Your anchor." Vasades sounds amused as the queen places a hand on her son's shoulder, still breaking like art exposed to the elements too long. "Tethered to you not only by fate, he keeps you from drifting by force of will. He refused to let you go."

Before Hermione can respond, Draco opens his hands.

Inside is a dove of peace.

Her finger grazes its wings, but this does not make her fall into a memory.

Odd.

Curiously, Hermione meets the gaze of her husband and instinctively reaches for him instead, touching his cheek first, then the side of his neck.

His skin is warm, pulse strong, eyes heavy.

"Draco," she murmurs. "We are connected, you and I."

He closes his eyes. "We are."

The world dissolves.

Hermione is in the room with her parents and Harry the night before she is set to leave for Wiltshire.

"You will not remember, but I must tell you." Her father looks grave and worn. "The tale of the three brothers is real. The wand, the stone, Harry's invisibility cloak. The Peverells are my ancestors."

Hermione tries to wrap her mind around the truth. "But—"

"The third brother was given the cloak of invisibility. They passed it from generation to generation, keeping it out of sight when Death calls. When Voldemort came for my grandparents, they used it to escape. Thinking they died and to cover his unwarranted genocide of the entire kingdom, he used cursed magic to charm the rain so people would forget—"

"I know this story. I tell it to my students."

"I taught you this story carefully so you would not be completely blind," Father says. "My family fled with the help of Vasades' herd, whose lands were in the forest surrounding the castle. They took the surname Potter to avoid suspicion, and purchased the land from King Abraxas, who remembered them. So long as the family paid tribute and sacrificed our eldest son to fight as a knight, he would keep the secret. My memories were altered in infancy to keep the secret. As were yours."

"How did you learn of this?" Hermione asks.

"Only death can break the spell," Father tells her sadly. "When I was in the field, your mother revived me and my memories returned."

"And Harry. Did you—"

"I touched a horcrux. A diadem Dumbledore sent us to find and destroy. It was the first. I did not die, but it was powerful enough to break the spell. I nearly perished in the fire from the shock of the spell ending. King Draco came back for me and we only narrowly escaped the flames."

"What?" Hermione shakes her head. "A horcrux?"

"Terribly dark magic." Father's haunted tone chills her. "Voldemort sought immortality. When the Flamel stone was destroyed, he found an option by committing horrible acts of murder to split his soul. He made seven horcruxes and gave one of each to his trusted, should anything happen to him."

"The king's grandfather supported Voldemort at first." Harry gets up and crosses the room to the window. "They received a diary."

"But the Malfoy Kingdom's allegiance changed when it was discovered that the second chosen one lived." Father looks pointedly at Harry. "Queen Narcissa, who is a distant cousin, was aware of this and kept silent, as she knew allying with Voldemort would compromise her son's future. She paid for her lie when King Lucius ruined himself trying to destroy the diary. He should not have, only those chosen can eradicate horcruxes, but like poor Regulus, he succeeded against all odds."

Hermione only knows vaguely of Lord Sirius' brother. A defected Voldemort follower who was given a hero's funeral. It happened before she was born, right before Father married Mother, but she remembers him telling stories about how Sirius stayed in his animagus form for months after the funeral.

"The war Draco wages is not about conquering the realm," Harry says with unfamiliar fierceness. "It is about eliminating those who protect these horcruxes. We were tasked by Dumbledore to destroy them, along with the hope of those who want Voldemort to rise again."

"How many are left?"

"One."

"The last one lives inside of Rodolphus," Hermione blurts out, still fresh from the memory. "The last horcrux possesses him."

"We know." Vasades' voice is odd coming from her mother's lips as they walk through the forest. "When Voldemort died from the rebounded spell, a piece of his soul was fractured from the rest. It was found next to his body. Stolen by his loyalists and fused to Rodolphus, it cannot survive forever and time is running out."

She looks down at the ground that moves with her, struggling and overwhelmed with all she has learned. "I was tortured because the truth was concealed from me."

"You would have been killed had it not been."

Hermione struggles with this truth. "Who am I?"

"You are exactly who you were before. A queen, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a survivor. Only now your eyes are open. I have been repairing your mind and now it is wholly your own."

"But all this talk of fate and entwining prophecy, I—"

"What the stars say about you is not all of who you are. You cannot worry about what is to come. You can only prepare for it by living, recovering, and filling the emptiness. You need to be whole to be ready. I am with you, whether at your side or not. There are others as well. Your loneliest place does not need to be within you."

Hermione looks at her mother's changing features. "When I was—when Bellatrix was—I heard a scream. I heard your voice."

"The scream was likely from your past. A memory you were too young to process."

"My birth mother?"

"Perhaps."

"And your voice? I swore I heard you the night before my summons. I swore I heard you again that night, too."

"Sometimes, I try to reach you to see if I can, but your mind is never open to the possibility. Always so stubborn." Vasades' chuckle makes Hermione smile. "But there are moments when your guard is low enough, when you are lonely and searching, that I can. If only for a second."

"That is—"

"I heard your plea to nature from miles away. It rippled through the trees, roared on the wind. You shook the earth, Hermione. I knew that I could reach you then."

"How?" Hermione asks. "We do not share the same bond as familiars."

"No, we do not, but we are connected. There is much about centaur magic that you know, but there is more that you do not. We cannot risk sharing it all for the safety of our kind. There will be more time to discuss, but for now, our journey ends here."

Mother turns to someone who stands in their path.

Draco.

He is bathed in contradiction: both darkness and light.

Hermione stops, unsure where to go.

"Keep walking." Vasades voice is but a whisper in her ear.

The world shifts with each step she takes towards Draco. Hermione looks back to find her mother gone.

Draco stands alone.

He grasps her hands, the warmth she remembers floods her senses as he pulls her close.

"I will stand in the flames with you."

Hermione does not know what he means until explosions begin without warning. But she does not jolt.

The ground turns to white molten lava. The blue sky darkens to black. Colour is eaten by flames that grow bolder and brighter.

Yet she feels no pain. Sounds pound her senses, but she feels no fear.

Hermione closes her eyes and holds his hands tight as everything swirls with an intensity she has never known.

Peace greets her in the chaos.

The world burns, but they do not.

Together, they stand, sentient and strong.

Chapter Text

Emotions wage war within Hermione.

Firenze's burning herbal blend does little to help. Clarity and nausea rise in tandem, but she keeps her eyes closed.

Inhale. Exhale.

She remembers she can. She is alive.

Hermione recalls more with each breath. Memories surface without confusion or fading awareness.

The truth is solid, as if it never was fleeting like wisps in the wind. This is overwhelming, humbling, and debilitating.

"We will move her back to the castle at nightfall," Vasades says from close by. "Hermione will need rest. She will cycle between sleeping and being awake as she continues to recover. Be sure she is not ever alone."

"Thank you, Vasades." Mother's voice is laden with affection. "For everything."

"I would do it a thousand times over. For her."

"I know," Father says. "Where will you be?"

"There are matters here I need to tend to for a few days. The king has come to an agreement with the elders and he has tasked me to remain behind to begin the process."

"I did not know you knew King Draco well enough for him to trust you with such a task."

"The king was a student of Firenze when he was younger. I was the one who told Queen Narcissa the truth about the choice she needed to make regarding her cursed condition; the price she would pay for her lie. I met Draco then, he was only a child, and when he slept at her side, I told her of his future. I knew she would not live to see it come to pass. It brought her peace. Understanding. Strength to continue the journey to her inevitable end."

"She knew about—"

"For years, Firenze and I shared visions of entwined prophecies. He saw Draco and the pain he was predestined to endure. What would happen to him, should he continue in the ways of his fathers. And I saw Hermione—before she was named. What would come to pass, should she ascend too early or die before taking her rightful place as queen. What would happen to you without her at your side, Harry."

"I would have died five times over," Harry says.

"Yes, and with that, Voldemort would have what he needed to gain dominion over all."

"I thought centaurs did not interfere with the wars of man." Harry sounds curious. "Firenze used to say that to interfere is to set yourself against the stars."

"There are always exceptions." Vasades pauses. The tap of her hooves as she paces the hut is faint. "We cannot survive if we hide in the forest, battling for lands in a world destined to burn without action. As the final hours of prophecy grow near, there is hope. More and more of my kind are rising instead of waiting for the fallout."

Silence settles for several heartbeats.

"Much has happened," Father says. "What do we do now?"

"We prepare for the coming war," Vasades says fiercely. "Voldemort is not gone. He will regroup and return. We all must be vigilant. The pieces of Hermione's memories that were broken during torture will likely be enough for him to make the connection to you, Harry."

"I will play my role." Harry speaks with the heaviness of prophecy on his shoulders.

"But only when the time is right."

"There is another matter we must speak of while the king is not here." Father lowers his voice. "Seventy heads line the palace walls, with more to come. Harry, reason with King Draco, if you can, before the dungeons are empty."

"I do not have the empathy required to argue with him on this, Father," Harry admits. "I lost it that night. I have seen the memories of some of the captured. So many dead and injured, like Sirius."

"He will recover fully," Vasades says. "Do not let your heart be blackened by the ash of the past."

"I will try, but right now, it is fresh. I am too raw for reason." Voice dark with anger, Harry breaks off for a tense moment. "They laughed while Hermione was being tortured—cheered when her heart stopped! They deserve the same mercy they showed my sister. None."

"Harry." Mother tries to temper him. "Have you rested?"

"As much as the king."

Vasades sighs. "Then not much at all."

There is a long pause.

"I cannot stop thinking about it," Harry says. "Voldemort possessing the old King Rodolphus' body after Hermione's touch turned his first host to dust. Goldstein said there is already talk amongst the soldiers who bore witness during battle. I would not believe the account myself, had I not seen Lady Daphne's memories. Hermione is strong, but I have never seen that kind of power."

"The only way Voldemort could inhabit another is if he is allowed," Vasades answers.

"As for Hermione's touch, love is not only a feeling, Harry, it is powerful magic," Father says. "Prince Neville is not the only one whose parents sacrificed their lives so their child might live. Hermione's birth parents did as well. Their actions marked her with a protective charm."

"I have never heard of such magic."

"The protection is not well known but also not uncommon in times of war. Those with this type of charm rarely see it in action."

"How did it work with her?" Harry asks.

"It is agony for evil to touch a person marked by something good," Mother says. "Love in its purest form is sacrificing everything, even when you know it will cost you your life."

"Did you know?"

"Yes. I knew." Father sounds tired.

His hand slips into hers. Hermione keeps very still, eyes closed and listening.

"It was the only thing that saved her from the destruction of her village," he continues. "I worry she will wake up a different person. I fear experiencing such evil will change her good heart."

"Our family did not ask for this fate." Harry's anger is palpable. "We were marked because we would not bend the knee to tyranny. She is a fighter. If given the choice, Hermione would do the same. Over and over, you and mother have tried to tell her, but the spell did not allow for it, just as the Vow made it impossible for us to remove it. In time, she will understand, just as I did when my block was lifted."

"It does not ease my guilt." Father squeezes her hand. She feels his teardrops on her knuckles. "I hate that she is learning so cruelly."

It is daylight.

Hermione is in her chambers, but the familiar medicinal herbs still fill the air.

Draco stands in the large window, tall and austere with a crown on his head. The bruises on his knuckles are as fresh as the smear of blood he rubs away from his jaw.

At his side, Astoria sighs.

"Will you air your grievances or will you continue to sigh?" he asks without looking.

She casually hands him a handkerchief. "I did not know you were dirtying your hands. You are a king, Draco, not an executioner. You are not a—"

"Tyrant?" He gives her a cold look. "I am merely making an example of the enemies that did not have the good sense to die in battle."

"Why are you here? It has been three days since you returned with her and still she sleeps."

"Why are you here?"

"Pansy asked me to keep her company while she continues the queen's duties in her absence, but I doubt I am someone she wishes to see."

Draco clenches his jaw. "Neither am I."

"Yet here you are. Just as you were during my bouts with my malediction." She looks at him. "You never care about those you feel nothing for. You never fight—at least, you never fight the way you do with her."

"What do you speak of?"

Astoria gives him a knowing look. "The guards outside the room heard your argument before the attack."

Draco's silence rings odd to Hermione, but she keeps still, watching the scene unfold.

"It does not matter what I feel," he eventually says. "She wants nothing from me."

"It matters. But this is also your fault. You pushed her away." Astoria smooths down the front of her blue gown. "Who counselled you, Draco?"

"Snape told me to keep my distance or she will be marked by my enemies. It seemed wise at the time, given the many threats on my life."

"He is a damn fool, and so are you for listening to him. I suggested that you give her time, yes, but not to protect her too much. I told you to allow her to learn, to get stronger. On our walks, I encouraged you to talk to her. I did not expect you to be a coward who would rather seal her behind stone than face your own fear. I know you think of what happened with your mother—"

"My mother's death has nothing to do with this."

"It does and you know it, Draco," Astoria argues. She quietly adds, "You must know it was not your fault."

"My mistakes and failings have been thrown in my face repeatedly. I—" Draco lowers his head and cards a rough hand through his hair. "I will speak no more of this."

"Your ability to detach from your emotions does not work with her. Fascinating. Let this be your reckoning. It was your rejection that created Millicent, who terrorised your friends, family, and subjects for the attention you never paid her. Do not let history repeat itself."

Hermione startles awake.

Twisting with fresh nightmares tormenting her, she tries to cry out or fight but cannot do either.

There is a monstrous dog at her side. With fur as black as night and fire red eyes, its razor sharp teeth glint in the light. Translucent, it vanishes before her eyes.

Hermione catches her breath.

Then notices Andromeda approaching the side of her bed. She looks exactly like the terror in her mind.

Only different.

Softer.

Her touch is kind rather than cruel. "Hello again, Queen Hermione."

"T-the hound."

"Ah, you can see it?" At her slight, quivering nod, the woman rests a hand on her leg. "It will not hurt you. I will explain later."

"Where—"

"Relax. Your emotions are wild and suffocating. Breathe."

Hermione does, turning to look for a familiar face. She finds Daphne asleep next to her.

And others.

Luna sits at the end of the bed with Ginny. Both leaning on each other. Pansy is on a bench on the other side of the bed, fast asleep, neck bent uncomfortably. Cho's head is on her lap. Her fingers are laced with Daphne's.

They are holding vigil.

"Rest," Andromeda says.

Gentle fingers guide Hermione back, hushing her with more drink to heal her damaged mind and body. The rhythmic beating of wings nearby soothes her. Just before she drifts off, she hears the older witch again.

"Your friends are never far."

Seeing her parents with all her memories intact is harder than Hermione expects.

They are as mournful as she is conflicted.

The shock of her mind filling in the empty spaces has not passed. She fakes being asleep while her parents talk.

"I do not think it wise to leave just yet," Mother whispers.

"There is no telling where they will go," Father says. "They know our identity. Dumbledore thinks they will gather their forces and come for us."

"All the more reason to remain."

"We are too concentrated and our absence runs the risk of endangering the lives of everyone in the duchy." Harry is a third voice Hermione does not expect. "We need soldiers patrolling in every town in the kingdom. Father, can the duchy spare any?"

"We can but we must go back. We have been gone far longer than anticipated. There is much to do at home. First, we must fortify the town's wards, then our estate's. The Unspeakables will assist in concealing the duchy's location and the surrounding forest with magic. The duchy has enough goods for us to not rely on trade and the king has suspended our family's tribute."

"I do not feel comfortable leaving Hermione." Mother sounds sad. "It has been nearly a week and she is still not herself."

"She will be safe here."

"How do we know? She nearly died." Mother's inhale is sharp. "The king cannot keep watch as he does now with Death Eaters being spotted all over the kingdom during their retreat. I cannot leave the elves to clean her and her Ladies to care for her yet. Not without her knowing how much we love her."

Love has never been a question.

Sometimes in love one must make hard choices. Hermione understands this, yet the truth is still too fresh and difficult to process. But that does not stop her from opening her eyes and squeezing her mother's warm hand in hers.

"I love you, too," she whispers.

Mother's tear-filled eyes are all she sees before darkness returns.

Hermione wakes to the swish of wind as Kaida flies closer than normal, startling Astoria by the window.

Gasping, she clutches her chest. "I thought she left."

"She circles the castle, day in and day out." Draco's voice is at her side. She opens her eyes to mere slits, seeing little but hearing everything. "She rarely eats and sleeps less."

"How long can Kaida last?"

"As long as she needs to."

"Is she communicating with you?"

"Her normal insults and chiding."

"Did she—"

"The rumours are true," Draco interjects with a tired sigh. "Kaida went to her aid. I do not know how she summoned Potter's hippogriff or the other winged beasts, but they found her from the sky while we were searching on land."

Silence returns long enough for Hermione to begin drifting off. Just as she does, a tentative hand covers hers. The touch is so quick it startles her. When it returns, like the current of the ocean, Hermione's heartbeats double.

"Kaida torched every Death Eater on the river's edge and burned down over a third of the forest in a rage I did not want to stop." His words earn him a shocked glare from Astoria. "The centaurs were livid at the destruction, but Firenze has tempered their ire with our offerings of restitution. I gave them the untouched forest lands my forefathers refused to relinquish. In good faith. And for their alliance."

"A bold decision."

"I need them on my side for the coming fight."

Astoria sighs. "It seems your rage has finally ebbed."

"I assure you, it has not." Draco's hand leaves Hermione's. "I have merely run out of heads."

"Except one."

"She must live."

"All this fury for Queen Hermione," Astoria tsks. "It is curious for many reasons."

"How so?"

"I do not disagree with your lack of mercy. I am more curious about Kaida. Her interests have only ever pertained to herself and keeping you alive. How is it that she acquired your dragon's favour when your familiar can barely stand you?"

"You are jealous."

"Not of her, but…" She huffs in annoyance. "Kaida has hated me for years. I have done everything except bribe her, yet Hermione arrives and your dragon is suddenly fond of her?"

"She saved us both from poisoned arrows and has been healing Kaida's wing tears for a month or so. She has been entertaining her with stories, with no ulterior motive. They bonded quickly and without my intervention."

"And when Hermione lay dying—"

"She gave up a heartstring in sorrow."

Astoria gasps sharply. "You allowed that bond to exist?"

"I was not given an option." Draco pauses, a small sound escaping him. "The only time I thought to interfere, Kaida dumped me into the sea. Like my sister, she berates me constantly about the distance I keep from someone I chose to wed… Never mind."

Astoria stares as if he has gone mad but eventually softens. "Now that I am looking, I see it clearly."

"See what?"

"I am conflicted. As your friend, I should remind you of what matters: the war, avenging your parents, your goals. I should tell you to stay focused until you can secure your rule with an heir. But as someone who once loved you, I should be envious that I was not enough."

Draco sighs. "Astoria—"

"I know." She smiles sadly. "Just as I am happy with my choice to leave heartbreak behind with Theo, I am happy that someone has finally rattled you… even if it is her."

"I am not rattled." Draco's petulance sparks amusement in Hermione, but the odd quality of his voice after dims the light. "We agreed to terms, freedoms, and nothing more. It is impractical—"

"As king, you needed a compliant queen for stability," she recites. "Likeable and loyal. Easy to please with negotiated freedoms. These are your words, not mine."

Kaida makes another swooping appearance.

"I slept better on the battlefield," Draco admits. "At least there I knew exactly where to find the threat. Can you blame me for wanting different in a wife?"

"No. If anything, I am happy you have realised this. Your mistake was in underestimating both yourself and her. I do not care for your choice. I never have. Queen Hermione and I share a mutual distaste we do not bother to hide."

"I am aware," he says dryly.

"However, any woman capable of answering your questions and not backing down with your wand pointed at her, any woman who shows such strength of character against your advisors and you will never be docile enough to fit your ridiculous requirements."

"I am practical."

"And yet you made the most impractical choice in a wife." A small smile appears on Astoria's face. "You saw her in Potter's memories, more when his mind was clear of his family's block. You were curious when she was never presented to Court, and after two more failures, you eliminated the exemption and took a chance. Luckily, she answered your questions."

"Asto—"

"You wanted your enemies to think she is insignificant and does not matter, when the truth is she does—not only because she wears a crown but also to—"

"Enough." Draco takes a deep breath. "That is enough. You may go."

Astoria shakes her head and steps back. "Tragedy has made you a coward, Draco. If you do not face your fears, if you do not face yourself, it will not matter how many battles you win. You will always lose this war."

Hermione groans and tries to sit up.

Pansy is at her side. "Thank Merlin!"

She calls out, and everyone except the king comes.

Hermione doesn't think much of it as Pansy sits her up and steps back to let them work. Firenze checks her mind and declares the worst is over, but more needs to be done to seal the fissures in her mind and body. Healers check her for signs of long-term damage but find nothing irreparable. They are confident she will continue to heal. Vasades notes her need for ongoing recovery, which requires mental rest and less stress.

Andromeda lingers by the door while the others work, remaining behind as they leave. Vasades stays, and when the king's aunt approaches, she looks to the centauride for permission.

It is given with a nod.

"May I have a word, Your Highness?"

"You may."

Andromeda laces her hands together. "Do you recall much of what you saw in your previous state? Perhaps a dog?"

"I do. You told me—"

"A dog?" Vasades is interested, but instead of asking Hermione, she turns to Andromeda. "The Grim?"

The woman gives a solemn nod.

Hermione looks between them, growing panicked as realisation dawns. "The Grim is the Bearer of Death, said to bring about the demise of the person who sees it three times. Does that mean—"

"No, Your Majesty." Andromeda shakes her head, appearing almost humoured. "They are not always a sign of imminent death. That is a story told to children so they behave."

"Then why did I see it?"

"We are all fated to die—the time and hour are predetermined. Hellhounds, or what you know as The Grim, spawn when a person sees Death outside of the natural order. Like you did."

Vasades stands beside Andromeda. The two exchange a look before the centauride speaks. "Until it is time to rightly reap your soul, you are in the hound's charge. You may occasionally see it from the corner of your eye. If you are ever in imminent danger, it will become corporeal to warn you. In dire cases, it may even protect you."

Hermione struggles to digest this. "H-how do you know?"

"I can see every beast that lingers in the forests, even when you cannot. I know when danger is near." Vasades glances out the window. "Another hound lurks in the forest close to the palace."

"My nephew earned his too early in life," Andromeda says mournfully. "But that is his story to tell, not mine. I cannot see them myself, but as an empath I can feel when they are near. Yours is. It will likely remain so until you fully recover."

Hermione's eyes widen. "An empath? You can sense my emotions?"

"Among other things." Andromeda sits on the edge of the bed. It stirs a memory from one of Hermione's waking moments. "I cannot stand life in the palace, it is much too intense for me, but it is hard to deny my only nephew's request."

Hermione does not know how to feel, much less what to say. Instead, she remains silent.

"If you allow me, I would like to look," Andromeda says.

"Why?"

She takes Hermione's hand and looks deep into her eyes. They are much kinder than the face in her nightmares.

"Hermione."

Outside of family, it is the first time she has heard her name spoken with such care. The moment arrests her soul. All the conflicting emotions and secret feelings she cannot express—everything settles.

Calms.

True peace brings tears to her eyes.

"Your wounds are not entirely physical or mental." Andromeda touches her face.

Hermione closes her eyes, leaning into the contact.

A kindness she craves.

A touch she is desperate for.

"Oh, my love." She sounds as shaken as she looks. "You are healed, but there are struggles ahead as you begin to cope with all that has happened and all you have learned. The body and mind do not forget so easily. And neither does the heart."

The sound of Vasades' hooves on the floor startles her from the warmth of Andromeda's presence. A familiar hand slips into hers, and Hermione locks eyes with her oldest friend.

"She speaks the truth." Vasades smiles sadly. "You have been to the darkness but you have not quite found the light. You have not yet unlocked your true potential."

"I do not wish to return in order to learn."

"Place your hand in mine." Andromeda tells her. "Do not be afraid."

Hermione hesitates, nerves rising when tears slip down the woman's cheek. As if it burns, she abruptly releases her hand, turns away, and dabs her eyes, calming her shaky breath.

"What did you see?" Hermione has to know if what she feels is real and not conjured by her own pride.

"There is only so much loneliness a person can take before it depletes the spirit. You have been tortured, hunted, pierced by my sister's dagger, and put back together, but your heart still bleeds. Even now, your misery is loud."

Hermione breaks.

Unravelling.

Shattering into pieces, she sobs in the arms of a relative stranger until she is exhausted.

"You must not suppress your emotions." Andromeda strokes her hair; a concerned Vasades holds her other hand. "If you are tired, rest. If you are sad, find happiness, even if you have to create it. When you are lonely, reach out. There are those who will answer, some you may not expect. Like my nephew."

"I—"

"You are a queen, but you are also a woman with wants, needs, and desires. You give and give until there is nothing left." Andromeda looks into her eyes. "Loneliness is a fatal disease if left untreated. It is already killing you."

There is a knock on the door before Harry enters, smiling in relief upon seeing her.

"I heard you were awake and—" He stops, concern etching his brow. "What is the matter?"

"She will be fine, Harry. This is recovery."

Andromeda's smile is the last she sees before Harry swallows her in a hug. She returns it just as tight, tucking her face into her brother's neck.

Not long after, Harry leaves to find Ginny and her Ladies to update them on her condition. Winky levitates her to the bath while other elves change her sheets and clean her room.

She cannot help during this. Her body is sore and stiff from lying down for so long, but Winky is careful and kind. The elf is unable to stop weeping over the fact that she lives.

Hermione wants to weep as well when Winky is done. The feeling of being clean is indescribable. When she is dressed and back in bed, Andromeda brushes her wet hair, careful with the tangles. She dries it with magic while Vasades replaces the herbs in the smoking bowl above her bed.

The doors to her chambers open and Draco enters. His command is wordless.

Winky vanishes with the snap of her fingers, as do the other elves cleaning her chambers. They leave the window open. Both Andromeda and Vasades leave after bowing, but not before the former gives Draco a long look that speaks volumes Hermione cannot interpret.

"Patience, love." She smiles at her nephew. "You deserve more than you believe. Set your own course without fear. Choose the unknown and become the man you were destined to be."

Once they are alone, Draco remains by the door, jaw tight, stance rigid, and expression hard as if he struggles with his aunt's words.

Hermione looks down at her hands.

The clip of his shoes echoes as he approaches. "The Healers say that you are to limit your activities in order to fully recover."

"Yes."

Draco sits in the empty chair beside her bed and she studies the tired eyes of a man who carries far too much weight. He is the source of her anger, yet his determination is the reason she still draws breath. She tries to separate the man who hurt her from the man who saved her, the one who anchored her, who burned with her.

But she cannot.

They are the same.

"Perhaps I should not be here," Draco says. "I should be with my knights, hunting all who escaped."

"Bellatrix?"

"Blinded but not dead. Imprisoned. She is the only one who remains in the dungeons."

Draco offers her a water goblet. Hermione accepts it with trembling hands, but her grip is weak. Before spilling it everywhere, he takes it back and helps her sit up, moving to the edge of the bed and guiding the cup to her lips. It is refreshing, but Draco does not allow Hermione to quench her thirst. She understands why when her stomach rolls.

"How?" she asks after a quiet moment.

"Potter's hippogriff carried her off and pecked her eyes from her skull. She was found at daybreak wandering in the forest."

"And Voldemort?"

"Escaped with his new host, Rodolphus. Rabastan is with his brother at long last." His expression tightens. "I suspected my uncle of treachery, but I did not know it was so extensive. Voldemort's ranks have suffered greatly. Over a hundred of his followers lay dead in the forests, whether by magic or dragon fire. The ones captured were executed. He will go into hiding to recover and recruit."

"I think I fear that more."

"What did my aunt say to you?"

Shifting uncomfortably, the answer is not one she wants to voice.

Hermione feels him at the rebuilt doorway of her mind. This time, she does not fight the intrusion.

She shows him everything.

From the beginning to now. What she has seen and heard. All she knows.

Hermione is too tired to hide.

He must know her entirely.

Draco withdraws, red in the face and gasping at a phantom wound, as shaken as she feels. But then he wills the emotional turbulence away.

"You should rest," he finally says.

Hermione's racing heart renders her dizzy.

Draco stands to leave. Something shifts. Twists. Hermione considers letting him go, but—

"Wait," she says before she can reason her way out of it.

She stands poised on the cliff of a choice.

She can either continue down this road of loneliness, letting her feelings eat her up and change her into a person she is not.

Or she can take a different path.

Draco stands silent beside her bed, waiting for her to speak.

The choice is not easy, but Hermione has been through torture, pain, darkness, and fire. More than tired, she is weary and raw. It leaves her vulnerable in ways her stubbornness has never allowed.

Being dragged back from the brink of death has allowed her to see life.

Andromeda is right. Hermione can endure. She knows how, but she no longer wants to do this alone.

The shedding of her pride starts with acknowledging how she feels. "I have been angry with you. Lonely and miserab—"

"I meant what I said when I found you."

I am a fool.

Hermione is momentarily speechless at his words.

Draco exhales, rubbing his temple and looking slightly embarrassed. "Perhaps this conversation can wait until you are fully healed."

"We have waited long enough." She looks down at her hands then back at him. "I heard everything you said while drifting. I saw you in my mind. Felt you at my side. I need—no, I will invoke one of my terms."

The words stop Draco cold. "Very well."

"I wish to make an amendment."

"What is it?"

"I want honesty," Hermione confesses, feeling her face flush with warmth. "One conversation where we do not hide what we think or feel. You owe me this."

Draco tenses and looks towards the window. "Very well."

Hermione builds her resolve before shedding all her layers until she feels bare, vulnerable. "You and I have drawn terms and freedoms, but I no longer wish for any of it."

Hints of pain vanish as he squares his shoulders. "I will leave you t—"

"I am not dismissing you." Hermione grows bolder with each passing second. "We are bound, not only by marriage, but by forces that are bigger than the sky and deeper than the sea. Prophecy, fate, destiny—yet none of that matters to me."

"I care not for the stars."

"Neither do I." The corners of her lips quirk at the memory of him saying this to Harry. "Perhaps we are destined in that regard as well. The stars do not shape my needs nor my wishes. I do. And I desire… more."

Draco still looks guarded. "What does that mean?"

"I want you."

Three words root him to the spot. "I am many things you do not like."

"You are right, but there is more to you. I have seen it for myself. This marriage can be more than emptiness. It can be real."

He looks torn. "I have never had such an offer."

"And I have never made such a request. I answered your questions, I accepted your hand, but perhaps I need to accept you." Hermione's voice dips. "I have always been curious about you. Not only as a king, but… as a man."

"You want… me?"

She has never heard him sound so uncertain. "I do. As you are. But I do not know what you want."

"I want…" Draco stares at her for what feels like an eternity before he looks down. "I am not sure how to do this."

"Take my hand." She offers it shakily. "Choose me."

It is easy in its complexity.

Full of uncertainty, he takes off his crown, places it on her bedside table, and does as she requests. Slowly. Sitting on the bed, his gaze does not stray from her. Hermione settles back against the pillow and Draco follows, turning on his side.

"And then what?" he whispers.

"We look for more." Hermione tentatively seeks his lips and finds them soft and pliant against hers. "Does it exist?"

His wall of resistance crumbles on an exhale. "Yes."

"Tell me."

His next touch is soft, like he is equally afraid of her and himself. "I kept my distance and it angered you, but when we are together, I hurt you more."

"Keeping your distance did not work."

"I know." Pain reflects in his eyes. "Forgive me."

"I did when you burned with me." Her lips brush against his. Anticipation tingles her senses as she waits with bated breath for much-needed affirmation.

"There has been this pull," Draco quietly confesses. "First from Potter's memories, then the field. I felt it when I saw you at Court. Then I was certain it was not my imagination when you answered my first question. Madness, I know."

She remembers the beginning. Their creation. "Perhaps not."

"I was sure of my choice, but I have never been sure about you. Aside from anger and jealousy, I was not certain that you wanted anything from a king you never intended to marry before the circumstances forced it."

Hermione pauses. "I was never quiet about my displeasure at being chosen."

"No, you were not."

"But you must understand my life was changing beyond my control."

"I do understand. I was no different when I became king. I hated the crown when it was placed on my head." His eyes soften for a moment, but his voice is thick with resolve. "There are enemies all around me. There always have been. I am the last in a line of tyrants. When I became king, I knew what I needed to do. I needed vengeance for my mother and to finish this task so I may be free. I want to eliminate the threat against the realm and the threat against my crown."

Hermione's eyes narrow. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you should know that I forgot all of that when you were taken." Draco struggles but closes his eyes as if he cannot look at her while baring his soul. "It is only through your demand for honesty that I can confess—I am torn between what I know and what I want. Duty and distance. Or desire and you."

His admission is far more than she expects.

The wall between them has collapsed and she sees him clearly.

"I am tired of feeling like this." Anger edges Draco's voice. "Trapped by you. Wanting you. Only you. Always you."

He looks ready to flee to avoid her response, but he does not. They remain connected by their threaded fingers.

By their touching foreheads.

By their beating hearts.

"You are not alone," Hermione says. "These feelings threaten to suffocate and swallow me whole, too. But let us not hide from them. Stay with me and I will stay with you. Build your trust in me, just as I will build my trust in you."

Draco searches her face just as intensely as she does his. Sincere sentiments are all she finds.

Unadulterated truth.

Darkness.

Passion.

Hermione wants it all.

The shift from effort to surrender takes one breath.

Lips touch once in agreement, then again in invitation. Each kiss grows more demanding.

But she does not yield.

Despite her exhaustion, despite her body's discomfort, Hermione gives back everything she can. She is as parched for him as he is for her. Something rough breaks free between them, and her ache of need is met with bitten lips. Her sharp gasp at the stab of pain makes Draco pull back and shake his head, guilt casting shadows over his face.

"Why did you stop?" Hermione leans in, but he turns his head. "I—"

"I do not know how to want you without gorging, without consuming."

"Then learn."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The palace dungeons are eerie and expansive. They feel endless.

Hermione shudders as they pass one empty cell after the next.

This is no place for a queen, everyone argued, but she needs to face the woman who wormed into her nightmares, her memories, her subconscious.

Hermione deserves closure.

Harry and Theo advised against it. When Snape called her insolent for her intrusion and Mulciber agreed, for the first time, Draco looked to her.

Asked her.

Hermione confirmed her request, and he relented—as long as he accompanied her.

Harry trails behind, walking with Astoria at his side.

Everything is muted. The crash of waves against rock is faint, a cruel reminder of a world those within these walls will never see again. Empty cells speak of prisoners who do not remain in these damp cells for long before judgement comes for them, swift and merciless.

Light seeping through small windows makes the dungeon feel more like a tomb. Spiders spin their webs on the walls. Wet patches are scattered on the rough stone floor. Water drips without rhythm from the arched ceilings, trailing down the walls, but their torches remain dry. Guards are stationed on their route; they stand at attention when the king and queen pass.

At the end of a corridor, Goldstein and Goyle wait with their wands drawn.

Fear rolls off them in waves. She understands why when she reaches them.

Bellatrix is a gruesome sight in the centre of her cell. Her black hair is wild, and bloody sockets rim where eyes once were. Blood rings her smiling lips, staining her teeth and coating her chin down to the rags she wears. Secured to the wall, the gold binds on her wrists keep her hands stretched out. At her feet is the body of a guard, deathly pale, eyes open, throat torn out, and head turned in an unnatural position.

Blood is everywhere.

Hermione feels sick.

Bellatrix's head snaps to them. "Is that you, Draco?"

He does not answer, only signals the knights to remove the dead guard's body. After levitating the corpse out of her open cell, Astoria snaps her fingers. Two house-elves appear and Vanish with his body. They know what to do.

Harry gives Draco a vial. Draco says nothing as he steps inside his aunt's cell. Harry's hand is firm on Hermione's shoulder, stopping her from doing the same.

"It is you. Weak and pathetic, just like when you were a child." Her hollow smile grows. "You should have come when I called. Now there is more blood on your hands."

He steps closer.

"Darling, nephew." It is as if she can feel his presence. "You should speak now or—"

"Or what?" Draco moves with precision. His wand is at her throat, digging into her flesh. He uncorks a vial and forces the contents into her mouth. "Oscausi."

Her mouth is replaced by smooth skin.

Bellatrix's throat bobs on a gag until she is forced to swallow.

"I do not care for your taunts." Draco watches her fight against her binds; his detachment borders on numbness. "I want answers."

It is dreadfully silent. Astoria whispers to avert her eyes, but Hermione does not. She watches her tormentor suffer, knowing she should feel something other than a remorseless sense of justice. But she does not. The fight Bellatrix puts up begins to dwindle until she loses it altogether.

Draco crushes the vial under his foot and reverses the spell.

Her mouth returns, but she coughs so much she cannot speak.

"What is your name?" He returns his wand to her throat. "Do not fight the Veritaserum, it will be painful."

"Bellatrix Lestrange." Her voice is drawn out with force, every word fighting against her will. Her following scream echoes in the dungeon.

Goldstein and Goyle still have their wands drawn. Harry remains a firm presence at her back. His hand sits heavy on her shoulder, ready to pull her away at the slightest provocation.

"Good." Draco brings his wand to her neck. "Where is your master?"

She tenses and strains against the potion, but that crazed smile returns, chilling Hermione to the bone. "My Master is here and there. Everywhere. He comes for those he has marked."

Hermione looks over her shoulder; Harry looks grim. She covers his hand.

"After trying to kill them before they drew breath, why does he want them now?" Draco asks.

"His blood will give my master true life. A new age is upon us. The Dark Lord will rise and rule. Those who stand against him will fall."

The sentiment comes out strong because this is her belief.

The potion cannot combat her truth. But she said—

His.

His blood?

There are two marked families.

Draco realises this, too. "Why do you need the Lost Chosen One?"

"The Longbottom prince is protected by his mother's pitiful sacrifice."

Astoria's inhale is so quiet Hermione barely registers it, but she feels tension rolling off Harry. From fear or anger, she does not know which.

"It is not too late to turn from your path," Bellatrix tells him. "Your heart is grey, neither dark nor light. You care nothing about this realm. The Dark Lord has power beyond your understanding. He can bring your mother back, Draco. Give you what you desire. All you have to do is kneel."

Draco's shoulders tense. Hermione cannot see his face when he lowers his wand.

Is he listening to her rhetoric?

Her nerves spike.

The seconds tick on and a palpable darkness settles over the cell.

"That is not the way, Draco," Astoria says. "She lies."

"How can I lie when I speak only the truth?" Bellatrix retorts. "Who are you to speak his given name?"

Astoria steps back.

Harry does not. "It is the truth you believe. It does not make it true."

"Who are you?" Bellatrix sounds interested. "I do not know your voice."

"And you will not."

Hermione wonders what Draco is thinking. He has not moved.

When his gaze shifts, eyes dimming, turning fierce and cold, she knows what is on his mind. She is reminded of Flint's words. The darkness the Malfoys use to gain, keep, and wield power. His ambition. The lure is strong, and the temptation to use and abuse this power is unmatched.

Like life and death, there are no permanent victories or defeats.

What Bellatrix speaks of is dark and twisted. But what will Draco give up to get what he wants?

His eyes answer when he does not.

Everything.

"With your Mudblood queen dead, you—"

"No." Hermione's voice makes Bellatrix's deranged grin falter. She knows she should remain silent, but she cannot. She takes a step closer, just beyond Harry's reach. "Despite your attempts, I am very much alive."

"How unfortunate."

Speaking to the source of her nightmares fills her body to the brim with strength. She stands straighter. The collision of dreams and reality might have stripped her naivety away and left residual darkness that wakes her each night, but she feels there is purpose in what has happened.

Bellatrix is bound and blind, but Hermione understands her terrors for what they are.

Nothing to fear, nothing to wish away. Her experience is a part of her, but is not her identity.

Fire and blood, fear and pain have torn Hermione's eyes open, but she is not jaded by what she sees. The world under this new lens is still teeming with colours and beauty, but it also has shades of grey and darkness.

They coexist.

As will she.

"When I tore your mind apart, I should have made certain you remained broken."

Hermione takes another step. "I might have cried and begged for death, but I was never broken."

"Your will is strong."

"As is his." Hermione cuts her eyes to Draco, locking him in her stare. "We are born, we live, and we die. Any change will not only disrupt the natural order, but it will dishonour her sacrifice. You know this. Do not let your mind be swayed."

The air of darkness around Draco begins to thin. He returns his wand to his aunt's throat.

"You should kill me." Dried blood around her mouth makes her look especially maniacal. "You cannot read my thoughts, and I will never give them unaltered. Let me live and you will never be free."

"Neither will you," Draco threatens, low and angry.

"No." Hermione's lone word draws his attention. "Death is a liberation she does not deserve."

He tilts his head. "And what justice would you exact?"

"I would allow her to live."

"You are weak." Bellatrix spits on the bottom of Hermione's gown, already dirtied by the dungeons. "I would have suffocated your mother if I knew she would birth a coward like you who shames our family, allies with our enemies, and pollutes our bloodline with filth from—"

"One more word and you will lose your mouth forever." Draco digs his wand into her throat.

Bellatrix falls silent.

"You both need to step away from her," Harry warns.

They do, approaching Harry and Astoria, standing side by side.

"Shall we send word to prepare the Dementor?" Astoria asks Draco. "This can be finished by dusk."

"Ye—"

"Wait," Hermione implores. "Killing does not solve everything."

"She would not show any of us the same mercy you are trying to extend," Astoria argues. "She tortured you, nearly killed you, and yet you remain naïve and kind, foolishly asking the king to grant clemency."

"I am not asking for clemency." Frenetic with both anger and a need to be heard, Hermione turns to Draco. "You said you would listen to my opinion before ruling. Killing Bellatrix is not the answer. She will die believing she is a martyr for her cause, to her King, as will others who follow his lead and fight in his name."

"And what would you do?"

"Let her live, but not as who she is now. Strip her of the identity she prides, the hate she clings to." Hermione looks at the bound woman. "You cannot change her heart, but you can restart her mind. Obliviate her."

Bellatrix hears this and begins to fight against her bounds, screaming and thrashing about.

No, you coward! Do not listen to that swine! Kill me! You must!

Draco stares at Hermione, eyes hard and focused until he squares his shoulders. "Very well."

Astoria's eyes widen, as do Harry's.

For the first time, real fear wafts off of Bellatrix.

She pleads, begs, and screams.

Hermione's heart settles.

This is justice.

The movement of his wand is swift and precise.

"Obliviate!"

Days pass.

Then one week.

Two.

The palace remains in a state of constant vigilance.

Regiments expand the search for Voldemort and his followers deeper into the kingdom. Every town and village is searched; people are questioned. Clues all lead to dead ends.

In the castle, the poisoning attempt is at the forefront of everyone's thoughts. There have been no further incidents, but Hermione pays close attention to everything, even as she plays along, letting elves taste her food and drink.

Court returns to normal.

The knights remain close to the palace; guards remain close to Hermione.

On the king's command.

They do not speak, but guard the door outside the room where she has Court lessons with Pansy and Astoria, renewed by her sudden urge to learn from the former and break the stalemate with the latter. They are on defence when she visits Andromeda before her return home with her Obliviated and blinded sister.

"I will care for her, teach her to be a better person, and make certain the darkness does not return."

"This is not mercy." Hermione sweeps hair from Bellatrix's face. It earns her a rotted smile. "Redemption is her punishment."

Hermione has a break from her guards when she attends to duties with Draco. He permits her to join a council meeting, and her appearance is met with quiet disdain from the usual, questioning looks from Flint and Snape, smirks from Smith and Nott, and approval from Percy and Sirius.

The meeting is tense but informative. She learns more about the hunt for Voldemort and his allies, and the extent of Rabastan's betrayal. He is the one who provided Queen Katie with the poisoned necklace and masked the presence of the Death Eaters in the forest. He is also behind the intensifying issues with Inferi sightings and guards vanishing from their posts around town.

Following, she walks the palace gardens with Vasades while Draco watches from his usual spot on the veranda, guards on either side.

Firenze joins them at nightfall.

"Vasades and I are set to leave in the morning," he announces.

Hermione falters. "What? Why?"

"There are mysterious changes in the forests all over the realm due to Voldemort's allies forming pacts with werewolf packs and at least two giant percussions," Vasades tells her. "It worries those who are neutral."

"We have been tasked with stopping the spread of fear to other species," Firenze adds.

"How long?"

"As long as it takes." Vasades places a hand on her shoulder. "Remember our paths. We may part, but we always find our way back to one another."

"I will miss you."

"And I, you." They stop and face each other. She dries Hermione's tears before they can fall. "I would not leave if I did not think you were strong enough to bear my absence. You have family, you have a king who is learning. You have friends in the sky, in the Court, and in the trees." She gives an affectionate glance at the bowtruckles running across the branches behind them. "Be not afraid."

"Will there ever be a time when you stay?"

Vasades smiles. "Near or far, my destiny is at your side."

This settles her discontent.

Firenze clears his throat. "I hear you have questions, Your Majesty."

"I do."

Firenze is a wealth of information—not only about the history of the kingdom she rules, but also the family she has married into.

"Did you know the king's parents?"

"I did. Their love was strong, true, but love can corrupt. However, as I told Draco when he started down this lonely path of his—without love, we are nothing."

Hermione looks down. "Thank you, Firenze."

"Ah, but you have something else on your mind."

She looks at him. "Can you hear my thoughts?"

"No, but I can tell there is more you wish to know."

"Am I ready to learn to conceal my thoughts?"

"You are," he replies. "Draco has decided to teach you himself. In the way he taught your brother."

Nerves grow at the prospect of lessons, but she cannot tell if they are from excitement or dread. "Draco can still hear my thoughts."

"And he will continue to, even after you learn, however softly. You and the king are bound down to the core of your souls."

"What does this mean?"

"You two are not broken pieces of one soul. You are two souls tethered and locked in the other's orbit. The pull has been there long before you knew of the other's existence. There are benefits in this, skills that are amplified but only as it pertains to the other."

"Draco's Legilimency and my—I have no similar skill."

"Ah, but you do," Firenze says. "Light and life. You will see."

"Is this how I was able to bond so quickly with Kaida?"

"Perhaps. Familiars are a beneficial flaw in the design of mankind. A manifestation created from the dust of magic to bind to an incomplete soul. They may be born of magic, but they have as much free will as any beast."

Hermione has held her next question as long as she can. "What do the stars say of Draco?"

Firenze chuckles deeply. "Vasades says you do not care for vague language of the heavens."

She looks to the cloudy sky, heavy with impending rain that will hide the stars tonight. "I care for things I can prove, but I feel this is something I need to know to understand our journey as king and queen, man and woman."

"Then follow me, Queen Hermione."

The sound of Firenze's hooves on the grass is all she hears as she walks with him. Vasades remains behind. When he stops well out of earshot, she does as well. They stand and watch fairies frolic above the trees.

"Humans are tethered by the limitations set by your kind." Firenze looks at her. "When you look to the stars, what do you see?"

"Guidance to true North and constellations that tell lessons of death and sacrifice."

"Typical." His voice is calming like the ocean, as deep as one of its many trenches. "You see what you were shown, remember what you are taught, but I can see both the potential and the infinite."

Instead of the skies, his words settle and soothe her spirit. They sound no different from what Vasades has told her all these years, but with her memories unlocked, they hold something new. Destiny and prophecy, things she cannot understand. For once, her mind is open to listen.

"Vasades has told me since I was young that I am the mother of constellations."

"You are." His bright blue eyes twinkle. "But you are also more."

Firenze opens his hand, revealing a collection of herbs. They levitate in the palm of his hand before they catch fire with magic and burn. Grey smoke curls and twists in the air.

She inhales and exhales.

A foreign feeling grows and intensifies.

Hermione sways on her feet as the skies open and she sees.

The heavens are vast, burning stars move about the sky, twisting and turning to tell the stories that give birth to legends. From beginning to end, the vast to the miniscule; taking it all in is almost too much, but Hermione cannot look away.

"Who am I?" Hermione whispers.

You are the product of destiny. The daughter of deliberate reason. The mother of change. Common-born, but you have never been insignificant.

Firenze sounds both far away and near. His voice is but a ripple in the expanse of the universe.

You are wisdom and kindness, forgiveness and absolution, intelligence and strength. But also judgement and justice, anger and wrath.

Tears run down Hermione's cheeks as emotions rise in her chest. Firenze lays a hand on her shoulder; a tether to keep her from losing herself. Gasping, she tears away from the skies, unable to speak as she catches her breath.

Firenze smiles. "The journey to what you seek most has already begun."

"What I seek most is not legacy, but peace."

"You will have both if you stay the course." He assures her. "As I told Harry, the road ahead is difficult. Prepare yourself for more than one battle. The road to the heavens does not always begin with death and sacrifice."

He blows the smoke and it vanishes, but the scent of remains.

It leaves her dazed.

"You did not tell me of Draco." Hermione looks at him once more. "I must know what the stars speak of him."

"Draco is Mars, bringer of war and destruction. He is also Venus, the keeper of peace. The two coexist in a harmony only he can maintain. Feeling the pull from every extreme, Draco does not yet know how to find balance. You must be his teacher, and he will be your guide."

Hermione thinks of Firenze's words in the morning when Draco rises with her.

They dress as they wish and leave under Disillusionment, returning to Hermione's secret routine.

Only now he bears witness.

Draco swims naked in the lake while she tends to Kaida's wing tears with paste and tells her favourite story. The Tale of the Three Brothers feels different now that she knows the truth.

When Draco joins them, he dresses and Hermione sits back as an observer. The bond between the king and his familiar goes beyond magic. It takes overhearing Draco's one-sided arguments for Hermione to see how little they agree on. But when he trips, Kaida throws her wing to stop him from falling. Their bond is fierce.

Kaida takes to the skies to hunt for breakfast in the sea. They stand on the water's edge, watching her as the sun rises on a new day.

"We leave for the forest to pick the Jamu plant tomorrow after the council meeting," Draco says.

"I will prepare everything I need."

"Good." They watch Kaida dive beneath the water. "When you are ready, we will leave to dress and greet Theo upon his return from his duchy. He would like you to meet his daughter."

Hermione looks at him sharply. "Daughter? I had no idea."

She cannot imagine Astoria as anything close to maternal.

"Her name is Eloise and her mother was Theo's first wife who died in childbirth. After the coup, he and Astoria sent her back to his duchy to ensure her safety, but now that things have settled here, they decided to bring her back."

"Why does he want me to meet her?"

"Theo is not fond of many people." Draco takes her hand as they leave, walking back to the Vanishing Closet with the sunrise at their back. "Since we were boys, he has preferred books and his lab to the majority of people in Court."

"For good reason."

Humour brightens his features as he holds up a branch for her to walk beneath. They quickly come upon their destination. "Every now and then he grows respect for another person. You are his latest. Much to Astoria's dismay."

She cuts her eyes. "Of course you would find amusement in this."

"Theo and I commiserate."

He opens the door and starts to walk in, but remembers himself and gestures for Hermione to step inside first before following, closing the door behind him. She does not feel the closet activate, but moments later, they step out with the palace in their sight.

Whatever ease Draco had by the shore dissolves.

He stands tense.

"Whatever is on your mind, put it aside and be present in this moment." Hermione thinks about Firenze's words as she lifts to the tips of her toes and kisses his chin.

She will be his balance.

The next day, Hermione watches Astoria and Theo in the courtyard.

Eloise steps out from behind a tree, laughing, her blonde hair bouncing as she runs to Astoria, who grins and hugs her close. Hermione has never seen Astoria so warm, so affectionate, accepting flowers from the little girl who does not share her father's quiet temperament.

She is loud, boisterous and calls Draco Uncle King.

Hermione is more surprised that he allows it.

When Eloise runs to the blanket that appears laid out with food, she witnesses another new sight. Open affection between Astoria and Theo.

Hermione leaves the smiling couple to kiss under the warm sun. When she turns the corner, she runs into Harry.

"I was coming to you," Harry says.

"What is it?"

His news is of a more sensitive and private nature. Hermione's guards are excused, and he continues her walk to the king himself.

They speak on a topic they have not yet breached.

Their parents.

"The town's defences have been fortified, as have the estate's. Nothing that lives will breach the boundaries. Mother's birthday is in a week's time, as you know. Ginny and I will spend the day with her, but she longs for you to be there as well."

"I know. I received her invitation and have declined. It is not because I do not wish to, but it is much too unstable to leave."

"I know, but she struggles with this distance. You write to her, you have made peace with the charm on your mind, but she has not seen you since they departed. Mother is most anxious to reunite. Father, too. They did not wish to go with your condition so perilous."

But she understands they had to.

There is much at stake, much to protect, and she bears no ill will.

"Discuss it with the king—"

"Discuss what?" Draco's voice comes from behind them.

They turn to find him between Pucey and Mulciber. Both appear poised to keep speaking, which means they seek private words beneath charms. They bow to her, but their reluctance is loud in the silent corridor.

"Come we will talk on the way. Kaida awaits for our trip."

"Trip?" Mulciber asks.

"The queen wishes to gather ingredients for her brewing room."

"Is that not a task for the elves?" Pucey looks as if he has eaten something sour. "Certainly it is not one befitting a queen."

"Yet it is my choice," Hermione replies dryly, a reminder that she is there.

"Surely, Sire, we have more pressing matters to discuss. Like the MacMillan lands. The king has died, his son has been crowned. This is the perfect time for conquest."

"Perhaps it is, if we wanted to wage war on a new, grieving king. The queen suggested we open trade with them instead of conquering to preserve the resources we seek instead of destroying them in warfare. I am inclined to agree."

The look she earns from Pucey is curious, as if he is truly seeing her for the first time.

Draco glares at him. "You both are excused."

Pucey's eyes narrow before he storms off. Mulciber follows.

Draco blinks and turns to her and Harry as if the tense exchange had never happened. "What is it that you two were discussing?"

"Our mother's birthday approaches and my sister does not think it safe to travel."

"When?"

"In a week's time," Harry replies despite the glare she gives him.

Draco pauses. "We will leave on the morning of."

Hermione is shocked. "But—"

Parents do not live forever. His words rattle in her mind. She does not argue further. Draco offers his arm and they walk to the front of the palace where Kaida awaits.

Harry bows low. "I will follow on Buckbeak."

Draco scowls. "I thought I ordered you to stay behind."

The only thing her brother offers is an impolite hand gesture. "See you there!"

Success sounds like full vials clinking in Hermione's beaded bag.

The forest is rich with ingredients and wildlife used for potions.

Nothing has changed since Hermione's last visit.

Draco lingers at her side as she gathers everything from flobberworms and horned slugs to valerian and knotgrass. After arguing about taking the entire plant, he sulks and holds her bag open while she gathers Jamu seeds and petals. Following as she leads, Draco asks questions and earns glares when he walks too loudly or carelessly stumbles, making the lacewing flies scatter from the trees.

"Seriously?" Harry whispers harshly.

"It is fine." Hermione smiles. "There are lacewing flies near the palace. I can ask Winky to gather some for me."

After exchanging many looks and silent arguments with Draco, Harry clears his throat. "Wild dittany grows here. I shall gather some, while making no noise and pretending I do not exist."

Harry runs off before she can tell him that she has enough. It grows in the aviary.

Draco glares in her brother's direction until he ducks behind the trees. His expression evens, and the corner of his lips quirk. It is then Hermione realises why Harry left.

Draco wants to be alone with her.

"All you had to do was speak," Hermione says.

Her hands are dirty from gathering, but Draco cleans them with his wand.

"Fine." He brings her hands to his lips; a simple act he does with growing ease. "I am speaking."

A rush of heat and memories of what occurred in the throne room make her flush. The nights they have spent exploring each other through touch. She wants more—far more, but having his fingers inside her and watching him fall apart with her hand around his cock is a different experience.

It feels like the precursor to the main event.

"I would have sent him to find Asphodel. Their powdered root produces Draught of Living Death. Not one I plan on brewing, but the key to potions making is to—"

"Always be prepared for anything." Draco smirks as they continue walking, now hand in hand.

"You brew?" she asks.

"More when I was younger, when Snape was one of my tutors, but less now. I do not have the time."

They reach a break in the forest where unfiltered sunshine touches the grass. A fox scurries off into the trees. Hermione follows it until it is out of sight, frowning slightly. There have never been predators in this area.

Perhaps there have been some changes.

"Do you miss brewing?" Hermione asks to distract herself.

"Sometimes."

"Perhaps you can brew with me when you are not busy."

Draco does not answer. Instead, he tilts his head. "You are happy here in the forest."

Hermione shrugs. "I am not a queen here."

"You are mistaken. You are a queen wherever you go."

"Royalty may exist in nature, but you and I do not control its coronations or unseatings. Out here, we are just people. We can put aside our crowns and exist."

"No matter Firenze's attempts, I have never been one with nature or the stars." His wince makes her laugh. "Being outside, getting my hands dirty while searching for ingredients... I find more joy in the skies."

"For me, gathering in nature is rewarding." Hermione steps closer to him. "Vasades taught me that nature is as generous as she can be cruel. When you have a better understanding of the world, it cultivates a respect for it and all living creatures. Had the forest changed drastically since my last visit, my time here today would be spent reacquainting myself with its rhythm and dialect. I would leave it gifts before I returned to accept anything it gave me."

"The forest cannot give you anything. You must take it."

"Spoken like a conqueror." Hermione gives him a look that transforms into a smile. "I have a bag of ingredients that say otherwise."

"You found those."

"Only because the forest told me where to look. The sun tells me which creatures are out and which are sleeping, the seasons tell me what plants live and what are dormant, and the air tells me how close we are to water by how much of it is in the breeze."

Hermione dusts off her gown and moves to stand in front of Draco. He watches her carefully after she raises her hand.

"Let me show you how the forest speaks. Place your hand on mine and close your eyes."

He does.

Her eyes flutter shut. "Open your mind. Take a deep breath."

The sound of his inhale pierces the silence. They exhale as one.

"What do you hear?" Hermione whispers.

Draco is quiet for a moment. "I hear—"

The wrongness of a low growl.

Hermione whirls around.

That is not the forest speaking but a threat from a wolf. It stands on the edge of the treeline, snarling, poised to attack. Draco draws his wand, his hand now gripping hers tight. A glimpse from the corner of her eye tells her that their hounds are near.

Danger.

"There are no wolves in this forest." Hermione takes a step back.

"That is no ordinary wolf," Draco says sharply. "It is an Animagus."

Three creatures emerge from the trees on all sides. A familiar fox, now snarling, and two strange men covered in fur, claws out. Werewolves. Partially transformed when the moon is not full.

The moment of anticipation shatters like glass.

All four creatures converge on them.

Hermione drops.

Hand to the ground, spell on her mind, her magic breaks the dirt, sending a shock wave that upends their attackers.

Draco lifts his wand to the sky. "Ventus!"

Wind swirls around them in a tornado, making it impossible for the beasts to close in.

Draco turns to her. "When the spell ends, run."

She grabs one of his daggers and draws her own. "I do not need to run when I can fight."

Draco looks as if she has gone mad. "Your weapons are close-range."

"You have a wand and a sword. Keep them back, and I—"

The spell ends, as does the time for talk. Hermione's dagger is just as fast as Draco's wand. He stuns the animagus wolf.

One of the werewolves bleeds from where Hermione's dagger sticks in its chest. It collapses in slow motion, choking and gurgling.

Draco blinks in shock, a momentary distraction that allows the remaining werewolf to tackle him from the side. His wand flies from his hand as they tumble into the grass.

The fox animagus launches at Hermione. She ducks and it clips the branch of the tree, yelping. Landing in a low crouch, its blue eyes fixate on her.

She shifts back on her heels and bends her knees, last weapon at her side, heart racing.

Draco and the werewolf have found their feet and fight several yards away. Draco dodges swipes from its claws, his spells bouncing off the wolf with no effect. He draws his sword and lunges.

So does the fox.

It charges, and Hermione braces to meet it head on. At the last second, she steps aside and brings the hilt down on its head, dazing it momentarily.

Draco shoves her away. Blood pours from where he draws his sword across the fox's neck

It returns to the shape of a woman. She is dead before she hits the ground.

Hermione looks at Draco. His werewolf foe is bleeding badly from a wound in its side. Murder lights his grey eyes, which look past her into the forest.

"Traitor."

At the clearing's edge stands Rabastan, flanked by three more werewolves.

"You are the traitor, nephew." Rabastan steps forward. "Not only do you betray your lineage with this filth, but you betray the one true king by fighting alongside his enemies."

Hermione has but a moment to dodge Rabastan's spell. Landing on her side in the grass, she rolls on her back after taking a painful breath.

Silently, she assures Draco that she is fine. Unharmed.

He does something unexpected before bracing himself for battle.

He disarms Rabastan and tosses her his wand. She snatches it from the air and fires the first jinx that her father taught her.

"Oppugno!"

The branches of the trees come to life.

One wolf is impaled, held aloft by a branch through its gut, blood splattering the ground like rain. The second is knocked unconscious. The third charges but does not make it more than two steps, swatted away by the wild, swinging branches.

More werewolves emerge from the trees—a pack of them—and Hermione repeats the spell on the fibrous roots.

They twine around the werewolves' feet, trapping them, but not for long. They fight back, snapping the branches with their claws, biting the wood, breaking free from the roots.

Draco charges at his uncle.

Rabastan draws his sword.

They meet with a clash of metal and might.

Their fight is brutal, fury powering every swing, every miss, every parry.

Hermione's spell spreads from tree to tree, encouraging rising roots to fight, to coil and crush their enemies, keeping Rabastan free of their aid.

A wolf breaks away, bearing down on the fight between Draco and Rabastan, but Hermione's throw rings true. The dagger embeds itself in the werewolf's neck, bringing it down as it grasps at nothing before yanking the blade out. Blood sprays freely while nature fights the other beasts.

While family fights family.

All it takes is a single mistake for the tide to turn. A missed parry brings Rabastan to his knees before his nephew.

"I welcome death so that the true king will ascend." He tilts his head up, snarling at Draco. "Send your dragon to burn me alive. I do not fear—"

"I do not need my dragon to fight my battles."

One stroke from Draco's blade separates Rabastan's head from his body.

The freed werewolves flee, leaving their dead and wounded; the fight is lost with the death of their commander.

Move!

It is not a command Hermione hears; it is one she feels.

She ducks low, mere seconds before Draco's sword hurdles over her head, impaling the werewolf she did not notice behind her. It totters backwards into a tree. Blood pours from its wound and mouth; its legs kick uselessly in the fight against death.

Draco rushes over to her. "How did you know he was behind you?"

"I did not. I-I felt I needed to move."

They stare at each other in confusion.

A distant flare of light shoots above the trees and pops.

The werewolf coughs what sounds like a laugh.

"You cannot stop what is coming." The wolf continues to choke on his blood, a smile on its face. Draco goes to remove his sword, the blade glowing at his touch. "He is here."

Dread sinks into the pit of her stomach.

"Who?"

The wolf gurgles and laughs. Draco pulls the wand up enough to cut his heart in two, ending his life and prompting realisation.

The flare.

This has only been a distraction.

"Harry!"

They run towards the light, tripping over dozens of felled trees only to find Kaida and Buckbeak in the sky fighting against an invisible ward.

Smoke greys the once blue sky. Trees rustle and lean violently, helpless to fight the tornado of wind and magic she and Draco cannot feel.

They cannot move with their feet locked to the ground. They both fight it, but it is impossible to free themselves.

Fire from Kaida's roaring anger blankets the ward that glows hot. But it does not break.

And in the middle of the chaos, locked in a battle of wands, are Harry and Voldemort's host, Rodolphus.

Red and green meet mid-air, arcing a narrow beam of deep gold. Both hover above the ground, holding onto their wands with both hands, struggling. Harry is yelling in pain but so is Voldemort from the back of his host's head.

Ghostly visions emerge.

Magic permeates all.

Men. Women. Children.

People Hermione does not recognise.

But there is one she does.

Queen Narcissa.

Draco looks transfixed, terrified yet drawn to the spectre that calls his name.

Harry and Rodolphus rise further. Red begins to overtake green as the pulse of gold brightens.

Rodolphus grits his teeth, but Voldemort's face, transposed on the back of his head, screams in pain. A great crack ripples through the forest, and Voldemort's wand begins to glow.

The ground shakes.

The spell ends, sending both to the grass.

Everything stops. The ghosts vanish.

Rodolphus looks at the wand in his hand. It still glows and smokes.

Harry's does not.

"My Lord, I—"

"Go, Rodolphus," Voldemort hisses.

Draco throws his sword, but they vanish with a pop that startles them all. Hermione is at Harry's side before she can recall the steps it takes her to get to him. After calling the sword back with an extended hand, Draco catches and sheaths his weapon.

"What was that?" Harry looks pale and shaken, panting and sweating from the effort.

Kaida finds space to land in the grass behind them. Buckbeak does the same.

At the same time, they notice a familiar phoenix sitting on a felled tree trunk, observing everything.

"I do not know, but I do know where we can find answers." Draco scowls. "Dumbledore is near."

Chapter Text

Draco sends a wispy Patronus message with their location.

They wait.

Harry's scar still glows. He says he is unharmed, but he is flushed and favouring his left shoulder. Hermione places a hand on him and lets magic work. He breathes easier and stands straighter when she finishes. But Harry needs proper attention from a Healer.

Draco sends Kaida to the skies to search the area for those who have fled—to observe, not engage.

It is not long before a squadron of soldiers and trusted knights arrive on the backs of winged horses and hippogriffs. Soldiers are tasked with clearing the bodies and taking the trapped survivors back to the palace dungeons for treatment and interrogation.

"You ensnared them with tree roots?" Goyle asks Hermione in whispered awe. "That is advanced magic for someone who does not yet carry a wand."

"It was a spell my father taught me. The king's wand and—"

"That was all you." There is a proud smirk on Draco's face. "Own your power, Little Lion."

Hermione bites back her blush, but feels her body grow warmer even though the sun has escaped behind clouds. Draco's praise leaves her inexplicably pleased.

The exchange makes Harry and Goyle trade curious looks, before Draco glares at both.

Wood and Goldstein run to them.

"You were tracked," Wood informs. "The only way to test this out is to end all spells."

Goldstein draws his wand. "Finite Incantatem."

Buckbeak glows gold then the spell vanishes.

A new question arises.

As does a privacy charm by Wood. "Muffliato."

"Who set the charm?" Goyle asks immediately.

"There was a fox here." Hermione frowns. "We have been in the forest for a few hours. This makes no sense…"

"Anyone who knew you were planning a trip is a suspect, Your Majesty." Goldstein looks around.

"The list is long." Wood sheaths his wand. "Your movements are rarely private, Sire. There are many whispers of your morning jaunts with the queen."

Draco frowns. "I am aware."

Hermione was not.

"But the number of suspects drops with the tracking charm on Buckbeak. They had to know Harry was going and could set the charm without being detected." Goldstein points at the hippogriff who looks ready to eat Fawkes.

The phoenix awaits; it has not moved from the branch.

"Mulciber and Pucey knew," Harry says, running at his head agitatedly. "As did several soldiers and council members."

"Given what happened with my uncle, it would not be wise to call anyone traitors without definitive proof," Draco says. "It will cause further destabilisation, but I will put trusted eyes on them."

Harry winces after rolling his shoulders.

Draco's expression grows serious. "Take Potter back to the palace to be healed."

"I am well, Sire."

Hermione knows this is a lie, but her brother's determination is limitless.

Draco gives her a long-suffering glance. "I assume that you refuse to return to the palace as well."

"That is correct. Not without him." Hermione folds her arms. "Or you."

His expression evens, softens. "Very well."

On the back of Buckbeak, Harry looks tired and pale, resting on the hippogriff who walks slowly. Hermione stays at its side, a hand on her brother to keep him steady. Draco is next to her, wand drawn.

With Fawkes as their guide, they trek deeper into the forest. Even concealed by thick trees, Kaida finds them from the skies.

A silent exchange leaves Draco sour. "Our destination is not far."

Their destination is an old man in garish electric blue robes with long white hair and a beard that nearly reaches his knees. He sits on a felled trunk in the centre of a circle of trees as if nothing is amiss, observing them with the same awareness and calculation Hermione recognises in herself.

Dumbledore smiles.

Fawkes lands on his shoulder with a majestic flair. When he greets his familiar, Hermione notices black burn marks on his hand.

Draco sees them as well.

They exchange wordless sidelong glances as Harry climbs off Buckbeak. Entering the circle of trees brings with it a cool sensation. Magic prickles her skin. Nature within this circle is as still as the air, the silence deafening, but the energy remains.

Dumbledore offers a small sack with a twinkle in his eyes. "Lemon drop?"

Startled by the bizarre offer, she blinks at the treat Harry accepts.

Draco's glare intensifies. "How convenient your presence is. Here, warded and hidden. Hiding."

"Concealed, Your Majesty," he amends. "My search for the Resurrection Stone brought me to a cave in the Cliffs of Moher in the Shacklebolt Kingdom."

"I was not aware you were undertaking such a mission yourself."

"I was with Prince Neville. I have sent him back to the Longbottom palace."

"Were you successful?" Harry asks.

"We must be prepared," Dumbledore says sagely. "The stone I found was left with a note from Regulus Black. After he split the stone from the Gaunt Ring and before he died, he relocated the stone and left behind a fake."

Hermione looks at Harry, both with Sirius on their minds.

Draco remains unmoved. "And you stopped here?"

"Fawkes said there was a disturbance in this forest on the ride back. I came to investigate, but when I realised Voldemort and his followers were here, I concealed myself to protect the Elder Wand."

"You could have used it to destroy him, but no, that would go against your greater good," Draco says angrily. "We were ambushed while you hid in the forest."

"And yet you emerge victorious."

The hilt of Draco's wand glows green. He looks ready to use it again, but Hermione tempers him by wrapping her hand around his wrist.

They need answers more than violence.

"Much has happened, Dumbledore, and we need your knowledge."

The old man's head tilts slightly as he looks directly at her for the first time. "Queen Hermione, at long last. I have heard much about you."

"Likewise."

"You may ask me what you wish to know."

"Harry and Voldemort's wands. When Draco and I found them, their spells were locked. There was a golden thread and ghosts came out of Voldemort's wand—"

"Priori Incantatem," he gasps, taking off his spectacles. "Harry, what is your wand core?"

"Phoenix."

"Ah." Dumbledore stands. "Brother wands."

"What?" Harry looks confused.

"Two wand cores harvested from the same creature at the same time. Not terribly uncommon, but it is rare for brother wands to meet in a duel. When one overcomes the other, it forces the losing brother to emit echoes of its last spell. Voldemort's last spells were Unforgivable, so it brought back spirits that linger for a few moments before they fade into the Beyond."

"How do you know this?" Draco asks sceptically.

"Because Fawkes gave up two feather cores many years ago. Voldemort carries one, Ollivander told me this, and if this account is true, this means that Harry carries the other."

"Why is that significant?" Hermione wonders.

"The Potter and Longbottom bloodlines are connected to Voldemort due to prophecy, but Harry is the only chosen one not protected by the sacrifice of love. Your duel proves to him that you are the lost heir he has been looking for."

"How did he know to attack me?"

"My memories," Hermione whispers. "I do not know all of what he saw when he was in my mind, but he must have seen enough."

"The queen is correct, which means there are more traitors living amongst you."

"I am aware," Draco says tightly. "You have forbidden me to act on my suspicions unless they expose themselves. This makes me a sitting duck in my own palace while people vanish and Inferus—"

"I found Voldemort's Inferi army in the cave with the fake stone, trapped there by complex magic. The Inferi on your lands are not his."

"And therefore not your problem," Draco concludes.

The ensuing silence confirms this.

Hermione frowns.

Draco laughs bitterly. "Of course not. If it does not pertain to your war or your plans for Potter, then it is meaningless."

Plans?

Dumbledore looks at Draco. "I understand your frustration." This earns him a bitter scoff. "But Harry's wand poses a higher problem that will make Voldemort look for another alternative—a wand that can beat his."

"The Elder Wand," Harry whispers.

Dumbledore produces the wand in question.

Forged by Death itself, the fabled wand is unadorned and has a handle shaped from two conjoined spheres. Ordinary, but perhaps this was the intent.

"What will happen when all three Hallows are carried by one person?"

Dumbledore looks impressed by her question. "They will become the true master of death. What this means has not been proven, Queen Hermione, but there are those who believe that to be the master of death will make you invincible."

"Do you believe this?"

"Yes."

"Voldemort could use the Hallows to conquer the realm," Harry says. "Destroy us all."

"Yes, but first he needs his full strength. A way to reunite the fragment of his soul that Rodolphus is hosting with his body. He cannot subsist on unicorn blood forever. Now that the rest of his horcruxes are destroyed, Harry is the only way to get what he needs to conquer the realm."

"What will you have us do?" Harry asks.

"We need to find the stone, protect all the Hallows from Voldemort, but he will return with numbers now that he knows it is you. We must prepare for an all-out attack."

"Very well." Draco levels Dumbledore with a look. "Gather your Order, old man. I will gather my knights and soldiers."

"Perhaps Potter should—"

"He will remain protected in my kingdom with his wife and family."

Dumbledore nods.

Hermione reaches into her bag. "I have a salve for your burn."

Dumbledore waves her off with a cryptic kindness. "Salves do nothing on curses. It will pass. One way or another."

An Abraxian horse lands beyond the circle of trees.

The spell drops and nature rushes in to fill the void.

"We will meet again." His eyes twinkle. "Soon."

Once Dumbledore is gone, Draco sends Harry back to the palace on Buckbeak while they walk to a clearing where Kaida can land. After a long silence, Hermione is ready to ask questions.

"Why do you hate Dumbledore?"

"Dumbledore manipulated me to join his cause when I was crowned king. I was fifteen and knew the realm wanted to destroy me for their own safety. I did not know what to do. I was lost and felt alone with nowhere to turn when Dumbledore came for a private meeting. He said to stand with him, do as he says, and he will stop the rest of the realm from rising against me."

Hermione cannot hide her disgust.

"He made it impossible to say no, the vow he made me take is unbreakable, and I did not understand what it entailed. But he did as he promised. He kept the realm at bay with Queen Augusta issuing her threat that should anyone rise against me, the might of the Longbottom Kingdom will rise with me by land and sea and air. So, at Dumbledore's behest, I declared war on kingdom after kingdom who were known close supporters of Voldemort. I am playing my role as a royal pawn until the deed is done."

"Why you?"

"Dumbledore has known all along about your family's history. He only needed me because my family has yours bound by duty. Dumbledore visited the palace not long after Potter was sent to train alongside me as a knight. He was surprised by your brother's blocked memories, but found it beneficial, especially when we went to war."

"Harry went to war blind," Hermione whispers. "He did not know what any of it meant, but you did."

Draco looks ahead. "Potter's temper is the reason for the scars on my chest, but I was no better. We hated each other and fought until he realised what my father's madness did to me. When my face was cut, Potter gave me a mirror when no one else would. And when he was dying, he stood outside the door and waited."

Hermione understands their odd bond more than ever.

"Snape said that Potter was destined to die, but I—I refused to lead him to death's door."

"He told me he was loyal to you—that it was not bound by duty, blindness, or complacency. But you are just as loyal to him, to all your knights."

"We have seen much together. Lost many, too, in a war only few know the true meaning of."

She remembers everything she said and winces.

Draco scans the area, reminding her that he is still on guard even when nothing is around. "Potter was not blind for long when we went to war. When he touched the first horcrux, the block was destroyed and he fell from the shock. Kaida caught him and Firenze took him to the woods to help sort his memories."

Hermione's stomach twists at learning all of this, thinking about all she said to Harry when he returned from war. How little she wrote to him over the years. She feels guilty for not knowing his struggles.

But she cannot change the past; she is here now.

And she will protect her brother.

"What is Harry's part in the greater good?" Hermione asks.

"He is a sacrifice for Dumbledore's tainted plan."

She is silent for several minutes as she processes everything. "How he has weaved you all into this web is masterful. It makes sense that he would use your family's history of conquest and tyranny to start yet another war. That he uses this to conceal the fact that you are bringing Harry to each kingdom that hides a horcrux in order to destroy it is logical yet cruel."

"My grandfather taught me that when a goal needs to be achieved, it requires consensus. Not from the majority, only the most powerful. Manipulation is essential when an agreement cannot be reached. Dumbledore lives by this. He cares about achieving his end, regardless of the consequences or the sacrifices required."

"Sometimes the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."

"You sound like your brother." Draco scoffs. "Be careful who you take a risk on."

"I took one on you," Hermione reminds him. "The night I asked you to choose me."

He stops and looks at her. "I sometimes wonder why."

"Because I saw enough to believe in you. To hope. Perhaps my brother sees more hope in the world than you do. He believes it is worth saving from tyranny."

Draco stares at her, almost as if he is seeing her for the first time, then continues on their path, slowing his steps so they can walk side by side.

"Dumbledore is stronger than Voldemort, but he chooses to teach, to guide, to sit in the shadows while we do his dirty work. He could have destroyed Voldemort ten times over before Potter and Longbottom were born, but given the existence of horcruxes, that would not have been conducive to his plan."

"What is his plan?" Hermione asks curiously.

Draco steps over a fallen tree trunk that crosses the path. When she follows him, he is waiting for her with an outstretched hand that she accepts with ease.

"There are always unintended consequences to magic." He says as they both look to the skies when a free dragon flies close to the treetops. "Only those Voldemort has marked can destroy horcruxes, but should his soul be separated from his body like he is now, the Marked are the only ones who can aid in reuniting soul and body."

"I have heard he cannot act against Prince Neville."

"Yes, he cannot touch him because of his mother's sacrifice, just as he cannot touch you. This leaves Harry as the only one who can destroy Voldemort in a way that ensures he will not return."

There is much to think about, much to ask regarding what this entails, but they enter the clearing where Kaida awaits.

He stops her with added pressure on her hand. "I cannot stop your brother from doing something stupid and honourable, so I have been looking for another way that does not break my own Vow."

"Although his intent is good, perhaps it is not wise to entirely trust Dumbledore."

"I would be a fool to trust the puppeteer while I dangle from his marionette strings." Draco's mood is dark, accentuating the scar on his face. "Potter is a brave oaf who will gladly walk to his death if it will save the realm, but—"

"The road to the heavens does not always begin with death and sacrifice," Hermione recites quickly, startled and shaken with growing understanding. "Firenze said that to me, he once said it to Harry as well. There has to be another way."

"If there is, the centaurs have already intervened too much. We must figure it out ourselves."

"Have you?"

"With the threat of Voldemort bearing down on us, Theo and Percy are researching texts. There are many theories Sirius, your father, and Severus have come up with."

This is a surprising revelation. "They are able to work together?"

"Hardly." Draco shakes his head in faint amusement. "However, their goals are aligned."

"I know why Sirius and my father want to protect Harry. Why Snape? He hates my brother."

Draco runs a hand along Kaida's scales. "Love, even unrequited, is a weakness."

The following three days are busy, with Hermione keeping up appearances while quiet interrogations of the captured enemies take place in the palace dungeons overnight. During the day, soldiers and knights run down leads from prisoners, but they are late. Voldemort and his closest followers have already retreated.

Harry tries to conceal his nerves while Draco grows frustrated. Hermione spends each spare moment deconstructing their conversation with Dumbledore as well as hers with Draco.

This sends her into the palace library to read every scrap of information on brother wands, splitting and reuniting the soul, and the Deathly Hallows.

The wand. The stone. The cloak.

She is interrupted by a surprise.

Visitors.

Eloise and Theo.

"Your Majesty." He bows. His daughter does the same, albeit wobbly, but it earns praise from her father. "Very good."

Eloise preens.

Hermione smiles. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

He sends Eloise farther into the adjoined room where her ladies talk behind warded silence. He waits until she is out of earshot. "You wanted an update about the soldier whose memory was erased."

Hermione sits up straighter. "What have you learned?"

"Not much, but there are broken fragments of a memory I was able to extract using a Pensieve. In it, a distorted face says, 'My master thanks you for your service'. It makes little sense."

"Perhaps a Voldemort follower?"

"There are those hidden in our midst, but why try to poison Draco so openly?"

Hermione can think of many reasons someone would try, but perhaps this really was a message. Not intended to truly harm, but to warn; a reminder that he is not safe.

Or maybe it was intended to do what it almost did.

Divide something in its most fragile state.

Them.

Not many knew Hermione would join the session. She was meant to be far enough away for her innocence to be questioned.

There are eyes everywhere that see beyond the rumours of trouble that Lady Lavender spreads. They see the truth and know things have changed between the king and queen.

Hermione is the danger Draco seeks to protect her from. "If I were to lose favour with the king, how would he choose his next queen?"

"Should this marriage fail, the council said they would return to choosing his queen. Save Lady Daphne and Lady Alicia, all of your Ladies are of noble ranking and eligible to succeed you. Particularly the younger ones."

Hermione pockets that knowledge for later. "That will be all, thank you."

"Oh, one more thing." Theo pulls something covered in cloth from the satchel he carries. He places it before her.

Hermione unwraps it and inhales sharply, covering her mouth. Emotions steal her words and blur her vision.

What once was lost is now found.

Her mother's dagger.

Damaged, covered in soot, and partly melted from dragon fire, yet still whole. That it does not crumble to ash reminds Hermione of the strength she finds within herself. As well as her family.

"Who found it?"

"The king commanded a unit to scour the forest for it shortly after learning it was lost. It has been over two months and they finally found it this morning."

She cannot stop her smile from growing, warmth spreading.

This man and his strange language of sentiment.

"Please express my utmost gratitude to everyone involved in this recovery effort. Reward them in any way you deem suitable." Hermione wipes her eyes. "This is priceless to me."

"It can be restored to what it once was."

"No." Hermione picks up the dagger.

Scorched but unbroken. Like her.

She has never felt more connected to it than now.

"Only clean the metal and sharpen the blade. I will carry it as it is."

"What do you know of Dumbledore's past?"

They are watching the sun rise while Kaida hunts for breakfast. Draco's hair is still wet from his swim and she cannot help but notice the way his tunic clings to him.

Hermione looks to Kaida for a distraction, but finds none.

"I do not know much about his family, only that they died and his brother abandoned him after his sister died in a duelling accident. I know the incident involved Grindelwald, the adopted son of the last Fawley king. They were very close. Grindelwald had the gift of Sight, and Dumbledore was powerful. When war was brewing between the kingdoms, Grindelwald and Dumbledore found the Elder Wand. They wanted to use it to stop the impending war and rule over all for the greater good."

"What happened?"

"Dumbledore wanted to rule as a benevolent dictator, but Grindelwald wanted to rule over all. He also sought immortality. He wanted to find the Elder Wand to bring the realm to its knees and he wanted to use the Resurrection Stone to build an army of the dead that would be loyal to him and do his bidding, near or far. Grindelwald believed he knew how."

"Is that possible?"

"Nobody has seen the stone since it was separated from the Gaunt Ring," Draco says as Kaida resurfaces with a large fish. "As for Dumbledore and Grindelwald, they were divided."

"What happened?"

"They went their separate ways after Ariana Dumbledore's death—Grindelwald became king after his adoptive father died and Dumbledore became Queen Augusta's advisor. However, when Grindelwald attacked the conclave of kings, Dumbledore duelled and won the Elder Wand. He locked Grindelwald away to free the realm of his intended tyranny. Little did he know, Voldemort would rise to power in the Gaunt Kingdom and kill Grindelwald, thinking he was the owner of the Elder Wand."

"Voldemort must know Dumbledore has the Elder Wand."

Draco confirms with a nod. "He will come for it when he is strong enough. Dumbledore is a fool for keeping it so close without using it."

Hermione absorbs the story in silence. "You do not trust Dumbledore's methods, but what about his intentions?"

"My interests align with his." His voice is low and hard, as if he dislikes admitting to a single similarity with Dumbledore. "No matter how I feel."

"You want to defeat Voldemort on your own terms."

"Yes, but not out of some moralistic or ideological high ground. I care little about being a good man. Dumbledore gave me an impossible choice much like Voldemort forced my mother to choose between life and me. Each believes they are doing the right thing, but in truth, they are the two sides of the same coin."

"Yet you have marked Voldemort as your enemy, not Dumbledore."

"Voldemort killed my mother, which destroyed my father and ruined my family. He is after Potter and he tried to kill you," Draco's anger speaks loud in the space of each breath. Her touch does not temper it. "Voldemort does not deserve the immortality he seeks."

With thoughts running through her mind, Hermione stands and picks up the swords Draco brought with him. "Let us spar and clear our minds."

"As you wish."

The first session leaves Hermione sweating and sore but exhilarated. When Draco stands behind her, correcting her form, she breathes him in and plans.

"Will you be returning to my chambers at a reasonable hour?" Hermione asks while his hands are on her hips. "Or will you be late?"

Draco moulds himself to her back, fingers coming to her chin to lift her head. "I will be late."

"Then I will wait for you."

"I need help."

Those three words are the hardest Hermione has ever spoken.

A concerned Ginny looks up from picking flowers. This outing is a distraction from all that has transpired. Ginny has been at Harry's side since the attack, helping him recover his strength, tempering his restlessness. It is not easy.

"What is it, Hermione?"

"Draco has been busy." Now that she is on the cusp, she falters, but need gives Hermione the final push. "How might I go about distracting him?"

"Are you asking me about sex?" Ginny asks brazenly.

The guards are too far to overhear, but Hermione still shushes her.

Her grin grows wider. "The way he watches you, you should not have to do much."

Feeling as warm as the sun, Hermione toys with an herb she is holding. "He, um, he has not…"

"That explains why you are not with child. I thought you were taking the potion, like me. Or brewing it for yourself, but that, too, would be public news. I am learning there are very few secrets within these walls."

"Contraceptive potions are not permitted for us, but we have a long-term solution. I am preparing leaves from the jamu plant in my brewing room."

"Is that what you want?"

"For now. It is much too dangerous to bring a child into this world."

"It is. Harry told me the night after you woke up following the attack, there was an attempt on the king's life."

The night he returned to her chambers.

Hermione's heart jumps. "I-I was not informed."

"Given your state, I am not surprised no one told you." Ginny shakes her head. "Not many know. The assassins were waiting for him in his chambers and ambushed him before he could pull out his wand. The king killed them all, and left their bodies for the knights to clean up. He was not seen again until morning."

"He was with me. He shares my bed each night."

A chill runs up her spine. Perhaps this is why.

Ginny looks surprised. "If this is the case, I am not certain you need my advice."

"No, we have not… not since our wedding night. I know he wants to, and we…" Hermione trails off with a shrug. "There is a hurdle that exists in him. Our wedding night was awful, but I am determined not to repeat the occasion."

Hermione is comforted by her experience writhing on Draco's thigh, and nightly proof that they can make each other feel good in other ways.

But she wants more.

She just needs to settle her own nerves and assert herself. Hope lingers in each kiss during the nights she struggles to sleep, in his shivers when they touch each other, and in each morning as they watch the sun rise while Kaida hunts for fish.

For all the complexities of being king, Draco is simple to please. Routines, habits, and control are enough to keep his trust. She wishes he were more discerning, but his life tells the story as to why he is happy so long as there is no knife in his back.

"Do you need a potion to prevent conception?" Ginny asks after looking around.

"I already have one for this month, but I have been warned they will begin to check for it in the coming months should I not conceive." The vial is currently in her pocket. "I have never taken it before."

"Drink it one hour before he comes to you. The potion will remain active for one month." Ginny takes her hands. "As for the act, take your time and do what feels natural. Do not be afraid to voice your wants and desires in the heat of the moment. There is no shame. Without the pressure of accidental conception, I believe—oh!"

Pansy's arrival is sudden. She is flushed and visibly distressed, clutching a letter in her hand.

She paces before them, starting and stopping before finally blurting, "Queen Augusta has changed her mind. She is stepping down to allow Prince Neville to rule."

Hermione and Ginny exchange worried looks.

"He is to arrive in two days' time. From here, we will travel to the Longbottom kingdom and marry, completing the alliance of our kingdoms. We will be crowned immediately."

Hermione is stunned. "I—"

"Do not ask me if I am calm, I am quite calm!" Pansy's chest is heaving as she gasps for breath. "This is the contract I was bound to. I have been waiting for this moment my entire life. I… am fine. I…"

"Wine?" Ginny offers the glass that hovers above the ground. "Apparently we have two things to plan: a wedding and a seduction."

Draco returns to her chambers late that night.

Hermione is not asleep.

This surprises him as much as the magenta silk gown she wears. It is short and leaves little to the imagination. The room is dimmed by magic, the glow warm and hazy, much like she feels after taking the potion and a sip of calming draught to ease her nerves.

"I am trying something new, if you like."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The ride on Kaida is exhilarating.

With Draco's arms wrapped around her, Hermione takes in the world below. Her apprehension regarding their destination is forgotten for a short while. Blissful though it may be, the ride and her brief reprieve from her nerves end when they land.

Draco helps her down in a moment of surreality.

It is the same meadow where it all began.

Blankets of green grass. Rising mist. Flowers in full bloom.

The sunrise warms her back.

Home is still home, even though she is returning as a different woman.

"Hunt but do not go far." Kaida huffs in annoyance at Draco's order. He rolls his eyes. "I will call for you when we are ready."

The dragon looks at Hermione, who comes closer, placing a hand on her jaw. "There is a nearby lake that has your favourites. Be safe."

Kaida takes to the skies, the beat of her wings sending Hermione's gown askance. She and Draco watch her roar before she disappears behind the tall trees.

He chuckles suddenly; a curious sight.

"What is it?" Hermione asks.

"She told me not to be a poncy git."

Hermione laughs during the short walk to the Potter estate, her arm looped through his. Both tired and alert, she is relaxed from the ride and last night's deep sleep following Draco's exploration.

If he notices her nerves, he says nothing.

Father greets them upon their arrival. Mother stands at his side, smiling.

There is no formality in her tight hug. Just as Hermione has done all her life, it is easy to hold on like no time has passed, like everything is as it was.

"Your Majesty." Father lowers his head. "Welcome to our home."

"Thank you for your hospitality." It is stilted, as if Draco is remembering manners he seldomly needs.

He is stiff on the tour, quiet and observant, respectful in the way he keeps his hands clasped behind his back. Touching nothing, he only asks the occasional question that Father answers. She catches whispers of what feel like his nerves, confirmed by the way he balls his hands into fists for a second before releasing.

For the first time, she consciously projects a thought.

Relax.

A startled glance is all the confirmation she needs; the quick nod is a bonus.

The tour continues, and bit by bit, Draco unfurls. The way he and her father begin to flow between formal and informal speech shows a loosening of the reins he puts on himself, but he never completely lets his guard down.

Father's leg does not appear to bother him today. He moves faster, barely using his cane, even after Mother warns of overexertion and scowls when she is ignored. Hermione walks at her side. They linger behind the men, their arms linked as Father points out the artwork they have collected over the years, sculptures and painted portraits that move and sway and wave excitedly at Hermione.

Mother sneaks curious glances the entire time. By the time they return outdoors for a tour of the orchards and the thriving fields sprinkled with worker elves, she begins to stare boldly. Hermione does not know what she seeks to find.

They fall farther behind when Mother stops and calls for Dobby, requesting him to clean and prepare Hermione's quiver and bow. It feels intentional: a theory proven correct when Mother stops, turns, and touches her face with her free hand.

Hermione leans into her.

"You look much recovered, and dare I say at ease." Mother appears relieved. "Better than before."

"I am." Hermione glances at her father and husband. They make a strange pair. Draco wears riding breeches and a tunic, his wand and dagger holstered on his belt, while her father dresses formally. "We are finding common ground."

"I am glad to hear it." She smiles. "You were quite miserable. It was heart-breaking."

"My attack was eye-opening in more than one way." Hermione resumes walking. "You and Father carry guilt, I know, but do not be troubled. I know how much you tried to prepare us."

"I wish we could have done more." Mother's green eyes turn sad. A breeze catches her red hair and blows tendrils in her face. "We went against the oath more than once and told you—"

"I remember. Let us not return to a past we cannot change." Hermione clasps her hand on top of her mother's. "Happy Birthday, Mother."

The sentiment brightens her spirits. "I am happy you are here, even if only for the day."

"It is wonderful to be home."

Dobby returns with her quiver and bow, and she accepts them with a gracious nod before the elf disappears again.

Mother points at an apple tree. "Indulge me today, for old time's sake."

Hermione grins, pulling an arrow from the quiver and takes aim. As she draws the bowstring taut, from the corner of her eye, she sees Father and Draco stop. They turn to watch, the latter with heated curiosity.

Her attention is fixed on a plump, green apple hanging high in the tree.

It has been a while. She relaxes with an exhale, adjusts her aim, and lets the arrow loose.

It flies free and hits its target: the dangling stem of the fruit.

Mother cheers as her father stops its freefall with a spell. The arrow travels on, soaring into the sky until the magic activates and it changes course, circling back towards them. Hermione catches it and returns it to the quiver.

Draco plucks the fruit from where it hovers, his thumb brushing the smooth skin. He looks impressed as he offers the prize to Hermione. "I am not skilled with a bow. Perhaps you can teach me."

Hermione lifts her eyes to his. "Name the hour, Sire, and I will."

The forming smirk dies when he notices her mother watching them.

"Still have your impeccable aim, I see," Father says, breaking the tension. He looks proud, and Hermione cannot help but feel the warmth of his presence.

"Mother was my second teacher." Hermione gives him a fond look. "You, Father, were my favourite."

"I am the one who let you get away with not practising."

"And let her brew Polyjuice so she could enter into a contest, which turned her into a cat," Mother reminisces.

"That was one time," Father argues. "How was I supposed to know I pulled cat hair from Lord Thomas' son's cloak?"

The defence earns him the same dagger-sharp glare he received when Mother found her with pointed ears and whiskers. Her parents squabble about all the dangerous things Father allowed her and Harry to do as children. Hermione laughs with them, providing context when needed, but Draco remains quiet, listening with a strange, wistful look.

Hermione's smile fades when she realises why. Her childhood was filled with far more danger than typical—she, Harry, and Ron nearly did not make it to maturity.

But their younger years were also filled with love and fun.

This was far from his experience.

"Oh! You should surprise your students," Mother suggests when she stops arguing with Father long enough to remember their audience. "Seeing you would bring them much joy. Things have been tense since we started increasing the wards and security."

"I do not know if…" Hermione trails off.

"If what?" Draco prods.

"I am certain you will not want to visit orphans or—"

"Do not assume."

During their walk to town after breakfast at the estate, Hermione catches Draco sneaking glances at her. He has not seen her dressed as relaxed as she is now: in breeches and a tunic with her hair braided back.

They nearly match.

Hermione feels more like herself than she has during her months at the palace. Once Harry and Ginny arrive, everything will be complete. It will be a taste of her old world with a piece of her new life entwined.

For the third time, she catches Draco's eye. "I am aware my attire is not proper, but you do not have to stare. My students are not used to me dressing according to my station."

"I have never seen a woman in breeches." Draco does not avert his eyes, merely looks down at her boots then at her face. There is a familiar heat in his eyes that both warms and warns her. "And yet it is not only your unconventional attire that draws my attention."

"What is it then?"

A rare smirk appears. "My answer is not fit for public consumption."

Hermione softens, her lips curving into a smile. "I suppose it is just as well that there are no others around to overhear me say that I enjoyed last night. What you did was…"

Indescribable, once they accustomed themselves to the intimate act.

His enjoyment increased alongside hers.

As did his boldness.

A blush warms her cheeks. "I would not be opposed to repeating the occasion, but it is my turn to return the favour."

"Is that so?" His features twist in interest. "You said that we are not to be transactional."

"We are not. It will be for the same reasons you chose to last night."

"To shut my mind up?"

Hermione huffs with an eye roll, unable to stop smiling. "There are other avenues you could have taken, but you chose…"

To finger and lick her cunt until she was sensitive and squirming, breathless with her back arched and her legs spread wide.

"You are already aware." She grows warm beneath her collar. "You need no explanation."

"I do not."

"Just as I do not need to explain my reasons for wanting to taste you."

Draco stumbles in uncharacteristic clumsiness. "You—you should not speak so casually."

"But it is true and I am such a poor liar."

Heat simmers in his eyes. "Then I am ready for this day to conclude."

As she laughs, Hermione thinks about the day ahead. She worries that when he sees the orphanage, Draco will look for a reason to cut the visit even shorter.

When they arrive, every student drops the lesson they are in with Lady Susan to flock around her in droves. They do not even notice the king's presence, and Hermione is surprised by his reaction.

Draco remains silent.

He watches.

The orphans hug her. The smaller ones chatter, a few cry, and the older ones are thrilled.

She is not Queen Hermione here. She is still their teacher, despite a long absence.

"Are you back?" Angelus and Cassia ask as one.

"No."

Their disappointment is visceral.

It breaks her heart. "It is my mother's birthday. While I cannot stay for as long as I would like, I am here now with the king."

This is when they notice him.

Draco's reputation precedes him and he is not exactly warm. Initially terrified when he looks at them, they cower when he moves. Hermione gathers everyone closer and promises that they are safe, reminding them of their manners. She instructs them to bow before the king they have heard so many stories about.

His reaction is unexpected.

With a curt nod, his eyes skim the row. "Rise. Pretend I am not your king."

They do so collectively, staring at him in childish awe. Hermione calls for their attention, smiling at Lady Susan, who makes her way through the throngs of pupils and hugs her close.

"Where is Ron?"

"Home with the children and his mother. I made my excuses and came here instead."

The Viscountess will prattle on forever if allowed and Ron can never say no to his mother.

"Do you mind if I give them a lesson while I am here?"

"Not at all. We need to finish Arithmetic. The next lesson is sparring." Susan is an exceptional fighter and a patient teacher. That she serves as one of the replacements for Hermione is good for the children. "I will tend to the babies."

"Minerva has accepted more children?"

"Twin babies were delivered here last night after their mother died in childbirth," she says with a sad shake of her head. "I will relieve Minerva while you are here."

Hermione instructs everyone to sit in a circle around the large room and waits for them to settle. She loses sight of Draco, but spots him speaking to Minerva, unable to hear what he is saying while she gestures here and there.

Hermione's focus is pulled back to the group. They do not want to learn Arithmetic or Transfiguration. They want to hear stories of Court, of her life as Queen.

"It is challenging but exciting, very different from life here." Given the difficult transition, talking about her new life is easier than she expected. "I am always learning."

"What did you say to the king when you first met him?" Selene asks, looking a bit starry-eyed.

"I…" Hermione catches Draco listening intently now. "I answered three questions."

Then she continues Queen Narcissa's legacy by asking them the questions that were once asked to her.

They prod, but Hermione does not divulge her answers.

Instead, she gives each child her focus, checking in and listening to them. But time runs short. She is so swept up, she does not notice Draco again until she scans the room and sees him staring at a group of boys. They are no longer afraid, forming a semi-circle around him, armed with wooden swords. He fixes their stances and whistles as they pair up and begin to spar under his watchful eye.

"Good, but follow through," Draco tells one child. "Do not hesitate at the end. Your enemy will not."

The boy stands straighter. "Yes, Sire—I mean, sir."

"Again."

They raise their wooden swords.

Festus approaches Draco to show off his rat familiar. Draco kneels and speaks to the boy, who closes his eyes on command, then opens them suddenly, wide with wonder as he looks at his familiar. Draco nods and the boy runs off to a group who surround him, awaiting the story of what he learned from the king. To the group surrounding Festus, she whistles and sends them to help the cooks prepare supper.

Draco nearly jolts when he turns and finds little Emilia peering up at him with an enamoured grin. Suppressing her laughter, Hermione rescues him, fixing Emilia's braid before sending her off to play. They walk to the fence, watching the pairs spar.

Hermione takes in the sight. "I expected you to sit in the shadows until it was time to leave."

"Children are often more tolerable than adults."

"Says the man who does not wish to sire one of his own."

"Yet." Draco glances at her, smirking at her surprised expression. "I am not the best husband. I doubt—"

"You steadily improve in my regard. I do not expect perfection, and neither should you."

"What do you expect?"

Hermione does not need long to think of her answer. "Honesty. Loyalty. Companionship. You no longer disagree with me so loudly."

"You wanted me to listen so I have. It is not complex. Besides, I have recently discovered that I prefer distracting you to fighting."

She laughs. "I agree that it is far more favourable than discourse, but do not tread delicately around me. I am not always right. Nor am I fragile."

He hums. "I am aware."

"Above not putting a blade in your chest, what do you expect of me? We have found common ground, but you must want more. You are allowed to alter your desires, as am I."

Draco takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "For now, I am content."

She believes him.

Hermione shifts closer, their sides pressing as she rests her head on Draco's shoulder. His arm curls around her; she is unsettled by the casual intimacy.

Or are the sparks of nerves she feels coming from him?

"The children seem happy here," Draco says after a short silence. They watch two of the smaller children team together to spar an older child. "It is surprisingly functional, despite overcrowding."

"Most orphanages are overrun, thanks to war and illness, but not all have the same generosity as my parents have bestowed on this one."

"The boy with the familiar needs training. I showed him how to begin to put distance between himself and his familiar without causing strain. There are others who would make fine soldiers in the future."

"Is that all they are to you?" she asks.

"They serve a purpose, just like you and I. We are all subjects of the crown. Children will grow into adults, and society needs people to function and occupy certain roles."

"Which involves education. Giving a wand to a soldier who cannot read or write and does not know basic spells is dangerous. Not just to them, but to their fellow soldiers, to the knights, and to you. Most orphans cannot read to even gain admission so your idea does not work."

"It will if they are given a proper education."

"The funds—"

"There is enough excess in the treasuries to fund orphanages all over the kingdom. Or maybe you can build a boarding school for the orphans to attend and learn together."

"Ideally, that would be beneficial, but people are corrupt. They would squander the Galleons and leave the children destitute. Honest people are not as common as one might think."

"With force, they would comply."

Violence is the standard answer with Draco.

Hermione disagrees with his brute force approach. "The deserters should be a strong indicator that fear is not always a proper motivator."

"I did not have a problem with soldiers vanishing until I returned home. There are other factors at work. Your argument is partially invalid. What would be your solution to human greed?"

"There is no solution to that or selfishness. Perhaps appointing someone trusted to oversee and encouraging witnesses of wrong-doing a free place to speak their truth without threat of death is an option, but my ideas are fruitless if you do not intend to—"

"You know I do not ask questions if I do not want answers."

Hermione nods. "Of course."

"I noticed there are things missing." He points at the broomstand that has seen better days.

"You mean luxuries."

"Yes."

"They are not missing." Hermione knows this place is not perfect, but it is comfortable; the magic is as warm and inviting as Minerva is strict and caring. "Over the years, as things have broken, they have not been replaced. Funds are better diverted in other areas."

Draco clearly does not agree.

"The world beyond these walls does not teem with luxuries, so it is best they do not grow accustomed to such things. It would be cruel to teach them to depend on what they will lose access to when they leave. Luxuries are just that—luxuries. Not necessities, and certainly not an expectation we wish to instil. In our positions, we do not want for luxuries. They are freely provided as standard measure. Raised in royalty, and now as a king, it is natural you would not understand the difference. As time passes, I lose sight of the differentiation as well."

"I understand more than you assume."

She takes an unconscious step towards Draco, a teasing smirk on her face. "Name one luxury you wish for."

"Peace."

Mother's birthday celebration officially begins with Harry and Ginny's arrival.

The meal is informal, a mesh of her mother's favourites; palace food is decadent in comparison. Hermione's exchanges with those at Court are not as natural either. She speaks freely tonight. It is a nice break from the machinations.

She enjoys herself. Draco does as well.

He talks to everyone and even laughs at Harry's jokes. Her brother is not as shocked as the rest, as if this is normal of his time with the king—at least in private.

But more than once, Hermione stares.

Draco eats a little of everything, far more than usual. Hermione wonders if his appetite is due to his lack of worry here where no one will harm him or poison his food.

Here, he is allowed to let down his guard.

And he does.

Following dessert, they talk, reminiscing on the few non-violent childhood stories. Hermione wears a permanent flush from laughing, but her eyes keep falling on Draco.

What were hints before turn into blatant signs of his state of being. While she and Father shrink and pack vials of herbs for her brewing room in the castle, he flies on brooms with Harry and Ginny. Hermione watches from the window.

Father calls for her attention. "What else do you need?"

Mother joins them soon after, and Father leaves to follow Draco, Harry, and Ginny outdoors. She uses their time alone to give Hermione a muslin wrap stuffed with preserved jamu.

"Mother," Hermione gasps.

"I can retrieve more. Send Winky, tell her to be discreet." Mother rests her hands on Hermione's shoulders, searching her eyes. "You are Queen, but you should have the option to wait to bear a child until you are ready. It is your body. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise."

"I advocate for myself, Mother. Do not fret. Snape gave me a potion for this month."

"Good." A flash of appreciation for her old friend passes. "It is most excellent that you take this into consideration."

"Draco requested it be made for me."

Mother does not disguise her shock. "That is most unexpected, though I should not be surprised. He sacrificed much to save you, and punished himself for the actions that nearly drove you to your grave. I have never seen a more regretful man."

"He is atoning and learning from his errors. I am, as well, by speaking instead of suppressing."

"I am proud of you." She smiles and they both pause when they hear something hit the outside wall. Rushing to the window, they find Ginny flying back to the others with a ball in hand. Mother watches the sight. "Tonight, the king seems… dare I say, serene?"

"He is most certainly on his best behaviour. I believe he likes the peace he finds away from the palace."

They go back to what they are doing. Minutes pass in companionable silence; Hermione has missed this.

Mother makes her recite the steps to preparing the jamu plant, then carefully places folded muslin stuffed with herbs in the pocket of her gown.

She freezes upon seeing Draco looming in the doorway, sweat on his brow.

He nods to her mother. "Excuse us, Your Grace."

"Of course, Your Majesty. I will finish here."

Hermione follows Draco to the veranda. The sun is setting over the land, and the breeze saps the warmth from the day. Potter estate is as beautiful as always. She expects to find her father nearby, or perhaps Harry and Ginny, but the three are walking towards the orchards.

"They are going to show Potter the boundary of the wards."

"You did not go with them?"

"No. I wanted a moment alone." He holds out his hand. "Humour me."

As they move closer to a small platform off the veranda, she sees two swords hovering with their tips facing down.

"We missed our session this morning." Draco picks up the larger of the two swords, wielding it with an expert flourish. "Spar with me, but keep your mind locked."

Hermione takes the remaining, testing the weight in her hand. It is not one she has ever used when sparring with her mother, but it feels right: not too heavy or too light. "This is an Occlumency lesson?"

His smile grows with a wry tilt to his lips. "Yes. Thus far they have only been small lessons by the lake, but I want to test what you have learned. Only if you are up to the challenge."

"Always."

She closes her eyes and does just as she has practised, sealing each doorway of thought until none remain. When she is ready, she opens her eyes again, taking in the man standing opposite of her.

Their gazes lock.

Hermione sinks into her ready stance. Draco smirks.

She takes the offence first, just to test his skill. He blocks her with ease. Draco holds back, which irritates Hermione into launching a rapid series of moves that ends with a low jab. He does not expect it and is nearly unable to stop it.

The clank of metal on metal is deafening.

"You improve daily," he tells her, his breathing slightly laboured. "But your left remains weaker than your right."

"Then help me improve."

"I am."

Fighting is a dance: a fluid ebb and flow.

They circle and study the other, moving in tandem. Swords crossing, she feels his presence brush against her thoughts—more at first, then less when the duel stops feeling like he is humouring her.

It begins to feel like he is actually challenging her with a desire to defeat her.

The first time he attacks, Hermione blocks with as much effort as aggression. She is light and swift, but her endurance has not returned. Draco is taller with a longer reach, but he does not tire.

His retreat is both strategic and relentless.

Hermione's guard never falters.

"Your mind remains sealed." Draco points his sword at her. It reminds her of their first meeting. "Have you had enough?"

And now—like before—she does not back down. "Not even close."

"Good."

Time loses all meaning. They spar until sweat runs down her face. She enjoys it most when his efforts against her become visible, evident in his increasing aggression. He is easier to fight when his impeccable form slips.

She spins, mind blanking with focus as their swords cross.

Hermione's sword glows and burns.

Shock makes her nearly drop it.

The spark burns out.

"Was that—" she asks breathlessly.

"Perfect. You are channelling your magic," Draco replies. "Soon you will be able to cut through anything with a single stroke, no matter what it is or how strong you feel."

"My mother tried to teach me this skill for years."

"Perhaps the block on your mind made it difficult for you to master."

Now that it is gone…

Still dazed, Hermione tries to shake it off. "Another round?"

"If you so please."

She does.

The fight begins anew, but no matter how hard Hermione tries, her sword does not glow again. She does not fret. It will happen again. She can feel it.

"The key is not to try." Draco's sword burns a cold blue like Kaida's fire. "It must be natural. Instinct."

"Who taught you how to swordfight?" Hermione asks as they circle each other once more. Her hands are raw from the grip but she barely notices, too focused on her opponent.

"My father. My first real challenge was your brother. It took hours for Potter to eventually give in."

"My mother taught him and me." She jabs at his belly. Draco slides to the side, but then she has to block his attack. Ducks, spins, comes back harder. "We get our determination from her."

"Admirable." He catches her sword in a nasty clang of metal. It sounds like friction feels. He steps closer while their swords are still crossed. "My mother taught me to play to my strengths."

All of a sudden she feels a pulse. A force that rips the sword from her grip and sends her stumbling backwards.

Magic.

"Cheater!"

"You never said no magic." Draco's smirk is made more devilish by his scar. He tosses her sword aside and approaches with his at his side. He points it at her, tilting his head. "Do you yield?"

"No." Hermione makes a fist with a spell in mind.

Draco hisses and drops his sword. "You and your brother love that spell."

"A specialty." She advances, pulling her dagger from her gown with a flourish, and brings the blade to his neck. "Do you yield?"

Draco's eyes burn.

She wants to look away. But she cannot.

They are both breathing heavily, sweating from exertion and exhilaration.

Hermione loves to win, but this is better.

That is until a quick glance gives her a view of the dagger she never sees him pull from his belt.

"How about—" The blade slides down the side of her gown. She feels the pressure of the metal but it does not cut. "We yield to each other."

"A tie," Hermione agrees with a low hum, still catching her breath.

They drop their daggers.

Nothing stands between them.

Draco's eyes drop to her mouth. Hermione feels his steady presence on her mind, just there, pushing but not entering. Thus far, she has kept him out, but now she wants to let him in.

It is hard to say who moves first; they meet in the middle, trading fevered kisses and wrapping their arms around one another as they sink into each other. Draco picks her up, and with the same ease, Hermione's legs wrap around him. Slipping her tongue into his mouth, she fists his hair. Their kisses grow rushed, heated, desperate.

Draco's steps are blind but he backs her into the wall, lips travelling down her neck, hands pulling at the bodice of her maroon gown.

"I know a better place," Hermione murmurs against his lips. "More private. I will show you. It is just over—"

A movement from the corner of his eye draws Draco's attention.

Then hers.

Harry and Ginny run towards them in a full sprint. There is no mistaking the terror on their faces.

Draco helps her down, and they meet the panting pair at the bottom of the veranda stairs.

They ask their questions at the same time.

"What is it?"

"Where is Father?"

"Inferi, at the edge of the estate wards." Harry points with his wand. "We got separated from him!"

They spring into action.

Hermione grabs both swords, handing one to Ginny. "Let's go."

Urgency keeps their footsteps silent as they run through the forest.

Hermione expects the worst when they stumble into the fresh ruins of a battlefield. It is where Harry and Ginny last saw Father. Tall, lush trees block their view of the sky. They are still, as if poised for something.

A silence like death drapes over everything.

Nature is suffocating under the thick smoke billowing from dozens of burning mounds speckling the forest floor.

The flames grow larger but do not spread.

Instead, they twist into shapes.

Runes.

A message.

What caused this will be back.

A burning glove slowly stretches from one, reaching for Draco's leg until Ginny kicks it away.

Father emerges from behind a tree, wand drawn, spell on the tip of his tongue, until he sees it is them and lowers it, visibly relieved.

As are they to find him unharmed.

Father whistles, and three cloaked figures step out of the flaming shadows on command.

Draco and Harry raise their wands.

Father holds up his hands. "They are not the enemy."

"Then who are they?" Draco asks.

"Unspeakables," Father replies by way of explanation, but it is enough for the tense scene to slowly unfurl. Hermione's grip on her sword does not loosen; everyone notices it. "They are friends. Protectors."

"I know who they are." She keeps a watchful eye on the Unspeakable that stands closest to him. They are the group that cut out their own tongues to keep the Potter's true identities a secret. "But that does not explain why they are here."

"They appeared with fiery arrows when my leg gave out while I was running from the Inferi. I fell and they came to my aid."

Hermione looks at the flames with new eyes. "They are all Inferi?"

"Yes."

The voice does not belong to her father. A different man steps out of a disillusionment near one of the burning mounds. He is tall and lean with grey streaks through his curly brown hair, and wears the same uniform as the silent soldiers. He is different yet familiar. Still, Hermione cannot place him, distracted by what is behind him.

A circle of Unspeakables bearing torches approach, corralling a surviving Inferus.

As one, they step back, drop their torches, and stretch their arms. Fire burns a perfect circle around the Inferus as more Unspeakables descend from the trees with a single, silent leap, hands moving rapidly as they speak with signals and gestures Hermione does not understand. Draco and Ginny do not either, given the look of confusion both wear. Only her father knows the language because he responds and interprets.

"They canvassed the area and found this one approaching, but it is the last." Father then turns to the man, his smile growing familiar and friendly. "I did not know you were around, Theseus."

"When we found out you were warding the duchy, we decided to keep a team in the forests just off the estate, watching over you."

"I appreciate it."

"Your Majesties." The stranger bows low, too formal given their current location. "I am Theseus Scamander."

Hermione jolts. "Newt's brother?"

When he smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkle. "Only when he answers my letters."

"You are an Unspeakable who speaks?" Ginny sounds mystified.

"Officially, I am a retired Longbottom Kingdom knight, but I have been working with the Unspeakables to keep the Potters safe. We got word that an Inferi army was being created from dead soldiers in the Malfoy Kingdom's campaign and—"

"We know they are coming," Harry interjects. "But we do not know how quickly."

"How many?" Draco asks.

"Possibly a few hundred," Theseus says. "It is hard to tell. Dumbledore tasked me and the Unspeakables with determining if the Inferi are being created by someone loyal to Voldemort."

"And if not?" Harry wonders. "Will he leave us to fight an army of Inferi without aid?"

The pause is damning.

Draco scoffs. "I am not surprised."

Even Father and Harry look disappointed.

"I do not intend to leave you alone in this fight. I do not agree with his treatment of you—either of you." He gives both Harry and Draco meaningful glances. "I will continue to search the area and destroy any Inferi I see, but we need to figure out who they are after."

"How do we do that?" Ginny's hand tightens around her sword.

Draco says nothing, only approaches the circle. Between her father and brother, Hermione lingers at a far enough distance to remain out of harm's way. The Unspeakables and Theseus fall back. It is a terrifying mass of animated bones and grey skin pulled tight. Unlike the one she fought as a child, this one wears armour. Its eyes are white and cloudy, hair stringy and yellow, dead long enough for rot to progress to desiccation. Its head moves back and forth, searching.

The flames rise when it moves, removing the chilling sight from her vision.

"Are you injured?" Hermione asks her father while Draco circles the flames.

"No, but you and Ginny should return to the estate."

"Actually," Draco says, "she needs to stay. We all do."

"The king is right. Inferi are puppets controlled by masters," Theseus explains. "If they did not attack the Duke when he fell, and this one does not lunge at him now…" He looks at Hermione. "Step closer. You too, Harry."

They do as they are told. All three stand at an equal distance around the burning circle.

Theseus lowers the flames.

The Inferus waits one second before launching at Hermione.

Draco's blasting spell catches it in the chest, throwing it out of the circle and into a nearby tree. It rises and runs towards them at an impossible speed, its high-pitched cry ringing in her ears. Harry grabs her hand.

Draco vaults over a burning mound, putting himself in its path. "Incendio."

Fire shoots from the tip of Draco's wand, catching the Inferus in the chest. Its screams as the flames grow and spread. It is painful to hear. The Inferus falls to its knees, still clawing its way towards Draco as it burns, slowly falling silent.

When it stops, Draco proceeds to blast it into pieces.

Theseus whistles low. "That is one way to be certain it can never be brought back."

All eyes fall on Hermione.

"Are you hurt?" Father asks.

"There was one reaching for Draco. And that one was ordered to come for you, as well." Ginny sounds terrified. "That is how it works, right?"

She is correct.

Hearing the truth is more shocking than knowing it silently.

One signal and the Unspeakables begin to spread out, digging holes and covering the burning mounds with dirt to suppress the fire.

Theseus folds his arms. "You know what this means, Sire."