How Lady Vengeance Takes Her Tea

Summary: Despite the gallantry of its courtiers and the gleam of its enchantments, the heart of the burgeoning wizarding world isn't quite the dazzle it appears. Faced with the secrets of her new husband's curse, an unwilling queen finds herself with an impossible choice: kill him to save her life, or risk her own to save his. Dramione, fairytale AU.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and claim no profit from this work. Credit where credit is due, Joanne Rowling. I have also adapted the storyline of Irina and Mirnatius from Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik, though I have made significant changes to the plot.

a/n: You might call this concept a number of things; fairytale, but also vaguely historical, with an element of arranged marriage plus enemies-to-lovers. It takes place in a fictionalized version of the Potterverse during the early Georgian era and I expect it will update weekly. I can't wait to start another adventure with you, and I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter 1: All That Glitters

It's been some time since you last visited your grandmother; perhaps not since you sat for your N.E.W.T.s, though you can hardly be blamed for that. You've been busy with your new job, firstly, which everyone agrees is understandable, and your father only recently secured his second term as Minister, so your grandmother hasn't necessarily been a priority for some time. Now, though, Papa insists you pay a visit, and so you join your grandmother in the usual place in the garden, sitting down with her for tea on a particularly crisp autumn afternoon.

"I suppose I ought to tell you a story," remarks your grandmother, after the usual gratuitous praise for how well you look and the perfunctory questions about your post-graduate studies. You, of course, are mindlessly smearing strawberry jam onto a scone and thinking about how you're much too old for this; but Papa insisted you pay a visit, so it's probably best you don't complain.

"Have I told you the one about Lady Vengeance?" Grandmother asks.

A snappy title, that. You say no, though presumably Grandmother will have her say regardless, and predictably, she does. "Well," says your grandmother, "Lady Vengeance was born in a very different world than the one we're all accustomed to now, petal. There was quite a different role for Minister then," she explains, glancing fondly at Papa's portrait, "and the Ministry itself was just beginning its rise to prominence. Wizarding court was a mirror of the muggle one, you know," she adds, and you nod, just to prove you're listening. "There were lords scrambling for power in both Parliament and the Ministry at the time, but both were still governed by a king."

King Lucius, you supply primly. You know this because you received an Outstanding in History of Magic, and also, it isn't as if this is Grandmother's first foray into the mythos of her glamorous youth. Still, the stories of glittering ballgowns and fashionable courtiers are her bread and butter, as far as you're concerned. They are where her countless tales come most successfully to life.

"Yes, King Lucius," your grandmother confirms, "and his was an extravagant court indeed. But beneath the illuminating charms and beauty enchantments, his courtiers mainly glittered with ambition, and thus the king was made to keep a careful watch over their schemes. Wizarding monarchy was on a decline," she laments, "and the king was constantly surrounded by backstabbing nobles and spies. Beauty, then, was made to be everywhere, if only to obscure the ugliness of court politics."

Your smear of clotted cream smooths easily over the jam as you listen.

"The king had a son, of course; famously handsome, even as a boy. Rotten through and through, too, and dreadfully spoilt, with terrible rumors following him like a shadow, making him sullen and quiet over time. His mother died very young, you know," she says, pouring a bit of milk into her tea. "An illness, or so the palace claimed, though many reported having seen the queen in perfect health the very day she died. When young Prince Draco did not spill a single tear upon hearing the news, many suspected him of having contributed in some way to her death; perhaps having cursed her in a rage, or having struck her from some kind of tantrum."

You think this is a terrible thing to accuse a child of doing, but of course you become distracted when you register the mention of Prince Draco, because that is another name you know.

"Ah yes, the prince," your grandmother remarks with a chuckle, catching the look on your face. Regrettably, she seems fully aware that you and your housemates stared overlong at the prince's portrait in your fifth year textbooks. "I told you he was handsome, didn't I?"

You think it's heartily embarrassing to be discussing handsome men with your grandmother, so you bite demurely into your scone while she laughs.

"In any case, Lady Vengeance did not think much of him either," she continues, "nor he of her, not at first. They met as children, encountering each other upon one of the prince's rare visits to Hogwarts. There was always something between them, or so legend has it, though it did not matter for much until nearly ten years later. By then, King Lucius had already been murdered, and—"

Here you look up with a start, because no such thing was taught in your textbooks. King Lucius was certainly not murdered.

"He certainly was," your grandmother scoffs.

No, impossible. You've read all the books, and never has there been any mention of King Lucius' death at all, outside of it being untimely.

"Untimely and unnatural," assures your grandmother, "as murder so often is."

Now you're intrigued, largely as a professional matter. What did Lady Vengeance have to do with it? It's certainly possible your grandmother has gone a bit dotty, seeing as she ought to know you're not some gullible child. Was Lady Vengeance the reason for everything that came next?

"Oh yes, undoubtedly," your grandmother says. "She is, after all, the reason there is no longer a curse upon the bloodlines of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

Curse? Now you're a bit disappointed, as this is clearly just another fairy story your grandmother is spinning to try and mesmerize you, mistaking you for the same young girl you once were. You are old enough now not to hang on her every word, and certainly to understand that there are no such things as curses; not the kind your grandmother means, anyway.

"There used to be, in my day," Grandmother primly corrects you. "Prince Draco had one, and everyone knew it. Even," she adds, "those who did not."

Well, now that's just nonsense. Blood curses have been debunked several times over, for one thing. You've studied them yourself, and in no recorded instance was it ever actually a curse, but always something else. A poltergeist. A bit of bad luck here and there, or simply a highly clever witch or wizard for an adversary. But since your grandmother is unlikely to be convinced by any logic you put forth, instead you tempt her with a test.

Assuming the curse was real, how could she know for sure whether this so-called Lady Vengeance had anything to do with breaking it?

"Well, petal," your grandmother says with a smile, "I know because I saw her do it."

The Glorious Reign of King Lucius II, 1715
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Eleven Years Before The Fall

Hermione Granger sat patiently on an uncomfortable chair outside the headmaster's office, swinging her legs where they floated above the castle's stone ground. Her dress was dirty and stained, and though she'd made an attempt to mend her stockings before arriving, her efforts had been largely futile. Unfortunately, her magic seemed to come only in bursts, and it didn't appear to enjoy being wasted on the inconsequence of fraying thread or soiled linens.

"I'm afraid we don't have much to offer her," the headmaster was saying quietly to Professor McGonagall. "A bed, possibly, and I suppose if she's quiet enough—"

"She is, I assure you. A remarkably clever witch, given her age," said the professor, whom Hermione had initially thought was a cat (stray and homeless, like her) until the tabby had transformed into a grey-haired woman with a no-nonsense air of warmth, beckoning her here to the castle. "If she were not so immensely gifted, Armando, I may not have found her to begin with."

The headmaster considered it a moment. "Does she have parents? Anyone who might come looking for her?"

"Dead," said Professor McGonagall. "She has no one."

"Poor thing," the headmaster sighed. "And you're certain she's a witch? Because if she is not, then no matter how much you may wish to help her—"

"I am certain."

"But… the parents are not magical?"

"It is known to happen. Uncommonly, but it does occur from time to time."

"Well, nobody will like it much." The headmaster considered it further. "She is the right age, at least," he remarked, sighing. "Though she will have to be under your charge, Minerva. We cannot have our noble families disturbed by her presence among their children. And given that we have already agreed to protect the Potter boy—"

"I will gladly have her in my charge, Armando. You know I have long requested an assistant for my work."

"Still, there is no telling who will take offense if others discover the nature of her birth. And we cannot keep her here for free, so at best she'll have a debt—"

"Hey," hissed a voice to Hermione's left, and she turned to the side with a jolt, startled as a boy with pale blond hair slid into view. "What are you doing up here?"

He was dressed far more elegantly than she was, to say the least. His waistcoat bore such a complicated pattern of silks that she accidentally permitted herself to stare for several moments too long. She had never seen anything like it on a man before, much less a child who seemed to be her age, and she had certainly never seen a boy who looked like him before. He was very handsome; almost inhumanly handsome, and coldly so, as if he were fae, or possibly enchanted from a painting come to life. His hair was slicked back, nearly white, and his eyes were a crisp, malevolent grey.

"Me?" Hermione said, frowning over her shoulder. "I'm waiting for someone. What are you doing here?"

"You're not allowed to ask me that," said the boy. "Don't you know who I am?"

"No," Hermione said, and the boy's grey eyes narrowed. "Should I?"

"You most certainly should. Don't you know you're supposed to bow to a prince? Not to mention rise," he grumbled with a flick of his grey gaze over her chair, "though I expect you don't know much at all, do you?"

"You're not the prince," said Hermione, who had seen Prince George once when he and Princess Caroline were processing through the mud from Kensington Palace to St James's. Needless to say, she had not been overly impressed from afar. "You're just a boy," she informed him, knowing at least the difference between the Prince of Wales and an eleven-year-old bully.

The boy, however, scowled. "Is that so?"

It seemed fairly obvious to Hermione. "Yes, it's so."

"Well, you're just an ungrateful little snot," he retorted, "and frankly, I think you could stand to do something about that hair if you ever intend to be pretty someday."

Hermione frowned, reflexively reaching up to touch her curls. "Maybe I don't want to be pretty," she said, but the boy had already lost interest in her reply, peering over his shoulder instead.

"Come on," he said, sounding impatient. "Let's go and see what the elves are doing."

"Why?" was Hermione's petulant reply, still stung by his remark.

"Because they have to do what you say, that's why," the boy said flatly. "Besides, I'm sick to death of everyone in this castle, so I'd better at least have a laugh." He slid her another contemptuous glance. "And if you say no, I'll tell my father how rude you've been."

Hermione, however, was stuck on the subject of elves. "You mean they really have no choice?"

"Certainly not," the boy scoffed, indignant at the suggestion that they or anyone might refuse him. "In fact," he continued, sounding as if he found her very stupid for asking, "if they disobey, they have to hurt themselves. That's the best part," he added.

"But that doesn't sound funny at all," Hermione said, horrified, and the boy sighed, wandering closer to stare at her, peering like a snake, through narrowed eyes.

"Haven't you heard what I did to my mother? I could do that to you, you know," he said, whispering it like a threat. "Nobody would even miss a servant girl like you if you went missing."

Hermione, who did not appreciate being taunted, folded her arms tightly over her chest.

"What did you do to your mother?" she demanded. "Annoyed her until she ran off?"

"Killed her," the boy corrected, smiling thinly. "Haven't you heard?"

"I don't believe that." Hermione lifted her chin. "Not for a second."

"You—" Abruptly, the boy's pale brow furrowed. "You don't?"

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"You're horrible, but killing is something else," Hermione snapped.

For a moment, the boy's grey eyes widened, something filling them up until it seemed like the pupils would burst; but then, just as quickly, there was a flash of red in them, a little spark of violence, and when his hand shot out to close around Hermione's arm, she flung herself backwards from the chair to land with a crash to the floor, scrambling to get away from him.

"Ouch!" the boy roared, cradling his palm as if he'd been bitten. "You stung me!"

There was no more red in his eyes, though he had returned to his previous scowl. From the headmaster's office, the man and the professor both came rushing out with a clatter, the headmaster running straight to the boy as Professor McGonagall's eyes widened at the sight of Hermione.

"Prince Draco," said the headmaster, pale-faced with alarm as Professor McGonagall swept down towards Hermione, who was gingerly favoring the arm on which she'd landed. "Is something wrong, Your Highness?"

"That girl," said the boy, pointing at Hermione, "is deeply unpleasant. And quite violent, too. You ought to give her some sort of punishment," he added with a hateful smirk, "as I can't imagine my father the King will ever be so gracious as to pay another visit to this mangy castle after hearing what she's done."

Hermione gaped at him, struggling to launch herself upright. "But I didn't—"

"Hush, hush," cautioned the professor, placing a cool hand on Hermione's arm as the headmaster checked the boy for injury. "Stay quiet, Hermione," she murmured in her ear, warning her to say nothing.

Angry as Hermione was with the boy's lies, the Headmaster had already made it clear that she would only be permitted to stay and learn magic if she did as she was told. Obediently, she bit her tongue as the boy smiled thinly at her, pleased with his deception.

He was still smiling like that when she came across him again the next day, this time in the castle courtyard. She had been attempting to sort out the castle's many labyrinthine parts when he looked up from where he'd been drawing alone, spotting her through narrowed eyes.

He snapped his sketchpad shut and came towards her, looking as though he might reach for her again. She stepped out of his path, this time knowing better than to allow it. "You're a snake," she told him bluntly. "I don't care who you are or who your father is. You're a snake and a bully, and I certainly hope you're not a student here."

"Oh, I'm not," said the boy, sounding pleased to confirm it. "Do you really think I'd ever lower myself to this? I have private tutors, like anyone else with proper breeding. Except for Theo," he scoffed in apparent concession, "but his father loathes him so much he can hardly stand to look at him, so that's no surprise."

Hermione did not know or care who Theo was. The only important thing, she suspected, was to get herself away, though when she attempted to take a step, the boy was quick to block her progress, placing himself between her and the exit once again.

"There's something wrong with you," Hermione accused him, and he scowled, taken by surprise at the harshness of her tone. "I can see it, you know, in your eyes."

"Oh?" he prompted nastily. "And what do you see?"

"A demon," left her tongue before Hermione could think to stop herself, and rapidly, the boy's mouth tightened.

"Just so you know, my name is Prince Draco," he told her. "You will address me as 'Your Highness,' or, if I allow you, then simply as Prince."

"You are not a prince." She was less certain of it now, having been warned by the professor not to antagonize him, but she still didn't want to believe it was possible. Particularly because each time she denied it, he grew more and more flustered in his frustration.

"What is so wrong with you that you don't know who I am?" he demanded, incensed. "Were you raised by wolves?"

"My parents are dead," said Hermione defensively, "and anyway, they weren't like me."

"They weren't—" Gradually, it seemed to dawn on him, though the truth of her only filled his gaze with further contempt. "Your parents aren't wizards? Well, that explains it, then. Your breeding is a disaster because your blood runs filthy with mud." He slid a disdainful glance over her, the little spark of red appearing in his eyes again. "Your kind has no place here," he said, and this time, as he said it, she could hear something else in his voice; a scraping sound, like a scratch against her inner ear, and she winced with pain, launching herself away from him.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, but she turned and ran, desperate to get away from whatever she'd seen in his eyes.

Two days later, Prince Draco and his father, King Lucius, departed Hogwarts Castle to return to Malfoy Palace. Hermione did not leave her rooms in the north wing of the castle except when her new guardian, Professor McGonagall, asked her to, though that did not stop something from appearing beside her pillow on the morning of Prince Draco's departure.

She couldn't explain how she knew he had left it. Only that it buzzed with evidence of him, and it filled her with an eerie feeling, as if he'd left behind a threat.

She picked up the ring, a black stone set between what looked like the fangs of a snake on either side, and shivered the moment she touched it, leaving it to fall to the floor with a thud.

"Hermione," called Professor McGonagall from the other side of the wall, where she slept. The rest of the faculty resided in the village outside the castle or transported themselves in from elsewhere, but here it was only the two of them in the cramped but cozy living space that Professor McGonagall had offered to share. "Is everything alright?"

Hermione stared down at the ring and vowed to herself she would never see Prince Draco again.

"Yes," she said, and hurried to find a place to hide it. The last thing she wanted was to be returned to the streets of London, and she couldn't help thinking the prince had left her a trap. "I'm fine, Professor," she called, hastily dropping the ring into a box of old clothes and shoving it under her bed. "I'll be right there."

The Rise of King Draco I, 1725
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
One Year Before The Fall

Hermione had not seen Prince Draco for ten years, but the moment she heard the news that King Lucius had died of a hunting injury, she knew for certain he had done it. She couldn't explain why or how, but even after ten years of absence, she knew it to be true. The story was too strange; it struck her as too convenient. Rumor had it Prince Draco and his father had been heard in the midst of a terrible row, and the next thing anyone knew, the king of the wizarding world had ceased to breathe.

The King is dead, Hermione thought with a grimace; long live the King.

Hogwarts, of course, was positively bursting with rumors in the aftermath, just as it had always been when anything interesting (or even close to sort-of interesting) happened. Not merely among the students, who were certainly as chatty as ever, but among the staff and faculty as well, who never quite abandoned their fondness for sensationalism. This, unfortunately, was not the first time the castle had been overrun with whispers, and it didn't appear to be stopping anytime soon.

Over the last two years, two of the most prominent young noblemen to have been granted ceremonial periods of extended academic study had mysteriously disappeared, both of whom had been acquaintances of Hermione. There were not many magical noblemen who made an effort to be kind to the muggleborn girl working in the alchemy labs to pay her schooling debts, but Neville Longbottom, Earl of Something or Other, and Harry Potter, Duke of Something or Other, had easily been the best of them. Neville had first disappeared nearly two years ago, and then Harry shortly afterwards, with the school's presumption being that one and then the other had absconded amid some sort of mysterious scandal or, possibly, been killed. No ransom was ever requested for the contents of their respective vaults, so kidnapping was ruled out as a possible outcome. In the end, nobody had any explanation for where they'd gone, and speculation gradually diminished to the unquestioned belief that no one would ever know.

All that was left in the aftermath of such disturbing disappearances was Theodore Nott, also a duke-earl-viscount-whatever, who was the son of a prominent courtier. Despite his wealth and apparent prestige, Theo preferred to spend most of the year at Hogwarts, immersed in his books and scowling mutely into nothing. Hermione knew nothing about him, given that he never spoke to anyone, and truth be told, she was perfectly content with her ignorance. They rarely crossed paths, if ever, and given that he'd been rumored to have a close friendship with Prince Draco, she had never expected him to offer her the indignity of warmth.

Besides, Hermione was usually very busy working, or trying to work, though at times like these it was exceedingly difficult. Death of the monarch aside, there was something even more pressing for Hogwarts' inhabitants to exhaustively (and irritatingly) discuss.

"I haven't the slightest doubt that Prince Draco will wed my sister," whispered Lady Astoria, a lovely but spirited second daughter who was evidently too troublesome to be housed at court, instead attending school until such time as a proper husband could be found. "Mark my words, they'll be betrothed within the month, and then Daphne will be queen of magic!"

It wasn't that Hermione doubted Astoria was right; rather, it was frustrating that Astoria could discuss so little else. Women at Hogwarts were infrequent, and when they did happen to be present, they usually kept to a separate curriculum. Astoria, for example, was hardly unclever or illiterate compared to her male peers, but she was currently repeating the exact same course schedule consisting mostly of divination and charms; in short, party tricks, to catch a wealthy husband, and household magic, to keep him reliant on her. Most of Astoria's day was spent on decorum and dance, and despite her wealth (and the fact that her indulgent father would probably allow anything if she begged him intently enough), the most advanced magic Astoria ever attempted was limited to her beauty charms, the enchantment of her fashionable hoop skirt, and the actually quite clever charm for her self-tightening corset. Astoria's elder sister, the famously lovely Lady Daphne, had not even bothered to attend Hogwarts at all, learning instead from her tutor at court. The life of a courtier's daughter, even with its limitations, was a life Hermione quietly coveted, and she wished Astoria's time would be better put to use on something more substantial than marriage.

Unfortunately, nobody shared Hermione's resentment. Prince Draco, the abominable welp himself, was a man now, and given that his father was dead, that made him a king. He was expected to be crowned the following month, according to rumor, at which point he would pay a visit to Hogwarts—this being the most enticing news of all. The ball scheduled to celebrate the arrival of the new king and his horde of many, many (too many; who needed that many?) courtiers was widely accepted as a furtive opportunity for the prince to select his queen consort from among the kingdom's eligible women without making his proclivities known. Fathers all over the country would be lacing their daughters into the finest chokeholds money could buy, and as a result, the castle was all atwitter with speculation. Would it be Lady Pansy, the disgustingly rich daughter of Lord Parkinson, Dukeish Thing, or the previously lauded Lady Daphne? Or would it be someone else?

Even the reasonable women were hopeful; too hopeful, in Hermione's mind.

"You never know," said Ginevra, called Ginny, a poor nobleman's daughter who saw fit to visit the castle from time to time for company. She, unlike Astoria, was not as fixed on landing a husband as she had been on actually learning things, but even she was aware that a match like Prince Draco would go a long way towards relieving her family's financial burdens. "Perhaps he would find a courtier's daughter boring," Ginny suggested. "Hasn't he had enough to last him a lifetime by now? I'd be sick of them, I think, if it were me."

Hermione, who'd been reading on the soft lawn of the quidditch pitch, made a half-hearted sound of comprehension. Ginny's main motivation for her infrequent visits to Hogwarts was to be able to fly without judgment, claiming to her mother that she was meeting eligible bachelors with her brothers as chaperones while actually nicking a broomstick from the boys' dorms and assigning Hermione the task of reluctant lookout.

"Hermione, are you listening?"

"Yes, Lady Ginevra," Hermione lied, turning the page, and Ginny landed beside her with a sigh, deftly swatting the book from her hands.

"Don't call me that," she said, as Hermione plucked the book from the ground and re-opened it to the page she'd been reading, "and anyway, you can't tell me it's not a little bit exciting. How often do we get to attend an actual ball, hm?" Ginny prompted, setting a small fist on her hip for emphasis. "Mum's even set out to buy me a new dress for the occasion."

"Well, that's wonderful for you," Hermione said dully, "but it'll just be a load of work for me. I'll have to help with all of the enchantments, not to mention the decorations, and then of course the dinner, and by the time the monstrous thing actually comes 'round—"

"You'll have warmed to the idea and decided to dance until your feet collapse?" Ginny guessed.

"That," Hermione permitted doubtfully, "or, better yet, I'll simply stay in my room and enjoy a quiet evening to myself, content with knowing I won't be sold to Prince Draco at the stroke of midnight."

"He'll be King Draco by then," Ginny said with a wistful sigh, missing the point entirely, "and anyway he's terribly handsome, so there are a lot worse strokes to come by."

"Have you ever seen him?" Hermione asked, turning the page of her book.

"Well, no," Ginny admitted, "not up close, anyway. But his portrait—"

"Handsomeness doesn't make a man," Hermione assured her. "And I promise you, Ginny, marriage to this particular prince isn't something I'd wish on my worst enemy, much less you. Or myself," she added as an afterthought, though of course neither of them were genuinely considering her as an option.

"Oh, he was just a child when you met him, Hermione. Can't you forgive him his flaws?"

"Shall I forgive him for matricide, too?" Hermione asked lazily, and Ginny sighed.

"That was just a rumor—"

"Maybe it was, but now his father is also conveniently dead," Hermione pointed out.

"Coincidence?" Ginny suggested hopefully.

A glance at Hermione told her that was exceedingly unlikely.

"Well, maybe he's changed," Ginny said, withering. "Is that so inconceivable?"

"Somehow, I doubt the only son of the King of Magic somehow learned to be less of an arrogant prick over the last decade," Hermione said, as Ginny delighted in the rare savagery of her language. "I've already seen what he's made of, Ginny, and I promise you, it's nothing good."

"Still," Ginny said with a dreamy glance into nothing, kicking off again into the air. "If the rumors are true, he'll certainly make for quite the view."

Hermione, unlike Ginny, did not consume herself with views, either from a broomstick or when it came to princes. In her view, the wizarding monarchy was becoming more and more inept, though of course it would be treason to ever admit as much out loud. The Ministry was more progressive in its policies than King Lucius had ever been, particularly under the rising leadership of Albus Dumbledore, and even if Prince Draco wasn't a murderer, he would still be king at twenty-one with absolutely no experience. He had rarely taken an interest in anything outside of his father's palace, choosing instead to isolate himself from the world, and for all Hermione knew, he had continued his tormentous reign of oppressing house elves. Not a promising sign from a man who was meant to rule everything.

There was only one other person who did not care for talk of Prince Draco, and that, despite allegations of their friendship, was His Lordgraceship Theo Nott, who responded to any and all gossip about the prince with a silencing glare. Not that Theo had ever been anything more than darkly disapproving, but he seemed to have been swallowed up by silence ever since the disappearances of his peers, Neville and Harry. Possibly he thought he would be next; possibly he knew something Hermione didn't. Either way, she was relieved that whenever Theo was in the room, she was finally permitted a break from thinking about the arrival of the wizarding world's most handsome and least appealing prince.

Not that she thought of him often. Only once, in fact.

"You really ought to attend the Prince's coronation ball," Professor McGonagall said, gentle in her domineering way. "There's no reason to lock yourself away from the world, Hermione."

She meant for Hermione to meet a low-ranking noble, or a tradesman or merchant who might give her a more comfortable life than one spent cloistered in the aging castle. In Professor McGonagall's mind, Hermione was wasting away behind stone walls, straining her eyesight and aging out of eligibility more and more each day. In Hermione's mind, the prospect of being owned by a man only to keep his house clean and hand him babies until the day she died was a far less happy ending.

"You're welcome here so long as Dippet allows it," McGonagall reminded her, "but he will not be headmaster forever."

Hermione sighed. "And why can I not just be a professor like you?"

"You needn't end up like me," McGonagall said, inexplicably finding her spinsterhood to be some sort of a pity. "Marry a reputable man, Hermione, and some of the doors will open, you'll see."

"But will they close again, I wonder, if I've killed him after the nuptials?" Hermione mused, and McGonagall sighed, rolling her eyes fondly.

"Consider it," she advised, wandering away to her transfiguration class while Hermione was left to fall against her cot with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling.

For the first time in many years, the thought of Prince Draco prompted her to reach below her bed for the small box she kept there. She had few belongings; only some books that were too worn or too infrequently checked out from the castle library and a few spare garments, but of course there was one very valuable thing.

One very strange, very unsettling valuable thing.

She pulled the ring from the box and lay on her bed, staring at it. The fangs on either side of the black stone were so peculiar, but they were nothing compared to the intangible sensation the ring still gave her. She thought she had imagined it as a child, but clearly, her previous misgivings invaded her still. It was as if, somewhere inside the ring itself, something unspeakable lived in coiled silence, waiting for the right time to strike.

She shivered a little, remembering the red in Prince Draco's taunting gaze, and jumped at the sound of a knock at her open door frame, fumbling with the ring in her surprise. To her dismay, it fell to the floor and rolled across the wooden beams, pausing just before the toe of Theo's leather boot.

"Dippet's looking for you," said Theo, glancing at the floor.

"Since when are you sent around with Dippet's messages?" Hermione demanded gruffly, attempting to obscure the ring from sight with her skirts, but Theo reached it first.

"He'd have sent an elf, but I told him your room was on my way to the Astronomy Tower. Where did you get this?" Theo asked without change in tone, bending to pluck the ring from the floor. "It looks valuable."

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you're asking," Hermione said, gritting irritation between her teeth. She understood well enough what others thought of her; she was the sole muggleborn in the castle, an odd case of half-student, half-servant, and no pureblood had ever failed to make her feel inferior for the iniquity of her birth. "Give it here, please—"

But Theo was still staring at the ring, either unwilling or unable to stop scrutinizing it for something.

"Where did you get this? It feels… strange." His brow furrowed. "In fact, it feels rather like—"

He stopped, looking at Hermione with something she could only assume was suspicion, so she snatched the ring from his hand and placed it roughly on her finger, shooing him from the threshold and closing the door behind her.

"Where is Dippet now?" she demanded, forcing herself to ignore the shiver down her spine at the ring's metallic chill against her skin.

"Great Hall," said Theo, looking irritated. "But listen, if you would just let me look at that ring for another moment—"

"Never you mind what's mine," Hermione snapped at him, heading the opposite direction down the corridor and attempting to slip the ring from her finger once Theo was out of sight.

She couldn't, of course. Just her luck. She twisted and twisted the band but it wouldn't budge, and there was certainly no way it would slip free over her knuckle.

"Rats," Hermione whispered, staring at it.

For a moment, she thought she saw a glint from the stone, like the flash of red in Prince Draco's gaze, and while she knew it was nothing a set of pliers and an adjustment charm wouldn't fix, she suffered yet another chill.

He had trapped her somehow; she was sure of it.

Perhaps the time had finally come to ask him why.

a/n: If you were previously following Divination for Skeptics, you can expect this story to take over my usual weekly update schedule. Thank you for reading! I'm excited to start a new story with you.