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Chapter Text

Prologue

Though the magical were revered for their talents, they were far from beloved. They were in fact despised, and none harboured greater disdain for them than Hermione. Like spiders or wasps, they fulfilled an undeniable purpose; instead of keeping pests at bay, they ensured the survival of crops and fields, tended to the sick, and calmed the unruly weather that clouded their island. This necessity was a bitter pill for most to swallow. Their services exacted a price, one that seemed to cut deeper with each passing season. The bitter memory of the war lingered, rendering the mere sight of a mage unwelcome—a reminder of power once unchecked, and devastation not easily forgotten.

Hermione detested how they moved amongst their villages in their fine silks, envied their effortless skills, and scorned their eloquent speech. The only empathy she felt for them was for their quiet lives of luxury in the capital. While most would have killed for the chance to swap fates with a mage, Hermione understood their lives, though lavish, were caged. Controlled. Still, she loathed their dependence upon them for survival in this godforsaken region.

Above all, she loathed that she was one of them.

Chapter 1

   They were dying. The cold was hitting hard this season. Leaves once green and bright were now yellow and crisp. Running her fingers over the brittle edges of the plants, Hermione sighed. Winter flowers usually held their own in the harsh climate of Relinia, but this season's storms were unforgiving, ripping her once healthy garden to shreds. Brushing the dirt from her palms, Hermione stood to attend the rest of the patch. The flowers were done for, but a few vegetables clung to life. Picking what survived, she headed inside to find warmth and start dinner.

As she prepared a humble supper, the idea of using magic to revive her garden began to flirt with her thoughts. A small boost to restore colour to her winter flowers. Breathe life back into the petals. But she shook the notion off; it felt too risky. Life in Relinia was no picnic for common folk—Hermione knew all too well how privileged she was. Many of her friends and neighbours were out hunting for whatever animals could withstand the cold, labouring in the armouries, or spending their meagre pennies on food and spells from mages to keep their gardens and livestock alive. Her garden, while modest, had its uses. She harvested flowers and whatever crops she could manage and sold them in town. It wasn't a rich life, but it was enough to keep her afloat. More importantly, she had chosen this life, and she was content with her decision. Her small cottage warmed quickly from the glowing coals in the fire, her bed was warm and comfortable, she had a pet that she loved like a mother loved her child and a shelf filled with books to escape into whenever she pleased. That was enough. Temptation to use magic rarely entered her mind—at least, not until recently.

The three seasons that seemed to exist in most regions, or so said the books she had read, didn't play by the same rules in Relinia. Here, winter had seized their island and refused to release its grip. The sun might have shone brightly, but the air was cold and biting. Snow fell more frequently than rain, and the rocky coastline was wild and unforgiving. While some animals roamed comfortably in their thick coats, evading the grips of the deadly creatures that roamed in the forest, mountains and caves, the crops were far more sensitive. In the depths of winter, villages often suffered, turning to mages and their otherworldly powers to stave off economic collapse—and paying a steep price for it.

A gentle woof at the door stole Hermione's attention. She smiled softly, placing her knife down and laughing when her old friend appeared, beaming up at her. Pascal, her adopted wild wolf, usually rushed into the warm the moment the door opened, but he had something to show her today. Placed delicately in front of his wet white paws, was a juvenile rabbit. Pascal had a habit of leaving them half alive, which would often result in them jumping up and fleeing just as Hermione bent down to move them outside. In the wild, wolves often tested their pups with injured animals to teach them hunting skills — perhaps Pascal felt she needed the help. He did have an air of seniority about him, and could often be found standing guard, paws up at her window ledge, or outside by her side as she tended her garden. He was small for a wolf, but regardless of his size, very protective. This small rabbit was, thankfully, dead.

'What would I do without you?' Hermione laughed, scooping him up on the floor and kissing his wet, furry cheeks.

He snarled back innocently with annoyance, planting his own slippery wet kiss on her chin with a tremendous lick. Free from her grasp, he strolled to the dead rabbit, picked it up with his teeth, and brought it further inside.

Chuckling at her friend, she closed the door behind him and got back to cooking her underwhelming winter stew.

⚜

The two tucked into their small supper – hers a watery potato, leek and onion concoction and Pascal with his raw rabbit. She winced as the small bones of the mammal crunched in her wolf's jaws. Typically, Pascal would be made to sit outside as he gnawed on animal carcasses, but with the bitter and stormy weather, she didn't have the heart to keep him in the cold. He was a good wolf and the only company she had. Fortunately, Pascal was many things, but he wasn't a messy eater. Just as well, cleaning up mouse, ferret or rabbit guts from her floor would have forced her to draw the line.

Once fed, clean, and dry the two settled on the old armchair by the fire with one of her fiction books. One hand turned the pages whilst the other stroked the wolf's pelt routinely. As Hermione ran her fingers through his thick coat, she noticed he felt thinner than usual. Guilt hit her like a wave – he was content, but they were struggling, and he must have felt it in his heart. In better years, she would feed him leftover scraps of meat from pies and stews, cow or goat milk and sometimes fish if they had some luck. But with very few coins to her purse, her diet was mostly vegetables, which was the one thing Pascal did turn his nose up at; and she couldn't blame him. He always tried to look after himself (he was originally a wild wolf after all) but she liked him plump. She would have roamed the forests herself if they were not so dangerous. Tales of apep snakes, chimeras and giant wepwawets were not to be taken lightly.

Trying to brush away the feelings of guilt, Hermione closed her book and pushed his furry head gently off her lap so she could ready herself for bed. She brushed her hair, cleaned her mouth and teeth and closed the curtains. Out of sight, Hermione quickly flicked a finger at the fire to extinguish the coals. She tried to keep her magic use to a minimum, never knowing who was watching. But in the confines of her house, she allowed for some freedoms. Lighting the fire, boiling water, and drying herself off after a storm.

She struggled to sleep that night, tossing and turning so much that Pascal left his usual spot by her side and retreated to the end of the bed to show his displeasure. She awoke with a start, shooting up in bed as the morning sun beamed in through the cracks in the curtain. And she realised how much her stomach was rumbling and her muscles ached. Times were getting tough. She could feel her body weakening, and as she looked over to Pascal whose expression was, as ever, naively excitable, she thought to herself, a small spell couldn't hurt, could it? Just for the winter flowers that should have bloomed. Perhaps the beetroot and celeriac too – they were hidden in the ground; her neighbours would never know. The bare apple tree would have to stay empty of course. Finally, she decided to remain cautious, at least for now. And to instead bring what she could spare to the market, see how badly others were affected and, importantly, what crops they'd been able to successfully grow. She had to tread carefully, but if sellers had beetroots, mushrooms, and other fresh vegetables, she could focus on giving those crops in her own garden magical attention and the folk would be none the wiser. 

⚜

Hermione quickly readied herself. Throwing on her clothes from the previous evening and tying her messy curls into a bun. Pascal zoomed outside and off on his adventures for the day as she got to work. Pulling up a good amount of reasonably healthy vegetables that the frost hadn't destroyed, she loaded her basket up with as many as she could carry. Heading out the door, she noticed her reflection in a mirror she strategically kept by the door for moments such as these and laughed.

'Well, that won't do at all, will it…' she muttered to no one in particular before quickly washing her hands and dressing into something not covered in layers of dirt and grime.

With one last check, scooping a few stray strands of hair behind her ears, she went on her merry way. 

The walk into the centre of Lasenwood was only ten minutes on foot – but with the cold air targeting any bare skin on show, of which there was much due to the poor state of her clothes, it felt longer.

You'd be forgiven for mistaking the town to be empty at first glance, but if you really looked, smoke could be seen rising out of chimneys all around. People were hesitant to spend any more time than they had to outside in the cold mornings. Only the brave ventured to restock the kitchens or travel into the city.  

Hermione had lived in Lasenwood all of her life and watched it change with time. Echoes of the Great War were always present. With few crowns to spare for the average villager here, many instead focused their efforts on selling wears to the city of Veliere that bordered her village of Lasenwood. Being the heart of Relinia, Veliere housed the royal family, senate, Velas guards, and most of the mages. In the capital, their farmers became blacksmiths, butchers turned their trade in to mine the caves and mothers focused on their needlework and embroidery for the wealthy. This pattern of job changes bled through the region. It was a changed land, but for better or worse depending which side of the coin you fell, they had little choice in their circumstances. Those in power were using Relinia's climate as means for control, and it was working.

As Hermione approached the market, she set herself up in her usual spot and laid her vegetables out on the table with as much visual flair as one could muster with limp carrots and frostbitten potatoes. Hermione noted several regular stall owners around the marketplace circle. The few hunters left in town sold rabbits hung together by their feet from a horizontal piece of twine. Pigeons were laid out by the half dozen, their feathers shining an evanescent blue in the morning sun. One gentleman she knew even had some lean cuts of boar — a rarity indeed. Remembering her mission, Hermione glanced at another vegetable stall directly to the right of him. Much like hers, it was mostly root vegetables (though this seller did have beetroot and mushrooms – two things that had died off in her own garden).

The rest of the market was close to deserted. Many of the tradespeople had already ventured to the city to sell, and she couldn't blame them, not only for the richer customers but for the warmth as well. Veliere was only a three hour horse ride ahead, yet as one approached, the snowfall softened, thinning into a mere dusting around the city's edges. It would be easy to attribute this to the mountain nestled at Veliere's heart, casting a modest shield against the harsher elements. But Hermione suspected something else, a touch of magecraft, just delicate enough to lend the city its peculiar warmth amidst the surrounding chill. As she began to get lost in her thoughts of conspiracy, she was brought back to reality by a most uncommon sight.

A royal box patterned with gold fringe and fine walnut wood, made its way through the town ceremoniously. The carriage halted before the inn, and a stout guard swung open its door, allowing a well-dressed man to step out with a languid air. Tall and slight, he was clad in a sage-green silk doublet that caught the faint light, the fine cloth announcing him as one set apart from the common crowd. His clean-shaven face was held high, glancing with faint distaste at the peasants milling about as he made his way indoors.

A mage, Hermione thought, marking his disdainful gaze and polished manner.

Specifically he was a healer - obvious from the indigo band on his arm. The shade of bands set them for the public. Goldenrod yellow signified weather mages, maroon were military attachés and quartermasters and pewter grey bands were worn by the general trading type. Mages were not only categories based on their speciality, but their genders. Males were commonly referred to as Meugie, while women were called Meugia. Curiously, the female Meugia were rarely seen in public. Hermione had only seen a handful in her life, and only in Veliere. She wondered if they were more abundant than people assumed due to them being harder to spot than their male counterparts. The only true giveaway of a Meugia was the sage coloured silk ribbon they wore around their neck.

Heads around the market square turned to watch the Meugie with thin eyes.

'Bastards think they still own the place, don't they? Reckon they forget who won the war,' the hunter to Hermione's left scoffed, watching spitefully as the mage made his way inside. 'Been a hard month, aint it,' the hunter continued, looking over Hermione's sorrowful display of vegetables.

'You can say that again,' she chortled. 'I'm not fussy though. Could eat potatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner,' Hermione added, trying to lighten the mood. 

'You'll wear away, girl. Need something proper in ya,' he said gruffly, signalling towards the table of meats in front of him. 

'If I sell all these, I might take you up on that,' Hermione chuffed. Taking home some cuts for Pascal and herself would have been a treat, if she could manage it. 

'I'd put money on the innkeeper getting some kind o' nasty from one of the city wenches. Twice now I've seen that same Meugie go in for healin,' the hunter snarled, spitting on the floor as he finished. 

'He's married, isn't he?' Hermione asked, looking around for potential customers as they spoke. There were so few people by the market, it was going to be another cruel day on her purse. 

'Dun't stop um’. Can't say I haven't been tempted when I go down t' the city. Got some right beauties now.' As he smirked to himself, he looked her up and down.

The only good thing about the cold weather was the excuse to wrap her body with fur and extra layers. The men in Lasenwood. were simple creatures. If they saw an inch of milky skin on a lady, it was a feast for the eyes. Hermione always had a disdain for being looked at with lustful eyes, not to say she hadn't dabbled with men, she had. But she liked the option of approaching and enticing them with conversation or humour.

To most men in the villages, she was a walking, talking, pair of tits. 

Despite her modesty, he continued to look. 'You ever get sick of selling those tired veggies, you could earn some gold with that figure of yus and tha' posh voice. Sure you could. Even here…  never know,' he added, finally diverting his eyes and cutting more slices of meat.

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to reply with something she would surely regret, a customer approached him. Thanking the gods, Hermione slowly moved herself to the right of her stall, scanning the town once more for customers. 

Chapter Text

The day was slow; only a handful of villagers approached her stall and just two had enough coin to purchase anything. The lady opposite with the beetroot and mushrooms brought a few over to the hunter, swapping them for one slice of meat. As the woman left, she shot Hermione a distasteful glance. She usually sold flowers. Like Hermione, she was clearly also struggling. 

'Alright Helga,' Hermione mumbled as she passed. Pausing at her stall, Helga floated her eyes over Hermione's vegetables, a smile curling at the corner of her mouth as she realised she had more luck in her garden. 

'Not bad Herm', not bad. Shame about the crop. Haven't  seen you bring your flowers down for a while. Struggling, are we?'

Helga knew the answer, she was purposefully bitter and strangely competitive. Her husband was a blacksmith, earning a good wage. So really, she didn't have to work at all. But she liked to keep busy. Her daughters were all grown and her husband often awayed to the city to work. Hermione understood why she sold in the market, she just couldn't work out why she was so hateful about it. The mantra of women sticking together didn't exist here –  it was a battlefield of soggy cabbages and thinly calved meats. 

'Sold a few bits today, just quiet,' Hermione said gently. Not wanting to give her the satisfaction of agreeing.  

'I said the lass should go down the city more. See what else she could offer. She talks like um' she may as well live with them!' the hunter shouted so loudly another man to his left burst into a cackle. Helga smiled and faked a laugh. 

'I dunno – standards are pretty high in the city. They like them young and clean. It dun' matter if she can speak like a royal, she don't look like one. Do ya, Herm,' Helga said quickly. Another dig, she was on fire today. 

'Said she should start here, ease her way into it,' he added.

This was getting too much – cheeks burning, Hermione began to clench her fists with embarrassment and  anger. She had to calm down. An outburst of magic would have been disastrous. Taking a deep breath, Hermione held a grimace and leaned toward Helga. 

'Someone has to stay and keep you humble.'

The men immediately began to chuckle – Helga's expression turned from cocky to sour.

'I'll leave you to your onions. Shame about the lack of flowers – they were the only reason people came to you,' Helga said with thin lips. Turning on her feet quickly she headed back to her own stall. 

'Will have jasmine and primrose soon!' Hermione shouted after her, 'they're almost ready to bloom. Then I'm sure it'll all be back to normal.'

So, she said a little white lie… winter flowers were common. They would usually be ready and waiting at her stall this time of year. One little spell, that was all they needed. As much as she hated to admit it, Helga was right. People only came to her for her floral contributions – no one else could get flowers to bloom the way hers did, and people were happy to pay. Even among the village, there was a need for flowers. Funerals, weddings, gifts. It was usually a good business. Superstition also played its part. Whispers and bed-time stories of dark mages, grisly wolfish creatures and beastly half-breeds fuelled demand for protection charms and herb bundles to keep the evil at bay. Hermione could help with the latter. Specialised in it. Simply selling the herbs linked with banishing ghoulish fears kept her neatly away from conspiracies that she herself was magic. Everyone knew what plants to buy, Hermione never had to label the jasmine or cranweed as expellers.

There was a light irony to her work. Despite her magical blood, she didn't believe in the properties of the plants she sold but was happy to profit off them all the same.

A slap of something hitting the market table shook Hermione from her thoughts. The butcher from the far end of the market stood next to her with a few slices of boar steak.

'Ellis…  what?' Hermione said quickly.

'Gimmie a few of those onions and leeks and the meat is yours.'

He flashed his yellowing teeth at her. Ellis was one of the good ones. In her youth he owned a Butchers, but times were so hard. Now he worked in the mines, only coming to the market once a week to earn some extra cash. He always looked after Hermione's mother when she was a child, giving them off-cuts at a discount and free bones to make their stocks richer.

'Also…' Ellis leaned closer so no one could eavesdrop,  'well done for standing up to that nasty wench. Nothin' but poison spews from her mouth nowadays.' He laughed, patting her on the shoulder.

'Thank you, Ellis. You're… too kind,' Hermione replied gratefully, wrapping the meat up in one of the brown cloths that lined her basket. He winked at her in reply and went back to his stall. Men like him gave her hope that some kindness did bleed into the land. 

The day went on with little luck. As the snow began to fall again, the tall Meugie from earlier exited the inn quietly, making his way inside the golden carriage-box to be escorted to the city. Hermione found herself scorning him too. She wasn't by nature a hateful person, but she wasn't fond of mages. Her mother had told her enough stories to make her despise them. Her own recent encounter with a Meugie in the city was the golden thread in the weaving. They made her feel ashamed of her abilities. 

The day ended with a measly sale. But with the boar meat in her basket and a few coins, it wasn't a wasted trip. Hermione said her goodbyes and traipsed home, trying to ignore the sour taste left from the Meugie. She passed The Cutter, her local tavern. It was lit up with the promise of a roaring fire, sweet honey mead, and music. For a moment, Hermione was tempted, but pennies were too tight to allow for that luxury. Besides, it was getting dark, and she would need to tend to the garden late to avoid spectators.

Passing it by, she laughed to herself seeing an old flag of Relinia displayed across the door, its four stars swaying in the wind, mocking her. The fabric was tattered and faded, the vibrant colours long since dulled by time and exposure to the elements. The deep blue background, once reminiscent of a clear summer sky, now appeared almost grey, while the four stars, each representing one of the cardinal virtues of the realm—were stitched in a dull gold thread that shimmered faintly when caught by the light. The stars, arranged in a symmetrical pattern, seemed to whisper the stories of prosperity and unity that had once defined the region. A frayed edge fluttered in the cold wind, and Hermione's eyes narrowed as she regarded the emblem. Great Relinia indeed. Stories of the once prosperous region were hidden thick in bedtime tales and old history books, but all she could see now was a relic of a past that felt increasingly unattainable. A time when mages and people lived in harmony. Buried in the past, all of it. 

Pascal was waiting by the door when Hermione returned home, one ear perked high and alert while the other flopped—a peculiar droop Hermione suspected came from an injury he’d suffered as a pup, long before she took him in. Letting him inside, she quickly closed the curtains and readied the fire with a flick of her wrist. Wild boar stew with the leftover vegetables. What a treat. Pascal watched hungrily as she pulled out a portion of meat from the basket, licking his lips in anticipation. He sat by her feet, occasionally walking between her legs, first one way and then the other, and rubbing his side against her affectionately. Hermione smirked, happy that she could provide for him.

'You silly bugger,' she laughed, stirring the stew and adding a bay leaf for extra flavour.

Dinner was a revelation; Hermione hadn't realised how much she missed a true, hearty meal until the first bite, and then she couldn't stop. In hard times, the smallest luxuries became treasures. A day without snow, what bliss. Cow's milk instead of goat's, a rare indulgence. And red meat, simmered into a rich stew, she could hardly believe her luck.

Around midnight, Hermione crept outside silently to give some life to her bed of flowers. Slowly, her eyes followed the shacks and cottages around her, making sure no light or smoke escaped them. The small homes built with worn brick were quiet and asleep. No light emitting from any windows. Content, she got to work. Hermione lightly stroked the dead petals, willing them to live again. It took time, her powers were always rusty when the land was bare, but slowly, colour returned. Hermione repeated the process for a while. Gathering just enough arrangements for the next day. A squeal escaped her lips as a soft head rubbed against her knee, but it soon turned to laughter when she realised who it was. She pushed Pascal away and continued gathering her stock. Within an hour, her basket was full to the brim with healthy winter flowers. Beaming at her fine work, she readied for bed. 

After Hermione brushed the knots out of her curls, she ran her hands across her body. It was thinner than usual. Like Pascal. Tying her hair away, she observed herself for a moment more. Her skin was so pale it mirrored the snow that had settled outside. Pinching her cheeks she attempted to bring life back into them. Slowly they appeared rosier. Was that pretty? To be pale and slim? Hermione had a petite build but was certainly curvaceous – often opting to hide her bust and backside away with winter layers. It was odd to see herself bare. Her skin was peppered with bruises — a combination of garden work and inherent clumsiness. She dabbed her body with a damp flannel, warmed slightly with a touch of magic. The most sought-after ladies were often long legged with supple shoulders and flat chests – not quite Hermione's build. Her legs were short and muscular, her breasts too large for her body. Her shoulders were firm and her cheeks pillowed with puppy fat. Shrugging herself out of her insecurities, she remembered her mother's words.

We've all got skin, fat, and bones. It's what hides deeper that matters.

Her mother was no poet, but she had a point.

Clean and ready, Hermione headed to bed. Pascal in arm and belly full, she fell asleep content for the first time in a while.

Chapter Text

   The next day unfolded like a vivid dream. Healthy flowers in hand, pleasantly mild weather, and the bustling energy of a busy market meant for a roaring success, culminating in a full coin purse. What made it all the more delicious was the look on Helga's face, her simmering jealousy palpable as she noticed the long line of customers snaking around Hermione's market stand.

Revenge was a dish best served with peonies.

Feeling buoyed by the day's triumph, Hermione decided to treat herself to an evening at The Cutter, eager to indulge in the soothing sounds of her favourite bard. The tavern buzzed with life, spirits surprisingly high in the inn. The townsmen had returned that afternoon from a fortnight in the mines—their hands caked with coal— they quickly settled into a rhythm of celebrating their homecoming with hearty ale and sweet mead. The air was thick with laughter, men played tabula with cards stained black from unwashed fingers, and the din of off-key singing mingled with the bard's melodies, creating a tapestry of sound that wrapped around Hermione like a warm embrace.

The crowd was a comforting mix of familiar faces, miners, farmers, and a few friends from her childhood; each one a welcome sight. However, in the far-right corner, members of the senate could be seen, flanked by two Velas, their presence a stark contrast to the merriment surrounding them. Senate members stuck out like a sore thumb, bald, heavy eyeliner and gilded in fine silks. The Velas blended in. Royal guards in their brown and maroon leather armour, looked like clones in uniform. Their cloaks secured with silver snow bear pins and expressions fixed with a perpetual sneer. Thankfully, they preferred to lurk in the shadows, alone. People rarely complained about their presence; they were known for their ruthlessness, and that reputation was enough to ensure that everyone adhered to the unspoken mantra: Keep to the law, and you'll be grand. Not that anyone would dare break one of the emperor's laws. There was surprisingly little crime. So when someone did attempt to break one of their laws - those written in words or even the unspoken ones, the punishment was extreme. 

The guards' ominous presence did little to dampen Hermione's good mood. She continued to drink merrily, humming along to the bard's tunes. She'd found her cousin Daisy with a few of the miners and they laughed together until hours had passed. Sadly, Helga had also made herself known, and was an ever-present downer. For every optimistic comment made at the table, she quickly interjected with a negative twist. When Daisy remarked on the bustling market, suggesting that things were perhaps looking up, Helga countered that it was merely a consequence of the city folk returning—a one-off event, surely. Osric, a miner, offered a compliment about the beauty of one of the barmaids as she dropped off another round of drinks. In response, Helga whispered sordid tales of her infidelities with the innkeeper, her voice dripping with spite.

As conversation ebbed and flowed, Hermione's gaze began to drift around the room, observing the audience of patrons enjoying the music. Her attention inevitably returned to the Velas and senate members, and she was surprised to see that even their hardened expressions had softened as the evening wore on, smiles creeping across their faces, empty glasses scattered around them—except for one. In the corner nearest to Hermione sat a man who stood apart from the others.

Though he wore the same uniform as the Velas to his left, he bore it differently. His maroon leather armour was worn and scuffed, lacking the polished sheen expected of royal standards. Where others carried short swords, he wielded a long blade sheathed in a tired scabbard currently resting against the table beside him, and a dagger tucked at his side. His armour hung loosely around the top of his chest, revealing a rust-coloured linen shirt beneath. He left a few buttons undone, just enough to reveal a sprinkling of dark chest hair. His hair was grey/blond, like three-day old ice, and falling just above his shoulders, framed a face that was somehow both messy and well-kempt—the stubble dusting his cheeks contrasting with the neatness of his hair. His brows were thick, one adorned with a paper-cut-sized scar that added rugged charm. His broad nose and even broader shoulders spoke of strength, yet his age was ambiguous; he looked to be her age, yet his eyes, thin and penetrating, held a depth of wisdom, as if they had weathered more than a few storms. He scanned the room with a tight-lipped intensity, brows furrowed, as though he were seeking—or perhaps hoping for—trouble to arise.

'Well Herm, had a good day, didn't you girl,' Osric suddenly piped up, breaking her out of her spell. Lurching herself back to reality, Hermione quickly nodded, taking another sip of mead. 

'Such lovely flowers all of a sudden. How nice for you'.  Helga said dryly, downing the rest of her drink and bashing the empty glass on the table. Helga had become more unbearable after each round.

'Lover'! She shouted at her husband on the table beside theirs. 'Get me another brew, will ya.' He looked fed up with her already.

'I only jus' got ya one woman. You can wait until I've finished mine,' he sighed, rolling his eyes at his friends around him. That only riled Helga. With a wobble, she stood and strolled confidently over to the table, hanging an arm around his shoulders loosely.

‘Gooo'on love. Just one more – then we can get an early night, ey.’ 

Quickly, he shook her arm off, tutting one more. 'Did ya not listen to what I just said. You're acting like a drunk wench. Just sit n' listen to the music like the rest of us for five bleedin' minutes.' He wasn't happy, that was clear.

Helga scoffed and started making her way back to their table, laughing as she did. 'Alright, well – Hermione can buy the next round, how 'bout that. With all those miracle flowers she sold earlier, she's the big earner out of all of us today, aint that right, Herm?'

Helga sat beside her and messily moved a curl from Hermione's forehead, tucking it behind her ear. 

'I think you've had enough for a bit, hey,' Hermione said as gently as she could – suddenly very aware that the men just around the corner, had eyes on them. Helga followed her eyeline and cackled away, swinging off the bench. 

‘You're not worried about these boys knowing bout your flowers, are ya my love,’ Helga went on, swaying towards them now, ‘it was the funniest thing lads. Yesterday, every sod's garden is as bare as a whore's ass come midnight – then this one strolls up t' market today with a  basket full of these bloody huge blooms.’

Helga sat with the men, but was speaking loudly enough for half the room to hear. Hermione's cheeks immediately went the same shade of maroon as their armour. This was getting dangerous now and she did not like the way the blond gentleman on the right was looking from her to Helga.

'Our pet's always been a great little farmer, don't get me wrong. Just weird is all. But what do I know… I just sells potatoes mos' days,' she shrugged, catching eyes with the notable gentleman, 'now you're a handsome Velas ain't ya?' Helga laughed smarmily, moving closer to him and leaning into the middle of the table.

A crooked smile growing, she grabbed his goblet and took a swig.

In a second, her husband leapt from his seat and caught her wrist before she could take another gulp. He began to apologise to the man profusely, who kept his expression stoic. Despite this, he nodded, accepting the apology.

'Get here you,' the husband snarled, pulling Helga up forcefully and dragging her out of the tavern.

The music that had stopped amidst the chaos, soon started again, drowning out the sounds of their arguing down the road. Hermione's table laughed and soon got back to their regular chit chat. But all the colour had drained from Hermione's face. The gentleman's grey eyes were fixed on her. God damn Helga, she was going to be the death of her. It was just a drunk woman's ramblings, surely, he knew that? They had better things to do than investigate a few flowers growing, didn't they? Try as she might, Hermione couldn't shake her anxiety. She wanted to leave. Fast. Faking a yawn, Hermione said her goodbyes and left The Cutter, purposely not looking in the direction of the Velas in the corner.

The chill was back again. Wrapping up, she walked home with a quick pace, checking behind her every few minutes to see if she was being followed. Once satisfied that the street was deserted, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Chapter Text

It didn't take long for Hermione to get to her cottage. She quickly greeted Pascal, who ran towards the house at the sound of keys entering the door. She locked up, closed the windows and lit a fire the old-fashioned way – better safe than sorry.

An hour later, with a stomach pleasantly full of bread and leftover meat, Hermione settled enough to cast a small spell over the fire, extinguishing the last embers. With Pascal trailing closely, she moved to the bedroom. Filling the empty wooden basin at her dressing table with water conjured from her fingers, she warmed it with another spell. Reaching for a fresh flannel from the pile nearby, she dipped it into the hot water and wrung it out until it was damp but not dripping. Glancing into the mirror, Hermione sighed, noting the wear of time on her face. She didn't feel young anymore, and certainly didn't look it.

In her mid-twenties, Hermione was considered past her prime, society married women off earlier with each passing year, so much so that many of her friends her age were already grandmothers. She still looked youthful enough, the curls framing her face lending her an air of vitality, but fine lines had begun etching themselves into her brow, a quiet reminder of time's steady march. Perhaps she ought to be less choosy; every suitor she had entertained was pleasant enough, though none stirred any great passion. Hermione was, in her heart, an unrepentant romantic. The books she devoured late into the night promised love that burned bright, fierce, and unyielding. That was all she wanted—a love that ignited her soul, an affair relentless and consuming. Yet all she found were matches of convenience, hollow arrangements that left her longing for something more.

Wiping her cheeks with the warm washcloth, Hermione tried to ignore the fine lines and focus on the future. Today was a success. Yes, things had come a little too close for comfort with the tavern guests, but generally good. A few more light spells to her flowers and Pascal and her would get through another harsh winter, she was sure of it.

As Hermione dipped the cloth back into the bowl for a second time, her wolf began to growl, turning his head towards the front door. Following his eyeline, she noticed shadows appearing at the window. It wasn't common to have guests so late, not in Lasenwood.  Besides, Hermione was a recluse – even day-time guests were unusual. No, this was something else. Panic began to set in and her blood turned cold. Jumping up as quietly as she could, Hermione began to check her small house for any signs of magic. She had been careful today, nothing extreme, just light cooking. Just as she was rifling through her draws to find the few magical pendants she owned, a loud knock rang through the house in such stark contrast to the silence, it was like glass shattering.

Pascal ran over to the door to greet their guests, barking as he went. Hermione toyed with her options. With candles on, whoever was outside would know she was home. But she could have been asleep? Perhaps it would be wiser to simply not answer? No... they would return in the day. At least this time of night there were no nosey neighbours to spectate from the gaps in their curtains. The smart thing to do would be to answer.  Realising she was dressed in her nightgown; Hermione quickly reached for a cardigan and pulled it on. 

Taking a deep breath, she opened her door and peeked outside. Her stomach dropped as her fears were realised. It was the same gentleman from the inn, and his matching Velas friend. They seemed quite sober, considering they had been drinking for hours, and she couldn't help but to glance at the longsword now firmly affixed to his back, its ornate handle protruding over his shoulder.

Nodding to them, Hermione opened the door wide but positioned herself in the frame, using her leg to hold Pascal back. 'Can… can I help you, gentleman?' she asked, hoping they didn't pick up on the slight tremor in her voice.

The gentleman stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and shot her an unexpected half-smile that she found oddly disarming.

Up close, he was more handsome than she had initially realised. His features were sharp but not unkind, with high cheekbones that framed a square, stubbled jaw, giving him a rugged appeal that contrasted with the typical polished veneer of the Velas. His hair caught the light in a way that accentuated its healthy sheen. His eyes, though initially thought to be thin and aggressive, were actually relaxed and gentle with a stormy grey colour that held a flicker of mischief, drawing her in despite the circumstances.

Under the maroon leather armour he wore, his body was built and toned, a testament to rigorous training and discipline—unlike many of the other Velas who often passed through town, their bodies round and unwieldy from overindulgence. Above all, he exuded a quiet strength, the kind that made her acutely aware of her own small frame as she took him in. She moved up and down his form with thinly-veiled curiosity, and then she noticed he was holding something: a basket. Her basket.

'Apologies for the disturbance,' he said, his voice smooth and velvety, 'we were heading out when we noticed you left this behind. I believe it is yours? Your friends told us where to find you.'

He smiled casually, his demeanour surprisingly relaxed for a man of his station. This was not how Hermione anticipated him to behave; the ease with which he spoke left her momentarily disarmed, and she found herself searching for words amidst the swirl of confusion and intrigue.

‘Oh, goodness. How silly of me. Thank you boys.’ Hermione laughed, trying to hide her relief.

He handed the flower basket over and she nodded again in thanks, leaning back to place it on the table. A gap open, Pascal took his opportunity to wiggle through her legs to greet the visitors.

'Pas-sorry. He's friendly I promise!' Hermione shouted, trying to get hold of her wolf as he jumped at the gentleman. To her surprise, the Velas reacted calmly to the wolf, stroking Pascal's head roughly and patting his side.

'We had wild wolves as companions in the war. Nothing I'm not used to. She is quite small for a wolf, isn't she?' he laughed.

'He was the runt of the litter,' Hermione said, correcting him politely.

'Where did you find him?' he asked, roughly stroking Pascal just the way he liked. 

'Found him a few years ago on my return from the city - he was all alone, abandoned by his mother. Couldn't just leave him, could I?' Hermione chuckled, getting a hold of Pascal finally and dragging him back inside.

'Does anyone else live with you and...'

'Pascal,' Hermione added. 'No. Just us.'

'Ah, I see,’ he nodded, rubbing his hands together. 'You wouldn't mind if we quickly took a look around your cottage, would you? Routine check - nothing to worry about,' he said quickly, shooting her a charming smile. Hermione's brows furrowed. She had been naïve to think it would have been that simple. She couldn't refuse, that would just raise suspicion. And they'd enter regardless. Breathing in deeply, she forced a smile and opened her door widely for the two Velas to come inside.

'This is our tenth today,' he added as he walked inside with his companion. 'Reed, do a quick scan.'

The other man nodded quickly and started to look around. Hermione was thankful he had passed the job off to his friend. He seemed less attentive. The gentleman stayed in the kitchen with Hermione, but he seemed less interested in where she lived and far, far more interested in her. Every second he stared at her felt like a lifetime. Pascal walked up again, giving his hand a light lick. He rubbed his fluffy head once more in return, smiling, but still not looking away.

'He seems to like you,' Hermione said, desperate to break the silence.

'Likely smells the beef we ate in the tavern,' he grinned in response, before finally pulling his attention from her. He began to walk around the room methodically, running a single finger along the wooden table where she prepared her food, and then to the hearth.

'Did you have a nice supper?' he asked.

His voice had such a unique tone to it, husky and rich, and he was surprisingly well-spoken. Many of the high guards or  Velas as they were commonly known, were usually born  in villages or hamlets in Relinia. Therefore, despite their official position, they often had common dialects. It was only the royals, senate members, or mages who went through the likes of elocution and and other voice coaching programmes to speak more eloquently. There were exceptions: a few avid readers like herself, or those that studied a little at the college in Quedoux, but it was rare. Very rare. 

'Just some stew and bread, nothing exciting,' Hermione said carefully in reply, watching him as he continued to pace around her room.

‘Recently?’

'Excuse me?' Hermione asked quickly, confused.

'Did you eat very recently?' he asked again, turning to face her. His expression was more serious, but his eyes remained relaxed. 

‘About an hour ago, I suppose.’

He nodded and continued to pace. Reaching the dining table, the Velas opened a few creaking draws that framed it. Satisfied there was nothing of interest, he continued towards her overbearing bookshelves, of which she was fiercely protective. He examined the titles by tracing a finger along their spines.

 'You have a decent collection,' he said, smiling.

'Thank you,' she returned in light of the compliment, though really she just wanted him to stop touching them.

With a casual air, he picked up a sprig of lavender, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply before setting it back with a gentle hand. Just then, the other man, Reed, re-entered the kitchen.

'All clear, sir,' he announced, his voice loud enough to echo. Pascal, however, was not as welcoming. His growl was low and menacing as his sharp gaze fixed on Reed.

'Pascal!' Hermione called, rushing to her wolf and wrapping her arms around him, trying to soothe him, though her embrace seemed only to stir his agitation further. His growl deepened; teeth bared as he strained against her hold.

'I'm terribly sorry,' Hermione offered with a strained smile. 'He's usually calm, but we rarely have visitors.'

'No need for apologies; we're in your home,' the man replied smoothly. 'Reed, wait outside. I'll handle the rest here.'

Reed didn't hesitate, nodding briskly and making his exit, clearly relieved to be away from the wolf's bared fangs.

Once the door was closed, she felt safe to release him - quickly berating him for misbehaving. Unbothered, Pascal walked towards the window and jumped to his hindlegs to look outside, ensuring his new nemesis was well clear of the property.

'Quite a protective pet you have there,' the gentleman chuckled.

'He's not usually aggressive. I'm not sure what got into him, sorry,' Hermione muttered.

'Reed isn't a dog person anyway - they can sense these things,' he continued, as he wandered from the kitchen towards her bedroom now. 'You don't mind if I take a quick look, do you?'

Hermione smiled calmly in reply but her heart beat faster in her chest, her throat now tight. This was the room she hoped he would not enter. There was nothing overtly magical in there, but she was certain the pendants she couldn't find in the kitchen earlier were tucked away in the sock draw or her dressing table. To the average person they'd just look like regular stones. But anyone with training would know their purpose, and at this point Hermione felt certain the man before her would fall into the latter camp. Amulets such as these were common, but all legal stones sold and produced by mages held a royal seal. The snow bear. Hers, being homemade, carried no such mark.

She followed the Velas inside and watched on as he inspected her most private space, unable to object. He started by lifting her furs from the bed, then opening the bedside draw. No stones. Phew. He approached the dressing table, eyeing the bowl of water resting there with a raised brow. He dipped his fingers into the water, feeling its warmth, then shook them dry. He glanced back at her then leaned closer to the bed, catching sight of something peeking from beneath the furs. He tugged it free, holding up a single, holey sock with an arched brow and a small chuckle. Hermione's cheeks flushed deeper as he dangled the forlorn thing in the air.

'A sock like this must have seen countless winters. Should I be impressed or concerned?' he murmured with a mocking smile, letting the sock fall back to the bed before moving on to his next search. Hermione could only watch, her face a careful mask. Finally, he turned his head to regard Hermione and smirked.

'Everything seems to be in order.'

Hermione beamed back; her heart pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it, and followed him out of her bedroom. Just as they reached the threshold, he halted abruptly, prompting her to collide with the hard of his back. He turned, placing a hand on the wooden door frame just above her head, leaning in with an air of intent. Hermione's instinct was to retreat, yet with his hand resting over her head and his look sharp, she found herself pressed against the frame, wholly cornered. Her breath hitched, caught in an urge to escape.

'Just one thing. You mentioned you ate an hour ago,' he said with little more than a whisper as he stared into her eyes. She nodded in reply, terror evident in her face.

'Curious,' he murmured, tilting his head towards the fireplace. 'I only mention it because the coals— he gestured lightly, '—they're cold. Ice cold. Odd, wouldn't you say?'

His sights held steady on her, as if probing beneath the surface, peeling back the layers of her defences. Hermione felt warmth bloom in her cheeks, her nerves tightening into a tangle. Surely it was worry that made her pulse flutter so—though her view drifted unbidden to the curve of his neck, where the scent of his cologne, dark and spiced with a touch of sweetness, seemed to hold her senses captive.

'So, tell me this...  Hermione… was it?' he asked, still calm. With his free hand, he grasped her chin gently; for a second, she wondered if he intended to kiss her, but he turned her head to look directly at the dressing table to the right of them.

'The water is warm, Hermione. Do you not think that curious?' His tone was sharp now. Turning her head back to face him, she almost gasped at the change of expression on his face. His brows were furrowed, his kind eyes darker, deeper. His lips curled into a thin smile as she opened her mouth to reply, but lost for words, closed them again.

'Are you going to admit what we're both thinking to make my job easier,' he sighed, his grasp on her cheeks and chin becoming firmer. She stayed silent - the logical response to the reality of being caught red handed had not hit her yet. She was still in a state of blind panic. She tried to wiggle out of his strong grasp, but in response he held tighter. Instinctively, a whimper escaped Hermione's mouth as her eyes began to water.

'It was just from the pot... the water. I poured it all out. Honest,' Hermione muttered quickly. Trying to save herself.

'I think we're past excuses. Don't you?' he chuckled and it was clear to her that he was enjoying himself. How could she be so stupid to trust a Velas? She had been taught better. Try as she might to hold in her tears, they were now wetting her face. Dare she cast a spell? She was magical, but no expert. Light elemental magic was all she'd dared to use. This man had a sword and an attitude — she was no match.

Before she could give it any further thought, the man suddenly released her with a cry of pain. Grabbing her own face to relax her jaw, Hermione turned quickly to see Pascal locked onto his leg, his teeth viciously buried in his shin. Horrified, Hermione watched, frozen to the spot as they struggled. He was able to unclasp the wolf's vicious jaw and pulled out the small, curved dagger from his side. This couldn't be happening. Hermione was numb, but she could feel her emotions running high and as she reached out to help her wolf, a gust of powerful wind launched from her fingertips which grew inexplicably into a small tornado within the house.

With a powerful blast of wind, the Velas flew back to the wall as Pascal was carried forcefully towards the door - which had now flung open. The windows shattered with the shock of the spell. To her left, the man was fighting for balance, trying with all his might to head the wind. Hermione looked over to her only love, Pascal, who was limping now by the open door.

With tears burning her eyes, Hermione shouted to her pet 'GO!'

Pascal looked over to her confused and frightened, but not willing to leave. Looking back to the man, who was almost to his feet now, she realised they didn't have much time.  The entire contents of her cottage were now flying above their heads — her pots and pans, clothes, her precious books.

She shouted again, 'RUN PASCAL, YOU HAVE TO RUN!' but he wasn't listening, instead doing everything he could to make his way back to her.

He didn't understand why she wasn't leaving with him. He couldn't know. Crying harder now, she closed her eyes.

'I'm sorry. Run.'

She flicked the smallest of flames towards the wolf. It caught him on the side and with a small yelp, he turned and ran out of the door and into the dark of the forest, but not without looking back one more time.

Hermione dropped to her knees, drained, completely wrecked from the overdose of magic. Her sobs echoed through the stale air, raw and hysterical, but there was no time for a breakdown here. As the wind died down, the world seemed to pause, and before she could wipe the tears from her face, the man was back on his feet. He yanked her up, hand gripping the back of her cheap, sweat-soaked nightgown like she was nothing. Hermione flailed, punching his chest, her knuckles clashing against the thick armour strapped across his ribs. It was pathetic, pointless.

'What's going to happen to us?' she choked out, still thrashing against him, desperate, tears streaking down her face.

Her voice was laced with dread. But he didn't even flinch.

'You will be coming with me... the palace doesn't allow for wolves I'm afraid,' he said sharply, pinning her back against the closest wall.

Hermione watched as he grinned again. He was evil. Had to be. Just as he was pulling out handcuffs from his pocket, Reed dashed inside. His cheek cut and bleeding; a shard of glass from the broken windows must have caught him in the crossfire.

'Sir!' he shouted. 'So, she is a Meugia,' he laughed.

'Catch that wolf,' the man ordered forcefully. Reed nodded obediently and took off toward the forest. By the gods she didn't believe in, she hoped Pascal had run far enough. Or hid well. Anything to keep him safe.

'What will you do to him?' Hermione cried, still struggling against the weight of the man, who had now successfully retrieved the cuffs and was trying to get them onto her slender wrists.

But she wouldn't give up. Being a Meugia meant a life of control. Her life, as simple as it was, was hers to live. This couldn't be happening. And poor Pascal, what would become of him? She struggled more, kicking up at the man who held her forcefully. 

'It would be... a lot easier... if you just - will you stop struggling,' he shouted, grabbing both of her hands and bringing them over her shoulders. Both breathing heavily, they faced each other, looks of disdain painted on both.

'You know you're coming with us, I don't know why you're fighting' he said, sounding increasingly tired.

'I will never. Stop. Fighting,' Hermione shouted, trying to free herself from his hold once more.

Small sparks began to flicker from Hermione's fingers - she must have been exhausted as she could usually produce full flames. Thankfully, it was enough. Quickly the man released her, reeling from fresh new burns on his right hand. Breaking free, Hermione began to bolt towards the door. Just as she caught the handle, a hand on her ankle tripped her to the floor. The Velas and Hermione struggled on the floor for a minute or two. Fire continued to pepper their altercation from her fingers, but it was too weak to cause any real damage. Slightly singed, the tall man grasped both of her wrists again and placed them over to touch her own head — smart. Though fire didn't harm her fingers, it could still burn the rest of her. A flawed magic. He positioned himself so he was sitting on top of her, his heavy, well-built body no match for her. Hermione had lost. Leaning in close, he spoke again, but the pleasantries had certainly been quashed.

'I don't want to hurt you, but that doesn't mean I won't,' he said stiffly, placing more pressure on her frame.

Crying in defeat, Hermione relaxed her body, trying to ignore that in the struggle her cardigan had come open - leaving her body on display. The only thing between her and the Velas on top of her chest was a thin cotton nightgown.

'Just don't hurt Pascal. I beg you,' Hermione said softly, her lip quivering at the thought of a life without her wolf.

He was all she had. The man's expression didn't change, but he drew closer, closing the cuffs with a click. She watched as his eyes passed over her body. Panic that he may take advantage crossed her mind. They were alone, it was dark, she was... at his mercy. Most men would not think twice. She had to prepare herself for that possibility. But to her surprise, his stare met her eyes quickly, seeming disinterested in the shapely, slim body laid out beneath him. 

'You'll have to learn to live without that wolf of yours,' he tutted. Getting to his feet, he pulled Hermione up effortlessly by her armpits. Spinning her around, he started to lead her outside.

Try as she might to walk, weariness took over. Exhausted by the magic, the emotion, and the reality of what had just happened, the next step was the last.

And then darkness.

Chapter Text

Hermione's eyes were heavy as she roused. She heard the sound of horse hooves clapping on the hard dirt ground as she became more coherent, but she dare not yet open her eyes. She had hoped it had all been a dream. A terrible dream. That Pascal would be there at her side, licking her face messily. But she couldn’t feel him near her or hear him in the distance. Her closed eyes burned with salty tears, and for a time all she could do was sit in darkness and listen.

Hermione was sitting on something soft, and she soon realised that she seemed to be moving... in a closed carriage perhaps? Leaning against the side of the box, she heard the wind howling outside and rain patting against the gilded roof. Inside, however, just silence. Perhaps she was alone. Moving slightly, she became aware that her hands were still in cuffs. And with that established, there was no more hiding from reality. Hermione slowly opened her eyes.

Adjusting to the light, she immediately recognised the roguishly handsome gentleman from earlier, who must have been sitting in the most devout of silences this whole time. Her captor in all his glory. Any warmth she felt towards him for his kindness earlier vanished the moment he pressed her against the wall of her cottage. Hermione was not trusting by nature and cursed herself for letting him into her house to begin with. And then cursed further still for not fighting back harder.  He didn’t have his eyes on her right now. Instead. he was watching the wintery landscape pass by from the open window. His stormy eyes narrowed, And his expression filled not with triumph or satisfaction, but melancholy.

Without moving her head, Hermione began to scan the rest of the box. It was rather intimate. The walls were lined with golden silk and there was a faint smell of sage. A royal box, it had to be. Their knees knocked together as they passed over bumps in the road. The man moved his head slowly and caught Hermione's eyes. As hers grew wide, his relaxed.

'I was wondering when you would wake,' he said calmly, but without compassion. Hermione stayed silent. Still in her nightgown, she felt fragile, exposed. The fabric clung to her, a reminder of how vulnerable she really was. She couldn’t bear to look at him anymore, her anger simmering, threatening to flare up. She was still physically exhausted and knew that if even a flicker of magic sparked from her tired fingers, she’d burn herself out. She relented, turning away and pressing her head against the soft wall of the carriage, feigning interest in the passing scenery.

The hamlet outside the window was not dissimilar from her own village, Lasenwood. A place forgotten by time. The shops, eateries, and other traders all long gone or diminished to the point of embarrassment. Only the tavern survived, clinging to life on the well-worn wooden path of the high street. The horses tethered outside stood thin and worn, much like the people who shuffled nearby. Covered in heavy animal skins, their malnourishment wasn’t obvious at first glance, but Hermione could read the signs. Pale blue lips, thinning hair, these were the red flags. The townsfolk passing by all bore the same look, the same tired expressions. The vegetable patches were barren, the trees stripped bare, and the butcher’s knife left abandoned on the lone market stall told her a story that she already knew too well. Even with the war behind them, Relinia was starving.

As they drove on, Hermione grew more uncomfortable in her static seated position. Her cheeks and chest were stinging with injuries from the previous evening. Her hands were growing numb and her hair was all over her face. Irritated, she sighed heavily and shook her head in an attempt to shuffle the hair out of her eyes. Catching the man smiling at her, she couldn't help but shoot him a venomous look.

'Anger is the first stage of grief,' he tutted, watching her.

'You know nothing of grief,' she spat back, trying to move her hair with her shoulder. 'You could just take these damn things off me. I'm hardly going to set the carriage alight with myself inside it, am I?'

He chuckled, which did nothing to temper her rage, and began to rummage through the flower basket beside him. She could only assume they had collected it for further inspection. When he extracted a ribbon adorned with a small pendant, a wave of panic washed over her. They had uncovered one of her amulets. Her knowledge of such charms was scant, gleaned only from a brief encounter with a wandering Meugie. This particular pendant was a healing talisman, and it was feeble, an accurate reflection of her limited magical prowess. Though it had been used to treat minor cuts and bruises in the past, it had never been tested on anything of greater consequence—nor would she ever want it to be relied upon for such consequences. With deliberate care, he removed the pendant from the ribbon, returning the grey stone to the basket, and leaned closer to Hermione, his intent unreadable.

The scent of his cologne enveloped her once more—sweet and spicy, with hints of leather, oud, and vanilla pods. Shaking herself from this reverie, Hermione focused on the situation.

‘Lean back a little,’ he asked sharply. She remained still. ‘Just do it,’ he barked, his brows knitting together in frustration.

With a sigh, she complied. To her surprise, he began to comb her hair roughly with his long fingers, gathering it behind her head. As he stood close, she felt the chill of his leather armour against her cheek. Once he had secured her hair with the ribbon, he settled back into his seat, appraising her.

‘Quite a few cuts on you.’

Looking at him, she noted that he also showed signs of wear—a slight singe marked the right side of his face, and a few paper-thin slices rested across the bridge of his nose and his right eyebrow (nestled beside the scar that already parted the middle of his brow like a wave). But, all in all, she had to admit that he appeared remarkably unharmed, which irked her.

‘I’m not going to give you the pendant if that’s what you’re after,’ he laughed cruelly. ‘The ladies will clean you up when we get to the palace. They’re only small welts. Just you wait; you’ll be treated like royalty. You don’t know it yet, but you are lucky, Miss Hermione.’

'It's Miss Granger. Hermione's my first name,' she growled, 'and Lucky?!' Her voice started trembling.

'I'm not sure what you've seen or heard about mages, but one thing is for sure, it’s a high life at the palace. You won't have to want for anything,' he continued coldly.

'What's your name?' Hermione said quietly. With everything going on, it felt strange for him to know hers but not know his.

'You'll have fine meals, will be taught by the best the palace has to offer, and you’ll sleep in a bed with silk sheets. Cry a river now, but you will be thanking me one day. I am confident of that,' the man said with arrogance, 'and where are my manners? It's Draco.' The corner of his mouth twisted into a thin grin.

'Well, Draco. I beg to differ. Correct me if I'm wrong, but those that live at the palace are restricted from leaving it, aren’t they?' His expression stayed the same—no emotion in his dark eyes. 'So put it in any way you wish to, but I am from this moment on, a prisoner that sleeps in silk sheets. I'd take a life of poverty and freedom over that any day.'

'A mage's life is something to be desired. You'll see that soon. You just miss your wolf. You'll get over it when you're dining with the royals.'

The mention of Pascal filled her body with so much anger, she could feel her fingers begin to spark. Calm. She had to calm down.

'I'll never be a mage,' she said quietly, turning to view the outside again—the snow was dying down; they must have been close to the city.

‘Ah, so you’re a mage hater. It's all making sense now. Well, believe it or not sunshine, it's in your blood. If you despise all magic folk, then you're only hating yourself.’

He was half right. She wasn't a fan of mages. Though she was technically one, she never truly felt it. Stories told of mages with extreme magic, but her elemental skills and emotional control were basic at best. Besides, it was all self-taught. Power came from nurturing magic over time, her mother once told her.

The first mages, she had learnt, were akin with nature—that was where their power came from. The magical would use their gifts to bring natural balance to their own region, and in return, they were paid for their services, much like any other trade. The royals accepted them into their households, gifted them with residences and riches in return for their skills and safe passage across the treacherous waters that circled the island. Life was, they say, good. As good as it could be in Relinia. But tales told that the mages grew greedy. Aware of the power imbalance that had grown and how much they were relied upon, they made more demands, increased their prices like a land baron raising taxes, and assured themselves the finest lifestyle, royal positions, and their own senate and schools. 

For a while their demands were met, but it became too much for even the royal court to support, and so a compromise was sought. But having gotten used to a certain way of life, the great Meugia or Bowiens rebelled. Without their assistance, imports and exports halted—any boat that dared travel through the harsh waters was swiftly engulfed by vast, ferocious storms. Crops that were rich with life withered away. Fat and healthy animals grew thin and weak, and the people soon followed suit. The war was long and harsh, and, for many years, it seemed the mages would win, defeat seeming inevitable. But then, out of nowhere they began to die off. Slowly, but surely, three hundred mages strong became a mere handful.

Many asserted that the goddess Zania had punished the mages for their cruel use of magic; others claimed it was merely the land reclaiming its dominion. Yet, the precise cause of the calamity remained a mystery. The war had been won by the royals and their subjects, and any surviving mages were consigned to the palace to serve the crown. This event had transpired nearly thirty years prior— before Hermione's time. She had always regarded such tales as far-fetched, for every mage she had encountered had been devoted to healing and aiding agriculture, appearing quite ordinary in their demeanour. In Hermione's estimation, the legendary mages were likely a fabrication of the royals, a narrative spun to divert attention from their oppressive rule. Regardless of the veracity of these tales, Hermione wished to remain aloof from the machinations of politics. She was not a Meugia, merely a common woman capable of performing a few modest spells.

With nothing more to discuss, Hermione attempted to settle into her seat, striving to dismiss the anxiety of what awaited her upon arriving at the palace and, most importantly, to suppress her sorrow for her wolf. She longed to inquire about Pascal, to ask whether they had managed to catch up with him or, perhaps more hopefully, if he had evaded their pursuit. Yet, deep down, she knew the truth: even if they could not find him, he would not survive alone. He had never been a true wild wolf. The only prey he had ever caught were those already half-dead or injured. Moreover, with so little wildlife surviving this harsh winter and the dark creatures that may-or-may-not-have realmed in the forests, his chances were grim, and the thought gnawed at her insides.

As quietly as she could, Hermione wept in the corner of the box. After a few moments, Draco cleared his throat, calling her attention to him. Looking up, her eyes full of tears, she braced herself for the words she dreaded to hear.

'Killed your pet. It seemed the kinder thing to do,' he said quietly. 

She nodded, surprised by the wave of relief washing over her, though it did little to ease the burden of his words.

Overcome by a torrent of emotions, she tilted her head back and let out a loud groan. It was a raw, primal noise, one that echoed with despair from the hollow of her chest. She felt suffocated, enveloped in a shroud that rendered her breathless. Memories of Pascal flooded her mind. His soft fur. The way he would nuzzle against her on the coldest evenings, and how his warmth of spirit had in turn kept her alive in her darkest moments. Her fingers grew numb, and the atmosphere within the box turned icy, an unnatural chill creeping into the air. Gradually, snowflakes began to gather upon the ceiling, drifting downward. Small, delicate flakes clung to her nightgown, dusting Draco's hair and settling upon the stubble of his jaw and the hard edges of his armour. Hermione recognised this unsettling phenomenon; she had witnessed it before. It was a manifestation of her own grief. Shivering, she buried her face in her shoulder, sobs wracking her body as she prayed fervently that this was merely a wretched nightmare from which she might soon awaken.

With a graceful flick of his wrist, Draco unfastened the silver snowbear pin that secured his cloak and draped it around her shoulders with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the chill. The snow stopped almost immediately, and she was filled with warmth. Her instinct was to thank him, but she couldn't do it.

'It wasn't to keep you warm, if that's what you thought. It's lined with Burnham sap.' Hermione cocked her head, unsure what he was saying. 'Sap. Anti-magic,' he said sharply, perplexed that she wasn’t aware of what he was speaking of.

She stayed silent.

Opening his mouth to continue, the carriage suddenly came to a halt. She heard a man jump to the ground behind her and the door flung open. Bracing herself for the cold, she was pleasantly surprised to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin. Quite a foreign feeling.

'Sir,' Reed nodded, opening the door wider to let them out.

'You first,' Draco nodded. Gingerly, Hermione did as she was told and stepped out of the box. Draco's hands were on her shoulders, guiding her as he followed close behind.

Blinking against the harsh sunlight, Hermione stifled a gasp. As grim as her situation was, she couldn't deny the view was spectacular. She knew Veliere well enough—made the trip at least once a week in spring and summer, selling premium floral arrangements to the city’s wealthier clientele. She’d decorated countless feasts, weddings, grand parties, but never within the palace walls.

Veliere was small in diameter, but instead of spreading outward, it was built upward. The cobbled streets below were home to shops, bars, and restaurants, but above that, heavy stone stairways spiralled toward the villas—residences for senators, elite guards, and masters of trades. Living in the heart of Veliere required status or coin, typically a good deal of both, but it was possible. It was the homes even higher up, carved into the mountainside, that were untouchable. The further you climbed, the more opulent the homes became, surrounded by lush foliage that seemed out of place in Relinia’s typically barren landscape. Here, plants thrived. It was said, the city’s mages worked to keep the climate warm, making Veliere feel almost tropical compared to the rest of the kingdom.

At the very peak of the city sat the palace, Palatium Montis Fons: Montisfons, the Royal Mountain Spring. Hermione had seen glimpses of it before, but only from a distance.

Up close, it was more beautiful than she’d ever imagined. The palace was built of marble, pearly white and jet-black stone, and painted glass, every inch adorned with greenery. Thick, healthy vines wrapped around arches, windows, and ledges. Trees with shining leaves, wet with dew, lined the paths. The explosion of colour was almost overwhelming, as though her world had shifted from grayscale to technicolour. The air was different here too, thick with the scent of sweet pollen and fresh mountain water, which trickled down from the peaks to form pools around the entrance. The water was so pure, so tempting, that Hermione had to resist the urge to drop to her knees and drink.

She was swiftly brought back to reality by the firm hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the entrance. Draco let go of her briefly to knock on the enormous walnut door, and just as his knuckle hit for the third time, it began to creak open. His grip returned to her shoulder, pulling her back as the door swung wide, revealing the wonders within.

Chapter Text

Outside had been magnificent, but the interior was pure opulence. Gold lined every wall, in the form of tapestries, sculptures, and intricate paintwork. Where there wasn’t gold, there was green. More plants, potted and hanging, giving life to the palace. Hermione felt more alive too, almost dizzy, as if the elevation was making her lightheaded. Draco and Reed stood beside her, waiting for their entrance to be approved. Two short men stood in the centre of the grand hall, clad in the same wine-red and brown armour as her captors, the royal snow bear brooch pinned at their throats. Upon seeing Draco, they nodded, turned on their heels, and strode down the hall at a brisk pace. The hand on her shoulder tightened, commanding her to follow.

Hermione tried to avert her gaze as they walked through Montisfons. She was a prisoner, after all, here against her will. But it was impossible not to gawk at the splendour. They passed through a grand hall, its centrepiece a long wooden table, polished to a shine, every inch piled with meats, leafy vegetables, fruits, and sweet treats. They didn’t linger as the two armoured men continued to lead them toward a door on the far side. Hermione quickened her pace, wanting to get this over with, but Draco’s grip on her shoulder tightened again, stopping her in her tracks. She turned to find him giving her one of his now signature stern looks.

A deafening roar of approval erupted as they entered. The prince sat there, an embodiment of traditional masculinity, broad shoulders, chiselled features, and a jawline that could cut glass. Like all royals, he wore a heavy black kohl around his eyes, but unlike the senate, who also donned the infamous eyeliner, he was not bald. Instead, his bronze hair, meticulously styled yet casually tousled, framed a face that was undeniably beautiful.  Across from him sat a superbly attractive woman, poised yet disinterested, her attention flitting between the chessboard and the prince. The room itself echoed the palace’s signature gold and green colour scheme, but here it was elevated, enriched by the deeper shades of rich mahogany and lavish drapery that framed the windows. The walls were adorned with an eclectic array of paintings, each a testament to the prince’s discerning taste, alongside gleaming trophies displayed in glass cabinets, symbols of triumph, perhaps in sports or arts, whispering stories of victories past.

On the tables, an abundance of delicacies lay waiting: vibrant dried fruits, glistening nuts, and strips of jerky, all arranged artfully like a feast for the eyes rather than a substantial meal. They were mere nibbles, appetisers for the privileged few who gathered here, their laughter mingling with the crackling tension of the mancala match unfolding. Mancala was only played by the elite regularly, mainly to show off their wealth as the game pieces were often small precious gems. Back in Hermione’s village, the game was only played by the younglings, replacing rubies and garments with simple pebbles. Hermione watched on as the prince confidently moved his multicoloured gems from the holes on the wooden board, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he cast a sidelong glance at the woman. He laughed, a rich sound that filled the room, unabashedly cocky and full of youthful exuberance. Yet, there was something disarming in the way his golden eyes sparkled with mischief, suggesting a mind that was both sharp and self-aware.

Hermione cast her eyes back to the woman beside him again. She was dressed impeccably, though not ostentatiously. The fabric of her dress shimmered, catching the light in a way that suggested wealth without flaunting it, the understated elegance and quiet confidence of those who knew their worth. No jewels adorned her skin, no gold chains or flashy rings to distract from the sheer simple magnificence of her presence. The only adornment she allowed was a delicate sage green ribbon, artfully tied at the nape of her neck, its soft hue contrasting against her red hair that cascaded down her back.

Her face was a canvas, an exquisite portrait that captured the essence of both allure and innocence. Golden eyes, bright and penetrating, seemed to absorb everything around them. Her lips, soft and slightly curled at the right corner, spoke a playful detachment as she observed the prince in his self-absorbed revelry. In that moment, Hermione couldn’t help but stare, utterly entranced, her own insecurity prickling at her skin. She tugged at her cardigan, trying desperately to mask the shame of her frumpy nightgown with its faded floral pattern. She felt like a clumsy shadow, lost in the glow of such divinity, the vibrant contrast of their worlds amplifying her own sense of inadequacy.

'One moment, Draco, I almost have her,' the prince declared, grinning devilishly as the woman played her move quickly.

It seemed to please him, as he swiftly drew his last gems into the wooden store on the right, his side clearly more abundant with gems than his opponent’s. 'And thus ends the game, my dear'. The lady pushed a smile, and the room began to half-heartedly clap. Draco tapped his thigh a few times and cleared his throat, showing his impatience.

'Mages think they can best us, yet still our brains are no match. Spells aren’t everything, are they, my pooch?’

He laughed heartily, pinching the woman's cheeks. Her face didn't change. She seemed rather used to this behaviour.

'Now, Draco. Who do we have here?’ the prince announced in a more seductive tone.

Getting to his feet quickly, he paced around Hermione like a beast taunting its prey before going for the kill.

'We know her name is Hermione, but she has told us little else, I'm afraid, your majesty.'

'Not bad, not bad. I'm Theodore, my dear,' he stood back observing her closely again, 'a little dishevelled, but I'm sure the girls will clean her up quite nicely. Where did you find her?'

'In a small town outside the city. Lasenwood.’

'Ah, yes, I know it well,' the prince said so boldly, Hermione was sure he was lying. 'A hidden Meugia, how delightful.  A ruby in the rough, my dear. Quite the rarity now, aren't we. Well, fear not, we've found you, and this-' the prince drew his arms wide '-is your home and family. I can tell you're delighted, what a relief. You poor soul, living in poverty for so long. Just you wait, ah - just you wait'!

The prince seemed beyond himself with happiness for her, but his tone was so nonchalant, it was difficult to tell if he was sincere or playing games. Hermione didn't know the man well enough to make a judgement. Draco turned his head to meet her, shooting a look of warning to not say anything untoward.

'Ginny, get your sister a drink, will you.'

'I'm quite alright, thank you,' Hermione finally spoke, too confused at this point to understand what she wanted at all. It would have been easier if she were treated like a slave or prisoner.

'Some snacks perhaps?' the prince asked, his wide smile fading slightly as he approached closer.

Hermione shook her head quickly. He was uncomfortably close to her, his aftershave on her nose. Unlike Draco's, the scent was too rich for her senses, overwhelming in a way that left a lingering unease. The aroma of liquorice and juniper intertwined with the sweetness of mead on his breath, creating an intoxicating yet oddly off-putting bouquet. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but aniseed had always triggered an instinctual revulsion in her. As he stood there, he lingered on the delicate arch of her brow and curve of her lips. His eyes roamed with a predatory precision, skimming over her skin, which felt exposed under his scrutiny, as if he were dissecting her very soul. He moved down to the line of her body, assessing her form with a mix of admiration and judgement, before landing on her shoes—a pair that had once seemed stylish but now felt woefully inadequate under the weight of his appraisal.

'You don't seem thrilled, my dear,' he finally spoke, confused.

'I was quite content in Lasenwood. I would prefer, if you don't mind, to return,' she said promptly with some hope in his merry disposition.

'You wish to go back to a life of poverty?' he asked, stifling a laugh. Hermione nodded. 'She is certainly a Meugia, Draco?' Theodore asked with a straight face.

‘Yes, your majesty.’

‘She knows not of her loyalties?’

‘She is quite... uneducated, I'm afraid,' Draco said solemnly. Hermione immediately opened her mouth to protest, but shut it quickly, seeing the fierce look on his face.

‘Well, all in good time I suppose.’

Prince Theodore finally relaxed, stepping back towards the table and taking his gold goblet from it. Drinking heartily, he faced Hermione again. ‘You will live sweetly here.’ he said quite sternly. Taking another sip, he placed his drink down and held a hand out to the lady sitting opposite.

‘Ginny here will be a sister to you, as will all the other females. Your teacher, much like family, isn't that right, professor?'

A smile curled from the prince's mouth, who was now looking at Draco. Hermione turned to him, unsure what he was alluding. He of all people was surely not a professor here.

'You won't have the privilege of his teachings I'm afraid. History and combat training are strictly for the Meugie, you understand. Women have no need for such lessons. Instead, well-being, life skills, cooking—isn't that right?' The prince turned to Ginny for an answer.

'Indeed,' she said quietly, not raising her head to look at Hermione.

Theodore clapped his hands together suddenly.  'Perhaps we could get properly acquainted at the ball two moons from now. Yes, you'll be all pretty and cleaned up by then. Ah how exciting for you, my dear. Ginny will take you to your quarters and the rest of the girls will ready you. Teaching starts tomorrow, is that right?' He looked to Draco who confirmed.

'It may be worth mentioning that she is... a novice. She will need a thorough introduction,' Draco spoke formally.

'Well, perhaps we could make a small exception of gender for tomorrow only and have her join you for an introductory class. Give her the lowdown on magic, history, Montisfons… so on. Then she should start her proper studies,' the prince said quickly, now seeming irritated, 'you can take those cuffs off her too. She's family now. Isn't that right?'

The prince turned to Ginny again, who was on her feet, waiting to show her out.

Draco stepped behind Hermione and released the cuffs holding her wrists together with a click that signified the most pale of freedoms.

Just before he withdrew, Draco quietly whispered, 'Try to adapt. It is in your best interests.'

She nodded, not wishing to fight any longer, only to be alone as soon as possible.

Ginny walked gracefully towards her, her red hair flowing like fire as she moved. The prince followed closely behind and reached for Hermione’s hand.

Bowing his head, he drew closer whispering, 'I look forward to getting to know you, my dear.'

Ginny's eyes told her to follow, so she did. They exited the room in silence. Walking awkwardly together, Hermione wondered if she would ever speak. Finally, as they moved up the stairs and away from the people roaming the palace, her frame seemed to relax.

'You would be wise to speak little of your upbringing.'  Ginny spoke carefully. 'Everyone in Montisfons, mages included, come from wealth and good bloodlines. Common folk like you are seen differently, and treated as such. Do you want that?'

'I want to leave.'

Ginny stopped in her tracks and looked at Hermione in a disapproving manner.

'Enough of this. I sensed in the room before you were feeling quite sorry for yourself. But this is your life now. It's one of limitations, yes. But they are quite right, you will be looked after here. Want for nothing. But this is not a choice, understand? You are a Meugia and are where you belong. We may even be friends one day, if you change your attitude.’ A warm gleam glistened over Ginny’s eyes for a moment, disappearing as quickly as it came. ‘No more of this, understand?' Ginny continued to walk without waiting for an answer. She was the third person to say this to her now.

That Hermione should grin and bear it. This was a life of luxury she should be thankful for. The truth was none of this had sunk in yet. It was a fresh wound, open and bleeding.

They continued their climb, moving through gilded corridors lined with priceless art, then up a lilac-carpeted spiral staircase. This palace wasn’t just large, it felt massive, almost sprawling, already dwarfing the size of her entire village. After what felt like an age, Ginny stopped abruptly and turned to Hermione as they reached a fork in a hallway.

‘To the right are the male quarters. The left, ours. Up those stairs’—she pointed to a staircase in front of them—‘are the professors’ chambers.’ Satisfied with her explanation, she turned and led Hermione left, toward the women’s quarters.

⚜

The first thing Hermione noticed was the streams of warm water snaking through the floor, filling the room with humidity. The space was large, round, and overflowing with greenery. It was more than just plants, it felt like a living forest, bursting with life. That familiar warmth coursed through Hermione’s veins again, the same rush she’d felt entering Montisfons, like the pulse of the place was seeping into her bones.

The room was filled with women. Meugia, lounging, standing, or bathing. Many wore thin, silken robes or flowing dresses, and some, nothing at all. But even the nude women wore sage-green ribbons around their necks, marking them as part of some unspoken hierarchy.

Ginny moved forward without pausing for questions, following the largest stream of water as it flowed through a partition. The stream widened into a massive pool that filled the floor of the next room, bathed in natural light from a large opening in the ceiling. Water cascaded down from the mountain itself, forming a small waterfall. It was mesmerising; so much life, warmth, and nature all in one place.

Hermione was so entranced by the sight that she didn’t notice Ginny had begun stripping off her clothes. When she realised, she froze, unsure whether to ask questions or follow suit. She’d never been shy, but the thought of undressing in front of all these women, especially in the bright, open space, made her hesitate. Her only experience of undressing in front of someone had been a quick fling, shrouded in darkness. This was different. And these women were all beautiful, slim, confident; the polar opposite of her.

Ginny raised an eyebrow, silently urging her to follow, and Hermione, nodding slowly, obeyed. She peeled off her dirt-and blood-stained nightgown, along with the cloak Draco had given her.

As she stood there, exposed, she realised with dismay that several bathers were watching her. Her hands shook as she let the clothes drop to the floor. She crossed her arms and let her long hair fall over her breasts, trying to hide as much of herself as possible. Still shaking, she followed Ginny into the water, wading in gingerly, feeling the warmth embrace her as soon as her toes touched the surface. The further she descended, the more the heat soaked into her, loosening the tension that had gripped her all day. Her muscles unwound in the warmth, exhaustion washing over her in waves, and for a moment she closed her eyes, feeling as if she could fall asleep right there, submerged in such comforting heat. It had been years since she’d experienced the simple luxury of a bath like this, her recent attempts little more than hurried, chilled sponge baths from a half-filled bucket.

A gentle touch on her shoulder pulled her from her daze, and Hermione looked up to find Ginny at her side. Without a word, she dipped a cloth into the water, wringing it out, then pressed it to Hermione’s shoulder, beginning to wash her with quiet care. Her touch was firm but unhurried. Hermione’s exhaustion made it impossible to protest, and she allowed herself to be guided.

‘Turn,’ she said softly, dipping the cloth into the water and wringing it out again.

Hermione complied, letting Ginny wash her back, neck, and arms. When she was done, she instructed Hermione to submerge herself fully to cleanse her face. Moving closer, Ginny gently wiped Hermione’s cheeks, her fingers wrapped in the cloth to make each stroke precise and careful.

‘I need to treat some of these cuts,’ Ginny said quietly, ‘I think you’re clean enough. Come.’

Chapter Text

Hermione watched as Ginny continued her work on her face, gently rubbing a paste of herbs into the thin open wounds. She had explained that these remedies not only healed but prevented scarring. Looking at herself in the mirror as Ginny worked away, Hermione was surprised she had been allowed to enter the palace walls looking in such a state.

'There. Not so bad now you're all cleaned up,' Ginny smiled, leaning back to admire her work. 'Now, we need to work on this mess.'

She pulled the sides of Hermione's wet curls up and let them slap back against her skin.

'Just not too much off the length; it springs upwards once it's dry with the curls,' Hermione said quietly, shy to show her attachment to her long hair.

'Oh, I shan't be cutting it, unless you aspire for bald patches to frame your crown. I asked one of the ladies to call for Marc; he is far more skilled than I.' Ginny started to put the toppers on the bottles around the dresser. 'You know I could have just let the handmaids deal with you, as instructed.' 

'Why didn't you?'

'You would have walked out of here with your skin rubbed raw and a bowl haircut. They deal with the royals, who usually like the more traditional look. But we… are not traditional, would you say?' Ginny shot Hermione a charming grin. She was beauty divine, bare faced and wet hair, she was still breath-taking. It was no wonder the prince enjoyed her company. 

A knock at the door rang through Ginny's bedroom. Without waiting for a reply, a young handsome man paraded through, a huge grin on his face. 'You called for me, Ginny… ah, you must be our new plaything!' He squealed suddenly, running towards Hermione and looking her up and down. 

'Not half bad. Reeks of the villages though—but there's not enough Ferisian soap on the continent to mask that. It'll fade in time, I'm sure. Still, we've had worse. Nice neck, killer cheekbones, perky chest and good complexion, the royals will be eating out of your hands.' 

'Marc, be nice. She's had a long day.'

Ginny scowled at the young man. He was dressed quite unusually for a man; his green siken doublet was almost prince-like, but he didn't speak or look like a royal. Nevertheless, he couldn't have been a servant with those clothes either… his position was puzzling. He was certainly handsome, but not in a way that caused thought of romance, rather admiration. His brown hair was short, but perfectly coiffed, eyebrows pruned and was clean shaven, another rarity amongst Hermione’s usual crowd.

'My dear, I am Marcus Yexley Tethys, master mage, drinker of fine wines and appreciator of the arts and all things beautiful.' He bowed dramatically and kissed her hand, winking at Hermione as he popped back up.

'Marc is another of the student mages here', Ginny added, 'ignore his whimsical nature; he thinks he is the wittiest of us all, but it's attention he likes the most, isn't that right dear?' 

'I didn't think males were allowed in our quarters?' Hermione quizzed. To her surprise, they both laughed.

'Males, no. Marc, yes,' Ginny finally answered, catching her breath.

‘Let's just say, the Velas turn a blind eye to me. They only look if I want them to,’ he said smoothly, ‘right, to the matter of hand. Exhibit A: birds' nest.’ He pointed at Hermione's hair. ‘I'm thinking, a few light layers and a hearty wash. Are we in agreement?’

Hermione fought a smile, too exhausted to argue, and nodded instead. 'Excellent!' he clapped, pushing her back to the dresser. He filled the bowl on top with water using his fingers as Hermione did at home. Warming it, he dipped her head back to wet it again. Something cold hit the crown of her head and as Marc continued rubbing her scalp, she could feel a lather forming.

'What is that you're using?' Hermione asked, appreciating that it was at least sweet smelling—sandalwood and citrus, very fresh. 

'We use it to wash our hair. A little ground up baulso rock and natural oils, gets us squeaky clean and smelling luscious. Wellness classes, I'm sure they’ll teach you…  all in good time,' he added. 

‘We have wellness classes?’

‘Well – you have wellness classes. Men are restricted from those, sadly. You lucky ladies are taught wellness, crafts and wifely duties, whilst us red blooded men are subjected to tiresome history and combat. I'd gladly swap.’

'As would I,' Hermione said suddenly, upset building in her. 'You are to tell me the women are taught nothing of history or defence, but instead… how to make oils to clean your hair?' 

'Not just your hair', Ginny interrupted, 'whoever you are paired with. It's all created for us to be the perfect female companion. It's not all bad, Hermione… Marc is quite right, the other lessons are not needed really. The males are only taught it as they are usually shipped off to fight wars, guide naval expeditions, or provide aid in the villages around Relinia, which can get rather ferocious. It’s of more use to them than it would be to us.' 

'That's ridiculous. Is our only worth to be paired off as someone's wife?' Hermione spluttered, trying to draw her head up out of the water to argue further as Marc gently kept her down.

'I never said it was fair. It's just how it is,’ Marcus said, his tone calm as he poured warm water over her hair to rinse it. ‘You must have noticed by now? When was the last time you saw a Meugia in your village?’ he offered a faint, amused smile, ‘it’s a man’s world, gorgeous; but we can at least squeeze some enjoyment out of it. Better than freezing our backsides in some forgotten hamlet,’ he chuckled. As Hermione started to respond, a stray trickle of water slid down her forehead and into her eye, making her blink and squint against the sting.

‘I rather liked village life,’ she murmured, rubbing her eye.

'Tiff toff. You're here now. I said enough of this,' Ginny announced, her tone sterner than before.

'Anyway… you ladies may have to lay with the men, but at least you're not battling away in the courtyards. I return most days sweaty and bruised, and not for the reasons I would like,' Marc laughed, breaking the icy conversation. 'At least Professor Malfoy is a sight for sore eyes,' he sighed, lifting Hermione up and covering her hair with a thick cloth.

'Who?'

'You met him before. Draco?' Ginny replied.

'Oh him. He's a brute,' Hermione spat.

'Indeed. A moody bugger too. But a gorgeous one. The only thing I look forward to when I go to lessons,' Marc sighed, now releasing warm air from his palms to diffuse and dry her hair.

'I have a short lesson with him tomorrow on history. All I'll get I suppose,' Hermione muttered, playing with a wet curl that dropped to her shoulder. Marc reached for a pair of scissors in his pocket and began to heartily cut. His expert motions proving this was not his first-time.

'How did a Velas get a teaching position anyway?' Hermione asked quietly, curious still about his history.

‘His mother married a senate member, I think. I know that he worked up the ranks from foot soldier to general—was a key player in the battle of Armiras half a decade ago. But he had a nasty injury… arm I think, wasn't it? Mages tried to heal him up, but he was never the same after. Wouldn't know it to look at him now, as he's trained himself up again. Did the teaching to stifle the boredom I reckon. Could have stopped by now, as he's in good shape again… I think he got the teaching bug. Still see him go out the palace most of his days—any whisper of a new mage and he's the first to join the crew. Heard about you coming a few days ago, didn't we Ginny? He was off straight away, and had his protégé teach the history and combat classes since. Reckon he gets a kick out of it.’

'What an awful man,' Hermione sighed under her breath. 

'He's not all bad. Good teacher. One of the best,' Marc added.

'You're only saying that because you've wanted to bed him since the first day you laid eyes on him,' Ginny chortled.

'And you're saying you wouldn't?' 

‘Even if I could, no one would ever touch us here. Pure and untarnished, isn't that right Hermione?’ Ginny winked at her. Her gormless expression allowed Ginny to continue. ‘They aren't allowed to touch us… the teachers, royals, students. They can charm us, dine us. But no sex. That’s the rule. Not until we’re married.’ 

'Little do they know what we get up to behind closed doors,’ Marc added, ‘those Velas may be all professional around Montisfons, but once you get their trousers around their ankles the-' 

'-Okay okay, she understands,' Ginny laughed, getting to her feet. 

'I jest,' Marc winked. Placing the scissors on the table, he looked at his handiwork from the mirror and asked Hermione what she thought. Truth be told, she loved it. Her curls had life in them again and had never felt so clean and bouncy. Ginny was at the wardrobe to their right, rummaging through it. Smiling, she pulled out a silken sage coloured dress, closing one eye, she held the dress in Hermione's direction and looked back and forth.

Her smile widened, 'yes, this will fit quite nicely'.

The two of them pulled Hermione to her feet and pointed at the folding screen to change. Letting her towel drop to her feet, she quickly admired how good she was looking now she was bathed and dried. Pulling the silk threaded dress up her body was so easy with warm, soft skin.  Feeling the dress against her body, Hermione silently complimented Ginny on the fit and choice. Stepping out of the screen, she walked towards the full-length mirror  by the bed, gasping at her reflection. A stranger was looking back. This was not the Hermione she knew. Not only was her skin supple and soft, with the care and oils that Ginny lathered her up with after they exited the bath, but her hair was thick and delicately curled, too. The dress accentuated every curve she had, laying over body as if it was fused to her skin. Turning to the two onlookers, she thanked them for their efforts.

'You're very welcome. The other mages will hardly recognise you, take back every name they called you upon your entry,' Ginny purred, sitting down and brushing her own hair now. Hermione's face dropped slightly.

‘What did they say about me?’ 

'Only what you'd expect. Village trash, peasant—the people are not always caring here. But there are a few kind souls, Marc being one of them,' Ginny smiled warmly at her friend.

‘Thank you both’, Hermione said, her voice soft but sincere, ‘for being so... kind.’

She wanted to believe in their goodwill, to trust in this small grace amidst all that had happened. And they seemed trustworthy, their gestures considerate. But exhaustion clouded her thoughts, making it hard to tell what was genuine and what was merely politeness. She could only hope their kindness was not a mask.

'You would have been harder to justify to the others if you didn't speak so well. We were fully expecting you to enter speaking like the common rabble,' Marcus chortled.

'My mother… well she had books, lots of them. Was quite persistent that I read and write well—she taught at the local school in the village,' Hermione answered slowly; it was still painful to speak of her mother. 

'Well, what a sweetie,' Marc replied, giving her an unexpected kiss on the cheek and doing the same to Ginny. ‘Right, must go—have a catchup with one of my mates. We're going to play a game of mancala.’

'Is that what you're calling it now?' Ginny laughed, waving at her friend. 

'Chance would be a fine thing!' Marcus chuckled, leaving the two ladies alone. 

⚜

A maid had brought up a tray of light food, slices of ripe fruit, a bit of soft cheese, and warm, honeyed bread.  Hermione ate it absentmindedly, barely tasting it through her weariness. Her limbs felt leaden, her mind dull with exhaustion, every part of her ached with the weight of this bruising day. She had been captured, brought before royalty, had her future upended in ways she hadn’t yet begun to fathom, and all of it with barely a wink of sleep to steady her. The events spun around her mind in a tangled blur, too much to unravel, even as she tried to find solace in this brief calm.

Outside, the night sky stretched vast and clear, the stars sharper here than they ever appeared back home. No snow fell from this sky; no clouds dared interrupt the velvet canvas scattered with starlight. The soft chirping of crickets and the trill of tree frogs filled the night air, so different from the biting silence she was used to, so gentle it seemed like a lullaby.

Hermione tried to savour the moment, the crisp air, the silken sheets, the strange tranquillity that wrapped around her. But beneath it all, she was hurting. Her heart throbbed with the loss of her old life: Pascal, her little cottage with its wildflower garden now left to wither, The Cutter’s warm light spilling into the night, her family and friends, all of it torn from her in a day. This moment of peace felt like a cruel joke, a brief oasis before the storm she knew would come. Tomorrow, reality would descend upon her with cold and merciless hands.

She would be drilled to bow before the royals, to please whomever they chose to bind her to. The life laid out for her was foreign, stifling, and though her mind protested, her exhausted body yielded to the soft bedding beneath her. The breeze that drifted through the window was warm and gentle, touching her cheek like a mother’s hand. If only she could stay in this sliver of stillness, she thought, if only the night could hold her like this forever. Tomorrow would come, change would descend, and her fate would be waiting with open jaws.

Chapter Text

Hermione slept surprisingly well her first night at Montisfons. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or perhaps it was the bed; soft, luxurious, and a far cry from what she was used to.

When she woke, it took a moment to shake off the disorientation, but once she did, she dressed quickly. Ginny had left clothes for her, borrowed from her own wardrobe the night before. They fit well enough. Without wasting time, Hermione got ready for her first full day. The routine of it, the simplicity, helped her feel grounded, even if just for a moment.

As promised, Ginny met her in the living area to guide her to their class. They ate a light breakfast which was served diligently by the maids. The centre table acted as an all-you-can-eat buffet. The food was light. Steamed fish, green vegetables, yoghurt and berries – far healthier than Hermione was used to. They ate and exchanged pleasantries. Ginny asked how she slept.

‘Well,’ Hermione replied.

Ginny queried how her head was feeling.

‘Not so well…’ Hermione responded.

En route through the gilded pathways of Montisfons, Hermione asked some provisional questions to ready herself for the lesson. 

'So, wellness means…' 

'It's the senate's interpretation of womanly duties, I suppose. We're taught anything from making oils for the skin to fine cooking, needlework to light seduction techniques. But we mostly learn how to harness our magic, of course.'

'Why would we need to be taught how to seduce?' Hermione spluttered.

Ginny laughed softly at her ignorance, putting a hand to her shoulder and tapping it nonchalantly. 'You're an innocent thing, aren't you? It's all preparation for our suitor evenings, balls, royal events and, eventually, for our chosen partner.’ 

'Good gods. I don't think I have the stomach for any of this,' Hermione groaned.

'Madam Haggravan is a tonic; she makes it all bearable, you'll see.’ 

Ginny halted at an out-of-place door. The rest of the doors lining the corridor were polished oak, but this was a darker wood, walnut or chestnut. Somehow it seemed more inviting than the others. It must have been the entrance to the classroom as Ginny pushed it open, nodding for Hermione to go ahead. 

Unlike the other rooms in Montisfons that seemed so full of divine purpose, this felt simpler, more for relaxation. There were no desks. Instead, colourful ornate rugs lined the floors, each with a small notebook and quill next to them. They banded up to face the front of the classroom, which had a small chair and desk, with a miniature tree as its only accessory. The teacher, Madam Haggravan, chose not to sit on her chair, but on the floor like her fellow students. She smiled warmly as the room began to fill and the class took their places in the middle of the room. Ginny crossed her legs, so Hermione did the same. The rest of her classmates were chatting quietly as they sat. Most ignored Hermione, but a few threw her a pleasant look, one even waved. It suddenly dawned on her that this was an all-female class. The girls, like her, were dressed in fine sage and silk garments, their hair flowing loose at the shoulders. Curiously, they wore no shoes, leaving them by the door. Hermione looked down to her own covered feet and quickly took her slip-on shoes (borrowed again from Ginny) off and to the right of the mat, hoping it went unnoticed. If Madam was annoyed, she hadn’t let her face know it, her grin still beaming kindly. 

She was older than the other ladies in the palace. Fifty would have been a wise guess. Despite her years, she remained attractive. Her hair was ashen, straight and plaited at the sides. The makeup she wore was sharp and thick, but didn't age her, instead adding to her glamour.  Unlike the students, she was heavily jewelled, with multiple gold necklaces around her neck, stacks of silver bangles on her skinny wrists and at least one gemstone ring on every finger. Even her ankles were adorned with jewellery, each anklet circled with small bells. Her chosen attire was an emerald bohemian dress, the colour matching her dazzling green eyes. The garment was, like the other ladies, silken. But unlike their dresses, Madam Haggraven's was loose on the waist and so long the hem trailed the floor. If Hermione had to find one word to describe Madam, it would have been fabulous.

‘Ladies—thank you for gathering. Firstly, I’m pleased to say we have someone new joining our family this morning,’ she gestured toward Hermione with two open palms, who then froze up on the spot under the sudden attention as murmurs began amongst the small crowd.  ‘My dear, would you like to introduce yourself?'

Madam spoke warmly, her voice cutting through the buzz of voices cleanly, like a warm knife through butter. The room grew silent. Hermione shook off her nerves, clearing her voice to speak.

‘Hello, I'm Hermione. It's good to meet you all,’ she spluttered without an ounce of grace.

'Well, it is lovely to meet you too, my dear. As you may know I am Ariadne, but you can call me Madam. Everyone else does. I'm sure we will get better acquainted through time. But enough of greetings. Let's get down to business, shall we? Following our last lesson on scents, we will be crafting our first brew today. Hermione, for your benefit, we’ve been learning the fundamentals of perfumery; that is, the art of creating perfumes. As we all know, smell is one of the most important senses when it comes to first impressions, be it a friend, royal, or potential suitor. When paired with your mate, we would expect you to be able to craft a perfume to suit their senses, but for now, we shall work on the basis of our own preferences. I assume you all know what you'll be adding? If you could all come to collect your bowls and ingredients from the back of the room, we can get started.’

The class got to their feet promptly whilst Madam approached Hermione. As she stepped, the bells at her ankles rang delicately.

'My apologies dear. It’s not fun being the new student. I know you’ve not had chance to prepare but we’ve all got to start somewhere. I trust you have some preferences when it comes to the vibrant world of fragrances and aromas. Why don't you peruse the shelves like the others. Follow what I do. We can always try again together if you’re struggling'.

As she finished speaking, Madam placed a ringed finger on Hermione’s shoulder and rubbed it gently. Hermione couldn’t help but feel an immediate maternal connection with the teacher. Madam was warm, inviting, and kind. She thanked her lucky stars that her first teacher had these traits. Being so sensitive and, quite frankly, emotionally exhausted, Hermione wasn't sure she could deal with anything less.

Hermione thanked Madam and followed the crowd toward the tables and shelves behind the desk, where rows of ingredients lay arranged with deliberate care. Some were predictable: vanilla pods, cotton, lavender, liquorice root, and other herbs and spices she recognised from home. But amidst the familiar, there were far stranger offerings. Unlabelled jars of liquid in varying shades, tufts of hair, fine sand, dried bits of food, and preserved fauna she couldn’t quite identify—all strange, all intriguing.

Hermione’s puzzled expression must have given her away, as a curvy, blonde-haired student beside her leaned over with a smile and whispered, ‘Some, you simply smell to see if the scent appeals to you. Madam explained that we’re drawn to things we can’t always explain.’

Hermione nodded, glancing back at the assortment with newfound curiosity.

She began uncorking bottles and sniffing cautiously. Most produced little more than indifference, some even disgust. But a select few, subtle hints of earth and spice, sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.

Ten minutes later, arms full of carefully chosen ingredients, she returned to her rug, ready to create her first perfume.

All eyes fixed on Madam, who sat at her own table with an assortment of roots, berries, and mysterious vials. Once the class had settled, she addressed them.

‘The bowls before you contain an essential oil—odourless, colourless, light. The process is simple: add your ingredients, one by one, stirring three times after each addition. When you’re finished, give me a nod, and I shall finalise it for you.’

With that, Madam dropped a few strands of dried grass into her bowl, stirring with practised ease. Hermione and the others followed her lead, watching her intently, their own bowls filling with fragrance.

First Hermione added in the items she recognised. A stem of lavender, followed by a single raspberry, a vanilla pod, pepper and a white jasmine (one of the trusty winter flowers that bloomed in her garden). The rest, more curious items, she added with caution. An unusual clear liquid that smelt slightly salty. A strange, small, spongy black oval that made her feel warm inside. A square of what Hermione suspected was leather but from what beast she couldn’t say, and bark from an unknown tree. Finishing stirring thrice, Hermione looked up to find Madam, who was muttering an enchantment to the blonde student who had helped her just moments ago.  Noticing Hermione looking for assistance she smiled widely and moved towards her.

'Are you happy with your concoction?' 

'I think so, yes. Though, I am still unsure what I added,' Hermione muttered, watching Madam as she hovered her jewelled hand over the potion.

'Well, I do have quite the nose. Let's see shall we, just a moment…' Circling her hand over the perfume once more, she whispered something in Latin. With a tiny pop, steam began to rise from the bowl. Hermione was immediately overcome with the sensual smells from her finished brew.

‘Ah, there we go. Now what do we have here… vanilla, yes…  leather, naturally. And… dog paw, interesting.’

Hermione's mouth dropped; her face aghast. How could she have known? What ingredient could have possibly produced that smell? Then it dawned on her, the small puffy oval that she had blindly picked out of a jar. They couldn't have been real dog toe pads, could they?  Madam noted the expression on Hermione’s face and continued.

'I should have prefaced the ingredient gathering by confirming no animals were harmed in the collection of said items. I suppose you had a dog you felt quite attached to?' she asked, passing Hermione an empty vial from her robe.

Hermione nodded, keeping quiet – it was still a sensitive topic, and she didn't fancy crying in her first class at the palace. 

Madam seemed to sense the soreness of the subject and moved on diligently.

‘I see you also added sea water. Have you ever visited the ocean?’' she asked, helping her steady the vial. With assistance, Hermione poured the still steaming liquid into the bottle.

‘I never made it to the shore. Ma' and I always kept local.’ 

'Ah, so perhaps a future memory then. Curious. Anyway – ta-dah! Your first perfume, and not bad at all. Enjoy it, apply liberally and watch the men and women who appreciate your tastes swoon at the smell.'

Madam chuckled, securing the atomiser on top of the bottle and putting it into Hermione's hands, enclosing palms around. She tapped her fingers twice before releasing her and moving onto the next student who needed help.

Chapter Text

Class finished soon after her perfume was bottled. Following the women out of the room, Hermione headed towards the hall close to where she had been introduced to one of the prince's the previous day. A platter of bread, cheese, vegetables, and cured meats was served with jugs of fresh milk and apricot juice. As conflicted as Hermione was feeling about her situation, she had to admit the food was fantastic. She had never eaten so well, not so consistently. Half-way through lunch, a familiar face approached, sitting beside her and helping himself to a thin slice of pork from her plate.

'Hermione – dear, I am to escort you to your history lesson after you have finished your food,' Marc spoke between chews.

'Ah, I almost forgot. The brute,' Hermione said. Looking back at her plate, she pushed it away, her appetite gone in a flash.

'Dramatic as ever. You'll survive. Might even find it interesting; you said you liked books an' all that. You and Draco will be two peas in a pod. He may look like a thuggish Velas, but everyone knows it’s the academia he fancies. He comes to life more in history lessons than combat – which, luckily, you shan't be attending today. Got a walloping from one of the boys earlier,' Marc started rubbing the side of his right thigh, ‘got a bruise the size of a gourd growing.’ 

Hermione couldn't help but grin, Marc had a way of making her feel immediately comfortable around him, his lack of filter and light-hearted tone refreshing. 'Poor thing,' Hermione chuckled, pouring him a glass of apricot juice. He grinned at her and drained half of it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

'So, what delights did Madam have for you today – she's quite the firecracker isn't she?' 

‘I rather liked her,’ Hermione murmured, ‘made perfume, what do you think?’

She leaned in close, tilting her head just enough to expose the nape of her neck for him to inspect. Marc took a dramatic whiff, letting his breath linger just a moment too long, and then, with a mischievous glint, he grunted, letting out an exaggerated moan of delight. His fingers tapped at his lips as he feigned rapture.

‘Orgasmic, darling. A triumph!’ he grinned, leaning back, ‘not quite as musky as I’d personally favour, but it suits you to a tee.’

The two finished up in the hall and made their way to the history classroom, which turned out to be a courtyard.  Marc explained that it doubled up as the combat area. 

When she queried what they did when it rained, Marc simply answered, 'we get wet'.

Upon arrival, the two noticed there was no sign of Draco. Shrugging, Marc commented he was often late, kissed her on the cheek and wished her luck, leaving her alone.

Today was thankfully, a fair day. The sun was out, bright enough to bring a hint of warmth. It was the sort of day where you could get away with a short dress or tunic and not freeze. The courtyard was large and round, bordered by weapons racks, wooden swords, and straw dummies stuffed with arrows. In the centre, four rows of worn desks sat, beaten down by the weather. At the front, a long table, with one more comfortable chair than the rest. The space felt different from the rest of the palace. No plants crawling up the walls, no vines twisting through the stone; just a few birch trees in the corners and a single white rose bush by a wooden door. Maybe plants didn’t survive here, not with combat training tearing up the ground.

Footsteps echoed in the stone yard. Hermione turned to see Draco approaching, his pace slow and deliberate. He nodded in her direction and stopped a few feet away.

‘Ready?’ he asked, voice gruff, already turning toward the door by the rosebush.

He held it open as she stepped into what must have been his office. No greenery here either. Instead, it was weapons, maps, and shelves crammed with books. Not messy, but cluttered. Draco dropped into a lone chair by a fur-covered bench, then opened his hand in a silent invitation for her to sit. The small table beside them homed a thick book titled: The history of Relinia.

'Well, we'll start from the beginning, shall we? If you could open to the first chapter.'

Hermione did as she was told. As he gave an overview, she could feel herself becoming frustrated.

‘Apologies, Professor—’ Hermione struggled with the title, as if it might burn her tongue. Being in his presence was taxing enough but addressing him with respect felt insincere. ‘I have this book at home. I've read it many times. I know the history of our region.’

Draco sighed, snapping the book shut with a pointed thud. Rising, he crossed the room to a larger bookcase. ‘Then, perhaps you’d care to share what gaps remain in your reading.’

Reluctantly, Hermione joined him, scanning the spines. Most of these were familiar, some were even part of her village school’s syllabus. Ordinary books, dry recitations of facts and dates. She frowned.

‘This is all… quite basic if I may say so. I was hoping for something more… specific. History of the palace itself. On mages. Stories and truths the common texts don’t reveal.’ She glanced up at Draco, his expression portraying little interest. ‘If that’s… even possible… sir,’ she added, her voice trailing off.

'I suppose it would be helpful. One moment'.

The professor walked over to his own walnut wood desk at the back of the room and pulled a book from the shelf directly behind it, then another. 

'You understand what a mage is of course. And the general history of Montisfons, the war and so on?' Hermione nodded. 'I recall you showed some confusion when I mentioned the sap yesterday. I assume you're not aware of the properties and importance of it?'

Hermione shook her head in reply, embarrassed that there was anything of which she was so uneducated. He sat beside her and handed her both books. Magic of mages and Fauna and flora: properties and uses.

'Many know that we – humans, non-magic folk, won the great war. There is much debate on how. There was not just one reason. Many contributing factors led to the Bowiens' downfall. You remember that a huge need for magic came from the nurturing of crops, weather, and the health of the citizens of Relinia? When the people fought the mages' high demands, they simply put a stop to all interventions. All the plants died, livestock followed, the boats could no longer import and export due to the harsh weather conditions. It was, for a while, utter turmoil. While many died, the mages, to their downfall, began to suffer. You see, stopping nature thriving affected their own attunement. You must have realised the connection between your powers and the plants and world around you. Take Montisfons for example. Do you sense it? You're flourishing here, feeling more alive?' 

It all fell into place. The warmth she'd felt upon arrival, the strange surge of energy, it wasn’t her imagination. Relief washed over her, soothing the pangs of guilt she’d been carrying, guilt for feeling well in a time that ought to have left her frail and despondent. It was this place, the plants, the earth itself nurturing her magic and her sense of being.

'Mages, at their root, are one with nature. All powers derive from it, understand? So… when the plants died, the weather unruly, and the animals at an all-time low, what do you think happened to their magic?' 

'They were weaker?' Hermione answered slowly.

'Precisely.'

Draco smiled for the first time that afternoon, shining his sharp, white teeth at her.

'But they wouldn't give the people what they wanted… no, no. Instead, they went searching for already existing minerals or substances to give them power again. Relinia was essentially a wasteland at this point. Years passed as the war was still ongoing. For a while, no one saw them. Finally, when they reappeared, there were just a few dozen. You see, like I said, there were many reasons they gave in. But Burnham sap was the catalyst.'

Leaning over to the book on Hermione's lap, Draco flicked through, stopping on a worn page depicting an illustration of a swamp with an old, dead tree. He pointed at it, looking to Hermione.

'This is Burnham Swamp, one of the oldest places in all of Relinia. The mages found ancient trees here and extracted the sap for the purposes of experimentation. At first, they were delighted with its effects. There are a few documented tales of the mages receiving great power from its properties. But it was uncontrollable power– dangerously unstable. Light experimental spells turned disastrous and, eventually, the exposure began killing them. Next time the royals saw the mages, their numbers were few. Came back with their tails between their legs, sick from the sap, practically begging to have things return as they were.' 

'All of that… because of some sap?' Hermione gasped, shocked that she was hearing this history for the first time.

'Burnham sap acts as a magic repellent in the long run. You remember the cloak I placed over you yesterday?' 

'Oh yes, I meant to return that to you, I-' 

'It matters not,' Draco interrupted rudely. 'The people got word of the sap and its properties and that's when everything changed. Before the mages returned to Montisfons, the army gathered as much of it as they could. Only a very small amount is required to be potent.  Blacksmiths began infusing the dried sap in their armour, swords and shields. Builders and carpenters sprinkled it into the cement and stones they built houses with – even Montisfons added the sap to the paint plastered over many of the rooms. The cloak was very lightly lined with sap. All of the Veliere guards' uniforms are. You can't, for lack of a better word, touch us. Light spells may be effective, but no real harm can be done. The mages became aware of this too late. Before they could argue a case, they had no choice but to go back to work at their usual rates, set the laws so your magic was weaker and return things as they were.' Draco paused, eyeing Hermione with a curious tilt of his head. ‘Any questions so far?’

Questions—oh, she had plenty. Where to start was the challenge, a tangle of thoughts pressing for release.

After a beat, she managed to ask, ‘Why didn’t the mages run? And why… why did they return?’

‘There is not a definite answer for that, it was thirty years ago; so many of the originals have died off. I believe they knew they would be hunted down; they were weak and few, they had so little power I doubt they would have gone far.' Draco spoke nonchalantly.

Hermione thought for a moment, organising what she had just learnt in her head.

'I suppose I am confused why Relinia is still struggling. I understand the Bowiens were the cause before, but now things should be in order, there are still problems? Dozens of wars around the region, high rates, unbearable cold? You know this. When you took me in, I was only discovered because I had no choice but to liven up my garden, which typically would have grown strong winter flowers this time of year.' 

'You must remember, before the war there were thousands of mages. Now there are perhaps a hundred at best – almost half of those in training here. Mages are in demand. Since the great war, the emperor kept true to his promise to protect you all. Hell, I've fought in wars myself to keep the few mages left, safe in Relenia.'

'Why so few? Surely within thirty years, many had children, grandchildren even?'

Draco began to laugh in reply, 'breeding magic between regular people is like watering down strong tea. Every child that is born between magic and non-magic is weaker they say, some never made it to be mages. Besides, many of the mages chose to not have families.' 

'Why?' Hermione asked, still curious. To her surprise Draco shrugged.

‘Mages are typically born as twins,’ Draco stated matter-of-factly, his tone detached. ‘One of them is often stillborn. Perhaps it was deemed not worth the risk, a painful loss, too great to bear. Or maybe it was their revenge on us, hoarding their blood for themselves. Who knows?’

His words struck Hermione like a physical blow. The unsettling thought that she might have had a sibling who did not survive pierced her heart. How had she been unaware of such a fundamental truth about her own kind? Anger bubbled beneath the surface as she regarded Draco, who spoke of mages—her people—with such careless disdain.

‘You speak of mages as though we are still the enemy,’ she replied quietly, her voice trembling with the weight of her emotions.

Draco got to his feet calmly and poured himself a healthy measure of wine from the decanter on the side of his desk. Not asking if she cared for a glass, he sat back down coolly.

'I, unlike you, remember the war. I was young, very young, but it’s not something you forget quickly. Trust is a hard thing to earn back. And I, like others who are aware of the sap, question what would have happened if that godsend of a weapon wasn't discovered. Would we have continued to starve and die out? Mages were cruel, Hermione. I am not alluding that you are also foul natured, but it is in your blood. So, you'll have to excuse a slight disdain,' Draco said through gritted teeth.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh – the professor raised an eyebrow at her, not looking impressed. 

'Apologies, but it’s comical. You hate us, yet you teach us. Do you not see the irony there?'

Draco finished his wine and rested the empty glass on the table, looking back to Hermione with a furrowed expression.

‘I teach so you will have a better chance at understanding what is right and wrong. My pupils, I hope, have learnt that magic is a gift to be shared, not a hierarchical status.’ 

'I never thought of myself as above others. I only used my magic to get by – yet you still sought me out and brought me in, against my will may I add. What if other mages simply wish to live in peace?' Frustration brewing, Hermione began to pick at her nails watching Draco with contempt.

'It is a risk we simply cannot take. Without control and proper training, there is a chance rogue mages will attempt to overthrow again. We saw what happened last time; it is not worth the gamble.'

Draco got to his feet and poured himself more wine. Pausing for a moment, he turned to Hermione and asked if she would care for a glass, realising his lack of courtesy.

'I'm fine, thank you. Sorry, I am still confused. You say sap lines the walls in the palace and your armour, but I don’t feel weak around you. Do we not also practise magic within these walls? It makes little sense.' 

'The lining around us makes for more of a barrier. It keeps magic limited, but still possible. The magical classrooms do not have the sap, but Montisfons in general is heavily protected. The armour protects the wearer but doesn't prohibit the caster. The sap is only dangerous to you when consumed or touched. Like the cloak, around your body, it halted your magic. Do you understand?'

Hermione nodded again, crossing her legs and eyeing his wine – perhaps she should have accepted a glass. Something to calm her would have been a good idea. 

'If I were to consume sap or touch it. What would happen?’

Draco scratched his head, thinking about his answer. 'It's different for every mage. Most simply wither, the sap acting like poison. Others find their magic is temporarily heightened, but that only kills them faster as it becomes volatile. There was one case of a famous mage, Cassandra Kiesea, you may have heard of her?' Draco briefly looked at Hermione who looked back blankly. Draco shook his head with amazement. 'You have a lot to learn, Hermione. Last of the word of power bloodline? No… anyway – Cassandra was, you could say, the unofficial leader of the Bowiens, one of the first to harness the sap. But in use, her powers became unstable. For a moment, she was able to harness the weather so incredibly, tales told that she could strike lightning wherever she wished. Her family were even able to harness words magically. But Cassandra became deathly ill with overuse. In time she could hardly walk. Finally, it’s said that the lightning took her own body over, burning her from the inside out. Nasty business.' 

'I understand,' Hermione said quickly, pulling a face of disgust at the thought. 'I will not make excuses for my ancestors; I’ve had little love for mages in the past myself, believe it or not. But I do not agree with our treatment, professor. Surely you cannot argue that?'

'What about your current lifestyle is not pleasing, prey tell?' Draco sighed heavily, drinking the last of his second glass of wine. 

'For starters, women are treated very differently. I am aware that this is the only history lesson I will be receiving? But the gentleman receive daily lessons on the political climate, history of the region, all whilst learning to defend and fight? I, however, am to be subjected to lessons on cooking, how to carry myself in a dignified manner.  Today I brewed perfume… What on earth could this have to do with a career as a mage? How is that fair? The men are trained and free to leave, to work and help rebuild Relinia. While, correct me if I am wrong, the women are essentially upper class prostitutes?' 

'It is more complex than that,' Draco snapped, quickly becoming irate.

'How so? My destiny is only to be a sidekick to a man. My worth, my sexuality?' Hermione laughed to not cry.

'You will be paired with a royal or man of honour, to help fulfil their potential. I have had the pleasure of meeting many wives or concubines to the men in power, and they are often quite content. Might I remind you again, that it is not a bad life. The rich life’s—' 

'—I am sick and tired of being told to be grateful…  professor. This is not a life I want, a life I have ever wanted. Why do you think I hid for so long? I saw mages enter our village, I saw the fine linens and silk they wore. I am no fool; I knew life at Montisfons would be grand. But it is not a free life, it is one of control.'

Hermione, recognising that anger was rising in her once again, worked to calm her breathing. To her surprise no sparks flickered from her fingers; the walls must have been lined with sap.

Draco watched as she spoke unapologetically but did not open his mouth to argue.

Hermione continued, 'I will stay, I will be taught and, I suppose, I will become accustomed to this lifestyle. I appreciate that many live in poverty, but there exists a simple beauty in freedom—having control over one’s own life. And you took that from me.’

With that, she stood abruptly, eager to escape the room before she could utter anything more revealing. Draco rose alongside her, a frown creasing his brow.

As she turned to leave, he grasped her upper arm, halting her progress. Hermione met his gaze with a smouldering hatred.

‘Whilst I must be respectful of you within these walls as our teacher. I will never forgive you for what you have done. Ripping me away from my life, my love. My hate will never dampen. Just know that. Professor.’

Draco released his grip, his expression still stern. They stood in silence, each measuring the other’s resolve until Hermione could bear it no longer and made for the door. Just as she reached the frame, Draco’s voice broke the stillness.

‘I will let that slide—for now. This is your second day here, and you are still unmoored, rife with emotions and uneducated regarding the circumstances. But let it be clear: that will be the last time you speak to me in such a manner, Granger. Do you understand?’

His tone was pointed yet surprisingly soft. There was a thoughtful gleam in his eyes, as if he might harbour some regret. With no words to offer in reply, Hermione nodded and stepped into the corridor, leaving the tension of the room behind.

As Hermione made her way back to her quarters, feeling as though she had nowhere else to turn, she sensed the familiar sting of tears threatening to spill over her lashes. Yet this time, it was not sadness that ignited her emotions but a searing loathing for the man who had brought her to this wretched place, who had taken Pascal from her, who condemned any mage, innocent or otherwise. Though she found it deeply unjust to exclude women from the history lessons, she could at least take solace in the thought that she would not have to endure the presence of that man any longer.

Chapter Text

   ‘Will you sit still?’ Ginny laughed, tugging Hermione’s shoulders back into the chair. Her fingers moved quickly through Hermione’s curls, twisting and pinning them into place at the back of her head.

‘It feels too tight, Ginny,’ Hermione complained, wincing. ‘Why do we have to wear our hair like this? Can’t we just leave it down? Ugh, it’s no use.’ She glanced up at Ginny, apologetically. ‘Sorry, you’re being a saint.’

‘Beauty is pain,’ Ginny grinned, ‘you’ll get used to it once your head goes numb. And we haven’t even tried the corset yet. Prepare yourself for a whole new level of suffering.’

The two were getting ready for the grand ball, held every full moon. Royals, mages, wealthy patrons, and high traders gathered at the palace to eat, drink, and forge connections. Hermione had hoped her wellbeing class earlier would include some advice on how to navigate such an event. Instead, she was disappointed to find it was a lesson on basic needlework and patching. There was hardly any magic involved, solidifying her suspicion that the women’s classes were designed to groom them into perfect wives. The only charm they learned was a shortcut for extracting cotton or silk from buds and cocoons, bypassing the traditional, laborious process. Madam’s method produced fine strands in seconds. As in her first lesson, Madam was kind, patient with Hermione’s lack of magical experience. She never called attention to her struggle, instead just whispering helpful tips when she could.

After lunch and their only lesson of the day was complete, they ate, then had freedom to socialise. Though they were encouraged to read, swim, exercise and practise their magic in the gardens, Hermione chose to follow Ginny and Marcus around the north side of Montisfons.

They, not surprisingly, had little time for studies.

Instead they gossiped, sneaked wine from the kitchens, and tried in vain to teach Hermione how to swim, having discovered after a few glasses of wine that she had never learnt before. Once dry and sobering up, Ginny dragged Hermione off to her room to ready her for the grand evening of socialising with the elite and networking for potential partners. Hermione could think of no worse way to spend a night. She was having a pleasant time with her two new friends, laughing in the waters and drinking fine vino.

If life at the palace was like that, Hermione may have got along well.

'How often is there a full moon?' Hermione asked as Ginny continued to tie her hair, adding small delicate gems around her updo.

'You've not yet attended a ball and already you're asking how often they are,' Ginny snorted, slapping Hermione's hand as she tried to pull some tightness away from the front of her hair, 'about once a month. But this is just the moon ball, there are many other parties we are expected to attend. Once a week at least you'll have to join these things, 'Mione. So, you better get used to it.'

After finishing with the placement of the gems, Ginny helped Hermione into one of the new garments that had arrived in her wardrobe earlier that afternoon. The first choice, a silk two-piece that revealed far too much chest and stomach, was out of the question. Hermione's confidence simply wasn’t built for that. Ginny’s second option, however, was more fitting: a full-length, rouge dress with a corseted waist and a thin gold belt that cinched perfectly at her midsection. On her feet, she wore a pair of matching scarlet heels. But after only three awkward steps toward the door, it was obvious that a change of shoes was necessary. Hermione, who had never worn heels before, wobbled like a newborn deer. Ginny laughed, unable to contain herself, before disappearing into her own wardrobe to grab a pair of gold slip-on shoes.

‘Here,’ she said, tossing them over. ‘Let’s keep you upright tonight.’

⚜

The ball, much to Hermione’s relief, was held outdoors.

Tonight was unusually warm, thanks to the mages’ weather manipulation over Montisfons. The east gardens, sprawling larger than the ones at the front of the palace, stretched out before the guests. Marble stairs led them down to a cobbled path lined with furniture, each table crowned with enormous bouquets—flowers Hermione had only ever read about in books. Birds of paradise, monstera leaves, dazzling ferns.

Waiters, dressed in crisp navy doublets, glided around the north side, serving tall glasses of something sparkling to the well-dressed and the entitled. At the edge of the path, the garden exploded into life—zigzagging flower beds, thick bushes, and a thin stream trickling down from the palace's towering height, weaving through the greenery. Wooden bridges dotted the landscape, inviting guests to wander and get lost in the natural chaos. But it wasn’t just nature—no, there was a curated perfection to it all. Warm lanterns casted a soft glow and stone statues of nobles and religious icons stood like sentinels. The finishing touch? Wild peacocks, casually strutting through the grass, as if this was their party too.

Hermione turned to Ginny and pulled a face to show her nerves.

Ginny, laughing, gently patted the back of her shoulder and led her down the grand staircase.

They were greeted almost immediately by two familiar faces. Madam Haggravan and Professor Draco Malfoy were talking pleasantly over a glass of wine. Madam, seeing the two girls approaching, tapped Draco on the shoulder, pointing at them. The professor turned, catching Hermione's eye and nodded professionally.

'The new girl certainly does clean up well. Doesn't she look fine, Professor?' Madam giggled, clicking at a waiter. 

'Quite fine, indeed.'

Draco spoke the words as if they were painful. He was dressed no differently than usual. A loose-fitting white linen shirt and brown leather trousers with boots to match. He did wear a black doublet, but it was undone in the middle, acting as a blazer.

Madam was dressed more fabulously. Every inch of her body covered with fine silk and jewellery. Her hair was pin-straight at her sides, with lips that matched the blush pink shade of her gown.

'Ginny, Hermione, this is Professor Malfoy, he teach—’

'—We've met, actually.' Draco quickly interrupted.

Madam passed the ladies a drink from the waiter and turned to him, her long purple nails clawing her chin with curiosity.

'Prince Theodore asked that I give Hermione here a light history lesson,' he continued plainly.

'Speak of the devil,' Madam tutted under her breath just before the prince himself inserted himself into the circle.

'Madam… Professor.'

Theodore kissed Madam on both cheeks in greeting and shook Draco's hand warmly. 'Ah, and my favourite mages. Ginny—' Theodore kissed her cheeks, '—and… forgive me—'

‘Hermione.’

Hermione had opened her mouth to speak, but the professor had answered for her. She shot him a look of annoyance, but relaxed quickly, realising best behaviour should be implemented at such an event.

'Ah yes, of course. How are you getting along? I see you and Ginny are thick as thieves already. I don’t know whether I should separate the two of you or encourage it. Now that's something to fantasise about.' The prince shoved Draco playfully, who did not seem impressed. 'You could learn a lot from Ginny. Quite a divine young lady. Ginny—would you sit with me this evening?'

'Of course, your highness. It would be an honour… it's just, Hermione. I didn't wish for her to sit amongst strangers for her first ball,' Ginny said dutifully, looking at the prince with hopeful eyes for an extension of his invitation.

'Nonsense, we can't have that. Though, it pains me to say that our table is full,' Theodore moved closer to the circle and hushed his tone, 'we have the emperor of Perede with us tonight, alongside his wife, children and right-hand man. Can't move them, can we?'

Pulling out, he let out a big belly laugh and downed the rest of his wine. Hermione watched as a small drop traced down his chin, landing on his, once white, doublet.

'But no need to fret, I'm sure the professor and Madam could squeeze young Hermione onto their table tonight.'

'But of course!' Madam exclaimed. 'She is very welcome to join us.'

'Excellent!' Theodore clapped his black nailed hands loudly and reached out for Ginny, who accepted his arm.

'Oh and, Hermione. You must meet my friend Blaise tonight, you're just his type. A dance later perhaps.' With that, the two strolled off leaving Hermione alone with her teachers.

'You're in safe hands with us, don't worry,' Madam smiled warmly, placing a bangled arm around her shoulders and leading her towards their table.

Hermione wasn't so sure about that, eyeing the professor. This was not an expected move. Saddened that Ginny would not be at her side, Hermione also realised, as she scanned the room, that the only student mages present were women. She could give up hope that Marc would swan in and elevate her evening.

The seating arrangement was five to a table. Hermione found herself placed beside one of the gentlemen to Madam’s left and, much to her dismay, Draco. The men appeared rather incongruous for such an elite affair—both were heavily bearded, rotund, and possessed an air of ruggedness that clashed with the refined atmosphere. As they settled into their seats, Madam made the introductions.

‘Allow me to present Henry Pointer and Oscar Rebold. And now, may I introduce you to Draco Malfoy. Draco, I assure you, is a man of many talents. He currently teaches both combat and history at Montisfons, but if I may be so bold, he is, at heart, a soldier. How many years did you lead the royal guards, Draco?’

‘Seven.’

'Agh – good to have a proper man with us. Not a pompy twat that thinks he's better than us sea dogs,' Henry roared, clinking Draco's glass so powerfully it caused a wash of red wine to spill onto the table. The professor smiled politely in response.

'And this is Hermione… oh goodness, I must apologise. Hermione is our new mage, I don't recall asking you for your maiden name my dear.'

'The fault is mine. Hermione Granger. Pleasure to meet you both,' Hermione replied as pleasantly as she could.

The men shone her yellow-toothed grins. She hesitantly looked at their glasses, hoping they wouldn't cheers hers. To her relief, they did not. Instead, Oscar leaned over the table and took her hand into his pudgy palms and shook enthusiastically.

'Pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger. Henry and I run the main exports to Nerville. Can't keep us behind a desk, can they!' Oscar chuckled heartily and began to fill everyone's glasses to the brim with wine from the middle of the table.

'How is life at sea at the moment? Are the mages able to control the storms well with the obscene weather we have been having?' Madam asked, placing her hand on Oscar's forearm.

'Weather's bin rough, gotta say. Jus' last week. On our way back home to Nerville, this wave hit us, like nothin' I saw before.’

'Must have been forty feet, no word of a lie!' Henry shouted, his eyes wide remembering.

'Honest to the gods. But nothing we canne' handle. The boys behind didn't do so well, did they? Lost one laddy in the ocean, awful business. See, I don't mind you magic lassies. It's your men that can't seem to do their jobs properly,' Oscar sighed, pulling his bread apart heatedly. 'No offence, didn't mean you o’ course,' he said quickly to Draco with a mouthful of food.

'I am no mage. No offence taken,' Draco replied, the corners of his mouth curling into a small sneer.

'Well—I will certainly be speaking to the men about this. As you know, with so few of us, it is harder to control particularly unruly weather conditions. But, I'm sure more can be done. Perhaps two mages on board during the high storms would be more appropriate?’ Madam asked carefully.

She was good, very good. Watching her upon arrival, Hermione admired how she carried herself. Never outrageously flirtatious. She was attentive, kind and charismatic. Madam had an air of calm about her that was contagious. It was working on the two beefy men already, who were laughing merrily at a joke she had told them.

Food arrived soon after introductions were made. Hermione looked down at her plate. A small portion of what looked like miniature chicken eggs, boiled and cut in two. Over top was a drizzle of pale yellow sauce, a few stems of parsley and a bed of baby spinach. The others (gruff sea men included) picked up their cutlery and cut the eggs smaller. Hermione, baffled, did the same. Not wanting to appear unknowing. As she aimed to cut, a rough hand on her wrist stopped her.

'You're using the wrong knife and fork,' the professor whispered, lifting his own cutlery to present the correct option. 'You start from the outside and travel in as courses are served,' he grumbled impatiently. 'These are for your entree. Then mains. Above we have soup and dessert. This is for fish. And this—' he moved closer to point at the knife by her glass, '—is for bread.' Hermione tittered and swapped her cutlery around.

'They all do the same thing.'

Draco raised a lazy eyebrow in reply and continued eating.

Hermione ignored his pointed comment and tutorial, reminding herself to expect nothing less from him.

The courses moved on, and Hermione ate with limited scrutiny from the professor. For main, fillet of seabass with lemon crust, boiled new potatoes and butter soaked in saffron. As the dessert of rhubarb crumble with fresh cream arrived, Oscar turned his head away from Madam for the first time since they began eating to engage in some conversation with her.

'So, you're a new mage. Where'd ya come from before, if you don't mind me asking?'

'Not at all. I grew up in Lasenwood. Do you know it?’ Hermione felt safe to tell of her simple beginnings, seeing as he seemed rougher around the edges himself.

'Fraid not. Could tell ya' any port on the island, on land I get sea legs. Sounds like a village though, know a few of the cities…'

'Yes. A small village. It's not far from Montisfons, just an hour on horse.'

'So how new are ya?'

'This is my third day,’ Hermione said quietly.

'Properly new! Well, I hope ya getting on well. Least you got Madam Ariadne to look after you. Lucky thing. Aint' she splendid. Heard she was quite the looker when she was younger too—I mean, she still is, but could you imagine.'

'This wine is givin' me a mighty ache in the head. Excuse me—lad, do you have any ale? Bring us over a pint of the good stuff, will ya?' Henry bellowed from across the table to a passing waiter.

'That sounds delightful. Could I have one too, if you don't mind,' Hermione chirped.

Wine was not a familiar drink to her. Mead or ale being the preferred tipple in the local tavern.

'Atta girl! We like you,' Oscar snorted, nudging her shoulders heavily.

Hermione smiled naturally for the first time that evening. But the grin was soon wiped from her face, meeting the professor's storm-grey eyes. Slowly, he shook his head sternly and waited for conversation to regain between Madam and the two sea dogs.

Leaning towards her discreetly, he whispered: 'Are you trying to embarrass yourself? And me, for that matter.' 

'The men ordered, why can—'

'—It matters not. Ladies of the house do not drink ale. This wine is one of the best, imported from Quedeoux. That glass alone is a week's worth of income for a peasant.'

'How would you know?' Hermione scoffed, leaving the ale delivered to the table alone.

'You are not the only one here that came from humble beginnings,' he grumbled. With dessert finished and many drinks consumed, the ball was becoming lively. Many guests had taken to the area in front to dance and talk on their feet.

Madam joined them and encouraged Hermione with a look to do the same.

'Edbald, Lora, this is Hermione, our new mage.’

Hermione dipped dutifully and shook the couple's hand. They were clearly royals by their kohl make-up, jewelled bodies and expensive doublets. Madam leaned closer to Hermione and whispered, 'Son and daughter of Emperor Yantrey of Perede'.

Hermione recalled Theodore mentioning earlier that he was hosting the Emperor and Queen. By his tone it was a relationship of importance. Noting this, Hermione made sure to be polite as they conversed. Madam, thankfully, did most of the speaking. Only including Hermione when it was an obvious answer. Mid-way into a discussion about the latest opera playing in Veliere, a tremendous cackle broke through the gentle music. Turning, Hermione noticed a few drunken men causing a scene nearby.

Prince Theodore was roaring with laughter as he and a well-dressed gentleman to his right watched another senate member (a graduate Meugie no doubt seeing as his hair was shaven) blowing wind from his fingers to lift the toupee of an old, sleeping man sat a few metres away from them, revealing a dazzling bald head.

'You'll have to excuse our young royal, too much wine perhaps,' Madam chuckled, embarrassed. 'Hermione, dear,' Madam Haggraven leaned close, quietening her voice to a murmur again, 'would you mind going over to quieten those two—good impressions are paramount, and with no Emperor  tonight, their misbehaving is going unchecked.’

'What do I say?' Hermione spluttered back, choking on her wine.

'Just use your feminine charm to distract them. Or get Draco, he will know what to do.'

Turning to the now abandoned table, Hermione toyed with the idea of finding Draco to sort the situation. She predicted he would only complain that she should sort it out herself. No, she could handle a conversation without a teacher or friend by her side. Mind made up, she moved with caution to the two friends, still cackling away by the flower beds.

Careful not to stand on the petunias, Hermione smiled in greeting.

'Ah, Blaise, you're in luck. Our new mage… Hermione was it? Yes, Hermione! Isn't she a beauty? Do a spin girl, go on.'

Theodore grabbed her hand and without warning tossed her around. Hermione fought a scowl.

'Good gods, aren't you a pretty thing. Blaise Zabini m'lady. High senate'. He winked drunkenly at her, lifting her hand to plant a sloppy kiss.

He was a handsome man, likely in his mid-twenties. His face was classically attractive, the kind that could easily make him the subject of countless admiration, yet it was marred by bushy eyebrows that overshadowed his otherwise delicate features and a shaved head. There was an unsettling dichotomy in his appearance: charming yet unsettling, a façade that flickered like candlelight.

'It's good to meet you, Blaise.'

'Pleasure is all mine. Trust me. So… how are you liking Montisfons. No rationing or privation here. Though I suppose you're used to the higher life. Tell me, which family bore you? You have a likening to the Wild—' Blaise stopped suddenly to belch. Hermione fought harder to keep her smile, '—Weudlunds, if I'm not mistaken?'

'I'm afraid I do not know them,' Hermione replied plainly, hoping the conversation would move on. Ginny had wisely warned her to not divulge her background a few times prior. There was a very apparent stigma about a poor upbringing around the palace.

'Then pray tell wh— you alright Theo?' Blaise turned to the prince, who looked quite unwell. Swaying on the spot, he leaned in to his friend and announced he would be leaving to the bathroom and swiftly excused himself from the conversation.

Blaise chuckled, 'with a surplus of dinners and balls, you would think the man would be able to hold his alcohol. Anyway, my sweet thing. Would you care for a dance?'

The air felt more humid suddenly. Hermione was afraid this would happen. A ball, naturally one would assume, contained dancing. Hermione's only experience of dancing was drunkenly swaying to local bards at The Cutter in Lasenwood. With two left feet, this did not seem like a wise idea. But Blaise did not wait for a reply.

Grabbing her waist a little more forcefully than she would have liked, he manoeuvred them onto the dancefloor and led her into a slow sway to the light strings playing around the gardens.

Blaise danced well, but there was an intimacy to his movements that bordered on invasive. He grasped her right hand with a deftness that was almost tender, yet his other hand gripped dangerously low on her back, a possessive claim that sent a shiver down her spine.  He smelled of truffles, mead, and cedar—a heady combination that felt both luxurious and cloying, like an extravagant meal that was just a touch too rich for the palate. Each breath she took was an immersion into his world, where indulgence reigned supreme. Blaise was, by all accounts, a striking figure amidst the dance floor's swirling chaos. But there was something undeniably off-putting about him, an insidious undercurrent that gnawed at her instincts. Perhaps it was the air of arrogance he carried.

'Have you been paired off yet?' he purred, leading her to the right of the floor and spinning her once.

'Paired? No. I… I have just started,' Hermione said quickly, trying to concentrate on not stepping on the high senate member's feet.

'You'll go quick. All the pretty ones do.'

He twirled her once more and pulled her in closer, his waist digging against hers. This was feeling more uncomfortable by the second.

'As a member of the high senate, it is encouraged that we are paired with a mage, you know? Perhaps, consider this a proposition.'

Blaise was staring at her through glossed eyes. Hermione hoped this was drunken talk, not a sincere proposal.

‘Thank you, Blaise. I will keep that in mind,’ Hermione replied, her voice steady but laced with tension as she moved her feet backwards, desperately trying to escape the oppressive closeness of their position. His hand, firm and insistent on her lower back, only pressed her deeper into her body. Leaning in, he brushed his lips near her ear, his breath hot and invasive.

‘Do you require some convincing?’

A jolt of shock coursed through her, rendering her momentarily numb. Panic surged as she scanned the room, her mind racing for possible escape routes. Blaise's hand began a slow descent, travelling south, stoking her alarm further until—

‘Master Zabini.’

Professor Malfoy appeared as if conjured from thin air.

‘Would you mind awfully if I requested a dance with our new pupil?’ he asked calmly, extending an open hand to Hermione, his grey eyes glaring at Blaise with a fierce intensity.

‘We are in the middle of a dance; you will have your turn, Professor.’

‘I appreciate that. It’s Prince Theodore; he is… rather inebriated and could use assistance. That is your duty as his chosen senate, is it not?’

Draco’s voice cut through the tension, raising an eyebrow at Blaise, who, to Hermione’s relief, began to loosen his grip and step away, muttering, ‘Bloody princes…’ as he bowed curtly, retreating into the throng of partygoers.

Draco took Hermione’s hand with a gentle grip, initiating a more standard dance, he gracefully led her around a small patch of the floor.

‘I never thought I would say this,’ Hermione said, ‘but… thank you.’

She allowed herself to follow his lead as she felt her panic fade, the warmth of his palm grounding her.

‘You mistake my intervention as a kindness. You dance quite atrociously. I was simply stepping in as a remedy. Need to keep up appearances with these guests,’ Draco replied, his tone flat and devoid of any pretence.

His blond hair fell in careless waves around his forehead, accentuating strong cheekbones and a jawline that seemed chiselled from granite. Emotions didn’t seem to compute with him, lending him an utterly sociopathic air that was unsettling yet intriguing. Still, regardless of his motivations, she felt a swell of gratitude toward him.

They danced surprisingly well together, she thought. Draco remained acutely aware of her doe-like legs, choosing simple movements that kept her from stumbling. He arched his body just the right distance from Hermione, his hand resting loosely on the small of her back, a subtle but reassuring presence that contradicted the raw strength she knew he possessed. For a man of such height and solid build, Draco moved with an unexpected grace on the dance floor, each step calculated and deliberate.

'You're rather good at this, professor,' Hermione smiled, watching the corners of his lips turn upwards in return.

'Part of the job. You will learn it in time. I had to.’

'You mentioned you are not a mage. I assumed you came from noble or royal blood, until your comment earlier. So, what is your story?'

'You enjoy prying, don't you, Miss Granger.' Draco dipped his head down to look directly into Hermione's eyes.

Hot breath lingered with her sense, twisting and tying with his own personal brand of rich scent; leather and oud. A strand of light hair fell to his forehead covering one of his stormy eyes from her view. But he didn’t move it. He seemed more relaxed than earlier. The wine may have encouraged that, she could smell its fine notes on his breath. Draco pulled her up to his chest swiftly then adjusted his position respectfully. Clearing his voice awkwardly, he answered her question.

'My mother married into wealth. Prior to that, I had a… normal upbringing.'

'In other words, you were a peasant.'

'In other words, yes.'

It killed her to admit it, but it did feel encouraging to meet another at Montisfons who could appreciate the difference of rich and poor first hand. Ginny and Marc had been wonderful, but they, like many other student mages, came from noble or rich families. Magic rarely leaked into poor blood for whatever reason.

'Do you miss it?' Hermione asked, watching as the professor expertly scanned the room, dancing skilfully but slowly to the harpist playing a mellow melody.

'Miss the hunger pains and close calls with frostbite? No. I can't say I do,' he answered sharply, his jaw clenching before spinning her delicately out, then into his powerful arms.

Hermione stayed there for a moment and swayed to his lead before replying. 'Understandable. But there were simple pleasures, were there not?'

The professor guided her out of their close position and took to their previous civil stance.

'I suppose home-cooked meals. And good local mead. But it was a hard time, you must remember. I was fighting in the great war before I could read properly. It was different from your childhood.'

He had a point. While her mother did struggle to put food on the table at times, they had never gone more than two days without it. They had friends who were kind, a warm house and no anarchy in the streets. The mages they saw around town were there to heal not to harm.

'Fair point,' Hermione said quietly.

They danced in a silence that felt almost choreographed, their bodies moving as if following an unspoken script. The professor dipped her, a graceful arc, before bringing her back up with a flourish. Hermione stumbled slightly but Draco caught her effortlessly, his hands firm around her waist, the touch electric. Her face pressed against his neck, inhaling his intoxicating scent. For a moment, the world faded—soft skin, warmth, an alluring invitation. It had to be the wine. Hermione blinked, jolting back to reality, and murmured an apology. But Draco just laughed, his eyes warmer than before.

'I am not officially your professor. But I would say lessons are needed. Perhaps one of your friends. You cannot be constantly falling on our guests.’

Hermione shook off his comment and copied his bow, as the room dipped in sync to the end of the song. The two stood apart, awkwardly.

Breaking the silence, Hermione asked 'When do these things end?' The professor opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a flurry of pink in the form of Madam.

'Don't you two dance like a pair. Remember the rules professor, you can look but you can't touch,' she giggled, tapping him on the shoulder with her nails in jest.

'We are in no danger there, Ariadne. I assure you.'

Hermione's scowl had returned. Every act of redemption was soon wiped clean with a rude comment or action. Once a brute, always a brute.

'Hermione, come join me for a walk around the gardens?' Madam asked in a jolly tone.

They walked past well-tended flower beds, alongside pairs of peacocks, and crossed bridges. As they strolled, Madam shared the history of Montisfons, explaining that the gardens were cultivated not only for beauty but also to immerse the mages in nature while they practised. She noted that lessons were often held outdoors, yet, due to the evening balls that required preparation, she was yet to witness one. Hermione tried to absorb Madam’s words, but her mind remained clouded by the earlier encounter with the high council member, Blaise. Sensing her distraction, Madam paused on the oak bridge and gently asked if Hermione was feeling well.

'I am fine. Thank you. It's just a lot to take in.' Hermione exhaled deeply, leaning over the bridge to admire the way the stream sparkled, mirroring the night sky.

'Understandable. You have already adapted remarkably well, I must say. I don't wish to overstep, but I couldn't help but notice your encounter with Master Zabini earlier. You must excuse him. High senate are almost worse than the royals. I was on my way to assist when I noticed Professor Malfoy got to you first.'

'Yes, I was thankful for his rescue,' Hermione admitted, scratching at the wooden rail of the bridge with her nail.

She wondered if it was a smart move to open up to a teacher. But Madam had given her no reason not to trust her. Her maternal actions were apparent and, in all honesty, Hermione was craving plutonic care.

'I have to ask. These balls and lessons. Is it all for a man eventually? Will I be paired off with someone of royal blood, high senate or a noble man? Or do I have some control?’ Hermione asked warily. Not taking her eyes off the water beneath them.

'My dear, ultimately, we all live to please those in power. Truthfully, yes. That is their intention. To use your magic and status as a Meugia as an asset to men in power.' Madam said cautiously, joining Hermione to look out to the stream that twisted into the forest ahead.

'So, your advice would be to grin and bear it?'

'If you feel you can, yes. But if you wish to fight it, there are… ways,' Madam spoke more quietly, as if eavesdroppers could be hiding in the arrowwood bushes. Hermione's eyes grew wide. Seeing this Madam grinned half-heartedly and continued.

'There are a few positions beside the monarchs that give more freedom. No need to wed, for example. Teaching is one, of course, but there is no real demand. Unless you wish to kill me off,' Madam laughed, ‘but if you play your politics well, familiarise yourself with the right people and charm your way into the right hearts, you may find that other opportunities present themselves.'

She stopped talking quickly and motioned to zip her lips. Hermione nodded, understanding.

'Until then, make friends. Learn how to charm to get out of uncomfortable situations. Men are simple creatures. Master them and you master Montisfons.'

Madam winked and tapped Hermione's hand with her heavily ringed fingers.

'Come, we should head back.'

Chapter Text

Over the next few days lessons continued. Once a day, Madam would teach her class of two dozen young Meugia how to bottle and brew various potions and ointments to heal, calm and enlighten. All while, Hermione was learning how her powers were connected to nature. Having little information about mages to hand growing up, she assumed her lighter powers were unique to her. Seeing mages who could heal the sick, Hermione never put two-and-two together that their magic would still be connected to nature or elements. It turned out a lot of the concoctions they made could have been made by any commoner, but they required various incarnations that were taught to them by Madam. Many of these were muttered in Latin, which was not a language Hermione knew to heart. Today, they learnt of the properties of many local plants to Relinia. Madam explained that the soil in their region worked particularly well for drawing out magic, so much so, there was no need to import foreign ingredients. Hermione recognised a few of the botanical items; a career as a florist taught her a thing or two. But some of the ingredients were so specific and rare, Hermione had no idea of their existence.

Their teachings started with more simple potions and balms. The first being a light ointment to place on cuts, bruises and small ailments. Hermione—to her delight, knew this one. It was one she had taken from her relationship with Lasenwood's (then) local mage, Viktor. He did not know of her talents, but she watched him preparing his various lotions the few evenings they spent together.

The most recent potion they learned was something new. A potion to enhance one's focus. Madam nicknamed it brain tonic. The items and method were more complicated than the simple healing balm made from bee's wax, lavender, jasmine, and witch-hazel, boiled with the heat of her hands and cooled immediately (just as Viktor had taught her). The method for brain tonic was complicated. First, they added mackerel scales, stirred twice anticlockwise and heated. Next, stones from a ripe cherry, applying the same method. Afterwards the shells of horse chestnuts, but this time, they crushed them, sprinkling the ground power into the potion and stirring continuously. Finally, more simply, a teaspoon of flaxseeds, bring to the boil and let cool naturally (without magic).

Madam instructed the group to speak the incantation, with a hand hovering across their potion cerebro pasce, satietate cogita.

Their teacher swanned across the room, inspecting their brews. A few she tutted at, to others words of praise were muttered. Reaching Hermione, Madam dipped down and dared to put a finger inside the cooling liquid. She curled it into her mouth, pulling it out with a loud pop.

'Almost there. Just need to ground those chestnuts a little finer. But this is perfectly acceptable, my dear. A valiant effort.'

Hermione, smiling, traced her eyes around the room. She could see a few scowls from her classmates with failed attempts, but Ginny was beaming widely and subtly gave her a thumbs up.

With only one lesson a day, Hermione was free to roam around Montisfons most afternoons and evenings. Most of Hermione's time was spent with Marc and Ginny, who had quickly become her closest allies. She'd met other mages here and there, all of them perfectly pleasant, but there was an undeniable air of superiority about them. Ginny's warnings had been right. Hermione, ever the believer in not judging a book by its cover, would have been furious if someone assumed she was defined by her life in the village. But when it came to the mages, their arrogance, their privilege, their comfortable wealth, it was hard to ignore the truth. Not all of them were unpleasant, but the way they spoke about life made it clear: they saw the world differently, as if they were above it all. Complaining about small details that Hermione took as blessings. Silk being too thin, gourmet food not to their liking, or, this was the cherry to garnish the cake, the plants that weaved through the student accommodation being too green for their liking. The truth of the matter was, Hermione had so little in common with them, she found it hard to make meaningful conversation. Marc and Ginny thankfully broke this mould. Marc was incredibly self-deprecating and kind. With a foul sense of humour and devilish smile. Ginny was wise, charming, thoughtful and strangely rebellious in nature for someone so accepting of her caged future.

It was a joy to spend time with the two. Together they picnicked in the gardens, roamed the palace walls and spent much time in the atrium, which was home to a well-kept grand piano and lute. Ginny played sweetly, being the only musical one of the trio. Marc watched her with starry eyes, singing supportively out of tune to the songs he knew. Time at Montisfons was soon becoming pleasant, as many promised it would. It was easy to be blissfully ignorant when pleasantries were sprinkled in the day-to-day.

Around others, distraction covered like warm furs. It was the nights alone she struggled with mightily. Head to the pillow, Hermione's mind would come alive with every thought she had tried so hard to push down. Her ache for Pascal, her mother, the small house and garden that she called her home blanketing her with a sad ache like no other. With a mood so sombre, the bedroom often filled with a chill, sometimes a little snow. But a different buzz interrupted her sleep now. Madam's words the previous week regarding a possible change of outcome for her future. A break away from an arranged marriage. Her advice to listen, learn and charm had not been taken lightly. Any time she spent out of class or away from her friends was now spent in the grand library housed in the centre of Montisfons.

There Hermione sat this late afternoon. Perched, cross-legged in the chair built into the corner window that overlooked the expansive forest behind the palace. The library was huge but hollow. Shelves lined with books—boring ones. History, science, geography. Nothing substantial. Nothing new on mages and fiction? Gone. Vanished. Just dusty, dumbed-down stories for kids. Fairy tales, fables.

Still, Hermione devoured whatever she could find. Today, it was The History of Nerville, which was where Oscar and Henry, sailors or traders or something from the ball had hailed from. Hermione knew bits and pieces already. Nerville, across the water from Relinia, had been lost to chaos during the war, weather so bad no one could trade nor meet for a century. Thirty-five years now, the royals and the senate had been scrambling to piece it all back together.

Nerville was known for its meat: steaks, pork belly and chicken. Relinia had livestock of its own, but it was all goats and sheep. Nerville had dairy locked down with their cheeses. Dozens of farms scattered the island. Paradise for gluttony.

Hermione, immersed in her book, did not notice the room thinning, nor did she see Draco sit on the table opposite her to delve into a hefty historic volume of his own, taking notes as he read. It was only when Hermione finished her own book, that her eyes looked around the room. Noticing the professor, Hermione was quick to plan an exit. She decided to take a new book to her room to read alone, staying away from a potentially bitter or heated conversation. As she passed the professor to reach the four-story bookcase, his head lifted, watching as she passed him by. Hermione did not look back, pretending instead to be engrossed in the titles in front. A spine had caught her attention, Mage's most mysterious. She picked it up and quickly scanned through. Another book that told of the mages during the great war. Of all the volumes she had come across, not one painted magic folk in a kind light. Portraying her ancestors as power hungry, villainous people. Hermione hoped, no, needed, there to be a few kind mages still out there, hidden, unaccounted for. It was ridiculous, really, how the fewer she found, the more obsessed she became. Each dead end, each omission in the pages of these dry, lifeless books only sharpened her resolve. The silence in the room felt heavier, thicker, and she let out a small, resigned sigh. She reached for the next volume, 120 Years of Cold, just another tedious account of the great war, probably as dull and uninformative as the others. But she hadn’t read it yet. Maybe, just maybe, there’d be something. A crack. A glimmer of something that would give her what she needed.

'Why the sigh. Does the excess of titles not please you?' The professor laughed sarcastically. Before turning, Hermione tried with might to relax  the irritation that was certainly shown in her expression. Facing Draco for the first time that evening, she forced a smile.

‘Not in the slightest, professor. It’s just disappointing that there appears to be few accounts of the history of mages, prior to the war.’

'Nonsense,' the professor tutted, rising out of his chair and walking confidently to the section to her right.

He reached for a thick title that Hermione would have required the ladder for, his tall stature certainly came with basic benefits. Pulling out a wad of books, Draco dropped the dusty volumes onto the centre table, raising an eyebrow at Hermione and pointing his open palm towards them.

Fighting a roll of the eyes, Hermione gandered through the titles. She smirked, placing her index finger on the book, and met Draco's gaze.

'The same again. Mages did magic. Mages became greedy. Mages turned into—' Hermione feigned a gasp '—bad mages.'

'Well, that is historically accurate. I'm not quite sure what you expected,' the professor said sarcastically, standing beside Hermione and slamming the thick book shut with barely enough time for her to move her finger out of the way.

'What is the point of books for knowledge when they do not divulge the full history.'

‘Why would simple mages like yourself expect to be privy to detailed accounts of politics and history,’ Draco spoke grittily, sitting down and opening his own book, a signal that he was finished talking. Hermione, suitably miffed, spun on her heel to leave, before something he said registered. Turning slowly, she joined Draco once more, sitting beside him this time.

'You mean to say, there are accounts that are more detailed. They just don't exist in this library?' Hermione asked, watching the professor's expression mould into one of annoyance at her prying.

'The senate and king will certainly have collections. Don't be a fool, this is obvious.'

'And, I assume you know more of mages than you are letting on,' Hermione continued, watching him still. The professor opened his mouth to speak slowly, picking his words carefully.

'I was tasked to learn the history of our region. Not to play with politics. I care not what scheming mages got up to before the great war.'

Hermione's face stretched into a devious grin, 'you mean to say, even you have not seen the accounts. They don't trust you with that information.’

The professor shot her a sour look in return, closing his book loudly in protest.

'You assume there is secret information, when there is likely little to nothing. I am not clear why you are so keen to press. You have been tasked with no assignment to learn of mages, history or politics. You would do well to stay in your lane. I expect your experience of Montisfons has been a positive one so far. But this can change quickly if you misbehave.'

'You're going to punish me for reading, sir?' Hermione asked pedantically, sitting straighter in the chair.

'Me? No. The senate. Certainly,' the professor quipped.

'Idol threats do not scare me. I find it hard to believe that hundreds of mages were all aligned with their barbaric quest for domination and power. Strong opinions forge rebels and those that ask questions. I am certain of this. Anyway, you say there are books that give more. That is all I needed know,' Hermione said quickly, heading to leave once more.

Before the door handle could be grasped, Draco caught her hand, pulling her back inside urgently.

'You fancy rebels because you are one yourself. Do not get any ideas, Hermione. You will be the cause of your own demise. I warn you now.'

The professor didn’t look angry but concerned.

Hermione pulled her hand from his grasp and watched as his face did not change, waiting for her response.

'If you cannot tell me, I will find the information myself. It’s something I have to know. I care not to explain why. You could never understand.'

A step back from Hermione was matched by a step forward from the professor, unease still evident.

'The only books are with the emperor and high senate themselves. Do not be reckless and irrational.'

'You speak as though you care'. Hermione mocked, not moving away, mirroring his stance.

'You have been nothing but a burden since our first meeting. It is not you I am worried about. But the reputation of those around you. Besides, the king's chambers are occupied. Even with my training, I could not hope to sneak in unseen. The senate members are even worse—they share an entire section of Montisfons and fill it like high cloaked locusts. Give up now, it’s not going to happen,’ he sighed, frowning at her now.

Hermione’s posture shifted, her confidence slipping away as the weight of his words sank in. She hated it, but he was right. Even with everything she knew about the palace, the secret passages, the people; charging in would be a death wish. She’d seen the Velas in action, how they moved through crowds like an unstoppable force. They weren’t just soldiers. They were ruthless.

She clenched her jaw, swallowing the frustration. There had to be another way. There was always another way. As much as she burned to uncover the truth about her ancestors, the bloodline she was chasing, she had to admit, there wasn’t any rush. Not yet. She could wait. Breaking the face off, Hermione relaxed and nodded.

'You don't need to warn of a break in. I shan't be trying anything. Perhaps, with more reading here, I will find something,' she muttered.

‘Shall not,’ the professor corrected, his lips twisting into that smug, condescending curl she’d come to loathe.

Her eyes locked on his, darkening, a quiet fury bubbling up inside her. He could kill her wolf, rip her from her home, tear apart everything she cared about—but correct her grammar? No. That was a line. Her hands itched with the temptation to produce sparks and burn the cockiness from him. Make him squeal. Regret every word he had muttered since their first meeting.

Sensing her rage, he went on, 'I understand you are frustrated. But it is for the best to stay out of business that is not your concern.'

'Is that your ethos, sir?' Hermione asked.

'You mistake me for someone who cares.'

Chapter Text

Hermione was still reeling from her experience with the professor.  After reciting the afternoon to her friends, she expected the reaction to be in her favour. To her surprise, they sided with the brute.

'He is correct, you know that right? Not to say he goes about things the proper way. But this really isn't our concern, is it?' Ginny said sweetly, to not offend a clearly sensitive Hermione.

Marc sauntered over to where the women lay sprawled across Hermione's bed, their heads tipped back, staring at the ceiling like they had nothing better to do. He dropped down next to them, casually resting his head on their legs, a lazy grin on his face.

‘I like to think us new mages are making up for past sins,’ he said, his tone light and amused. ‘Showing everyone that we’re established, well-intentioned, and, quite frankly, gorgeous members of society.’ He let out a self-satisfied chuckle.

Hermione rolled her eyes, laughing a little under her breath as she looked at her friends.

‘You’ve never lived outside Veliere, have you?’ she teased, shaking her head.

They meant well, she knew that. But she also knew what mages were really seen as beyond the palace walls. She’d been one of them, someone who distrusted all magic folk, before she was dragged into this life herself.

‘I've never had any complaints when I’ve… ventured outside,’ Marc said with a smug grin, ‘every man I’ve spoken to had nothing but praise,’ he paused, puffing his chest a little, ‘Though, I do aim to please.’

He spun around theatrically, winking at his friends, who collapsed into giggles.

‘Alright, enough of that,’ he declared, clapping his hands together. ‘We’ve got our first mixed-gender dinner tonight. A big event! We need to coordinate. I’m thinking purple. Maybe I’ll even throw in some green to match your ribbons.’

He chuffed as he sprang to his feet, flinging open Hermione’s wardrobe like it was his own.

Hermione tugged at the green ribbon around her neck, a bitter reminder of the conversation she’d had with Madam on day three.

‘All Meugia must wear them,’ she had said, ‘for easy identification.’

More like another symbol of control. The men didn’t have ribbons strangling their necks, marking them like livestock. Score one for inequality.

‘I’m over these,’ Hermione muttered, tugging harder at the cursed ribbon. ‘Why do we wear them again?’ she sighed, realising, for the second time today, that it was magically fastened.

‘To mark your virginity, darling,’ Marc mocked with a devilish grin. ‘But if you don’t want it, I’ll gladly take it off your hands. People love a spark of innocence. Sadly, I lost mine somewhere between my thirtieth and fortieth conquest.’

‘You are awful,’ Ginny laughed, tossing a sock at him, ‘are you?’ she asked suddenly, turning to Hermione.

‘Am I what?’

‘A virgin.’

Hermione blinked. ‘Not exactly, no. But I wouldn’t say I’m... well-versed.’

‘Spill every detail!’ Marc shrieked, leaping onto the bed with such force that Ginny nearly went flying. Hermione rolled her eyes.

‘Nothing exciting, I’m afraid. A few kisses here and there... then Viktor, and that didn’t last long.’

‘Viktor was your first?’ Ginny asked softly.

Hermione nodded, ‘my only.’

Ginny gave a little sigh, looping an arm around her. ‘Look at us—one-man women. We’re practically virgins,’ she joked.

‘God, you make me feel like such a whore,’ Marc groaned dramatically. ‘But seriously, live a little. Jeez.’

He sat up, casting a mock-glare at Hermione, ‘and 'Mione, please, can you dial down the cold? Every time we visit, Ginny and I have to throw on extra layers.’

Hermione laughed, but there was a heaviness to it. The cold, an outward manifestation of too many sleepless nights and too many buried emotions, had a way of lingering, following her around like a shadow.

‘Sorry, I’ll try—’

Ginny squeezed her hand, grinning brightly, interrupting her, ‘we’ve got this.’

The two of them closed their eyes, focusing, trying to bring warmth back into the room. Hermione wasn’t great at weather or temperature spells, just one rushed lesson from Madam had barely scratched the surface. She could heat water, but air was a different beast. Still, they stayed connected, and slowly the chill began to fade. As they concentrated, Hermione cracked open an eye and whispered, ‘Who was yours, Gin?’

Ginny hesitated, then opened her eyes, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

‘Theo.’

Hermione’s jaw dropped. ‘The prince?’

She couldn’t help but gasp. She knew he had a thing for Ginny, but she hadn’t realised it had gone this far.

‘Has he... asked for your hand?’

Ginny shook her head, disappointment flickering across her face. ‘I think—well, I know—he’s looking for something better.’

‘Then why bother with him?’ Hermione said, frowning. ‘Gin, you’re worth so much more than that.’

Marc, overhearing, swooped in and intertwined his fingers with theirs, pulling them both closer.

‘She knows. He’s just being a typical prince. You’ll get him, Gin. You always do.’

He winked, his effortless charm making Ginny smile for real this time. And so, the three of them, bound by warmth, wit, and whatever twisted reality they lived in, prepared for the night ahead.

Chapter Text

The largest of the dining halls played host to the event that evening. Every few weeks Montisfons cracked out an expensive dinner for the senate members, along with the royals, mages and anyone else of importance. Unlike the garden party Hermione attended the previous week, the tone was far more casual. The attendees were dressed elegantly, oozing privilege with every sip of fine wine.

Conversation was light-hearted, the few teachers at the palace were not watching their students as they did the last ball, instead happily sipping booze in a carefree manner. Upon arrival, Ginny led the three to sit on the table closest to the young princes (no surprise now Hermione understood who she had her eye on). The tables were placed with empty plates, winter flowers and tall, dripping candles. The three conversed over a bottle of Quedeoux's finest reserve and Marc turned to Hermione as Ginny caught Theodore's kohl lined eye and began to engage in some small talk, whispering that she would leave to join him after the entrees were finished. Ginny, overhearing, playfully slapped him on the knee and continued speaking over the table to the dapper, but bullish prince.

Hermione took a slow, deliberate moment to scan the room as she toyed with a plate of goat cheese, rocket leaves, balsamic glaze and walnuts. Her gaze drifted over the long tables until it landed on Madam, seated comfortably with the royals. As usual, she was weaving herself into conversation with that flirtatious laugh. Her gown, a striking mix of silver and cobalt, shimmered under the candlelight, the sleeves embroidered with intricate roses. Her white hair hung pin-straight, perfectly framing her carefully maintained facade.

No Draco Malfoy  tonight—thank the gods. Maybe, just maybe, the evening would be tolerable without his suffocating presence. But Hermione couldn’t count on that. As her eyes scanned the back of the room, there he was, standing casually, as if he hadn’t just ruined the moment for her.. Brown trousers, loose black linen shirt, leather boots—the professor in his most unassuming form.

He sat among the Velas, who encircled him with a reverence that bordered on worship, as though he were a deity in their midst. They were all talking at once, round, eager faces lighting up, each vying for his attention. And he was smiling, that faint, disarming smile that made it seem like he wasn’t completely aware of the power he held over everyone in the room. Even from a distance, Hermione could feel it—how they were all trying to impress him. Desperate for his approval. She rolled her eyes, taking another bite of cheese, wondering if anyone in this cursed place wasn’t trying to be something they weren’t.

To no one’s surprise, Ginny soon excused herself. Marc winked at Hermione behind her back as he kissed her cheek. They watched gloomily as their friend joined the prince and the rest of the boys. As she sat, Theodore whispered something in her ear that made her turn to her friends once more. Ginny asked another question, which the prince shook his head at vehemently. Nodding in acceptance, she rose again and returned to the table, looking at Hermione with concern.

'Eddi-prince Theodore, wishes to extend an invitation to you, Hermione. To join us. Marc…' Ginny turned to him '—I'm sorry, I asked if you could but he—' Marc shook his hands, finishing his mouthful of brie with some effort, 'say no more darling. Riv, you have to go. It would be insulting to them to decline.' He smiled weakly.

'But… I’m quite happy here. With you'. Hermione relented, turning to Ginny, hoping she could be excused. But Ken's eyes were sterner now. In essence, turning the prince down would reflect badly on Ginny herself. Hermione knew she had little choice, but she felt awful leaving Marcus alone. On their first mixed dinner too, they were so looking forward to it.

'I'll come and find you the moment I can. Don't stray.' Hermione sighed, getting to her feet.

'No worry, love. Don’t look now, but that Velas on the right—see him, to the left of Malfoy. Blonde, scar across his cheek…'

The ladies subtly turned to look. Hermione recognised him immediately as Reed, the Velas her dearly departed wolf Pascal took a dislike to. She frowned, the cut from the shard of glass that flew from her house when the hurricane-like wind was produced by her distress must have scared him, as it looked fresh as the day the cut was made.

'We go way back. Gave me the eye when we walked in. Won't be long before we go for a little catch-up anyway,' Marc announced proudly, his eyes glazed with allurement.

Sitting with the young royals, Hermione was treated to introductions from Theodore.

'My brothers and friends, this is young Hermione Granger. A newbie to the mages. This is Arthur Shakentree, high senate. Freya Merkel, wife to Arthur. You know Blaise of course…'

Hermione fought not to gasp, she had not noticed that beast of a man, previously hidden behind the rotund man she now knew as Arthur.  He smiled wickedly at her, intention already clear in his darkening eyes.

'And finally, Ronald Mcgreen, my father's advisor.'

Ronald, who sat beside her, was the only guest out of place on the table. A feeble older gentleman, with long protruding white hairs growing from his eyebrows, ears and nose. Curiously, he had no hair atop his head. As if it had migrated with age to other areas. He smiled a toothy grin, and reached his shaking hand for his wine, which sloshed as he brought it to his lips. Conversation between the couple, senate and prince returned, leaving Hermione free to speak to Ginny.

'That man, Blaise. He was the one I spoke to you about,' Hermione winced, acting as coy as possible.

'The one Draco had to step in to—'

Hermione nodded her head at Ginny before she could finish.

Gin bit her lip, and held Hermione's hand under the table, giving it a quick squeeze. 'I am here.'

'Ah yes that is next week isn't it. The winter solstice ball, how exciting. Not like we have enough balls to keep us going. But this one is quite spectacular. Ah, Hermione, you're in for a treat. You think you've seen a party, just you wait!' Prince Theodore shouted with glee.

'What is that, sorry… sir'. Hermione added quickly, remembering her manners.

'My father is about to complete his tour of Relinia. Only a few days left. We always have a big celebration at his return. Even tell you mages to lay off the weather for a few days. It's tradition that we fully embrace the cold. Gets a bit nippy, but it's wonderful. Ice sculptures, honey mead, turkeys the size of dogs. Ginny, you two better look fabulous. Blaise and I will require a date for the evening. I assume you both can accompany us?' he added quickly, shooting a wide smile to his close friend, who returned it at once. A silent thanks for setting him up.

‘We would be—’ Ginny began, her voice uncertain, but Hermione swiftly interjected, her tone composed.

‘Delighted,’ she said, giving Ginny’s knee a gentle tap beneath the table, a subtle gesture to steady her.

It wasn’t what Hermione desired, far from it, but it was inevitable. Better to accept it gracefully. Besides, if it brought Ginny any joy, that was worth something. A quiet warmth settled over her, knowing she could offer some small solace, even if regret would surely follow in time.

A thought occurred to her. 'Your father, he's away, did you say?' Hermione asked, curious.

'Yes' Theodore replied matter-of-factly. 'His annual kingdom tour. Quite humbling trenching through the backwaters and shaking hands with the muddy peasants; no offence taken I hope, Hermione. But yes, upon his return he often feels a craving for luxury, who can blame him. So, we host a party. I'm thinking gold and green, what do you think, Blaise?' Theodore faced Zabini, whose eyes were transfixed on Hermione, heavy with desire and glossy from the wine.

'Hm?' he replied, shaking out of his trance.

'The theme. Green and gold. What do we think?' The prince repeated.

'Oh yes, grand. Whatever you like, your majesty'. He brushed the question off quickly, returning his sights to Hermione.

Quickly, Hermione turned to the older gentleman on her left, hoping to strike up a conversation and keep the insufferable senate member at bay for a while longer.

‘Do you not accompany the Emperor on his tour, sir?’ she asked with a polite smile as the main course was served by a thin, impeccably dressed waiter. Rare beef, accompanied with potatoes, leeks, and carrots.

‘Nah, nah,’ the older man mumbled, his speech slurred with drink. ‘He prefers takin' to Aportia these days. All 'e needs now,’ he added with a tipsy chuckle. Hermione blinked, surprised by the mage’s coarse manner. From his appearance alone, one might mistake him for a peasant who had drunkenly wandered into the palace, confusing it for an exceptionally grand tavern.

‘The Emperor has a mage?’ Hermione asked, curious to learn more.

‘O’ course, he does, my dear girl. Every royal’s got one,’ he replied, nodding sagely, though with little enthusiasm. ‘Most o' them are wives or concubines, but Emperor  Singfrey... well, 'e likes a Meugia at 'is side—not for chattin' or cosyin' up—but for real important matters. Big decisions. Emergency spells. Jus’ in case.’ He nodded again, almost to himself. ‘Not many o’ you girls can do the power o’ words anyhow, so 'e ain't got much choice, truth be told.’

The power of words. The term had come up before, but it still eluded her. Nothing in her readings had shed light on its meaning. She almost asked for clarification, but there was something in his weary expression that made her hold back.

‘Do you serve His Majesty when he’s at home?’ she inquired, steering the conversation to safer ground.

‘Aye, a little 'ere an' there,’ he grumbled. ‘But she's all he really needs now. Does the job well enough, and she's young. Thirty-five or so. Good blood, strong with the magic. So, I spose I can relax now, try to make it through old age.’ He flashed a grin, revealing yellowed teeth, then awkwardly began sawing at his beef. Poor man was clearly struggling.

‘Would you like me to—’ Hermione offered, but before she could finish, he waved her off.

‘Sorry, m’dear, but I ain't no child. It’s a struggle, sure, and you're kind to offer, but I can’t rely on you to be cuttin’ up every meal. What am I to do when there’s no pretty maiden around?’ He gave her a weak smile. ‘Practice makes perfect, as they say. Though, I mus admit,’ he set his cutlery down in defeat, ‘a sharper knife wou na go amiss.’

Hermione glanced around and quickly caught the attention of a nearby waiter who was setting a fresh bottle of wine beside Blaise. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, her tone polite but firm, ‘could we perhaps get a sharper knife over here?’ The young man nodded and dashed off to fetch one. As he disappeared, Ginny leaned in close, whispering with a knowing smile, ‘You and your bleeding heart.'

Hermione blushed in reply but didn’t dissolve into the conversation as the others did. Something was bubbling in her head. A thought. Plan perhaps? With the emperor away, his mage by his side and his only advisor being a feeble man who would struggle to catch a butterfly, let alone her, did that mean his royal chamber was… empty? The Queen sat farther down the table at the ball, her delicate features masked with a tired expression, as though the evening had drained what little vitality she had left. Hermione noticed this might be her opportunity—the chance to explore the detailed historic accounts that Draco had carelessly alluded to. But she knew better than to act rashly. Rushing would only stir unwanted attention. So, she ate in silence, speaking only when spoken to, playing the part perfectly.

By the time dessert had been cleared, the scene was a delightful mess: the prince was whispering something into Ginny’s ear, his lips brushing her earlobe, the old man looked seconds away from passing out, and Blaise was visibly drunk, no doubt waiting for the right moment to make a spectacle of himself. There would be no better opportunity than this.

Hermione stood abruptly, her expression calm and composed. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, with the perfect amount of grace, ‘I need to powder my nose.’ With measured steps, she walked toward the north exit, her mind racing. She scanned the room for Marc—if anyone could join her in this scheme, it was him. An accomplished mage, yes, but more importantly, he would make an excellent lookout. But he was nowhere to be found.

She swept the room again. Reed was missing too. That uneasy feeling of eyes upon her made her glance toward Draco, who had caught her scanning the room. She quickly averted her eyes, pretending not to notice. With a newfound urgency, Hermione moved swiftly through the exit, heading west toward the royal chambers, where the secrets she sought surely waited.

Chapter Text

As she walked, Hermione came to a rather inconvenient realisation: she had no idea which room belonged to the king, nor if Velas might be stationed at the door. In fact, she wasn't entirely sure the west wing was the correct direction at all. It might very well have been the east. She was, after all, far from familiar with the labyrinthine interior of Montisfons.

Still, she pressed on, relying on little more than intuition and blind faith, her heels clicking softly on the gold-lined carpets. Each step felt more uncertain, but she hoped her sense of direction hadn’t utterly failed her. The further she ventured, the more she began to feel a subtle weakening in her limbs. The sap. Of course. It would only make sense for Burnham sap to line the walls near the royal and senate chambers—extra protection for the palace’s most senior residents.

Fortunately, luck appeared to be on her side tonight. Not a Velas in sight, nor any wandering senate members to question her presence. This dinner had indeed been a blessing in disguise. As she passed door after ornate door, it became increasingly difficult to discern which one might house the king.

The hall narrowed sharply, forcing her to turn right at the end, where only a single door remained. Walnut wood, at least triple the size of the others she had seen. This had to be it. With a steadying breath, Hermione reached for the gold-painted handle, cursing under her breath as she discovered it was locked.

'I warned you not to do this.'

Heart in her stomach, Hermione spun round to discover Professor Malfoy standing before her. His eyebrows deeply furrowed, lips pursed and hand in a fist with frustration. She opened her mouth to fire an excuse, but he approached her coolly.

'You give me little choice, Granger. This must be reported.' He sighed, his eyes linking with hers, exploring her shocked expression.

'To what consequence,' Hermione muttered, not releasing her hand from the door.

'To what… Your time here has been one of privilege. But even you must know that the court does not offer light punishments. Look—' the professor stepped closer '—if you leave with me now, quietly, and promise to drop this relentless scavenger hunt, I will… perhaps excuse this. As a final warning.' His hand covered hers, prying it off the door handle. Draco's manner was surprisingly warm. Was this a Velas tactic? When she first encountered him, she thought the same. Well-natured, kind even. But he soon showed his true colours. She did not doubt a similar situation could play out tonight.

'Your offer is kind. One I may even take. But you know, I will return. It is not something I can forget easily, sir. So, you may as well report me now. Take me to the rest of your Velas. Shackle me in the prisons. Do your worst.'

'When are you going to get it through your thick skull that I am trying to protect you,' Draco spat, ruffling his white hair in frustration. 'We are not part of politics. We keep calm and do as we are told.'

'You are not my professor,' Hermione snarked.

'Professor. Perhaps not. But do not forget I head the Veleire guards. My duty is to protect the city and Montisfons, including you. But if you intend to damage my home, it will be you who pays the price. Not them.'

'I have no intention. I just need to know who I am. Can you understand that at all? I lost my mother, I didn't know my father. I have no one. All my life I assumed I was part of an evil cult and breed. I need to know that is not true. It…ca—'

Hermione began to well up, her shaking voice sending a tremor of embarrassment through her body. It shamed her to show emotion like this. Especially around a man she hated so passionately. She quickly gathered herself, breathing deeply and regained her focus, looking directly into Draco's eyes to show how serious this was.

'I need to know, for my own sanity. Professor.'

They stayed silent for what felt like a lifetime. Draco's expression was the first to relax. Slowly, he dropped to his knees, pulling out a small wad of leather from his back pocket. Looking at the door handle closely, he pulled two thin, twisted metal rods from the pouch. He looked to Hermione for a moment, then back to the handle. Quickly, Draco inserted the lines through the lock and twisted and turned them quietly, his ear close to the walnut wood. Hearing a satisfying click, he pulled them out and put everything back into his pocket. He stood again, pulled his shirt straight and looked into her eyes sternly.

'In and out quickly. This is the only time I will allow this. Understand?' he muttered gruffly, swinging open the door for her to enter.

Hermione watched him carefully, her forehead lined. This could have been a trap. One foot in, Draco could close the door, locking her in and call for the rest of his Velas. 'How do I know I can trust you?' Hermione asked cautiously, not moving.

The professor sighed heavily, then began to chuckle softly. 'To be honest, this seems like the quickest solution to get you off my back. Read what you need to, realise things are as they seem and let us leave quickly. Then see me no more. I wish for no trouble, understand?' Hermione nodded. Even when he was showing kindness, he had to twist it into something rude. But there was little time to linger on his cruel words. Their time was limited, she knew this.

Marching inside, Hermione began to explore.

The king's chamber was as grand as expected. Every inch of the walls was adorned with fine art, trophies, and weapon racks holding divine instruments. Yet, curiously, there were few books; a strange omission for such a space. Hermione barely had time to register it before the professor quietly entered behind her, closing the door with a soft click. He surveyed the room once, then methodically set to work. His eyes lingered on the king’s desk, his fingers moving papers aside, searching for any signs or clues. This seemed to be the heart of the room, functioning as the Emperor ’s office. Two other doors stood to their left and right, presumably leading to the bedroom and bathroom. There had to be something here, documents, records, something of importance.

‘There must be a bookshelf somewhere,’ Hermione whispered, as she sifted through items on a dressing table, her anxiety bubbling up.

Her brow was damp with sweat as she worked, hands moving frantically across silver brushes and ornate jewellery.

Draco, now seated by the desk, was far more deliberate, tracing the edge of a bar cart to the right. He lifted a dusty bottle of mead, nodded with faint approval, then set it back down. He leaned forward, carefully running his fingers along the underside of the desk, feeling for buttons or hidden compartments. Nothing. With a sigh, he rose to join her, clearly coming up just as empty.

‘This is useless, there’s—’

Hermione stopped mid-sentence as Draco raised a hand, silencing her. His ringed finger pointed to the floor behind her. She followed his gesture, seeing nothing. Puzzled, she looked back at him, but Draco, with an inpatient glance, rolled his eyes and crouched down to touch the corner of the paisley, oxblood rug beneath her feet. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but the rug was slightly crumpled, as if it had been disturbed recently.

‘This has been rubbed against something,’ Draco muttered. ‘But there is no door, it’s not even near a path where someone would normally walk.’ He stood again, moving to the wall with a feline grace, pressing his ear to the gold-painted surface. Gently, he tapped along the length of it, moving with deliberate care until—thunk. A hollow sound reverberated. His smile widened. ‘There’s something behind here,’ he said, inviting her over with a tilt of his head.

‘Perhaps through that door?’ Hermione suggested, nodding towards one of the adjoining rooms. But Draco shook his head.

‘No, the space behind this wall is too small for a room. You can tell from the sound. There’s something else, some trigger, a mechanism, look here.’ He unsheathed a small blade from his side and jammed it into a barely visible crack in the wall. Slowly, he ran it down to the floor. ‘This opens. We just need to find the right lever or switch to make it happen.’

Hermione watched, dumbfounded. ‘How did you—?’

He chuckled, his charm almost maddening. ‘It used to be my job to find things that didn’t want to be found.’

‘I remember,’ she muttered, then began searching again, mimicking Draco’s technique as they rifled through papers, drawers, and jewellery boxes. Draco pulled paintings from the wall, even poked through plant pots. It quickly started to feel futile.

As Draco busied himself with the wall once more, Hermione’s eyes drifted to a bust of the Emperor  standing tall on a nearby table. Its crown was lined with large, exquisitely cut gems. Just one of those stones could feed her old village for weeks. Her fingers lightly traced the jewels, smooth under her touch, until she noticed something strange. An emerald felt loose. Leaning closer, Hermione twisted it gently. To her surprise, it rotated counterclockwise with a satisfying click that echoed in the still chamber. Draco spun around, a grin spreading across his face.

‘Clever girl,’ he purred, crossing the room to join her as the hidden door swung open.

Inside was no grand secret room, but a narrow, compact space, like a cupboard. The walls were lined with books and an array of curious items. Draco, acting gentlemanly, allowed her to enter first. It was a tight fit for the two of them. Hermione reached out to light a candle mounted inside, but to her dismay, nothing happened. The Burnham sap again, no doubt. Draco smiled, producing a box of matches from his pocket, and lit the candle with a practised flick.

They wasted no time combing through the shelves, eager to find what they had come for and leave before anyone noticed their absence. Beyond the thick volumes of books, there were vials of rare ingredients, coin purses, jewel-encrusted goblets, fine wines, and small, delicate weapons. Hermione’s attention was drawn to a peculiar bottle of perfume. The liquid inside shimmered maroon, with flecks of gold. A small note dangled from the neck of the wax-sealed bottle, suspended by a thin string. She squinted to read it, her curiosity piqued.

My king, the cologne you requested.

- A.

A bundle of letters were stacked beside the bottle. But with time so short, Hermione abandoned her curiosity and continued looking. Pulling a book off the shelf, she scanned through the handwritten accounts. Recipes from the infamous cook, Helmey Waddleburg. No good. Another book mentioned the war, but it was a list of the dead. Depressing but not what was needed.

'Granger. This may be what you're looking for.'

Hermione spun around so fast, the large book in her grasp knocked the vial beside her to the floor. It fell, smashing loudly at their feet. Looking up at the professor, she grimaced and shrugged. They pricked their ears for sounds of company. A few moments of silence satisfied them and Hermione moved closer, admiring the sweet smell of leathery spice exuding from the floor. For a moment, she wondered if it was Draco she was smelling. It was incredibly similar to what he wore (the only thing about him she was fond of). But this was overwhelmingly strong. So much so, it was making her head sway. Shaking out of it, she moved to Draco who held open a large, dusty book. His finger on a line for her to read.

The forest mages have proved to be a problem. They are well-natured but hate to be confined. Many have stopped eating. Refusing to bathe. Some of the smaller ones have given in, but the older mages are stubborn. Fear not majesty. We will beat them into submission if we have to…

A sensation growing within interrupted Hermione's reading. The light-headed feeling stronger now. She swayed. Draco, seeing this, placed the book down to steady her. Hand on her forehead, Hermione held onto his arm like an anchor. It was not an unpleasant feeling. Quite the opposite. A strange warmth grew from her toes to the top of her head, filling her with a sensation she had not felt before. It was tantalising but came with something else. A need for touch. Hermione gripped onto Draco harder, bending a little to breathe more deeply. Hand on his chest now, she tried to steady her heart, which was beating so powerfully it could have burst from her chest.

'Granger, what is—' Draco stopped himself.

Hermione felt his own heart rate increase under her fingers. She knew worry should be filling her. But all that occupied her mind was how his chest felt under her palm. Hard and sculpted. More energy built within her, bringing her closer to him. They faced each other with a look of confusion. Hermione watched as his eyes grew dark, his pupils wide with something she did not understand. Shaking his head, he pushed her back gently and reached down to touch the liquid that pooled on the floor with his index finger.

Bringing it to his mouth hesitantly, he immediately spat it out. His eyes wide, as if he suddenly understood what was going on.

'We need to leave. This... this was a powerful seduction potion. They stopped production just before we won the war, I haven't seen one in years b—' He stopped speaking again, stepping forcefully so his long back was firmly against the shelves behind them. He was distancing himself from her intentionally. It had to be affecting him too.

Draco ran his fingers, which were now shaking, through his thick white hair, trying to regulate his breathing, his brain working overtime to figure out a solution to their problem. His eyes locked on hers and he withdrew a deep exhale. Hermione felt his breath hit her like a light caress to her face. It whispered to her to step closer, to feel his body once more, drink him in. She was dying of thirst and he was a tall glass of water, inviting her to give in to dark temptations and gulp away. Relish in the relief that his body could offer. He clicked his fingers rudely, snapping her out of her inappropriate stream of thoughts.

'It's powerful. But if we remain strong, we can fight it. A light spray is all that is usually needed, but we have the entire bottle on the floor thanks to your clumsiness.' He ran his fingers through his messy hair with frustration. 'It matters not, we have to leave. Co—' Draco's voice broke off again as sound echoed through the corridor. Someone was coming.

'Fuck,' Hermione whispered, trying will all her might to fight the ache growing within. Draco pressed his fingers over the lit candle, extinguishing it. Hermione, who had started to exit the cupboard per his instruction, was pulled back inside.

Standing close behind her, Draco wrapped a strong arm around her chest and neck, holding her still. Leaning them forward quickly, he quietly sealed the door. The darkness only enhanced the feeling within. Without the harsh reality of seeing who joined her in this nightmare, it felt safer to explore the temptation. To give in to the insistent heat that was curling in her stomach.

It was silent for a moment, then noises echoed through the room in front of them.

'All the preparations are in order. Majesty informed us that the villages are worse than he thought. Cattle starving, no crops. With little to no mages visiting, he's asked for more magic folk to travel. Fix the places up,' a snooty male voice boomed.

'We hardly have enough of them in this city. Without them, Veliere will suffer too. The king, he... he is growing soft.'

Draco tightened his grip, an arm sliding over her chest, fingers digging into her left shoulder, a silent command to stay still.

The closeness of their position was driving Hermione wild with feelings unfelt before. Squirming in his arms, she couldn't help but move into his body, feeding off the heat radiating from him. Draco growled into her ear, a hint of ache laced in the noise, and moved his waist back, furthering himself from her body. His will power was impressive. Without warning, he hit the shelf as he moved, a small thud breaking the silence in the tiny room. They froze and listened intently.

Hermione was not a religious person by nature. With all their gods, she never took an interest. Being rationalist and an empiricist, she found the concept of an omnipotent, omniscient being far-fetched. When others counted their blessings and donated a spare goat or crop they desperately needed for themselves to the goddess Zenia, Hermione would stifle a laugh or groan. But the last few weeks, she had changed her mantra. Finding herself looking up to where the sky would be above, closing her eyes tightly and squeezing out a silent and desperate prayer just in case anyone—god or spirit—was listening. At this moment the prayer morphed into pathetic begging. Her mind raced. If the gods existed, if there was anyone listening at all, they had to be cruel. There was no other explanation for this. Not after everything that had already been taken from her.

The continued discussions in the room ahead proved no one was aware of their presence. And their bodies relaxed slightly.

'We will have to be more forceful with the groupings here. Get them paired. How is the program going Finneas?'

'It is... not going as smoothly as we planned.'

'What do you mean by that, exactly?'

'There are more rules now. You know this. We will just have to speed it up. More line-ups, arrangements. I'll see to it with the other members.'

Hermione wasn't listening. Her body was on fire. The strong arm around her body creating a numbness around her heaving chest. The beating of Hermione's heart could be felt through her entire body. Electricity pulsing through the air.

Draco, thankfully, seemed less affected. Though his breath was heavy on her neck. Warm and sweet with a light scent of wine to it. It mixed with his aftershave, enhancing the already intoxicating scent and drove Hermione wilder by the second. She backed further towards him, needing to feel more body, skin. Anything. His breathing stifled for a moment. Against her back, she could feel he was reacting to her. His own arousal sent her over the edge and a velvety moan escaped her lips before she could stop it. A hand lashed across her mouth, silencing any sound that threatened to spill out. The professor’s breath, warm and sinister, hovered near her ear as he whispered:

‘Fight it.’

She clenched her eyes shut, struggling to tether herself to the distant conversation drifting in from outside. A distraction, anything to drown out the tumult spiralling in her head. She had to resist. Her body, traitorous as it felt, responded in ways she couldn’t control, but her mind still clawed for reason. This was a man she loathed, the very one who had dragged her here. The man who slaughtered her wolf, belittled her at every opportunity, revelling in her misery. Yet, despite the torrent of disgust and hatred coursing through her, a treacherous part of her ached for the feel of his body against hers. The thought snaked through her mind, given the chance, there would be no limit to the depraved things he could do to her.

The voices outside grew louder, tension rising in tandem with the conflict swelling within her.

‘Subtly. Remember that.’

'I know, you fool. Darn. Does he not realise that spreading the mages out will only make the rest of the counsel and nobles riot. The men we could do without. They always leave to sail anyway. It's those beauties. He's no saint, he's tasted their sweetness. No. Simply not possible. You'll have to speed up the program, starting from the new week. Keep it within the magic possessing counsel if you can. But remember what I told you'.

'The more magic the higher potency of the product'.

'Exactly. Anyway, Sinfrey asked for a list of mages. By his desk if not... the cupboard. You remember.'

The two bodies tangled in the cramped cupboard stilled, breath catching, every muscle locked in anticipation. Eyes squeezed shut. Waiting. The heavy thud of footsteps echoed in the hall outside. Hermione's heart pounded in her chest. This was it. Had to be. Her time at the palace was up. The good run she'd had, luxury rooms, golden corridors, feasts, all of it; felt absurdly distant now. Like a half-remembered dream, already slipping through her fingers.

She had no idea what came next, but the whispers around the villages and hamlets painted a clear picture. Velas and the senate didn't mess around. Public lashings, fingers sliced clean off, searing skin with hot iron until the flesh bubbled and burned, that was just the beginning. A warm-up. The real punishment? That happened behind locked doors. People who got taken rarely came back. And if they did, they weren’t really people anymore.

'Ah, no worries. They are here,' A voice shouted. The professor and student let out a quiet sigh of relief, 'It's all here. Come. Back to the feast. Did you see that...' their voices trailed off and the door slammed shut. Draco released Hermione abruptly, his fingers slipping away as if burned, and with a swift motion, he shoved the door open. The air outside was cool, a stark contrast to the stifling tension that had filled the room. They stumbled out, both gasping, as though they had been suffocating moments before.

Hermione’s body trembled, her limbs weak as she fought to steady herself, gripping the door frame for support. The ache that pulsed through her was different now, deeper, more visceral, as though the weight of what had just happened lingered inside her, carving itself into her muscles. But the distance from him, even just a few feet, offered a bitter kind of relief. His touch had been overwhelming, an unbearable combination of loathing and need, and now, without it, she could at least begin to breathe again. Each step away from him felt like a reprieve, though the memory of his hands still burned against her skin.

Draco looked at her seriously and nodded to the door. 'We have to leave. Now. Return to your room. See no one. Take a cold wash if you need to.'

She nodded, swallowing down her arousal.

'The book. Is it enough?’ The professor asked, closing the door of the cupboard.

'Yes,' Hermione replied breathlessly.

He hurried to the king’s desk, his movements taut with the strain of the moment, and snatched up the bottle he’d eyed earlier, desperate for something to dull the chaos raging inside him. His hand shook slightly as he uncorked it and brought it to his lips, taking a long, deliberate swig. Gasping, he slammed the bottle down with a rough thud, a flicker of relief washing over him, however brief.

He exhaled sharply, nodding, as if convincing himself the drink would steady his unravelling control.

‘Come. We need to leave. This stuff... it's dangerous.’ The professor’s voice wavered, the tension between urgency and temptation palpable as he handed the book to Hermione, her hand outstretched.

As their fingers brushed in passing, a jolt shot through both of them—electric, undeniable.

For a brief second, their eyes locked, filled with an unspoken awareness, an understanding that neither of them could, or wanted, to ignore.

Without warning, Draco flung the book onto the table with reckless abandon, the heavy thud slicing through the air. He didn’t care who heard. In an instant, his hand was on the back of her neck, fingers tightening as he yanked Hermione toward him. They stood frozen for a heartbeat, mere inches apart, their breathing jagged, their eyes glazed with raw hunger. The wrongness of it, the sheer inappropriateness, only heightened the tension. They both knew they should stop. But they didn’t care.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering, as though he was already tasting her. His body, so close, radiated heat; solid, unyielding, drawing her in like a magnetic pull. Hermione, overwhelmed, surrendered first. Her lips crashed into his, the kiss urgent, reckless, as if it was the only thing anchoring them in this moment.

It lasted only a few seconds before they broke apart, breathless, staring at each other, drowning in each other. Draco’s eyes darkened as he reached up, his hand sliding to the back of her head, pulling her back into him. This time, the kiss was deeper, slower, more possessive. Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut, rolling back as her body responded, every nerve alight, every cell screaming with need. With her body betraying her, Hermione’s trembling hands fumbled at his shirt buttons, desperate to feel his skin beneath her fingers. The professor, unwavering, walked her backward with deliberate steps, their lips locked, until they reached the edge of the king’s desk. Without hesitation, he lifted her effortlessly, setting her atop the polished surface. She immediately wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, the heat of their bodies fusing in the tight space between them. His grip tightened, one hand firmly on the back of her head, holding her exactly where he wanted her, while the other moved to his belt. With a swift yank, the buckle was undone, the leather strap pulled free and flung aside with a sharp, reckless snap.

Their kiss deepened, growing fevered, ravenous. Draco’s mouth left hers, trailing a path down to her neck, his lips searing her skin with each forceful kiss. His breath was hot, urgent, as his hands slid to her waist, pulling her in closer still, pressing against her in a way that sent waves of intoxicating friction between them. The intensity of it, the sheer hunger, had Hermione groaning, her body arching into his.

And then, just as she gave in to the overwhelming need, his hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes flew open, catching his darkened stare; pupils blown wide, nearly black, as though consumed by the same fire that was eating her alive. His hair was a mess, tousled from where her fingers had yanked at it, but his expression was controlled, dangerous. He shook his head, a wordless command to hold back, to wait, though every fibre of her being screamed to let go. His dominance was intoxicating.

'You need to stop me,' he growled, looking at her like a man dying from thirst.

Hermione shivered in his hold, her body pulsing with want and desire. It blocked every sane thought, put a stopper on best intentions and whispered to her that this was right. How could something that felt so delicious not be? She shuffled her hips against him again, need bubbling inside her. He groaned deeply in frustration, removing the hand from her mouth and pressing his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her face.

'Hermione, I can't stop.' He said with gritted teeth.

Hermione pulled back for a moment to look at his face. His sharp oval eyes were alive with want. She observed him, trying to find something to repel her. To stop this madness. But all she could do was drink him in. Her eyes flickered from his soft full lips, to his perfectly placed stubble. Then to his scarred brow. There was sweat on his forehead, a few strands of his wavy blond hair clung to the wetness, making the tips of the hair seem darker. He was achingly handsome.

'Then don't stop,' she uttered.

In one swift move, he pulled her forward by her thighs and flipped her to her front. Powerless and pinned down by a strong hand on the back of her neck, she felt as he pulled her brown silk dress over her hips. Cooler air hit her backside. She was at his mercy now. Naked and bare. She couldn't see what he was doing, but Hermione could hear the sound of clothing dropping behind her. Then she felt it. Her immediate reaction was to cry out, but she muffled her weep in her arm. He was not forceful but by no means gentle. His need clearly great. Thankfully, he was slow. Pain soon became pleasure. Each movement flowed within her, scratching the all-powerful itch that had been present since she smashed the bottle.

Draco's breathing was laboured, a grunt escaping behind her as he fastened the pace. Try and she might to hold her own moans in, they escaped. Draco was too preoccupied to muffle her this time. This was the pleasure she had only read about. With few previous encounters, she assumed sex was just an act to keep a man happy. She had no idea it could feel this sublime.

With every stroke a coil tightened within. A wave of tantalising energy surging over her. Hermione fought thoughts of self-hatred. Despise would have been a kind way to describe what she felt for Draco. So, why did this feel so good? His hands moved to her hips, gripping her with desperation and pinning her still, his grip so powerful she was sure his fingertips would leave a peppering of bruises. But he didn’t care, pulling her in further, overpowered by the bewitching of the potion. He ruthlessly slammed into her faster. She worried that he would stop. Worried that this feeling of fullness could never be replicated. Pleasure was, it seemed, not so overrated after all. Squeezing her eyes together to stop them from rolling backwards, she stopped fighting the feeling. 

Something was building up. What it was she wasn't sure, but it was powerful. Draco’s movements were faster now, drawing her closer and closer to something. An ocean of pleasure was washing over here, teasing at her toes, legs, core and chest. In a moment, everything crashed around her. A surge of euphoria so supreme her legs began to shake. Feeling her around him, made Draco growl and stiffen. Heavy profanities escaping his lips.

Resting his heavy elbows on her back, he felt her skin with a tender finger, then, grabbing her waist gently he flipped over so he was laying beside her, facing the ceiling.

Suddenly very aware of her nakedness, Hermione reached behind her, fumbling to pull the dress back over her body, the fabric clinging awkwardly to her flushed skin. She turned onto her side, her sights landing on Draco. He was laying also, his hand resting against his chest as if grounding himself, the top half of his shirt hanging open, revealing his lean, muscular torso. Dark chest hair, thick and untamed, peppered his skin, rising and falling with each strained breath. His eyes were shut, and his usually controlled features were softened, blond hair falling messily across his forehead. They both breathed heavily, as though they'd just run a mile, each exhale laboured, a mix of exhaustion, relief, and something darker, something laced with horror at what had just happened.

She watched him carefully as his eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, his confusion was clear, raw in a way she wasn’t used to seeing. But then, almost instantly, the familiar sternness returned, his expression hardening like a mask snapping back into place. He turned toward her, awkwardness settling between them like a heavy fog. Clearing his throat, he sat up abruptly, his movements mechanical as he hastily fastened the buttons on his shirt, pulling his trousers back up.

The heat, the tension, all of it was gone now, drained from the room like a fever breaking. Hermione was left feeling dizzy, disoriented, a wave of nausea rolling through her. It wasn’t just the aftereffects of the potion, it was something deeper, a sickening mix of self-loathing and regret, aimed not only at him but at herself. She despised him, but the truth was, she despised her own weakness even more.

The professor took her hand and roughly pulled Hermione to her feet. Now grabbing the mage's arm, he pulled her out of the room. Looking around the corner slyly, he continued, pacing quickly down the hall. Finally free from the royal chambers, Hermione shook herself out of his grip. Feeling sick from the touch of him. He didn't look at her, just kept moving.

'Where are we going,' Hermione asked, still trembling.

'We are not going anywhere. I will be returning to the dinner. You are going to bed,' he said flatly. His brows furrowed and angry.

Hermione's mimicked him now. The feeling of self-hatred for what she had just done rising. The professor stopped suddenly.

'What just happened was... out of our control. It should not be repeated to anyone and certainly did not mean anything.'

'You mistake this for something I wish to talk about. I do not,' Hermione answered feebly.

'You do not quite understand. It cannot be spoken of. It is forbidden for students and mages to forge any kind of relationship outside of those proposed. It was a strong potion, we were just... weak. I... I wish to not speak of it further. You are excused to your room. Go now.'

His words landed with the force of a blow, sharp and bruising. Hermione’s skin prickled, a wave of discomfort washing over her as she struggled to hold it together, swallowing the knot rising in her throat. Tears, hot and insistent, welled up behind her eyes, but she blinked furiously, determined not to let them fall. She couldn't—wouldn't—break in front of him.

For a moment, he stared at her, his eyes flickering with something that might have been guilt, though it was hard to tell. The emotion flashed and faded too quickly, leaving her no time to dissect it, no room to understand what he felt, or didn’t feel. Before she could process it, he turned abruptly, the leather soles of his boots scraping the floor as he pivoted sharply on his heels, his back to her in an instant.

Hermione watched as he strode away, his steps firm and unhurried, vanishing into the hallway. The echo of his departure lingered in the air, heavy and oppressive, leaving her standing there, utterly alone. The space around her seemed to expand, hollowing out in his absence, and with it came the crushing weight of solitude, pressing down on her chest.

Chapter Text

No amount of soap or water could cleanse the filth that clung to Hermione since her encounter with Draco. The previous night, she had crawled into bed, cursing and crying in the isolation of her room. Anger gave way to revulsion, a disgust that grew deeper the more she thought about it. Scratching at her scalp, her skin, desperate to feel clean, she had rushed to the baths. The tub was already filled, the water warm, but as she sank into it, lathering her body, the sensation remained. No matter how vigorously she scrubbed, self-loathing filled her mind.

How could she have given in so easily to those magics? Was she really that weak? The consequences of being raised by a mother with limited knowledge of her kind perhaps. Hermione only knew of household spells learned through trial and error prior to the palace. It seemed plausible that her power was inferior. Lesser. The other mages took to the few magical classes they had like ducks to water, whilst Hermione was still learning to swim. Though, perhaps, it wasn’t about power at all. The professor had explained that strength of will could resist the potion. She had always thought herself as strong, at least mentally. This night shattered that illusion.

Her neck began to sting, pulling Hermione from her thoughts. She lifted the brush from her skin and noticed pink streaks lining the bristles. Touching the raw patches on her body, she had scrubbed herself bloody. So consumed by the need to erase his scent, his presence, that she’d gone too far, her skin now throbbing in pain.

Quietly, Hermione dried herself, carefully dabbing the tender areas, and crept back to her quarters. She curled into a foetal position beneath her covers and closed her and tried to focus.

Not only had she committed an unforgivable act, but it also made her so frazzled and distracted that she’d left the room without the very book they came to collect. Not to mention having paid little attention to the potentially important conversation ongoing outside their intimate hiding place. Hermione tried to recall the details, but could only hear a mention of the emperor requesting more mages be scattered around Relinia in her memory; and something about a program? She shook her head, shivering from a cold chill, inescapable no matter how many layers of covers she threw over herself.

Hermione, finally, closed her eyes.

⚜

She slept deeply that night. Mental and physical exhaustion made it so. But still she didn’t feel rested. Dragging herself out of bed and casting a quick, weak, warming spell on the arctic room, she hurried to dress for her first class. Before leaving, she noticed the gown worn the previous evening messily balled on the floor. Hermione remembered how Draco had hurried to lift it from her body. Desperate to feel her. She shuddered, picking it up and pushing it to the back of her cupboard. Out of sight and out of mind.

At breakfast, Ginny queried about her friends’ whereabouts the previous evening. Marc explained that Reed and he were catching up. But the twinkle in his eye said more. When they turned to Hermione, she lied, claiming a wave of fatigue hit her and she retired to bed early.

Her comrades, unlike Hermione, were in good spirits. On their route to class through the central greenhouse, Marc darted toward a jasmine bush, its delicate white blossoms heavy with the heady fragrance of summer. He turned to them with a playful wink before burying his head deep within the foliage. He emerged a few moments later, walking to them silently, his expression blank. Ginny laughed, confused. Marc raised an eyebrow cockily and opened his mouth wide. From his lips, an emerald-winged butterfly burst forth, shimmering as it caught the light. Unharmed, it flew around them twice then back to the bush it came from. Ginny crumpled to her knees laughing. Hermione smiled, trying to join with the fun. But her mind was distracted. Not even Marcus Yaxley Tethys, part-time comedian, could pull her out the dark place she was straddling.

The ladies dropped Marc off at his combat lesson, where today they were focussing on single-hand weaponry, so she was told by the unenthusiastic student. As they pulled away, Hermione spotted Draco across the courtyard instantly. He was spinning a lengthy steel sword with effortless grace, the blade slicing through the air as he manoeuvred it left and right. He looked as though he had just risen from slumber, his blond hair tousled, a few strands falling across his forehead, and his shirt buttons askew. Even from a distance, Hermione could see the shadows beneath his eyes.

As Marcus leaned in to kiss her cheek, Hermione’s attention remained fixated on Draco. For a brief moment, their eyes locked, lingering for just a moment before he returned his focus to his swordplay. In that fleeting exchange, she felt her stomach tighten, those intense feelings of loathing returning even more strongly than before.

Walking to class with Madam, Hermione hoped the lesson would offer a much-needed distraction from the guilt weighing down on her.

⚜

'Do you have your stones in hand? Very good.'

Madam clapped, passing around the last of the precious gems.

'As you may have guessed. We will be learning how to infuse stones with magical properties today, crafting amulets for various purposes. Fear not, these will not be overly powerful. Most Meugie will sell these on their travels to the sick, desperate or impotent. You ladies will likely use these for personal reasons or for gifts for your lovers, friends, and senate members. It's quite simple, follow me.'

Madam lifted her hand to show a smooth amethyst lying flat in her palm.

'If you are not able to create an effective pendant today, do not fret. It’s a tricky thing to master. Rather like threading the thin eye of a needle. Concentration is required. Now. Think of the enchantment you wish to infuse your gem with. I have chosen healing. We will be using amethysts but note this. The older and rarer the stone, the more powerful the enchantment.'

Madam lifted a bottle labelled general wellbeing.

'One must drink a potion, or cast a spell of nature or emotion to infuse the gem with. Understand? I will show you first.' Smiling, madam drained the potion and quickly closed her hands over the gem, muttering an incantation under her breath. ‘Ah, done. See? Quite simple, if you know how to cast.’

Madam gestured to the crowd of students.

‘Does anyone have any cuts or bruises to play guinea pig?’

Hermione’s mind drifted to the raw scrape on her neck from her bath the previous evening, but she quickly dismissed the thought. The last thing she wanted was attention; questions might arise, and it was easier to remain silent. Just then, a young blonde Meugia with a face sprinkled with freckles and a gap in her front teeth raised her hand, coming to Hermione’s silent rescue. She recognised the girl as Ersa, a shy but kind soul.

‘Ah, what is it? Do show us,’ Madam urged, striding over to Ersa and settling down opposite her on the rug.

Ersa hesitated, then slowly raised her index finger. ‘Papercut,’ she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘Ah. Perfect.’  Madam grabbed the girl's finger to examine it, then lifted it high to show the class, pinching the end hard enough to expose the redness of the slender cut, and causing Ersa to inhale sharply. 

Madam placed the gem in her hand and closed her gasp around it.

‘Look again dear,’ Madam purred, smiling at Ersa.

Looking at her finger, her pained expression morphed into one of glee. It worked, the papercut replaced by smooth, faultless skin. Ersa shot a gappy grin at her teacher.

'There are many enchantments available to a mage. But they must derive from something existing within the natural world. Gems can be infused with the strength of potions such as we’ve seen here. But spells can have power and some expert mages have been able to tie emotional feelings to them, too. Though, extreme emotions were banned a longtime ago once common folk started to black market amulets of euphoria to hopeless addicts. No, we will just be working on the common infusions.'

A Meugia Hermione knew as Casey raised her hand, her brow furrowing. Casey was chubby, with rosy cheeks that added a youthful glow to her round face. She had short, dark hair that framed her features, and her bright blue eyes were wide and expressive.

Madam nodded for her to speak.

‘Madam Haggravan, I heard a rumour that amulets were used in the Great War. Is that why so many are banned?’ Madam was quiet for a moment, tapping her long purple nails on the sizable ruby dangling from her gold-encrusted necklace before opening her mouth to reply.

‘Yes, amulets were indeed used. The older mages, with more potent power, manipulated the masses in clever ways.’

‘Sorry, Madam. Which ways?’ Hermione asked, curiosity sparking within her.

‘Well, we use necklaces and gems for more straightforward amulets, but there are ways to hide spells in metals, particularly if they’re old. For example, if you’re wearing a crown of silver, as long as the silver is not freshly forged, you could hypothetically infuse that crown with a spell to make the wearer behave in a certain way.’

Madam seemed irritable. Being a Meugia herself, Hermione sensed her discomfort discussing the darker aspects of magic. She decided not to press further.

‘What kind of spells?’ a new voice piped up.

Turning to her right, Hermione was surprised to see Ginny had asked the question.

‘This is not a town hall, ladies. Raise your hand if you wish to speak,’ Madam replied sternly, clicking her nails against the carpet in a rhythmic beat. ‘Many of those spells were means of control. The Bowiens were able to create potent potions and spells before the laws were enforced. So naturally, the enchantments were equally powerful. Their favourite was the puppetry potion, a powerful mind control tool, convincing others to listen to them, follow them, act on their behalf—you get the idea... What we do now is a mere shadow of what the Bowiens achieved.’ Stopping abruptly, Madam clapped her hands, rolling her eyes as she noticed Casey had raised her hand again.

‘Yes.’ Madam spoke quickly.

‘But the regular people won the war. How were they able to stop them?’

‘Sap. It was always the sap. Carpenters, blacksmiths, even cooks began adding it to everything. Soon, the Bowiens found themselves ineffective. Only in the last decade have certain areas, including a few select rooms in this very palace, lifted the sap restrictions, allowing you all to practise magic freely. Amulets like these are unique to our trade as they are unaffected by sap. We could ingest sap, and if we were fortunate enough to survive, the amulet on our neck or wrist would still be in effect. The only way to remove the enchantment is the death of the original caster. But, as I said, the more powerful infusions have been banned. Rightly so; they can cause all sorts of problems.’ Madam grinned forcefully and moved on, encouraging the class to pick an enchantment.

‘How do we know what has been banned and what hasn’t? We perform magic daily and brew potions. How would we know not to create more powerful ones?’ Casey asked again.

Madam sighed heavily, exhaling her frustration. ‘This is the last question I will answer on this topic.’ Her lips grew thinner as she continued. ‘Words of power bind our laws. It is truly impossible to break them. You cannot create a potion more potent because it is simply not allowed by the gods. If you wish to cast a spell to remove someone’s memory? Tough luck unless they ask you to. We can only act as we are permitted. The treaty the Bowiens signed made it so.’

‘But no one has had the true power of the words in centuries, not even the royal mage has the power…’ Casey replied to Madam’s fury. As the room grew silent her cheeks burned scarlet and she bowed her head in apology. ‘My father is senate and informed me, apologies. I was just curious.’

Madam paced for a moment. ‘You are correct the last truly enriched mage to perform the power of the words was before the Great War. The only laws that are currently bound are centuries old, and are therefore basic. You cannot steal, you cannot kill our emperor and so on. Most would likely be unaware they existed at all. However, one of the Bowiens, a descendant of the original bloodline, with the emperor's blessing at the war's end, enacted a final law to protect the royals and the people from harm. They intentionally reduced their own power, so even if they attempted to infuse an amulet, it would be weak. The only powerful amulets that exist now were crafted before the war, and I assure you, they are well accounted for.’

Madam's words rang like a bell in Hermione’s head. Words of power. She had heard the professor speak this phrase before, and something about it resonated with her. Hermione thought of asking for more clarity from Madam, but sensing her frustration, kept quiet. She could ask Marcus, she thought. Out of her friends, he was the most knowledgeable on the history of magic and mages.

As Madam clapped her hands together, Hermione was brought back to the matter at hand.

Looking across the selection of potions laid out on the oak table—fortitude, focus, dexterity—she eventually came across something labelled the tonic of tranquility, a draught suitable for enchanting an amulet of calm. Something that Hermione needed right now more than ever. Drinking the potion, she muttered the enchantment Madam had taught them. Feeling nothing, she tried again. Noticing her confusion, the teacher approached.

'Something wrong, my dear?'

'Sorry, yes. I drank the potion, did the spell. I'm not sure... Did I do something wrong?' Hermione asked cooly.

Madam watched her through thin eyes and placed a hand on her wrist. At first, she thought it was to comfort her. But she seemed to be counting. Listening to her pulse.

'Your heart is heavy. You may feel calmer but your body, what is inside, is not. To infuse one must fully embody the emotion. That is why healing potions are much easier—no emotions involved. We are complex characters.' Madam giggled, releasing her grasp. 'Tell me, Hermione. What calms you most?'

Hermione's immediate thought was her lost wolf. His fur against her cheek. His warmth on her lap. The way he snored softly as he slept. Hermione's mind soon gravitated to her mother. The smell of her hair. Her laugh. The way she would hum soulfully as she cleaned their cottage. This was not helpful. These memories, as comforting as they were, brought an emptiness to her. The infusion would surely mimic that feeling too.

'It doesn't have to be something compound. Just a smell or taste perhaps? These simple things can work wonders. Better than any potion'.

Hermione thought of tending her garden and helping her mother in her youth to do the same. They would collect the lavender, bring it inside to dry and stuff the buds into knitted socks; selling them for a pretty penny on the markets. She remembered sitting with her mother, cross-legged on the floor, picking at the stems. The house would be rich with the scent of the flowers. It was a peaceful time.

'Lavender,' Hermione said, smiling shyly.

Madam nodded and handed the amethyst back to her. 'A homework assignment then perhaps. We have vast gardens here, you’ve visited them, I’m sure? This time, go alone. Take the stone. The north gardens have splendid patches of winter lavender growing. Sit there and try again. How does that sound?'

Hermione nodded thankfully.

Madam raised a brow and grinned. 'Go now?'

Hermione did as she was told, taking her shoes, amethyst and gloomy spirit with her as she left.

Chapter Text

   En route to the gardens, Hermione struggled to find her bearings. The courtyard was close to the gardens, she was sure of it. Retracing her steps from earlier today, Hermione reached the courtyard. Combat class was still in session, with Draco in the centre. Students circled the yard, clad in light armour, clutching wooden swords. By the professor stood two young men, one of them Marc. As Hermione approached closer, she could see the sweat on Marc’s face, his lip quivering; he was completely out of his element.

'Now, men. As practised. No hits to the face, knees or belly. Arms and legs only, understand? These swords will not kill you, but they can give a nasty cut. Ready yourselves... go'.

Draco jumped back and watched the two like an eagle watching prey.

The thicker-built lad clicked his neck left and right, smiling devilishly at the terrified Marc, who held his sword at an angle to protect his body. The stumpy fellow moved forward, sizing him up.

Hermione stood with the others, watching the fight ensue helplessly.

Without warning, the brick of a man ran towards Marc and, with a pig-like grunt, slammed his sword ruthlessly towards her friend. Somehow, Marc managed to block the blow with a clang. He smiled with pride and a good dose of surprise. The dumpy man spat to his right and wiped his greasy, ginger hair out of his face.

'Thought you lot were used to taking a beating,' he snarled, charging for a blow again.

In a stroke of luck, Marcus managed to dodge the vicious swing. As he leapt right, the gruff man tripped on his outstretched leg and toppled to the floor, his sword flying to the other side of the courtyard as he fell. Swearing, he flung his arms out to push himself back to his feet, wiping blood from his lip. Marcus meanwhile, looked delighted; circling the crowd around him with a hand to his hip. He pointed his sword towards the beefy man still swearing at him.

'How delightful to have been bested by one of my kind,' he practically sang.

Hermione winced, angering the clearly ill-tempered man would not be her chosen move.

The man sprang to his feet, charging towards Marcus with a roar of bloodlust, avoiding his sword and colliding with him roughly, bringing them both to the ground with a thud; the large man on top. The two scrambled for a moment, but there was no competition. The man, though short and fat, was built like an ox, solid and powerful. He fired punches at Marcus viciously, who could only take them as he remained pinned between his barrel-like legs. Worried, Hermione glanced at the professor with an expectation that he’d put an end to the fighting, but why only watched the two continue with no expression. Seeing no option, she frantically ran to the centre, pulling the rounded man's shoulders, trying desperately to stop him.

'Alright Deius. Enough,' the professor said loudly behind her.

His fists did not falter. If anything, this spurred him on, desperation to land more painful blows on Marcus’ already bloodied face.

Hermione could take this no more. Bending to Marcus' level, she pushed at the beefy man with her palm in one final attempt to get him off her dear friend.

A powerful gust of wind launched from her fingers unexpectedly, firing the man to the other side of the yard. He rolled away comically, becoming wedged between a corner of the wall. The magic only lasted for a moment, and with the wind gone, Hermione attended to her friend. Lip bloody, nose broken, and eyebrow split, he was a mess. But nothing a few healing potions couldn't fix up (she hoped). It was the nature of the attack that angered Hermione. The man's rage was clearly fuelled by his disdain for Marcus' choice of companion.

Irate, she turned to the teacher before her. 'Why not stop him? Look at the state of Marcus. How could you not intervene?' she demanded, shooting Draco a hateful look.

He stared back blankly. Clicking his fingers, a good-looking young Meugie was summoned.

'Take him to the infirmary,' he said nonchalantly. Turning to Hermione, he spoke once more. 'He will be fine. We-' Draco signalled to the rest of the yard full of Meugie in training, '-see injuries like this daily. You, however, can come with me.'

The yard laughed and oohed at the professor's words.

Helping Marcus up, she passed him to the man tasked to take him away to heal. She whispered that she would be right with him. Marcus nodded, holding her hand and squeezing it, before stumbling away, arm in arm with the boy.

Hermione followed Draco to his office at the end of the yard, ignoring the stares and venomous laughter from the class.

One step inside, the door closed behind her. The professor strolled casually to his desk, sitting behind it. He opened his palm for her to sit opposite him. She did as she was asked, albeit begrudgingly. 'Care to explain your intervention during my class?' he asked, coolly.

'I was doing what you should have… that pig beat the living daylights out of Marcus and-'

'You forget your place. Did you not walk, uninvited, into a class of mine?'

'Well, yes but-'

'Combat lessons. It's in the name. The boys fight, they get hurt and get over it.' It’s up to me when to intervene. Not you.’

'And when is it that you take the responsibility to intervene in matters of homophobia in your classes?’ Hermione muttered, her blood at boiling point.

She thanked the gods there was sap lining the walls of Draco's office, as sparks would have certainly been emitting from her fingers had she still been standing in the yard.

'Excuse me?'

'You heard me. Care to take accountability for your lack of action, professor? Was it not you who told me yourself that your duty is to protect the city, Montisfons and people within? Forgive me but that-' Hermione pointed aggressively to the door of the yard '-was not protection. That was enabling'.

'Know your place, Granger,' the professor hissed.

'I hope you’re not the one I have to rely on for protection in the future. I would be better off with Marcus by my side.'

Draco stood suddenly. Pacing first, he marched towards the bar to his right. He stopped. Changing his mind, he turned back to face Hermione.

'How clearer need I be that I am your superior. A teacher, guard. Respect is not optional.'

'Respect is earned,' Hermione shouted, standing too.

They stared at each other in silence. Eyes narrow. This was more than just the attack in the yard. It was a projection of the previous evening. Both parties had regret, that was clear. The room was thick with tension and showing no signs of clearing. Taking a deep exhale, Draco sat first.

'Sit,' he instructed, his tone still pointed. 'I admit, the nature of his violence may have… slipped my attention. It will be watched. It wasn’t as if he could have killed the boy with the laws that govern. But you simply cannot keep intervening like this. You will leave me little choice; I will have to-' he cut himself off. Cooly, he knotted his fingers in his blond hair, messying it.

‘You'll what? Report me? Take me in? I'm sure the senate would be interested to hear how you treat your students under the thrall of a potion.’

His eyes snapped up at her again. But they relaxed quickly. The Velas reached under his desk, opening a draw and pulling out a small black vial. He tapped at the glass with a ringed finger and rolled it gently across the desk towards her.

Hermione picked it up, holding it to the light to examine the dark liquid inside.

'Speaking of. Take this.'

'Wh-what is it?' Hermione asked, confused.

'It is a cleansing potion. Used most commonly as a means of birth control. This particular brew will ensure you are… free of any surprises.'

Hermione's stomach lurched. With all the existential concerns, she’d completely overlooked the practical. Birth control was for the wealthy. The usual practice in her village was praying to the gods that the fertility window was not open at the time of coitus. The professor's words were too calm for her liking; he could have been giving the time or commenting on the weather with his tone. She turned her eyes from him, unable to keep her gaze on someone she despised so much. This was not what she needed today. Her plan had been to distract herself from the man before her, not to sit in his arrogant company.

'Any side-effects?' Hermione asked, loosening the stopper.

‘A shift in mood, fatigue, cramps. Nothing extreme,’ he muttered, closing the drawer beneath him.

Nodding, Hermione drained the vial and rolled it back to him.

'Where did you get it?' she asked.

'There are… certain perks of the job, shall we say.’

'Not the first time you have needed this potion. Noted.’ Hermione replied with composure. She lifted to her feet once more. 'If there is nothing else.'

He lifted a finger to pause her. Turning, he pulled a familiar book from the shelf behind him and passed it to her.

'I believe you forgot this.’

It was the text they had discovered in the cupboard. It wasn't left behind after all. Hermione hid her delight, not wishing to give him any satisfaction.

'I… perused a few pages. You should not need reminding, but as the rules often escape your mind, I feel I should say. Whatever you read is simply for informative purposes. No action should be taken. Share what you read with no-one. Or, I promise you Granger, there will be consequences you cannot begin to comprehend.’

They had found something of substance then.

‘If you wish to talk about anything in this text. You come to me only. Understand?' Hermione nodded again.

He was the last person she wished to talk to. He must have realised that. Regardless, she made peace and left the room calmly. Feeling a little off from the potion she had just drunk.

Chapter Text

Hermione intended to quickly inform Ginny of Marcus' incident, but instead of one friend, she found two at her quarters. Marc was back from the infirmary. Bruised but quite well. Hugging him at once, Hermione checked his face for any remaining damage. They had cleaned him up diligently. Ginny wore a look of irritation, directed not at her, but Marc.

'You should have told us that the men treat you like this. We could have helped,' she said, biting her lip to steady her emotions.

'You are both good friends, and you know I adore you. But you can't fight my battles. Hermione, I appreciate you stepping in. But, please, that must be the only time. You were only doing what you felt was right but… well, I can't be saved by a woman. Or anyone for that matter. They will only use it to fuel the fire.’

For the first time, Marcus seemed serious. Dropping his infectious smile and replacing it with a look of sincerity. The girls took his hands to show their care.

'You can still talk to us. You don't have to be alone in your mind. I know it can be a lonely place'. Hermione added, squeezing his hand tighter.

'If I do, you must too. Your room is like a snowstorm my love. We know you are hiding some sadness of your own. We are a team now, agreed?'

The women nodded.

'Men… love to hate them and hate to love them. I do wonder if life would have been easier had I just coupled with one of you bints,’ he jested. 'How bout it, Gin... I bet the children would be gorgeous.'

‘Cheekbones that could cut glass. But imagine the attitude.’

The gang laughed and agreed that a dip in the water and bottle of wine would be the best remedy for their woes.

⚜

Hermione groaned into Marcus' shoulder, accepting a glass of water from Ginny. The three were packed tightly in her bed, having collapsed there late at night, drunk on wine and a naughty bottle of spiced mead that Marc had been saving. Headache aside, she was thankful for their evening together. It was the tonic she needed to get her mind off the dark thoughts swimming in her head unattended.

Though Hermione didn’t feel strong enough to share her personal dilemmas, Ginny was eager to have two shoulders to cry on. She spoke more of Theodore Nott, the eldest son of the emperor. He’d been tagging her along for months it seemed. Upon her arrival in summer, he had courted her at the first dance. Despite their regular meetups, he refused to commit. It was tradition, Hermione learned, that courting was a two-week window. By the end, it was common a proposal was made. The friends queried if she had perhaps settled too soon, but Ginny spoke of his dashing looks, divine nature in bed, how he would recite poetry to her and speak openly about the pressures of royal succession. One thing was clear from Gin's confession, she was hopelessly in love with Theo.

Marcus, however, was enjoying his bachelor lifestyle, explaining that he couldn't wait to travel the nation. To him, relationships were boring. He relished in the excitement of the first kiss and screw. It was all about experiences, he said. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth bottle of wine, Ginny began to bawl, demanding they be honest and explain to her why Theo did not love her back. Rather than speculate, Marcus and Hermione helped her to bed, staying with her to stroke her hair and tell her what she needed to hear.

Hermione and Marcus stayed awake talking. Marcus warned her to learn from his experiences.

'You saw how they punish me for being different. Like it or not Herm', you are too. You don't dive down with the girls, but you come from poverty. That's not widely known. I mean, they know you didn't grow up around here. But your disguise is in your voice—you speak well dear. My advice, keep that information hidden. I mean, you know we love you, peasant or not. Give them a crumb and they'll want the whole cake.'

Despite her instinct to protest, Hermione knew he was right and agreed to be careful. With a yawn, the evening closed with Marcus' querying what professor Malfoy wanted with her in his office. She had hoped his blood-soaked eyes had not picked up on that. Even beaten black and blue, Marc was quick to notice drama.

'Nothing really. Gave me a bollocking for helping you, but that was it,' Hermione said quietly, nuzzling into Ginny and letting her tired eyes droop.

'You know' Marcus yawned loudly. 'I think he likes you.'

⚜

With immense effort, her friends eventually roused and left her alone in the early afternoon. Their hangover was well timed with their only day off in the week. Suntag. The day of rest. After a dip in the fresh mountain waters in their living quarters, Hermione finally had time to read the book the professor handed to her the past afternoon. A few pages in, her heart sank, a sick feeling spreading throughout her body at the realisation of what she was reading combined the remnants of the alcohol still lingering.

24^th of Aprel, 2400.

Upon the Bowiens return, we have, as ordered, searched for the Wildwoods. When querying with villages, they are seemingly reluctant to give away the information. Many are unaware of their existence. A few however, the jarls in particular, know a little. We found a small group near Rezin, a hamlet by Yurgen. They are en-route to the palace as we speak. There was, admittedly, a struggle. But the foul magic folk are peaceful in nature. It was easy to break them with their lack of force.

1^st of Maarce, 2400.

Despite the wildwood reluctance to stay out of political matters, it is now obvious they helped the more desperate villages in the war. Jarls, knowing this, have been very hesitant. But some gold helped loosen their tongues. We have captured four families across Relinia so far. But there are more, we know it.

14^th Maarce, 2400.

No one seems to know anything. Our efforts to bribe for information have been in vain. We are starting to think the villages and cities we have visited may well know nothing of these wildwoods. We have decided to focus our efforts on exploring the forests they live in. It is cold, but we have furs, food, and swords. Light magic may protect them from the weather, but not from the Veliere guards. We will find them.

2^nd Joon, 2400.

The senate have doubled the pressure. These animals are hard to find; it has been challenging. With a life in the wild, they are well adapted to the harsh weather conditions and hide very well. But some we have discovered. To our surprise, they did not argue when we captured them. Peaceful bastards. Or perhaps they are stupid. They speak little, hardly eat. When they do talk it is in a tongue not known to us. We are continuing to look, but I fear we will find no more. 

20^th Joon, 2400.

Senate met us in a tavern in Predensnow. Told us to be more gentle with the wildwoods. Explained they don't give us much choice. Don't walk when we tell them to, won't eat, all they do is lay there. Silent. Mocking us with their emerald eyes. Some of the men took advantage—whilst I didn't condone their actions, who can blame them? It's all too easy. They are mages after all. Bad blood, all of them. Emperor told us all before, and that is what I remind myself daily: They may not have turned then, but they will someday. We're just acting before they do. Rightly so.

30 Septam, 2400.

We have been ordered back to Veliere to help fight in the wars spreading around our seas—seems folk have cottoned onto the fact that we have a load of mages back with us and want them for themselves. Haven't found a forest mage in almost a month. Lads are cold, hungry and know it's hopeless. Accounts show we got almost a hundred, plenty to keep the program alive.

Hermione snapped the book shut and pressed her palms against her face, as if trying to block out what she’d just read. She had been expecting a rush of relief—a thrill, maybe, knowing there were others like her. That the fragmented rumours she’d picked up around the palace were true. But that feeling had twisted into something much darker. Horror. The guard’s accounts, vague at best, were barely coherent, scrawled across wrinkled sheets littered between stretches of blank, damaged pages. When she flipped through the rest, she found the details maddeningly mundane. Day-to-day grievances, moments barely worth recording. Flicking through more, she saw no more mention of 'the wildwoods', bar one note.

12 Decomb, 2401.

En route to Lasenwood, trudging through acres of forest and what do we find? A group of them wildwoods, just sitting. Eating and singing. Naturally, we picked them up. They didn't seem happy. Cast a wind spell at us. But we got them. Little treat for the senate. Hope to get a nice bonus of coin for that one.

That was the answer to her questions. Were there other mages that were not a part of the great Bowien mage clan? Yes. What happened to them? They were captured cruelly. For simply having the ability of magic. Hermione felt her neck where the sage green silk ribbon was tied still. Is this what they were brought into? She only hoped they were kind to them when they arrived. 2400 was just over thirty years ago, the end of the war. Those mages, if they’d survived, would be older now, maybe even elders. So why hadn’t anyone heard of them? What happened to them? And why wasn’t this public knowledge? In Relinia, "mage" was a tainted word, something tied to power, sure, but wrapped in disgrace. Yet, according to the Velas’ notes, these mages had been peaceful. They’d even helped villages in times of need. Kind people, apparently. Helpful souls who’d just wanted to be left alone.

Tears of anger trickled down her face. Letting out a guttural sigh, she tried to calm her flaming fingers. Breathing deeply, Hermione damned herself for going out of her way to find this information. It killed her to admit it, but Draco was right. Some things were better left hidden.

Just like The Wildwoods.

Hermione slid the book into her bedside drawer and took a long gulp of water. As she set the glass down, she heard something small and light drop onto the oak floor. With a sigh, she leaned off the bed, reaching down to see what had fallen. It was the amethyst Madam had given her, a reminder of her assignment to create an amulet of calm. Hermione’s mind felt too crowded, too frayed, to imagine finding any calm. But then, the thought of lavender flickered, and her hands cooled. This is a good idea, she thought, rising from the bed and moving toward her wardrobe to get dressed.

Chapter Text

There was a chill in the late afternoon air that she had not known before in Montisfons. Hermione pulled the cardigan she wore tight over her body, feeling the cold more deeply in the light silk dress she wore. Always silk. Not cotton or fur. It was common for mages to wear it, as if it were a uniform. She wondered if it was another method subtly enforced to allow them to be easily identified by the masses. Silk dress, sage ribbon—another Meugia to corrupt, how fabulous.

Hermione strolled through the empty corridors, the hall and past the courtyard until she met the familiar stone staircase that led down to the north gardens. Opening the colossal walnut doors, she saw it was snowing. Moreso, she felt it, the bitterness passing through the holes of her cardigan with ease, piercing her skin like thousands of tiny knives. She wondered if the weather mages were also treating Suntag as a day of rest.

With no furs to hand, she pulled her cardigan tighter and whispered a warming spell as she carried on through the gardens.

With the snow, the gardens were filled with an abundance of winter flowers, bushes, and foliage. Jasmine wrapped around each corner, lines of violet filled the flower beds and the winter hearth spread like wildfire. As she walked, feeling more comfortable as her spell took effect, Hermione admired the view. Feeling more at home with the familiar weather and fauna. Madam's instructions led her to the winter lavender. A huge patch packed the area of the gardens close to the forest. Raising her hand over the bed, she dried the flowers from any snow and water. Content, Hermione sat in the middle. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the smell, revelling in the innate comfort it brought her.

Pulling the precious stone from her pocket, she held onto it, concentrating on her feelings and surroundings. But it was a hard thing to hold onto. Flashes of the mages of the forest popped into her head. Hermione wondered if she knew any of the wildwoods, perhaps some of the teachers or Meugia wives? The few Meugie who visited Lasenwood? Was her father one? Her mother had only divulged that she was a product of an affair with a rogue mage, nothing else. No name or location. She doubted she knew of his background. And even if her mother did, she was gone now. Calm had left, replaced with confusion, rage, and grief. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the zen to return. But it was in vain. Not even the sweet, smoky scent of the lavender could bring her serenity.

'Having trouble with a spell, are we?' A dulcet voice spoke.

Hermione looked up, startled, her eyes widening in disbelief. Draco Malfoy stood over her, swathed in leather and fur, dark grey eyes shadowed with what looked almost like concern. Damp from the snowfall, nearly-white hair clung to his forehead, the strands framing his face. If she didn't despise him so, Hermione would have said he looked handsome.

Recovering from her surprise, she quickly wiped her tears away and sniffed heavily. 'How do you always find me in states like this,' she sighed.

'Why are you always alone when you feel like this, would be a better question? Do you not have friends?' he asked sarcastically, sitting to join her.

Why was he being nice? Friendly even. They had clearly clarified one thing; they were not allies.

He watched as she shivered from the cold. The warming spell had worn off. Without a word, he took off the fur cloak he was wearing and placed it over her shoulders.

'That's two of my cloaks I have given you now. I expect at least one back.' Rolling her eyes, she began to take it off, but he shook his head and chuckled. 'I jest.' 

'Did you approach me just to make my day a little worse, or did you have something you wished to say?' Hermione said.

She moved to slip the stone back into her pocket, but the professor caught her hand mid-motion, gently pulling it out and turning her palm upward to reveal the purple gem. It sparkled, glistening with melting snowflakes as they drifted down around them.

'What were you trying to enchant it with?' he asked, calmly.

Hermione watched him for a moment in silence, trying to work out his agenda.

'Calm,' she answered.

'Forgive me, but you do not seem calm,' he muttered.

'No shit.'

'Miss Granger.'

'Carry on,' Hermione sighed, trying to close her palm. But he stretched it open again.

‘I’m no mage myself, but I’ve learned a thing or two about calming techniques following battles with broken soldiers. Panic and trauma come with the territory. If I may?’ He raised an eyebrow, his voice calm.

Hermione watched a water droplet, formed from melting snowflakes, slip from his brow, tracing its way down his cheek and along a pale scar before finally resting at his jawline. She nodded.

He smirked.

‘Place your hands in mine,’ he said softly, spreading his palms open before her.

She hesitated, then placed her hands in his, feeling the warmth as he gently clasped them together.

‘Now breathe deeply with me. In—’ he inhaled deeply, the rise of his chest deliberate, grounding. ‘—and out.’ She mirrored him, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath guide her own. ‘In… and out.’

‘Now, try to step outside of your body. Listen to what’s around you. Feel the air, the brush of the breeze, the sun warming the crown of your head, the wet of melting snow on your skin.’ He let a few moments pass in silence, allowing her to sink into the sensations. ‘Now, bring to mind a memory that fills you with joy. Let whatever comes first unfold naturally, without effort.’

Instinctively, Hermione thought of Pascal, the soft, comforting weight of his fur against her skin as he curled on her lap, warmth radiating between them.

‘Surround yourself in this memory. You’re there,’ he murmured.

The fur of the cloak he’d wrapped around her felt almost like Pascal, her long-lost companion, her gentle wolf. She imagined it was really him, nestled close. The soft hiss of the wind became his low, steady purr as he slept, grounding her in calm. And then there was the scent, something soothing carried in the air. Lavender, distinct and fresh, but interwoven with something deeper; woody, warm, almost sweetly spiced. Ouds and vanilla. She drew a deep breath, feeling its warmth spread through her, grounding her further.

‘You're ready. Cast now.’

Hermione muttered the words Madam had taught her and felt heat in her palms. Opening her eyes, she moved her hands out of the stack they had made and observed the small gem, which was now opaque. It worked.

'I don't believe it,' Hermione gasped, bringing the gem closer to her face.

The professor smirked cockily and leaned back on his hands, watching her.

'Easy when you know how,' he muttered, still smiling. Hermione, though delighted by the success of her enchantment, did not mirror his joy. She had not forgotten Pascal's fate. And most importantly, who brought it upon him.

'Did you read the book?' Draco asked suddenly, his smile replaced with a straight face. Hermione nodded solemnly. 'And?' he asked, clearly eager to speak about the findings.

'I knew there were others, that was obvious. I didn't realise they were dragged out of their homes against their will when they did nothing but help our dratted region.' She tightened her grasp on the stone, relishing in the slight calm it offered.

'You have lived here. You know it is a better life. They would not have been treated badly, I am sure of that '

'You're certain? Just as you were certain there were no other mages? That I would find nothing? Apologies, professor, but your expertise in history is somewhat limited.' Hermione shook her head, pulling a head of lavender from the ground and rubbing the petals between her fingers.

'Most of us choose to live in black and white. It means less heartache and angst. But there is a grey area. Many are simply blissfully ignorant of it. You—I'm sad to say, are not. You're a meddler. Not to say I blame you, though it would certainly make everyone's life easier if you stayed to the path built for you. Look… I am-'. The professor paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together to warm them, '-thankful you found it. I may be a simple man. But I have my own curiosities. It pains me to say it, but you were right to look. There may be more to this than we suspected.' He cleared his throat loudly and drew a sterner face. 'But it ends here. They are clearly not in pain nor being tortured. Likely they are living perfectly normal lives around us. So that is that. This is why I came to speak to you. To inform you of that. I shall not offer my help to your spying again. Understand?' he asked, his tone pointed.

'With all due respect, you would be the last person I would ask,' Hermione replied with venom.

'I am not sure how many times I must warn you to adjust your tone around me. I am trying to show you a morsel of kindness. You have… not had the most pleasant journey in life. I am sympathetic of-'

'You? Sympathetic. How rich. You wish for me to treat you as a teacher. So be it. No more of these chats. No more speaking out of turn. No more talking at all. Would that please you?' Hermione's outburst alluded to her emotions, but she remained firm in her stance.

'You are incessantly dramatic, Granger. But fine. If that is your wish, so be it. We have little need to speak regardless. I rarely teach women.'

'And whose choice was that?'

'You may think I am a swine, but I made a case to open the teaching to both genders in my first year here. It was the senate that shot me down. I agree, magical learning, life skills, and knowledge should be genderless.'

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but had no reply. Why was he making a point to prove himself now? He was speaking to the wrong person. Perhaps if introductions had been different, she would fall for his obvious charm. But he would always be the man who ruthlessly dragged her out of her home and killed her wolf. The sooner he left her life, the better.

‘What I just told you stays between us,’ he said cautiously, his gaze steady. ‘And, I might add, so does everything else from this past week.’

‘Trust me, I have no desire to relive any of it,’ she replied dryly. ‘Thank you for the cloak, Professor. But I should be going—’ She moved to slip out of the heavy fur, but Draco placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

‘I’ll walk you back,’ he said swiftly. ‘Keep it on, just for a little longer.’ His voice softened, a hint of warmth breaking through his usual reserve. ‘Consider it a gesture of goodwill to make up for a… rather unpleasant week.’ The corners of his mouth lifted in a slight grin.

They walked in silence toward the palace. When they reached the main doors, she assumed he’d leave her there—but he didn’t. Instead, they continued down the corridors toward her quarters, passing the bustling dining hall alive with voices and laughter. Mages and senate members filled the long tables, where platters of roasted honey glazed meats, golden rosemary potatoes, and steaming winter vegetables were set in abundance, filling the air with rich, savoury aromas. They moved on.

The palace halls were busy now, their quiet passage drawing the occasional glance from curious onlookers. Even here, winter crept in. Many of the mages, like her, still wore their silks, though they’d draped furs over their shoulders to keep warm.

'Why so cold?' Hermione muttered. A rhetorical question. The professor did not take it as one and answered quickly.

'The emperor is back, as you know. The winter solstice ball? The celebration of the shortest day of the year all mages, as tradition, holt their meddling with the weather. It has begun already. So, you would be wise to walk the palace walls with something thicker than that,' Draco advised, looking at her worn, grubby cardigan, his expression tightening with barely concealed displeasure.

'You would be shocked to learn that the women are not given clothing for warmth. They seem to prioritise showing off figures instead,' she replied, grimacing. Hermione noticed his eyes recentre and look ahead.

They passed his own quarters near the courtyard, yet he didn’t pause, clearly intent on escorting her the entire way. A few minutes later, they reached the green-carpeted corridors marking the entrance to the student housing. Here, Draco’s steps slowed, his polished heels coming to a halt as he turned to study her with a flicker of curiosity.

'Keep the fur. I have more,' he said swiftly.

'I still have your oth-'

'That one is lined with sap. This one, you will find to be more freeing.'

'I see. Well, thank you. I suppose.'

'Perhaps, if I could say one thing,' he paused to messy his hair uncomfortably, 'this needn't be awkward. I understand some circumstances have been regrettable. Be it duty or… inebriation through… you understand. I do not find you intolerable. Quite the opposite. You have a strength within that I find admirable. It’s just unfortunate,' Draco stopped talking for a moment, glaring at her seriously. He tapped a pointed leather boot to the floor and cleared his throat, he was finding this hard, she could tell.

'If you should see me around Montisfons, I will be professional and polite. I would only ask you to show me the same respect.’ He spoke as if each word cost him something, discomfort breaking through his typically passive expression. He looked almost sincere. But she knew better; this was merely flattery, a careful act to keep her placated. He was afraid of being exposed.

'I must remind you again, that I wish for nothing more than to forget this happened. However, I will also be… courteous.’

'Thank you.'

They stood in silence for a moment, unspoken thoughts hanging like a weighted rope between them. Taking her cue to leave, she began to turn away, but Draco’s voice broke through the stillness, halting her in her tracks.

'Forgive me. To pry one last time. The thought that gave you calm. Hold onto that. I think, perhaps, you need it.'

Hermione, momentarily enveloped in a sense of peace, felt bitterness bubbling back to the surface. ‘If only it were that easy,’ she muttered, turning to walk away. After a few steps, a surge of vengeful impulse compelled her to dig the knife in a little deeper.

‘It was Pascal, my wolf. But you’ve kindly reminded me he’s gone. Care to tell me who’s to blame for that?’ she asked, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Draco stood there, expressionless, his narrowed grey eyes fixed on her. Hermione struggled to decipher what lay beneath his stoic facade; guilt, anger, contempt? Draco Malfoy was a master at masking, in all manner of ways. She lingered for a moment, offering him the chance to respond. When he finally did, his reply was curt and cold.

‘Indeed.’ He turned away sharply, walking away in silence.

Chapter Text

Preparations for the winter solstice ball consumed the palace over the next few days as a whirlwind of activity thrummed through the halls like a restless spirit.

Amidst this chaos, lessons plodded on in their familiar rhythm. Madam guided them deeper into the arcane art of harnessing magic through nature, finally conducting a class outdoors. The students, covered in thick furs, were instructed to sit on the grass, fingers pressed into the soil and coax the verdant blades to stretch and grow at their command. Hermione, who had tended to her own winter garden countless times, found this particular strand of magic more accessible than most. Certainly much easier than concocting potions and enchanting jewellery, which had felt as natural to her as breathing underwater.

However, like it or not, with each passing day, the distinction between her and her peers sharpened. A growing awareness that she was woven from a different fabric. With a good decade of experience, growing-up around mage parents or close to the palace the women she studied alongside were demonstrating aptitude from their first day. What Hermione found challenging, was second nature to most. Whispers began to spread about Hermione's background, and snide comments could be heard in passing from low, muffled voices— mostly from the men. The women were kinder; only two in her class seemed to have a distaste for her— Padma and Parvati Patil. Twins. Identical in looks and attitude. Tall and deathly thin with large eyes highly adept at gawking at anyone they deemed different enough to deserve such treatment. Ginny explained to Hermione that their lineage was linked directly to the senate. Their mother a Meugia and father one of the highest-ranking members of the council. Coming from such elite stock, they carried their sense of superiority effortlessly. But their disdain was generally made clear at a distance and they rarely spoke to anyone in class, much to Hermione’s relief.

The Meugie were far more vocal. Deius—the same Deius who gave Marcus a beating a few days prior—was particularly invasive in their lives since that encounter. Marc was the main victim, but he’d taken a liking to Hermione since she had protected her friend, making snide comments about going back to her farm and rolling in pigs shit instead of bathing in their clean waters.

Another Meugie had shown a keen interest in her over the past few days: Quinn, yet another product of the senate’s multigenerational networking agenda. There was a troubling trend at play.

Quinn was not actually a Meugie himself, yet he was educated alongside them— how that worked, Hermione couldn’t begin to comprehend. But with both parents being esteemed members of the royal council, he was given certain privileges of practice.

One evening, Ginny, Marc and Hermione sat in the atrium, finishing a game of cards and a bottle of cheap wine. As they got to their feet to retire for the evening, Quinn held her arm, stopping Hermione from leaving with the rest who also stopped, protectively waiting and watching.

‘So, you're the peasant,’ Quinn chuckled, his eyes appraising Hermione from head to toe as he bit his lip in amusement.

‘Excuse me?’ Hermione shot back, irritation prickling at her skin as she scratched her head. Quinn was a plain figure with a stocky build and a clean-shaven head. He wore an emerald silk doublet that draped elegantly over his frame, adorned with gold embellishments that glinted in the light. It was his way of silently asserting his status among the others.

‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ he continued, the smile still dancing on his lips, ‘but it’s just… odd. A Meugia from such a background. We’re accustomed to a higher class of magic. ' His tone was dripping with condescension. ‘Though, one could argue it humbling to have someone like you in tow. And one could argue, should they be inclined, that to be humbled in the face of such contrary distinctions could present mutually beneficial opportunities.’

‘What is your point?’ Hermione replied sharply, her patience fraying at the edges.

'I was raised in Montisfons. I know a thing or two about the finer things in life. From your stance, the way you slouch in your seat, and how at dinner you lean on your elbows whilst you eat… you stick out like a brass knocker on a golden gilded door. I think it would be best if I, perhaps, showed you a thing or two about how to live like us.'

Hermione stared at him in disbelief of his audacity. Popping her hand to her hip, she furrowed her brow and replied 'There is no one way to live, dear sir. You'd be wise to remember that.'

With that she turned to leave with her friends, who were rolling their eyes in reaction to the rudeness of the pretentious fake mage. But his hand caught her arm again. Shooting around, Hermione stood tall despite her petite frame, her emerald eyes filled with a furious glow.

'You misunderstand. I think, with my help, you could thrive here. I am trying—perhaps unsuccessful—to ask you on a date, Hermione. I am willing to look past the issues of your heritage. And being a member of the senate-'

'Not yet,' Hermione interrupted.

'Well—it is inevitable. We would be well suited, you and I: mage and senate. Think about it? Perhaps if not dinner, accompany me to the solstice ball tomorrow night? I can teach you how to dance, to eat-'

'Apologies, Quinn. I must stop you there. If this is your way of asking a lady on a date, you are the one who needs training. It is not common, in civilised conversation, to insult your person of interest before you ask them out. Besides, I wouldn't want to muddy your family with my peasant blood. It is a kindness to them that we remain as we are.’ Hermione smiled devilishly, proud of her retort.

His soft, cocky expression quickly blended into one of embarrassment.

'It would be an honour for someone like you to join with me. It is what is encouraged, do you not listen in your lessons, to the council? Senate and mages are the perfect match; my family have royal links too you know?'

It seemed Hermione’s declining his proposal wasn’t even on the longlist of expected outcomes. The corners of his mouth twitched, caught somewhere between  outrage and incredulity.

'Tempting as your proposition is, I will have to decline.'

He opened his mouth to argue again, but before he could continue, Marcus glided in, looping his arm through Hermione’s with an air of theatrical confidence, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he fixed a challenging gaze on Quinn. ‘The lady is with me this evening, aren’t you, Herm?’

Hermione glanced at Marcus, whose head was held high in feigned pride. She knew this was all a joke to him, but if it would silence Quinn, she was more than willing to play along.

‘Don’t jest; we all know what you get up to,’ Quinn snarled, releasing her arm and stepping back, his expression a mix of disgust and irritation.

‘A ruse, a damning lie! Hermione and I are quite in love, aren’t we, darling one?’ Marcus declared with exaggerated seriousness, giving her arm a playful pat.

‘Y-yes—quite smitten,’ Hermione replied, stifling a laugh as she played along.

‘You swine! I thought I was your one and only!’ Ginny howled, delivering her line with dramatic flair. Marcus feigned a look of horror and playfully pushed Hermione away.

‘My love, you are my peach. Hermione—she is but something to bump in the night. It has always been you.’ Caressing Ginny’s face, she sighed dramatically, wrapping her arms around his neck. ‘Perhaps a third would be fun,’ she suggested, mischievously laughing as she pulled Hermione into the embrace.

‘You rascal. A splendid idea. What a trio we make!’ Marcus exclaimed, kissing them both on the lips before turning to face Quinn. Hermione couldn’t help but wish she could capture the expression on his face; shock and horror battling for dominance. In the background, Deius shot them a venomous look, his pig-like face contorted with disapproval, flanked by his equally disapproving cronies. Quinn shook his head in frustration, huffed, and turned on his heel, marching toward his dumbstruck friends, who watched from a round table in the corner.

‘Now, let us go and make love for hours!’ Marcus shouted, wrapping his arms around the ladies’ waists and skipping them out of the room with an exaggerated femininity. Their laughter echoed through the palace halls as they strutted away, leaving behind the stunned silence of the atrium.

Chapter Text

Excitement was seeping through the walls of Montisfons for the winter solstice ball. Most dinners and balls came with the attendance of high society and necessity for best behaviour. This was different. Madam explained in class that this particular ball was a most important celebration of the region, the great palace they lived in, and the part they all play in the balance of the world. Something for them. All students were encouraged to take their time to get ready and, for once, fully enjoy themselves.

When Hermione and Ginny returned from class, Marcus awaited them on Ginny’s bed, a bottle of spiced mead in hand. They settled in, merrily sipping their drinks as they prepped for the ball. Marcus skillfully tended to Ginny’s red hair while she meticulously planned their outfits. Hermione took on the role of the official mead replenisher.

They were in grand moods. Marcus could barely contain his excitement about seeing Reed, while Ginny sparkled with enthusiasm. Hermione, in turn, felt a refreshing sense of normalcy wash over her. She had come to terms with the fact that uncovering the mystery of the Wildwood mages would be a gradual journey, one that would unfold in its own time. Professor Draco had offered some safe advice during their last encounter, and she intended to employ a more nuanced approach—listening intently and posing subtle questions to the senate members and royals she encountered at various gatherings, including tonight’s festivities.

True to his word, the professor had granted her space, and with his frequent intrusions now a distant memory, the weight of their physical encounter began to lighten. For the first time in a while, Hermione found herself feeling at ease. Although memories of the life she left behind still lingered, she recognised that life still had something to offer. This newfound perspective had now begun to settle within her, replacing what had been such consistent self-loathing with something she now dared to consider hope. She understood that it was time to focus on the future, embracing new possibilities instead of mourning what had been lost.

‘Herm—another splash of love!’ Marcus yapped, raising his glass high as he playfully ruffled Ginny’s hair, adding the final touches to her look. As always, she resembled a tall glass of champagne, her baby-blue garment perfectly complementing her sparkling eyes. With matching heels and bold eyeshadow, she appeared as an enchanting pool, radiating beauty and elegance. Marcus adhered to the blue theme as well, donning a dashing doublet paired with a beret perched atop his head, accentuating his loosely brushed brown locks. An emerald peacock feather was tucked into his belt, while a green satin neckerchief wrapped around his neck lent an androgynous flair to his ensemble.

In contrast to her friends, Hermione opted for a full-length red slip that hugged her curves in all the right places—the colour in which she felt most at home. On her lips kissed a sheen of scarlet. Hermione wore her hair down, free curls bobbing around her back. Looking at her reflection in the full-length mirror, she had to admit she scrubbed up well, (thanks to her friends' valiant efforts). Merry from the drinks and feeling like a dashing threesome, the trio made their way to the ball.

⚜

Unlike most festivities within the palace that were restricted to small parlours and halls, the entire north side of Montisfons was open to the partying; starting from the hall, travelling past the courtyard, into the gardens, atrium and the main hall.

True to its name, the winter solace ball was dripping with cold weather chicness. Ice sculptures adorned each room, intricately carved into the royal snow bear emblem. Tables were lavishly decorated with holly, jasmine, and other winter blooms, piled high with steaming meats, fresh seasonal vegetables, and an abundance of wine and juices. A full four-person band played in the gardens, the singer belting out classic covers of jolly tunes bards often played at The Cutter.

To combat the chill, the trio draped their elegant outfits with furs to shield themselves. However, a few glasses of wine later, they’d warmed their bones enough to shed the furs. Suddenly declaring a pang of hunger, Marcus led the group back to the hall in search of plates filled with delectable fare.

As they ate in the lavishly decorated atrium, Hermione scanned the room. Teachers were dotted around, also enjoying themselves. The more repugnant mages stood to the back of the hall with a few senate members and Velas. Deuis, Quinn and, to Hermione's surprise, Reed. She elbowed Marcus, who was pulling a backbone of mackerel from his mouth. After a healthy gulp of wine, he turned to see what she was fussing about. He watched with curious eyes for a moment, then shrugged.

'They're a rough lot, he's just keeping an eye on them.'

Hermione nodded, though uncertainty lingered. She returned to her plate of curried chicken and dark green salted vegetables, continuing to survey the room.

The royals occupied the centre table, encircled by beautiful and important people. Among them was Madam, her smile wide and her ensemble as striking as ever. Today, her long white hair was styled into two elegant buns, and her dress gleamed as white as the snow outside in the gardens. The only splash of colour came from her infamous purple nails. She laughed heartily at a conversation between Prince Theo and Blaise. Hermione quickly averted her gaze, eager to avoid any chance of eye contact with Blaise—the last person she wanted to speak to that evening. Yet, as she continued to scan the crowd, her thoughts began to shift.

Draco Malfoy occupied a table in the far right corner with his fellow Velas and two other teachers. He had made little effort to dress for the occasion, still wearing his familiar brown leather slacks and a loose shirt. Hermione noted with relief that he had left his sword behind for the evening, although the scabbard at his side still held his dagger firmly in place. He was smiling and engaged in conversation with a young teacher, whom Hermione recognised as the other wellness instructor.

The educational system in Montisfons leaned towards tradition, with a hundred mages at the palace, and Hermione suddenly became very aware just how few of the other teachers she’d dealt with directly. The senate deemed it more personal to assign one teacher to every dozen students, resulting in four instructors for males and the same for females. Hermione knew she would likely remain under Madam’s tutelage, leaving little room for interaction with other professors.

Hermione continued to observe the teacher engaged in conversation with Draco, noting how, even from a distance, she could see her cheeks flush with colour in his presence. It was evident that he could be charming when he chose to be. The young woman was strikingly beautiful, and closer to Draco’s age, leading Hermione to wonder exactly what role she’d played in the professor’s life until now. Shaking off her curiosity, Hermione redirected her attention to her friends, who had shifted the topic of conversation to Theo, though that came as no surprise.

'Play hard to get, yes I know, I know,' Ginny sighed, draining the last of her wine.

Marcus nodded supportively and poured her a glass of apricot juice, laughing at her sullen expression.

'You want to be charming. Did we not agree that inebriated you is often quick to meet whatever demands Theo puts on you. You need to be coherent and clear headed' Marcus instructed.

Hermione nodded in agreement and grabbed her hand.

‘Right, I say we dance before the night moves on too fast. Gardens?' she suggested, jumping up and pulling at her two friends to join.

The band was in full swing now, blasting out perfect arrangements of hearty folk songs and classic melodies that Hermione grew up singing to. The students—most of which were already drunk—were swept up in its cheerful rhythms, their faces alight with a reckless joy. Laughter and inebriation mingled seamlessly as they swayed to the music. Among them, three friends danced hand-in-hand, entirely carefree. Marcus was in his element, his every movement easy and assured, as though dancing were second nature to him. With effortless grace, he spun the two ladies beside him, lifting, dipping, and twirling them about with skill.

After a few songs, Hermione noticed the gathering crowd was peppered with familiar faces. Ersa, a quiet girl from her class, hovered near them, smiling shyly. They welcomed her into their merry circle at once, and with a sweeping motion, Marcus took her hand and spun her twice. Ersa’s face shone with uncharacteristic delight, clearly thrilled to be included. She seldom ventured into large groups, her reserved nature often keeping her on the periphery.

‘Having a good night?’ Hermione called over the music, still dancing. Ersa nodded, her enthusiasm both sweet and surprising.

‘Fancy a drink?’ Marcus shouted, looking between the women, who all nodded in unison. With a playful bow, he bounded off to the bar, leaving the trio to their own lively rhythm.

They laughed and spun, all but oblivious to the room around them, until Hermione’s attention drifted, catching sight of Draco dancing with the female teacher from earlier. He was just behind Ersa. Being so close, Hermione felt a pang of odd discomfort. She turned quickly, deciding to join Marcus at the bar, but as she spun, she collided with something solid.

Startled, she muttered an apology, only to feel her wrist taken in a gentle grip by a ringed hand. Theo’s hand. Ginny’s Theo. He lifted her wrist and brushed a kiss against it, his green eyes bright with mischief. In an instant, Hermione’s thoughts flew to Ginny, and she turned, opening up the circle just enough to ensure he’d see her there. He gave her the same charming greeting, his grin widening.

 'Come, you two. I want to introduce you to some friends,' he said quickly, opening his arms for the ladies to join.

Ginny apologised to Ersa who quickly brushed it off. As they left, Hermione noticed Draco’s stern grey eyes on her. They locked for a moment before she was pulled along with Theo and out of sight.

⚜

He led them back through the grand corridors of the palace, his stride purposeful as they made their way into the great hall, and then to a quieter room off to the side. This, Hermione noted, was the very office where she had first encountered Ginny on her own first day at Montisfons. Unlike the rest of the palace, the room had not been decorated to suit the solstice ball, instead keeping to its usual opulently furnished office style.

The room held a small crowd clustered in discussion—royals predominantly, though she recognised a few elder mages, and even a high senator, conspicuous by his gold sash and bald head. Despite her best efforts to remain quiet and collected, Hermione couldn’t avoid the attention of Blaise, who was smirking at her from across the room. She could not deny, to her own chagrin, that he looked extraordinarily handsome today. His doublet was jet-black, elegantly tailored with silver embellishments that gleamed in the low light. His beard was trimmed neatly to a short line along his jaw. By all accounts he looked good. Very good. 

'Friends—I have quite a line-up for you today. These two beauties are first trimester mages. Ginny and Hermione’. The prince led them to the middle of the room and signalled them to stay put as he walked to join the men who sat around the three benches. The room looked them up and down, smiling eerily as they drank and ate. Two, who had been playing cards casually as they entered, placed their hands to the table, their attention drawn away from the game. 'Miss Weasley comes from excellent stock. Her mother and father are both mages. She grew up right here in Veliere, didn't you dear? Speaks two languages in addition to our own: Quedeouxian and Xernan. And, she's quite the looker, isn’t she. Dear – could you just do a spin?' Theo waved his hand at her encouragingly.

Ginny, appearing thoroughly shaken, complied without a word, her movements almost mechanical. The men exchanged brief nods, their eyes lingering on her with an unsettling, predatory interest that made Hermione’s stomach tighten with unease. She found herself hoping, fervently, that her suspicions about the nature of this gathering were unfounded, that the dark impression forming in her mind would somehow prove itself to be a mere misunderstanding.

'And this dazzling thing is Hermione. Raised in a village-’ but then Theo stopped silent for a moment before chuckling out loud. ‘Well, we don't know a lot about you, do we dear? But I have been assured that she is strong in magic. Why don’t you tell us about yourself, Hermione? What about your parents? Both magic or just one?' he asked pleasantly, accepting a drink from Blaise, who was grinning like a madman beside him.

'They were… well, my mother. She was normal. My father was a mage,' Hermione answered nervously.

A towering, boulder-like man, draped in an excess of jewels that gleamed even in the dim light, raised his voice. In one hand, he clutched a half-eaten turkey leg, which he brandished with casual indifference as he spoke.

‘What was his name child, we might know him.'

Hermione hesitated, not knowing if she should simply make up a name or tell the truth. She decided fact would be easier. 'I – I don't know. It was an affair, I believe. I never met my father.'

The room filled with mumbling in response.

'Oh, a bastard. I do love a bit of family drama. Well—perhaps one day we can locate daddy for you. Where was I… so… bit rough around the edges, what with the peasantry and so on, but that's made her awfully humble. She speaks well enough, so blends in admirably. Draco tells me you're quite well read too, so she’s educated. And, like Ginny, she is quite the beauty.' Theo smiled widely and signalled her to spin.

Hermione struggled to keep from rolling her eyes, forcing herself to suppress every instinct that urged her to resist. To turn and spin before a crowd of men, displayed like some trinket up for auction—she found the thought repulsive. A wave of nausea swept over her at the spectacle, her mind dark with contempt. Yet, it was Ginny for whom she felt the deepest sympathy. The man she adored had brought her here, into a room full of strangers, to be flaunted like a prize catch. It was nothing short of barbaric.

In an effort to maintain some semblance of decorum, Hermione obliged and turned, spinning as gracefully as her mounting anger would allow. But to her surprise, a sudden gust of wind caught their skirts, lifting them unexpectedly. Glancing to her left, she identified the culprit—a Meugie, his fingers weaving the breeze, his expression one of mocking amusement.

The men burst into laughter as Hermione clutched her dress, forcing it back into place, her cheeks burning with indignation.

'Enough, enough,' Theo snorted. 'These two have not been claimed, so, now's your chance men. Do invite these for a dance at some point. I'm sure they would be honoured to get to know you.' Theo winked at them. 'Anyway, enough of the polite formalities. Drink, it is a ball is it not?’ With a brush of his hand, the men continued talking.

A few got to their feet and introduced themselves to the ladies. 'Garon Juniver, m'lady. Cousin to the Emperor.’

Hermione bowed politely.

'Can I get you a drink?'

Before Hermione could answer Garon, Blaise came bashing through the crowd with a glass of wine in hand for her. He passed it to her quickly and clawed her waist.

'Back off Gazzo, she may not be claimed, but I think she's close. Don't you think?' He laughed, kissing her cheek messily.

He was clearly tipsy again.

'Come, a dance.’ Blaise winked, gripping her waist tighter and pulling her feverishly to leave the room.

Feeling bold, Hermione prized his hand off her and stood her ground. 'Later perhaps. I was just speaking to Sir Juniver.’

Blaise arched a finely groomed brow, his expression thoroughly unimpressed. ‘Very well. Go on, meet the others. But the moment you recognise that I am, by far, the best among them, you’ll know where to find me,’ he declared with a cocky smile before striding off to join Theo, who was now deep in conversation with Ginny. Her face was clouded with visible distress. Hermione had to resist the urge to rush to her friend’s side, knowing she could not help her so long as they both remained in this room.

Turning back to Garon, Hermione was startled to find another man now standing at his side, the same Meugie responsible for conjuring that impertinent breeze. His eyes glinted with mischief as he gave a slight bow. ‘No hard feelings about earlier. Just a harmless jest,’ he sniggered, ‘Alfred—recently graduated Meugie and soon to be setting off on the ships. Weather mage, in fact.’

He gave her a grin, tipping his glass to hers with a faint clink. ‘And, like you, I’m also available. They encourage us mages to pair, after all, so I thought it only fitting to offer myself as a candidate. Perhaps a dance?’

Hermione felt a prickle of confusion, her mind turning over his words. This was the second time tonight that someone had hinted at mages being expected to "pair off." Where had this notion suddenly sprung from, and why had no one thought to mention it until this week? Everything about it felt oddly contrived.

For the next ten minutes, Hermione was led from introduction to introduction, meeting nearly every man in the room. Many were royals, evidently in search of a prospective bride. Each offered a name, recited his title or family lineage, and extended an invitation to dance later in the evening. Their manners were well-practised, though she sensed a certain detachment in their words, as if these exchanges were merely part of some formal ritual.

Just as she began to relax, adapting to the rhythm of these cordial but distant greetings, she felt a sudden tug as Theo, Blaise, and Ginny pulled her from the centre of the room.

'I was just suggesting that we, the four of us, part from these boring buggers. Find a more intimate setting, get to know each other a little more,’ Blaise suggested, flicking an almond into his mouth. He chewed slowly, each crunch precise and deliberate, as though savouring both the taste and the attention he assumed he commanded. If only his demeanour weren’t so detestable, he might have been rather appealing. He was, after all, devilishly handsome—well-connected, with a charm that he could wield with impressive ease when it suited him. And yet, his brutish manner rendered him utterly insufferable in her eyes. Why were all the handsome men so dreadful? Ginny looked to Hermione hopefully.

Fighting every instinct, Hermione sighed and nodded. 'Only for a little, I have much mingling to do tonight. You know this,' Theo muttered.

Blaise laughed cheerily, slapping the prince on the back earnestly. 'Yes yes, whatever you say.'

Ginny whispered something in Theo's ear which took his attention off the group, giving Blaise a moment to corner Hermione again.

With no warning, he moved towards her, his arm locking her into the table behind. He smiled fiendishly and placed another almond on his tongue seductively. She watched as he crunched it and washed it down with wine. His breath smelt sweet and nutty. '

So, are you satisfied that you're not going to find anyone that surpasses me?'

He asked, tracing a line from her shoulder, up her neck to her ear. Hermione shivered internally, unsure if she was horrified or enjoying the sensation he was bringing her.

'Stop fighting it. We both know how this is going to end up. Now, a dance?' He muttered, close to her face now.

Hermione shook her head adamantly 'I have to get back to my friends, I-'

Hermione's thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the press of firm yet startlingly soft lips against her own. She drew in a sharp breath, taken utterly by surprise at his brazen forwardness, especially in such a public setting. In a swift, unyielding motion, he pressed her back against the edge of the table, attempting to deepen the kiss, his movements insistent and unrestrained. Recovering herself, Hermione turned her head sharply to the side, breaking the unwelcome connection. A low growl of frustration escaped him, his eyes darkening as his grip tightened around her wrists, holding them with an intensity that bordered on possessive.

'It would not be wise to fight this—connections, blah blah. I'm making this quite easy for you, Hermione.' His eyes roamed over her form with a predatory hunger that made Hermione’s skin crawl. Helplessly, she looked around the room for assistance, but it seemed as though everyone had chosen to turn a blind eye to her plight. The air felt thick with indifference, and the only familiar, friendly face to be found was the handsome boy who had once helped carry Marcus to the hospital. He offered her a sympathetic smile, one that silently conveyed his apologies and regret, but it did little to assuage her fear.

Trapped in Blaise's unyielding grip, Hermione felt a swell of panic rise within her. Were it not for the sap-lined walls rendering her abilities all but useless, she would assuredly be creating chaos right now with unchecked emotional magic.

Blaise pressed closer, his body a solid wall against her own. ‘You understand, don’t you? To many, you women are nothing more than cattle,’ he purred, his voice oozing with a sinister charm. ‘Not that I see you in that way, but others certainly would. Politics is a harsh game, and many will use it to their advantage. You wouldn’t want the man or woman who chooses you to be someone you find repulsive, would you? Would you want them touching you?’

His fingers slid over her waist, dangerously close to her backside, and Hermione froze, feeling her heart race with disbelief. As he pinched her side, the reality of the situation crashed down upon her; this was not happening, it couldn’t be. She felt utterly helpless, her body stiffening with dread. Ginny remained blissfully unaware, her back turned, leaving Hermione alone in her terror. Would Blaise truly dare to act in a room full of witnesses? Surely not. Yet, his hand continued its invasive exploration, his wet lips trailing close to her neck.

Just as she opened her mouth to cry for help, the door to the room swung open with a loud bang.

Draco stepped in, a look of pleasant curiosity on his face that quickly shifted to alarm as he registered the compromising position in which Hermione found herself.

Blaise, noticing the sudden entrance, reluctantly moved away from her, his attention drawn to the new arrival. Hermione, though relieved to escape his grasp, couldn’t help but wonder why the presence of a room full of mages, royals, and council members had not deterred Blaise, but the entrance of one professor, of Draco, had.

Yet such thoughts were secondary to her immediate relief. Ginny, sensing the distress written across Hermione's features, turned and mouthed, ‘Are you okay?’ Hermione nodded, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

Draco, having assessed the situation, moved from her side to engage with Theo, the atmosphere in the room shifting as tension began to dissipate.

'Apologies for the interruption. Your father is about to conduct his annual toast,' the professor said calmly.

Theo clapped his hands together, grinning. 'Ah, perfect. Come, friends.'

Ginny, having finally shaken off her own entourage of persistent party-goers, marched to Hermione and asked if she was okay once more. She decided not to retell what happened, instead asking the same question to her. Ginny played off her sadness, assuring her that Theo had to introduce them as part of his role, that the senate insisted more introductions were to be made.

'That's bull, Gin. Come on,’ Hermione whispered as they made their way to the hall.

Noticing Marc, she quickly waved and began to lead them towards him.

'What happened?' Marcus asked, his eyes dashing from them to Reed, who was still standing with the bullies in the back of the hall.

'We were just lined up like stock to buy at a market, that is what happened, right Gin?' Hermione asked.

Gin slowly nodded.

'Bastards,' Marc gasped. 'Stay close to me tonight, we'll make an excuse, leave soon. Whatever you both want.'

Ginny kissed him on the cheek and began to softly cry. 'Oh Gin, darling, not in public. Come on… no you stay,' Marcus said to Hermione with a stern look. 'Tell Madam, she's just there. You can't be subjected to that, especially in the place you call home now.' He placed a protective arm around Ginny and led her towards the bathroom to clean her up and get her out of sight.

Sighing, Hermione shakily walked towards Madam Haggravan.

Madam was locked in conversation with another of the royal brothers, her eyes glowing with flirtation and confidence. As Hermione approached, she smiled lightly and opened her arms to join her in conversation.

'Ah, Crackel, this is Hermione. One of my new student mages. Hermione, Crackel is son to our king. I believe you have met his older brother Theo already.'

In a flurry of nerves, Hermione lowered herself into a respectful bow, her knees brushing against the polished floor. As she straightened, she leaned closer to Madam, her voice a mere whisper. ‘Do you have a moment?’

Madam nodded at once, her expression shifting to one of concern as she made a polite excuse to Crackel, who merely hiccupped and waved them off, turning his attention back to the pretty Meugia on his arm. Hermione felt a wave of relief wash over her as they made their way to the edge of the room, but with each step, the weight of her earlier experience pressed down harder upon her.

Fighting to suppress the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes, she realised that the events of the evening had unsettled her far more than she had initially acknowledged.

'What is it dear?' Madam asked quickly, checking the room for on-lookers.

Hermione explained as fast as she could, blinking so her eyes would stay dry. But retelling the story was too much for her, try as she might to keep her eyes from spilling, a few drops escaped.

Madam, looking embarrassed, shushed her and, taking her hand, walked her out of the hall and to the direction of her classroom. As they entered the familiar space she knew so well, Madam continued through and opened the door to her own private quarters.

Chapter Text

The room was adorned with plush emerald carpets, fine paintings and memorabilia from the centuries. For a moment, Hermione was distracted from her torment, admiring the artefacts. Madam, noticing her curiosity, guided her through proudly.

'I have grown quite the collection,' she hummed smugly. 'I will get us a drink, one moment.'

As Madam made her way to the bar to pour them a glass of wine, Hermione continued to admire the room. Paintings of great castles around Relinia, dozens of dazzling jewels, amulets and stones. Walls of potions and dusty scrolls filled every bookcase. To the right of the room, was a busy alchemy table. As she approached, a familiar bottle caught her eye, a vessel that mirrored the one she had carelessly dropped in the king's quarters. Her heart sank as she realised it was a seduction potion; the very brew that had led her and Draco to behave so disgracefully.

Hermione turned to Madam, who was beside her, smiling and passing a goblet of wine over. She accepted and drained half the glass quickly.

'Do you make these yourself?' Hermione asked, pointing at the tall potion.

Madam laughed heartily and shook her head. 'No, my dear. These are old, from times of the war. The king's mage recently sent them over for safekeeping.'

Hermione cocked her head to the side, not quite understanding.

'Are you sure they sent them all?' she asked quietly. Not wanting to let on that she had seen an identical bottle. There was no way she could explain that without condemning herself.

'Quite sure, dear. Now… why don't you tell me why you took me aside at such a fabulous ball. Were you not having a grand time? I understand the boys may have been a little… firm, but it is to be expected, is it not?' Her teacher sat on the velvet plush couch in the middle of the room and tapped the cushion beside her.

Hermione sat.

'You advised me before to learn, to put myself in a position where I could shrug off advances and choose my partner with no force. But… I am struggling, Madam. I can-' Hermione's voice broke off, she fought to gather herself, sucking in the fright. With great effort, she calmly continued. 'It seems that we ladies are quickly becoming an object to claim. I don’t think I have the talent or charm to fend them off. And my magic, it is weak. A Meugie in the room summoned wind effortlessly, even with the sap lining the walls. But at my most desperate, I couldn't mutter any spell to protect myself from Blaise'.

'Blaise? Blaise Zabini. Great Zania. You could do worse my dear. He is well-liked and very well connected'.

'He is a rapscallion,' Hermione muttered in reply.

'Yes, but a handsome one,' Madam corrected her.

'Madam, I do not want to be paired off with a man. I just want to live in peace. Learn magic, build a career for myself. Please, you have to help me, teach me. I will… assist you in any way I can in classes. Tidy the stock cupboards, help to mark papers… whatev…whatever you want.' Hermione's voice trembled, growing more desperate with each word.

To her astonishment, Madam enveloped her in a warm embrace. With gentle fingers, she wove through Hermione’s hair, offering comfort.

Feeling a rush of relief, Hermione pressed her head against Madam’s chest. The soft fabric of her gown absorbed Hermione's sorrow, and the steady rhythm of Madam’s heartbeat provided a soothing balm to her turmoil. Words were unnecessary; Madam simply held her close, a steady presence amidst the storm of emotions. Madam gradually lowered her head to her lap, tenderly stroking her hair. The gentle motion echoed the way Hermione’s mother had comforted her in the past, evoking a sense of familiarity and safety.

'Hermione, my dear. You may not see yourself as strong, but I believe you are. I see a lot of myself in you, I, like you, wanted to rebel. To fight against those who tried to control me. I will help you. But in return, you must keep this between us. If the senate or royals find out I am helping a mage to fight their best interests, it will be I that will be punished, not you.'

Hermione thanked her gratefully and lifted her head off Madam's lap. She wiped at her wet face and forced a smile. 'Madam, why is it in their best interests? To pair us mages off with partners so soon?'

'It is an age-old tradition to have us mate with the powerful. And if they are magical, even better. For many years, mages only paired with those in their clan. Many of the Bowiens were of strong blood. The war finished them off, sadly. The mages you see today are typically a pale dilution of the blood of the elders.'

'So, I should choose a mage, that is why they encourage it?'

'A mage, royal or member of the senate. Those in power just want to control us more. Use us for leverage. If you can marry a mage, you can produce a strong child. If you wed someone with powerful connections, you give them good status. There is always a game plan, my dear. You will choose someone eventually, but I wish this to be your choice, not forced upon you. And it should be in your own time. For now, we will focus on your magic, your charm, your manner. You would be surprised how far these things can take you. For example…' Madam got to her feet suddenly and pulled a jewelled bracelet from a wooden draw by her desk. She slipped it over Hermione's wrist and held it up for her to see. The thin gold band gleamed softly, and at its centre sat a striking black pearl, the size of a walnut.

'You should learn to enchant proficiently. These will greatly help. This, for example, is embedded with a charm to subtly encourage those around you to listen. To agree. It's not mind control, as I said, but it may help.'

'Are these not banned?'

Madam pulled a face and quickly laughed. 'This is not nearly strong enough to be a threat. But, perhaps do not go around telling your friends.'

Hermione thanked and hugged her teacher once more. For the first time since her mother passed, she felt a protectiveness over her.

'No more tears now. With my help, you will thrive'. Madam smirked, lifting her glass to cheers Hermione's. 'Now go back to the ball. See your friends. Dance. And find me tomorrow after dinner.'

'I owe you a great debt,' Hermione replied frankly.

'You owe nothing. I wish I had someone to turn to in my youth. If I can help you, as I needed, that is enough for me.'

After bidding her farewells, Hermione set back off towards the ball, thinking over the evening’s festivities so far.

As she traversed the combat courtyard, an unexpected weariness overcame her, prompting her to halt abruptly. Though she had intended to return, her exhaustion proved too great a burden. With a determined spin on her heels, she altered her course and made her way toward her quarters.

As she did so, she spotted Draco approaching his office.

Resolutely lifting her chin, she resolved to ignore him. However, as Draco drew nearer, he stopped in front of her, forcing her to do the same.

Hermione let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes and casting him a look of annoyance for breaking their rule so soon.

'What is wrong?' he asked sharply, his grey eyes scanning her face.

'Nothing that should concern you,' Hermione replied, her tone pointed.

'You have been crying. I ask again, what is wrong?' he repeated, his jaw twitching.

With a groan, Hermione rubbed her eyes hastily and glanced at her fingers, only to discover the unmistakable traces of black eyeliner, a telltale sign of her distress. She looked back at the professor, who remained poised, awaiting her response.

'Is it the wolf?' he asked.

Hermione laughed disdainfully. ‘No, but do not assume I have forgotten about that. Murderer,’ she muttered, turning to leave.

Before she could take another step, Draco placed a firm hand on her wrist, halting her. ‘Planning on more snooping?’ he asked.

To Hermione's astonishment, a sudden gust of wind burst from her hand, propelling Draco backward.

They both stood, wide-eyed in shock at the unexpected display of power.

Ruffling his blond hair, he approached her once more. ‘Attacking a teacher now, are we?’ he remarked.

'I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I'm so used to the sap lined walls, I forget I have to control my magic outside.'

'Let's just be thankful it was not fire?' he chuckled.

Hermione, surprised by his very reasonable reaction, couldn’t help but laugh a little, too. 'Was it Blaise?' He asked suddenly. 'I saw you and him in Theodore' room… I assume you have chosen him as your suiter?'

'Suiter? No. He is foul. Your interruption was a blessing. I am looking for no such suiter, no man in fact. I only wish to be left alone,' Hermione said passively.

'That encounter was not consensual?' he asked matter-of-factly.

Hermione nodded.

'Ah, I see. I do not envy you women.'

'Nor do you teach to help. Your student, he just watched as I struggled. Fine lads you have taught.'

'They know it is useless, Granger. As do you.'

Silence hung in the air—she had nothing to counter him with.

‘Are you… all right now?’ he asked quickly and in a hushed tone.

She nodded in response, though her eyes, now clouded with fresh tears, betrayed her true feelings.

‘Good,’ he replied, his voice lacking any warmth, before turning to continue on his way, leaving her alone in the dim light of the corridor.

Chapter Text

Hermione was startled awake by a loud banging on her door. Reluctantly pulling herself from the warmth of her bed, she opened it to find Marcus standing there, his eyes glossy with wine.

‘Marc—what are you doing? What time is it?’ Hermione spluttered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. As she turned to glance out the window behind her, she noticed gentle light seeping through the curtains. Morning had arrived.

'Shhhh… I just got back from Reed. Ginny stayed with Theo again; I was just checking on you. Go back to bed.’ He kissed her cheek lightly and stumbled over the door frame to leave.

Hermione held his hand, chuckling, and pulled him into her room. 'Stay. Don't want you falling down those damn stairs.’

He smiled drunkenly and followed her to bed. Under the covers, he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the curve of her neck. His breath carried the sweet scent of wine and marzipan. She shifted slightly, nestling his arms more securely around her, and he let out a small wince. Noticing his discomfort, she glanced down at his hand and was startled to find two fingers marked with fresh, bloody scratches, as though he’d been bitten.

‘Marc, what the—?’ she whispered.

He pressed a clean finger to her lips and gave a sleepy ‘ssshh. Nothing to worry about.’ His words were soft and slurred. ‘Reed is just a little… rough, let’s say. All in good fun.’

Hermione felt a surge of questions, but as she turned to speak, she realised he was already snoring softly behind her, the rhythmic sound gentle and comforting. Smiling faintly, she nestled closer, holding him tighter, and soon drifted off to sleep herself.

⚜

They awoke a few hours later. Yawning, the friends agreed it was high time for a proper breakfast and resolved to find Ginny. Upon checking her room, they found it empty. Evidently, she had stayed the night with Theodore. With a shrug, they turned and made their way to the hall.

With the party over, the palace was warm once again. Marcus wolfed down quail eggs, honey-glazed bacon, and gallons of apricot juice to stifle his hangover.

Hermione, who felt quite well today and was thankful for her restraint the night before, enjoyed a light assortment of soda bread, ripe grapes and dried fruits.

'How… are you… feeling today?' Marc asked disjointedly between mouthfuls of food.

'I’m okay, Marcus, thank you,’ Hermione lied.  ‘But Madam… you must not say anything, understand?'

Marcus nodded in agreement.

'She’s going to teach me how to avoid situations like that again. Put a little power back in the hands of women. Or at least this woman,’' she smirked.

Marc's jaw dropped. 'What a touch of class! I knew I liked her for a reason. You know, I heard she was one of the most sought-after ladies in her day. Married the king's brother. Almost made it onto the senate itself.'

'Why didn't she?' Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued.

'When her husband died, she became a teacher. I imagine it was too hard for her to be around the same old senate folk and halls after it happened. Too many memories. Poor thing.'

'Doesn't seem to stop her now… she's always talking to members of the senate and the royals at parties'.

'Well, she's essentially an unofficial member of the senate now, isn't she? But she doesn't have the power to effect real change, even she knows that. Not after the enforcement came into place.'

'Enforcement?' Hermione asked, clueless.

Marcus laughed deeply and patted her head sarcastically. 'I forget you're not of this world... Just before her husband died, the emperor enforced a rule that all mages could only provide guidance, not mandate change within the council. Before the war, mages had much power. Their votes counted. Only the king’s mage is exempt now. There’s still a lot of fear that things could return to what they once were, and fear breeds contempt,’ Marcus said solemnly. ‘Still feel a little ashamed that we came from them… don't you Herm? I think that's why they punish you ladies so much, as it was women who led the war over the years.’'

This Hermione knew well. The histories she had read spoke of powerful mages, many of them led by a remarkable ring of women, strong women. Indeed, it seemed that ladies possessed a greater natural power than their male counterparts. Perhaps for that very reason, only Meugie were permitted to leave the city and pursue work beyond its walls; they were simply deemed more trustworthy.

'You shouldn't be ashamed. They weren’t all bad,' Hermione muttered, taking a long drink of hibiscus tea.

Marcus snorted. 'Not anymore, sure… but that's only because we've learned from our mistakes,' he added.

Hermione watched her friend, guilty that she had knowledge that she wasn’t sharing. She opened her mouth, almost ready to relay what she knew of the past, but was interrupted by Ginny, who swiftly sat down beside them. Her face bare and beautiful.

'Gin—where were you, you devil you,' Marcus jibed, kissing her forehead in greeting and pouring her a glass of apricot juice.

'Theo. He was so sweet. He felt awful that he had to introduce us last night, honestly Herm. Though, he did warn me… the senate, they have been more pressing. Encouraging the royals and teachers to pair us all off. You'll be next, Marcus.'

He scoffed. 'Until they realise that a man cannot bear another man's child. I'll be a reject, just you watch.'

Ginny nudged him playfully.

'Anyway—Hermione spoke to Madam. She's going to help make sure she’s in a better position to get out of situations like that in the future. Then, Herm, you'll share the knowledge, right?'

Hermione nodded at Marcus.

Ginny lifted her brow. 'But… you do understand that is our purpose. I'm not sure why you fight it… we are mages after all. That is our destiny. To assist the royals and the senate who have been so forgiving of our nature.'

Hermione stared at her friend in disbelief, scarcely able to comprehend how thoroughly she had been conditioned. ‘You truly believe that?’ she asked in disappointment.

Ginny nodded, and Marcus gave a nonchalant shrug, indicating he felt much the same.

‘Right, both of you. Come with me,’ Hermione declared firmly, taking each of them by the arm and steering them toward her room. She resolved to show them what she ought to have revealed a week ago.

⚜

Ginny and Marcus read on in silence, their expressions shifting from confusion to surprise and back to confusion as they absorbed each passage detailing the capture of innocent mages from the forests. The words impacted the reality of everything they’d known or thought they had known. Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime, Ginny closed the book and, with a pale expression and trembling hands, looked up at Hermione, her eyes full of remorse.

Hermione returned the look with a small, understanding smile, as though saying without words that no apology was necessary, though much between them had surely changed.

'So… we weren't all bad. There were good mages after all,' Ginny whispered.

Hermione nodded sadly.

'And they may still be out there… it doesn't look like they caught them all'.

'What do you think they did to them?' Marcus gulped.

Hermione shrugged in reply. 'Who knows. Turned them into the mages we see today… I didn't have time to get anything else.'

'Speaking of, how did you find this?' Marcus asked, his eyebrow raised.

For some reason, Hermione didn't feel it right to answer that question truthfully yet. Her relationship with Professor Draco, which naturally bled into her prying, was something she was keen to keep to herself. The shame of it all too much.

'It was in the library—right at the top, must have been placed there by mistake, who knows,' Hermione said quickly, hoping she sounded believable.

'Poor families… and the children… I… Hermione, I feel like such a fool,' Ginny said softly, passing the book back to her.

'It's not your fault. It's all everyone has known for so long.'

'Not you. You always knew there was something wrong. From your first day here, you were questioning everything. We're just… fools. We’re sheep. We listen and learn and don't argue. And… I'm fucking done with it,' she lamented.

Marcus's mouth fell open, eyes wide as he looked at her. Hearing Ginny curse was a shock; it was almost unheard of.

'Hermione, you have to find out more. We'll help you… won't we Marc?'

He nodded gladly with Ginny.

'You're sweet to care. But don't worry. Madam, she knows more than she's letting on. I can feel it. I'll pry, I'll explore. But you two… stay out of it. I don’t want you getting into trouble with the Velas.'

'Reed!' Marcus suddenly shouted. 'He has access to all kinds of off-limits areas of Montisfons. We're forever sneaking off to royal quarters when we’re not in the forest to, well, you know.' He shook out of his thoughts, smirking. 'I could question him? Have a look around? I want to be helpful.'

Her friends gleamed at her, eager to help. As much as it felt wonderful to have company now, help even, she remembered Draco's warnings. Knowledge was power, but it was also dangerous. And snooping around came with incredible risks. No, it wasn’t worth it. She was already suspicious of Reed. She hadn’t forgotten how Pascal had bitten him at her cottage. And she always trusted Pascal's judgement of people.

'I'll keep looking. You two, just keep your ears to the ground and let me know if you hear anything. No snooping, no meddling.' Hermione made her friends promise to leave it to her. And with that they embraced.

'Do you think Theo knows?' Ginny asked, pulling away from the hug.

'Hard to say. I don’t think so… it seems the senate are the real ringmasters behind much of this. And the king, of course.'

'You know, we are close. I could ask-'

Hermione cut Ginny off, 'No. Stay out of it Ginny, please. It's dangerous. You know how the Velas can be. Swear to me you will keep this between us; you too Marc.'

They reluctantly promised again.

'Right, shall we swim?' Hermione asked, leading them away to the common area.

Chapter Text

The remainder of the day passed in pleasant idleness, with no lessons to attend and the liberty to indulge in simple pleasures. They swam in the cool waters, dined at leisure, and reclined in the atrium’s corners. It was all very cosy until Quinn paid a visit. This time, his attention did not settle on Hermione but rather fixed intently upon Marcus, who straightened at the sudden attention.

'So, you're not a fairy after all?' he asked in a bitter tone.

'Excuse me, darling?' Marcus replied sarcastically.

'Padma and Parvati. They saw you sneaking up the stairs last night and paying Hermione a visit. So, it was all a lie… you liking men and all.' Quinn looked furious.

'Ah, my great rouse has been discovered. Damn you Quinn, damn you to hell'.

'I still don’t believe it.'

'Believe it baby. I love nothing more than sinking my teeth into the fairer sex,' Marcus said with a wink.

Quinn departed with a huff; chest puffed out in indignation. Ginny and Marcus rolled around laughing. Hermione joined their mirth, though her smile faltered upon catching sight of a familiar figure lurking at the room’s outskirts. It was the same mage who had helped Marcus to the infirmary, the very one who, when she herself needed aid, had looked the other way. Common sense advised her to ignore him entirely, but her feet seemed to hold an agenda of their own.

She began to stride toward him, watching as he shifted uncomfortably, as though hoping she might pass by without noticing. But Hermione was resolute.

‘You, what is your name?’ Hermione asked sternly as she sat beside him. He sighed, resigned, and turned to face her. He was young and undeniably handsome, possessing a poster-boy charm. His hair was so fair it almost appeared white, and his chin bore a charming dimple. Tall and solidly built, he, unlike his peers, who carried themselves with easy confidence, seemed content to linger in the shadows, unmoved by any obvious interest in company, be it female or male.

'Cedric,' he mumbled.

'So, Cedric,’ Hermione asked, her tone laced with pent-up rage, ‘tell me. Do you enjoy watching women struggle?'  She was sure to remind herself that the walls of the atrium were not lined with sap. It was where the weather spells were cast, the middle of the room open to the sky, acting as the perfect position for optimum efficacy.

'I… I wanted to help. But they would have punished me too. We aren’t to get involved. That's what they told us.'

'Who, who has told you that exactly?' Hermione enquired pointedly.

'You know… everyone. Teachers, some of the senate.'

'Teachers like Malfoy?' Hermione asked, her eyes widening.

'Well, yes. He's just following orders.'

With a heavy sigh at his response, Hermione rose to take her leave. Clutching the calming stone in her pocket, she walked back to her friends, struggling to suppress the sparks flickering at her fingertips. The brute. She vowed never again to be swayed by Draco's disingenuous displays of concern; it was all a façade, every bit of it. It seemed that every man in Montisfons—correction— all the land, was unworthy of trust.

Madam's next lesson couldn’t come soon enough. Hermione yearned to learn how to defend herself against such men, to cultivate her independence. One truth had crystallised in her mind: she had no desire to be with any man.

⚜

'And what goes well with beef?' Madam asked, her voice monotone, clearly bored with her own cooking lesson.

'Red wine,' the class chanted back.

Madam nodded half-heartedly, turning the page of the cook book beneath them.

These classes were the most tiresome of all. Alongside magic, potions and enchanting, the women were subjected to general wellness lessons. Something the men weren’t taught. Previous instruction had covered massage techniques, how to smell nicely for one's partner and now… how to cook for them. Not only were these classes dull, but they were also insufferably insulting. Having grown up alone with her mother, Hermione possessed considerable cooking knowledge. She therefore found herself gritting her teeth while reading about the delicate art of adding enchantments to herbs, purportedly to enhance their flavour and elevate the dishes they graced.

Such lessons felt like child's play to her.

What she truly craved was the opportunity to learn how to harness her own magic. But her time was soon. Today was her first after-class activity with Madam. After dinner, she would finally learn what she needed to progress in her goal of independence.

Thankfully, the day moved on swiftly, and after a hearty dinner of aged pork tenderloin and grilled vegetables, Hermione finally swanned off to her first tutoring lesson.

⚜

Knocking lightly on the walnut door, she entered Madam's quarters. Her teacher was sitting waiting with two glasses of tea in front of her. Hot steam licking the rim, signalling it had only just been prepared.

Madam nodded at her to sit.

'Right, Hermione. Thank you for joining me.'

'Thank you for teaching me – I really appreciate it. You have no idea,' Hermione stuttered, still overwhelmed with gratitude.

Madam shrugged off her kind words and tutted. 'No need, please. This is a pleasure. I thought we could use our first session to outline what exactly will happen here, okay?' Hermione nodded quickly, sitting up straight and listening intently.

'Good.'

Madam began to tap her fingers lightly on her teacup, her purple nails producing clicks on the porcelain. 'There are three areas we will focus on. First, your magic. I wish to properly assess how powerful you are. As you well know by now, our magic is rooted in nature. Many say mages have limits, which of course we do thanks to the laws that bind us, but those same people underestimate how much nature can produce. It is not just basic elements like fire, wind, and water. We have the strength to pull roots from the ground, create great rainfalls, and harness the very thunder itself if one holds the rare skill. Of course, we must be careful and respect boundaries, but innately, we have this command.  In our sessions, I will show you how to go further, deeper, than we do in class. These may be adept skills, but I suspect you have it in you to succeed.'

Hermione opened her mouth to ask a question, but Madam briskly continued.

'Next! Emotions. My dear, you are a complete petal. It is almost impossible to harness emotional infusions when your mind is so busy. So, we will work on some techniques to calm your thoughts. I will teach you how to properly meditate, cool your thinking and use sage to balance your mind.'

'Sage?' Hermione asked, remembering her mother always grew a great deal of it in their garden whenever she could. Every new season, she would burn a knot of the herb and wave it around the house. But her mother only commented on the smell, claiming it would take out the damp. She never mentioned its apparent calming properties.

'In magical culture, burning sage cleanses people of negativity. It helps to heal and promotes wisdom, and longevity. Sadly, with the war, many of our customs have been abandoned, but smudging sage, we have always found to be calming. It's quite simple dear: we put a little sage in a bowl, burn it, and the smoke will spread through the room, and yourself, to dispel any negative energy, clearing your mind and keeping your emotions settled. Now… where was I-' Madam scratched her forehead with one of her long nails.

Hermione had noticed a change in Madam over the last week, her usually kind and bubbly persona had been replaced by one of tough love. She seemed irritated. Why, Hermione could not say.

'The third area?' Hermione suggested tentatively.

'Ah yes. Third, we need to work on you. You dress plainly, don't ask the questions you should in conversation, you slouch in your seat, eat like the townsfolk and wear little to no make-up. Your hair for example – curls are not seen as attractive my dear. I will prepare a potion to straighten it for you.’

Hermione stared at Madam, stunned by the barrage of criticism directed at her. The comment on her hair were particularly hard to hear. She loved her curls. They reminded her of her mother.

Instinctively, she took hold of one of the ringlets that fell to her cheek and tossed it in her fingers. 'No more curls?' Hermione questioned hesitantly.

Madam nodded deftly and pulled the curl that Hermione held, straightening it. 'See, look how long your hair would be without that bounce in them. Men love long hair… you will see.’

'But, Madam. Correct me if I am wrong, isn't the point of these lessons to get the men to leave us alone? Let us live independently?'

'My dear, who makes the decisions in this city and palace?' Madam asked, her tone a little pointed.

'The king,’ she answered, half statement and half question.

'And what is he?'

'A man,’ Hermione added.

'To achieve independence, you must master them. They see you as someone they can corrupt. Easily win over. Your heritage oozes off you with the way you act. It is not your fault dear, but it is fact. They are not fools. You’re an easy target for them. But with charm, dazzling looks and a bit of bite, they will be eating out of your hand. First, we blend in, then, when they least suspect it, make them trust us.' 

'Madam, I wish only for that. But it’s… hard to imagine. Every Meugia I know is only as useful as the man on her arm. How do I position myself so I can be free?' Hermione sighed, becoming confused.

'Do you see a man on my arm? Or the king's advisor? No – it is rare, but there are ways. If you can prove to the royals that you are an important ally, that you can impart wisdom, advise tactics, navigate politics, they will see you as more than what is under your clothes.’ Madam sipped at her tea, eyes gleaming.

'But… I know nothing of politics.’

'Nor I, as much as I should. But there are ways. The senate live and breathe politics. Charm them, get close to one of them, ask the right questions. I believe you are acquainted with master Blaise? Ask him smart questions in response to his abrasive advances. You are friendly with Professor Draco, borrow history books from him, perhaps enquire for some tutoring, he is a kin-'

‘Draco cannot help,’ Hermione muttered before she could catch herself. Madam regarded her with a look of confusion, her eyes narrowing in encouragement for Hermione to elaborate.

'I – I have already had a history lesson when I started here with the professor, his books are similar to what is in the library. I know what he knows.'

'Well, perhaps you should take over his lessons, my dear,’ Madam jested, ‘do not underestimate him. He may be a Velas through and through, but he knows more than you think of our roots in these lands. Mages, perhaps not. But he has observed decades of history and political moves. Though, involving others may not be wise. For now, we will continue as we are, the two of us. We will start with emotions, as this will hopefully be more simple and immediately helpful, then magic and, finally, we'll work on you. How does that sound?' Madam asked, placing her empty cup on the table.

'Do we have time today? I am keen,' Hermione said enthusiastically.

To her disappointment, Madam shook her head, her long white hair flowing like it was made of the same silk she wore.

'You will have to forgive my weariness; I am not a spring chicken like you. I suggest we meet twice a week. Mid-week and end of week, how does that sound?' Madam suggested getting to her feet with some effort.

She walked towards the kitchenette, the soft jingling of the bells on her anklets accompanying her steps. Despite her charm and charisma, Madam always walked with a slight limp, a subtle reminder of her years. Hermione often forgot the lady's age, for her face bore the freshness of youth and her figure was slim and graceful. It was only in her actions and body language that the passage of time became apparent. Turning to find Hermione forcing a smile, Madam noticed the disappointment she struggled to conceal. With a hearty sigh, she chuckled softly and reached for a cupboard above her, retrieving a wide stone bowl. Carrying it over to the table, she gestured towards the chest in front of them.

'In there, Miss Granger. You will find a jar of sage; fetch it for me will you,' she muttered. Hermione, not needing to be told twice, jumped to her feet and searched for the herb. She quickly found it and brought it back to her professor. Madam pulled a good amount out of the jar and placed it messily into the bowl, passing it to Hermione and grinning warmly.

'Take this to your room, sit on your bed and place the bowl in front of you. You'll need to think of all the negative thoughts in your mind dear, hold onto them, and just when you're bubbling with everything in your head, use your magic to set the contents of the bowl alight. You need to sit with the smoke for a good while, until you feel properly cleansed, understand?'

'Yes, Madam. And thank you.' Hermione bowed her head to show her gratitude, taking the bowl in her hands.

Chapter Text

Hermione marched through her bedroom door with intent. Sitting cross-legged in bed, she placed the bowl of sage down before her. Hesitation lingered around for a moment, but she fought it. Taking a deep breath she loosened the stopper on her feelings, letting them free.

At first, she felt only a strange numbness, a hollow ache. Yet, soon enough, her emotions began to bleed from her. First came thoughts of the wolf, piercing her heart like a thorn. Her eyes grew misted as she released the feelings she had so carefully stifled. Did he suffer in his final moments, she wondered? Did he understand, as she pushed him away, that it was love which bid her to urge him to flee? She could only hope that he had known, in those last breaths, how deeply she loved him. A tear slipped down her cheek, but she sensed more yet to come, much more.

Next, her home. The small basic cottage she lived in all her life. She missed the dusty brick walls that held so many memories. Her soft, fur lined bed. The old, damp kitchen that she prepared dinner in so peacefully. Thoughts of her mother drifted, unbidden, into her mind. Though it had been several years since her departure, the ache of her absence had only deepened with time. They spoke of grief easing as days wore on, yet it seemed only to gain strength, a wound unhealed, for with each passing year the certainty of her mother’s return grew ever fainter and ever more painful. As memories of their time together rekindled, so too did reflections of all she had learned since arriving at Montisfons—a mingling of the past and present. The mages of the woods, how they were ripped away from their families and home, to what end? Confusion and intrigue meshed with sadness and confliction. The professor made an appearance, her red-hot hate for him strong. She remembered all too clearly how he pinned her to the floor of her home, his face plastered with the cold grin she couldn’t burn from her mind. He wore his mask well now. Faking care for her, all while he was only adding to the problem in how he taught his male students. Memories— his lips on hers—swirled in her mind. The way he had thrown her around, lost in lust in the king's chambers. She recalled his hands lifting her skirt quickly, the way he took her feverishly, lost in the lust of the spell. His roughness, the noises he made. It weighed heavy.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember that this was all part of the process, that it was healthy to feel this strongly. The sage, it would help.

The sage.

Hermione opened her eyes, glancing at the bowl below. She hurriedly grasped it in her hand and let the thoughts meddle more. Her eyes met the long cloak on her door. Draco's... anger rushed through her yet again and she tore her attention off the fur to her floor.

Thoughts stunted, Hermione looked closer at what she had found. A single folded note lay on the polished wooden boards. Had she dropped it? It seemed unfamiliar, the parchment a shade of eggshell blue rather than the standard beige sheets she was accustomed to. Hermione cast a glance back at the sage resting in the bowl before her; she knew it would be prudent to leave the note be, to finish clearing her thoughts before indulging her curiosity. But the spark had already ignited, and now it tugged at her too strongly to resist. With a sigh, she moved the bowl aside, rose to her feet, and crossed the floor, bare soles brushing against the cool wood as she reached for the note. It was crumpled from being trodden on. Hermione had been so determined to find solace in the sage she had unknowingly walked right over it as she first entered her room. She lifted it carefully, unfolding it with an air of trepidation. The handwriting struck her as unfamiliar, but as her eyes skimmed over the words, the identity of the writer revealed itself.

Meet me in the patch of lavender by the north gardens, just after sunset. Come alone.

I have something to show you.

- Malfoy.

Hermione scrunched her nose at the note. She read it once more. Was this a trick? Had he finally had enough of her meddling. He had warned so many times. Had he finally decided to act on his threats? Hermione began to pace. Realising it was already rather late, she cast a hasty glance at the moon in the sky; it was perfectly possible she had already missed him. Damn, there was little time to weigh her options. Her first impulse was to consult her friends, likely still wading in the waters or lounging in the atrium; yet, she shook off the notion immediately, unwilling to share a word about Draco with anyone. Sighing deeply, she knew that despite the back and forth in her mind, she’d already decided she would go. At heart, Hermione was strong, but curiosity was her weakness and not knowing had her mind swimming with questions. For some unknown reason, she trusted it would not be a trap. Draco was a brute, a swine, and by all accounts, a moody bastard. But he did things by the book. Luring someone into an arrest didn’t seem in his nature.

Muttering curses to herself, she slipped on a pair of flat shoes and tied her curls behind her head, leaving the room to find out for herself what the professor wished to show her.

⚜

Montisfons was eerily quiet that evening. With no parties or balls in action, a calm carried through the corridors. As Hermione stepped into the north gardens, she found the same tranquillity awaiting her; the air was cool and pleasant against her skin, and the gardens were home only to the flowers. Winter blooms had yielded an enchanting abundance of mixed-season plants. The juxtaposition of mint and monstera, each thriving in opposite climates, was startling—only magic could sustain them in such harmony. Hermione moved along the slate pathway, her steps carrying her past beds of flowers and over small wooden bridges until, at last, she reached the lavender beds.

Finding herself alone, she lowered to sit among the flowers, plucking a single stem and raising it to her nose. Its woody, smoky scent brought her a measure of calm, though her mind felt precarious, unsettled from not having lit the sage. A thought crept unbidden into her mind: perhaps she’d been unwise to come tonight. The dark memories and emotions she had released earlier lingered, unpurged, whispering and prodding at her thoughts, leaving her feeling unsteady. Her hand instinctively slipped into her cardigan pocket, and she exhaled in relief upon finding her trusted calming stone. Grasping it firmly, she closed her eyes and focused on her breath, willing her thoughts into a steadier rhythm.

Hermione noticed a figure approaching through the darkened gardens. Even if she hadn’t known who was to meet her, she would have recognised him. It was unmistakably Draco. It was his stance that gave him away; he walked with a degree of elegance not in suit with either a Velas or professor. Confident, masculine, and measured. As he grew closer, Hermione noticed he was dressed more casually than usual. His leather doublet was replaced with a light cotton shirt, the side loosely tucked into his black soft-leather trousers. He wore no long sword, though his dagger remained sheathed at his hip—a detail which struck her as entirely fitting, for she doubted not that he slept with it close at hand.

With each step, Hermione could make out his features more prominently, thanks to the short, candle lit lamps strategically positioned throughout the garden. His face was stone. Expressionless and cold. His blond hair messy. Lips tight. Seeing him for a moment, Hermione wondered if this whole thing was just a ruse to get her alone so he could berate her— she wouldn’t be surprised. However, instead of halting upon his approach, he simply walked past without a word.

Turning to watch him stride toward the dark forest, she heard him call back, ‘Are you coming or not?’

Confused, Hermione scrambled to her feet, hastening to follow him, though uncertainty gnawed at her; was this a wise decision? But curiosity propelled her forward. By his side now, they navigated the forest in silence.

After a moment, Hermione ventured to break the awkwardness, saying, ‘I’ve never been through here before.’

'I should hope not. It's not as closely monitored as it was during times of war. All sorts of wild animals roam these woods.’

The professor walked quickly, as if he was late for a meeting. She wondered for a moment if he had discovered something about the wildwoods. Did they live here? Had he known all along? No. They would have never lived so close to Montisfons. So, what on earth was this man leading her through a dark forest in the middle of the night for?

'Professor, where are we going?' Hermione inquired after ten minutes of silent walking.

He halted abruptly, extending his arm to prevent her from advancing any further. Turning to face her, he placed a finger to his lips and gestured toward the distance.

Hermione squinted, straining to discern the shapes ahead. A small lodge emerged from the shadows, its weathered exterior appearing old and dilapidated, as though it had long been abandoned.

'What am I looking at?' Hermione asked, becoming more frustrated at his lack of clarity.

'Go,' the professor said quietly. 'Don’t be frightened. It's a pleasant surprise, I promise,' he continued, smiling a little.

Hermione looked at him quizzically, not moving.

He sighed 'It's not a trick, if that is what you are thinking. I will be here. Just... go.'

Rolling her eyes, Hermione moved forward hesitantly. With no sap in sight, she had her magic at least. It may have been unstable and not as powerful as most mages, but it was a good backup plan should she need it.

Edging closer, a strange noise began to emanate through the silent woods. Small squeaks. Light barks. Movement. The lodge was lit with two candleholders wedged on either side of the door, which was almost hanging off its frame. She noticed a stable beside the building. Instead of horses, there appeared to be a mess of dogs. Some play fighting, others sleeping. She smiled softly; they reminded her of Pascal. Though he was a wolf, he was awfully small. Is this what he wanted to show her? Did he wish to bury her grief in a new pup? That they could replace him?

But then, stepping toward the light, Hermione halted in her tracks, frozen in disbelief.. Her affection for her wolf seemed to have conjured a mirage in the tempered light. It could not be, yet there it was… one of the dogs bore an uncanny resemblance to Pascal, the same peppering of grey adorning its coat. Caught in a state of confusion and something she daren’t allow yet to be hope, her heart raced and she quickened her pace.

As she drew nearer, the dogs lifted their heads in surprise, their expressions revealing a gentle demeanour. Clearly domesticated, they wagged their tails and regarded her with relaxed eyes, devoid of any hint of aggression. Yet, Hermione paid little mind to the other dogs; her sights were fixated on the familiar face that had yet to acknowledge her approach. Standing at the entrance of the stable, she watched on as the doppelganger licked another dog’s face with tender affection. It was at that moment she noticed the animal’s ears. One was drooped, just as Pascal's had always done. At that same moment, the mutt sensed  it was being watched and looked up, locking eyes with her. There was no denying it, and felt that simmering hope bloom into joy and wonder and beautiful feelings she never thought she’d feel again.

Hermione sank to the ground, tears streaming down her face.

It was her boy.

Chapter Text

   Pascal's muddy eyes lit up brightly and he began to wine as if he were in pain.

Hermione, beyond herself, curled to the floor, her vision clouded with tears.

Pascal's legs began moving before he could get up, too excited for any precision. Laughing through her sniffles, Hermione opened her arms wide, her heart soaring. Like a newborn fawn discovering its legs, he finally made his way to her, colliding into an embrace.

He plastered her face with wet kisses, wriggling beneath her with an exuberance that was infectious. Hermione held him tightly, her sobs erupting uncontrollably now, the soft warmth of his fur against her cheek and chest washing over her. In that instant, all traces of sorrow melted away; nothing else mattered but this reunion.

Her boy, Pascal, was alive and remarkably well.

Drawing back for a moment, she examined his body for any signs of distress. He felt plump and well-fed, leading her to conclude that whoever had been caring for him was doing an excellent job. He seemed… happy. Even before he had fully registered her arrival, she knew Pascal well enough to sense that he wasn’t moping. She looked around at the assortment of other dogs around him and realised he had found a family. In a tender gesture, Pascal licked her face, his instinctive attempt to wipe away her tears. For a wolf, he possessed an extraordinary intuition, holding such emotion in his furry face.

'You know I never left you on purpose, don't you Pascal. I never stopped loving you for a single moment,' Hermione whispered, her voice shaking.

Her wolf buried his head in her arms once again and growled lovingly against her cheek. A sign that there was nothing to forgive. They stayed like this for a few blissful moments, then Pascal shrugged out of her hold and walked towards the other dogs, wagging his tail and barking gently at her. He wanted her to meet his family. A light chuckle escaped Hermione's lips as she wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself, crawling closer to the pack. The dogs approached her slowly, their curious noses sniffing the air, some venturing forth to lick her face and hands in friendly greeting. Pascal watched over her with a warm, protective demeanour, ready to intervene should the need arise.

'Thank you for looking after my boy,' she beamed, her fingers gently ruffling the crown of a golden-haired dog’s head. At that moment, Pascal nudged his way back to her, affectionately rubbing his head against the dog she had just stroked. It seemed he was trying to convey something important. 'Is this your lady?' Hermione laughed heartily, her eyes sparkling with delight as she observed their playful affection for one another.

For a brief while, Hermione stayed with Pascal and his newfound family, sitting among them and speaking as if they could understand her every word. She stroked Pascal’s coat roughly, revelling in the comforting bond they shared.

However, her thoughts soon drifted to Draco. As she spun around, she noticed him walking away.

Quickly, she leapt to her feet, promising Pascal that she would return the next day. He barked softly, his eyes sparkling with understanding as he licked her hand in goodbye, settling down contently beside the golden-haired dog. As much as it pained her to leave her boy so soon after their reunion. This was something she had to do.

By the time Hermione caught up to the professor she was out of breath; his long legs took wider strides than her.

Already, they were out of sight of both the hut and the palace. The only light around them was the soft moonlight above. Instinctively she grabbed his sleeve to stop him.

He halted, turning to face her.

Hermione attempted to catch her breath, still holding onto the cotton sleeve of his shirt.

'W-why?' Hermione gasped.

Draco raised a blond brow, his face still stone-like.

'Why hide this from me, when you could see I was in pain. Did you get joy from-'

'You think you being in pain brought me pleasure? I understand your disdain for me, Miss Granger, I do. But to think I am that heartless. Please,' he scoffed, pulling out of her grasp and continuing to walk away.

Hermione jogged alongside him. 'Then why. Why show me now? Why lie to start with?' Her voice now brimmed with anger, revealing the clear instability of her emotions.

He spun around quickly, shooting her a firm look. 'Because it was easier. I was instructed to keep you here. The only thing keeping you here was that you had nothing left.'

'Who instructed you?’ she growled.

He shrugged, his expression indifferent.

Hermione burst with rage and before she could stop herself, aimed a hearty slap at his face. He caught her hand instinctively. Still not finished, Hermione used her free hand to hit at his chest in frustration, confused tears pouring down her face. But, Draco did not stop her. He stood calmly and took her light, aimless attacks.

Removing his hand from her other wrist, he allowed her to use both hands to strike at him—not with any real force or malice, merely using him as an outlet for her frustration, all of her anger directed at the man she both loathed and felt endlessly grateful for. Unable to contain her emotions any longer, Hermione’s sobs erupted into wails. Draco responded by stretching his strong arms around her, drawing her tightly to his chest. He knotted a hand gently into her curls, cradling her head as she wept uncontrollably. The embrace felt oddly natural, his warmth wrapping around her like a soft blanket.

As he held her, he murmured, ‘This is why I did not tell you.’

Hermione lifted her tear-streaked face to look at him, her eyes swollen and red. ‘Wha—?’

‘Emotions are painful. Love, especially. I was ordered to bring no distractions. To kill anything that could have caused such a thing. But I... I am all the things you hate, I admit this. I follow orders blindly, I fight for my city and region, and I do things I would rather not for the sake of duty. But even I have my limits, Hermione. I don't kill the innocent. And your wolf... well, he did nothing wrong. I could not just leave him.'

'When did you return for him?' Hermione asked, her voice shaking as her sobbing slowly stilled.

'The day after your arrival. Reed was not to know. That shack was once a hunters’ lodge. We use dogs occasionally in war. They live here when they are not sent with us. I knew... well, I hoped they would accept him. And they did. I should have told you, I realise this now. I didn’t intend to cause you more pain than I already inflicted by bringing you here.’ He sighed, stepping out of their embrace.

'You looked after my boy. I will always be thankful for that,’ Hermione said softly, holding his hand tightly to show her words were true. 'Why bring me here now though. What changed?' She asked, watching as his face scrunched with conflicting emotions.

His eyes softened, once black irises now a light, gentle grey. She traced his full lips and chiselled face, watching as he ran his hand through his dishevelled blond hair. For the first time since meeting this strange man, she looked at him with warmth.

He opened his mouth to answer but closed it again, changing his mind. Hermione watched him patiently.

'Causing you pain, has cut me open, unexpectedly. Knowing I could ease the ache you felt within... well. I had to show you. It was killing me to know when you did not,' he finally uttered delicately.

In one swift movement, Hermione lifted to her toes and captured his lips with hers.

For a moment, he was still.

Not pushing her away, but equally not participating.

But something changed in him as she applied more pressure to the kiss. His mouth parted slightly, enveloping her bottom lip. At first, they kissed lightly, then his hand found her waist, grasping it tightly and drawing her closer. This was different from their last encounter. Their act of lust was a day-dream, tangled legs with a stranger, meaningless and horrifying.

This felt as easy as breathing.

The man before her revealing the person behind the persona. Inhaling deeply through her nose, Hermione drank in his intoxicating scent and dared to dip her tongue into his mouth. He found it and returned the favour. A wave of pleasure carried over them as they kissed more passionately. Draco swiftly lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist and walking forwards, blindly, until they met an old oak tree. He pressed them against the rough wood, exploring her mouth and body with his. As one hand held her in place against his chest, the other began to trace her face, holding her cheek, then lifting her chin to allow for more movement in their embrace.

Hermione felt a foreign warmth spread over her body. At first, she put it down to pleasure, but the breeze around her was unnatural. Opening her eyes as they kissed, she perceived a gentle, tepid wind surrounding them, swimming between their bodies amidst an otherwise still evening air.

It was her.

Her magic.

He laughed deeply into their kiss, withdrawing for a moment to find the nape of her neck. Hermione sighed heavily, her body reacting animalistically to his lips. Her hands fumbled until they found his chest, roughly working to unclasp the buttons that held him captive. Once enough were undone, she grasped his body, her fingers brushing against his firm, worn muscles and the soft hair that lay upon his chest. As her hands travelled down to his stomach, she noted the contours of his well-exercised physique, feeling the small scars that mapped his skin. Each gentle caress seemed to awaken something deep within Draco and a low growl escaped his lips, that were now tantalisingly close to her ear.

He playfully nipped at her earlobe, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine. The sound of his pleasure drove her to the brink of insanity. Instinctively, she pressed harder against his waist, groaning herself when she felt the evidence of his attraction. An innate need rose in her, as the warm wind whipped against her skin.

She needed him.

More than anything.

Reaching her hands down to his belt, she began to clumsily pull at it and his buttons. But a large hand stopped her and the hot lips against her neck halted. Hermione looked to Draco confused and frazzled.

'What’s wrong?' she gasped, her breathing laboured.

He groaned loudly, fighting something internally and placed her gently down to the forest floor. Messing his hair, he was clearly conflicted. Hermione shook her head, smiling widely through her confusion and reached up once again to kiss him, but his hands caught her face, stopping her from meeting his lips.

'This is wrong,' he whispered.

For a fleeting moment his soft expression tinged with pain, his breath heavy. With a deep growl of frustration, he pulled her closer and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. In that brief contact, she felt the weight of his turmoil but could not grasp why he was resisting her. Reluctantly, he released her and turned to fasten the buttons of his shirt, the intimacy of the moment fading into a palpable tension.

The rejection hit Hermione like a tonne of bricks and she could only watch him in amazement as he finished readying himself.

'Why stop... it's not like we haven't done this before?' Hermione asked, her tone more pointed now.

'That was out of our control,' he spat, more angrily than he intended. He adjusted his tone. 'This... we have power over. And you know as well as I, it is wrong. For a number of reasons.’

'Such as?' Hermione asked, her cheeks growing red with embarrassment.

The professor groaned heavily and began to pace. 'Well, for starters, I’m a professor. Strictly forbidden to be romantically involved with students.' He paused, showing her one finger. ‘Secondly, I’m a Velas, banned from any involvement with mages.' He stopped again, lifting another ringed finger. 'Not to mention the history we have. That you are impressionable. That I am the reason you are here. I don't even want to think what will happen to you if they find out.’ He lifted all his long ringed fingers and showed them to Hermione. 'That is why.'

Hermione huffed, 'And what would they do...'

'I don't know.'

'Don't know, or don't want to know?' Hermione asked, watching him with narrow eyes.

He drew closer to her; she could feel his sweet breath on her face again. His aftershave filled her with more foreign, untapped intoxicants. 'The senate deals with all rogue mages. But I can tell you one thing for certain. They don't return, Granger. And I shall not be the cause of that future for you. I will not bring you more pain. I promise you that.'

‘This... brings me anguish!’ Hermione shouted, her voice rising with her frustration. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her fingers, which flickered with flames.

Draco watched her intently, his expression now concerned. He took her trembling hands into his, grounding her with his steady presence.

‘Breathe, Hermione,’ he urged with sincerity, guiding her in a rhythmic inhale and exhale. His touch was gentle, a welcome contrast to the storm within her. ‘This will pass. You are just grateful to see Pascal. This feeling is not real; we both know it.’ His voice was steady as he spoke. As he released her hands, she still felt the warmth of his touch.

'Not real?' Hermione asked. 'You hold such a mask over your face, Draco. What do you truly feel? Tell me once. If this is to be the last time we speak or act on such things, I would rather hear the truth. How you pity me? You feel guilt for pulling the poor peasant girl from her village to a world unknown? Tell me why you brought me here today, really.’

'You have always put words in my mouth, Granger. Yes, you are ill-mannered, you walk with no grace, spit insults at every opportunity, hold no respect for authority, cannot control the most basic of emotions, and have poor taste in friends and teachers...' He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as Hermione scoffed in response. 'I list these traits as if they are negative. But the truth is... what many would find intolerable, in you, I find enchanting. The truth. I yearn for those traits. To question, to not follow blindly. To love as you do...' Draco turned towards the direction of the hut and, more poignantly, Pascal. 'Your faults are what infatuate me.'

Hermione watched him for a moment, considering his words carefully. She wasn't sure if she should slap or kiss him. 'I wish your compliments were not so laced with insult. Even when sweetness pours from you, it’s polluted with unkindness,’ she murmured quietly.

'I do not wish to mislead you. I like you, despite these things. You are unapologetically yourself, while I can only apologise for my misguided desire. You should not sully yourself with the likes of me.'

Hermione's mouth fell open in surprise before she could quell her instinctive reaction. The longing to caress him surged within her, compelling her to approach with newfound confidence. She cupped his face in her hands, her fingers brushing against the roughness of his stubble.

In response, he placed his hand over hers, a silent acknowledgment of the moment. With determination, she leaned in, intent on demonstrating that he was wholly acceptable to her.

Yet just as she was about to meet his lips, he spoke softly.

‘This will only bring pain—for us both.’

With those words, he withdrew, turning slowly and beckoning her to follow. She trailed behind, her mind racing with a thousand conflicting thoughts. As they reached the forest's edge, he paused and turned to her, a melancholy expression shadowing his features.

'Is it not worth the risk?' Hermione asked in a desperate attempt for him to reconsider.

He shook his head solemnly.

'No.'

Hermione reminded herself how empty his words could be. Yes, he had regrets. He showed some heart. But he was still a man following orders. He taught his class as he was told to. Ignored the questionable motives of the senate and royals and held no ill-acting men accountable. Perhaps he was right; it was better this way. She nodded painfully, her eyes not even attempting to mask the anger she felt.

He placed a large hand to her shoulder as a small act of comfort, but Hermione quickly shrugged out of it.

'It would only end in pain.' Hermione repeated his own words sharply and walked to the palace alone. The sage calling for her.

Chapter Text

Hermione awoke feeling surprisingly elated. The sage had proven remarkably effective; although it did not banish all negative thoughts entirely, the more troubling ones at least faded into the background as she slept.

What mattered most was Pascal was in her life again. Her issues with the professor aside, he did her a kindness. And while it was embarrassing to experience rejection, the stark reality of the morning helped her come to the conclusion that he was likely correct. A relationship with a royal guard and teacher was not astute. Dangerous, in fact.

It was best to keep apart, as he insisted.

Lessons continued as usual that day. Madam taught her class how to harness the magical properties of potions to enhance the growing of herbs. Hermione's initial assumption that non-magic folk could, should they want to, make potions on their own was proven to be incorrect.

With her teachings, Madam showed that nurturing the fauna and flora over time had to be adhered to in order to grow specialist ingredients. Many were unable to thrive without the help of magic. She used root of polluck as an example. Holding the long, spindly roots to the class, Madam Haggravan explained that the roots of the polluck tree dug particularly deep and only grew in wet marshes. Extracting them was nearly impossible without the aid of magic, as their chosen resting point rendered them so difficult to reach. This instance illustrated that spells could serve not only in the cultivation of ingredients but also in their procurement.

Just as their lesson came to an end, Ginny grabbed Hermione and looped her arm in hers, leading them towards the courtyard to meet Marc after class. Hermione began to protest, not wishing to see Professor Malfoy so soon after the rejection the night before. But she could hardly tell her friend that. Ginny, ever determined, rolled her eyes and reminded her that it was precisely what they had agreed upon earlier. With a resigned sigh and no clear strategy to extricate herself from the situation, Hermione followed her friend, though her heart was heavy with reluctance.

She’d never observed history class in action before and found her eyes wandering over the students, who silently watched Draco as he taught. He looked different when tutoring these classes. His armour was replaced with a light shirt and cotton trousers, and instead of a sword, he held a heavy book firmly. Reading from it, Hermione noted that his stormy eyes were covered with square reading glasses. His shoulder length blond hair fell to frame the sides of his spectacles.

Hermione watched him, a curious feeling building inside her. She could not discern whether it was the recent rejection that heightened her feelings or the revelation of a different side to him from the previous night. Whatever the cause, he appeared strikingly more appealing than ever before. She had always acknowledged his handsome features, but now, they seemed to possess a magnetic allure.

Hermione, realising she was biting her lip lost in thought, quickly adjusted her demeanour and focused back on the class.

Draco finished the page he read and closed the book with a loud thud.

‘By tomorrow, I expect a page on the rise and fall of the Nerville empire,’ he quipped, his gaze sweeping across the classroom until it fell upon her. He lowered his glasses then removed them altogether, as if embarrassed to be seen wearing them.

Just then, Marcus appeared, breaking their eye contact and drawing her focus away.

'How are you two beauties? I'm parched, a drink and some grub perhaps?' he asked in a jolly tone. Without waiting for a reply, Marcus threw his arms around both girls, pulling them close as he ushered them away from the courtyard, not giving Draco another look.

⚜

The friends ate in the largest of the halls, sharing stories of their day. Hermione, though enjoying their company, felt a pang of guilt within. She usually told her friends everything. Keeping Draco from them, and now Pascal, felt wrong. Perhaps now she knew nothing would happen with the professor; it would be safe to tell them? They had given her no reason not to trust them.

Before she could choose to share, Ginny glared at her.

Hermione, nervously laughing, asked her what was on her mind.

'I have an invitation to extend to you, Herm'. Before I do – may I say, this means a lot to me. And as a very good friend of mine, I think it would only be proper that you accept,’ she muttered quickly, deepening her scowl.

'Lower the attitude, Gin, give the girl an option,’ Marc smirked, elbowing her gently.

Ginny's face did not change. ‘This is important to me, Marcus. I just wanted to preface this invitation to make that clear first.’

‘Okay, I understand. Now ask away,’ Hermione snorted with an air of hesitation.

‘Have you attended the opera in the city before?’ Ginny asked, catching the group off guard.

Hermione, momentarily taken aback, slowly shook her head, uncertain of where this conversation might lead.

‘Well,’ Ginny continued, a hint of excitement in her voice, ‘Theo has graciously offered to take us—both of us. However, there lies the dilemma: I cannot attend if you do not, and you cannot go without me. So, you see, we must go as a pair.’

'And who else will be joining us?' Hermione asked leisurely, already knowing the answer. Ginny bit her lip with apprehension.

'Blai-'

‘No,’ Hermione barked.

Ginny breathed heavily, puffing her bottom lip out in a sulk. ‘I knew you would never agree.’

‘Too right!’ Marcus defended. ‘He's a boar, Gin. As is Theo, may I add…’

Ginny shot him a look of venom and turned her attention back to Hermione. 'I know you have had problems with him. But he has promised it is an extravagant event. Only the fanciest of royals and noblemen are in attendance. We'll be in their own box. He's sent for us to have dresses made and everything.’ Ginny stopped suddenly, realising she had given something away.

‘So, you already said I agreed,’ Hermione tutted. Ginny held her arm in desperation, pleading with her now. ‘Herm', please. I'll be right next to you. If he says or does anything, I'll step in. I will. Besides, they don't go anywhere without a guard. You're in no danger, I promise. Hermione, please… I have a feeling Theo is close to asking me to pair with him. He's really opened up to me recently. I can feel it. Something has changed within him.’

Hermione fiercely took a swig of her apricot juice, ignoring that she splashed drops over her with heavy handedness. ‘Where is the Ginny that just yesterday was so keen to investigate royal conspiracies… and now you expect me to make nice? To sit in a nest of vipers with the very people we hold suspicious?’

Ginny thought for a moment, then a smirk appeared on her face. ‘What better way to find out information than from the very source of it?’

Hermione was silent. Something Madam had said to her the previous afternoon rang in her head: ‘first, we blend in, then, when they least suspect it, make them trust us.’ Perhaps Ginny was right. It could be a good opportunity to learn more. Hermione also recalled that Madam had directly suggested spending more time with Blaise.

Hermione peered to Marc, who nodded in agreement.

‘Fine,’ Hermione said through one exhaled breath.

Ginny squealed and grasped her tightly. ‘You're a wonderful friend. Just the best.’

Marcus cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow.

‘You know I would take you if I could, darling,’ Ginny muttered. ‘There just aren’t enough gay royals.’

‘Oh, there are plenty. They're just not willing to show it,’ he chortled.

‘So, when is the Opera?’ Hermione asked cooly, finally digging into her plate of, now cold: steamed fish, potatoes, and broccoli.

‘Tonight,’ Ginny winced.

Chapter Text

   ‘This is ridiculous,’ Hermione stammered, pulling at the tight dress wrapped around her. She grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. The dress the prince had delivered was far too revealing for Hermione's taste. The black gown clung to every curve on her body. Though full length, it cut off at her right thigh, revealing a great deal of skin. But that was not the part that worried her. It was the overzealous bust that gave her heart palpitations. Hermione had never displayed so much cleavage before; the plunging neckline was excessive, even for a woman of questionable repute. To add to her discomfort, the accompanying heels were painfully high. With a resolute shake of her head, she discarded them in favour of her reliable flats.

Ginny, noticing her rebellion, seized the discarded shoes and insisted on replacing them. 'You must maintain appearances,’ she muttered, deftly fluffing Hermione’s hair. Marcus had indeed worked wonders on her locks, pinning and arranging them into a half-up, half-down style. Ginny had also helped with her makeup, applying a soft rose gloss to Hermione’s lips and accentuating her eyes with a bold line of kohl.

Hermione hardly recognised her reflection. While she had dressed up for dinners and balls in Montisfons before, this felt like an entirely new level of extravagance.

‘Ginny, I’m not sure about this…’ she grumbled, tugging at the fabric in a futile attempt to cover herself. She turned to Marc, silently hoping he would echo her doubts.

'Not that women are my specialist area, but even I can say you look ravishing, my love. Just embrace it. You're both a pair of sultry temptresses tonight. Drink the wine, enjoy the music and flirt outrageously, just for me,' he exclaimed passionately with a wink. 

'Come – we're going to be late,' Ginny hissed, applying perfume liberally. 'Scent – quickly,' she snarled, pointing at the bottle of scarcely-used perfume on her dresser. Groaning, she applied a few spritzes and slipped on the gold bracelet Madam had given her, feeling strongly that it could come in useful tonight. If nothing else, the black pearl matched the theme of her outfit.

⚜

Marcus escorted the ladies, holding Hermione's hand as she struggled to navigate the high heels. Upon reaching the corridor outside the ladies' quarters, they encountered Deius and Quinn emerging from their own dormitories. The men regarded the women with lustful gazes before casting envious looks at Marc.

‘You're wasting your time with that one,’ Deius sneered. ‘Why not seek the company of real men for a change?’

'Well, let me know when you find one,' Ginny quipped, pulling her friends in the opposite direction.

Marcus howled, pulling her waist tighter, proud of his friend's new found confidence.

They paused as they reached the atrium where prince Theo and Blaise were in sight.

Marc unhooked their hips and kissed each on the cheek, akin to a father bidding his daughters farewell at a ball. 'Now be good,' he said cheekily. 'Ginny, don't do anything I wouldn't do. Correction. Do everything I would do, and more.’ He winked at her and turned to Hermione. Leaning in closely, so Ginny could not eavesdrop, he whispered gently, ‘look after her… and yourself for that matter.’

Hermione squeezed his arm and gave him a look to show she would.

He smiled faintly and let them walk to their suiters. ‘They grow up so fast!' he lamented in jest.

The women stifled a laugh as they closed in on Theo and Blaise.

Hermione had to admit, they looked dashing. Both wearing black to suit the ladies attire. Theo shot them a half-smile and bowed his head in greeting, kissing their hands speedily.

Blaise did the same, but his lips lingered too long on Hermione's hands.

Pulling out of his grasp, she faked a smile to keep the peace.

‘Shall we?’ Theo murmured, leading the way. He didn't seem overly pleased at the company, nor the occasion.

A gold jewelled carriage awaited them at the entrance of Montisfons. A striking white-and-brown horse stood ready, poised to carry them down the steep mountainside toward the bustling city below. As they made their way, Hermione realised this was the first time in a month she had left the palace. It was so easy to remain in the bubble the palace provided. It was essentially a town in its own right. With numerous rooms, gardens and company, one could easily forget there was more to life than the confines of the walls.

They rode down the mountain and through town, speaking pleasantly as they journeyed. Hermione was happy to find Blaise sober for once; however, despite his clear-headedness, he still retained an unmistakable air of arrogance. He spoke to the two ladies jollily enroute, as Theo sat silently. He appeared to be sulking, replying to questions with one-word answers. Hermione noticed he hardly looked at Ginny, all while Blaise could not keep his eyes off Hermione, his face painted with a look of lust from the moment she appeared. Hermione would gladly have exchanged places with Ginny. She just hoped for no further unwelcome advances that evening.

The city was dazzling at night. Built from the ground up, the mountainous metropolis came alive under the stars, its pebbled streets shining as they reflected the moonlight. Valiere was abuzz with life, a lively throng of upper-class revellers adorned in sumptuous linens and exquisite jewels merrily consumed food and drink in the cool evening air.  It was hard to believe just a few miles outside the city, there would be layers of snow beneath your feet. Veliere truly was the oasis of Reliania.

The carriage halted, signalling they had arrived at their destination. Blaise courteously took Hermione's hand, after leaping out of the carriage first to help her down.

She turned to check on Ginny, who, much to Hermione's dismay, received no such courtesy from Theo, who stood impatiently at the side of the carriage. Two familiar guards waited at the entrance of the grand hall. Reed and, of course, Draco. Who else? Did this man ever rest? Hermione thought.

Theo's face lit up at the sight of them. He shook Draco's hand and nodded at Reed. 'Good of you to come on such short notice. My father asked for you personally I assume?'

Draco nodded at Theo' question.

'Ah, good stuff. We're hosting the royals from Quedeoux today. Keen to get in their good books with all the recent hassle with imports. Boring stuff. But it’s good you're here'.

Hermione glanced at Draco, resplendent in his full Velas uniform. He wore the same maroon attire as on the day they first met, a hue that complemented his strong figure beautifully. The fair weather permitted him to don a lighter crimson cloak, fastened at the shoulder with the royal snow bear clasp. As he turned, their eyes met for the first time. Though his expression remained stoic, Hermione detected a flicker of appreciation. His eyes roamed over her dress, persisting for a moment longer than decorum typically allowed before he cleared his throat and nodded to Blaise and the ladies, stepping aside like the dutiful Velas guard he was.

As she passed through the archway, Hermione concentrated intently on her footing, determined not to stumble in the alarmingly high heels that pinched her feet. To steady herself, she opted for a deliberate pace. Blaise extended his arm in offering, but she deftly brushed it aside, resolute not to show any hint of dependence. Tonight was about politics, nothing more—and perhaps a chance to remind Draco of what he had chosen to overlook.

The group entered the expansive hall, which buzzed with attendees gathering drinks at the two bars flanking either side. The establishment exuded elegance; the walls were adorned with exquisite paintings and fine embellishments, while the carpet boasted intricate patterns. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the walls were lined with sap.  Having magic to hand would give her modicum of security, should the evening take an unexpected turn.

They approached the bar, and Blaise inquired what she would like.

‘Red wine,’ Hermione replied, though she preferred mead; she recalled being told that it was the drink of common folk and was eager to maintain appearances.

Blaise barked the order at a bartender, requesting a glass for himself along with two eidos, the strongest and most expensive alcohol one could buy in Relinia, imported from Xerne, it was a fragrant but deadly mixture of herbs and spices. The smell of it alone caused most to sway. Upon receiving their drinks, he slid a glass of eidos down the bar to Theo. They exchanged mischievous glances before downing the muddy liquid, grimacing at the sharp taste.

'Just a little Xerne luck,' he said, winking and passing a glass of wine to Hermione.

‘Did I overhear Theo say we were to be joined with the royals from Quedeoux?’ Hermione asked her date curiously.

He nodded, draining his own wine greedily.

Being outside the realms of Relinia, Quedeoux wasn’t a place she had visited. Only traders or the upper class had the money to venture through the seas to other lands. But Hermione had read about Quedeoux and seen various illustrations in history books. It was famous for its hot climate, fine wines and art. With such luxury goods, it was essential Relinia maintained a good relationship with them for trading. Politically, Relinia could provide mages to help with crops, weather, and protection in return for other goods and services. Aside from mages, Relinia's only real wealth was within its network of mines scattered throughout the region. Inside deep caves, the cold and water produced the perfect conditions for fine gemstones. That, paired with the value of its mages, established Relinia—and, by extension, its capital, Veliere—as the most formidable region in all the lands.

'I will introduce you when we reach the box, but yes. Two royals. Both men. Princes. Thus, your appearance. The king suggested looking over two beautiful creatures may sweeten what we have to say to them,’ he said quickly.

Hermione regarded him with a curious expression. ‘Bad news?’

Blaise’s attention drifted toward Theo, ensuring he was not eavesdropping. ‘Not the best. You may have realised we are running low on mages. Our trade partners are asking for more and we simply have no stock to assist. So… naturally, negotiations are struggling.’

She was trying not to wince at the term stock when a sudden memory surfaced, one she had long buried. In the cupboard with Draco, beneath the thrall of the potion, two senators had entered the room. Their conversation echoed similarly to this. Hermione strained to recall their words, which she had struggled to absorb at the time, her attention diverted.

"Majesty informed us that the villages are worse than he thought. Cattle starving, no crops. With little to no mages visiting."

Hermione's eyes grew wide as she recalled the conversation. She remembered the mention of the project. But could think of nothing further. Narrowing her eyes at Blaise, she resolved to uncover more this evening. Yet before she could pose another question, Theo approached, urging them to move further inside.

As they wove through the crowd, Hermione concentrated on her steps. While level ground presented little challenge, the stairs proved trickier. Blaise moved ahead, engaged in quiet conversation with Theo, leaving Hermione to rely on the sturdy walnut banister for support as they ascended. Amidst the murmurs of the gathering, a few voices rose above the rest.

'Dirty magic,' one man rang with venom.

Hermione turned, worried the remark was aimed at her. Thankfully it seemed to be directed at a small group of older men wearing sage doublets walking up the other staircase to their right. Heads turned to observe the altercation.

'Watching opera when there are folk starving out there. You should be ashamed!’ another voice shouted.

The mages appeared accustomed to the scorn, ignoring the voices as they continued their ascent up the stairs. Meanwhile, Hermione’s attention shifted, and in that moment without focus, her foot slipped, causing her ankle to twist precariously. Her heart plummeted, bracing for the inevitable sting of pain and the humiliation that would surely follow. However, to her surprise, strong arms enveloped her, the rich scent of leather, vanilla, and oud wrapping around her senses.

Draco gently guided her back toward the staircase, rolling his eyes in exasperation as he extended his arm, inviting her to loop hers through his.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

'Why must you be like this?' he sighed; his tone hushed so Blaise could not overhear.

'Excuse me?'

'Never mind,’ he tutted, his face narrowing, watching their surroundings.

'I thought you liked me even with my many faults,' she hissed sarcastically, impersonating Draco’s cadence of speech. His jaw twitched in response. As they arrived at the top of the stairs, Blaise was waiting. He turned and cackled, noticing Hermione clutching Draco's arm.

‘Watch yourself, Velas,’ he barked, his tone ambiguous, leaving Hermione uncertain whether he warned him in jest or sincerity.

‘The lady tripped. I was helping her upstairs. A duty you should have carried out, master Zabini,’ Draco answered plainly.

Theo approached the trio, a serious expression on his face as he turned to Blaise.

'He's not just a Velas, Blaise. Draco led our boys in the war. He’s father’s favourite. Could have been part of our little family at one point, isn’t that right Draco?’ Theo smirked. They seemed more friendly than Hermione had seen them before and wondered if it was the distance from the palace that lended them to this less formal exchange. 'Wouldn't be teaching if he didn't almost lose his arm, isn’t that right friend?'

‘Theo,’ Draco sighed, cutting off what Theo considered banter. Even Theo seemed to recoil at the tone, revealing a hint of wariness toward him. By the gods, why was everyone so intimidated by this man? Velas or not, he didn’t strike Hermione as particularly fearsome.

‘I know who you are. I was merely toying, dear Draco,’ Blaise interjected swiftly, clearly eager to redirect the conversation. ‘Now, may we sit? Perhaps another drink?’

A young woman hovering in the corner of the box nodded and hurried off to procure refreshments for the group.

They sat in a neat row, flanked by two empty seats beside Blaise and Theo. Ginny leaned back in her chair and silently mouthed, ‘Are you all-right?’

Hermione nodded promptly, grateful for her friend's concern.

Ginny’s eyes sparkled with delight, clearly thrilled to be seated next to Theo.

Hermione, however, found it difficult to understand the appeal. While Theo was undoubtedly one of the less exasperating royals, he seemed disinterested in Ginny, engaging with her primarily to enhance his own image or that of Montisfons. A solemn look was painted on his undeniably beautiful face. His kohl lined eyes washed with sadness.

As Hermione observed the two men, she noticed their quiet intensity as they plotted strategies for their forthcoming encounter with the Quedeoux aristocracy, who had yet to arrive. Leaning closer, she strained to listen, eager to catch every word.

'They are coming, dear prince. We simply have to inform them of that. The young will grow up fast and the rest of the project is in full force. All in due course. For now, we continue to trade precious metals. That is what the emperor agreed upon, is it not?’ Blaise whispered, glancing sidelong at Theo, who nodded in affirmation.

As Hermione continued to eavesdrop, her gaze inadvertently met Draco's dark, piercing eyes. He shook his head in warning, prompting her to roll her eyes in exasperation before returning to the middle of her chair. She took a sip from her glass of wine, noting with dismay that it was significantly emptier than before she tripped on the stairs. Looking down to her own attire, no drip marked her dress. She wondered if… Casting Draco another coy look, Hermione scanned his armour. Sure enough, drops of crimson wine lay still wet on his right shoulder, though his own uniform being maroon in colour was a kindness in this instance, hiding the spill. Hermione smirked to herself, wondering if he had even realised.

The curtains behind them parted with an abrupt swish, allowing a flood of bright light to spill over their shoulders. Two men marched in confidently, their faces proud and snooty. Both were short, tanned, and dressed for winter. Thick, ruby-encrusted necklaces adorned them, while a brooch engraved with three lemons gleamed at their chests. Hermione recalled her studies in the library; the national drink of Quedeoux was a sweet lemon liqueur. The newcomers exchanged brief greetings with Theo and Blaise before turning their attention to the ladies.

The first man approached Hermione, prompting her to rise and extend her hand with a courteous curtsey. He acknowledged her with a nod and settled into the seat farthest from her after extending the same gesture to Ginny.

The second man, markedly more handsome, smiled broadly at Hermione, taking her hand and pressing his lips to it in a quick kiss. However, his focus moved swiftly from her face, instead resting on her chest, causing Hermione to visibly squirm with discomfort. The dress… She really had to stop letting people make decisions for her, she thought.

 'And who are you?' he asked, his voice thick with an accent she couldn’t place.

'Hermione Granger, student Meugia at Montisfons,’ she answered hastily.

'Ah, so this is where they are hiding them,’ his friend jeered, winking at Hermione and sitting beside Blaise.

'Alduin, Samuel – we have a proposal for you. We have discussed with Joric Knott, our great emperor and-'

‘No talk of trade or politics before the show; we shall discuss such matters afterward,’ the man Hermione now knew as Samuel said, his tone impatient.

Blaise nodded, though he could not conceal his irritation. He sank deeper into his chair, shifting his attention to Hermione instead. A hand crept to her lap, resting on her knee, causing her immediate discomfort. Hermione sensed Draco's glare through the dim light. Normally, she would have brushed away such an unwelcome touch, yet on this occasion, she resolved to play along with his game. Not only did she wish to keep Blaise in good spirits for information, but she also wanted to twist the knife a little deeper for the intolerable Velas watching from the shadows of the royal box.

Leaning closer, Blaise whispered, ‘You look divine tonight, did I say?’

Hermione smiled charmingly in response. ‘You clean up nicely yourself’, she replied, her voice sweet yet teasing. ‘Tell me, Blaise, what is the strategy regarding the shortage of mages? Surely you cannot simply snap your fingers and conjure more?’ Her eyes sparkled with curiosity while Blaise regarded her with amusement.

‘Why would a student take interest in such things?’ he remarked.

Hermione paused, thoughtfully placing her palm over his hand still resting on her knee. His eyes brightened at the gesture. ‘And as a student, is it not my duty to learn?’ she purred, doing her utmost to awaken her novice powers of seduction.

'Well – quite right, I suppose. We have a project in action. Fear not,' he said slowly, his eyes on Hermione’s lips which were doing their best to look plump and desirable. Hermione fought a grin, proud that she had managed to flirt her way into an answer.  Just as she prepared to pose another question, she felt an unexpected warmth radiating from her wrist. Looking down, she discovered the source: the bracelet from Madam. Her expression soured. It was not her powers of seduction at play, but rather simple, old-fashioned magic.

Hermione returned her attention to Blaise, inching slightly closer, resolute in her desire to unearth more details. ‘And what is this project?’ she inquired, her mouth now mere inches from his. Blaise’s expression was that of a man with a great feast before him, his pupils dilated and his lips slightly parted. He opened his mouth to respond, tension crackling in the air between them.

‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,’ a voice boomed from the stage in front of them.

Blaise, shaken from his reverie, turned instinctively to watch the performance unfold. Hermione drifted to Draco, whose eyes quickly darted away from her.

He had been watching.

Chapter Text

A delicious thrill surged within her, initially delightful, but that pleasure soon faded. It was not in her nature to toy with another’s affections. Determined to avoid further entanglement, she resolved to rely on the bracelet’s magic for the evening. It had proven effective on its own, rendering her flirtations unnecessary. After all, who could predict the consequences if Blaise began to believe her feelings were genuine?

'...We are proud to introduce to you, the beast and the harlot, an opera by Finneas Arabella.'

The stumpy man on stage vanished behind a grand red curtain. After a moment of eager murmuring, the curtain parted to reveal a man clad in a thick brown fur coat and a bear-like mask. Beside him stood a striking woman adorned in luxurious silk; her long, black hair cascaded elegantly behind her. Every detail of her attire shimmered in purple, from her eyeliner and shoes to her long, feline nails. They commenced with a haunting song about their lust for gold and power.

Blaise leaned closer to Hermione. ‘It is said to be based on Cassandra Kiesea; you have heard of her?’

Hermione nodded, recalling her only history lesson with Draco. Cassandra, the infamous Meugia of the last century, was the source of widespread animosity toward her kind. As Hermione observed the audience, she understood why such hatred persisted—stories like these perpetuated a cycle of fear and loathing.

As the opera unfolded, Hermione was captivated, despite the grim theme. The acting and music were exquisite, evoking unexpected emotional resonance. She absorbed more of Cassandra's tale, learning of her uprising and her fervent leadership of mages in rebellion against the empire. With growing horror, Hermione watched as Cassandra and the formidable mages battled the Velas and the common folk. If this portrayal held any truth, there could be no doubt that Cassandra was indeed a villainess.

As the opera reached its conclusion, the thunderous magic Cassandra had summoned turned against her, the sap rendering her powers unstable. She collapsed to the ground, signalling her demise. The crowd erupted into applause, but Hermione grimaced. Every mage depicted in this retelling was portrayed as vile, with nary a mention of the Wildwoods or the innocent mages caught in the turmoil. The actors representing the Velas then marched onto the stage, apprehending the remaining mages as applause continued to resonate through the hall.

‘Useless bastards,’ Blaise muttered under his breath.

Hermione leaned in closer, her eyes making it clear that she expected him to elaborate.

'They were about as much use to us as a butter spear,' Blaise said, looking back to Hermione and laughing at her unamused expression. 'I just mean they are the reason we have so few mages now. Most of them were infertile. They couldn't breed. It was their obsession with strong blood. Worked for a few generations, but the lot ended up being sterile. All that inbreeding. Nasty bastards,' he spat.

Hermione recalled Madam mentioning strong blood to her in a lesson before. But there had never been any mention of infertility. Not from her, not from Draco, and certainly in no accounts from the history books she’d read. A dark thought suddenly occurred to Hermione. Was this why they captured the forest mages? To breed them in the hopes of gathering more stock? She hoped her intuition was wrong. She couldn't ask Blaise directly; the information she knew was strictly confidential. But there had to be a way to find out more without condemning herself.

'Were there no other mages?' Hermione asked, holding her bracelet and urging it to work. Blaise looked at her, his expression pained. He shook his head and reached for his third glass of wine. Damn it. Madam had warned the spell on the bracelet could only do so much. She supposed classified information was harder to draw out.

Hermione looked to Draco again who was watching Blaise curiously. As his eyes shifted to her, they narrowed, fervently increasing the growing tension between them in this small, increasingly overcrowded space. He then redirected his focus to the crowd, scanning for any potential disturbances with a palpable sense of unease. ‘Excuse me,’ Draco said quietly, his voice laced with frustration, before turning sharply to leave the room.

Samual yawned loudly and turned to Blaise and Hermione. 'Well, now that is over, we can talk’, he murmured. ‘Perhaps some food as we discuss terms?'

'Certainly,' Blaise announced, nodding to Theo to continue.

'Where would you like to eat?' Theo asked.

'You ask me, a stranger to this city, where to eat?' Samual asked. Theo' eyes darkened, but Ginny was quick to chirp in.

'Herbeu, petax vou wourte pouleh eretay?' she asked.

Hermione blinked twice in amazement.

'Ah, your girl speaks Quedeouxian. Why did you not say? Stick close to me,’ Alduin grinned.

Ginny blushed lightly and smiled at Theo, whose face remained blank.

'You say there is a bistro in the city, a few minutes from here, yes? Let us go there as suggested,’ he shouted, elated for the first time of the evening.

*

   The six guests and Reed got to their feet and made their way out of the room.

Blaise quickly placed a hand around Hermione's waist. 'Ensuring you don't trip again,' he chuckled, leading them down the stairs.

Hermione looked around for Draco as they moved, but he was nowhere to be seen.

'Should we not wait for Professor Malfoy?’ she asked Blaise.

He laughed heartily. 'It still amuses me that you call him professor.'

'Why does it amuse?' Hermione asked pointedly.

'You do not remember the Draco we watched in times of war—if he had been of age to fight in the Great War, I doubt we would have even needed sap... he has calmed with age, let’s just say that'. Winking once, Blaise pulled at her waist tighter and continued to lead them down the stairs.

As they walked through the ground floor to the exit, a group of working-class men frowned at Ginny and herself. Their eyes not alight with lust, but fury—a refreshing change, really, but not to be underestimated. Hermione turned her attention to the door, hoping that ignoring them would be enough to keep them from approaching.

'That's right. Keep the harlots to yourself,' one of the chubby men snarled.

Blaise scoffed and marched towards the men, still holding Hermione tightly by the waist.

'Blaise – don't encourage them,' she begged, trying to push back. But he was too strong and determined.

'You only wish that you could go home with such divine beauty. Go home to your pox-ridden wenches,' Blaise snapped, grinning with superiority.

A larger man in the centre of the group rose from his bar stool, towering over them. He was fat but he looked strong, like an ox. He reminded Hermione of Deius. They had the same monobrow and dumbfounded expression. 'Say thar again,' the man spat.

Blaise, losing his new-found confidence, began to back away.

With no warning, the beast of a man pushed Blaise back and turned his attention to Hermione next. He stood close to her and eyed the sage, silk choker around her neck, signifying her Meugia status. He laughed gruffly and placed a rough finger against her face.

‘Perhaps we could escort you home and discover what all the fuss is about,’ suggested the beastly man. Hermione winced, rooted to the spot by fear. She felt his finger probing between the delicate silk ribbon and the skin of her neck, only for him to withdraw suddenly, as though the ribbon had scorched him.

‘Stupid wench of a mage. I’ll—’

Before he could finish, Theo glided into the fray, Reed by his side. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! How about a round of drinks on us?’ he proposed, a charming smile gracing his lips. ‘We are merely entertaining our esteemed friends from Quedeoux—the very ones who graced your tables with wine.’ He raised an eyebrow, but the brutish man remained impassive, stepping closer to the prince.

‘We don’t drink wine. Can’t afford to,’ he retorted.

Theo nodded, a knowing look crossing his face as he pondered his next words. Just then, another man approached Hermione, grinning like a lunatic. He moved to place his hands on her, drawing nearer with the scent of greasy meats and stale tobacco. Theo instinctively reached for his sword, stepping toward the bulkier man now preoccupied with Reed.

Hermione’s skin crawled with revulsion as the ugly man loomed over her, and she felt something powerful growing inside her. Just as she prepared to unleash her own magic, a sudden gust of wind swept through the room, striking the four men like a battering ram. They tumbled over the bar in a chaotic heap.

Hermione glanced at her fingers, astonished that she could wield such power without the use of her hands. Turning to the group, she spotted Ginny wearing a triumphant smirk, pride etched across her face. Unable to contain herself, Hermione laughed without inhibition.

'We like her even more. Perhaps we keep her,' Samual chuckled.

Theo beamed warmly and approached Hermione, still smiling, his face suddenly twisted with what looked to be concern.

'All okay?'

Hermione nodded quickly. 'Thanks to Ginny.'

'Yes, she can be useful,’ he muttered, his simper falling.

'What do you mean by that?'

'It matters not. Come.'

Hermione followed close to Theo, watching as his jaw tightened. 'Do not toy with her,' she said before she could stop herself.

He turned to her abruptly, his midnight eyes bitter.

'Know your place, mage.' With that, Theo spun around and patted Blaise on the shoulder, checking he was also well.

Ginny walked to her prince and snuck her arm into his to exit.

Blaise opened his to encourage Hermione to do the same, but she found him quite repellent after that encounter. His cowardness now plain to see.

Chapter Text

Chapter 28

   As they walked through the dimly lit streets, close to Reed, Hermione looked around for Draco once more, who was still, to her dismay, nowhere to be seen.

They slowed, approaching the restaurant.

A well-dressed gentleman at the door recognised the prince and let them in immediately, bowing dutifully as the group entered. He took them to a more secluded area in the back, where he swiftly arranged a table adorned with fine silver candlesticks. The waiter carefully placed a handwritten menu before them and waited patiently for them to order.

Samual asked for three bottles of Quedeoux’s finest wines and sat next to Ginny, suggesting Hermione sit the other side of him.

'I think we order everything they have and share. Does anyone disagree?' Alduin asked. Everyone agreed and he ordered for the group. The waiter bowed happily and scurred off to fulfil their orders.

The first half of dinner consisted of pleasantries. 'How is the wife'? 'Is your sister well'? 'I hear you had a bumper crop of lemons this year, you must be so pleased.'

Theo and Blaise were on their best behaviour, further confirming this must have been an important relationship that needed salvaging. Their usual sense of seniority simmered around the two Quedeoux princes.

As they concluded their meal, the guests deftly steered the conversation toward a subject of mutual intrigue.

'So – when will you send a batch of mages to us?' Alduin asked nonchalantly, pulling a chicken bone from his mouth and picking the leftover meat from his teeth.

'Well, we do not have any to spare. Though, we are working on it. Instead, the emperor suggested we send you a shipment of fine silver and jewels. On us, of course.' Blaise looked to Theo to confirm that was correct.

Theo nodded. 'My father has signed this off already,' he added.

'What are we to do with jewels when our vines are withering? Throwing silver at the plants will hardly drive them to grow? No. We need mages, at least over the spring to help with the crops,' Alduin said firmly but with reverence.

'We lost fourteen healthy crops of grapes this year. Do you know how many bottles that would have produced? Your father promised us a mage for every four crops. And we hardly have two for the entire harvest. No, more mages. There is no bargaining here,' Samual said just as firmly, but with less patience.

'Perhaps we take these two?' Alduin smirked, pointing to Hermione and Ginny. Blaise and Theo looked at each other nervously.

Theo finally answered. 'They are students. They have not learnt to harness their magic properly. Besides, they are women. We only deal with men. The women stay with us.'

Alduin laughed heavily. 'This girl has more power than a handful of your men. We take her and call it even for this season.'

The women with a look of terror turned to Theo. To their relief, he shook his head firmly.

‘That is simply not feasible. They are currently in training. However, perhaps we might revisit this discussion once she has graduated,’ he suggested. His words were a sharp blow to Ginny, whose expression shifted to one of betrayal.

'Gentleman – excuse me for interjecting,’ Hermione said. ‘I am no politician or prince. But why not encourage the mages to infuse the gem shipment with enchantments? Though not as potent as a mage’s direct intervention, this would surely serve as a temporary substitute in the absence of available mages?’  Hermione said frantically, desperate to save her friend who looked quite faint now.

'Nonsense. Amulets can only be used to harness emotional magic,' Blaise murmured.

'Not all. They can be infused with potions too. With the right combination, it is possible, is it not?' Hermione looked to Alduin and Samual hopefully.

The table was painfully silent for a moment. Then the two men broke out into a titter.

Slapping Theo on the back, Samual looked at the ladies warmly. 'I'm starting to understand why you keep the women here to yourself. If what young Hermione says is true. We have a deal for this season. What happens next season, we can talk of at a later date.'

The table collectively exhaled a sigh of relief, as Blaise and Theo simultaneously reached for their glasses, eager to drown their nerves.

Remarkably, the remainder of the evening unfolded pleasantly. Both men maintained their best behaviour in the presence of the two royals, being dutifully polite to their dates. They savoured a delightful dessert of cream and strawberries, accompanied by small glasses of sweet wine that boasted notes of peaches and melon. With their bellies full and a satisfactory arrangement in place, the group rose from the table to bid their farewells. The royals declined the invitation to stay at Montisfons, insisting instead on visiting their favoured local tavern. Leaning closer to Hermione, Blaise whispered, ‘More like the whorehouse.’

The men exchanged polite goodbyes, their handshakes firm and confident, while the women received tender kisses on the cheek and appreciative glances as they departed.

*

   Left alone, Blaise and Theo grinned at each other, then at the women. 'Well, look at you two being the saviours of the evening. You're not just pretty faces after all,' Theo joked, looking at Hermione warmly.

She blushed uncomfortably, glancing at Ginny.

'Come, the carriage should be waiting for us by the opera hall,’ Blaise said, placing a protective arm around Hermione and walking them towards the centre of town.

The city was quieter now it was late. Reed followed closely behind them, his eyes watching everyone who passed. The cobbled streets proved difficult to navigate in heels, yet Blaise adeptly supported her, laughing in good nature at her clumsiness. Hermione found herself giggling in return, her arm draped around his sturdy shoulders for balance. To her surprise, she felt a genuine lightness in her mood; perhaps the wine had loosened her up, or maybe the men’s playful demeanour had brightened her spirits. As they neared the hall, a carriage unlike any other awaited them, its gold-gilded doors gleaming in the fading light. However, their excitement waned as they discovered it was only spacious enough for two. Theo glanced at the group and shrugged, while Blaise made to step inside.

The prince halted him, casting a lingering look back at the ladies. ‘One of us really should wait,’ he said, a hint of concern threading his words.

'When did you become a gentleman?' Blaise sighed. Theo looked at Hermione hopefully, but she quickly moved to Ginny, pushing her inside.

'We'll wait for the next one,' Hermione insisted.

Ginny opened her mouth to protest but Hermione shook her head. 'I'll be fine,' she whispered, kissing her on the cheek.

Theo nodded, his face not hiding his disappointment, and followed her inside. 'Behave,’ he said dryly, shooting a glare at Blaise.

Reed leapt onto the back of the carriage just before it began its ascent along the narrow pathways towards Montisfons.

Now left alone, Blaise smirked at Hermione, his grip on her waist tightening with playful insistence. ‘What a night this has been. You’re quite the politician in the making; perhaps you should consider a position at the senate.’

'Don't be ridiculous,' Hermione scoffed, moving out of his hold. 'They don't let women in.'

'With the right encouragement, they might,' Blaise hinted, holding her hand and squeezing it.

Just then, a short, slender man in the opera hall uniform nervously rushed towards them. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he gasped, ‘We have sent for another carriage. It should arrive in just a few moments.’

Blaise waved him off, clearly annoyed by the interruption. Hermione surveyed the crowd still occupying the bar. Her eyes caught sight of the four men from earlier and she quickly averted her attention back outside. Silently, she prayed that the carriage would arrive soon.

They stood in the street awkwardly. Blaise attempted to wrap his cloak around her, but she shrugged away, claiming she was warm enough. Hermione was distracted. The men in the bar had got to their feet noticing them standing alone and were now heading their way.

 

'Shit. Shit,' Hermione hissed, turning to Blaise.

'What?' he shouted, circling to see what the fuss was about. The blood seemed to visibly drain from his face as he saw the four beefy men approaching them. 'They won't really hurt us. They know we're protected,' Blaise said as confidently as he could. But the shakiness in his voice proved he was unsure of his own words.

Hermione, now terrified, began to draw whatever magic she could muster to her fingers, readying herself. The gang stepped outside to the cool night air, smiling menacingly. Taking a deep breath, Hermione prepared herself. But for the second time that evening, she had no need.

Draco emerged as if conjured from the shadows, his form cutting through the night. He seized the middle man by the throat with one swift motion of his forearm, pinning him against the cold brick wall. Hermione watched, enthralled, as he snarled at the brute before delivering a powerful kick to his chest, sending him crashing to the ground. The man doubled over, coughing and sputtering, howling in pain.

With a predatory grace, Draco spun around and advanced towards the others, who now, gripped by fear, began to draw their swords. He paced like a wolf eyeing its prey, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth as though this were sport. He’s enjoying this, Hermione thought to herself… With a flourish, he unsheathed his long sword, which glistened under the moonlight. He swept it to his side in a practised manner, preparing for the impending confrontation, yet he did not rush into the fray. A dare. The men hesitated, their faces a portrait of apprehension, while Draco remained cool and collected, a picture of calm amidst the brewing storm. One particularly stout man, emboldened by bravado, advanced with his sword held high. With all his might, he swiped at Draco, who effortlessly dodged with a quick pirouette, seizing the man’s wrist as he passed. With a decisive yank, he wrenched the man's arm upward, forcing him to his chest before sending him sprawling to the ground.

Hermione observed, noting how he wielded his sword not as a weapon, but as a mere warning. Witnessing the ease with which he dispatched two of their number, the remaining men turned and fled into the night.

Draco pivoted to face Blaise and Hermione, sliding his sword smoothly back into its hilt. Hermione ought to have been terrified, yet an exhilarating fire coursed through her veins; her stomach churned with an unexpected attraction to the man before her. He fought with a grace that resembled a dance. She had never beheld anything so spectacular.

‘Why did they leave? Why not protect her?’ he growled, advancing on Blaise with an intensity that sent a shiver through the air. ‘Answer me.’ Fury darkened his features, and Blaise stumbled over his words, stammering an explanation that only one carriage had arrived.

‘And you didn’t think to let the women go ahead while you men waited behind?’ he spat, the accusation hanging heavily in the air.

'A mage in advance of a royal and senator, don't make me laugh, Draco.'

But Blaise immediately regretted his words as Draco stepped closer, his grey eyes imposing, and his breath coming in heated bursts. 'You should have waited,’ he repeated tightly, his jaw twitching with pure fury.

‘Are you hurt?’ Draco asked Hermione urgently, turning his attention from Blaise to her.. Hermione shook her head shyly. A flicker of annoyance flowed through her at being cast in the role of the damsel in distress. After all, she possessed magic of her own; she could have easily managed the situation without his intervention. Yet, as she observed him, poised and formidable in the aftermath of confrontation, Hermione had to admit, it was more fun to watch him fight to save her.

'They are not to leave the palace with those things around their necks. Understand? You may as well put a target on their backs.’ Draco paced restlessly, still brimming with a quiet rage as they awaited their ride.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the steady chirping of frogs from the ponds scattered across the upper levels. Hermione observed Draco as his manner slowly cooled, his features returning to their usual, impassive calm. Gradually, she stepped away from Blaise, who, perhaps out of respect for Draco’s presence, had kept his hands to himself and seemed entirely uninterested. For this, she was privately grateful.

‘Where did you go?’ she inquired softly.

Draco only shook his head, his attention fixed somewhere distant.

‘Fine,’ she murmured, determined to smother her curiosity.

Her feet throbbed in the unyielding heels she’d worn, and, with no one left to impress, she bent to slip them off, sighing in relief as her toes stretched freely against the cobbled path. Draco cast a glance downward, catching her small moment of comfort, and she sensed a faint buzz of amusement softening his hardened expression. In the distance, a carriage lamp came into view, drawing closer until it finally halted before them.

Draco opened the door, rolling his eyes as Blaise darted in first without a second thought. Turning to her, he extended his gloved hand. She took it, stepping up into the carriage, and then looked back as he took his place beside the driver.

‘Let’s go,’ she overheard him say, his tone curt but steady, as the carriage rattled into motion.

Chapter Text

   T he journey passed slowly and silently. Blaise was clearly sulking; stung by Draco’s reprimand and perhaps slightly embarrassed at his own behaviour. He had little desire to speak.

As the carriage halted at Montisfons, the door beside her swung open; Draco’s huge frame stood ready to help her down. Blaise stepped out behind her, carefully avoiding Draco. Together, they moved inside the palace and towards the main hall, only to find its corridors deserted and cast in shadow. Only then did Hermione realise their destination was Theo’s office.

Upon entering, her relief was immediate: Ginny and Theo stood amongst a circle of council members. Another Meugia joined them, her hand clasped tightly by a senator whose company she seemed to find distasteful, her expression coldly indifferent.

'Ah, Draco, knew we'd find you,' Theo laughed, seeming jollier and more drunk now he was back at home. Political housekeeping seemed to tire him.

'Is it usual behaviour to leave a lady behind, Theo?' Draco asked sternly.

Theo smirked and walked towards the Velas, planting a hand on his shoulder. 'Apologies friend. But she is safe now – see?' he grinned warmly at Hermione and nodded his head. Blaise had left their side and was by the bar already, pouring himself a healthy measure of wine.

‘They were almost attacked.’

Theo paled at Draco’s words. He opened his mouth to speak, but promptly closed it - at a loss for words. After much contemplation, he finally spoke.

‘I would have stayed had I known there would be trouble. Though - if you had not disappeared, friend, they may not have approached in the first place perhaps?’

The two men scowled at each other sternly. Theo’s expression was the first to soften.

With that, Draco replied with a displeased grunt and dropped it. His eyes dotted to the corner of the room spotting Reed, who looked sheepishly at him. 'Excuse me,' he growled, heading over to him.

Hermione watched as he left. Though his voice was hushed, she could tell whatever he said to his guard was not kind. Theo was still beside her, watching her intently.

'You did well tonight, Miss Granger. Colour me impressed.'

'Ginny and I do make quite a team,' Hermione added, ensuring he did not forget about her friend. From behind Theo, she spotted her, looking straight at them and throwing her a pained smile.

‘Ah—of course. Miss Weasley showed herself capable. Quite capable indeed!’ The prince clapped his hands together with energy. ‘A few of us are retiring to the royal chambers for a nightcap. Care to join us? We’re celebrating the engagement of Miss Abbott and Kingsley over there.’ Hermione followed his gesturing hand to the couple, noting how familiar Abbott looked. Though she hadn’t shared classes with her, Hermione was certain she’d seen her passing through the mage quarters or the atrium.

‘Is... Abbott a student?’ she asked, her curiosity piqued.

‘Yes, though she lived in the city for a time. Both her parents are mages, so she needed less instruction than the others,’ he replied briskly. ‘So, will you join us?’ His brow lifted, and Hermione studied his face. There was a keen, inviting glint in Theo’s eye; she could see why Ginny had fallen for him. He was undeniably handsome. His features were strong and his large frame well-built. Unlike most of the royals and senate members, he wasn’t short, his tall stature had its own commanding presence. His attire, polished and impeccably tailored, gave an air of quiet opulence. He dressed impeccably well. Though, with his money, who wouldn't, Hermione supposed.

Polite and, perhaps, well-intentioned as the invitation was, Hermione’s heart lay elsewhere. Thoughts of Pascal tugged at her mind. She’d seen him briefly the night before, and her heart now yearned to see him again. She wanted to prove her loyalty to him, to reassure him that her visit hadn’t been a passing whim. Searching for a graceful way to refuse, her attention was drawn by Reed’s swift exit from the room. She noted Draco, who was calmly sipping from a flagon of mead. His heavy, maroon cape had been loosened, and he was tugging at the cords across his chest. As he shrugged it off, his broad frame was left covered by only a light, flowing shirt, also maroon, open enough to reveal a patch of chest hair beneath. Her eyes lingered there until Theo’s voice jolted her back.

‘Well?’ he asked, expectant.

'As kind an offer as it is, Theo. Tonight I must refuse. For I have grown quite weary with the events and wine. Another time, I promise.' She smiled as brightly as she could.

Theo nodded glumly. 'I should have stayed with you. I apologise,’ he added, his tone rich with regret.

'You were right to take Ginny. That means more to me, know that,’ Hermione said softly.

He smiled weakly and bowed his head in goodbye.

Hermione quickly approached Ginny to give her the opportunity to leave with her. Though she knew she would stay with Theo, she had to ask. As expected, she declined but kissed her friend on the cheek in thanks. 'I am lucky to have you as a friend, Herm,' she whispered.

Hermione chuckled and held her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze to show affection. 'And thanks for saving me earlier,’ she added, only for Ginny to blush and push her away. As she turned to leave, Draco’s expression was cold and confused. It mattered not, though. Tonight was for Pascal. She had quite enough of the dramatics of nobility for one evening.

Chapter Text

   Hermione grinned contently as she tangled her fingers in Pascal’s thick, soft fur. In his company, she felt at peace, calm settling over her like a soothing balm. An hour in his presence passed in mere moments. She must have looked quite the sight, sitting there in the stables, draped in a revealing evening gown, her hair pinned elegantly, and her makeup still heavy. Yet, somehow, the absurdity of her appearance here only added to her sense of solace. Hermione glanced at the cabin beside them, wondering if she could neaten it enough to stay there. Already, the thought of leaving Pascal pained her. Though her quarters were quite pleasant, her home was wherever her boy was. A few nights a week with him would have been a treat. Rubbing his head affectionately, she got to her feet to inspect further.

Opening the creaky door, she was pleasantly surprised. The interior, though dated, was quite liveable. The hut was modest and unadorned, its walls stripped bare save for a few simple cupboards, each holding the essentials; a dagger, a jar of salt, a sack of potatoes, and a scattering of dried herbs. Beside the door stood two weapon racks, bristling with iron and steel swords, sharp and ready. To the right, a small wooden table, just large enough for two, stood beside a narrow fireplace, where a single pot rested on the coals. Hermione continued to look around, running her hand along the work table. Inspecting her finger, she was surprised to find no dust. She turned swiftly to the cupboards, noting with surprise that the potatoes were fresh, unmarked by sprouting roots.

Could this place still be in use?

To the left of the room, a single bed lay in disarray, furs tossed haphazardly as if abandoned in haste. Hermione continued her inspection, pulling open the small drawer of the bedside table in search of clues. A few books, a quill, and yet another dagger, items too commonplace to reveal much.

She sat on the bed. It was softer than it appeared.

Pascal, who had loyally kept by her side, jumped up next to her, pawed at the furs, spun in a circle, and curled into a content ball. She frowned; this wasn’t like him. Pascal was rarely at ease in unfamiliar places, much less in someone else’s bed. Whoever stayed here must have allowed the dogs in, and even let them sleep on the bed. The notion was unusual, but more intriguing still was a faint scent lingering in the air: oud, vanilla, and leather.

A shiver ran through her.

Could it be?

A sudden noise startled her from her thoughts. She leapt to her feet, heart pounding, and crept to the window, straining to see.

Leaning up on her toes, she peered outside, expecting one of the dogs to have wandered around to the front of the cabin. But in the stables, the animals were nestled together, fast asleep. She looked out at the forest beyond, where shadows lay thick. No one had warned her, but she knew instinctively that being caught in a secluded cabin, so far from the palace, would lead to more than a little trouble.

'What are you doing here?' A dulcet voice rang through the silence.

Hermione squeaked in fright, turning her head to the door so quickly she felt a twinge in her neck.

Draco stood in the doorway, his eyebrow raised. His hand held a bucket of meat.

Hermione, now recovered from her surprise, cocked an eyebrow at him in return. 'I could ask you the same question,' she muttered.

Draco gave no reply, only rolled his eyes and looked out toward the outside. Pascal, usually glued to Hermione’s side, surprised her by springing up and trotting after him. Astonished, she watched her fiercely loyal wolf leave her for another’s company. She followed them to the stables, barely suppressing a smile as the dogs yipped and barked, delighted to see him.

He chuckled deeply, patting the eager pups and upending the bucket of meat onto the hay-strewn floor. The dogs dove in, snapping mouthfuls, their frenzy loud in the quiet of the evening.

Hermione noticed Pascal trotting toward Draco, pressing his head against the man’s leg with a single bark of approval. Smiling, Draco reached into the bucket’s bottom, pulling out a fillet of beef, which he tossed to Pascal, who caught it in his jaws, immediately ravaging his prize. Draco brushed the meat juices from his hands, moved to the tap, and let the rusty water trickle over his fingers, drying them on his trousers before finally turning to her, his expression severe.

Slowly, he approached, grey eyes fixed on her with a look far from welcoming. ‘You shouldn’t come here alone. Next time you wish to visit him, you’ll find me first,’ he instructed, his tone clipped.

'I can look after myself,’ she said, echoing his tone.

'Hardly. Need I remind you of tonight's events?' he responded, walking past her to enter the cabin. She followed him again, anger beginning to bubble inside her.

'Did you forget I’m a mage? I was readying my magic just before you stepped in. I didn’t ask for protection.'

'So, I was wrong to intervene when I saw you in danger? How foolish of me. Forgive me,' he tiffed sarcastically.

'Why did you leave after the show?' she asked for the second time that night. Recalling how he did not provide an answer the first time.

He huffed in reply and with no warning, began to un-do the buttons to his maroon shirt. He lifted it smoothly off his body and crumpled it into a ball in his hands. Opening the drawer to his right, he pulled from it a light cotton shirt. Though irritated, Hermione could not help but admire his weathered but strong torso. His body was just as muscular as she expected. Long, carved, and peppered with chest hair that thinned at his navel and drew a path towards his trousers. Her growing fury was swiftly replaced by something else. Something deeper. Something she was increasingly struggling to ignore. But before she could drink in more of his allure, he covered it with a clean black shirt.

'Why did you leave? I will not ask you a third time,’ she said slowly, her tone pointed.

He spun to face her swiftly, his eyes suddenly ablaze.

'I could watch you no longer,’ he barked, turning to ignore her once more.

Hermione closed in on him, reaching up to pull his shoulder to face her. She stayed silent, egging him on to continue.

'Watching you with Zabini was not... pleasant. Can we leave it there?'

'Why does he bother you so?' Hermione asked, acting coy.

He sighed heavily, stepping an inch closer to her. She could feel his sweet breath against the skin on her face. It smelt of honey mead and spices.

'You bother me,’ he said through a deep breath, not taking his eyes off hers.

'We can pretend to ignore this,’ Hermione replied, keeping her stare strong.

A deep throaty growl escaped his mouth, and he moved out of their trance, walking towards the hearth.

Hermione did not follow this time.

'I should not have left you. It was my job to protect you tonight. And my feelings got in the way of that. I behaved intolerably. And it put you in danger.’ Draco stopped talking abruptly. His jaw tight. Hermione was certain he had more to say, but he seemed to lack the strength to continue.

She looked on, hoping for more.

Instead, he took a long exhale and turned quietly to fill the pot by the fire with water.

‘What are you doing?’ Hermione asked, stepping closer.

‘Making tea! Do you want one?!’ he bellowed unexpectedly, the fury in him finally finding its escape.

They stared at each other, irritation crackling in the silence between them. Yet, after a moment, the tension eased. A smile began to tug at Draco’s lips, and seeing it, Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. Draco joined in, his deep chuckle filling the small space, both of them finding absurd humour in his outburst. She watched his features lighten—this may have been the first time she had seen him laugh sincerely.

‘Here, I can help,’ Hermione said softly, picking mugs from the cupboard above them and filling them with water from the pot. She hovered her hands over both cups and heated them with her magic, pulling them away once they began to bubble. Turning to Draco to ask where the tea was stored, he passed her a metal infuser filled with herbs.

'Peppermint, from the gardens. With some lavender. I gather it from time to time,’ he murmured tentatively.

'My mother used to make tea with those herbs,’ she replied, a smirk softening on her lips.

They made the tea together in silence, then sat on the table beside to drink it. Hermione blew at the hot cup, cooling it before taking her first sip.

It tasted like home.

Hermione closed her eyes, drinking in the feeling it brought her. 'So, what are we to do with our situation? Clearly it has begun to interfere with our day-to-day,’ Hermione asked  with an air of professionalism, addressing their mutual attraction as one might an agenda item at a business meeting.

'You needn't worry. It is not a problem of yours. I must simply remain within the boundaries of my role. It is rare that the emperor asks for me to accompany the prince. Next time, I will recommend someone else,’ he said coolly, drinking from his mug.

'And when I wish to visit Pascal? You asked I come with you? That the woods are not safe?' Hermione countered.

He paused for a moment to think.

‘Granger, we are not under a spell.’

'Yet you were the first to admit you left your prince alone because of your feelings. Have you faced this issue before?'

'Perhaps I could accompany you during the day instead. This only seems to be an issue at night.'

'I don't need protection!' Hermione shouted suddenly. A few drops of tea fell from her mug to the table at the sheer power in her voice.

Draco widened his eyes, not expecting the sudden outburst. 'You really should control your anger. And yes, you do. Outside Montisfons, you're a walking target. Even in the forest you are not safe. Do you have any idea how in demand mages are? What price you would fetch? They would trade you for a thousand crowns. Perhaps more...'

'I have been casting spells since I was a child. I can look after myself,’ Hermione repeated, her voice quieter, but no less furious.

'And when there is sap? Which, may I remind you, is in abundance?'

'Ginny was able to cast in the bar of the opera house? There was surely sap there, no?' Hermione asked quickly.

'No. The opera house not only hosts artistic performances, but magic ones, too. Sebastian Fotter? Deprey Monge? Do these names mean anything to you?' Draco asked.

Hermione shook her head.

'So uncultured,’ he sighed.

'Yes, do continue to lecture me on culture as you make tea in a dingey cabin that you obviously stay at?'

He laughed snootily. 'It is not often I stay here.’

'But you do?'

'From time to time.'

'Why?' Hermione asked, watching as he placed his mug of tea down, looking oddly uncomfortable.

'It... reminds me of simpler times,’ he said quietly, tracing the mug's handle with his ringed index finger, not looking at her. Hermione stayed silent, watching as his finger moved across the wooden cup. She remembered their first palace ball. Draco had subtly told her that he, like her, grew up poor, away from the city before he lived a life of luxury. Hermione remembered their dance that evening, how his hand had settled gently against her waist, guiding her with an unexpected grace. Despite his usual brutish manner, on the dance floor, Draco moved with the practised ease of someone who understood both restraint and control.

'But let’s not change the subject. You do need protection, Granger… do not argue. Even away from sap’s presence, your magic is not nearly as powerful as it would need to be to stop what may be lurking in these woods.’

'Then why not teach me? The men get combat training. Why should I be any different?' she asked suddenly, a strand of hope in her voice.

He rolled his eyes at her again and chuckled with condescension. ‘I hardly think combat training would be a good idea.’

‘Why not?’ Hermione asked, standing up and smiling at him mischievously. Draco remained in his seat, looking at her with curiosity.

'For all you know, I could be a fine warrior.’ Hermione puffed her chest out dramatically then turned quickly and pulled a steel sword from the weapons rack behind her. It was heavier than she expected, and, quite embarrassingly, she almost dropped it.

Holding it tighter and grinning to hide her struggle, she faced him. Teasing him with an invitation.

A grin formed at the side of his lips, and he got to his feet, joining her in the middle of the room.

'No,’ he said softly, taking the sword from her hands. Hermione pulled a sulk and sighed with annoyance.

'If we're going to do this, it will be with wood,’ he smirked, passing her a wooden sword instead.

Chapter Text

Draco backed up, holding his own blade and spinning the weapon beside him four times.

‘Show off,’ Hermione tittered at him.

He lifted an eyebrow high and beckoned her with his left hand. Inviting her to attack.

She hesitated for a moment, truly not knowing where or how to start. With nothing to lose and no impending danger, she walked towards him with a skip and whacked at his side with the wooden sword, attempting a hit.

He blocked it with no effort and held her wrist still. Stepping back, he invited her to try again.

Laughing in frustration, she jumped towards him in a surprise attack aimed at his leg this time, thankful the split in her dress allowed for such a movement.

In one swift movement, he spun to the left as if dancing and pointed the sword at her neck.

'Dead,' he muttered.

'Ugh!’ she shouted. 'At least teach me some pointers.'

He laughed cooly and stood behind her.

'You're putting too much force into your attacks.' He positioned himself closer, his tall body now pressed against her. 'Firstly, it is always easier to counter. But when you hit, you carry the movement from your hips.’ Draco's hand trailed down her body, resting gently to her side. Hermione fought to stifle a gasp—something deep inside her awakening from its slumber. His other hand held where she grasped her sword. Under his steady guidance, she found her rhythm, swaying gently to the left and right. ‘When you block, your body must be properly aligned,’ he instructed, his tone firm and patient. ‘Your strength is driven from your legs, up your chest, and through your arms. You should always be poised and ready.’

As he spoke, his hand grazed her stomach, palm open, as he gently drew her towards him. The subtle pressure of his touch urged her to straighten her back, compelling her to engage her core. ‘Good girl,’ he purred, and a shiver ran through her, causing her breath to quicken at his praise.

‘Now show me,’ he concluded, stepping back to allow her space.

In his absence, the air felt suddenly sharp and thin. She felt vulnerable, missing the reassuring warmth of his presence behind her. A flicker of doubt crept into her mind. Perhaps this was not such a wise idea after all.

Opposite her, Draco readied his pose, standing with his left hand loosely to the ground, the sword in his right ready to attack. Gulping down her attraction and nerves, she nodded.

He reached her in two heavy steps, hitting with force. She did as he taught and blocked his hit. To her amazement, it worked.

She beamed at him. His face was playful.

He circled their weapons up to the ceiling and unhooked his sword from hers, swiping at her chest. But she saw it coming and darted back.

He pounced towards her, pushing her against the cabin wall. Before she knew it, his forearm was at her neck and the wooden sword he held was pressed to her stomach. He rubbed the tip from the side of her body to the right. Moving tantalisingly slowly, Draco showed her how he would finish her off.

‘Tell me again that you don’t need me,’ he sneered, his sweet breath hot against her face. They stood locked in a wordless battle, dazed by the raw rush of adrenaline that pulsed between them. The only sound to be heard was their panting filling the quiet cabin.

‘Perhaps...this isn’t such a good idea,’ she murmured, casting a fleeting glance toward the door. ‘I’ll just say goodbye to Pascal. Then we can go.’

Before she could take another step, Draco’s hand caught hers, pulling her firmly back against his chest.

In one fierce motion, his mouth found hers.

This kiss held a different intensity from those they had shared before. For the first time, Draco seemed himself, swept away by a tide of longing, his mouth, though soft against hers, teeming with desperation.

Hermione gasped, her breath mingling with his as she drew a hand to his rough cheek, parting their lips. He gazed back at her, lost in the depths of her expression. He tenderly brushed a wayward curl from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear, before pressing a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. Hermione closed her eyes in bliss, arching her head back instinctively to grant him greater access. He accepted the invitation with a low growl, his lips teasingly grazing her neck, biting with a careful restraint that sent shivers of delight coursing through her.

His hands roamed over her back, drawing her against him with a firm intensity, the thin fabric between them feeling like a foreign barrier to be discarded. Hermione, reclaiming his lips with a fervent kiss, tugged at his shirt, her fingers desperate to free him from its restrictive cotton.

He chuckled softly, aiding her efforts until his chest was bare before her. She paused, her attention tracing over his lean, powerful form, her hands mapping his chest, then moving to his shapely shoulders and arms. As her fingers brushed over his muscular bicep, she felt the raised line of his largest scar beneath her touch. He flinched ever so slightly, and Hermione’s curiosity sharpened, lingering over the mark.

Stories had circulated about the injury that had forced Draco’s temporary retirement from the guards, but she had never seen proof until earlier. But even that was from a distance. Now, she saw it plainly—the pale scar cutting deeply from the middle of his bicep to his wrist, the leftover of a past battle. Gently, he took her hand from his arm and guided it back to his chest, a faint, self-conscious smile softening his expression. Before she could respond, he leaned down, finding the curve of her neck and leaving a trail of warm kisses down to her collarbone.

The dress she wore did little to conceal, and Draco’s fingers slid the delicate straps from her shoulders with a languid slowness, his hands steady as he reached behind her to undo the bow that held everything together.

With every inch that her dress slipped down, his lips followed, marking each newly exposed stretch of skin with tender kisses. He lowered himself to his knees before her, his eyes filled with a dark desire that nearly stole the strength from her legs. His hands steadied her, palms warm against the small of her back, his chin resting at her navel as he traced a slow path up her bare abdomen with the tip of his tongue, leaving a cool, thrilling sensation in its wake.

In a swift motion, he slipped the dress down her frame, leaving her in little but silk undergarments, the red fabric of them contrasting sharply against her skin. He pressed his mouth to the edge of the fabric at her hip, grazing it with his teeth yet withholding, his restraint more enticing than any action. Hermione gasped, her breath heavy with anticipation, her hands instinctively reaching for him, urging him closer. But with a smirk, he rose to his full height, brushing his lips gently, teasingly, against hers, leaving her breathless and yearning.

Draco walked them towards the single bed directly behind, all-while pulling at his own leather belt to loosen his maroon slacks. As her knees met the edge of the bed, he swept her up with commanding ease, lifting her off her feet. A heartbeat later, he tossed her back onto the bed with a touch of playful force. Hermione landed against the soft covers, sinking into the mattress as it gave a gentle bounce beneath her.

Lifting herself to her elbows she watched him ahead of her, topless, his growing desire showing. Hermione bit her lip, her body on fire and missing his touch already. But he did not approach her immediately. He stood, watching her with narrow eyes, pacing.

With each step, the tension in the room thickened. Reaching for his belt, he pulled it free, letting it fall to the floor with a quiet thud. His eyes flickered with a sudden hesitation, his jaw tight, as though fighting an invisible war within.

‘Don't you dare stop,’ she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

‘This is wrong, Granger,’ he muttered, his eyes roaming over her, almost reluctantly. ‘I’m afraid that—’ His words faltered, and he ran a frustrated hand through his almost-white hair, making it wilder.

Unable to bear it any longer, she rose from the bed, her hands finding his waist, pulling him toward her until they were face to face, their breath mingling.

‘For once in your life, stop being a soldier,’ she uttered, her lips brushing his in a gentle kiss.

He drew back, but his pupils darkened with a desire that simmered beneath his stern exterior. His hands lifted to cradle her face, pressing their foreheads together as he groaned with the weight of his own inner battle.

‘It’s my nature, Granger,’ he said, voice low but straining.

‘You want orders, fine,’ she replied, capturing his lips in a swift kiss and nipping at his lower lip.

‘Claim me. That’s an order.’

Her tone was firm, determined, and held just a hint of challenge.

His deep breath quickened, the steady beat of his heart thrumming loudly between them. With a growl of surrender, he pushed her back onto the bed.

At first she worried he had made up his mind to leave, but his long body covered hers quickly. His lips met her neck, then her breasts, cupping them and kissing them with so much passion she could hardly take it.

Hermione could feel the same warm breeze flowing around them as when they kissed against the tree the night before. It didn't stop him. If anything, it only encouraged him, an obvious sign that he had power over her. He continued down to her stomach, stopping as he reached her underwear. With no hesitation this time, he pulled them off fiercely. Hermione reached for handfuls of the fur blanket, bracing herself for what was coming. Painfully slowly, Draco nuzzled at her thigh, then moved his attention to her centre. Licking slowly at first, then harder. Focusing on the bud of pleasure that had never been given such divine attention. A knot in her stomach formed and twisted deliciously as he continued to work her, immense vibrations building to a crescendo, before he pulled away from her.

She gasped in frustration, but his lips soon found hers, absorbing the sound of her moan before she could finish. ‘Not until I say,’ he growled heavily, pressing against her with the hard ball of his knee, squeezing another groan from her lips. In response, she grinded her hips against his crotch. A snarl came from him this time and he continued to kiss her desperately. Hermione's body ached for his touch again. But he teased her, keeping his hands and lips to her upper body. Finally, when she could take no more, she pleaded with him.

'Draco.'

His deep laugh rang through her body like a taunting song. It was what he had been waiting for and took to her neck. His hands traced down to her middle, and his fingers slipped inside her. A shock of pleasure travelled through her like lightning. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady herself. But he was relentless, knowing exactly what her body needed. The noises coming from her were more desperate and uncontrolled now. Draco fastened his movements in response. She could feel his own arousal against her thigh and it was driving her insane. Realising her hands were free, she reached to his trousers, feeling his hard length at her fingertips. The fabric between them angered her and she tried to sneak inside to free him. But he grabbed her hand, stopping her. He kissed it quickly and brought it over her head.

'But I-' Hermione started to speak in protest but he kissed her lips, feverishly silencing her.

'This is about you,' he breathed, deepening the kiss and making work of her with soft, measured movements. Hermione didn't know what was building within her, having never had particularly pleasant encounters with men before, but she knew it was powerful.

‘Let go, dulce est.’

Her knowledge of their ancient language was rusty; even so, she understood it to be affectionate. Hearing him call her a term of endearment alone was enough to send her over the edge. Her breathing hitched, a wave of pleasure washing over her. Her toes curled and her hips spasmed. Tightening around his fingers, she rode the tidal wave of ecstasy with Draco. Magic surged through her, a wave of untamed power unfurling from within, rippling through the room with an almost tangible force. The very walls seemed to tremble, though no true danger presented itself. She gasped, letting the sensation settle as it coursed through her, leaving her breathless.

Draco’s deep chuckle resonated against her neck, a warm vibration, before he lifted his head to press a tender kiss to her lips. ‘Did I mention how beautiful you look tonight?’ he said sweetly, his voice barely a whisper, reverent.

‘Must have slipped your mind,’ she replied with a soft laugh, a new found sparkle appearing in her eyes.

A piercing shriek echoed through the forest’s shadows, sharp enough to cut through the night air like a blade.

Draco lifted his head, every muscle tensing, his instincts kicking in with the precision of a seasoned soldier. Hermione dismissed it at first, assuming one of the dogs had stumbled upon a small creature, but the cry swelled, unmistakably human, carrying a tone that was chillingly familiar.

Her heart seized, realisation dawning with a jolt. She bolted upright from Draco’s hold, her eyes wide with horror.

‘Marc,’ she breathed, the name slipping from her lips like a prayer.

Chapter Text

With no time to dress properly, Hermione shot out of bed with Draco close behind her. Grabbing her underwear and Draco's shirt, she pulled them clumsily on and bolted out of the cabin.

‘Wait,’ Draco commanded behind her.

She stopped in her tracks, turning sharply to see him pulling a shirt over his shoulders, his face shadowed with determination as he reached for a sword hanging from the rack. He nodded, and they moved as one into the forest, guided by the strained cries that pierced the stillness.

Hermione cast a quick glance toward the shed, relieved to find Pascal and the other dogs blissfully asleep, undisturbed by the commotion. The cries of pain grew louder, each one a knife twisting in her chest. The outline of figures came into view, blurred in the darkness until, with a sickening clarity, Hermione saw Marcus pinned against a tree. The man holding him—a brute with a bare chest, his muscles taut and veins pronounced in the dim moonlight—barked vicious insults before driving his fist once more into Marc’s face.

Marc slumped, but his assailant yanked him upright with a ruthless grip, refusing to let him fall.

Hermione's stomach twisted at the sight. Still, she advanced, fists clenched and ready for whatever may come.

‘Marcus!’ Hermione cried, her voice sharp as she rushed forward, hands poised and brimming with magic. She recognised the assailant.

Reed.

The bastard.

She had warned Marcus about him, having trusted Pascal’s instinctive growl when they first met. And now, here he was, fists bloody from striking her friend.

Summoning a focused gust, she furiously flung Reed backwards, his body slamming against the forest floor with a brutal thud. Marcus crumpled to the ground, freed from Reed’s grasp, his face swollen and bloodied, his clothes stained crimson.

She dropped to his side, her fingers grazing his bruised cheek. ‘Marc?’ she stuttered, panic-stricken.

Footsteps behind her marked Draco’s approach, his face shadowed with fury. ‘Reed!’ His voice bellowed into a low snarl, the rage unmistakable.

Reed scrambled upright, terror etched in his face as he looked between Hermione and Draco.

‘Draco, you don’t understand, he provoked me!’ Reed stammered, his words slurred. As he staggered, Hermione noticed an empty bottle of mead lying nearby. ‘He said—said we were alike, that we should… be together,’ he spat, disgust twisting his face. ‘Me, like him? Nothing but scum… unnatural!’ With a sneer, Reed drew his blade, launching himself recklessly toward Marc.

Hermione barely had time to shield Marcus before Reed’s blade caught her arm, slicing painfully as she rolled them away. Drunk with adrenalin, she quickly leapt to her feet, breathing heavily, the metallic tang of blood filled her nose.

Draco had already jolted forward, meeting Reed’s steel with his own and deftly disarming him. With a swift kick to Reed’s chest, Draco sent him sprawling once more, the remnants of his rage clear in every tense muscle.

Just as Reed scrambled to retrieve his weapon, Hermione surged with her own fury. This time, she felt the power building within her, wild and uncontrolled. As her fingers crackled with sparks, the night sky darkened from navy to black above them, clouds rolling in ominous waves. Thunder crashed, echoing her rage. She sensed Draco’s gaze on her, but instead of admiration, she saw alarm. Hermione smirked with determination before something held her back. As lightning teased at her fingers, the warnings of long-forgotten stories haunted her. Cassanda’s tragic fall, the forbidden magic of lightning… her pulse quickened as she recalled the risks. With a steadying breath, Hermione willed herself calm, swallowing the fire within. Instead, she knelt, coaxing vines to sprout from the forest floor, twisting around Reed’s wrists and ankles. Tied to the spot, he fell ungracefully.

Draco approached, hauling Reed upright by his hair, his grip iron. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he roared, shoving him in the direction of the palace, the faintest streaks of dawn colouring the horizon.

‘Draco—Marc needs help,’ Hermione whispered urgently.

Nodding, Draco swiftly crossed to Marc, lifting him gently over his shoulder. Hermione strode past Reed, offering him a hard glare as she nudged him forward. For a moment, she caught Draco’s worried glance but focused on Marc. Her friend needed her now more than ever.

*

   At last, they reached the infirmary. Draco recounted the events to the nurses, who listened in wide-eyed shock before hastily attending to Marc.

‘We’ll call for the healers, dear; don’t you worry,’ one nurse said, though her reassuring smile faltered when she glanced over Hermione’s lack of clothing. A cluster of them gathered around Marc, swiftly tending to his wounds with gentle hands, dabbing away the blood and applying balms to the cuts that marred his skin.

Draco drew close, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. ‘You were remarkable,’ he murmured, his voice a soft breath that stirred the quiet of the room. ‘Was that lightning? We haven’t seen that form of magic for decades,’ he said slowly, his tone both concerned and impressed.

Hermione offered him a weak nod in reply, feeling an odd faintness settle over her. She fought to steady herself, guessing it was the aftermath of so much adrenaline.

‘Well, now that that ordeal is behind us,’ she began, glancing up at him with tentative hope. 'Not tonight, of course. What kind of friend would I be to leave Marc now. But... I mean. Tomorrow? The next day? What now, Draco?' Hermione watched as his eyes softened. Usually this happened when he was happy. But this was not glee. He looked sad, somehow.

'Hermione, you know this is not wise. If that unfortunate moment with Reed taught me anything, it is that you can take care of yourself.’ He attempted a grin, but it was edged with melancholy.

'Even with sap?' she countered, forcing a small, defiant smile.

He chuckled but paused as a nurse approached, her attention on him as she asked questions. ‘And the man who attacked him—is he in custody?’ she pressed, eyeing Draco expectantly.

‘Yes, yes,’ he replied with a huff of impatience. ‘He’s downstairs in the barracks, under close watch.’ She nodded in relief and left them once more.

Draco turned back to Hermione, casting a quick glance around. ‘We should really get you changed. People are beginning to stare,’ he grumbled, as she instinctively tugged the borrowed shirt lower over her legs, her face now flushing.

Then, with a frown, he leaned closer, his voice lowering.  'Look. You know. I know. The question is, do we end this before it starts to bleed out?’ His eyes flashed, as if startled by his own words, with no warning he cautiously reached for her arm, his expression darkening when he spotted the blood staining her sleeve. ‘Speaking of blood…’ He took her arm more firmly, and she hissed, pulling away automatically.

The slice from Reed’s blade throbbed where it had grazed her. He gingerly tugged the torn fabric aside to inspect the wound, his brows knitting as he took in the injury. ‘It’s shallow, but you’ve lost more blood than you realise—Hermione?’

A dizzy spell rolled over her, and she wavered. Draco steadied her instantly, his arms firm around her waist. She caught the faint scent of oud, vanilla, and leather, warmth radiating from him.

‘Don’t… let go,’ she whispered faintly, feeling herself slip into darkness.

Chapter Text

Draco

Slow, steady beats tapped against his fingertips where they rested, feather-light, on her wrist.

The evening had dissolved quickly by her side. Slipping away like water through cupped hands. Though Draco couldn't say for certain the exact time, he noted the honeyed spill of light from the bay windows at the far end of the infirmary and the doves, tucked into the mountain’s ribs, murmuring their soft lullabies. Afternoon, then. Or something close to it.

Two fingers stayed delicately on her pulse for hours. Her request to not let go he had taken quite literally. Draco would not leave her. Not this time. Not as he had the afternoon before. So foolish. Careless. Not like him at all. Or so he had always told himself.

Loyalty to the crown and country had been drummed into him all his adult life. Serve the emperor. Do not question him. Act and do as you are told. It's for the greater good.

All of it… for the greater good.

But something had loosened his loyalty since Miss Granger had waltzed into his regimented life with her fiery attitude, untameable beauty and disarming nature.

Now, for the first time since his childhood, doubt crept in. Only a fool could ignore the evidence they had unearthed of the lost mages. The wildwoods he had assumed, until very recently, were just myth. Not assumed. Told directly. The senate time and time again swore that all captured mages were escapees from the great war – their offspring a product of their evil agenda. To capture was a kindness. But now that his thoughts were freefalling and alive, Draco had begun to excavate niggling memories he had long since buried or excused.

Of all those he had captured, only a handful were seen around Montisfons. The numbers in the account book of mages did not match the students and graduates attending the palace. If his calculations were correct, nearly half of those taken in had simply disappeared. Draco's instincts told him to ignore. To press on. Their emperor had only shown him kindness since both his parents passed away prematurely. Treated him like a son for decades. Better than his own children, it could've been argued. He owed him his unwavering trust. But his dear king was growing frail and forgetful with age. It would be only too easy to corrupt him, the right senate member could achieve it with some luck.

A light jolt under his fingers pulled Draco from his thoughts. Lowering his eyes to the sleeping girl before him, he let himself relish in this temporary touch. Aware that the moment she woke, he would leave. Not just from this room but her life. Too much danger clouded this situation, and though it twisted like a knife in his chest, he knew this was the way.

For the greater good.

'You're allowed to care for her, you know?'

Slightly startled and unaware that he was being watched, Draco spun behind him to find the source of the comment. Quickly he moved his hands from Hermione's. He had already been careful, of course. Whilst his prior instinct to lace his long fingers between her small, dainty hands was strong, preservation of appearances championed his urge. Two fingers on her wrist were all he would allow. Their student-teacher, mage-Velas relationship was to be plutonic to wandering eyes.

Hermione's friend, who laid recovering in the bed beside them, was now stirring and apparently keen for conversation. Draco frowned to mask his embarrassment and delay an answer. What was his name… Hermione said it before?

'It wasn't a question. Simply a statement, professor. But… if I may be so bold-'

The young man coughed lightly and reached for the half-empty glass of water placed beside him. Reed had really walloped him. The nurses at Montisfons were the best in Relinia, bruises and cuts were wiped clean like chalk with rainwater, but even their skills and access to mage potions and balms couldn't snap bones into place. Resting the glass down with a deft grunt of pain, the young man continued.

‘Our Herm' isn't a normal mage. You know it, I know it. Sooner or later, everyone will know what we do,’ Draco remembered the lightning she began to conjure. Dangerous, rare magic. ‘She needs friends more than ever. It is our duty to be there for her. I can pretend to ignore the looks you give each other and just insist that you look out for my dear friend in whatever capacity you can.’

Marcus. His name was Marcus.

Draco sighed, placing the fingers he had quickly moved, back to Hermione's wrist. The man was smarter than he judged him to be.

'You want to protect her from the world, don't you?' Marcus promptly nodded at Draco's silence, 'too right. Though, you realise that includes you.'

Draco raised his brow at the confident man behind him. This new generation of mages were certainly more… bold than the previous year. Though, it could've been rebellious Hermione's influence, he smiled to himself.

'Sometimes, we're so busy protecting a person from others we don't look at our own actions,' Marcus said matter-of-factly.

Draco chuckled lightly, 'You have a future in teaching, boy.'

Looking back to Hermione, who still slept soundlessly, he realised how short their time left was. Marcus had riled with more severe injuries, she would certainly follow soon. A dash of blood loss and exhaustion was nothing to worry about, the nurses promised him multiple times as he struggled to control his panic and worry earlier that morning. The notion of her blinking awake to find that he had kept true to her wishes and stayed by her side was attractive. Though, with his intention of resisting temptation, it would perhaps be wiser to leave now. Marcus was here, she was in perfectly capable and caring hands.

It was decided. Leaving. He was leaving.

For a moment, he allowed himself to breathe her in. Her soft curls rested on the pillow, framing her picture-perfect face. As she slept soundlessly, Draco admired how her plump lips pouted ever-so-slightly. Keeping his thoughts centred on his exit was becoming harder. Now, all he could think of was how her lips tasted on his. Like sweet berries. That was what she was, dulce est, a ‘sweet thing’. Ripping his fingers from her touch was like pulling a blood-dried bandage from a deep cut. As he yanked away, the wound seeped open again. Fresh and painful. All the more reason to leave. This was unnatural. Besides, there was one job left unfinished.

Reed.

'I'll gather some breakfast. I think she will awake soon,' Draco said plainly, lifting from the wooden chair.

⚜

Draco dragged a long finger down the rusted bars. Inside, Reed sat slumped, the expression on his face neither pleading nor proud, just blankly hungover. Around his feet, the shrivelled remains of Hermione’s vines lay curled and brittle, like the husks of dead snakes. The marks they left behind on his skin—raw, irritated—were nothing. He deserved worse.

But the law had its limits. Only a few had the power to kill for starters. Peasants, commoners, the nameless masses, those were fair game. Punishment was a right, a pastime, an art form. But there were boundaries. Senators, royals, the well-connected rich, mages, and Velas like Draco himself—these were the untouchables. Old laws, set in stone long before he was born.

Most Velas weren’t monsters. That was the story they told themselves. That was the story Draco told himself. And maybe it was even true. But it took only a handful to turn the High Guard’s reputation into something bloodied. A few bad apples, as the saying went. And here, in the dim light of the cell, sat one of them, spoiling the whole barrel.

Reed suddenly groaned heavily, grasping his head. Tired eyes met Draco's for the first time and he quietly laughed. The sound wound through Draco's body like an irritant, forcing him to ball his fists to silence the growing rage within.

'Mother of all hangovers. What now?' Reed cackled, releasing his head and shakily getting to his feet. He observed the dried vines around him and looked back to Draco to enquire. He truly had no memory? Or was this a clever guise? He never guessed Reed to be a man of higher intelligence… though he also found him to be quite harmless prior to last night's events, so it would not be wise to judge on past assumptions.

'You remember nothing?' Draco spat, beginning to pace around the stone prison, ignoring the clamour and howling seeping down the narrow, damp corridor lined with the other prison cells. Reed, now swaying on his feet, shook his head vehemently.

'You assaulted not one, but two mages, Reed,' he sighed in defeat.

'Impossible. I keep to the rules, Malfoy. You know I do.'

'No,' Draco said sternly, approaching the bars of his cell again and shooting him a glare that proved his fury, 'I neither know nor trust what you do now.'

His detached words had Reed sinking back to the floor.

'Which mages?' he abruptly asked, his face painted with what could be mistaken as anger now.

'You know exactly who. Stop this nonsense. You get one chance Reed, one chance. Protection we have, but that ends with me.'

Draco turned away from what was left of his friend and sank onto the ragged stool in the corner. The wood groaned beneath him. He let out a breath—half a sigh, half a grunt—dragging a hand across his forehead. He couldn’t let him go. That was the problem. That had always been the problem.

Politically, there were loopholes and Reed knew it. He was too well connected. Cousin to Quinn, friend of the emperor's wife's side. His blood ran thick in Veliere. If Draco were to banish him from the Velas it would be a harsh fight with an improbable end. One chance, he had that.

'I'm putting you on papers for the next month.'

Reed opened his mouth, the protest already forming, but Draco cut him off.

'No counter. That’s final.'

For a moment, Reed’s face tightened, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Then, with the resignation of a man who knew a fight wasn’t worth the breath, he gave a curt nod. Draco turned to the cell door, fingers curling around the key. He hesitated. Then, with the slow inevitability of bad decisions, he twisted the lock, setting the fox loose among the hens.

A grin pulled at the corners of Reed's mouth and he outstretched his hand in the hopes Draco would hoister him up. Draco would offer no such help, instead staring at him coolly to move on his own accord.

He led him hesitantly up the unruly stone steps in the direction of the Velas quarters that sat in the west side of Montisfons. Reed laughed deeply again behind Draco. He stopped on the next step, turning furiously to find out what was so gods-damn funny.

'It's all coming back to me now. Sorry for the fuss, Draco. Won't happen again. I'll do the papers as said. Though – I'll have to apologise now for my handiwork, I'm not the best speller. Little slow with words, ma always said.'

Draco stared him down, in disbelief that he was actually letting this man free to walk amongst mages again.

'Do not jest, Folmer.'

'Using my given name are we now. Haven't done that since my training. Look – I am sorry. Truly, I look up to you Sir. I do. But, they are just mages. He's a harlot and she's no better looking at the state of her.'

Draco's blood froze solid. Then fire seeped into his veins, his fists balling so tightly he could feel his knuckles bruise under their own strain. He tried to ignore it. Reed was just an uneducated fool. His words meant nothing. Only they did… to him.

'What?' he growled, unable to stifle his rage.

Reed paled at his expression and retreated a step.

'I only meant. You know… the girl. You know how they are. It's how it is for the Meugia. They're all…'

'All what?' Draco’s voice was quiet, clipped.

Reed swallowed. 'All whore—'

He didn’t finish.

Draco made sure of that.

⚜

Flexing his fingers, Draco watched the blood bead on his knuckles. Below him, Reed lay sprawled in the dim light.. The taste of violence still lingered in the air. Regrets he had none, more curiosity over how he had acted. Usually calm and collective, he was surprised how animalistic his attack had been.

He recalled how his first punch landed on the stairs. Reed’s head snapped back, his balance tipping too far behind him. For a heartbeat, he hung there, arms flailing. Then, with a sharp exhale, he fell. His back hit first, then his shoulders, his arms, his skull—each impact a dull, sick thud against the stone steps, the final landing punctuated by a pained groan. But he didn't stop there. In blind fury, Draco dragged him by his feet back up the stairs, only to push him down again. After a few trips, he finished his brutal attack with a swerve kick to the gut, then calmly sat back to the stool in the corner.

Rage he had known in battle. A good helping of fury too. This was something new. Brought out by the sullying of Hermione's name. That, apparently, was his limit.

Echoing footsteps on the stairs broke through the damp prison. Draco, unmoved by the warning of company, rubbed the crimson blood on his hands into his trousers.

'Ah, Malfoy. Thought we'd find you here.'

The nasally tone was familiar. Finneas Arabella, senior senator, self-proclaimed poet, composer and all-round asshole. He would have preferred the emperor himself to have walked into this blood bath. His crab-like eyes shot down to meet Reed crumbled on the stone floor. He tutted once, his crooked nose turning up to face Draco.

'Is he… alive?' he asked with little emotion. Draco shrugged in response, leading Finneas to bend and place a finger at his neck. 'Lucky,' he muttered, clapping his hands together as if to rid them of something sticky.

To a stranger, Senator Arabella might appear calm, composed, a man who measured his words, his breath, the set of his jaw. But Draco had spent too many years watching that careful stillness and learned where to look. The right brow, the smallest twitch. A tell so slight, it might be mistaken for nothing at all. Unless you knew. Unless you had spent years at dinners and meetings watching, cataloguing the ways a man might wear his cruelty like a pressed doublet. Unless you had seen that brow quiver, not with rage, but something uglier, when you dragged him off a girl who had not yet learned how to pretend it didn’t hurt.

'I was informed he was not badly hurt. Is there something I should know, Malfoy?'

Draco felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth, 'I'm afraid to report Reed tripped down the stairs. An accident, of course.' His smile was plain to see now. There was little use hiding his guilt, why not have fun with it. 

'And exactly how many times did he fall down the stairs?'

Silence from Draco. But his smile did not falter.

'So that's your answer. An accident? You mean to say this poor boy got a—' Finneas looked down to Reed, observing his injuries, '—broken rib, bloodied face and internal bleeding by… an accident?'

A few seconds after the question Draco had no intention of answering was asked, Reed stirred. A bloodshot eye cracked open and darted toward Draco. Recognition bloomed there, and with it, horror. His face, already pale, drained further.

'We were just saying that you need to be more careful with those steps in the future, isn't that right, Reed.'

The man beneath them stilled his breathing, as if debating his options of response. Finally, a weak yes left his bruised lips. Finneas' own lip curled with discontent.

'You will send a nurse for him, Malfoy. Statim.'

With that he turned, ascending the stairs with deliberate grace; though not, Draco noted, quite as carelessly as he had descended. Perhaps he did believe Draco's lie, that the stairs were indeed precarious.

Beside him, Reed shifted, spitting a thick stream of blood onto the stone. He gathered what little voice he had left.

 'Don't think I don't know what you and that girl were up to. I don't want to, Sir, trust me. But if you hurt me again, I'll…'

'You’ll what?'

Draco crouched, levelling his view with him. Reed faltered quickly, his eyes landing instead on the dark stain pooling beneath him on the floor.

'If I have to… I'll talk. I have connections. I don’t want to—'

'Well.' Draco stood, stretching out his arms casually. 'If it comes to it, you do as you must.'

He turned then, moving toward the stairs, stepping lightly. Before his foot touched the first step, he paused and glanced back, just enough to make sure Reed was still looking.

'Just remember,' he said, almost gently, 'there are a lot of stairs in Montisfons.'