Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Life in the Kingdom of the Hallows was, by all accounts, a blessed thing. Harvests were bountiful, the minstrels sang beautifully and of great battles long since passed. The lives of its nobility included the usual route – balls, castles, the finest silks merchants could buy – and the peasantry hadn’t seen reason to revolt in nearly 300 years. 

Indeed, the latest terror was long vanquished. King James’s army destroyed the threat of Lord Voldemort and his band of knighted Death Eaters over 18 years ago on the fields outside Hogwarts’ castle walls. 

King James and his queen, Lily, were beloved by noble and commoner alike not only for their strength and courage, but their resourcefulness and genuine compassion. The royal court was shocked at the announcement, and there were many who whispered of violent descent, but bright-eyed Lily Dursely was simply too perfect to be denied her place at the King’s side. Though a commoner by blood, Lily was every bit the queen the Hallows needed in those dark days when the Dark Lord sought to conquer the land. 

On the eve of their engagement, the common folk began a festival that lasted nearly half the year until their own was wedded to the King. It was a time of great joy and celebration throughout the kingdom’s four duchies. In Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, parties bordering on riotous broke out. Merriment in Ravenclaw was more subdued and rather more thoughtfully planned, but no less exciting. Even in Slytherin, where receptions for the royal family felt frosty, a growing movement of hope and excitement took root. Peace reigned over the land for the first two years of their marriage. All was well within the castle walls at Hogwarts and outside in the vassal lands.

King James and Queen Lily had a son before the worst of the bloodshed began. Crown Prince Harry, the first Half-blood to sit in line for the throne. 

Voldemort’s influence was one of terror and fanaticism. A long-held belief of regional and noble superiority left the Pureblood pretender sour at the changes around him. While it was still limited, social mobility and more equal treatment for the common folk became popular in some circles, and King James’s choice to marry one of those commoners left a sour taste in many mouths. 

The birth of a son – a legal heir – drove the twisted man further into madness.

As he began to bend the truth, spouting lies and schemes of a rebellion that would wipe out the old families at their very seats of power, a faction of supporters, many of whom resided in the Slytherin duchy as vassals to the Great House of Malfoy, began to organize. They pillaged and murdered on the road toward the capital, committing unspeakable acts to the peasant women left to defend their homes while the men rallied with King James. For twelve long moons, the Kingdom of the Hallows held its breath as the future once promised by the joining of man and wife, royalty and commoner began to fade.

The queen was four moons pregnant when disaster struck hardly a year after Prince Harry’s birth. 

It was nighttime when the assassins came. Lady Bellatrix Lestrange and Count Antonin Dolohov infiltrated the castle walls and made it as far as the little prince’s nursery where his mother watched over him. She was resourceful and made rather effective use of her knitting needles – the count’s disfigured face lived in the memories of all who looked upon its place on a pike at the front gate – but had no such luck with the madwoman. Bellatrix landed a blow before the Kingsguard reached her, striking her at the chest. 

Queen Lily lived in agony for another four moons, her husband leaving her side only once to meet Voldemort in open battle. Upon his victorious return, he was met with his queen’s unblinking green eyes and cold embrace. 

And… a dark-haired princess who fought for every breath. She wailed with all her might as her father first held her, and quieted as he began to cry. She looked so pale and frail in his gauntlet-covered arms, marveling up at him with great big, dark eyes that looked so much like his own. The healers called her a miracle.

King James called her Hermione.

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

“If he was anyone else, Theo, I swear to the gods I’d drive my lance so far up his ar–”

“Ardent praise for his royal highness once again, Draco? My, my, my… bandying about like this might earn you a permanent spot in His Majesty’s Kingsguard,” Theodore Nott clasped him roughly on the back, no doubt in an attempt to get him to shut the hell up, “I wonder what old Lucy would say about that prospect, eh?”

Draco glowered at him with years and years of practice at his back, “There might still be time to pick up one of those funny little hats and play the jester for real, you know. I cannot be the only one here that finds Harry’s –”

“Prince Harry.”

“ – choice in friends abhorrent. Keeping the girl around is one thing, but surrounding himself with nothing but Weasley after Weasley is winning him no favor with the noble houses.”

“Draco,” Theo sighed, “The Weasleys might not be established gentry, but they are still titled, and they hold the honor of providing half the bloodline of our future crown prince.”
The two knights made their way through the training yard and into the bathhouse. Draco detested the feeling of salt and sweat crusting under the plain shirt and jerkins under the practice armor, and he hated it more so when he’d been forced to stand at attention for nearly an hour extra while they waited for Harry to stumble into the training yards after a long night of drinking with the simpleminded oafs he would one day call brothers-in-law.

Fucking Weasleys. 

“That doesn’t mean we should tolerate their stupidity. The fact that they’re rubbing off on our future king shouldn’t bode well with you, Theo. It doesn’t sit right with me.”

Theo rolled his eyes at him, “Harry might be less discreet than you and I, but he doesn’t behave any differently than we do on our nights off. You’ll rid yourself of the jealousy one day, mate.”

“I’m not jealous! Maybe when we were children, and he always got special treatment for being royalty, but I’ve outgrown that in the last three bloody years.” 

Draco, Theo, and Harry were all born in the same year, so they spent most of their formative years together studying under tutors in the capital of Ravenclaw. Harry was a mediocre student at best, but he excelled in jousting tourneys and had an air of charm about him that left every man, woman, and child in his wake grinning from ear to ear like a fool. In that sense, he seemed destined to become a good king like his father, and he clearly inherited the gifts of diplomacy from the late Queen.

“Keeping all those Weasleys around makes him behave like an animal. I won’t be the one to take the piss over having a good time every once in a while, but Ronald rubs off on him too much,” Draco shivered at the image of that pasty white face covered in freckles. He clung to the prince like a leech during their schooling in Ravenclaw and never quite let go. Now that his sister had caught Harry’s eye, he’d never have to, “If the King decided to send me home today, it wouldn’t be soon enough.”

“Well then, there’s no need to worry about that,” Theo peeled his soaked shirt off with a wince, “Bloody hell you got me in the ribs today. Fucking wanker – we’re not competing for a prize.”

“I happen to like beating the shit out of you. Father’s latest letter said something boring about needing to rid myself of whatever energy I have here before I return and take up more dignified pursuits. Don’t begrudge me these last few moons of swinging my sword around.”
“Which sword? Surely the one that you had buried in that barmaid last week will still see some action back home.” Theo laughed at the prideful grin that split across his face as they eased themselves into two wooden tubs filled with warm, soapy water. It was some rough sort of lye that, to this day, made his skin tighten in anger, but such was the life of the Kingsguard. 

They were disciplined to the core, living simple lives that could be dropped at a moment’s notice if called into battle. Their primary role these days was one of necessity; guarding the king and securing the castle walls from outsiders remained a permanent chore. Boring, but easy. For a knight of Draco’s caliber, the boredom often superseded the pleasure of its ease. There were only so many pubs to drink dry before the excitement of wearing the crimson cape and polished Hallows lost its luster. 

These past thirty-five moons, Draco had fulfilled the duties required of him by law. Every noble son spent his first three years of age training in the ways of the knighthood and serving as a member of the Kingsguard. Theo was nearly at the end of his contract, too – he only served thirty-two so far. It hadn’t been any great sacrifice to leave his parents behind – well, he did miss Mother playing at the piano now and then – but he found himself almost wishing for some skirmish or revolt just for the thrill of it.

In a single moon's time, Draco’s service would be fulfilled, and King James would relieve him of his duties to return home, return to serving under his father. The Duke of Slytherin was a rather severe individual with a severe disdain for the contractual obligation that had removed his son out of his control. It had been no great surprise, seeing as he’d taken up the crimson himself, but Lucius disliked anything that proved he was subject to equal treatment at court. Seeing his heir and only child placed squarely at a Gryffindor king’s side woke the remnants of a rather petty rivalry between the two great houses. 

For Draco, training under his cousin, Lord Black, and Ser Remus Lupin had been a childhood dream come true. It was as back-breaking and demanding as his mother warned him it would be, so he loved it all the more. 

Being a knight, proving his mettle as a warrior… it was all he yearned for from the safety of the nursery at Malfoy Manor. Despite the crown prince’s early success at tourneys as pock-marked teenagers, Draco’s talents aged like the finest wine from Beauxbaton across the sea. 

Tales of his prowess with the sword and shield, strength with the hammer, and natural gifts with the bow spread throughout the land – despite his father’s attempts at smothering the gossip where he held sway. Subjects from every region traveled far and wide to witness his skills. The bards wrote songs sung at every festival and every pub he stumbled into.

It was an odd sort of power that rushed through his veins, but by all the old gods, he loved it. 

He loved wearing armor. He loved the weight of the hammer as he swung it toward the helmets of men scared shitless. He loved sitting astride a horse while he held a towering lance. 

His cape might be crimson and his markings that of the Hallows, but any color and markings would do. Emerald and snake would plenty suffice, if his father would allow it. Considering he decidedly did not, Draco learned to love the damn crimson and Hallows for the hell of it. 

Theo broke the silence with a question that hadn’t so much as crossed Draco’s mind, “Will you still compete in the Anniversary Tourney next month?”

“Is the sky blue, Theodore?” He drawled, “It will be Draco Malfoy’s last victory.”

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

 Beer at the Hogshead went down like water from the latrines. One pint was all Draco could manage before he was forced to wave off the endless ales and meads shoved beneath his nose from his (many) admirers. Drunken patrons roared with laughter at Theo arm wrestling the fresh meat on the other side of the tavern, beating challenger after challenger. If he was cheating… Draco didn’t want to know. 

Most nights, he wouldn’t think twice about joining in – he’d started a fair number of the brawls that always led to threats of Kingsguard banishment himself, but he was feeling decidedly morose.

“Cheer up, will you?” Blaise slurred beside him, “I didn’t come all this way for a visit just to watch you mope about like a troll.”

“You might’ve waited thirty days more to call on Mother and save yourself the lodging. I imagine some landlord extorted you a fair amount of galleons just for the pleasure of arriving without any notice,” Draco grimaced into his empty tankard and called the barkeep over for a bit of mutton. Blaise added another plate onto his tab and laughed him off, “Honestly, Blaise, you might be the only man daft enough to come into Hogwarts without any accommodations during the Anniversary Festival.”

“No need to worry about me, Drake. The vineyards are having another successful season, and Mother’s brought a new victim to stay for the next few months. I trust her to look after everything in my absence.”

“She’ll have more gold waiting for you when you return, then?”

“Of course,” Blaise grinned as the barkeep set down two steaming piles of meat and potatoes in front of them, “This one’s a foreigner from somewhere in Durmstrang. Nothing like yours, but his family made their fortune centuries ago from what his letters tell. Mother’s birds confirmed it all.”

“Well, at least you can spend all your money on whores and horse racing without her breathing down your neck.”

“That’s the plan, though from what I heard last night,” Blaise paused like he had some great secret the drunkards around them had no business hearing, “there will be far more precious things to take in this year. Some might even call it the rarest treat of all.”

Blaise wiggled his eyebrows and dove into his food, his oldest friend completely forgotten. This was Blaise’s typical behavior, flighty and built entirely off his penchant for suspense, but by old Dumbledore himself, Draco couldn’t bring himself to give a shit. He had more pressing matters to think about, namely how fucking depressed he felt over the thought of giving up his vows in hardly only one moon to the day. 

He stood abruptly, plate only half finished and starting to taste like wood shavings, “Do y’think Theo will be alright to get back by himself?”

Blaise hardly straightened over his meal as he answered, “If he doesn’t, he’ll just take to take the demerit and sleep the ale off in my room. I’m not far up the street.”

“Good. I forgot to polish my pommel, and we have inspection tomorrow at dawn. Try and wake Theo before then.” He hurried out without a second glance into the slowly-emptying streets. The Hogshead sat a mere two tiers below the fortress proper, but managed to feel worlds away. 

Draco walked slowly, meandering here and there on his journey back. Even a single bloody pint from that filthy establishment left him with a pounding headache. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t the frustration rattling him, or the sound of his father’s voice in his head.

Savor it, Draco. You’ll never set foot in an establishment like that again as long as I live.

Keep that sword away from the table, son. No proper Malfoy heir carries weapons on his person. We have guards for that.

Three years too many… You’ve forgotten all I’ve taught you about running the estate, haven’t you?

He breathed out in a huff and slammed his fist against the nearest fence. It hurt like hell, and scared two boys who looked like they were sneaking out behind their parents’ backs. Their eyes widened when Draco turned to face them, standing still like the pair of frozen gargoyles on either side of the gates at home. The image made him laugh like a loon. He probably looked like one too, damnit all to hell. 

Fuck. 

“Don’t be getting into any trouble now,” he muttered after a while. They still hadn’t moved a muscle, “I didn’t see you if you didn’t see me.”

They darted off without so much as a word of thanks, but he could see it in their eyes. That was enough, he supposed, for two boys who hadn’t felt their voices yet deepen. He, Theo, and Blaise weren’t very different during their school years. Professor Snape had called them ingrates to their faces more than a good dozen times. 

He wandered on, listening to the laughter pouring out of taverns and houses of ill repute alike. Everyone, be they noble or farmer’s wife or knight or smith, had an extra shine to their happiness these days. The month leading up to the Anniversary Festival felt more like Yule than Yule did, and this year felt different, somehow. Merchants arrived this year earlier and with better goods than the last, carts piled high with silk from Beauxbaton and fine wooden ornaments from Ilvermorny. There were spices Draco hadn’t smelled since he was a lad and minstrel troupes advertising all the finest acrobats this side of the ocean. Harvests were bountiful and bellies full. 

More than that, the very air itself felt different. If he wasn’t dragging his feet like a gambler fresh out of capital through the well-kept roads of the kingdom’s capital, he might feel invigorated enough to pay for one of Pudifoot’s Roses. Theo gifted him with Romilda’s time for his birthday the year before, and he’d had quite the time. Her tongue truly moved in ways a less fortunate man could never experience, but alas – he was trudging his feet through the streets like a gambler fresh out of capital. It was unbecoming, especially in the midst of all this insufferable joy. 

Any other year, he thought, Any other year and I’d think this was the greatest time to be alive. Bollocks. 

He was nearly to the gates when the night’s watch began heckling in the time honored tradition of all Kingsguard unfortunate enough to be punished with the night shift. They were young, no more than half a year into their service, and Draco hadn’t bothered learning their names. One seemed to be trying to get his attention, no doubt trying to hurl some half-baked insult about his advanced age in a young man’s game – “Malfoy! The King wants you in his solar! Hurry your arse up before Lord Black hears how much you seem to care about the king’s summons.” 

The younger of the two sandy-haired boys was nearly hanging off the ramparts while he hollered. He was loud enough to wake the refined merchants’ daughters asleep on the tier below the fortress, and he’d no doubt hear all about the reprimanding Lord Black would deal out tomorrow morning.

That upbraiding would pale in comparison to the treatment he’d receive if he didn’t hurry to meet his King.

He supposed it was unfortunate that his night off had him in simple plainclothes and a foul mood, but that would surely be turned around the minute he realized he’d fucked something up so royally that a royal decided he ought to punish himself. 

There was no time to change and even less time to get his head on straight, but Draco managed to make it to the guarded door outside the King’s solar in hardly four minutes at a dead sprint. Sweat clung to his back like a second skin, and he shivered in the chilled hall. The bright stone walls were suddenly too bright, lit by too many braizers, and the men stationed outside the door looked at him with far too much curiosity. 

“Well?” Draco panted in McLaggen’s direction, “Any idea what this is about?”

“‘Fraid not, Malfoy,” his shrug reeked of blatant Gryffindor intrigue. He grinned like Draco was about to win him a golden egg – he’d earn a pretty sickle in gossip over this. Everyone knew Draco wasn’t the type to share anything unless Theo locked the door behind the two of them, “He’s been pacing for the last quarter of an hour. Be prepared to grovel if you bollocksed your last moon up.”

Bloody tosser. 

Draco squared his shoulders and waited for McLaggen to ease the door open far enough to slip inside. He didn’t miss the shit-eating grin that bore into his back through the heavy oak that slammed shut like a death knell. 

“Your Majesty, I, Ser Draco Malfoy, answer your summons. In life and death, for lion, serpent, eagle, and badger, my sword is yours.” He spoke evenly, exuding what he hoped was a calm presence above reproach. His eyes darted across the crimson and navy weave at his feet, waiting for a word or the sound of a sword being pulled to behead him without trial or ceremony. 

King James cleared his throat, “How many times have I summoned you without the presence of your lackey… oh what’s the boy’s name? Ah, yes, Ser Nott.”

“Twice, Your Majesty.”

“Hm. Remind me what those summons were about.”

Draco’s mind raced as he answered honestly, “The first was to acknowledge my role in bringing Peter Pettigrew to justice. The second was to award me the Medal of Godric for routing Greyback’s bandits last Yule in the Diagon Valley.”

“Ah, yes,” a familiar voice rose somewhere near the back of the room. Draco managed not to flinch knowing his bloody uncle accompanied the king, “See, James? Those infernal bandits and Peter. That’s not counting the dozens of times he’s done something of value to you. Few of the lads who come through manage to make any impression, let alone one as strong as Draco.”

“He’s your flesh and blood, Sirius. I cannot expect you to be unbiased –”

“Cissa might be the only family member I can tolerate for longer than an hour, but his father cancels out any familial love I have for the boy. Draco is a man of his many merits, the least of which being his undying love of the knighthood and his vows.”

Draco seethed as they quarreled back and forth as if he wasn’t there. Everyone knew that the Knights' Commander and the King held onto their childhood habits of squabbling like hens in front of even the most uptight dignitaries, but hearing it in such intimate isolation was… disconcerting. They might be second cousins, but Draco had always considered the older man a friendly figure. His words were undoubtedly meant to preserve a level of professionalism otherwise lacking from this summons, or so he hoped. 

“Oh, bloody hell, boy. Stand up,” Draco rose uncertainly at the tiredness in King James’s voice. It was plastered all over his face. Dark, haggard splotches under his eyes and deepening lines in his forehead. The hair around his mouth and jaw looked greyer than before, belonging to a man decades older than the healthy, stern man standing before him, “Your commander seems to think I can trust you with a highly important assignment.”

A thrill shot through his veins – elation, really. An assignment. Something worthy of his talents that promised serious attention, skill, and dedication for the first time all bloody year! He wracked his brain trying to think if any other Kingsguard in recent memory had been personally offered an assignment from the King and came up with nothing. Not a single one of those sorry excuses for the cloak could say –

“But,” Drat, “I see your period of service is ending soon. I need a man who can commit himself for an extended period. Indeterminate.”

Draco chanced a look at Sirius. He looked amused and entirely unsurprised at the request, and something told Draco that his commander had recommended him for whatever unnamed honor this was knowing that to make this vow to serve His Majesty, he’d need to –

“My contract will be fulfilled in one moon’s time, Your Majesty, it’s true. Though if I may,” he swallowed his unending pride at the chance of a fucking lifetime, prepared to sink to his knees to beg like a daughter turned out by a jealous stepmother, “... renew my vows to you and your line, I would be at your service.”

“See? You cannot buy this sort of dedication.” 

The King turned away with a grunt of annoyance, “Dedication, or a love for his armor? Lucius has made his position on the matter quite clear. If I let you return to Slytherin now, he’d gift me the worth of this city twice over.”

“Both, Your Majesty,” Sirius shot him a warning look for his impertinence, but Draco carried on, “I cannot take a life’s vow, but for the honor of serving you in this time of need, I will bend the knee before you this very moment. Give me the charge and I will see it carried out.”

King James looked into the distance, his eyes fixed on the Princess Hermione’s tower. He seemed to weigh the offered promise like a miser weighing each piece of gold before handing over a customer’s goods. There was an odd sort of relief in avoiding the king’s tired eyes. A braver man might demand to know what sort of oath would be required of him, but Draco was feeling rather stupid these days. 

Living around so many Gryffindors might chafe, but it also changed a man. 

“Shall I draw up the contract? Four months won’t upset His Grace, will it, Draco?” Sirius cocked his head with a jovial smile that felt both misplaced and sorely needed.

“No, my lord. He will understand that my actions are in service of the good of the kingdom.”

“Very well. James,” Sirius’s smile softened, “Knight the boy again, lest old Lucy come to drag him home by the ear.”

Draco knelt quickly, danger and excitement burning in his veins, as the ruby-laid pommel of Godric’s sword caught the light of the fire. 

“I, King James I of the Great House of Potter, hereby declare that Ser Draco Malfoy of the Kingsguard shall continue his service in life and death, for lion, serpent, eagle, and badger until such time as his duty to the royal bloodline is fulfilled. This oath is binding in the eyes of the King, his knight, and his witness, Lord Commander Sirius Black until such time as the Four Founders unleash their wrath upon this world.”

Draco shivered at the cool touch of metal through his thin coat and half expected lightning to streak across the sky as his fate was once more tied to the crimson and Hallows, “Stand and receive your charge.”

Save hell or the worst floods of spring, there wasn’t a singular thing that could ruin his mood. An hour ago, he’d been contemplating joining a band of highwaymen. Life worked in rather humorous ways, the fickle thing. 

“My beloved daughter begins to wither,” King James clasped his hands together, worthy of an oil-painting, “Against my better judgment, I have granted her wish to debut and enter court. Seeing as her safety is of paramount importance in memory of my late wife, I require the service of a member of my Kingsguard worthy of and devoted entirely to her protection. You will watch over her as she leaves behind the confines of her tower, Ser Malfoy. If you fail to keep her safe and happy, I will strip you of your right to carry a sword before all of the Kingdom.

Chapter Text

She liked to leave her windows open at night, despite Luna’s pleas to listen to her father. Papa had thrown a fit when he found out that she left herself willingly vulnerable, but she couldn’t bear feeling so stuffy at night. Hearing the soft coos of the doves and chirps from the sparrows woke her far more gently than Ginny’s rousing. 

“Hermione, sit still. I don’t want to tear your hair out,” Ginny yanked at a knot near the top of her scalp without much notice of the grimace on her face, “What on earth did you do last night? This is even worse than when you took Rose out for that ride through the moors and got lost for half the day!”

“My dreams were unsettling, if you must know. I don’t think I slept for more than half the night,” Hermione grit her teeth through the pain, wondering – not for the first time – why they bothered readying her with such care, “Papa hasn’t sent word back yet, has he?”

“Not yet,” Luna’s airy voice carried across the room from her jewelry chest, “But he will be here soon. I can feel it.”

Hermione caught Ginny’s eye in the mirror with a little smile, fully aware that she was the only one who had any faith in Luna’s uncanny ability to see the future. Ever since their childhood, Hermione had learned to believe in Luna’s random, often unpromoted announcements. It was usually some odd little thing, like predicting the weather days before it rained, or knowing when Harry decided to make his unprompted visits – including knowing what kind of gift he ended up bringing with him. Tales of travelling witches and their crystal balls failed to hold her interest, but Hermione figured that there was enough empirical evidence to suggest Luna’s authenticity.

Ginny chalked it all up to luck, but she seemed to find faith whenever Luna dreamily mentioned how Harry would be stopping by to take luncheon with Hermione.

“Do you think he’ll listen this time? I’d rather not wait another year to attend the festival. I’ll be an old maid by then!” Hermione laughed at her own joke, hoping and praying that she didn’t sound even half as pathetic as she felt. 

“He better, or I’ll have to force Harry to speak to him myself.”

Luna gently nudged the redhead out of the way to clasp a simple pearl chain around Hermione’s throat, “There is no need to be violent, Ginevra. It is unbecoming for a lady all but engaged to the crown prince. Harry has done the best he can, but I’m sure the King sees sense in Hermione’s argument. He’ll be here soon, I think.”

“Good Godric, your visions best be right this time, Luna, or I swear upon my own good name I’ll denounce you myself.” 

The trio of young women laughed at themselves, growing quiet as they finished dressing and powdering their noses for a day filled to the brim with absolutely nothing.

For the first eighteen years of her life, Hermione spent her time completely sheltered, tucked away in the northwestern tower of the castle her father and his family had occupied for nearly half a millennium. Madame Pomfrey, her childhood nanny, once told her that she’d spent an hour in her father’s arms at her mother’s deathbed before he whisked her away to the nursery. She still slept in the same quarters, now packed full of books and maps from Papa and Harry and a canopied bed that she couldn’t hate despite her best efforts.

In these eighteen years, Hermione hadn’t been permitted to explore the outside world more than a dozen times. Every outing was carefully, meticulously planned down to the minute. Papa always came with her, and he refused to let her show her face for fear that someone might see her and decide to snatch her from under his nose. Her collection of veils was something to behold, truly.

She’d seen the city from the safety of a carriage a handful of times, and there were a few autumns where her outing included riding her beloved horse, Rose. That ended two years ago after a pack of wolves spooked the gentle mare into running nearly four leagues into the moors of Diagon Valley. 

If she ever had any doubts of her father’s love, they vanished like dust in the wind that day. Hermione sometimes thought about the ashen look on Papa’s face when he found her shivering under a rocky overhang in a torn dress, cloak nowhere to be found, with an ache in her heart. Her single injury was nothing more than a cut along her cheek, but Papa took it as a personal slight.

Despite her pleas, half a dozen Kingsguard were dismissed, the stable boy whipped, and he gave Luna a dressing down so brutal that she cried in front of their whole riding party. Harry was forced to step in to prevent him from saying anything harsh enough for her friend to ask for a dismissal from the royal household.  

Her wounded pride was the only permanent damage from that debacle, gods be praised, though the wound remained unhealed. Ginny relished recalling the incident every time Hermione poked fun at her for being so sweet on her hapless brother. 

“Have you thought any harder about what you’ll do if His Majesty says no, Hermione?” Luna looked out the window and let out a little squeal, “Because the Unspeakables are escorting him through the gardens now!”

“Oh, for the love of Helga, I thought you said he was coming some time today, Luna, not this bloody minute!” In a flurry of activity, the three girls scurried out of Hermione’s bedroom and into her receiving room… only four people besides herself and her ladies-in-waiting had ever used it, and receiving was a tad overblown a name to give it, but it was prepared nonetheless. 

Luna pinched her cheeks a few times to give her that rosy, well-cared for look Papa loved to see while Ginny pulled out the ivory chess set Uncle Remus brought for her from abroad last Christmas. The carefully memorized script turned over in her mind too quickly to stick, words running together in a jumbled mess that would leave her sounding far too whiny to ever leave her father with the sentiment that she deserved to be given the freedom she was about to ask him for. 

Hermioned pulled her most placid companion down to sit while Ginny rushed about the room looking for flaws to correct, “Luna – Papa will eventually ask you two to leave us. Do not let Ginny listen in at the door again. If she must eavesdrop, take her to the balcony upstairs to listen in. I’ll open the window, but you must be as silent as an owl, or else –”

“I know, Your Highness,” Luna’s countenance changed quicker than lightning, and for that, Hermione was most thankful, “Remember to ring the bell if you start to feel overwhelmed. I’ll interrupt with tea, as I always do.”

A hush fell over the room as the sound of heavy boots echoed in the stairwell just beyond the door, growing louder with each breath. Luna and Ginny stood to the right of the door, staring straight ahead with blank expressions. Hermione sat directly in front of the door counting the footsteps, listening for the gaits she knew. Papa of course, but Uncle Sirius and Uncle Remus followed not far behind. A fourth set of boots, louder than her usual guests, gave her pause. 

It wasn’t Harry, nor was it Ginny’s brother Ronald. He didn’t sound quite so even as he walked, and he managed to trip up the stairs every time he waited outside the door while Harry sat for a spot of tea or a game of checkers. 

This mysterious individual might be an Unspeakable, come to inspect her room the thousandth time this year, or maybe it was a new lady assigned to her retinue, or maybe, just maybe, a suitor come seeking her hand had weasled his way into Papa’s good graces. 

Romantic as that might be, something felt… different about this stranger.

“My angel!” Papa bounded in almost boyishly, sparing the briefest glance toward Ginny and Luna’s bowed heads, “Madam Pomfrey tells me you’ve recovered from your fever. Let me have a look at you.”

Hermione laughed as she pressed her cheek against the soft velvet lining his collar. He was never one to end their embrace first, and Hermione loved her father too much to pull away before she’d had her fill of his warmth, “I’m perfectly well, Papa. Please, sit and allow me to call for refreshments.” 

Looking at her father was like looking at Harry, albeit twenty years older and with facial hair her brother had yet to grow successfully. He was still tall and lean in a way that many noble men lost as they aged and turned away from their swords, for he was the sort to feel restless just from sitting still. Creases lined his face from smiling often, and he always smelled like he came straight from hearth – smoky and warm. Her inheritance was all in the eyes, big and brown and prone to growing watery. King James was a sensitive man, much like his daughter, and he made no great fuss over hiding it. 

The years without his wife had left him greyer than most healthy men his age, however. He wore his grief in a locket with a clipping of fiery red hair that hadn’t left its spot at his heart since the day he buried her. 

Ginny and Luna murmured their greetings to their King and to her uncles still hovering by the door. They hurried away in a swish of skirts to gather tea and the good cinnamon pastries she and Papa preferred, but not before Luna caught her eye with a knowing glint. 

There was a stranger waiting outside her door. 

“You promised to tell me about the new ambassador from Durmstrang, but I have yet to catch even a word from either of my ladies. Have negotiations gone poorly?” The question was genuine, but her motive less so. News of foreign dignitaries tended to reach her ear one way or the other, but there was no real need to feel concerned about relations between their two countries. If Papa was going to be receptive to her request, however, Hermione needed to behave as normally as possible. 

“Quite the opposite, poppet,” He smiled brightly and reached for her hand, thumb passing over her mother’s old ring in a steady rhythm, “Young Lord Krum is one of the few men from that godsforsaken country that even your ridiculous brother can tolerate. Our climate is simply too hot for him at this time of year, and he frequents the lower levels of the keep to stay cool.”

“If Harry has taken a liking to him, then I suppose we can excuse his eccentricities.”

“Quite right. Now, your uncles have taken the liberty of arranging for some gifts. Remus tells me he’s found a new collection of poetry from that fellow you’re mad about. Beedle the Bard, is it?”

Hermione whipped around to find Remus in his usual spot by the bay window, “Really? Last you wrote, he had abandoned prose in favor of the paintbrush!”

“If he showed any promise in his artistic endeavors, my dear,” Remus smiled at her and glanced toward Sirius with an eye that looked rather put-out for some odd reason, “our illustrious bard might not have listened to your godfather’s finely chosen words of advice.”

Sirius’s grumbling and Papa’s hearty laugh sounded like a secret – as the three often shared. While she might be blind to many things, including, well, the things that actually happened around her, Hermione did have sense enough to know when her uncles were having a little tiff. Sirius was always the culprit, but they were always harmless arguments that Remus seemed willing to let slide, always over some exotic or rare present, always for her.

“Thank you, Uncle Remus, Uncle Sirius. You are too good to me,” the pit in her stomach began to turn in on itself. How could she think to ask Papa without sounding like an ungrateful child now? “H-how goes the preparations for the festival this year? I’ve been meaning to ask, but my ladies only hear rumors.”

Oh, Helga, she’d never been this awful a conversationalist before. Papa looked at with a knowing quirk across his brow, but his face remained pleasant, his countenance even. The last time she requested more freedom, he’d nearly burst into tears on the spot, and Uncle Sirius had to take him outside for far too long to calm himself. 

His answer gave away nothing, “The elders tell us the weather will hold out for the next two months. Merchants are already arriving, and I hear the jousting tournaments are fit to be the greatest the realm has ever hosted.”

“People are arriving this early? From where?” 

“My angel, I know –”

“From across the kingdom,” Sirius interrupted, “Though a fair number from Ilvermorny have sailed into Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw to begin their journey here. Ambassador Krum has promised his kingdom’s finest knights for the competitions, as well. It will be their first time on our shores.”

The news was enough to make her consider calling Luna for moral support. Just thinking of all the men and women dressed in their new robes, children running underfoot, displays of finery and the scents of all the food she’d only read about in her encyclopedias was enough to make her blink back tears. 

No matter what happened next, Hermione knew she’d rather die than take no for an answer. 

“Papa,” she took a deep breath and darted a glance toward Sirius. His eyes were soft, knowing, “I wonder if you might have thought any more about what we spoke of after Harry’s birthday?”
He looked surprised for a moment, and Hermione wondered at the sharp headshake Sirius gave her, “Remus told me you’d given up on that.”

“Oh – yes,” she scrambled to agree and sagged in relief when Sirius gave her a look of approval, “I only thought of it again considering this talk of the festival. Lady Ginevra heard word that the Delacour sisters are bringing their show, and I’ve just read so much about them from Harry that I –”

On and on she rambled, and soon enough the pacing began. Back and forth she strode, hands clenching her skirts when they weren’t waving about her face. Papa always turned sheepish when she fell into one of her episodes, and Sirius did his best to cover his grin. Behind her, Remus cleared his throat to catch her attention, but it was no use. It was never any use.

“Please, Papa. It is my greatest – my only – wish to be a, a, a woman. Every girl enters court at seventeen, but I am nearly a year past!”

“Hermione! There will be no talk of, of women with your father! With your king!” She slowed to watch Papa sputter, face ruddy and far too shocked for such a strange pronouncement.

“But it was you who told me that attending a ball held in her honor makes the girl a woman! The Weasleys held Ginny’s last year, and Luna’s father prepared invitations for her just the other day! I don’t want to be left behind for the rest of my life, locked away without any chance to see the kingdom.”

“This tower and your guards keep you safe, angel. The world is a cruel place,” his words were dark and bitter, “Do not begrudge an old man his desire to watch his daughter grow up without fearing she might be stolen away. Twice, I almost lost you. I refuse to see the gods’ blessing run out.”

“I’m not growing up, Papa,” she sank to her knees by his feet like she used to when she was a child listening to his grand tales. Somehow, she’d let herself tear up like she was a little girl again, “I can count the times I’ve left this tower with two hands. I have two friends who aren’t you, or Harry, or Uncle Remus, or Uncle Sirius. I don’t know what it feels like to be asked to dance. I’ve never seen the Great Hall decorated for a banquet, never laughed with a stranger. I-I read all my books and dream about actually seeing and hearing a festival I only ever look upon from a window. I’m three years younger than Mum was when she –”

“I know.”

The room was silent. Sunlight streamed through the open windows with a heady warmth, but all she could think was how unfair this was. Crying in front of Papa made Hermione feel awful. It was unbecoming for a woman of any age to cry in front of her elders, but she couldn’t bring herself to care much about that. Hermione had yet to grow out of her proclivity to grow misty eyed each time she felt her nerves start to fail her, sensitive to a fault since childhood.

Crying to Papa about wanting to feel like an adult felt rather nonsensical… but it was the only guaranteed strategy she had. She could posture all she wanted, argue until she turned blue, ignore him until his heart broke into a thousand pieces, all with the possibility of securing a victory within the year’s end. 

Crying like his little girl used to over a lost doll would give her the victory before her eyelashes unstuck.

“Hermione… hush, my angel,” Papa smoothed a hand over her hair, and she felt the tears start to dissipate, “How could I refuse you?”

“You’ve done so splendidly thus far.” Remus grumbled in the corner as he was wont to do. He came forward to whisper something too quiet to hear in Papa’s ear. He backed away toward the door, but not before giving her a conspiratorial wink. 

“Are you – you’re not teasing me, Papa, are you?”

“No,” he sighed miserably, “Against my better judgment, your godfathers have convinced me that keeping you locked away – in safety – is a tyrannical choice which will lead you to harbor hatred for me instead of the love you’ve given me as a sweet, dutiful daughter.”

She threw herself into his arms with a squeal, “I can’t believe it! Oh, thank the founders! I love –”

“Come now, Hermione. We haven’t discussed my conditions.”

Her smile faded, “But – what must I do?”

“I will not permit you to move into the main castle – ah, ah, my angel. No. I do not want the Unspeakables to spend time securing new quarters when I know this tower is the most well-guarded part of our keep,” she stifled her protests while he continued, “You will continue to wear your veils in public until the festival unless you are alone with those of us who already know your beautiful face, and you will never be unaccompanied no matter where you are, under any circumstance.”

“But I don’t want to wear another veil! They hardly permit me to see anything save my own hands held before my eyes!” 

“And I would rather not risk your health, but seeing as we are amidst the spirit of sacrifice, I believe we could all accommodate one another. Which is why,” Papa motioned for Remus to open the door, “Uncle Sirius has arranged for his most talented pupil to watch over you.”

Her head whipped to the doorway where the owner of the mystery footfalls stood silently, grey eyes settled intently on her flushed, splotchy, tear-stained face. 

He towered over Remus and Sirius with broad shoulders covered in the crimson cloak of the Kingsguard. Her uncles, especially Sirius, were not diminutive by any means, but the sheer height and bulk this man carried felt completely out of place. Though she’d only seen four men her entire life, Hermione knew he was special. And his face looked like a painting, fair and strong-jawed, with a straight nose and eyes impossible to look away from. 

Her knight.

“Your Highness,” he held out a hand, and for a moment she forgot how unfortunate it must be to begin her foray into the world as an eighteen year old with a shadow who would surely report to her father every night without fail, “It is an honor to serve you.” He pulled her to her feet – sweet Helga, why must she be seated on the floor at a time like this? – and knelt before she could think of a response.

“Ser Draco Malfoy, Hermione,” Sirius smiled at him with a rare fondness. Interesting, “is the finest knight to swear the oath. I trust him with my life, your father’s, and now with yours.”

“Malfoy? As in the Great House of Slytherin?” She stammered in awe at the white-blond crop of hair that was just long enough to graze the tops of his ears. It was shorter than Harry’s, and Hermione thought privately that he looked far more mature and well-kept than her unruly brother.

“Yes, Your Highness. One day I will inherit my father’s title, but until then, I am yours to command,” He held her hand to his forehead, cast to the floor, as he spoke, “Your safety is my paramount concern.”

Hermione swallowed once, looking to Papa for reassurance. Instead of comfort or excitement on her behalf, she found a grimace one could only acquire by swallowing a toad. And was that a bead of sweat accumulating at his hairline?

She turned back to her knight with unabashed delight, smoothing the front of her dress as she addressed him, “Please, rise, Ser Malfoy. I hope you will not consider me presumptuous, but I would like to call you by your given name – if you are amendable, of course. If we are to spend all this time together, I would like to feel as if you are a companion rather than a guard. I promise not to be upset if you - you refuse me.”

He looked at her long and hard with his jaw set in some kind of emotion she couldn’t quite name. After a brief moment and an almost-imperceptible glance toward his king and commander, Ser Malfoy acquiesced, “You may, Princess, so long as we are not amidst the court and its gossiping ladies.”

“Oh, yes, I believe that is a good idea, Dr- Ser Draco,” questions ran through her mind with increasing urgency. Gossiping ladies? What concerns did a man such as himself – the heir to an unimaginably wealthy, titled family – have about the court at Hogwarts? “I find myself unused to pomp and circumstance, but I will do my best not to subject you to any unpleasantness.”

He muttered something too quiet to hear, though Sirius seemed to have caught something of his remark if his pursed lips were anything to go by. Papa at least seemed content to look upon her with forlorn eyes, entirely unable to mask his feelings of regret. 

And, oh… what a wonderful feeling it was to see him so out of his comfort zone. Inexperienced as she was, Hermione knew that anything causing Papa to turn grey surely meant one thing. 

Fun. 

Ser Draco seemed rather stoic and assured of his place as a member of the elite Kingsguard, so it wouldn’t do to try anything so improper as to earn his disapproval and end up locked away again. As she pondered the possibilities this new chaperone might afford her, Hermione wondered whether he might refuse a request to continue reading in the library after dark. 

Wandering into the city would surely be too great a privilege, but maybe, just maybe… he might indulge her desire to experience the outdoors under the light of the moon. 

“Your brother and I expect your presence at supper, angel. Ser Malfoy will escort you to us in the private wing. Try not to get yourself into trouble today,” he kissed her cheek like it was their final parting, “Or else you will live the rest of your life knowing how much you ought to listen to your frustrating father.” He left surprisingly quickly, no doubt confident that his conditions were stifling enough to contain her for a while longer. 

“We promised you, didn’t we, love?” Sirius bowed comically low, much to Remus’s chagrin, “And your godfather always delivers for his favorite princess.”

She didn’t quite believe it until the snick of the latch falling into place resounded through her bones. The finality of it, the suddenness, the elation of a granted wish after so many nights spent crying herself to sleep, of living vicariously through Ginny and Luna’s experiences – it was unlike any feeling Professor Trelawney attempted to convey in her humanities studies. 

She was about to jump for joy when a flash of red caught her eye. 

If her assumptions were correct, this man wasn’t the type to offer more than a few words at a time unless she ordered him to engage in conversation. He seemed content to stand straight as a rod, eyes trained conveniently on her forehead rather than meeting her eyes. Sirius claimed he was the best of the Kingsguard, and she herself had little doubt Papa would consider leaving her in the care of anyone unworthy of the praise. 

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Draco,” she smiled brightly, oozing honesty like honey from a fresh comb, “I apologize on behalf of my clumsiness, but I must tell you that I’ve never, I haven’t really – other than Papa and Uncle Remus, and, well, you know Uncle Sirius already… Harry doesn’t count… You’re the first boy I’ve ever met!”

His eyes flashed. In pain? In pity? In shock? 

“We’re going to have so much fun!”

Chapter Text

Draco was fucked. Royally fucked.

“And this one is a rose of sharon, though the name is dreadfully misleading. Despite its name, it isn’t part of the rose family. You’ll notice the shape of the flower differs quite greatly from your typical variety – like this one here! The stems are also devoid of thorns, so even if you think to pick one for your lady love, you’ll realize your mistake when avoid drawing blood,” the princess seemed content to talk at him where she was sprawled on the grass, “If I ever meet the fool who named the Rose of Sharon, you’ll need to prevent me from smacking him across the face. Anyone who earns the opportunity to name a flower ought to think up something original. I know I would.”

She was… unlike any woman he’d ever met. 

There was something fresh about her, as if she’d yet to spoil in the wretched heat of court intrigue. Considering how ridiculous her father was, hiding her away like an embarrassment or madwoman, Draco supposed she’d simply been born sickeningly sweet and never had the chance to change. 

She waited expectantly for a response. She always waited – even when he stared straight ahead or tried to answer only by inclining his head. It was a horrible thing to admit to himself, but he didn’t feel as though he could speak to her without sounding like an arse. Theo sat through the worst of it after his audience with King James, offering little more than a raised brow as he bemoaned his fate. 

The most vapid maid would see how desperate she was to fulfill her father’s demands in exchange for this paltry liberation. Ignoring her might be cruel, but he trusted in his importance enough to care little for how it might hurt her incessantly curious chatter.

What he did not account for, however, was how it pained his cynical heart to watch her face fall each time he hadn’t so much as the decency to even verbally brush her off.

Bollocks.

“His Majesty would be most upset to learn something drove you to violence. If it would ease your mind, I could attempt to bring this herbologist before you, that you might air your grievances.”

Before he could regret them, Hermione latched onto his words, “I do believe whoever has the misfortune of meeting you may already be buried. As far as I know, common flowers like the rose of sharon earned their names during a renewal in the study of plants some two hundred years ago, so the likelihood that he is little more than dust is quite high.”

All he could muster in return was a grunt. Who the bloody hell taught her how to converse?

“Would you… um,” she seemed to deflate as he turned solemn, “If I asked you to do something like that for me, you would?”

He blinked, “Attempt to abduct a man guilty of naming a flower in a way that displeases you?”

“When you say it like that, I sound rather foolish.”

“I would, Your Highness,” he said bluntly, “If you commanded me so, I would not fail.”

Her cheeks flushed as pink as the flower in her hand, only the color on her face seemed far more life-like than those frail petals. Looking upon her felt wrong, somehow. In spite of his former reservations on the matter and his unwillingness to take anything King James said about his daughter without a whole lump of salt, Hermione’s loveliness still struck him like a blow. 

He ought to hang himself just for the thought, take himself along the highest parapets and throw his body into the endless moat so that the barest sliver of his soul might worm its way into heaven. No more than a dozen people had ever gazed upon her face, a paltry fraction of them men, and of that meager number, only one envisioned how easily he could grasp her about the waist. Countless, ignorant, lecherous men may fantasize about the princess locked away in her tower, kept hidden by an anxious father who unknowingly fostered a culture soaked in heady curiosity around the thing he wanted to protect most, but they were nothing compared to his recent dreams.

They knew nothing about the gentle slope of her nose, of skin that freckled too easily in the sun, or the mane of curls she bore, untamable as the questions that poured from her. 

A bird squawking in one of the trees startled him out of his reverie, and he only hoped he masked his feelings as well as Theo promised he did, “Have I overstepped, Your Highness?”

Brown doe eyes, usually unflinching in their pointedness, darted between the grass and his face in the sort of nervous dance that would lead a lesser man to ruin. They settled on him just long enough for the kind of genuine smile that eluded so many noble ladies to bloom on her pink lips, and by the gods themselves, he knew he would never give another the chance to make her smile so brightly.

The king called her an angel, but he thought she was far more like a flower. Her beauty was beyond question, but she was still blossoming. What the princess needed more than anything was guidance. Care. Given the proper attention, she would unfurl finer than any of the buds around them. 

Her father was too afraid of losing her to provide for her, and her brother and uncles were too devoted to her father to think anything different. The lovely flower he watched over was suffocating under the weight of their love. Wandering into the castle during their first outing, though she said nothing of the sort aloud, made her anxious enough to give up on leaving the confines of the walls around her tower. Shocked looks from lords and ladies encroaching on their periphery were enough to send her once joyous face crumpling flat the moment her veil fell away. 

It made him sick. 

“No, Ser Draco,” she said, “It is a relief having someone like you. I imagine I am a rather boring assignment compared to your exploits as a Kingsguard, and it cannot be very engaging to watch someone study flowers for hours on end.”

“Anything you do is – is an honor to witness,” and now he really felt sick. What on earth was he doing? How did he manage to sound like a fresh soldier meeting his first courtesan while speaking to the princess? His bloody fucking charge, “Forgive me. If I might recommend, Your Highness, studying the flowers beyond the castle would be a far better use of your knowledge. There are fields of wildflowers in the Valley of Diagon that anyone hardly wanders through.”

Hermione sighed regretfully, “I’m hopeless aren’t I? Ginny always said I’d be obvious about my awkwardness.”

He fought to keep his eyes from rolling at the mention of yet another tasteless Weasley. His hopes were high for her, but it seemed the female Weasel was either an idiot, or possessed a bit of a mean streak. Lady Ginevra might be his future queen, but if his duty to her mistress meant keeping an eye on her behavior and an ear out for her tongue, there was no reason he shouldn’t enjoy it.

“Far from it. Adjusting to new people takes time, and, pardon me for saying so, but the attention,” he paused, suddenly very aware of how freely she gave her own, “seems to weigh on you. I’ve heard the cityfolk say similar things about the late queen.”

“Papa always said mother liked spending time with her books as much as she did with him. Do you think I might take after her, then?” 

“It’s not my place to say, Your Highness, and even if it was, I met her only once as an infant.”

She hummed and walked toward the flowering vines, a specimen he had yet to learn the name for. His view of her back and the long braid that dipped past the bodice of her dress hid her face as she thought whatever grand things that popped into her brilliant, overactive mind. Draco was no mind reader, but her thoughts were so loud he worried that the busybodies beyond the walls might finally have something tangible to spread amongst themselves. 

He waited patiently and attempted to keep his eyes from straying to her hips. 

He failed.

“Ser Draco?”

“Yes?” He snapped to attention at the determined look on her face, “I read a book once on the multitude of ways hunters train their hounds that claimed the most productive strategy was simply to expose them to the older animals. Supposedly, learning any behavior is possible simply by placing a dog in the thick of it. Over time, the young hounds cease merely mimicking their elders and know what to do without any guidance.”

“Are you comparing yourself to a mangy mutt? If the king knew what you were saying he would –”

Her laugh rang out like a bell, and his anger at her total lack of self-awareness and self-respect dissipated like dust on the wind. She covered her mouth in surprise, like she couldn’t believe the sound came from her, but her thin fingers hid none of the blush that reappeared on her cheeks, “I-I know the analogy seems odd, but I only mean to say it might help me to step away from the comfort of this tower again.”

“Right. Of course. You needn’t ask me for permission, Your Highness. I will follow you wherever you wish to go, within reason.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, “A limit? I wasn’t aware your oath involved any.”

“It does not,” he tried to sound as accommodating as possible, for these limits were not given to her by anyone other than himself, “but if you asked me to escort you into the city today, I would refuse on the basis that doing so would put you in unnecessary danger. It will be a different matter once you engage in your self-training exercises.”

“Oh! But I must involve you in them, Ser Draco, otherwise I cannot expose myself.”

He closed his eyes and spoke as low as he could, “I cannot permit myself to take part in anything that degrades you, Your Highness. You must not, under any circumstance, refer to yourself in any terms relating to dogs or other animals in front of others, and you may not use that dreadful phrase. King James will have me beheaded if he believes you are wandering about the castle doing… that.” He spat the last word with a shudder, praying she wasn’t naive enough to miss his meaning. 

Her pink-turned-scarlet face was reassuring. 

“You see, I-I – of course. I only meant to say ‘introduce’ myself to the-the halls and the people who frequent them.” She shrank against the wall, properly mortified at her careless language. 

He felt mollified for only a moment before he realized how difficult it would be to keep her from misspeaking in front of one of the meaner ladies, or, gods-forbid, some fat old baron who took anything besides a simple greeting as invitation to drag courtly skirts into an alcove. Muzzling her, even under the veil, was an unthinkable crime. 

It would leave marks on her fair skin, for Salazar’s sake. 

After further consideration, he realized it might be odd if she couldn’t even respond to an introduction, though that wouldn’t be anywhere as great a loss. 

“I promise to think before I speak,” she begged, “Please, may we go now? I don’t want to lose my nerve.”

No sound had ever been so sweet as her quiet pleading, no sight as tender. She looked at him as though he held all the power in the world, and that giving her what she desired, a lowly man might feel like a winged deity sent down from on high. Those eyes were… they were… 

Draco swallowed the sinking feeling that he was actually rather powerless before her with great difficulty, “Your Highness will need a veil.”

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

Her heart nearly froze each time the sound of footsteps crept behind them. Her rational mind knew she had nothing to fear, not with her knight shadowing her no more than a handful of paces, but the irrational mind overpowered that fact.

For years, she’d prided herself on being intelligent in all things – when it came to her books, to mathematics, to games of strategy like chess, and, most importantly, her emotions. Know thyself, the Hellenic philosophers taught, and like a good student, Hermione took their words to heart. 

The real lesson was swift and brutal. Whatever introspection she engaged in these last years hadn’t been enough. Nay, she’d hardly scratched the surface.

Hermione tried not to be so disappointed in herself, but it was hardly ideal to feel so pathetically unprepared for the very thing she’d waited her whole life for. Who knew years spent isolated save for the same half dozen people would have a detrimental effect on her psyche? On her understanding of social nuances and conversation?

As they walked through a particularly long, quiet hallway, Hermione realized her shyness was likely an intrinsic aspect of her personality. After all these years, she’d never once felt bored of her books, after all. Luna wasn’t shy, just… whimsical and different. Uncle Remus was quiet, but he always held himself with confidence. Hermione decided that her misfortune must lay in the fact that people themselves, with all their idiosyncrasies and differences, left her feeling rather confused.

Communicating felt impossible when so many things had to be taken into account. Never before had she considered how a person’s tone or body language might affect her. Having so many eyes assessing her with interest left her feeling too vulnerable to muster more than a stuttered greeting, and once she realized she’d mucked up her first impression with nearly half a dozen occupants, the urge to leave behind the keep for the security of her prison couldn’t be ignored. 

“Your Highness, are you quite alright? Perhaps you should return  –”

“No, thank you,” Hermione shook herself, embarrassed that he saw through her so easily, “I just need a bit of air.”

These blasted veils would be the death of her if her fraying nerves didn’t finish her off first. Now that the weather was hot, Papa couldn’t stop her from wearing the thinnest fabrics she could find, but they felt no less restrictive than the heavy woolen coverings he thrust upon her the few times she wanted to play in the snow as a child.

He shifted uncomfortably in lieu of a response, and not for the first time on her outing, either. The only words he spoke to her since they left her garden’s comfort had been to inquire after her health. It was a far cry from the conversation they shared in the morning, even if it was the first time he’d spoken to her, and she felt decidedly confused about their rules of engagement.

“Has my father forbidden you from speaking with me?” Hermione turned on him with her arms crossed in a most unladylike manner.

 The skin between his eyebrows creased, and he opened his mouth twice before finally speaking, “Pardon?”

“Has my father forbidden you from speaking with me?” she repeated herself, “You seem unwilling to converse with me now.”

“I am a Kingsguard assigned to protect you, Your Highness,” he scanned the hallway as if someone might jump out and scare them, “It is improper for our relationship to appear personal. You are risking your reputation by speaking to me in public.”

“That is… rather foolish,” she shook her head, “But I appreciate your concern for the reputation I have yet to know anything of. You and your fellow knights likely know more of the rumors surrounding me than I do, Ser Dr – Ser Malfoy.”

Proper etiquette techniques were lost on her. It wasn’t that she didn’t know what the standards were, but their applications and the reasoning behind the many nuances and exemptions and caveats felt unnecessarily complicated. Was it not enough to be polite and extend a helping hand? If someone asked a question, shouldn’t it be answered as long as the question was not offensive and the person being asked knew the answer?

Hermione thought so, but Draco seemed reticent for a multitude of reasons that she saw no issue ignoring, “Avoiding hearsay is far easier than it is made out to be. Nothing will come of worrying about things you cannot control.”

Feeling dismissed, Hermione turned on her heel with a huff. She walked quickly in hopes that he might feel foolish rushing after her in his stiff uniform, but a brief glance behind reminded her that his stride was too long to create discomfort for anyone but herself. They were nearly at the end of the hallway – if she turned the corner, it would be the farthest into the castle she’d managed yet – and she thought she might like very much to tell Papa that Draco was not the right knight for her. Her spiteful thoughts had little time to fester before divine retribution struck in the form of a rather forceful collision with a Kingsguard’s breastplate. 

“Oh!” she stumbled backward, bracing herself to feel the hard stone against her rear. Strong hands wrapped around her waist as her legs buckled. Even through the gloves, they were warm and steadying, “O-oh.”

Thank Godric Draco couldn’t see her flush through the veil. 

“Ye gods, man, I didn’t think you had it in you!” The knight who nearly knocked her to the floor laughed as Draco hauled her upright, “The mighty have truly fallen if the great Ser Malfoy is chasing tail in broad daylight.”

Whatever tail was, Draco didn’t like it. At all. 

His hands squeezed almost painfully, leather gloves digging into the light fabric of her airy summer gown. In her clumsiness, the veil began to slip forward, and like a deer caught between the arrow and a boulder, she froze. It was near rushing past her hairline when Draco grabbed a hold of it and spun them around.

“I’ll have this impudent bastard begging for forgiveness on his knees once you’ve righted yourself, Your Highness.” His voice was cold and brittle, but his grip eased light enough that she knew – prayed – he wasn’t angry with her. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Hermione mumbled, “I didn’t mean to –”

“Ser McLaggen owes you an apology, Princess,” she shivered at his low whisper, too close to her ear to be considered proper, “As the guard entrusted with your honor, I ask for your permission to ensure it is not offended by a knight without tact or basic intelligence.”

Her nod was perfunctory seeing as they both knew he would never allow the other man to walk away without consequence, the breath she exhaled when his hands left her waist too strangled to go without notice. She wouldn’t have noticed the bright, piercing look in his eyes as she tried to tamp down that awfully undignified sound, but they were that close. 

It took a few moments before she managed to pull herself together, thoughts wandering to his voice so gently calling her something other than the stuffy honorific he never seemed to go longer than a sentence without uttering. Princess was a platitude she’d only ever heard from Ginny’s sarcastic, joking mouth, but sounded… sweet coming from him, which didn’t make much sense considering it also made her slightly queasy.  

The other Kingsguard – McLaggen, Draco called him – laughed nervously, “Princess Hermione? Surely you haven’t let Her Highness run about the castle? Rather risky, if you ask me.”

“A lady of her station does not require permission to walk in her own home, nor should she ever face any risk less than danger amidst a foreign invasion. Your remark is troubling at best, incendiary at its worst,” Draco sounded bored – far more arrogant than the softness he spoke to her with, less composed than he sounded around Papa and her uncles, “If you believe yourself to be an impediment to Her Highness’s safety, it would be within the rights of your oath as Kingsguard to resign your post effective immediately.”

Her veil was still askew, but she couldn’t bear the thought of a knight facing permanent disgrace simply for colliding with her in the corridor, “There’s no need for that, Ser Malfoy. We merely turned the corner at the same time, and I cannot see well enough under the circumstances to prevent such an accident. Wouldn’t you agree, Ser McLaggen?”

The sandy haired man’s jaw dropped as she spoke, and Hermione feared she sounded wrong somehow. Too casual, too excited. 

“I feel exactly the same, Your Highness,” McLaggen’s smile was saccharine, his eyes roving across her face like he could see what was underneath, “An unfortunate mishap neither of us could prevent.”

“See?” She turned to Draco with no small sense of triumph, “A misunderstanding is no reason to take up arms over my honor.”

“Overzealous as always. It must be difficult to manage without any way to release all that energy, Malfoy. I’d call it a pity if your charge didn’t seem so delightful to watch.” His words were clearly intended for the knight standing just in front of her left shoulder, but he continued to stare at her. It was… strange. He seemed rather nice, despite her clumsiness, and she would think nothing of him if Draco didn’t seem so agitated. 

“McLaggen.” 

“What? The men haven’t taken a beating in nearly a week now. If that isn’t cause for celebration, it bloody hell ought to be,” He laughed at his own joke before returning his full attention – gaze and words – onto her once more, “You’ve done us a great service, Your Highness. Amongst the Kingsguard, Malfoy is more than a little notorious for taking all the fun out of sparring. Now that the King has decided he’s better off following you around, the ring won’t see hide or hair.”

Panic gripped her suddenly. She’d never thought how Draco must feel about this assignment before. Following a princess without any agenda or awareness of court could only be a frustration to him. Ser McLaggen made it sound as though her knight was some sort of menace to the well-being of his fellow Kingsguards, which could only mean he was good at the task. The occupation? 

If Papa had agreed to this increased freedom, he was no standard man. Draco had Uncle Sirius’s support, as well, which seemed no small feat considering the dozens of soldiers he trained with a watchful eye. 

With a start, Hermione realized how… how boring she must be, how he must miss his compatriots and the chance to exercise his skills instead of acting as a glorified nanny. Had she been given an opportunity even a tenth as exciting, she would rue the day she ever met 

“Are you not permitted to spar, Ser Malfoy?” Hermione wrung her hands without any care for McLaggen’s gaze trying to bore a hole through the layers that concealed her, “Uncle Sirius always said his Kingsguard train daily, come hell or high water.”

“My vow as your personal knight supersedes any duties I have to the Lord Commander. Abandoning Your Highness to cross swords with a man like McLaggen would be unthinkable.” 

It was very – very strange, this feeling.

McLaggen scoffed, and Hermione thought she might very well be in over her head, “I promise you, Your Highness, his presence amongst the men is sorely missed.” The air between them felt charged with an unspoken rivalry, which, even to the eyes of an outsider, felt one-sided.

“If I were to attend training, Ser Malfoy, would you be permitted to participate?”

“Technically, as long as the Lord Commander or Ser Lupin were to stay by your side. However, I would not advise –”

“Ser McLaggen, please relay the good news to your compatriots! I hope to see a strong showing from my knight – my champion, if you will – and from all who vow to support my father. And now,” she reached out to tug  the edge of Draco’s cloak, “We must excuse ourselves. I bid you good day.”

She didn’t wait long enough to hear either knight’s reply, trusting Draco’s sense of duty to prevent him from letting her wander too far ahead. That conversation counted amongst the most taxing experiences of her life, and she was not entirely sure whether to count it amongst her victories or as a draw. 

“Your Highness,” anger colored his tone, “You cannot make promises like that to McLaggen – or any man – without consulting me first.”

His face was pinched, and he stood so straight Hermione feared he might snap in two if the wind blew the wrong way. They were in another new hallway, this one lined with windows facing a blanket of green trees stretching as far as the eye could see. The warm light seemed to make his fair hair glow silver-white. 

“It has not been two hours since you promised to follow me wherever I go. Has your tune changed so quickly?”

“No! I – of course not,” he blanched, much to her delight, “If memory serves, I swore to follow you within the bounds of reason. Affirming your desire to stand within harm’s way of more than three dozen swords does not strike me as a responsible course of action.”

His jaw set the longer he spoke, waxing on about some drivel concerning his oath to her father and her need to be sensible. It was true that they’d spoken of as much before even this brief, harmless outing, and it was Hermione who thought it best to experience her new freedom in measured quantities, but it was another thing to be told so sternly. 

“I would not bother to ask if I thought you were incapable. Papa said it himself – you are the only knight in the entire kingdom Uncle Sirius thought to recommend. No one without merit would earn such a commendation,” It seemed even his iron-clad resolve cracked under the pressure of well-placed praise. He was a strong one – shoulders sinking no more than an inch, eyebrows relaxing into his proud features – but even he could not help but answer to his ego, “Please, do not refuse me, Ser Draco. I’ve always wanted to see the Kingsguard up close – since I was a girl Uncle Sirius has bragged of their talent and strength. You wouldn’t deny me the chance to see my own knight prove himself, I hope?”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose and exhaled a long-suffering sigh, “I will speak with the Lord Commander this evening, Your Highness.”

Hermione could do no more than squeal in her excitement. Draco had the good sense to ignore her and her childish antics. 

For years, the clang of metal and shouts of triumph rang from the courtyard through her open windows. Thoughts of fantastical battles and courtly camaraderie plagued her like a sickness, and Ginny’s tall tales, mistold, surely, on behalf of her twin brothers, worsened her jealousy. Blood troubled her, and so did the concept of death, but that meant little when she dreamed of the chance to see the fabled Kingsguard exercising in unison in crimson cloaks and polished armor with Papa’s sigil shining on their chests.

She felt too bold for anything good to come of it, but Hermione saw no reason that she couldn’t request something more of him, something small and insignificant to anyone but her. Victory sat on her right shoulder these days, after all.

“If you please, good ser, I would prefer you to call me by another name when we are not in the presence of others who might question the honor of it,” alarm passed over his features, but Hermione was too occupied with the smooth stone to notice, “You called me Princess earlier. I like that far better than hearing my title after every greeting.”

“But ‘Princess’ is a title, Your Highness, and it would be a grave insult to address you as anything less.”

“It would be far graver if I felt personally slighted by your refusal, hm? I’m not so foolish as to ask you to call me by the name my father bestowed. If I am allowed to call you – somewhat – casually, you ought to do the same.”

She waited, expectant and knowing that his denial was only temporary. She peered up at him through her still-skewed veil with all the sweetness she could muster. If Harry hadn’t the heart to deny her, his peer was sure to follow suit. 

He looked nearly pained when he finally acquiesced, throat working like he had found something hard to swallow, “As you wish, Princess.”