Chapter Text
Once upon a time, in a far-away kingdom, there lived twenty-eight families of pure and noble blood. Their subjects were not many in number or might, but their kingdom was powerful and prosperous. From the beginning, they were rarely bothered by outsiders; in each generation of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Alphas and Omegas would present in each family upon his or her sixteenth birthday, signalling the next transition of power or the next opportunity for an alliance. Two years later, a mating ball would be held in honour of each family’s new Alpha. There, in the ballroom in front of their families, their friends, and their enemies, the Alpha would choose their mate.
Most of the Sacred Twenty-Eight were wealthy, but the Malfoys were the wealthiest. Some families had brawn or brains or beauty to match their coins and their castles, but the Malfoys had both in abundance along with ruthless cunning and a curious ability to predict how the wind might turn. When Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy announced the birth of a son, the kingdom rejoiced at the news. The Greengrass family sent their particular regards, and, though they’d hoped to soon welcome a son of their own, Lord Eldred and Lady Audette were instead blessed with a beautiful baby girl. They smiled at each other over little Daphne’s cradle, hoping that one day, they might be able to make a very advantageous alliance.
Seven years later, an owl appeared with a thick scroll of parchment announcing an addition to the Greengrass household. A Muggle-born child had released an accidental outburst of magic in a village some 70 miles away, and as was tradition, the child would come into the care of a noble family in order to receive appropriate care and instruction in magic. Muggle-born children never amounted to much, but neither was much expected of them, not when they came from such humble beginnings, from such a strange bloodline. Nature had a way of making small, funny mistakes.
It was, in fact, an honour to be presented with a Muggle-born ward. They received some education alongside the family’s own children, though not a full training in magic as their abilities were weakened by their origin. Wards were rarely a burden, if brought up appropriately, and often quite useful around the estate (and much more easily managed than a house-elf).
Of course, Muggle-borns were Betas. The occasional Omega or even rarer Alpha might arise from a lucky half-blood family, but Muggle-borns were always Betas, so their Pure-blood caregivers didn’t need to worry about any sort of interference.
“What splendid news!” Lady Greengrass exclaimed when her husband showed her the letter. “I’m sure Daphne and Astoria will delight in a little playmate.”
When Hermione Granger appeared at the side door of the Greengrass estate with her peculiar clothes and bushy hair, she was hardly remarkable, and Lady Greengrass had the house-elf show her to her room in the East Wing as she was presently quite busy with a robe fitting.
Nine Years Later: Present Day
When Hermione wakes up, the fire in her room has gone out, and a chill hangs in the air even though it’s the middle of September. She squeezes her eyes shut as she takes a slow inventory of her body. Her muscles are tired, but she doesn’t feel overly warm or flushed. Her skin feels like her own, and as her fingers trail from her neck down her chest and stomach to the crux of her thighs, she doesn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. Nothing is puffed or tender or sensitive to the touch. It’s her, just as she’d been yesterday and the day before that.
She chokes out a sigh of relief and opens her eyes.
Nothing. Her sixteenth birthday has come and gone, and nothing.
Relief courses through her veins. She’d been so afraid, but she must have misunderstood the signs. She hasn’t presented as anything. Just as they’d said, just like all the other Muggle-borns, she’s a Beta. Foolish, foolish girl. She’d read one too many books while helping Daphne prepare, and she’d let the symptoms she’d studied out of fear turn into phantoms in her own body. The sore spots on her neck where an Omega’s glands would appear? She presses her fingers there again. Merely an illusion. A unusually heavy monthly course isn’t a sure sign, and neither is the occasional sensitivity in her small breasts, and the flush in her cheek when he visits is only natural embarrassment at his ruthless teasing. The sack she has hidden in her closet under a Notice-Me-Not Charm had been packed for naught. Foolish, indeed .
Thank the gods she’d been wrong. She has little freedom now, but one day, once she’s come of age, she’ll be able to do as she pleases, almost. She won’t be tethered to a mate. She may not have the riches or the power or the education afforded to an Alpha or Omega, but freedom is greater than all those combined. She’ll be sad to leave Daphne, but even now their paths fork. Daphne craves what Hermione fears– a mate, a bite, a– she shudders and cannot name such things. No, as a Beta, Hermione can leave.
She’ll be able to find her parents.
A bell tinkles somewhere in the hall, and Hermione moves quickly, light on her feet. She wrestles back her hair and shrugs on a simple cotton dress. Her wardrobe is modest compared to that of Astoria and Daphne, but she has no need for fine ball gowns or silk dresses. Lady Audette has always ensured that her clothes stay clean and mended, and many wards don’t receive such kindness. Her simple, durable dresses are perfect for exploring the estate woods, typically with a book in hand, or wading through streams or gathering the particular mushrooms that Lord Eldred prefers in his soup. There are also the times when Hermione would sneak away, in the crisp, cool evenings and sit by the small fire she would create. She’d watched, enticed by the flickering and crackling of the flames. If she wore the same silk as Daphne and Astoria, she wouldn’t be able to climb trees with ease, and she certainly wouldn’t be able to climb the ladders in the library to dust all the books. Her caretakers, despite their ambitions, have a good heart. She is fortunate to have been placed in their care, for not all Muggle-borns are treated with kindness by their host families.
While most of the tension in Hermione’s body over the last six months had come from her fear of her ever changing body, she’d also dreaded leaving the Greengrasses. Running would have been a betrayal of their kindness, and sometimes it felt as though they were the only kindness in her life since she’d left her home. Lord and Lady Greengrass never tried to suppress her magic or discourage her pursuit of knowledge. She had not attended the etiquette classes taught by Madam McGonagall, but Lord Eldred permitted Hermione to learn magic alongside Daphne and Astoria under the supervision of their tutor, Mr. Alfred Pucey.
Long after her lessons were finished for the day, Hermione would remain in the vast library reading and practising her magic. Lord Eldred commented on her insatiable thirst for knowledge time and time again. She’d overheard him once say, “ What’s the harm? It isn’t as though she’ll be able to do anything with it, no matter how much she reads... ”
Even when other prestigious families and their children would come to the estate, Lady Audette didn’t hide Hermione away. The only time that Hermione felt a true difference between them was when it came to proper society events. Just as the other Sacred Twenty-Eight lords, Lord Eldred held a seat on the Council of Lords, and such a position required the Greengrass’ appearance at all manner of feasts and banquets and balls. Hermione was never permitted to attend those . Muggle-born wards were useful prizes, but they were prizes best left at home like the family’s favourite cat or owl.
Hermione splashes her face with cold water, and, after patting her skin dry with a small towel, she examines herself in the mirror. Despite the purple-tinged circles that cling heavily to her under eye, she smiles at her reflection as she glances at the smooth skin at the base of her neck. It’s sensitive, but not a mating gland in sight, and the relief is palpable as her fingers move deftly through her unruly curls, adding pins to steady her braid. The ache in her muscles must have resulted from weeks of fretful sleep, from the mental stress morphed into a physical manifestation. After all, she’d stayed up late into the night researching the unknown.
She sighs at herself. “Happy birthday, you silly girl.”
Early in the morning of Daphne’s sixteenth birthday, exactly forty-two days after Hermione’s, a sharp rap sounds on Hermione’s bedroom door, and Astoria slips in before Hermione can climb out of bed.
Astoria is still small for her age, barely a slip of a girl at fourteen, and she inspects the room with her hands clasped behind her back. Her expression betrays some distaste mixed with curiosity, for though her older sister has occasionally come up to Hermione’s room to giggle or gossip where her mother wouldn’t hear, Astoria hasn’t made the journey to the third floor of the East Wing in many, many years.
“Is she…?” Hermione sits up and tugs her warm blanket to her chest.
Astoria perches onto the bed and nods. “Yes. Mother is with her now.”
“She must be pleased.” Hermione picks at a tuft of wool.
“Of course she’s pleased,” Astoria scoffs. “It’s an honour to be an Omega. Soon, she’ll be able to go to mating balls, and she’ll marry a handsome Alpha just like I will one day.”
“I’m very glad,” Hermione whispers. Her smile stretches painfully tight, and her stomach turns. She’s glad Daphne’s gotten what she’d wanted, what she’d eagerly described to Hermione with light in her eyes, but the thought of her friend, her only friend, downstairs in a bed, thrashing about in pain for three days–
Why do they want this thing? This curse?
More than anything, Hermione is glad it’s not her.
Astoria leans back and fixes Hermione with an inscrutable stare. “It’ll be different now, you know. She won’t be able to spend as much time with you.”
“I know.” Hermione turns her gaze out the window.
And she does.
It's the heaviness, the finality of her situation that weighs in her heart and in her mind. She’d known that things would change, and now they have. It is what was expected after all. For weeks, she’d helped plan Daphne’s sixteenth birthday celebration, and for months, she’d helped research Omega heats and matings. She’d known, and yet the feeling of being left behind is painful. Daphne has taken the first real step to move on, to be mated, and Hermione is expected to stay and wait to become someone’s… nothing. She doesn’t wish to be anyone’s anything, of course, but it's cruel and unfair to be thought of as nothing. Her fate had been easy to forget when it was just her and Daphne sharing whispers in the night.
She knows it's silly to let this envy fester in her chest like poison. She doesn’t want Daphne’s fate. For the brief months she’d thought she might share it, she’d lived in fear, hadn’t she?
And yet– to be wanted– to be something–
Hermione knows her odds of a happy, easy life outside of the Greengrass estate are nearly hopeless. Even if she could find her parents, every obstacle would get in her way. What is freedom with no power, no safety? Such freedom could do little to combat the sting that would come with losing everything familiar.
Thank the gods she can stay.
“There will be all sorts of parties you can’t come to as a Beta,” Astoria continues loftily, “and you won’t have the same types of lessons. Daphne will be far too busy to explain everything to you.”
Hermione can’t bite back the hard edge in her voice. “I know, Astoria. I understand how this all works.”
“You say that, but you don’t know, do you?” Astoria stands and brushes her long, dark hair back from her face. “You’re not really one of us, so you might think you know, but you don’t.”
She can’t summon a response. Her heart pounds in her throat, and she is glad it’s not her, she’s glad, but she only lives in a gentler, less gilded cage, and she should be so grateful to the Greengrasses for taking her in and teaching her and caring for her because not all wards are so lucky, so she watches the trees sway in the wind until Astoria finally huffs and opens the door to leave her alone.
“You should get up,” Astoria says. “Mother will need you to make the tea.”
The door clicks shut, and Hermione counts to three before she slides out of bed.
Hermione hears the music drifting like a summer's breeze from down below. She’d known that Daphne’s sixteenth birthday party would be an exquisite affair. She’d helped with the planning, after all. But, as it stands, she currently sits on her small balcony, book in hand, watching as guest by guest waltzes into the grand front entrance with elaborate costumes and bewitching masks.
Only Daphne would have been so bold as to request her a Halloween masquerade extraordinaire for her birthday celebration. When she had originally proposed the theme of her party all those months ago, Hermione had been so excited. Daphne had promised it would be the perfect opportunity to sneak Hermione in downstairs for her first ball. Everyone will be in costume, she’d murmured. No one will have a clue who you are, and they’ll be too deep in their cups to care. Hermione had been excited by the idea—the concept that, for once, she would not be excluded. She could dance, eat the food, or perhaps converse with others. No one would know that she was other—less.
They’d even gone as far as purchasing her a lioness mask. When Daphne had snuck it into her room late one night, Hermione had launched herself into her friend's arms. The mask was breathtakingly beautiful. Hermione had known it wasn’t gold, but the intricate bronze details had been polished so brightly that, from a distance, it shone like the morning sun. She’d run her finger along the patterns lovingly. The latticework spread across the bridge of the nose until it fanned out around the eyes. It was stunning, beautiful, powerful–the finest item Hermione had ever owned.
And now?
Now the mask sits tucked away in her useless knapsack at the bottom of her closet. Perhaps she can sell it when she finally comes of age and leaves this place. She will need coin to even have a chance at succeeding in finding her parents, in carving out a path of her own.
After Daphne’s heat had come and passed, their relationship changed, as she’d known it would. Tonight is no longer a celebration of another passing year but a prerequisite to something so much more. Families from across the kingdom would come with their male heirs in hopes of meeting their future Omega. Daphne would be paraded about the ballroom as if she were a bird for show. It was too risky, too great of a chance for Hermione to attend.
So Hermione sits, casting and recasting her warming charms to keep the bite of the October chill at bay. Her book drops to her knees, long forgotten as she watches the guests parade in. She spies Theodore Nott, Jr., who Astoria has blushed over when she thinks no one is watching, and their tutor Mr. Pucey arrives in a rather worn carriage with his son, Adrian, who occasionally joins them for lessons. Though the Puceys are not one of the Sacred families, only mere cousins of the Yaxleys, and Hermione can only assume Lord Eldred had included their tutor to appease Lord Corban.
This event is nothing more than a peacock showing its feathers. It is a way for Lord Eldred to showcase his wealth. Hermione knows that power is taken, not given, and tonight is Lord Eldred’s opening move.
Lady Audette no longer bleeds. There is no heir, no son to carry on the Greengrass legacy, but the game is not over. Whoever mates with Daphne would gain the seat and the vote left behind by the end of the House of Greengrass, so Lord Eldred plays for a match with his daughters as pawns. He plays to win, and so do Daphne and Astoria, who’d learned at a young age that they must do everything in their power to secure the right partner.
A partner who can make the House of Greengrass glorious in its final days as proper payment for a beautiful bride.
A grand carriage pulls up the drive, and Hermione leans out of the shadows just enough to watch the footman announce the next family’s arrival. She’s too far away to hear him, but she doesn’t need the fanfare to know who will step out. The carriage is distinct in its opulence. It shines emerald green, and the silver trim reflects the light of the lanterns. Hermione can make out where the crest of the family, also in fine silver filigree, has been stamped onto the doors.
The Malfoys.
Lord Lucius Malfoy steps out first. His long, blond hair is slicked back into a neat ribbon, and his wife, Lady Malfoy, follows in a green gown. Hermione is sure that Daphne will tell her all the details tonight when she sneaks up to her room to whisper in the candlelight.
If she sneaks up.
It’s all so different now, and Hermione wonders if that part will be different, too.
Draco Malfoy exits the carriage after his mother, and Hermione holds her breath.
It’s not as though he’d notice her. He does– he has– but only when she’s thrown in his path, not when she’s hidden up on high from the festivities.
She hasn’t seen him properly in over a year, and she wonders what his face looks like now, if he still wears that scornful glare. Does he still possess that sharp, cruel streak that he seemed to reserve especially for her? In their youth, running the Greengrass estate, Theo and Pansy would occasionally tease her despite Daphne’s cajoling to be nice, she’s not like them (not like a normal Muggle-born, she’d meant, and Hermione would burn with equal parts pride and shame), but Malfoy didn’t tease. He cut. Sharp words laced with disgust, whispered only to her, and yanking on her unruly curls.
“I hope you’re grateful,” he’d hiss. “If you were my ward, I’d–”
Daphne or Theo would look over, and Malfoy would be removed, casual, unaffected, as though he hadn’t had Hermione under his thumb, nearly crushed.
He’d never told her what he’d do.
Goosebumps pebble over her skin, and she shivers even though her cloak is warm. The Malfoy’s carriage pulls away from the terraced entrance, and just before Draco follows his parents into the manor, he pauses and looks up.
At her.
His silver eyes narrow beneath his dragon mask. It's exquisite and even from her distance she can see the craftsmanship in the low light. It’s gold, encrusted with jade scales that catch in the moonlight.
Hermione sucks in a breath and retreats into the shadows. Her heart pounds in her throat. Impossible. It’s impossible that he’d seen her.
Isn’t it?
Her heart pounds as she presses her back into the wall, willing herself to remain invisible to the partygoers.
Foolish, it’s all foolishness, but that tickling part of her brain that yearns to study, to know, had finally won, bringing her downstairs in her nicest hand-me-down dress. The mask that had been tucked away so perfectly had called to her with a promise of curiosity fulfilled. Now it sits on her face feeling more like a death sentence than an act of freedom. If anyone passing by catches a glimpse of her lurking in the shadows, especially if they’ve had enough mead or firewhisky, they might see a flash of burgundy silk and a glimmer of gold from her mask and think nothing of it— hopefully . Perhaps they will suspect a tryst in the corner, or think she's a maiden catching her breath from a dance.
She peers around the corner. The music is jovial, filling the ballroom with an exuberant energy. Her eyes widen as she catches sight of Astoria, her face disguised with a fox mask, dancing with Adrian Pucey. He is tall, broad, and overpowering opposite her diminutive stature, and his face is adorned with a silver bear mask. She tears her eyes away from Astoria as she tries to find Daphne in the throngs of patrons. The room shimmers with colour, filled to the brim with masks and dresses and decor.
It's quite too much.
It overwhelms her.
Hermione catches sight of Daphne, her peacock mask crafted of white gold, pressed between Pansy and Theo. They look like a painting come to life, all colour and vigour, and for a moment, she yearns to be with them, to be one of them. Glimmering crystal with a strange silver liquid inside catches her attention. Hermione’s eyes fixate on the glass and Lady Malfoy tips her head back, laughing more freely than Hermione has ever seen. Lord Malfoy’s hand wraps around his wife’s neck, tightens, and he kisses her.
Hermione sucks in her breath. Her eyes widen, but no one around them seems to notice or care. In fact, there’s a headiness to the air; it’s subtle, but distinct. It’s like the strange silver liquid has cast a spell over them, and all the rules she’d been taught by the Greengrasses have dissolved in this ballroom where she’d not been permitted. There’s music, low and sensual, and the way they dance, it’s like they only sway, eyes lidded and lips–
“Caught you.” His breath ghosts against her ear. It’s hot, heavy, and Hermione hates how she shivers in response. She’s frozen. Even if her legs weren’t locked, she couldn't run forward into the crowd, and his broad chest at her back blocks her retreat.
She’s trapped.
Her heart hammers in her chest.
“I–”
“Naughty thing,” he growls in her ear. “You thought you could watch us, didn’t you? I could smell you from across the room.”
“Let me go.”
“You’re disgusting. You smell disgusting.” He wrenches her arm back, trapping her against him. “I ought to tell Lady Greengrass what an ungrateful little brat you are, sneaking down here to steal from her.”
“Don’t,” she pleads, squirming against him. “I’m not doing anything, Draco.”
“Malfoy. Lord Malfoy to you, one day.” His breath skates over her neck, and gooseflesh erupts across her skin. “Say it, and I’ll let you go. Make sure you know your place.”
She wants to scream, yell, protest, curse him, but she doesn’t know the words for it. Instead, she settles on something crass, something that would surely make Lady Greengrass unwell. “Fuck you,” she hisses through clenched teeth.
He laughs. It’s cruel and benevolent, and Hermione hates that the richness to its tenor excites her. “You think you’re too good to call me Lord?” His hand snakes up her arm, tightening around her throat. He squeezes, his thumb brushing over something sensitive —something swollen. A whine escapes her throat and his grip tightens, “I could ruin you. I would ruin you, if you were our ward. I wouldn’t let you strut around like the Greengrasses do.”
“I–”
He ducks his head down to her ear. “The next word out of your mouth is going to be Lord or I’m going to call for Lady Greengrass, Mudblood. ”
She struggles against him, but it’s useless and the way he breathes against her skin leaves her conflicted. His touch burns, searing her skin raw until it itches. She wants more and less all at once, and she shifts her thighs at a sudden ache. She feels like a mouse in his trap, but there’s some sharp, dangerous pleasure in having been caught, and it terrifies her. . She should not want him, but she craves his scraps of cruelty, his barbs and his sneers, as much as she loathes them, doesn’t she? Her desire feels like a sickness. She needs to flee, but she is powerless to do so. Shame builds in her chest, bubbling up the two words he demands. “Lord Malfoy.”
It feels like release.
“That’s a good—” He squeezes, and she feels the coolness of his mask as he runs his nose along her neck, breathing her in.
Her pulse hammers, skipping as he presses his thumb against that sensitive spot, and Malfoy growls. It's deep, vibrating against her back and the sound sends heat pooling in her belly. Hermione whimpers and it's different, laced with want and curiosity.
Malfoy releases her as though she has burnt him, nearly shoving her away. “Go back to your chambers, Mudblood,” he snarls. “You don’t belong here.”
Hermione stumbles away, running back down the hall into the darkness.
Hermione rips the mask from her face, tossing it into her closet without a second glance. It suddenly is too heavy, no longer a shield for her to hide behind. She feels tainted as she rips her dress from her body. She can’t get it removed quick enough. It lingers with the feel of Malfoy’s hands on her sides, around her neck. It itches with reminiscence, reminding her that she’d turned to putty in his presence.
Stupid, stupid Malfoy, she thinks, crawling under the covers to find solace in the safety that her bed brings her. A beast of a man. She covers her head, breathing deeply as she tries to stop the shaking that wracks her frame. She tosses, turns from side to side until she finally succumbs to a fretful slumber.
Sharp.
Piercing.
The pain pulls her from her sleep with a gasp as she presses her hand to her lower belly and cries.