Chapter Text
L'Officiel magazine has claimed Her Royal Highness Hermione of France to be Femme de L'année—or 'Woman of the Year' for those that read the English translation, much like Draco does—for the third consecutive year in a row.
For as long as the article has been published, the moment the issue is available in international languages, Narcissa Malfoy has sent her equerry to pick up the preordered issue from Buckingham Palace’s never-ending-post-pile.
Severus Snape (said equerry) then delivers L’Officiel to Draco’s West Wing bedroom and hits him over the head with it to wake him up.
“Get up.”
Snape gets frustrated in the mornings, and furious when Draco oversleeps, so when he awoke Draco with the annual smacking-over-the-head, the palace equerry sounded frustratedly furious and as though he’d caught a terrible bout of the common cold.
Fumbling, blindly searching for his glasses on his nightstand, Draco let out a lengthy yawn; arms outstretched, jaw slack, hair tousled. He quite liked his morning appearance because Morning Draco was about as un-princely as a prince could get.
Glasses located and sitting crookedly on his nose, he crawled to the foot of his bed to retrieve his bowl of Weetabix from the ottoman, dragging his spoon through the sludge half-heartedly. Just as he was shovelling his second spoonful into his mouth, the aforementioned copy of L’Officiel was tossed into his lap. A splattering of milk and brownish clumps were spilt down his front. He scowled but took a perfunctory look at the magazine.
There she was, smiling up at him. She was wearing a summer dress that reached just past her ankles and cinched at the waist, embroidered with hand-sewn daisies. The short sleeves puffed out ever so slightly and the scooped neckline was appropriate in that it accentuated her breasts without showing too much skin. Her chestnut curls had somehow been tamed into an intricate half-up, half-down braid that wrapped around her head. On top of her braid sat a tiara that Draco knew to be made of silver and encrusted with bright, white diamonds. And behind her as usual the lavish gardens of the Palace of Versailles were glowing green beneath the late summer sun.
Draco couldn’t care less.
He’d known Hermione Grangér since he was toddling about in nappies and teething on expensive antiques, and he could tell you with certainty that she was the most insufferable, most swotty little creature to have ever walked planet Earth.
Because she was stood diagonally to the camera in her L’Officiel cover photo, Draco could quite obviously tell that Hermione was hiding a copy of Les quatre filles du Docteur Marsch (Little Women) behind her back and was attempting to feign indifference.
Key word: attempting.
Hermione had always lacked the aristocracy that most royals tended to have and, consequently, she was devoid of any subtlety. As L’Officiel so wonderfully put it: ‘Elegance and grace does not a good princess make; Hermione Grangér always keeps us wondering what she’ll do next.’
How accurate. The former half of the statement, that is, because the magazine is correct—she is neither elegant nor graceful. The latter half, however, was about as far from the truth as humanly possible. Hermione Grangér was boringly predictable: she ‘secretly’ wrote poetry and not-so-secretly read books in every hidden nook and cranny of her palace; she visited ill children and poor children and school children; she rocked back and forth on her heels nervously at charity events and spilt her champagne over her shoes and Draco’s shoes and, somehow, anybody’s shoes that were within a ten foot radius.
She'd recently begun studying Literature, Environmental Engineering, and Sustainable Management at Sciences Po Paris, a rather prestigious university that specialised in political sciences; she fluently spoke five languages in addition to her native tongue of French; she baked French delicacies.
She did everything you’d expect a princess to do. And perhaps a bit more, but that was beside the point: she was boring.
Draco only knew so much about Hermione because his mother, Queen Narcissa, was particularly fond of the King of France’s wife, Queen Jean II. Consequently, Draco and Hermione were dragged along to their mothers’ various visits in London or Paris and were forced to feign acquaintanceship. And, though he’d never admit it aloud, Draco knew lots about the French Princess’ favourite novels, cafés and Shakespearean sonnets due to his occasional scouring of her Instagram account. Her ‘feed’ mainly comprised photos of her aforementioned university, her endless stacks of literature, and the occasional snapshot of herself or her friends and family. And the cat. A lot of photographs of the mangy cat.
So, no, Hermione didn’t keep anyone wondering what she’d do next. She was dull and bland and spoke either a little too loud or a little too quiet, never just right. She was an itch he’d never be able to scratch—sometimes literally; though he didn’t make a habit of touching it, her hair was… well, she had a lot of it. Loads. Even her hair was predictable! A question now arose: why, when his mother knew quite well that Draco despised the Princess of France, did Narcissa continue to order him a copy of Hermione’s Woman of the Year magazine annually?
By the time Draco had refreshed himself with the list of Hermione’s tasteless traits for the first time since he’d read last year’s L’Officiel article, Snape had seemingly grown bored of the young prince's whirring mind, and chose to step in before any more Weetabix was poured down Draco’s front.
“When you have finished gawking—“
“I am not gawking.”
“—at the princess, please do put on some trousers and, perhaps, a shirt. Your mother requests your presence before nine o’clock.”
It was already eight-thirty, so Draco tossed the magazine into the bottom of his nightstand where the other issues of L’Officiel were stashed, forgotten for another year as soon as the drawer shut.
When he arrived at his mother’s study at exactly nine o’clock, he found her scrutinizing Hermione’s cover picture—the very one he hoped he wouldn’t ever have to see again—at her desk. She didn’t look up when he sat down on the velvet armchair across from her and she didn’t look up when he cleared his throat. Draco snatched the magazine away from her and shoved it underneath his seat.
She blinked, startled. Then, she finally looked up and greeted him with a thin-lipped smile, pulling her pre-poured teacup and saucer closer in front of her to swirl the spoon a few times, careful not to clink metal against china.
“Did you see the—“
“—Yes, Mother. I did, in fact, see the copy of L’Officiel that you so kindly had Severus bring up to me. Again.”
His mother nodded once and brought the teacup to her lips. She blew gently, ripples disturbing the still surface of the milky liquid and a plume of barely-there steam disappearing somewhere above her head. He watched as she took a sip. Once she’d placed her cup down again, she straightened her back and interlocked her fingers, resting her clasped hands on the mahogany desk in a way that could only mean business.
“Draco, we’re going to France this weekend. Yourself, your father and I.” She then added, as an afterthought, “and Severus, of course.”
“Brilliant. I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the cover girl princess, does it?”
Narcissa arched her brows, unimpressed. “Don’t be so harsh, Draco. It’s unbecoming of you.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t aware that I was expected to be beguiling at nine o’clock on a Thursday morning.”
“It’s Friday, dear.”
“My point exactly.” Draco fixed his mother with a stony glare. Her eyes were an oceanic blue, unlike his which were a stony, almost-onyx grey.
His mother had been on the receiving end of his piercing silvery stare enough to remain unperturbed by it, “Jean and Michaèl have invited us to Hermione’s gala. You are to attend and act civilly towards her. Do you understand?”
He scoffed, “you underestimate me. I am fully capable of being a gentlemen and pretending that I care about her fundraiser for the Paris Climate Control Committee or whatever it is she’s spewing about these days.”
“Why are you aware of the PCCC being the charity of choice for this event, Draco, if you care so little about it?”
“I—she—Grangér, that is—posted a flyer online. I happened to stumble upon it last night. I remember thinking: ‘wow, how positively predictable and boring of her.’”
“Draco!” hissed Narcissa, “you are verbally defacing the Princess of France. Have care how you speak!”
“Why? Who is there to overhear us? Severus?”
Immediately, the office door opened and Snape stepped into the room, “yes?”
“Oh, sorry, Severus. Draco was just mentioning your name in passing.”
“Right.” Drawled Snape, slinking back into the corridor.
Narcissa refocused on her son with another vicious stare, “we leave this evening at seven o’clock. You are to read the magazine so as to have talking points with her, and you will be photographed dancing with her at least once tomorrow night. Understood?”
“Dance? Photographed?” He exasperated, “since when did you care about Hermione and I’s social standing?”
“Since always! Must I call in your father to have a word with you?”
Draco shrunk back into his seat slightly, “no…”
“Good. You have a suit fitting at nine-thirty. Go and get ready.”
Brilliant, he thought as soon as he’d finished simpering at his mother and was back in the safety of his bedroom, Just wonderful!
He dragged himself over to his bedside table and pulled out the magazine again. He stared scornfully at the princess for a moment or two before turning to the second page and skimming the article.
L’OFFICIEL MAGAZINE: WOMAN OF THE YEAR, 2019
Her Royal Highness Hermione of France has appeared annually on our front cover since becoming eligible for the title of Woman of the Year. This year, unlike her predecessors, Princess Hermione has elected to continue her education at Sciences Po, where she is three weeks into her first academic term. But, Her Royal Highness has been keeping herself busy all year, and plans to release her first book this December—Nous Faisons Tout Cela Mal (We Are Doing This All Wrong)—a historical account of the French Government’s responses to global warming, which Princess Hermione has been studying diligently over the past few years.
In more recent news, it has been announced this weekend that Their Royal Highnesses King Michaél and Queen Jean II of France are aiding their daughter in hosting a fundraiser for the Paris Climate Conservation Committee. Five Percent of the proceeds will go towards a charity of the guests’ democratic choice. The Princess has achieved much more than we can list in just one article within the last year—both academically and socially. She continues to prove to this author that she is the ideal role model for every young girl across Europe, and we are on the edge of our seats, anxious to discover what she’ll accomplish next.
[ See rest of article on pages 19 & 20 ]
Rita Skeeter, L’Officiel Magazine, 11 September, 2019 (English translation).
Pages nineteen and twenty mentioned each and every one of Hermione’s charity events over the past twelve months; congratulated her on five A* Baccalauréat (A-Level) grades in English Literature, French History, Environmental Science, European Politics, and Philosophy & Ethics; summarised her most recent public appearances; and made a guesstimate as to what life in the Palace of Versailles was like for the French princess.
Quite frankly, the article wasn’t too bad. Hermione had always been smart—smarter than Draco gave her credit for—and her work was admittedly mildly fascinating. He still hated her, though. He hated the way she always had a book on her person. He hated how she corrected him loudly but politely when he was wrong (why couldn’t she be just a tad meaner every now and then?). He hated her friends, perhaps most of all the things he hated about her. He hated her curls, too. Kind of. Maybe they’d still be soft if he ran a hand through them? Not that he’d thought about it doing so in a long, long time—it was just a passing thought. There was an equal chance that her hair would spring to life and swallow him whole. Brilliant, he thought, picturing the article that would follow such a monstrous event: Her Royal Hairness Suffocates the Prince of Wales With Bushy Mane.
She definitely wouldn’t be Woman of the Year after that.
Snape interrupted his reverie by throwing open his bedroom door and striding in, Draco’s tailor and a rack of suits in tow.
“I was under the impression that you weren’t gawking.”
Draco looked down to discover that he’d closed the magazine and had been staring at Hermione’s cover photograph for longer than an excusable amount of time. He noticed that the scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks that accumulated during the summer had made their annual reappearance.
“Mother’s forcing me to read her article.”
Snape sniffed, ”I don’t care.”
“Right.”
They watched one another, eyes narrowed and glares piercing.
Draco’s tailor and second cousin, Sirius Black, cleared his throat. Although he was technically a prince, Sirius had removed himself from the line of succession to the crown and had instead become a clothing designer. He claimed that the royal life ‘just wasn’t for him’ (and that he was more suited to introverted philosophy professors).
Draco turned toward the suit rack and watched impatiently as Sirius unzipped all seven garment bags, revealing a selection of dark blues and blacks. All of them had sage green neckties and matching waistcoats.
“You know, Sirius, I don’t see why you bother with bringing multiple colour options when you know that I’ll pick the black one, regardless.”
He cocked a brow, ”surely you know by now, Draco, that I’m impatiently waiting for the day you finally choose to make a statement.”
“Navy blue is hardly a statement.”
With an irritated scowl, Sirius re-zipped the garment bags containing anything that wasn’t black. The final two options remained: both were black suits, one with a white Oxford shirt and the other with an Oxford of matching black. He chose the white. It looked classier with the sage waistcoat and tie. Sirius agreed. Snape nodded his approval. The rack was wheeled out of the room and Sirius followed, sneering with finality as he disappeared down the corridor.
“Have you started packing?” asked Snape.
“No.”
“Start packing.”
“Fine.”
Draco spent the next hour or so leisurely placing socks and underwear into his suitcase. He had lunch at twelve in the Palace Gardens with his mother, then returned to his room and packed his pyjamas, shirts, trousers and outerwear. At four o’clock, after he’d picked out a book from the West Wing Library (Tess of the D'urbervilles), he lugged his things downstairs and followed Snape and Lucius out to the car.
His mother was already in the sleek, black SUV, and had begun to flick through another French magazine as they set off—Le Point, a bi-weekly political publication that addressed economics, culture, health, and technology. Draco found the fact that his mother was reading a magazine unrelated to fashion or royalty slightly perturbing until he got a glimpse of the front cover.
For the third time that day—a new record—Draco was met with Hermione Grangér’s photograph, though this time it was a different one. Hermione was not on a balcony overlooking her garden in a flowing dress, but was instead wearing a pleated skirt, white Oxford and a black blazer sans tie. She was stood at a lectern in front of a small crowd with a stack of papers clutched in her white-knuckled grip. Hair messily tossed into a ponytail and eyes animatedly wide, she appeared to be struggling to remain patient as she glared daggers at one of the men in her audience, pointing an accusatory finger.
PRINCESS ‘DETHRONES’ FRENCH EXECUTIVE OF GOVERNMENTAL FINANCING AND TREASURY!
Our very own Princess Hermione Grangér stood before the Paris International Courts on Wednesday 15 September to expose the French Executive of Governmental Financing and Treasury. Ludo Bagman (photographed on Page 1) has been responsible for the influx and delegation of financial resources throughout France for thirteen years. He was re-elected as Executive only three months ago, but recent information recovered by HRH Princess Hermione in misplaced Governmental Library Records shows receipts detailing fraud and money laundering dating as far back as 2013.
When tried against the court, Bagman was found guilty.
At the climax of her speech, our princess claimed: “for an eighteen-year-old girl to feel as though she must be the one to address something so devastating—something that could and should have been prevented six years ago—is utterly disgusting. Is all that matters to our government wealth and power?”
William ‘Bill’ Weasley has been elected as Interim Executive, and an official campaign for the permanent position will be held in two weeks’ time at the Palais de Justice Courthouse. Five additional high-ranking employees have been removed from their positions within parliament after dozens of emails and documents surfaced testifying their compliancy to Bagman’s underground operations.
[ Continuation of article on pages 6 & 7 ]
Xenophilius Lovegood, Le Point Magazine, 15 September, 2019 (English translation).
Draco let out a low whistle. He was… impressed. It took a lot to impress Draco Malfoy, especially when you were Hermione Grangér, but she’d actually gone and done something admirable.
“Impressive, isn’t she?” said Narcissa offhandedly, as though she’d somehow read Draco’s mind, “I’ll have to speak with her about preordering her book. It sounds intriguing, don't you think, Lucius?”
“She’s wise beyond her years, I suppose. For a girl.” Lucius added quietly, then to Draco: “have you thought about reconsidering the RAF, Draco? Business and chemistry are…” he scrunched his nose, “unimpressive in comparison to her studies. Military work is family tradition, after all.”
“No, Father. I’m not returning to the Military. I’ve already completed my obligatory two years of training.”
Narcissa nodded tersely, pulling out yet another magazine with Hermione on the cover, ”Lucius, you did agree to let him pursue whatever he wished to after serving for two years.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“But,” she continued, “I don’t understand what it is that you’ll do with business and chemistry degrees. You’ll be married in only a few years’ time, and then you’ll be busy with raising your family—“
“—Married?!” He exclaimed, gobsmacked, “I’ve never had so much as a courtship and you expect me to soon be married and spouting children?”
Again, Narcissa nodded. Her eyes were skimming the glossy pages of Vogue Paris, in which a black and white photograph of Hermione stood beside one of her Palace Guards was displayed, both of them reading A Guide to Royal Guarding for Dummies. The title was in English, so Draco assumed that the guard was clueless as to what he was reading. He almost laughed. Almost.
“Well, of course.” His mother said, “you’ll have to be married at some point. You are the sole Malfoy heir.”
“Right, of course! I’d nearly forgotten that marriage is simply an economic and social proposition! Please, do enlighten me on what my first child will be called, as it seems you’ve got a strict plan already laid out!”
“For a boy, I was thinking—”
“—Thinking? Did it hurt, Mother?”
Lucius rolled his eyes, effectively silencing his wife and son respectively. ”Don’t be ridiculous, son. We’re not forcing you into marriage—”
“Yet.”
“—we’re simply preparing you so that when the time does come, you’ll be ready.”
“I will marry whomever I see fit if and when that ever happens.”
Draco could’ve kissed Snape when the car door opened, preventing either of his parents from responding. “I trust that you haven’t any knives on your person, Draco.” He droned as they started towards the plane.
“You’re lucky I don’t. Wouldn’t it be such a shame if I tripped whilst holding one and I just… beheaded you. Accidentally.”
Snape didn’t say another word to Draco for the duration of their flight to Paris. The greasy, old man did, however, go rather tense whenever Draco reached into his pockets. Draco therefore dug around in his trousers for ‘loose change’ every few minutes, just to glean a reaction. Narcissa finally put away her Hermione Grangér Fan Club magazines when they arrived, but he noticed that she had no less than five more to read in her suitcase. He chose not to question his mother’s eccentricities.
The drive to the Palace of Versailles was long and dull and awkward, so Draco kept his eyes glued to the window and observed the city to occupy himself. Paris had always been particularly lovely. Occasionally, the outskirts smelled faintly of petroleum and cigarette smoke, and the buildings were a faded, antique grey, but the scenery was beautiful nonetheless: terraced mansions and quaint bakeries; horse-drawn carriages on cobbled streets; twinkling yellow lights that peeked through windows and painted shadows across pavements. It was twilight and the sun was setting, the sky streaked with pinks, purples and oranges.
They passed the Sciences Po Paris campus on the way, and although Draco had driven by it many times before, he looked at the building now with fresh eyes. There was a large archway outside carved with grooves and slopes and curves that formed inexplicable intricacies. The school itself was at least four stories tall with floor-to-ceiling slit windows and overarching doors that looked as though they belonged in a castle. The campus stretched far beyond what he could see from the road, but Draco knew that there were small parks and areas of greenery accompanied by winding gravel paths and ornate benches inside of the grounds. As quickly as they approached, the car rolled away, and he found himself craning his neck to continue scanning the marble designs as they rounded the corner. The rest of the way, Draco mentally matched the pictures on Hermione’s Instagram to the street view of Sciences Po. He just about tumbled out of the car door when Snape opened it for him, not having registered their arrival.
The Eiffel Tower didn't hold a candle to the the Palace of Versailles—it was easily the most breathtaking location in all of Paris. Especially in the shadow of sunset, it looked as though God himself had raised it from the ground: golden wall trims, marble pillars, stained glass windows, lush gardens, twinkling mosaics of monarchs both living and dead, the Garde Républicaine dressed in velvety blacks and reds with golden buttons and twinkling sashes. Across the entryway were King Michaèl and his wife, Queen Jean II. They stood hand in hand, both donning their respective crown or tiara, not a crease in sight from head to toe. After the Malfoys had clambered out of the car, Draco’s mother and father approached Michaél and Jean to kiss them on both cheeks, then beckoned Draco forwards to do the same.
They’d finished greeting one another and were about to move indoors when the gates suddenly flew open and out scurried the princess herself, clutching the front of her dress to hold it off of the ground. Hair flying wildly behind her, Hermione skidded to a halt beside her mother, brushed off her skirt, straightened the tiara that had slipped halfway down her head, and caught her bottom lip between her teeth out of nervous habit. She curtseyed to Draco as was customary. He bowed. As they straightened up, she met his eyes.
“Hi,” she breathed.
Behind her back was yet another book—the title obscured because she wasn’t transparent (in a literal sense, at least)—that he assumed to be the reason for her late arrival.
“Get lost in the library?” He chided.
The cool, sharp end of his father’s cane clipped him on the shoulder, “mind yourself, Draco.”
“Of course, father,” he nodded, “rather, what I meant to say was that I admire your dedication to your studies.”
The corner of Hermione’s lips curled upwards in a barely-there smirk. He fought the building urge to punch it off of her face.
“Yes, Draco has been reading all about your subject choices, Hermione,” said Narcissa, “he’s quite interested by the university scene.”
“How wonderful!” Jean’s abnormally perfect teeth were suddenly on full display, “perhaps you could tour the campus with Draco?”
Hermione’s chipper reply came automatically, “of course! I’m going into school tomorrow afternoon to speak with one of my professors. You’re welcome to come along, Draco.”
I hate you.
“I’d love to.”
“I’ll have Minerva add it to your schedule. Though you’ll have to be back at the Palace before five tomorrow evening; the gala commences at six and we’d like for you to arrive together at six-fifteen.”
Draco whipped around to face Hermione, who was walking beside him. ‘Arrive together?’ he mouthed.
She discreetly checked over her shoulder to find their fathers engaged in polite chatter. His head ducked slightly to hear her mumbled reply, “it’s quite odd. Maman’s been talking about you a lot lately. She’s been purchasing your magazines and leaving them on my desk: Vogue, The Guardian, Reader’s Digest…”
Draco rolled his eyes, “likewise. My mother forced me into reading this year’s L’Officiel article. Again.”
Groaning, Hermione tipped her head backwards, “Ç’est insupportable ! I don’t understand why it is that I’m continuously voted Femme De L'année.”
“You poor thing! It must be so terrible to win Woman of the Year for the third time in a row. Such a hard life.”
She huffed, “it’s not like that. I just—there are plenty of other women that would make much better candidates than I do. It would be nice to see somebody else on the cover for a change. Why must they be overlooked because of me?”
“Because, Princess, you’re royalty. And, though I loath to admit it, you’re witty, sickeningly righteous, and quite knowledgeable. You’re the best—easiest—candidate that there is.”
“You're calling me easy?” She scowled, furthering the distance between them.
“…don’t you think, Draco?”
Having realised that they were expected to be listening to their mothers, they both angled themselves towards Jean and Narcissa.
“Pardon, Mother?”
Narcissa seemed rather unimpressed by his ignorance, but plastered on a smile nonetheless, “I was just telling Jean about how well-photographed you thought Hermione was on the L’Officiel cover this year.”
A giggle escaped Hermione. She ducked her head and pressed her palm over her mouth to muffle it.
“She looked bewitching in her dress, I must admit. It’s such a shame that I didn’t get to see it on her in person.”
Jean’s face scrunched with obvious affection, “he’s such a sweet boy! Mind you, Hermione always mentions how handsome she thinks you are. She has a collection of your magazines, Draco.”
Both teens were fighting back scarlet cheeks, pointedly looking at the Palace grounds as opposed to their mothers or each other.
“Hermione, dear, why didn’t you tell me that you and Draco had become such good friends again? Narcissa was just saying that you’ve been writing to one another for a while.”
“We have?” Draco practically squeaked.
Narcissa’s eyes narrowed, an unspoken ‘Shall I involve your father?’ passing between them.
Draco mustered up his cheesiest grin possible, “We have! Friends! Great friends! More than friends!” His hand absently found Hermione’s and interlaced their fingers. She looked momentarily furious but managed to school her features, smiling over at their mothers sheepishly.
“Oh, look, ‘Cissa!” Gushed Jean, “look at our babies! Can you imagine it? Imagine if your Draco and my Hermione…” she trailed off, gazing into the distance fondly.
“If we what, Maman ?”
Hermione’s mother shook herself out of her daze, “never you mind! Let’s get you inside now, shall we? I’ve had Draco’s usual room prepared, but you’d both prefer it if he stayed with you, Hermione, wouldn’t you?” Before either of them had a chance to argue, Jean had beckoned for Minerva McGonagall, her equerry, and instructed her to place more pillows on Hermione’s bed. “It will be just like when you were little! I’ll get out the photo albums, shall I? Oh, how wonderful!”
Draco and Hermione were ushered through the palace hallways and into her bedroom, left alone only after Jean had smiled at them with a ‘knowing look’ and closed the door behind her. They sprang apart, wringing out their hands.
“Ç'est affreux! Pourquoi ta mère penserait-elle que nous étions amis ? Ç'est—ç’est inpensable ! Ta mère a un désir de mort! Savais-tu qu'elle dirait ça ?”
Unfortunately, Draco’s understanding of her French did not pertain to rapid rambling. He did, however, catch something along the lines of ‘your mother' and 'death wish.’
“In English, Grangér?”
She raked a hand through her curls, “Sorry—did you know about this? Why would your mother claim that we were friends?”
He shrugged, “she’s gone bonkers.”
“Clearly!”
Draco decided that the last thing he wanted to do was watch Hermione Grangér tug nervously at her riotous curls, so he chose to scrutinise her room instead. The carpet—a pristine white—and the crimson rug that spanned almost the entire floor seemed to be brand new. Draco knew better, though. He and Hermione had rolled around on that very rug when he was much younger; too young and naive to realise just how insufferable she was. Not a speck of dust lingered on her golden bed frame or on the golden windowsill, above which the glass panes were smear-free.
His focus was drawn back to her when she tossed her tiara across the room. It landed on the red, velvet chaise beneath her window. Taking a more mature approach to removing his royal jewelery, Draco set his crown down on top of her dresser. He watched for a moment longer as she circled her first two fingers over her temples and squeezed her eyes closed. “Will you speak to your mother about this?” She queried in a small voice.
“When I get back to London, I will. But not before then, no.”
“What?” She squawked, “why not?”
Because my father will castrate me.
“The reason is—unimportant. Look, we’ll just have to put up with a friendship façade until the end of the weekend. Then we can go back to scowls and snarls and forget it ever happened. It’ll be fine.”
“Are you serious? I’ve suddenly been told that I not only have to be friends with, but also share a room with, the most abhorrent snob in Europe—nay, on Earth—and you expect me to think that it will be ‘fine.’ Things like this don’t just go away. Can’t you just speak to your mother now?”
“And what do you expect me to say to her? How would you feel about telling the King of France’s wife that you lied to her?”
“Then why did she lie in the first place, may I ask?”
“I don’t know!” He thew his arms up, incensed. “I don’t exactly want to stay with ragtag French royalty, either, but here I am.”
Hermione’s posture slumped. She folded in on herself, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. Then she slowly rose to her feet and approached her dresser, against which Draco was leaning. “Can you move?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Can you please move out of the way? I don’t have the effort for this right now.” She began to rifle through her drawers as soon as he stepped aside. She gathered up enough dresses and undergarments for a few days before scooping up her tiara and a book—Les Grandes Espérances (Great Expectations)—and making her way to the door. He watched imperiously, curious as to what had caused her sudden change in demeanor. Was it something he’d said? Surely not. They insulted one another frequently enough for it not to mean anything. Before she closed the door behind her, she turned and said, “please, if you use my desk, do not move anything from its original place. I’ve—I’ve spent weeks organising everything and I don’t want to have to redo it.” She was gone in a blur of bushy hair and unruffled silk.
Because he was nosy and didn’t care much for anything she said, he immediately made his way over to her desk and lowered himself into the seat. The smoothed, stained oak was cluttered with a littering of paperwork; spilt pens and blotched ink; textbooks and stationary. At the centre of her organised chaos was a neatly placed book. The crimson cover was laced with golden branches and leaves that twisted and turned around the title:
Nous Faisons Tout Cela Mal
Along the spine, her name (lacking its official title, for once) was written in gold lettering. It was her book. Unreleased. He set the French copy to the side and discovered the English translation underneath:
We Are Doing This All Wrong
Upon flipping open the cover, he found a list written in her delicate scrawl. It was in French, but decipherable. He mentally translated it; Mum & Dad, Molly & Arthur, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred & George won’t read it, Ron also won’t read it, Ginny, Harry, Neville, Narcissa & Lucius, Draco don’t be silly…
He paused at the mention of his name. 'don’t be silly,' she’d written. How dare she assume that he wouldn’t read her book? He had no interest in it, but still... how dare she? With a scoff, he closed the cover and stacked the French copy back on top of it. The antique, analogue clock on the wall opposite her desk ticked loudly in the otherwise silent bedroom. He followed the second hand as it completed a full circle before shaking himself out of his daze and actually reading the clock: ten-thirty. He was strangely tired. Choosing to retire to the velvet chaise beneath her window (he refused to sleep in her bed, even if she wasn’t present, for fear of smelling like cinnamon and roses for the rest of the week), he unbuttoned his shirt halfway and slipped out of his shoes before laying down.
On the wall across from him were four portraits, all signed with matching Lovegood signatures. The first portrait surprised him; it depicted he and Hermione when they were toddlers, both sat in the centre of Buckingham Palace’s primary ballroom and clutching to one another’s hands. Draco had a similar painting in his bedroom and, had he been tall enough to take it down, he would’ve done so immediately. He assumed she would’ve done the same if she weren’t so tiny. The second was of Hermione and her parents. The third: her and her brainless friends Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. The trio were sat on a bench in the Palace gardens, both boys leaning their cheeks against the top of Hermione’s head and grinning boyishly. In the fourth and final portrait—which had an L.Lovegood insignia rather than P.Lovegood, and appeared to be more recent than the others—Hermione looked startlingly like real royalty. Her curls were tamed, her posture straight and lips curved upwards just so. He glared at the portrait as it stared down at him. Even in an official royal painting, a book was sat on her lap. The cover was a mix of oils and acrylics so he had no way of determining what it was that she was reading, but it angered him nevertheless.
He let his eyes flicker shut for a moment.
When he opened them again, the clock read eight-thirty five. He blinked, scrubbed at his eyes, and turned his head to face the blinding morning sunlight that trickled through the window. Sometime during the night, he’d managed to roll off of the chaise and was now using his shoes as a pillow. A throat was cleared above him.
Snape.
“Trouble in paradise?” He questioned indifferently.
Draco scrambled to his feet. “No. Grangér is anything but paradise.”
“You do not have to convince me. Get dressed. You are attending the university this morning.”
He frowned, “I thought that that wasn’t until this afternoon?”
“The Princess will be occupied this afternoon. Her gala dress was… well, the cat got ahold of it. It is now unwearable.”
Draco snickered. He began to search through his suitcase for something appropriate to wear, but Snape stopped him by clearing his throat again. “Your mother and Queen Jean have requested that you wear the outfit they have had tailored for you. They would like for yourself and Princess Hermione to have complimentary outfits.”
So they would be playing dress-up, too? He took the pre-offered garment bag and un-zipped it, finding khaki slacks, a white Oxford, and a creme waistcoat sewn with small, dainty flowers.
Lovely.
When he arrived at breakfast in the formal dining room, he found that his waistcoat was indeed complimentary to Hermione’s dress, which featured a patterned material of the same flowers. He sat down beside her—opposite their mothers—and began to dig into his food. It was only when he felt his mother’s piercing gaze fixated on him that he remembered their ‘blooming friendship.’
“Did you sleep well, Hermione?” He asked.
She nodded, smiling politely. A few moments later, inspiration seemed to strike her, “perhaps I would have slept much better if you had not stolen the covers.”
“Me? Stealing the covers?” He feigned annoyance, nudging her with his shoulder. She was attempting to outdo his faux display of affection. He wasn’t having it: “It’s you who was snuggled up to me for the night’s entirety.” He said smugly, “I can’t see how you can complain about being cold when I was keeping you so warm.”
Hermione chuckled, nudging him back. For a few beats of silence she seemed to be pondering what to do next. She settled for looking up at him beneath her lashes with a believably benign smile, “I missed you a lot, mon amour. I am so glad to be with you again.” Her hand sought his on top of the tablecloth and she curled their fingers together, nails digging into his knuckles as if to say ‘beat that’.
“I missed you, too, my Hermione,” (he tried desperately not to outwardly cringe and she seemed to be doing the same). As if that wasn’t enough, he then ducked his head and, in a stage whisper, said, “you know how I feel about you.” Beat that!
She turned in her chair so that she was facing him fully and leant towards him, cupping his chin in her hand. Her thumb stroked his cheekbone softly before she pushed a strand of loose hair behind his ear. Her move was punctuated by a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.
Against the shell of his ear, she muttered, “I’ve already won.”
All is fair in love and war.
He turned his head slightly so that their noses were brushing, their foreheads resting against one another, and whispered, “I’m struggling to re-swallow my vomit. Back down so that we can escape our mothers’ gazes.”
She had the audacity to look abashed, giggling falsely as if he’d said something funny. “If you can’t swallow your vomit then I suppose breakfast is off the table for you, isn’t it?” She mumbled. Without awaiting a response, she grabbed his hands and pulled him out of his chair, leading him out of the room with a coy smirk and a blush that he was rather jealous of her for being able to fake.
It wasn’t over yet. As they entered the hallway through the open double doors, he slowly pushed her up against the wall so that they were still visible to their mothers who were undoubtably leaning back in their seats to watch them leave. He pressed himself against her and craned his neck downwards in a way that he oh-so-smugly knew would give the pretence that they were kissing. “Checkmate.” He whispered as the doors swung shut behind them.
She shoved him off of her as soon as they were out of sight, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I’m not putting up with this all weekend. Talk to your mother or I’ll do it myself.”
His lips pursed, “will you, now?”
“Yes, I will.” Hermione took off down the hallway towards the front door, outside of which the Grangérs’ town car was awaiting them.