The Witching Hour

The invitation to meet him at Sandringham, coupled with the headline announcing their impending marriage, made her stomach churn.

When the morning arrived, Hermione stepped through the floo to meet with a maid who introduces herself as Maisel. 

As Maisel walked her down the corridors of Sandringham Estate, her heart pounded with each step. 

She found Draco waiting for her, draped elegantly against a lounge chair, reading a book. 

The walls were adorned with portraits of esteemed ancestors, their stern visages observing the room with silent dignity. At the heart of the office stood an imposing mahogany desk, its surface immaculately organized with stacks of parchment, quills, and inkwells. Behind the desk, a high-backed leather chair loomed like a throne, its ornate carvings hinting at centuries of royal lineage. Along one wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretched as far as the eye could see, lined with leather-bound tomes and ancient scrolls, their spines bearing the weight of untold wisdom and knowledge. In one corner of the room, a crackling fireplace cast a warm glow.

This must have been his office.

"Hermione," Draco breathed. He looked almost surprised to see her, but recovered quickly.

He ushered her into a secluded chamber connecting to his office. "Thank you for coming."

Hermione's brow furrowed with confusion as she sat against one of the leather couches in the room. "Thank you for inviting me. You wanted to talk?”

Draco fixed her with a somber gaze. "I needed to speak with you, away from prying eyes. There's something important I must tell you."

Hermione folded her hands into her lap. "Oh? Well, please go on."

Taking a deep breath, Draco met her gaze. "Hermione, I want you to know that I didn't want this marriage any more than you did, although I am grateful you are willing. But there's a way out for us."

Hermione's eyes widened in disbelief. "A way out? What do you mean?"

Draco's voice lowered. "My father, once he passes, I'll be king and I’ll be free to dissolve our marriage."

Hermione's mind reeled with the implications of Draco's words. "You mean…?"

Draco shook his head, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "No, Hermione. Once my father is gone, we'll be free. We won't be trapped by our families' expectations any longer."

Hermione’s heart sank. "Draco, I... I don't know what to say."

Draco reached out and took her hands in his, his touch gentle and reassuring. "You don't have to say anything, Hermione. Just know that I'm here for you, and together, we'll find a way to endure until the day comes when we can be truly free."

The sinking feeling of abandonment settled in her stomach.

T H E W I T C H I N G H O U R

Moira Knight, Palace Publicist and director of Public Relations, takes her place on a directors chair at Buckingham Palace as she reads through the last of her notes and motions for her crew to get ready to start filming.

The room is certainly not small but with nearly a dozen crew members attending to makeup and hair, cameras, sound, and lighting, not to mention all the equipment, it was starting to feel a little cramped.

On the other half of the room where the cameras were focused, sat Prince Draco and his soon to be bride, Hermione Granger.

The former looked quite at home on the emerald green sofa.

His posture was immaculate in his sharp black on black suit and his stylishly disheveled platinum blonde hair that made him look quite boyish and charming, whereas the latter looked quite uneasy.

“We can change the setup to your liking but for now we’ve got great lighting, our cameras are set at all the right angles, and we’re all set on your mark.”

Draco gives a curt nod in response, composed as ever. Hermione tucks her hands deeper beneath her thighs in nervous anticipation.

No one seems to notice except Draco.

Draco .

The name sounded strange, even after he gave her express permission to drop the formalities.

“Ah,” he says, holding a finger out to her, “one moment.”

He begins to dig into the pocket of his trousers, pulling something that crinkled out and mixing them between his hands, offering her the choice of either closed fist.

Really?

She assumed he was beyond silly games like this. Her eyebrows rose and he pushed her fists even more toward her, forcing her to choose.

“Don’t be shy. Come on now, either hand.”

Looking between them, she chooses left.

He flattens his hand, palm up, showing the empty space.

“No. Wrong, choose again.”

“You’ve got but only two hands-“

He pushes his right fist toward her, willing her to tap it and open it up. “It must be in the other, then.”

When she gives in, he reveals that this hand, too, is empty. Obviously confused by this, he reaches his hand up to her ear, pulling something from behind it.

A peppermint, she realizes, when he offers her his open hand.

She didn’t know what possessed him but he pressed it into her palm, folding her hands over it.

Hermione flushes.

She ran her thumb over the cellophane packaging and for one reason or another she smiled.

“Magic.” He whispers, winking at her.

Idiot.

A short cough brings her back to the cameras.

Hermione sat rather stiffly, hands placed on her lap and her legs and feet tucked to the side to get out of anyone’s way. It had taken three different hairstylists to get her waxed, stripped, and stuffed into Muggle Daywear.

She was wrestled into a flowing white blouse and knee length skirt that hugged her hips slightly with a sapphire brooch given as a ‘gift’ by the Prince pinned onto the right side of the blouse.

Her skin glowed in the lighting and she looked absolutely striking with the light makeup the artists had put her in.

When Moira first saw her, she knew she had a lot of potential, working in the palace for this long she developed a sixth sense, and now she knew she was right.

Hermione Granger used to look like every other plain-Jane in England, but now, she looked elegant, classy, every bit the royal bride she was to be.

Moira was always right.

The room goes quiet as Moira clears her throat and looks at Prince Draco one last time to confirm he’s ready to start. He nods his head and places his hand into Hermione’s.

It’s a foreign feeling for her and she squirms a bit before he squeezes her hand to say, relax, we’ve got this .

“Alright, if we’re all set, camera one,” The woman combs her fingers through her hair one last time before pointing at the camera off to the side that she looks directly into.

The cameras start rolling and Moira Knight turns on her news anchor persona.

“Good Morning, I’m Moira Knight and today I am here at Buckingham Palace to talk with His Royal Highness Prince Draco of Wales and his soon-to-be bride, Lady Hermione Granger.”

“Good morning,” Draco says breezily.

All his life, Draco has been in front of cameras and although it was still strange that so many people had a look-in on his life, he knew how to behave and act like they weren’t there.

Hermione, however, had even shied away from her parents’ home video cameras and Draco knew the kind of knots that must be building in her stomach now.

She missed her cue.

Speak , he seems to say with the slightest twitch of his eyebrow.

A deep blush rose in her cheeks and she smiled weakly at him, and glancing back at Moira, gave a small greeting with the nod of her head.

“Good morning,” She says. Although she feels the deep anxiety in her stomach, she knew it was good.

It pushed the image that she was a young, sweet, blushing bride-to-be. Melting like chocolate in the palms of the Prince. The truth was far from it, but they didn’t need to know that.

Moira continues, “I know you two must be busy with the wedding preparations so let’s dive right into the questions.”

A week prior to their public engagement announcement interview, a list of questions had been sent to Hermione and Draco for them to go over so they would know how to prepare. This would be easier for Hermione as she had spent the week reciting her answers in her head.

The first question was directed at Hermione asking her how it felt to be the luckiest girl in the world , to be courted and engaged to a prince.

Hermione perked up, knowing the right answer would be, “It’s been like a dream come true. He’s been nothing but a true gentleman.”

For the rest of the interview, Hermione and her prince recited all the right answers to Moira’s questions and she had to admit that although most were written by the PR team, a lot of them were true.

Of course, they had to hide the fact that the wizarding world existed. Not from Moira and her team, who were wizards as well, but from the rest of England.

They couldn’t break the Statute of Secrecy they were bound by, but it was still pretty honest with the exception of small alterations.

Like when they were asked what their love story was.

The story Moira had spun was that they had met at a very exclusive boarding school in the English countryside and had been seeing each other for many months when Draco popped the question.

Moira advised them that the public must believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, they were seriously and irrevocably in love.

The actual story is much less like a fairytale than that.

But no one needed to know that.

All they did need to know was that Hermione and Draco were going to be married, in front of God and Merlin and all of England.

And even if it was a lie, even if bile rose in the back of Hermione’s throat every time she thought about becoming the Princess of Wales, that was none of their bloody business.

“Alright, that’s everything we need for the show.” Moira smiles politely at them, “Your highness, Lady Granger, this is Max Ballard, he’ll be taking your engagement photos.”

“Your Highness,” Max, a middle aged man with a camera strapped to his neck, bows to Draco, turning to Hermione and giving her a short nod, “Ms. Granger.”

“A pleasure,” Draco says, standing and walking towards the large glass windows. “I actually have some ideas for this…”

He leads Max out to the pavilion and Hermione can see him making hand gestures through the glass pane.

“Isla, Have Ms. Granger changed into the second outfit we’ve prepared for her,” Moira says to one of the stylists that dressed her before and was now fussing over a rack of clothes in garment bags.

Isla, the red headed witch that reminded Hermione of a Weasley, whisked her up off of the couch, ushering her to the changing room.

“And make sure you change the shoes, something taller. I want her to be at his chin at least!” Moira calls out before they’re fully down the corridor.

Hermione practices her smiling in the mirror when Isla leaves her to change.

She smiles until her cheeks are sore.