A Sorta Fairytale

by Drama-Princess and She's a Star

Author's Note: And chapter 2 is here! Rejoice! :-) (Or, rejoince. Just for Storm, you know.)

The song Ginny sings is from Rogers & Hammerstein's Cinderella.

Enjoy.

Chapter Two: In A Faraway Land

It was all about land, as wars in Holnor often are. This particular slice of land, however, was rumored to be rather remarkable, spectacular, heavenly even! It was said to be a blissful, magical Utopia. It was even sometimes referred to as Paradise. Rather unfortunately, the sliver of Heaven was situated right smack dab in the middle of two kingdoms, Griffin's Forest and Serpentia.

The politics of said countries tended to be rather medieval-- or so Princess Auriga of the house of Sinistra thought. The thirty-something (royalty provided the prerogative to fudge on ages, even if it wasn't worth much else) secondhand heir to the second most powerful family in Serpentia was, frankly, rather depressed about the whole affair.

"Damn, damn, damn, damn," the princess groused, rummaging through her wardrobe for a dress that wasn't covered in precious jewels or silken embroidery. (Cursing, like aging, was another of those things that Auriga exercised royal privilege on). Letting out a frustrated sigh, she sank back onto a satin cushion and glared at her pearl-encrusted tiara.

"I loathe life," she said glumly, propping her chin on her hands. "And my cousins," she added, almost as an afterthought. Although King Lucius had nearly given up on wedding her to the nearest pudding-for-brains prince, his son never passed over an opportunity to tease her about it. As if Prince Draco, the resident skirt chaser of the castle, was any better. . . but the boy was barely sixteen. Or was he seventeen?

And, to be fair, if Draco experienced a most unfortunate run-in with a guillotine, he wouldn't lack for heirs. Auriga was quite positive that at least three of the chamber maids were looking a bit thick about the waist lately.

At any rate.

Auriga scowled as the door to her chamber creaked open and a silver-blonde head poked its way in.

"Go away, you perverted little boy, and leave a poor princess in peace," she called out grumpily. "I'm in my nightclothes!" she added when the head showed no signs of going away.

Draco entered, already resplendent in silver and green. She wrinkled her nose at him.

"If you're looking for Pansy, Rosamund, or Millie, I believe they're all expanding the waists of their gowns. Good of you to give the royal physician a full schedule all at once." Auriga called out snidely as her cousin settled himself in a brocaded chair.

"It won't make much of a difference on Millie, now will it?" Draco asked sardonically. "And do get dressed, Auriga. We need to talk."

Auriga stood and sighed. "Turn," she instructed him. "Or get an eyeful of your elderly cousin. That might set you back a few days, wouldn't it?"

Draco stood and faced the window with a sigh. "Auriga. . . "

"Let me guess," Auriga said as she slid her arms into a dark blue velvet. "Local Idiot Who Unfortunately Possesses A Princedom wants to marry me. Lucius, who is of course desperate to unload me onto someone who will help him get our coveted land, is throwing a ball with enough alcohol to knock out King Albus on one of his sprees, all in hopes that someone will get drunk enough to lead me into a compromising position."

"Close," Draco said smugly as she fastened the bodice of her gown up.

"You can turn around now," Auriga said absently. "What did I miss? Was I not graphic enough about the compromising positions?"

"Prince Gilderoy of the Heart's Kingdom," Draco replied coolly.

"Beg pardon?" Auriga asked, tucking the bane of her existence-- her unruly auburn curls-- in a velvet snood.

"Prince Gilderoy of the Heart's Kingdom," Draco repeated.

Auriga raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Please tell me you're joking."

He shook his head, a snidely amused smile making its way onto his face. "I'm afraid I can't, dear cousin. The most desired Prince in all the land is interested in winning your affections--"

"Well, he isn't getting them," Auriga said curtly. "I've heard about him. Isn't he the one who dresses in pink and spends all day belting out ballads of admiration to his reflection?"

Draco nodded, clearly loving the look of horror that contorted his cousin's features.

"Sweet stars," the reluctant princess mumbled miserably, holding her head in her hands. "Why do I have to suffer like this?"

"Sweet stars?" Draco repeated, smirking. "I have yet to understand that expression. Perhaps if you got your head out of the clouds every once in a while, your vocabulary wouldn't be filled with--"

"Shut up," Auriga cut in irritably. "Much as you no doubt love to cause me agony, my dear, sweet cousin, I feel compelled to ask you to leave me alone."

Draco seemed to consider this for a moment before agreeing. "Fine. I have to meet that unbearable fiancee of mine in an hour, anyway." He paused. "Which no doubt leaves me more than enough time to shag that new lady-in-waiting."

"You're disgusting," Auriga accused, glaring at him.

He smirked at her, then made his way to the extravagantly carved double doors. Upon reaching the threshold, he paused to reply, "At least I'm not a thirty-five year old virgin."

She sneered at him. "Get out."

He raised an eyebrow at her before obeying. The door slammed loudly behind him.

Continuing to glare, she informed the door irritably, "And I'm thirty-one, thank you."

*

It was a rather unconventional curse indeed.

Most curses cast by beautiful enchantresses disguised as wrinkly old hags were rather standard: you were doomed to be a beast for life unless you fell in love. A rose usually came with the deal.

No, a curse in which you were doomed to live alone in a dark, gloomy castle...and turn into a bat every other Thursday until you were married was quite unusual indeed.

And utterly pointless.

A very newly (almost) de-winged Severus Snape let out a strangled yell as he fell from the ceiling, where himself-the-bat had been napping. He landed with a heavy thud on the floor, his foot crunching under him at a very unpleasant angle.

He showed off his rather extensive assortment of curse words to no one in general as he inspected his ankle. Not broken.

"I loathe life," he muttered bitterly, staring at his dismal surroundings. He actually didn't mind the decor of this place, and rather liked the solitude.

It was the bat aspect that got to him.

He was still livid over the whole episode with the enchantress, though it had occurred over three years ago. Honestly, she'd been a completely ungrateful wench; he thought he had been almost sickeningly hospitable when she'd asked if she could stay there for the night and he'd replied that she was most certainly welcome, when hell froze over.

She had apparently focused too much on the 'when hell froze over' part, rather than the maddeningly generous 'most certainly welcome'.

Bah. Women.

So she'd gotten angry, threatening to force him to spend eternity in a dark gloomy castle in absolute misery until he was married. ("Because," he could distinctly remember her screeching, "No woman in her right mind would marry you, you heartless bastard!")

Severus had thought that he'd gotten out of the situation rather fortunately. After all, he already lived in a dark, gloomy castle, and was already lost in a state of perpetual misery.

She had not mentioned the part about the bat.

And quite frankly, he was tired of waking up from a relaxing sleep to find himself flailing with reckless abandon in the air before collapsing, very painfully, onto the floor.

Perhaps he would just....

Dare he think it?

...Get ma...

Really, dare he think it?

Because he didn't at all desire to give up bachelorhood.

Though, of course, Severus Snape did not court, and therefore it didn't really matter whether he was tied down with the bounds of wedlock or not.

Yes, he thought bitterly, glaring at the remnants of black, leathery wings that always insisted upon protruding from his shoulder blades a few hours after he'd returned to human form. Perhaps I'll just get married.

*

As far as princesshood went, Hermione was not very successful. She could read faster than anyone else who inhabited their castle, she had wits to rival those of the notoriously cunning royals of Serpentia, and her knowledge stretched past even the vast recesses of the palace's oldest scholars.

She could not, however, curtsey without stumbling, keep her tiara from going crooked (it did not agree well with her wildly bushy brown hair), be demure and charming during exchanges with potential suitors (who would not be potential suitors for long after an actual encounter with her), or remain conscious for more than five minutes while wearing a corset.

All in all, she was a bit of a failure, princess-wise.

Hermione hated this, as she hated failing at anything, and yet she couldn't bring herself to care so much that she would actually attempt to change her behavior. In her opinion, knowledge was much more important than knowing which fork to use with the different supper courses.

And yet, somehow, she had wound up betrothed.

To an unbearable, conceited, unethical idiot.

Hermione was fully aware that she would not marry Prince Draco from Serpentia. She had no doubt in her mind.

Unfortunately, no one else seemed to realize the importance of this belief.

"He's so handsome!" her mother had gushed.

"With your marriage, there will be peace between our kingdoms and we'll surely acquire the land!" her father had proclaimed.

As a matter of fact, the only one who seemed to agree with Hermione about the fact that her fiancee was utterly insufferable was her brother, Harry. (Her cat, Crookshanks, didn't seem to fond of him either.)

"You should run away," Harry suggested one sunny afternoon. Hermione had been complaining to him about the meeting with her fiancee yesterday, which had resulted in lots of insulting repartee and haughty silence.

"What do you mean?" Hermione replied, her gaze cast out at the sparkling cerulean lake that stretched across the palace grounds.

"Well, you can't just marry him, Hermione," Harry wrinkled his nose. "That's self-torture."

"I know!" Hermione said, sighing in exasperation. "But what can I do? Mother and Father are absolutely in love with the idea."

"I don't know why they'd let you marry someone from Serpentia, anyway," Harry said, scowling. "They're deceptive liars, the lot of them. Who knows? They're probably plotting to take over the kingdom or something once you're married. Then they'll get the land."

"What is this land they're fighting over, anyway?" Hermione asked. "Has anyone actually ever seen it?"

Harry shrugged. "Beats me. I just know that it's supposedly Paradise."

Hermione raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I don't think that we should just rush into this. It's completely foolish. Just watch. It will probably be a scrawny patch of land with one daisy growing on it."

"I somehow doubt it," Harry replied, squinting. Hermione turned to see what he was looking at. Far off in the distance, she spotted a redheaded boy that looked around their age carrying a bale of hay with some difficulty.

"Oi! Ron!" Harry called, waving his hand.

"Who's that?" Hermione asked, interested.

"The new stable boy," Harry replied. "His family's just come here to work around the castle. He's all right."

"Oh," Hermione said, watching as the stable boy set down the hay and made his way toward them. "He's rather lazy, isn't he?" she inquired, wrinkling her nose. "Just stopping his work so abruptly?"

The stable boy had nearly reached them now.

"'Lo, Harry!" he...was his name Ron?...said, grinning broadly. She wondered why he was calling him 'Harry'. Wasn't that disrespectful? All of the other servants would have called him 'Your Highness' or 'Prince Harry', at the very least.

Hermione was quite unnerved by the fluttery feeling that had seemed to come over her as the boy finally reached them. She noted rather sheepishly that he was quite good-looking, in an awkward way; he was very tall, at least a foot more so than her, with flaming red hair, and freckles. The tips of his ears were sunburned crimson.

"And who're you?" he asked, smiling crookedly at her.

She felt a bit taken aback, without knowing why. "I...I'm the Princess," she stammered, rather indignantly. "Princess Hermione. You should know that."

"Well, excuse me, Your Highness," he said, rather snidely. She knew she hadn't imagined the disrespect in his tone.

"You have some nerve," Hermione informed him, her voice growing a bit shrill.

Harry was looking back and forth between them with obvious interest.

"Well, these might just be the musings of an ignorant stable boy, but I don't see why you're any better than me, just b'cause you've got a tiara." He studied her for a moment. "Which is crooked, by the way."

Indignation was swelling up inside her. How dare he? How dare this uneducated, snarky, disrespectful stable boy treat her like this?! She was royalty!

"I could have you beheaded at any given moment," she snapped back. "And besides...." She studied him for a moment before declaring, quite triumphantly, "You have something on your nose, did you know? Just there."

She gestured to the spot on her own face before holding her head high and stamping back toward the castle.

Ron the stable boy scowled and made his way back to the abandoned bale of hay.

So naturally, both of them didn't witness Harry laughing, a rather knowing glint in his bright green eyes.

*

"Ah, yes." The Housekeeper of Griffin's Palace, Mrs. McGonagall, looked down her nose at the new chambermaid. Ginny, resident daughter of the Weasley family and sister to Ron-the-stable boy, shifted a little uncomfortably. McGonagall wore her hair in a very, very tight bun. In Ginny's experience, the tighter the hair, the more difficult the person. Part of the reason she was looking forward to serving the princess Hermione. "So you're the new maid."

"Yes, ma'am," Ginny responded dutifully, hoping that her starched white apron and cap were still in place. She didn't know how her mother managed the laundry of seven children in addition to the entire castle-- but Mrs. Weasley was a formidable woman. Ginny had heard a rumor that the palace laundress could send royalty into a quivering bundle of tears.

At least, that was the reason speculated as to why they'd left the Heart's Kingdom. That and the fact that Ginny had developed into a beauty to rival the resident princess, Fleur de la Couer.

Fleur really did not handle competition well.

"I'm sure that your mother has already acquainted you with your duties," Mrs. McGonagall continued. "But I have just a few more things to say. Number one. Princess Hermione is engaged to Prince Draco of Serpentia. He visits occasionally. It would be in your best interest to . . . be elsewhere when Draco visits."

"Yes, I've heard of his reputation," Ginny said as politely as she could. Reason three for leaving the Heart's Kingdom-- Draco and Fleur were best friends (Ginny privately thought that only reason they weren't marrying was the fact that Draco was too much of a pretty boy for Fleur to bear) and Ginny had had one too many close calls with Draco's attentions. Hopefully the morals of Griffin's Forest would be a tad bit stronger than that.

"Secondly," McGonagall continued. "I don't know if you've heard, but the marriage contract between Prince Harry and Lady Fleur de la Coeur is very close to being finalized, but the prince is quite reluctant to agree without spending a good deal of time with the princess. I know that you were a former maid to Lady Fleur-- perhaps you would be so good as to mention a few kind words to either the prince or his sister Hermione."

"Yes, ma'am," Ginny agreed. Kind words. . .let's see. . .

Fleur's a rotten, vain brat with her nose stuck to the ceiling, and if you marry her, you'll regret it for the rest of your life!

Not that it mattered, anyway. Royalty was all the same. If they weren't trying to push you into the fireplace to darken your complexion, they were trying to slide their hand up your skirt. Prince Harry was probably just another spoiled boy.

"All right, then, you can commence with your work. Scrub the ballroom for now, and when you're done, you can clean the tapestries in the hall."

With that, McGonagall swept off, leaving a rather dejected Ginny to face the dusty ballroom in front of her. Sighing, she overturned a bucket of soapy water and sank to her knees. The water sloshed over the marble floor and soaked through the Ginny's new apron-- something her mother would probably not appreciate, but what was a maid to do? At least she'd be able to spend some time serving the princess. . . and that meant time away from suds and scrubbings.

"Not that it matters," she muttered, viciously scrubbing a dirty spot on the floor. "I'm just Ginny, the maid. No one important-- except to Prince Draco, of course." She pulled her cap off, revealing a shining mane of red-gold hair. "And then I'm important only for an hour."

She began to hum a song lightly, the cleaning brush moving in rhythmic patterns as she washed the floor. One thing she would like to, though. . . to sing. Mrs. Weasley had always called her youngest daughter 'a fiery little songbird.' But maids, of course, didn't sing for anyone but birds and stable boys. Or, Ginny reflected wryly, soapy water. Smiling a little at herself, she lifted her face to the sun and began to sing.

Just for the floor. It helped time pass, anyway.

"The sweetest sounds I'll ever hear," she sang, her sweet soprano gliding over the soap bubbles and the heavy velvet curtains. "Are still inside my head. . . the kindest words I'll ever know are still waiting to be said. The most entrancing sight of all is yet for me to see. . . "
Outside the ballroom, Harry stopped dead in his tracks, his feet rooted to the ground.

"Harry, are you having another seizure?" Hermione asked sarcastically, looking more than slightly peeved at having her diatribe about errant stable boys interrupted. Harry ignored her words, and tugged on her arm.

"Who's that?"

"Who's who?" Hermione stepped back and folded her arms, her eyes narrowed and mouth tight.

"That girl-- the one who's singing."

"I don't know. Wasn't that stable boy horrid? I don't know why you put up with him."

"And the dearest love in all the world is waiting somewhere for me. . . is waiting somewhere. . . somewhere for me."

"Who is that, 'Mione?"

"I don't know. Look in the ballroom, if it troubles you so. I certainly hope it's not that dreadful boy Robin. It would be just like him to sing falsetto."

"Ron," Harry corrected absently, peeking inside the enormous, gilded doors that hid the ballroom. He couldn't see anyone dancing. . . he'd have to take a better look.

"He's a stable boy. Does it really matter what his name is?"

"Hermione," Harry reproved as he slipped into the room. "Stay here," he directed his sister.

"Oh, fine," Hermione said grumpily. "I'll just stand here and look like an idiot, shall I?"

Harry flashed her a charming grin, then turned to face the scene before him. The voice had stopped singing, and was now humming the song softly. He cast his eyes around the ballroom--

And stopped dead, his mouth hanging open in what Lord Snape, the not-so-welcome visitor to Griffin's Palace, deemed the "idiot boy" look. But the maid-- the girl that kneeled on the shining marble floor, singing dreamily to clouds of shining silver bubbles, was the loveliest creature he had ever seen.

(And considering that Lady Fleur de la Coeur was popularly voted Most Beautiful Princess in the annual Servant's Highly Illegal Poll, this was saying something)

But Fleur's aloof, icy beauty had nothing on this girl. He guessed she was a new maid-- but even the heavy black dress and shoes she wore did nothing to hide her pale, sweet-lipped face or the soft clouds of gingersnap hair that fell around her shoulders. His mouth falling open even more, he took a step closer to the girl.

The girl's head tilted slightly, and her song fell to a halt as she turned around to face him.

"Er. . ." Harry said, very intelligently. "Hello."

The girl blinked, very rapidly, her dark eyes widening as she took in his (admittedly grubby) crown and (smudged) satin doublet. "Your High--" she tried to rise to her feet, but ended up slipping in the pile of lemon-scented suds. "Oh, shit!" she called out disgustedly, looking at her hands, scrubbed raw and red. Then those eyes momentarily shut, and the girl smacked herself on the head. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Your Highness, I didn't-- well, I mean I saw you, but then--" her hands fell to her sides, and she looked up at him plaintively. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Harry assured her, sinking down to sit next to the girl. "I shouldn't sneak up on people like that. Hermione's always lecturing me about it." The girl smiled shyly.

"Ron's always telling me that I'm too quiet," she said ruefully, wiping off her hands on her dress. "But look, you really shouldn't be sitting in all this dirty water with those--" she looked his dirty clothes up and down. "What have you been doing, anyway? You look like my brother-- oh!" She hit herself on the forehead again. "Make me stop talking. I always talk too much--"

"When you get nervous?" Harry asked suddenly. She bit her lip and smiled at him.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that." She pushed herself to herself to her feet and stuck out a hand for him to take. "I'm Ginny, by the way."

"Ron's sister, right?" he asked, taking the hand with a not inconsiderable feeling of shyness. She nodded quickly, blushing a little when their hands met. "I'm Harry."

Ginny flushed an even darker shade of red. "I know. And look, Your Highness, I'm really sorry about the whole--" she gestured uselessly. "About the whole song-soap-slipping thing. I guess you could say I'm just a kind of clumsy girl. I mean, to say the least. I mean, sorry, Prince--"

"Harry," Harry said firmly, digging out one of his lawn handkerchief and handing it over to Ginny. She took it with a slightly puzzled smile. "Listen, I feel really bad about disturbing you--" he looked over at the soapy mess, and then at the rest of the floor. She raised an eyebrow as he stammered on. "Look, you're too nice to be doing stuff like this. This place hardly ever gets used, it's dumb to have you wrecking your hands and dress cleaning it. I bet you're good with hair, you could come work for my sister." He smiled to himself. "She could use the help."

Ginny refrained from pointing out that her mother had braided her hair this morning, and bit back a sigh. So this castle sported a dark-haired Draco. Perfect. Help my sister. . . yeah, right. Pretty soon that became 'help me with my clothes, Ginny. Oops, zipper slipped. Think you could give me some help with my pants?'

Subtlety had so not been Draco's strong point.

"Well--"

"Why don't you take the rest of the day off, anyway?" Harry blurted out. "My sister and I are going to the royal library--"

"Harry, what's taking so long? If you've found another stable boy that you're going to be chummy with, I swear that I will throw my tiara at you. Let's go."

"Yes, Hermione," Harry called back obediently. "So. . .?" Ginny couldn't help noticing that he looked pathetically hopeful. She shook her head slowly, feeling a tiny tinge of regret in her stomach.

"Sorry," she said apologetically. "But the floor and such-- it's my first day here."

"Right," Harry said quickly. He smiled at her, sending her traitorous stomach into a series of gymnastics. Oh, why did he have to be so good looking? Draco had been pretty, sure, but he'd never had that funny little crinkly grin that-- argh! Ginny mentally pinched herself.

"I'll make sure you get sent up a really nice tea, okay? The cook, Winky-- she makes these crumpets that are--"

"Harry!"

I'm coming, Hermione!"


He backed out the door, smiling at her. "See you later, then?"

"Right," Ginny said weakly. She blushed and looked down at the handkerchief in her hand. "But, wait-- your handkerchief!"

"Oh," Harry waved a hand at her, grinning slightly. She noticed with a sudden leap of her heart that his hair fell messily about his crown. "Keep it. Don't overdo it, all right? The floor's not really that dirty. And I'll make sure you get those crumpets."

"All right. . . " Ginny said slowly as the door shut behind him. So he wasn't going to pursue her? He was really going to send her up some tea? Biting her lip, she stared down at the crumpled white square in her hand.

"And the dearest love in all the world is waiting somewhere for me. . . is waiting somewhere. . . somewhere for me."