Chapter Text
The silver of the serving platter was cool against the palms of Hermione’s hands. Her pulse beat fast in her wrists. She took a deep breath, making the glasses on the platter rattle.
The manor was always beautiful, but never before so opulent. She’d spent the previous week hanging tapestries, then taking down tapestries, then hanging more in their place. Hermione didn’t envy the weavers. When she wasn’t being forced to fuss over the interior décor, she stood stock-still and listened to Lord Black as he lectured her on etiquette and propriety. Despite the way that her knees locked from standing so long, Hermione found she didn’t mind the lectures. Truthfully, she felt that she needed them.
Lord Black hosted a number of important, courtly figures, but now that he had been promoted to a direct advisor of the High King, the manor had the opportunity to host the royal family.
Lord Black referred to it as an “opportunity”, but Hermione understood that there was not an option to reject.
She took one last deep inhale and held it until she heard the rush of blood in her ears. Then she set her shoulders straight and stepped out of the kitchens and into the hall. The glasses on the silver platter didn’t so much as tremble, so steady were her footsteps. And if she wavered slightly upon seeing the new figures at the long dining table, no one noticed.
She pulled one slim-stemmed flute of green from the platter and set it in front of the High King of Faerie.
She kept her eyes averted, but it was hard not to look. She caught a glimpse of the harsh jut of his ear at the corner of her eye, Elfhame's Blood Crown glittering against his long pale hair. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision; she hadn’t been breathing.
Next, she stepped towards the queen consort and her hand quivered as she set the tinted apértif on the dark wood table. The base of the flute tapped once against the table top before Hermione placed it fully down. No liquid spilled but still, the High King’s consort clucked her tongue. Hermione felt a flush building on her chest, and she was grateful that Lord Black had put her in high-necked servant’s clothes for the dinner.
“Clumsy?” the queen consort inquired, an edge to her voice.
Lord Black cleared his throat, but then a voice on the other side of the table chuckled. Almost against her own will, Hermione’s eyes lifted.
It was the High Prince’s consort, Theodore Nott. He was sat—almost draped—in the high-backed seat, his collar open at the throat to expose his tanned skin and the cleft of the hollow of his throat. He wore a slim golden chain around his neck with the crest of the High Court dangling from it. The tip of his left ear was pierced with a small gold hoop and two short, sharp horns peeked out over his hair.
His right arm was extended and laid over the back of the Crown Prince’s own seat.
The Crown Prince himself had the same white hair as his father, though he wore it shorter. His eyes glinted, bright like moonlight. He sat with his spine rigid, but he did not look out of place or uncomfortable; his body simply lacked the indolent posture that his consort wore like a cloak. Theodore reminded Hermione of some great feline creature, lounging so as not to alarm its prey; the Crown Prince was a snake poised to strike.
Beautiful, and clearly fatal.
Theodore smirked, showing off blunted canines. “Look at her,” he said, with a nod in Hermione’s direction. “Nervous as a newborn. Surely there’s no need to antagonize her?”
Hermione blinked in surprise. She stiffened when she heard the queen consort draw in a breath as though to speak, but to her further shock, the High King simply said, “Enough, Narcissa. Lest Lord Black think us rude guests in his home.”
Just as Hermione was tipping her chin down to lower her eyes once more, the Prince’s consort cast a glance in her direction. Her heart lurched when their eyes met, but a ghost of his lazy smirk crossed his lips, a cloud passing over a clear sky, and one of his eyes fell shut in a lightning-flash wink.
She looked down immediately, the flush crawling up her throat. As she approached him, Lord Black held out his hand. She handed him his drink, pleased that her hand was steady once more.
“Of course not, my liege,” Lord Black said. He wore his black hair in a severe braid down his back. “If I may: Hermione is the highest human servant in my house, just below Parisa.” Parisa was a limber sidhe, though her fingers ended in what appeared to be roots. She supervised Hermione and the other mortal servants. “For her dependability, I gave her the opportunity to serve us tonight.”
Opportunity.
She felt the hot sensation of eyes on her, but kept her own on the serving platter. There were only two flutes of green apértif left on the tray. As she lifted the second to last glass, it was the hands of the Crown Prince which caught her attention.
He sat with them folded in his lap, the fingers long and blunt-tipped. He wore a large silver ring on his right ring finger, the shape of a great serpent curling just below his second knuckle. He tapped one graceful thumb against the hand resting below it, rhythmically, as though listening to a beat inaudible to everyone else. Even if she hadn’t looked at him moments before, she would have recognized his beauty just by his hands.
“Thank you, Hermione,” the Crown Prince murmured. The gentle timbre of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. There was an intimate quality which made her feel as though he had spoken directly into her ear.
Without meeting his eyes, she nodded in reply and stepped around his seat to where his consort sat. She felt Theodore’s eyes on her most intensely of them all and was careful not to look up at him again. The quiet discussion at the table had been restored once Hermione served Lord Black, though the back of her neck still prickled with awareness.
Theodore didn’t remove his arm from the top of the Crown Prince’s seat, but he held out his spare hand to accept the apértif from Hermione. She tried to avoid it, but the tips of her fingers brushed against his as he took the glass. She didn’t look at his face, the platter now empty, but she heard the smirk in his voice. “As Draco said,” his consort purred, “thank you, Hermione.”