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Radiant Raiment.
A clothing merchant. How decadent.
Caravans rarely peddle in Winterhold, let alone with new robes - likely selling battered swords or rusted armor. A spell tome, if she’s lucky. Traders stay at the inn overnight and are gone by dawn, their precious wares in Windhelm by dusk.
Hermione could purchase dusty, pre-owned garments or cheap fabric from Birna, but she doesn’t have the time to sew—not when there’s another lecture to attend.
Doubts creep into her mind as she observes the standard college robes she wears. Threads fray along the hem. Her wrists peek out of the sleeves, no longer covering her hands. The once brilliant blue hue has faded beyond recognition.
There had to be something more suitable inside for the Blue Palace. They wouldn’t respect her, much less listen to her proposal. She’d be laughed right out of Solitude. Even worse, the College would never trust her with assignments like this again.
And she would never make scholar.
Dread pools below her navel at the thought. All her hard work would be meaningless should she fail to get that funding.
Before she can talk herself out of it, Hermione takes a deep breath and walks inside the store.
The attendant is hard to miss. Heads taller than Hermione. High, elongated cheekbones, narrow jaw. Nose raised as if smelling something foul.
A High Elf.
Her back stiffens. If she’s anything like Ancano, Hermione should turn around. Divines know she does when she sees him observing a class. He walks around with his chest puffed out, happy to scrutinize any magical efforts she makes. Always sending missives to the Thalmor Embassy, no doubt complaining about the “waste” of magic on Skyrim’s residents.
Prick.
Ancano is no better than the Winterhold locals. She has lived at the college for years and still can’t go to town without being heckled by locals—whether it be because she can conjure fireballs or has an Imperial name.
“Your kind isn’t welcome here.”
“You’ve blood on your hands, filthy mage.”
“Skyrim is for the Nords!”
By the Eight, she was born in Skyrim. She was practically more Nord than them, not that the drunkards would listen. Too busy laughing, chugging another ale as Hermione returns across the stone bridge.
Their words once stung. Now, her stomach doesn’t even clench. Replaced by an overwhelming urge to prove them wrong. Show them what a true mage can do.
Hermione’s tactics are simple: Study. Perform. Excel.
Repeat.
Advance two ranks within a year of study? Already done. Travel to Solitude to request more funding for a shot-in-the-dark expedition? Sign her up. Face down another potentially snotty High Elf?
Bring it on.
Hermione scoots to a corner display, keeping the attendant in her line of sight. The elf floats effortlessly between the racks and brushes dust from clothes, never acknowledging Hermione’s presence.
Fine by her. She can shop in peace.
Tucked away on a bench rest fine, deep burgundy robes. She traces the rich fabric between her fingers, the material flowing like water.
Perfect for the palace meeting.
“Madam,” she calls to the employee. “How much for these robes?”
She can see it now. Hermione will glide through the college halls, robes caressing her body. Students and educators alike stop and stare. Ask themselves “Who is that?” Covet an audience with her. Seek her opinion. Treat her with the respect she’s earned as a revered scholar.
“If you are asking, then you are in the wrong place.”
The fantasy is dead. Ancano's cruel laughter echoes in her ears, mocking her. Hermione’s head jerks up as she drops a sleeve, letting it fall back onto itself. “Excuse me?”
The elf releases a long, drawn-out sigh, audible from across the store. “Did I misspeak? If you cannot afford anything, do not loiter.”
“Do you speak to all your customers like this?” Hermione asks, incredulous. No wonder the clothes have a thin layer of dust on them. The employees must run off every potential customer.
“Only those who waste our time.”
Hermione grinds her teeth together. Of course she could afford the clothes. She has nothing else to spend her septims on. Besides, she’s heard worse from a piss-stained drunk. Nothing she can’t handle.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Don’t let them see your anger.
“Then what would you recommend I wear to the Blue Palace? This?” She says with a downward arm gesture.
The attendant finally, finally, turns towards her. “Robes are a,” she pauses briefly to scrutinize Hermione’s clothes. “Sensible choice, but hardly fashionable. You want to impress, don’t you?”
“Surely they are fine enough for Lord Malfoy?”
Across the shop, coins clatter to the floor.
“Lord Malfoy? Thane Malfoy?” Her voice grows higher. “You are meeting with Thane Malfoy ?”
“He’s a Thane?”
The elf raises a trembling hand to her forehead. She shouts towards the back of the store. “Endarie. Endarie. Get the smelling salts.” Her voice cracks. “I’m going to faint. She’s meeting with Malfoy. In those clothes. ”
Endarie, another high elf, emerges from the adjoining back rooms. “Taarie, what is going on here?”
Taarie doubles over, chest heaving as she grapples at the fabric above her heart. A soft whimper escapes from her lips.
The new arrival tilts her head, but does not rush to her companion’s side. She’s observing. Waiting for the next shoe to drop, as if this is a recurring phenomenon.
This has happened before. Fantastic. This must be a ploy to get her to stay in the store. Buy something absurdly expensive as an apology. Maybe if Hermione backs away slowly, she can reach the door-
“What have you done to my sister?” Endarie breaks the tense silence, interrupting Hermione’s grand escape. Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears as the elf stares at her—waiting, watching—for a response.
“Nothing?”
“Mal-“ Taarie groans from the floor, “-foy.”
Both heads snap to the girl helplessly writhing on the floor. Endarie’s lip curls. “What about him?”
“I-I have,” Hermione stammers.
Endarie crosses her arms across her chest and taps her foot. “Today would be preferable.”
The words come tumbling out of Hermione’s mouth, “I have a meeting with him at the palace.”
The corner of Endarie’s mouth twitches, but she says nothing. The silence is overwhelming, coupled with Taarie’s heavy breathing below them.
Hermione cannot help but fill the quiet. “Sent by the College of Winterhold.”
The high elf blinks.
“For the Saarthal expedition.”
A beat of silence. Another. Then once more for good measure.
“And you’re wearing that? ”
Hermione’s shoulders drop, admitting defeat. There’s no way she’ll make it to the exit now. Not when the elves pin her down with their stares. May as well see this through. “Well, no. That’s why I’m in here,” she admits.
Miraculously, Taarie rises from the floor, pain forgotten. Endarie doesn’t so much as blink in her sister’s direction. As if it never happened. “We can offer you a gown for free if you mention us to him.”
She raises an eyebrow. What could they gain from this? She’s a nobody. If she cannot convince him to fund the expedition, how could they expect Malfoy to pay attention to her clothes?
Taarie continues, “The Thane only gets his clothes from Cyrodiil. Imagine the business if he’s seen wearing one of our coats.”
“I don’t see how I am obligated-”
“We’ll pay you.”
”...show me the dress.”
Wherever the servant led her, it was deep within the palace. Past empty hallways, down decrepit steps. Deeper and deeper until the only sound were her quiet footsteps in these ridiculous shoes.
The gloves itch.
Hermione fights the urge to scratch at her wrists. Dainty embroidery lines the hem—one wrong move and she’ll tear the intricate design.
Perhaps she should have stuck with the clothes she arrived with. Those dress robes served her just fine in Winterhold, but she just had to go inside that shop.
Didn’t they just pass that painting? Dust lays thick on the frame. It obscures the picture, an image of what could be Talos riding a winged horse. Hermione doesn’t have time to examine it. Nor does she on the suspected second pass. She’s too busy keeping pace with the very in-shape servant.
The gloves still itch.
“Are we almost there?” Hermione asks.
“Nearly, madam.”
One more turn at that painting and she’ll tear it from the wall. She’ll hang it in her dorm as a pitiful souvenir. It’ll remind her of the growing stitch in her side.
Divines, these shoes pinch. Why did those girls insist on wearing them? They were completely covered by the gown’s trim-
Hermione stumbles, shoes skidding across the hall floor, as the servant comes to an abrupt stop in front of an iron door. Traces of light peek out the gaps, but otherwise there is no trace of life from within the room.
The servant turns to face her. “Here we are,” he announces.
“My meeting is here?”
“Madam, the Lord is indisposed at the moment.” He shifts his weight back and forth as he wrings his hands together. “Please wait here, and someone will fetch you when he is ready.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me this before we walked the length of the palace? What could possibly be more important?”
“The spirit of The Wolf Queen has arisen beneath the city, within the catacombs. Don't fret if you feel an earthquake. A mercenary and her companion—unnaturally pale, that one—are tending to the problem.”
Hermione is speechless. Without waiting for a response, the servant bows and turns his back to her, leaving as quickly as he arrived. His footsteps fade as he rounds a corner, out of sight.
Her cheeks burn in humiliation.
Against her first impulse, she wills herself to not run after him and demand he take her to Malfoy at once. Hermione forces her thoughts to calm. There has to be a reasonable explanation. These are high-ranking officials in Skyrim. This meeting has been scheduled for months. They wouldn’t just strand her here without good reason.
Wherever here is, anyway.
Hermione turns her attention to the room, opening the door and stepping inside. It reeks of mothballs. The room is small, barely furnished. A cold fireplace. A faded rug. A long table hosting a dim candle.
Its unseen half stretches far into the shadows.
Her mouth goes dry as her previous calm wanes and realization sets in. She has been abandoned. Blindly led to a tomb on Malfoy’s orders. Saarthal can burn to the ground for all she cares; should she resign to stay here, another hopeful fool will find her bones still sewn into this dress.
Maybe someone will take pity on her. Be kind enough to remember her name as they peel the gloves from her skeletal hands.
Or she could retrace her steps and go back to the inn.
“He’s with the Jarl.”
Hermione swallows a yelp.
A young man sits at the very table she just observed, silhouette near invisible. He leans forward and lets the candle’s flame flicker shadows along his pale face. Loose papers, a marked map, and miscellaneous tomes scatter around him.
He doesn’t speak again. The stranger dips a quill into a pot of ink and begins— or resumes?—writing.
Hermione says nothing as she listens to the scratching. Merely observing him as he writes.
And waits.
The stranger breaks first. His pen hovers above his parchment, but never lifts his face to meet Hermione’s. “If the mercenary doesn’t succeed, she’ll need to be kept safe.”
Hermione gnaws at her inner cheek. “And who might you be?”
“Draco. I am Sybille Stentor’s apprentice.”
“The court mage?”
“Obviously, ” he says sharply.
“Why are we here?”
“Likely the same reason.” Another dip of ink. The writing resumes. “We aren’t important enough to be saved from the Undead.”
“This couldn’t have happened after my meeting with Malfoy?” Hermione groans.
His eyes flash in her direction, but just as he opens his mouth to slight her again, Draco is struck silent. He watches, transfixed, as Hermione runs her gloved fingers through her hair. Like a seasoned hunter, he tracks the movement; the hand gliding smoothly through her thick, wild curls.
Draco’s insides stir. “What was your meeting about?”
“Why do you care?” she asks as she lays a hand against her collarbone.
He is enraptured by the movement. “I am…” Draco pauses, “acquainted with the Thane. I could help you with your proposal. He does not spend money lightly.”
“How do you know I’m here for a grant?”
Draco is quiet, contemplating his next words, then explains, “His family’s blood runs deep in Skyrim. Some even say his earliest ancestors sailed with the Companions, thousands of years ago.
“The Malfoy’s are easily the wealthiest family this far North of Skyrim. If anyone is here to meet with a Malfoy, it is for his septims.” He shifts in his seat. “So, come on then. Let’s hear your pitch. Convince me.”
“How are you so familiar with the Malfoy family history?”
Without skipping a beat, he replies, “Side project.”
The gloves itch, but Hermione holds strong and does not touch her wrists. Instead, she takes a seat opposite the stranger.
Draco rakes his eyes over her dress, observing how each delicate stitch shapes her ample body. Dark violet, almost mauve, fabric enriching her tan skin. And the gloves. The gloves. Elegant and pristine. The very definition of grace. He could almost envision her hands beneath them; a picture of broken callouses and scalded fingertips.
“Do all mages dress like you?”
Hermione freezes as she takes out her bag, reports halfway on the desk surface. She should’ve worn her old robes. The dress was so ridiculous that even this stranger is insulting her. The girls will be disappointed their stupid, elaborate scheme was doomed to fail because Malfoy refuses to see her. She can’t help but laugh at her own willingness to go along with it. “I was bribed to wear it.”
“Don’t tell me—the Radiant Raiment girls?”
The laughter stops. “How did you know?”
“They’ve been seeking out the Jarl’s attention for months,” Draco says flatly. “Accosting every Solitude tourist that’s unlucky enough to go inside their store.”
“And I fell for it?”
“Yes, but there’s been no harm. You look lovely.”
Hermione blushes and flexes her fingers before returning her focus to her documents.
Draco is silent throughout the presentation. He gives her his full attention. Nodding here and there. Eyebrows furrow in other parts, but otherwise is expressionless. As Hermione concludes, her chest fills with confidence.
“What do you think?” she asks.
Draco drums his fingers on the table. “The Thane would be a fool to grant more funds to the excavation, especially if such a Winterhold representative is attached.”
Hermione’s chest deflates. What happened? Where did she go wrong? Before she can ask, the corner of his mouth twitches upward. He smirks at her. A smug, stupid smirk. Silently saying, “Look at you. Pathetic. You’ll never get the money. Why even try?”
Raw fury courses through her veins, alighting each nerve with rage. It fights to explode from her chest. Detonate and wipe that shite-eating smile off that foul little cockroach’s face.
There’s a buzzing sound, as if a bee is drifting by her ear, before Hermione’s mind goes blank. A flash of red and she was back in the present, the rage suddenly calm. Her knuckles throb.
Draco moans, pulling Hermione from her stupor. He clutches his nose as blood trickles down his lower face, pooling into his mouth and staining his teeth.
The same blood is splattered across her pearly glove, she realizes.
Hermione opens her mouth, a curse on the tip of her tongue, but a voice sounds from the doorway.
“Queen Potema has returned to Oblivion once more.”
An older, distinguished gentleman walks into the room. Long, silver hair cascades down his back. Dressed in impeccable robes.
It’s the Thane.
It’s an older version of the man in front of her.
Fuck.
“You have my apologies, madam, for delaying our meeting.”
Hermione cannot speak, the words caught in her throat. She looks back and forth between the Thane and Draco, the latter turned away from the newcomer, silent and dabbing at his nose with a white cloth.
She puts her bloody, gloved hand behind her back.
“I trust my son has afforded you every hospitality?”
“Son?” she chokes out.
The Thane turns his body sideways and beckons towards her. “Come, we can begin our meeting in my office.”
Hermione rushes to follow him out the door, but before she can leave, goosebumps break out across the back of her neck. She turns her head, only to meet Draco’s enraged gaze.
The gloves still itch. Hermione scratches her wrist, the blood already dry, and follows the Thane.
All things considered, Hermione thinks the meeting with Thane Malfoy went well. Like his son, he sat in silence as she went through her proposal. He asked questions every so often, and she gave what she considered appropriate answers. Towards the end, he toasted her with wine and said his decision would be sent directly to the college.
Her meeting done, she had a few days in Solitude before she would be traveling back to Winterhold. Instead of wandering the city, taking in the sights, Hermione has confined herself to her room at the inn - the mortification of punching the Thane’s son too overwhelming to bear.
Hermione sat on her lumpy bed, eating watered-down Skeever stew, waiting in anticipation for the guards to arrest her, but none ever came.
On her last day, she mustered up the courage to return to Radiant Raiment. After all, she did mention the store to a Malfoy. Just not the Malfoy they intended.
“Give back the gloves and you can have the other half of your payment.”
“Why? I did as you asked.”
“A very important person has asked for the exact gloves you wore, no adjustments made. To be immediately given to him once it comes into our possession.”
A thousand thoughts flutter through Hermione’s head. It had to be Draco, it just had to be. Is this a game? A cruel, sick game to tease her? Hold the funding over her head?
Two can play that game. Scholar will come her way eventually, with or without the Malfoy’s help.
Hermione leaves a note with the attendant and leaves the store none the richer, the unwashed gloves still stored in a chest in her room.
After she leaves, Taarie carefully opens the note and reads, “Convince me.”