Chapter 1
Hermione Granger observed the golden bowl, the way it glimmered in the light, circular dents in patterns wrapped round and round it’s exterior, with a grace only familiarity could buy.
She dipped her fingernails in the water within the bowl, patted them dry on the cloth held by her Mistress, Fa, at its side, and repeated the morning prayer that one must do, well, if one was a princess, before she began her daily duties.
She raised her hands, touched her forehead, her palms, her heart hidden beneath a thin white shift, and finally murmured thanks to the Goddess her people believed in.
It was strange, yet a slowly familiarising process that Hermione was getting used to, since she had been picked as a small, insignificant, bushy-haired village girl, ripped away from her family by the Priest after the untimely death of the previous Fourth Crown Princess, to replace her. It had been odd, strange stares throughout the court, low murmurs of disagreement that someone so lowly had been picked for the job.
But as Princess to the most insignificant Island of the Crescent, Belria, she decided primly to herself that there was a bit more leeway when it came to nepotism.
“Princess, you are needed at court after you have been dressed.”
Hermione nodded, paying attention to the sunrise spread across the city through the window in front of her, over the hills in the distance, the way it shimmered on the water on the left of the city, on the waterways that ran like vines between houses and along streets. She shook her head slightly, and opened her arms to be dressed in the many layers that met her.
As she entered the courtroom, she bowed to each of the fellow Princesses, her ‘sisters.’ There was the eldest, Minerva, sat on a great Gold throne as to represent the Island of the rising Sun, the largest and most significant, that of opportunity and hope. There was Nymphadora, sat on a chair of deep blues and greens, cloth that swirled in swirls of seafoam green to represent her Island’s nature and most importantly greatest strength, their yield of water and feared navy. She met Hermione with kind eyes, perhaps the only one to ever truly accept her. And thirdly there was Fleur, the sour-faced Princess from the Island of Karr on a throne that represented her Island of law and order, the Princess of Justice.
And that left the fourth throne, a simple wooden chair that lacked any pleasantries, and in all honestly was quite uncomfortable to sit in. Trust for Hermione’s throne, the one for the most lowly small town girly plucked from the masses than that of a strong blooded family to have the wooden chair. She always slightly frowned at it as she entered, but she supposed it was meant to represent humbleness, as that of the smallest island.
She had barely hidden a comment of indignation when she was told.
“Sister’s, what brings us here today?” She questioned, sitting on her throne with as much regality as she could muster. Minerva frowned in a way she always did before she spoke, and tapped her hand on her knee.
“It has come to our attention that Tom Riddle, or as he now dotes himself, the ‘Dark Lord’, has become stronger, taking the bordering cities into his Kingdom of Holt, and it is thought Kandor will fall any day soon.” she paused, eyeing her counterparts. “After that he would look further east, to the Kingdom of Gerfal. And whilst a sympathiser of Tom Riddle, they do not wish for their Kingdom to become his. However, to secure this, our advisors have decided to secure an alliance with their nation, in the form of a betrothal to their heir, Draco Malfoy. For if they become at one with Tom Riddles Empire, I am afraid sisters, our security is at much risk.”
Hermione’s heart quickened, and she grasped at her dragonfly patterned clothes between her fingers and thumb, a million thoughts running through her head. However, the most prominent one was the one she dared not wish to answer. ‘Who was to be betrothed out of the four?’ She noticed Fleur shift uneasily in her seat. They were the two youngest.
“We will cast our votes,” she handed each princess a voting stick. “Please close your eyes and cast your vote to the Sister you think most equipped for the task our Mother has bestowed upon us.”
Hermione sucked in a breath, picked up the stick with a slight tremble in her hand.
“You may cast your votes.”
She let out her breath as a clatter echoed across the room, Hermione’s eyes squeezed tightly shut for a moment longer than needed. As she opened her eyes, she saw three sticks at her feet, and one, which was hers, at Fleur’s.
Her eyes flew open, and she could feel the heat rush to her cheeks. She stared wildly around at her Sisters, a feeling of betrayal settling in her stomach. Of course they chose her, Princess of the most insignificant Island. A chosen nobody.
Indignation rose up within her and a frown flew across her face as she rose slightly. “I-.” She stopped herself, seeing Minervas shocked expression at her unruly display of emotion. Instead she bowed shallowly with a tremble. “What I meant to say was, ‘As the Goddess wills.
And Hermione turned and left, ignoring all court protocol.
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The early frost creeped up the windows of the Palace of Gerfal, dark stone and stocky turrets leering over the city, large shadows cast across the rooftops of the inhabitants. On sunnier days it was a beautiful sight, but Draco hated the dimming winter months, and the impending doom it brought with it. Cold slender fingers and nose were hardly anything to look forwards either. And perhaps usually he would find comfort in the fire crackling in his fathers drawing room, but this time it seemed to serve only as a warning as to what was to come as it raged within its remits.
“The crescent Islands sends a message of betrothal.” Lucius Malfoy stood in the dimly-lit room, the light of the fire flickering across his pale face, long, silver hair resting over deep robes that touched the floor, stake in-hand. His eldest son sneered.
“Those witches? The matriarchs? Surely father, you cannot bound me to this unfortunate misery.” His lip curled and he began to pace, becoming more frantic with each step.
“A she-witch for a wife, pray, tell me which one! I heard the newest one was picked from the gutters of the street! I’m sure they could smell the sewage the minute she arrived!”
Lucius sighed and eyed his son, impatient already of his persistent, spoilt antics.
“Draco, do you wish to see our Kingdom fall under the Dark Lord’s hands? I hear he has a daughter who bares his unfortunate genetics. No nose, yellow teeth, you wish to bed her instead? I heard she is single.”
Draco stopped pacing, the fire cracking in sudden explosions of light and a flurry of ash.
“You’re joking.”
“Unfortunately not, my son.” He leaned over Draco, inching closer and closer. “I must decide what is best for my country, and if that is marrying you off to the she-witch, then so be it. They may be strange with strange customs, but it cannot be argued that they do not have the best navy in the Known World, one thing that The Dark Lord cannot compete against.”
Draco was silent for a moment, a lock of silver blonde hair falling over his forehead, grey eyes darting to the fire, the window, the door as if unknowingly looking for an escape.
‘At least tell me which Princess.”
Lucius sighed. “The Princess of Belria.” He watched as his son’s eyes widened and mouth bark out a laugh.
“Of course,” he sang, although one which lacked any merriment or warmth, a dangerous smile of disbelief slapped on his featured, “the little cow that’s priest was bribed, that has no royal blood of her own in her. I bet she smells like a pig-sty!” He widened his arms. “My future wife, a common she-Witch Matriarch gifted to me by my own father. You have officially lost your mind. I had wondered how long it was going to take after mother died.”
He cooled his features, and the ever present sneer fitted back on his face again. His voice dropped and he leaned close to his father, so close that Lucius could practically feel the spit on his features as he spoke.
“I will never forgive you for this.” He hissed, storming out of the room, and slamming the door with a large thud.
There was a beat of silence before a voice cut through the room. It was Blaise Zabini, Draco’s Valet. “Well,” he said with his usual mirth, “that went well.”