Chapter 16: You Get What You Love Most

September 1, 2020
Buckingham Palace, London, England

Initially, Hermione's thought had been: forks, Mom was right, which was a thought she'd been having in steadily increasing frequency but was never more annoyed to discover than right then. It felt like all the worst things about mortality: uncomfortable, gassy, swollen, like a stomachache mixed with menstrual cramps, and therefore not entirely foreign but also not entirely not.

Helen, who had very unhelpfully insisted prior to that moment that giving birth was, quote, "like pooping," (Hermione imagined saying this to Narcissa and immediately bit back a hysterical sob-laugh) was unfortunately not as inaccurate as Hermione had thought she would be. But then again, what had she expected? Of course the life-giving process would have to be grotesquely, primevally human. From time to time, even Hermione forgot that that's what women were—not princesses or duchesses or ladies but actually, idiotically human—and now, the idea that Narcissa and Pansy had gone through this precise regimen of utter unfeminine nastiness was almost—not quite, but very nearly—absurd enough to distract her from the fact that she would soon be giving birth alone.

Hermione had not needed anyone to tell her that things were "happening very quickly," as she could feel how quickly things were going, thank you very much. No really Princess this is very unusual, okay yes Dobby thank you not helpful, I'm aware. Was there a better word for this kind of… pain? Allegedly pain, though that was too localized a term for it. Pain was watching Abraxas collapse or seeing the look on Draco's face, or Lucius'. Had anyone checked on Lucius? Pain was whatever had shadowed his cheeks and aged him decades within seconds; it was not what was happening to Hermione, which was human. Disgusting, but human. It was the bizarre, cramping awareness that she was so full of life it was now forcing its own way out.

The hospital room was prepped and ready for her (had been, just in case, because who wanted to be caught unawares when the Princess of Wales trotted repulsively in to defecate out—again, a hysterical hiccup of laughter—the heir to the motherboarding throne) so there was nothing to worry about, all this was very normal, just breathe Hermione YES MOM I KNOW, SHUT UP Everything would be fine I KNOW THAT he'll be with you soon don't worry do you need help DAD PLEASE I'M FINE Hermione calm yourself women have had babies before READ THE ROOM PANSY NOW IS NOT THE TIME but inside her head was just Draco, Draco, Draco, I'm so sorry, I'd hold it in for you if I could, I'd make this little thing inside me shove over to make room for everyone I've ever loved and keep all of us safe from hurt if I could, but I can't. I'm so sorry I can't. Was she crying or laughing or both? She wanted to wander into the woods and scream—that's it, just scream. My body is in turmoil, she thought, and my mind is all the worse.

For the first time in ten years, Hermione Granger would have to do something really and truly alone.

She was almost fully in the car, soaked with sweat, the door about to close (a stroke right after a heart attack sounds really bad but he'll be fine, won't he? Oh god oh god oh god—) when there was a shout, several voices, her mother's and Daphne's and then, all of a sudden, an unexpected blur of silvery-pale.

"Hi."

Draco's face when he shoved himself into the backseat beside her was so pale it was almost translucent. For a moment, Hermione wished Hortense had been there to accuse him of vampirism and then, abruptly, she screamed with it, the utter forking delusion of possibly wanting Hortense to be anywhere. Or alternatively, it was the whole life-giving cramp thing.

Hi Bruce, Hermione thought, pained. You're always here when I need you most.

But what she said was, "Draco, your grandfather—"

"I know." His face was stony and cool with a sheen of apprehension. He was certain. The decision had been made, but not without cost. "Drive," he said, presumably not to her.

"Zacharias Smith will fillet you for this on Twitter," Hermione panted. A ridiculous thought, given the circumstances, but she could see it now so clearly: ROYAL FAMILY FEUD CONFIRMED AS PRINCE DRACO ABANDONS KING ABRAXAS TO THE VEIL BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. No, no way it would be something that theatrical, Zacharias Smith didn't have an ounce of panache. Forks, she missed Rita Skeeter. How forking unfair was that? Ouch, ouch, ouch, only this wasn't pain, Hermione thought. This was life, hallelujah or whatever, this was life.

"I can live with Smith. I can't live with the alternative." The car was moving and Draco had seized her hand, grey gaze wide with terror. "Grandfather told me himself, Hermione, he's the past. You, the baby, you're my future. I have to choose the future."

He clutched her fingers and she clutched back. No matter what, she thought painfully, he would always face the same impossible choice, over and over. Right now it was between grandfather and child, but in the end it was always the same. It was always a choice between the way things were or the way things ought to be.

"And if he dies?" she asked, her voice low, wondering if even speculating such a thing aloud would somehow count as treason. "What if he dies and you don't get to say goodbye? What if you don't get another chance to tell him—"

"He knows," Draco said, cutting her off with a shake of his head. "My father will be with him, and anyway, he knows. Whatever I could say, he already knows."

Certainty was a gift very few people were ever afforded. She wanted to say how can you be sure, but what would be the point? If he would suffer it later, regret or guilt or whatever it would be, why induce it now? He shut his eyes and she shut hers and they both grimaced through their separate but equal waves of abject humanity.

"It's you and me now," Draco said, and she looked at him and thought holy shirts this is going fast, it's all so incredibly fast, how can we possibly be ready?

But then—

We leave traces, she thought desperately. We always leave traces.

Abruptly, she remembered that once, as a child, perhaps seven or eight, a classmate's rabbit had died. The girl was a mess, going on and on about Binky this and Binky that, to which Hermione's exceedingly logical mind had told her that of course the correct way to deal with the problem was to search the library's encyclopedic catalogue about what happened to rabbits after they died. Evidently she had been gruesome, because the girl had cried and Hermione was made to wait in the office and then Helen arrived, bewildered and clad in her dental scrubs, frowning as the teacher explained that Hermione needed to learn about respect for the feelings of others. Helen had glanced sideways at her daughter, considered it, and said they would take the afternoon.

"Here's the thing," Helen said to Hermione over chocolate frosties and fries, "you were right to try and make your classmate feel better. It was really nice of you to try, but the truth is most people are afraid of death."

"Why?"

"Because everyone's afraid of dying," Helen said, scooping a bit of chocolate up with the crispy side of a fry. Remembering it, Hermione now tasted chocolate and salt, a mix of things, bittersweet. "They think when it's their turn, they won't matter anymore, they'll just be gone. They're scared people will forget them. But we leave traces," she said. "We always leave traces. Nothing on this earth can live without leaving its mark."

"Even rabbits?"

"Even rabbits."

"Does everyone die?"

"Everything that lives will eventually die," Helen confirmed.

"Even you?"

"Even me."

"Even me?"

"Even you. But," Helen assured Hermione's worried face, "you can't be afraid. Because if you're afraid to die, then how will you live?"

Hermione braced for another grueling riptide of abdominal cramping and looked at Draco, at how precious he was, how rare, how shiny and new, how burdened, how patient and strong, how much this choice of his had meant to her; how her perpetual, unsquashable fear—he will always choose them over you—could now, finally, be silenced.

It's you and me now, he'd said, and she felt it, not vindication or some smug sense of egoistic satisfaction, but acceptance. Understanding. A true, full-bodied belief. Heartache would come, terror would pass, or potentially the opposite, or maybe it was all the same, not even two sides of a coin but just that one feeling, different shades of it, happening over and over. But they couldn't be afraid, not of this—not of loss, not of childbirth, not of anything. This was just the anguish of humanity, another pitfall of mortality, a current within the divine split-second of experience that we are allowed to have between life and death and oh my god, Hermione thought, oh my god—

Mom was right, she was right, she was right.

After a certain point, Hermione became sure she would permanently misremember. Maybe it was like people who ran marathons? Not that she ran marathons. (Obviously.) But maybe crossing the finish line rendered the whole process lost to a certain kind of amnesia, wherein all the work prior to that moment of transcendental supremacy could be easily swept under the rug. She vaguely remembered sadness rituals and panic attacks and stomach cramps leading up to this moment—but more clearly, more pressingly, there was this.

Who even cared how it had happened, or what it had taken? Sure, maybe it had taken hours of labor (no wonder they called it that) or maybe the sky had opened up and she'd been abducted by aliens but regardless of how the events had unfolded, somehow, all of a sudden, there he was.

Someday she would tell people it was beautiful, probably, which would be a horrible cliche, because everyone said it and who knew if they really meant it, since they could probably not even remember things exactly as they had been. Maybe it was beautiful? Maybe she'd believe that eventually. Maybe in a week or a few days or something.

"Want to hold him?" asked a beaming Dr Pomfrey.

Okay, Hermione thought, taking the wormy little peanut in her arms. Or maybe it was beautiful right now.

"Wow," said a hovering Draco, which was about as good as anything Hermione could come up with to say. "We made that?"

"Allegedly," Hermione said, staring down and fighting the urge to count his fingers and toes, just to check. Just to make sure. "Do you think he looks like you or me?"

"Are you asking me because you already have some idea, or because you can't tell?"

"I can't tell," she confessed a little morosely, and Draco gave a weary, delirious sort of laugh.

"I can't either," he admitted. "Do you think people who can are just lying?"

"Maybe they love their babies more," Hermione lamented.

"No." Draco leaned over, kissing her cheek while they both stared down at the bundle of unidentifiable features they'd made. "Not true. Not possible."

She reached blindly up to take hold of his shoulder with her free hand, as close to a hug as she could manage with the feeble use of one arm, and then, grudgingly, shifted to pass the baby along for him to carry. "Here. You hold him."

"You're sure?" He sounded scared.

"I carried him around for nine months, Draco. You can hold him for five minutes." She was being very calm and reasonable under the circumstances, in her opinion. I miss you already, she thought, seized with instant panic the moment the baby's weight transferred from her body to his.

Draco took their son in his arms, staring down at it like the alien thing that had dropped in their laps through some mysterious process Hermione could no longer fully remember, and at precisely that moment were voices, somewhere down the hall.

"Probably your parents," Draco said, his eyes fixed on the thing in his arms. Their thing. I made that, Hermione thought with awe and no small amount of self-satisfaction, before remembering the world had probably continued on outside them, and perhaps the sound of footsteps brought with it the prospect of news.

She forced a smile. "Probably," she agreed.

The door opened a crack, more voices, and Draco turned just as Snape entered, his face drawn and his hands solemn and his eyes dark with portent, heavy with change.

He dropped to one knee, slowly, and bent his head, and Hermione inhaled sharply.

"God save the King," said Snape.

Draco reached behind him, feeling wordlessly for Hermione's hand, and they looked down at their son in a moment of tender quiet, breathing from each other's lungs. Grateful and sad, tired and different.

"God save the King," she whispered to him, and his grip on her tightened.

He bent to kiss their son's forehead, so close that only she would see the glint of tears.

1 September 2020

THE PRINCESS OF WALES HAS BEEN SAFELY DELIVERED OF A SON

Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales was safely delivered of a son this evening.

The baby weighs 8lb 6oz.

The Prince of Wales was present for the birth.

The Duke and Duchess of Malfoy and members of both families have been informed and are delighted with the news.

Her Royal Highness and her child are both doing well and will remain in hospital overnight.

2 September 2020

HIS MAJESTY KING ABRAXAS HAS DIED

His Majesty King Abraxas passed away peacefully yesterday evening after spending the morning with family and friends.

The Duke and Duchess of Malfoy were present for his death.

His Majesty will lie in state in Westminster Hall for the public to pay their respects. The Archbishop of Canterbury will oversee funeral proceedings, which will take place in due course.

2 September 2020

THE PRINCE OF WALES TO BE CROWNED KING DRACO I

His Royal Highness Draco, Prince of Wales to be crowned King Draco I. His wife, Her Royal Highness Hermione, Princess of Wales, will become Queen Hermione.

In addressing the nation this evening, His Majesty mourned the loss of his grandfather, adding, "No one on this earth lives without making their mark. The life of our beloved King is no exception."

More to come in due course as the nation pays its respects to England's most enduring monarch.

14 September 2020

THE KING AND QUEEN NAME THEIR BABY

While the nation continues to mourn the loss of King Abraxas, hope remains for the future that His Majesty helped create. In this spirit, the King and Queen are pleased to announce that they have named their son Armand Theodore Orion.

The baby will be known as Armie to his adoring parents.

"MY GOD, HE'S BACK," hissed Hortense, clutching at Thibaut's arm and staring, dumbfounded, at baby Armand—aka Armie, who was wriggling as usual in Hermione's arms. (He was a wriggly sort of thing in general, which Hermione supposed made him more Jamie than Teddy. Not that there were only two kinds of babies, but seeing as her experience was limited, that was the polarity at hand.)

"It can't be him," said Thibaut, holding one hand to his chest in apparent winded concern. "It simply can't be."

"For heaven's sake Thibaut, you must be blind!" exclaimed Hortense. "Can you possibly not recognize the gravity furrowed in his brow? The authority within his noble lobes? Which is not even to mention the heated, primal ferocity—"

"What? Where do you see that?"

"There, along the jaw!"

Hortense stared piningly at Armie, who in turn hiccuped, then wailed.

"Not that I have any idea what you're talking about," Hermione cut in, adjusting the baby in her arms—truly, she could not imagine the discomfort of being an infant; imagine being surprised by one's own mysterious bodily functions—"nor do I care," she added emphatically, "but we figured he had enough to carry around without also naming him after Abraxas."

"Forget Abraxas! Where did you find the name Armand?" demanded Hortense, becoming distracted as Armie jerkily waved a fist. "Are you threatening me?" she asked him, which was an insane question that Hermione could not even begin to explain. "Because it has never worked before, as you well know!"

"Armand is a family name," Hermione said, expecting Armie to cry at the sound of Hortense's obvious distress, though oddly enough he simply stared at her, serene. "We named him after Theo, obviously, and Orion for Black tradition—"

"Well it certainly doesn't matter what you name him," Thibaut snapped. "He's still back whether you like it or not!"

Hortense rounded on Thibaut. "I thought you weren't convinced?"

Armie, to Hermione's delight, spared a small laugh, or something she would convince herself was a laugh, even if developmental milestones suggested it couldn't be.

"That's enough from you," Thibaut informed Armie hotly. "You could have given us a bit of warning!"

Armie made a series of babbling sounds, looking at a spot above Hermione's head.

"Of course we haven't neglected the grimoire!" Hortense half-shrieked, suddenly stomping her foot like a recalcitrant teenager. "Come on, Thibaut, let's go, we've done nothing to deserve this. And as for you—you can't just run around acting as if nothing's changed!" she informed Armie, who yawned.

"OH, YOU'D LIKE THAT, WOULDN'T YOU?" thundered Thibaut. "Well, just see if we ever come back—"

"Because we won't!" Hortense supplied snottily.

"BECAUSE WE WON'T!" Thibaut agreed.

Then, to Hermione's disbelief, the two of them stomped out of the room, seemingly discussing between them whether they ought to convalesce somewhere back in France.

"What on earth was that?" asked a bemused-looking Draco, who had returned to the nursery with Percy in tow.

"I have literally never known," Hermione assured him, lifting Armie's hand to wave. "Come to snuggle, then, Papá?" she asked in the miniature voice that was ostensibly their son's.

"Stop calling me that or it'll stick," Draco advised her, though he took Armie's proffered hand with a warm, genuine smile—the first she'd seen from him that day, which had otherwise been filled with press releases and necessary correspondence. Everything, Hermione supposed, that would count towards his orientation for a new and increasingly demanding job.

While the official mourning period for Abraxas' death had passed, Draco had taken to wearing an old cardigan of his grandfather's around the house; one of those old, cable-knitted garments that made him look both young and old all at once. It had been among the things Lucius had taken from the Palace, much of which would probably be displayed henceforth in museums or stored in the royal vaults. Like Abraxas' life, many of his belongings would be conferred for public consumption. The sweater, however, was vintage enough to precede his era of kingship, and therefore Draco clung to it, and ostensibly the familiar; what little of it remained.

The days following the funeral were busy, blessedly so, with baby gurgles—and somewhat less adorably, with the logistics of packing, as Hermione and Draco were going to be giving up their apartments in Kensington Palace in favor of the necessary move to Buckingham Palace. Having so many residences was a frippery, as Snape would say (had said, many times), as were about half the palaces once owned by Abraxas. They would revert to government property, separate from the crown itself, and Lucius and Narcissa, rather than maintaining their hold on Clarence House, would renovate a suite of rooms in Buckingham Palace for purposes of visits from their primary residence in the country.

"You won't need us in London once all of this passes," had been Lucius' take on the subject. What he meant, Hermione suspected, was that once his father had been buried, he would likely not find comfort in London again for quite some time.

Grief had struck them all differently, though without exception it left them staggering around, to some degree blind and dumb. Draco, unsurprisingly, was handling it best, or at least with the most measured sense of rationality. Whatever Abraxas had said to him before his death, it must have been enough of a farewell to count for something. Quietly, Hermione wondered whether Abraxas might have known it was coming; if maybe he had felt it that morning, the same way she had woken up with stomach pain, knowing but not knowing it would be the day to change her life.

Abraxas had not regained consciousness after his stroke, though Lucius and Narcissa had been at his bedside regardless, long after his last breath. Their goodbyes had been said in silence, or perhaps more accurately, with silence. That was the trouble with goodbyes, the inability to say things in words, no matter how diplomatically one phrased them. There was no way of saying "I wanted nothing more than to be the man you were" without also implying "I wish you had loved me more for who I really was," so silence was probably the best way to go for Lucius. As for Narcissa, who had been intermittently tearful, Hermione suspected it was a mix of sadness and guilt. For her, "I love you" could not be said without "I hate you." Better to let the bad go and leave with silence, instead.

Thankfully there was Armie, who was noisy and messy and filled with unremarkably mundane extremes, sweet baby smells and terrible ones, sleeplessness and ecstasy mixed with a clumsy, terrorizing sort of love. It wasn't as revolutionary as Hermione expected; not some instant awakening of maternal instinct like she'd thought. Not eureka!, not a lightbulb of sudden, lightning-bolt, die-for-you desperation, but a sunrise, a gradual dawn of undeniability, more steady and unceasing with each passing day. The idea that she loved her son snuck up on her so subtly that when she looked around to see who'd put it there, she couldn't find a trace.

They were rarely alone, and Hermione thrilled with it, the village of her life. Her parents and Draco's parents and Jamie and Teddy and their parents and Theo and Daphne and Prince Lucius (the dog) and at the same time, endless work that couldn't be avoided. This, the conservatives wailed, was the last thing the country needed—as if things weren't bad enough without a thirty-year-old child and his charlatan wife assuming the throne! Nothing new, exactly, but the difference was Hermione's disinterest.

It all seemed so unimportant now. Not the work itself, but the opinions. The monarchy is doomed, no it's saved, no it's over, no it's just beginning. The back-and-forth was unrelenting, and after years of being willing (no, eager!) to bend until she broke, it was newly, strangely unbearable to do.

It seemed to Hermione there was a reflex missing somewhere; some swing of a mechanism that didn't quite latch. She waited to feel concern when Padma told her there were reports of her "luxurious" maternity leave; the disrespect she showed the kingdom (the one who'd never respected her, you remember that one) by staying home with the child who needed her in order to survive, but nothing came. No anxiety, no dread, no glimpse of misery. Fuck 'em, she thought instead, the first time she'd thought that in about three years, and when Armie had yawned in what she felt was an approving way, she'd thought again, more adamantly, yeah, fuck 'em!

"I don't want Armie to be a prince," Hermione had sighed the night before they made the name announcement. ("I can't think what possibly possessed you to call him Theodore," had been Pansy's response, though she more than anyone seemed enamored with the child himself.)

The idea of it, their baby on display for the world to consume like a commodity and not a human life, was enough to sicken Hermione, piercing like an arrow to her heart. Armie was so small, so very, very small and so immensely in need of her care, and it was new for her, the idea that something truly needed her. Not something like a cause—not some distant, humanitarian concept of doing good—but a person, a tiny, tiny person who faced a thousand deaths just from swallowing wrong, needed her. He needed her to keep him safe. It was her job to keep him safe, and that meant safe from everything. Bears. Strong winds. Bacteria. Zacharias Smith. The pressures of primogeniture. Media scrutiny. Polio. Bears.

"Okay," said Draco, "then let's not."

She'd thought he was joking for a second, or agreeing with her simply because he wasn't listening, which was a thing normal husbands probably did but not Draco.

She stared at him, and after a second he said, "What?"

"What do you mean let's not?" she asked, bewildered. "Percy's written the press release and it says right there, 'he'll be known as His Royal Highness Prince Armand of Wales.' Same as you were."

"Well, that's because Percy was using my birth announcement as a template," Draco reminded her. "But we're the Palace now, aren't we? So if we don't want to say it that way, we don't have to."

"Oh." She felt confusion, or relief. "So you're just talking about changing the wording?"

"Sure, yeah," he said.

She felt it was probably necessary to push him on that, as his phrasing was obviously the height of ambivalence. He'd been so sure about everything since his grandfather had passed away, so then why not this? Did he want his son to be called a prince or not?

But then again, what kind of question was that? He was one, whether they announced it or not. Armie was a prince, just like Draco was a prince, just like Lucius, and Abraxas…

She let it go for the time being. The announcement was made, as was the subsequent speculation. "It appears the new era of monarchy is approachability," had been Rita Skeeter's take when she, of course, was asked. "In some ways it's brilliant—as if these two dazzling, attractive young people are simply your good friends Hermione and Draco, and indeed their child is just a normal child. Armie! They've resurrected an old name from their monarchist past and given it a shiny new look for the modern age. They're royals who care about our problems, because really, they're just like us," she mused, concluding with a noticeably caustic, "How charming."

Very Rita, which was oddly reassuring instead of angering. It was a pleasure to know that while some things became unrecognizable—like this, the process of packing up the nursery they'd used for only a matter of weeks—some things never changed.

"Any news?" Hermione asked Percy, glancing over Draco's shoulder.

"Some of the senior courtiers are expecting to hear about any… potential reconfiguration," Percy said, clearing his throat and giving Hermione a distress signal that suggested Draco wasn't giving him a straight answer.

"Hey." She nudged Draco, who was focused (conveniently) on Armie. "You haven't told them which ones are staying?"

"I don't want to overwhelm them," he said, tickling Armie's foot.

"Overwhelm them with what?"

"Oh, you know. Departure from tradition. They're already afraid of me as it is."

Hermione glanced at Percy, who lifted his hands. No idea, said the gesture.

"Are you planning to keep all your grandfather's courtiers?" she asked slowly. "Because if not, surely there's something shy of a… sacking. Maybe you could suggest they retire?"

"Maybe," said Draco.

Well, that was about enough of that. She glanced again at Percy, who inclined his head.

"I'll be in the offices," he replied, touching his cufflink appreciatively, and then he slipped away, leaving the two of them alone.

It seemed fairly apparent to Hermione that Draco was in need of some comfort, so she handed Armie off to him, thinking that would be something on which to focus his hands while she talked.

(Also, it was very picturesque. The love of her life and their son. Portraiture at its finest.)

"Do I have to get Theo on the phone," she asked him, "or are you going to tell me yourself?"

He looked up at her with a crooked, princely smile.

"It's mad," he said, returning his attention to Armie, who'd already begun drifting to sleep.

"Try me," she suggested.

"No, really, it's genuinely mad. I haven't even said a word to Theo."

"You haven't told Theo?" That was unprecedented.

"Well, not explicitly. Not as a real thing."

"Meaning what?"

"Nothing. Sort of."

"Hey," Hermione said, a vocal nudge, and he looked up again. "I'm not an idiot, you know. You won't name your courtiers. You won't use the title Prince of Wales for Armie's press releases. You cannot run from this," she said flatly, and he grimaced.

"I'm not running." He put the emphasis on I'm.

"What does that mean, you're not? So someone else is running?"

"Nobody's running."

"Draco," Hermione sighed, stepping towards him. "You marrying me was mad. Everything after is just a fun exercise in lunacy."

She was close enough that she could lean on his shoulder while he turned to kiss her forehead. She could watch Armie breathe and feel Draco's warmth.

She felt resignation creak through his bones, straining in his joints.

"I don't want to do this to my son," he said, his voice strained.

"Which part?"

"Any of it." He looked at her exhaustedly. "I'm tired," he said.

"All new parents are tired." In a flash of nostalgia, she remembered Harry from the early days with Jamie, the new creasing beside his eyes, the shadows of his laughter. That was different, she realized suddenly, because he was still laughing. Harry had only needed sleep.

"I'm not tired of this. Never of this." Draco shook his head. "I'm tired of knowing I'll never live a day of my own life until I die. Tired of wondering if what the press did to my mother will mean repeating history with you. I'm just sick with it," he told her, fixing his grey gaze on hers. "Sick with knowing England doesn't need me, or anyone like me, as much as I need you."

Briefly, a knot tightened in Hermione's throat. "But you wouldn't—"

"Abdicate? No, never. I'm ready to be king." He shrugged; certainty again. "I'm just not ready to sacrifice my son's life, or to play court politics with my own. They'll be outraged when I replace them with Snape and Padma and Percy, but that's not the part that worries me. I'm not going to be able to do this if it means playing by the old rules."

"So what does that mean? New rules?"

"New game," he said. When she didn't know what to do with that, he continued, "Look at the world, Hermione. I have no place in it."

"Your grandfather didn't, maybe, but Draco, you—"

"This world doesn't need me," he said, "or anyone like me. I'm a fossil."

"You're not."

"The crown is."

"You're the crown." She frowned at him, unsure where he was going with this.

"Hermione, think about this objectively," he said, shifting Armie so he could pull her into his side. "If you'd never married me, would you think I was important?"

"Of course I w-"

"No. Sweetheart, no, you wouldn't." He was fixing her with a curiously stoic look. "If you were Hermione Granger, journalist or lawyer or whatever extraordinary thing you'd be if not for me—if you'd never met my father or my grandfather—then tell me, logically. As logically as you know how to be for everyone else but me. Should I exist?" he asked her seriously.

Surely this question could not be answered, she thought with panic. Not like this! Hadn't thousands of people studied it academically, politically, philosophically, ethically…? The British economy relied at least in part on the monarchy. Their wedding, their baby, everything she wore, it was all an economic boost. The Hermione Effect! Fashion! Tourism! Entertainment and television and film! True, it was all paying homage to a classist system and yes Abraxas had levied his power unfairly, yes it was archaic and reliant on prejudice and privilege, yes it was a vestige of an empire that left entire cultures crumbling in its path—but still, what was England without its king? True, the fact that the country prided itself on antiquity meant it continued to ignore the marginalized, as if glory for England had ever truly meant glory for all. Yes, Anglophilia relied at least in part on obsolescence—on a fantasy that had never truly been history—and the UK itself was not that. The real UK consisted not of a king or a glamorous peerage but of real, actual people. A people divided between hope for a better future and the unbreakable condescension of a foregone class.

What had always been the problem? That a commoner from California without a speck of royal blood was never good enough to be above them, and maybe that was actually, really true. Maybe nobody was meant to stand where she stood and look down; not Narcissa, not Bellatrix, not Abraxas, not Lucius. Not anyone, regardless of what color they bled.

Maybe she'd always quietly known that, and it was finally time to face the truth.

"No," Hermione said, "we shouldn't exist," and she thought for a moment that Draco would look frustrated or saddened. Instead his face filled with relief, and he kissed her, and kissed Armie, and she realized she'd already known.

She believed him when he said he hadn't told anyone his intentions. She also believed they'd known long ago what he would inevitably have to do.

"So," Draco said to the top of her head before pulling away, "business as usual?"

For once, he looked free and unburdened. Finally clean.

"Not even a little bit," Hermione assured him. "Not even close."

The weeks that followed were rife with conflict; a series of battles for which Draco had few allies. The Daily Prophet continued to speculate about Draco's absence from Abraxas' deathbed while the adoring stan accounts continued to post about their love for (and curiosity about) Armie. Percy, in the hopes that some transparency was better than none in terms of preserving their privacy, called a press conference for Hermione and Draco to address the cameras briefly, baby Armie snoozing in Hermione's arms.

"They'll want more," Snape had warned in an undertone.

It was inescapable what precise sort of "more" he meant. Umbridge continued to press for a show of political unity, going so far as to mention publicly that she expected to preserve the relationship with Draco that she'd once had with Abraxas. Clearly, her expectation was to use his Millennial appeal to steady the sinking ship as the impact of Brexit became apparent to those who'd initially supported it. Vocal though the Dursleys continued to be sans-Petunia, there was little to be done about the pending financial crises. Most financial projections promised nothing shy of a worsening recession. At stake was Umbridge's entire base, which was about to discover that "protecting" Britain meant plunging it into massive disrepair.

She was persistent; Hermione gave her that. With each request for Draco to push his address to Parliament came an increasingly saccharine invitation to tea. Having been raised by a woman who understood the unique weaponization of mealtime invitations, Draco finally conceded to invite Umbridge himself, where she was startled to find upon arrival that Queen Hermione would be joining them.

"I imagine there's no need for Her Majesty's presence," Umbridge simpered. "I'd hate to take her away from her many familial obligations."

"I'm sure I won't be away long," Hermione replied in the octave she couldn't prevent herself from using around Umbridge, as Draco gestured for one of the Palace footmen to pour the tea.

"Well," Umbridge said, dabbing innocently at a corner of her mouth as she spoke directly to Draco. "As you know, my relationship with your grandfather was a very… rewarding one. For both of us." She tilted her head to accommodate the full falsity of a blinding smile. "I only wish to reassure our countrymen that in that respect, nothing has changed."

"Things have changed, I'm afraid," Draco replied, taking a sip of his Assam and leaving the statement to fill the space between them without further explanation.

The resulting silence was thick enough to require a cup and saucer of its own.

"Your Majesty." Umbridge smiled with preeminent patience. "Perhaps it has not been made clear to you the importance of our friendship? As you know, it is I who holds the reins of policy in this country," she said, as if anyone in the room might be unclear about the powers of the Prime Minister or the other nonsensical frivolities of Britain's constitutional monarchy. "Your support is invaluable, of course. But mine is somewhat…" She smiled again, eyes wide and doll-like. "Compulsory."

"I imagine so," Draco agreed. "My grandfather always made it very clear the importance of cooperation between monarch and state. And no one would know better than he," he added, taking a sip, "as you'll recall he saw many Prime Ministers come and go."

To that, Umbridge recoiled, taking the statement for a threat. "You do realize you could be easily legislated out of existence? Both of you," she snapped, glaring at Hermione as if she'd been the one clamoring for the powers of the crown, but then Umbridge remembered herself, painting on a smile too free of mirth to be anything but a smirk. "You'll recall, I imagine, the risks your family faces if Shacklebolt were to succeed in my stead?"

Draco sipped the last of his tea, glancing over at Hermione's empty cup. "Well," he said, "it seems we're done here. Thank you very much for your time," he told Umbridge, ringing the bell that meant they'd finished. "I look forward to addressing Parliament in due course."

"You understand what I'm saying, don't you?" Umbridge said, shooting to her feet. "If you don't appear beside me, I will move to abolish the monarchy. I'd hardly have to lift a finger!" she said, her face suddenly mottled and blotchy, as pink as her very-pink tweed. "How can you even imagine this country still supports your sodding family of philanderers and lunatics? Not to mention her," Umbridge flung at Hermione, "who'd happily fill your ear with poison just to cling to her wealth and her jewels!"

"We commoners do love our jewels," Hermione murmured to Draco, who gave her a half-laughing look of not now.

"I am the least of your problems," Umbridge said to Draco, apparently not finished with her point. "Once it's clear you plan to spit on the very memory of your grandfather's reign, your courtiers will run straight to the tabloids. Every nasty secret your family's ever kept will come spilling out, and what do you think will happen once the world knows the truth about your grandfather's dealings? He can no longer protect you, and neither can the noble and most sordid house of Black." Her eyes glinted, manic with rage. "If you don't believe you have anything to lose, Your Majesty, think again!"

"Prime Minister," Draco cut in evenly. "I'm afraid you will not succeed in frightening me today. Perhaps see how the forecast looks tomorrow," he suggested, and then gestured for the doors to be opened, leaving Umbridge with no choice but to recognize her dismissal, forcing a curtsy before she took her leave.

"As fun as it is to watch, you probably shouldn't antagonize her," Hermione commented to him.

"I know," he sighed, kissing her hand before dismissing himself to speak with his staff.

As for Hermione, she kept her engagements limited. Ironically, the Palace continued to reject Hermione's proposals, with the senior courtiers—most of them titled or knighted for their loyal service to Abraxas' historical reign—insisting to Padma, just as they always had, that these things simply could not be done. They opposed Padma's very presence, and Percy's; the Wales staff were collectively less "experienced" (read: old, rich, straight) and their promotion over Abraxas' staff was unacceptable—sure to provoke outrage, as Hermione was frequently assured.

Where she was able to put her foot down, she did, though she made some concessions she might not have bothered with if not for the extenuating circumstances of hers and Draco's rise. There was a widespread public demand for reassurance, for calm, and though Hermione resented being relegated to the role of Mummy for the entire country purely as a result of her gender, it was worth it to speak to an experience she wished she'd seen. She spoke where she could about her struggles with fertility, the pressures of modern motherhood, all while blithely ignoring the very male commentary about the baby weight she hadn't yet lost.

Okay, so she didn't quite ignore it, not really. She suffered it, staring down at her body and wondering at the discoloration on her cheeks and the little hormonal bumps on her jawline and chin, but somehow it still brought her the community she needed. Women all across the United Kingdom defended her, sharing their own stories, and it was comforting for Hermione to know her experience was shared so universally. She launched a new programme inviting female creatives to tell their truths, even the dark ones. Depression, psychosis, infertility, loneliness, tenderness, yearning, rage, identity—all of it was a story, a picture, a mixed-media masterpiece of love and life and survival, and Hermione revelled in it. She would use modernity to make a village for more than just herself.

Pansy, who'd been reprimanded after using an MP as an example of a bully during one of her Powerful Words initiatives, often joined her on these outings. Astoria was typically nearby as well, and Hermione thrilled with the normalcy of encouraging her to pump when needed, taking the same opportunities herself. If Hermione would have her womanhood weaponized against her via her looks, her weight, or her role in Draco's life, then why not use it to speak as openly about her experience as she could? Even if what had gotten her there was fundamentally ill-conceived—even if she'd pole-vaulted to global significance by marriage—at least she would not waste a moment of the platform she had.

For Halloween, at Blaise's behest, they had a party. The theme was eras of exploration; Daphne was a picture-perfect vintage Amelia Earhart, Harry a Tarzan-resembling caveman, Pansy a Sherlock Holmes-ian steampunk, Theo a space cowboy (in reality he wore a child's Buzz Lightyear costume with a Western hat and boots), Hermione a Grecian Archimedes, Draco a botanical Darwin, Tracey a usual vision of herself who gave them five seconds of a wave and then left (much appreciated), and Blaise an Elizabethan Sir Francis Drake—and although they weren't all together, they were bolstered by the knowledge that they weren't so terribly distant after all.

"You know the presidential election is Tuesday," Blaise remarked when Hermione was handed the iPad hosting his telepresence.

"I know." Draco would be addressing Parliament the same day. "How does it feel over there?"

"Energized, I suppose?" Blaise had been working in San Francisco's financial district, having transferred to one of the American branches of his company. He now worked in the 555 California building, which, oddly enough, had once been the vision Hermione had for her own future when she thought she'd wind up a lawyer. Tracey, meanwhile, was overseeing a retrofit for the landmark Rosier Hotel, not terribly far from Grace Cathedral.

"People seem… well, invigorated," Blaise admitted. "A bit scared, too."

Understandable. Helen, who was on the whole not very emotional, had cried that night in November 2016, and Hermione probably would have, too, if not for being so numb with disbelief. "There's no possible way Bagman can win again," she said, only half-convinced. "Not after everything he's done."

"Evidently they said the same in 2016," Blaise said, shrugging. "And Crouch is hardly a perfect candidate."

"It's not about the perfect candidate," Hermione argued. "It's incremental change, the next best choice. And if the option is between imperfect and actively destructive—"

"I know. And I think this time most people are prepared to make sure it doesn't happen twice."

"I hope so." Hermione sighed and passed off the iPad to Draco, since she and Blaise typically had plenty of time to chat. She nearly always woke up to an email from him, with the latest one being nothing but exclamation points and the attachment of a sonogram.

So time went on, then. Life continued. Nothing on this earth lived without leaving its mark. Armie learned to recognize her voice, looking up when she spoke to him. Draco smiled more. Narcissa consented to be called Nan. She and Lucius were tender together, like old friends who'd suddenly remembered the springtime of their youths. Helen and David overused British slang until Hermione threatened to deport them. She and Draco wrote an essay that became a speech.

"Are you scared?" she asked him on the second night of November.

"A little," he admitted. They had Armie lying between them on the bed, curving towards each other with their toes touching. "Harry thinks it's brilliant, so that's always a bit worrying."

"What's Harry going to do?"

"The same thing, I expect. Some version of it."

"And Theo?"

"This has been Theo's plan for a longer time than he'll admit; probably ever since he and Daphne agreed they didn't want children. Though, that's assuming he gets a chance," Draco added drily, "since he's the only one of us left who's still got his predecessor to worry about."

"You don't think Nott would disinherit his only son, do you?"

"I don't think he could stand another scandal," Draco allowed, "so maybe not." He slid a curl fondly behind her ear. "Are you ready for tomorrow?"

"Me? I'm not doing anything," she said with a laugh. "I'll be standing safely out of camera view."

"Yes, but they'll blame you," he said, doing them both the favor of pragmatism. "No one will want to believe this was my idea. They'll say I'm being disrespectful of my grandfather and that this is just the latest iteration of our family feud over you."

True. But still. "This is what you want, isn't it? This is what feels right to you?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

"Then this is what's right." She leaned over Armie to kiss her husband full on the mouth, then looked at them both, the twin beats of her heart. "I am so very proud of you," she whispered to Draco. "Of the man you are. The king you'll be. The father and husband and leader. I'm so desperately proud."

He smiled and she thought, not for the first time or last: God save the King.

"The best thing I ever did was love you," he said, and while she could list off a few other accomplishments—the little wriggly thing between them, for example—she decided to savor the sweetness for as long as it would stay.

"It is the honor of my life to be able to serve this country as its King. But it is also my honor to ensure that after me, there need not be another. I will spend my reign working closely with members of Parliament and the Church to ensure a smooth transition to the modern government this country deserves. While I know there will be those who disagree with my decision, I can't in good conscience believe what I believe and stand here before you claiming my right to rule. The future leaves no room for kings and queens, or for the tired beliefs of antiquity. It leaves no room for classism or privilege. It leaves no room for racism, sexism, or prejudice. I cannot ask you to sacrifice for others, or assure you that your life matters, while ignoring the hypocrisy of this institution's past."

"I am not obsolete yet," Draco continued, "but someday I will be. Someday, I should be. And when that day comes, sooner than many of us would like to admit, the best thing we can do for this world is change it. It is the lesson my grandfather taught me, and the lesson I hope to teach my son. To truly do good in this world is to be true to my place within it. So believe me when I tell you that it is an honor, and a privilege, to say to you today: it is time to let that change begin with me."

Hermione, fighting swells of emotion, was glad for the distraction of seeing the elder Theodore Nott entering the room from the corner of her eye. She glanced at him, arching a brow, and he approached her, near enough for her to hear without being close enough to appear that they were speaking.

"You don't have to worry about the courtiers," he said in an undertone. "They'll keep their mouths shut."

He said it like he'd done them a highly sinister favor. "We didn't ask you to do that," Hermione informed him, voice equally low.

"No," Nott agreed. "But Abraxas would have wanted his family safe." It wasn't a friendly statement, so Hermione wasn't surprised when Nott glanced irritably at Draco, his mouth tightening. "This is a disgrace," he muttered. "After everything his grandfather did for him. Abraxas would be ashamed."

"No he wouldn't," Hermione said, surprising herself with it. She'd had every intention to say nothing, but when Nott glanced at her, derisive with bemusement, she clarified, "He wouldn't be ashamed. He'd be proud of him, and you obviously know that. Or else you wouldn't have intervened for him."

Nott looked at her, then looked away. "God help us now," he said, and walked away, which was neither confirmation nor denial.

How odd it must feel not to have anywhere to fit anymore, Hermione thought. To be the final piece of a foregone era. How desperately lonely to be the only one left.

But then she looked at Draco, who was illuminated by camera lights, shining, and forgot any vestige of her past except for one.

Super trouper, she thought, beams are gonna find me, shining like the sun.

Smiling, having fun.

Feeling like a number one.

"If no man is an island," Draco was saying, "then surely no man can be a nation. I am not England; I am of England. This country is great not because of its kings or its past, but because of its people; those who choose to serve each other even at great cost to themselves. In its most storied moments, this country is great because of those who come together in unity and compassion instead of hate." That was Theo. "I was born here, I was raised here. But more importantly, I made a home here. I made a family here. I am made of here, and so are you." That was Harry. "I love England, and as with all great loves, it's the kind of love that changes you. It brings you to life in ways you could not have imagined, but even the truest loves are never blind." That was Abraxas. "It is love that tells me I cannot be silent. It tells me I can no longer be impartial. If silence is violence, then so is my complicity. And I will not be silent any more." That was Narcissa.

Draco looked into the crowd, catching Hermione's eye. "I know it is love because it drives me, pushes me. It compels me, makes me strong." (Super trouper, beams are gonna blind me.) "I know it's love because it inspires me." (But I won't feel blue.) "I know it's love because it ignites me—sometimes terrifies me—but it always returns to me." (Like I always do.)

"And because it is love," Draco said directly to Hermione, "I know there is no path for me but forward."

('Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you.)

"Exactly how late do you expect us to stay awake?" said Pansy, who'd already tucked Jamie and Teddy into bed in one of the guest rooms. They, at least, had been excited about the prospect of an impromptu sleepover, even if that hadn't initially been Hermione's intent.

She'd expected everyone to leave once things got sufficiently late, but instead they were all crawling around the Palace's private apartments, clearly without any intention to return to their separate homes.

"You don't have to stay," Hermione reminded Pansy. "I'm perfectly capable of watching the election results myself."

"Just because you're the only American in the room doesn't mean you're the only one who wants to see Bagman crushed under the weight of his own ego," said Harry, falling onto the sofa beside her as Draco walked in with Armie, mindlessly bouncing him to sleep. "Though it's worth pointing out that they likely won't be called until morning."

"Well, so be it, then," Hermione said, shrugging. "We're just spending some quality time with Blaise."

From Blaise, who was propped upright on the iPad screen from where he was still at the office: "So true. Ten points to the Destroyer of Nations."

Hermione, rolling her eyes: "I'm not sure that's technically any better than 'New Tracey' as far as nicknames go."

From Daphne, entering with Prince Lucius (the dog) at her heels: "I can't imagine why you'd oppose it. I think it's a very powerful nickname."

Blaise, encouragingly: "There have been countless memes circulating about it already. People here are starting to use 'Hermione Granger' as a verb."

From Pansy, with a scoff: "Meaning what? To flounce about with unbridled optimism?"

From Theo, who entered with what appeared to be either charcuterie or just a bunch of things he'd thrown on a wooden board: "I believe it's some equivalent of self-care, is it not? As in, 'this tapenade is toxic, let's Hermione Granger back to obscurity while we still can,' et cetera and so on."

Hermione: "What does that have to do with tapenade?"

Theo, chewing with his mouth full: "Hm?"

Hermione, sighing: "Never mind."

Pansy, to Draco: "How is the fallout, really?"

From Draco, shrugging as he bounced with Armie: "As expected. Those who approve do so deeply, those who disapprove do so loudly, and those who remain indifferent are rousingly unchanged."

Blaise: "It's not completely unheard of for the monarchy to give things back. Didn't we do that with Fiji?"

Theo: "Yes, very generous of us."

Draco, thoughtfully: "I suppose we're being unexpectedly applauded on Twitter by a children's book author who evidently hates trans people. And me."

Theo, through a mouthful of prosciutto: "Very generous of her, too."

Daphne, frowning: "Is she still around? Pansy told me she was dead."

Pansy: "Metaphorically, and you're welcome."

From Harry to Draco, with a chuckle: "I hope Umbridge was livid, at least."

Draco: "God, yes. She's got hardly any allies now that she's lost the monarchy as a bargaining chip. Certainly not with how many people have been publicly comparing her to Bagman, or suggesting her policies may go the same route."

Pansy, whose Powerful Words initiative spared absolutely no one, Umbridge included: "My goodness, who would do that?"

Blaise, raising a glass of what appeared to be water: "Well, society is dead, long live society and all that."

Daphne, cheerfully: "For the record, my mother's furious. Between this and Astoria she's been forced to abscond to the country for her health."

Hermione, aghast: "She's not actually blaming Astoria for the divorce, is she?"

Pansy, cutting in before Daphne could speak: "Of course she is. My mother would do the same if Henry ran off cavorting in the Mediterranean—simply tell me to continue lying on my back and thinking of England like any proper wife would. I expect she assumes he carouses as he pleases as it is."

Harry, with a lascivious glance at Pansy: "I do. But you and I both know you're never thinking of England when we carouse."

Hermione, ignoring Pansy's admonishing elbow to Harry's ribs: "Of course your mother would say that. She's a mutant!"

Pansy, sipping her glass of Perrier: "So true. But she's a generational mutant, not one of a kind."

Daphne, thoughtfully: "Strange, isn't it? I wonder what the next generation will think of us. What do you suppose they'll hate us for? Low-rise jeans? Butterfly clips?"

Hermione: "I don't hate my mother."

Daphne, aghast: "Certainly not! She's a saint. Or something better, like a witch."

Theo, musingly: "Imagine Jamie saying that about her own mother."

Harry, with a scoff: "Jamie's mother is obviously a beautiful menace. And also a witch."

Pansy, with a shrug: "Thank you."

Daphne: "So then what's to become of us, do you think? Given that we've all grown up to be radicals."

Pansy, to Draco, while gesturing to Hermione: "Which is your fault, by the way. You might have just let her run off back to the colonies but no, you had to convince her to stay and now we're all going to be penniless anarchists—"

Hermione, with a furrow of nostalgia: "It was Harry who brought me back, actually. And Daphne. And it's not like you had no part in i-"

Pansy, to Draco: "Ten years and she still interrupts. You see what you did?"

Draco, chuckling into the top of Armie's head as Hermione groaned loudly: "You're right, I'm terribly sorry."

Pansy: "Apology accepted. Election results?"

Blaise, clicking refresh: "Still too early."

Hermione: "Again, you don't all have to stay here for this." (From everyone: silence as if she hadn't spoken.)

Theo, perching on the arm of the sofa: "What do you suppose will happen if Bagman wins?"

Blaise: "I'm a bit more concerned about what happens if Bagman doesn't win. By the sounds of it, he's been slowly delegitimizing the election process just to claim the results invalid whatever happens."

Draco, pausing beside Theo: "Still, Bagman's just one man. However maniacal, surely the bigger issue is those who enable his madness?"

Hermione: "As in the Republicans?"

Draco, shrugging: "Them, or the voters. Whoever."

Pansy, staring thoughtfully into space: "It's all very mysterious, admittedly. How a man like that took power without the Bible-touting pro-lifers noticing he's just a corporate narcissist in conservative clothing."

Hermione, with unexpected bitterness: "It happens. Look at the Dursleys. There will always be people who want to look down on someone else, so there will always be people who side with Bagman."

Daphne, frowning: "Is that pessimism from you?"

Hermione, sighing: "Realism, I hope?"

Blaise: "Fear, more likely."

From everyone: a sigh.

Just then, Armie made a small noise of infantile malcontent and Draco rose to his feet again, bouncing, before slipping himself into the space beside Hermione.

"It doesn't matter what happens," he said, reaching for her hand. "You're the one who taught us to keep fighting. Good or bad, right or wrong, there will always be people who stand for what's right."

"True," Harry added. "Remus says it's the quality of one's convictions that determines success, not the number of followers."

"I know," Hermione sighed. "But if Bagman wins, so many people will lose. He'll continue erasing any semblance of tolerance, he'll destroy the entire infrastructure of government services and the planet, too—and if anyone's going to be adversely affected," she muttered, "of course it won't be him or his allies, it'll be minorities and immigrants and all the vulnerable populations, and then—"

"And then people will need an ally," Pansy said simply. "Someone to show them that they are neither defenseless nor alone."

Hermione realized the others were looking at her, and she blinked.

"Theo's the politician," she reminded them. "And Draco's king, for fork's sake."

"We didn't say you had to do it all yourself," Pansy sniffed.

"Yeah," said Daphne. "There's always Hortense if you need another manic cult-like figure."

"Greengrass, what do you mean another?" said Theo.

"New York just went blue," announced Blaise.

"It'll be a long night still," said Harry, as if he had every intention to make himself comfortable.

"If we're lucky, a long life of long nights," said Pansy, murmuring it as Harry leaned his head onto her shoulder.

Hermione looked at Draco, who looked back at her, and then together they looked down at their son's sleeping face, imagining the life they would share; the legacy they would leave.

"Whatever happens," she said, glancing at him. "Back to work in the morning?"

He slid his arm around her, tugging her into his side.

"Always," he promised her, and it was safe there, existing as one in the world they had made.

There was a time when I didn't know who I was writing for, but it has recently become very clear. So clear, in fact, that I can't imagine how I failed to realize it sooner. I suppose that's the thing about time, that everything always looks different in retrospect. It's surreal, knowing everything we know that we couldn't have imagined as prior versions of our former selves.

I hope you will find some use in this, in having my thoughts; maybe someday when you're older. Maybe one day, when you wonder how I could have possibly done something you perceive as a wrong or when I've committed some terrible error or left some irremovable mark I didn't mean to leave on you. I'm sure I will, so in advance of that, I'm sorry. The thing is, sweetheart, that everything in this world is connected to something, and we are not ourselves without each other. Sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better. But without exception, this is what it means to live.

The best thing we can do in this life is take care of each other, which is a lesson not just in politics and statecraft, but also in life. In practice, it means being patient when patience is called for, being strong when strength is what's needed, being brave when courage is hard to find. Sometimes, the right thing will also be the lonely thing. Don't let the fact that you stand alone be enough to make you falter. You never know who might find the strength to follow where you lead.

Be gentle when you are met with suffering. Being firm doesn't always mean being loud. Be forgiving when the alternative is causing pain. Passion exists for you to make use of it. Be true to it when you find it, and to your voice, because it was given to you for a reason. Try to use it for good, my darling, because someday, someone will need it. And because only you will know how.

You will ask yourself from time to time if you are doing enough, or if you should have done more. You will ask yourself if certain things are your fault. You will blame yourself, berate yourself. You will question yourself, and sometimes you will need to. Other times you'll need to be kind to yourself and move on. I can't protect you from the humanity of it all, which means that even you will have some flaws. You will be given the opportunity to feel hate, anger, envy. Sometimes you will need to accept that these feelings are part of life. Other times you will need to leave them behind, because they are of no use to you. You can only carry so many things around with you, so try to maintain your grip on the good ones. Not just the soft ones or the sweet ones, but the useful ones. Sometimes those will be the ones that set you on fire. Other times, they will be the ones that heal the burns.

You get what you love most. Not because the universe is stingy, even though it sometimes is, but because you will inevitably make choices. Your love will determine for you the endurance you have that others may lack.

No matter how old you get, there will always be challenges. You'll never wake up and know everything the way you think you should, but don't worry. New roads will become new adventures, and being brave enough to love can make you strong.

Courage is not the absence of fear. You will hear this many times—I didn't make it up—but it is one of the things in this life that is always true. Courage is not a lack of something, but the resilience you will know by instinct; that voice that tells you to keep going, to keep searching, to always, always rise. Trust that voice, sweetheart, because it's yours. You may not always be ready for everything you face, but you'll have me, and your father, and your family. The family of people we chose, not just by blood, but the one we made. If I could give you one thing, it would be certainty of your future, but since I can't give you that, I'll give you the next best thing: the promise that you will never be alone.

I said before that I didn't know who I was writing to, but now it seems painfully obvious. I've been talking to you all along, haven't I? Even if I didn't know it before, this was always for you.

Welcome to the world, baby boy. It's not perfect. It has problems, but it's wide and full of possibility, and it is yours. There is beauty here if you know where to look.

And I for one can't wait to show you.

a/n: Thank you to those of you who've followed every update and taken the time to fill my inbox with kindness and support. I see you, I love you, and I am grateful. Please vote in November. Also, I probably could have come up with a better name for our young addition to the storyverse, but for wasteland purposes, I had to go with this one. (If you know you know.) If you want to keep up with what I'm working on, you can find me pretty much everywhere as olivieblake.

As ever, it has been an honor to put these words down for you. I sincerely hope you've enjoyed the stories.

xx, Olivie