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Prince Harry Potter had precisely three skills: getting into trouble, surviving against all odds, and pretending he had any idea what he was doing. Surviving ambushes in dense forests was notably absent from the list.
“Go!” shouted Sir Ron, blood on his tunic and panic in his eyes behind his helmet. “We’ll hold them off!”
“But—”
Someone else yelled, “ Run , Your Highness!”
Harry ran. He tripped on a root within five seconds, cursed like a commoner (thankful that his mother wasn’t there to hear him), and scrambled to his feet to keep going. Arrows whistled behind him. His royal cloak got caught on a branch and tore with an undignified shrip . His boots sank in mud. A bee stung his ear. He probably looked like an angry, bedraggled forest ghost when he finally stumbled out of the forest near the edge of a village at dusk.
And that was when he saw her.
A woman, curly hair tied in a messy bun, was outside her cottage, beating a rug with unnecessary force, when he collapsed in front of her.
“Help,” he gasped. “Assassins. Forest. Stung by a bee.”
She blinked. “You’re the prince.”
He blinked back. “Yes, but let’s keep that between us, shall we?”
Then he fell onto the turnips in a dead faint.
Harry awoke to a cold compress on his forehead and the smell of vegetable stew.
“You’re lucky I didn’t leave you in the turnip patch,” said a voice. “Could’ve been more convincing.”
He sat up with a groan and rubbed his head, only to notice his sleeve didn’t look right. He frowned and glanced down with a gasp. His royal tunic had been swapped for a lumpy wool shirt and a pair of linen trousers several inches too short.
“What have you done to me?” he asked, horrified.
The woman stood by the hearth, spoon in hand. “Hidden you. Soldiers were sniffing around. Claimed they were hunting bandits, but no one buys that in this village. So I told them you were my husband.”
Harry choked. “You what?”
“Married. You. To me. Briefly. Fake-married, obviously. Not legally binding. Congratulations on our peasant wedding, darling.”
He stared at her in horror. “We didn’t even have cake.”
“Cake is a luxury, Your Majesty. Now shut up and act poor.”
Harry blinked. “Wait. Hold on. You married me?”
“Briefly.”
“I’m married. To you?”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t even tell me your name?”
She shrugged, unfazed. “Didn’t seem important at the time.”
He huffed. “Regardless. I think I deserve to know the name of my… wife. Even if it’s fake. Even if there was no cake. It’s basic royal protocol.”
She sighed and turned back to her pot. “Hermione.”
He waited. “Hermione…?”
“That’s it. Just Hermione. Villagers don’t really go around with surnames when they’re pretending not to harbor royalty.”
He placed a hand to his chest with mock gravity. “Then, Just Hermione, I thank you for your bold and baffling service. And if I die in this wretched village, tell the kingdom I was slain by a woman with no last name and zero respect for baked goods.”
She glared over her shoulder before continuing her stirring.
It was ten minutes later that the soldiers arrived.
Hermione shoved a pile of chopped carrots into Harry’s hands, muttered, “Pretend you’re useful,” and threw open the door with a polite, “Evening, gentlemen.”
The lead soldier, covered in scratches and a scowl set in suspicion, stepped inside, towering over Hermione. “We’re looking for a man. Royal. Slim. Dark hair. Stupid face.”
Hermione shrugged. “You just described my husband.”
Harry blinked at her. “What?”
“Shh, love,” she cooed, pinching his side.
The soldier eyed him. “Name?”
Hermione stepped up beside Harry and laced their fingers with impressive force. “This is Ted. We’ve been married seven years. Haven’t we , sweetheart?”
Harry, not sure if this was a threat, nodded. “Best seven years of my… cabbage-farming life.”
The soldier frowned. “He doesn’t look like he knows what a cabbage is.”
“Don’t be daft,” Hermione snapped and scowled up at the man. “He’s just tired. Had a long day trying to figure out how to use the bucket.”
“It has two handles!” Harry protested, scandalized. “Which one is for pouring?”
The soldier stared at him for a long moment. Then at the vegetable-filled cottage. Then at Hermione, who smiled like a woman with a knife in her boot.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Carry on.”
He left. The door closed.
Hermione exhaled.
Harry dropped the carrots like they were explosives. “You got me married. To you.”
“Stop sounding so offended. You could do worse.”
Harry stared. “You have three forks on your wall.”
“Decoration.”
“But what for?”
She didn’t answer.
The next morning, Harry Potter—heir to the throne, master of four languages, and utterly useless with livestock—decided he was going to milk the goat.
The goat, naturally, disagreed.
With a dramatic flourish that suggested he’d once read about farming in a book and assumed it couldn't be that hard, Harry approached the creature with a rickety stool and a tin pail. He crouched, stared it dead in the eye like it was a diplomatic opponent, and announced, “I come in peace.”
The goat squinted.
Hermione, watching from the doorway with a mug of tea, didn’t bother to warn him. It was already too late.
Harry reached out, all confidence and princely delusion.
The goat screamed.
And then promptly headbutted him so hard he flew backwards into a rain barrel, legs in the air, arms flailing, the tin pail rolling off into oblivion.
Hermione took a long sip of her tea, completely unfazed.
“Why are you even trying?” she called sweetly over the sound of splashing water. “You’re going to spark an international incident with a goat.”
“I’m trying to blend in,” he replied, flat on the ground.
“Blending in does not require you to wrestle livestock.”
“That demon has horns, Hermione.”
“It’s a goat, not a dragon.”
Same thing, in Harry’s opinion.
That night, they sat by the fire, eating more stew and listening to the wind rattle the shutters.
“You should stay hidden another few days,” Hermione said softly. “They’re still patrolling.”
Harry nodded. He didn’t say it, but part of him didn’t mind.
It was warm here. Safe. She never bowed, never simpered. She argued like it was foreplay and handed him chores like he wasn’t royal.
Oddly… he liked it.
Day Three: Prince Harry Potter, once second in line to the throne and voted Most Likely to Triumph in a Duel While Quoting Poetry, nearly burned the cottage down trying to light the stove.
Hermione found him crouched in front of it, wielding a ladle like it was a sacred sword and shouting at the flames.
“WHY DOES IT ROAR AT ME?” he bellowed, as a puff of smoke singed his eyebrows and the ladle slipped from his grip, clanging dramatically against the stone floor.
“It’s called fire, darling,” Hermione deadpanned from behind a sack of turnips, not even looking up.
“I’ve fought assassins in the royal court. I’ve fenced blindfolded. This is worse. This stove is sentient!”
“You’re worse,” she muttered, smacking soot off her apron.
Harry turned to glare at her, eyes wild, cheeks smudged, hair smoking faintly. “I was a prince.”
She arched her brow. “Now you’re a glorified coat rack with a death wish and soot on your nose.”
Harry blinked, touched the end of his nose, and scowled.
He hated that he blushed.
He hated more that she noticed and smirked.
That afternoon, another group of soldiers entered the village.
Hermione shoved Harry behind a curtain, grabbed a potato sack, and dusted her hair like she had dandruff made of flour.
He peeked through the curtain just in time to hear the interrogating soldier ask, “You sure you’re married?”
Hermione smiled. “Do you want to hear about the time he cried because he sat on a turnip?”
Behind the curtain, Harry hissed, “It was sharp!”
The soldier snorted. “Right. Sorry to bother you.”
He left. Hermione locked the door.
“Honestly,” she muttered, “you’re the least convincing commoner I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re the most aggressive fake wife I’ve ever had.”
“You’ve had others?”
“No, but I assume they would be less violent.”
She smacked his arm.
He didn’t complain.
Later that night, Harry sat outside, looking up at the stars.
Hermione joined him, her shawl wrapped tight.
“You miss it, don’t you?” she asked. “The palace. The velvet. The twenty-course breakfasts.”
He shrugged. “I don’t miss the pressure. Or the pretending.”
She looked at him.
He added, “I do miss the bath that refilled itself, though.”
She snorted. “You’ve bathed twice since arriving. I’m concerned.”
“I smell like soup.”
“You are soup.”
They sat in silence. Then he turned to her.
“Why did you help me?”
She looked away. “Because you looked lost. And… because you’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“A spoiled brat. You’re just mostly useless.”
He laughed, quiet and surprised.
Then he leaned in.
She froze.
But just before anything happened, the goat bleated and knocked over a bucket.
They jumped apart.
“Stupid goat,” Harry muttered.
Hermione’s cheeks were pink.
The next day, the forest finally emptied of danger. No more distant hoofbeats, no more whispered warnings from wary villagers. The patrols had vanished like smoke on the wind.
By noon, Harry’s knights arrived, bruised but intact, their polished armor dulled by days of hiding. They brought news he should have rejoiced over: the attackers were mercenaries, hired by a jealous noble with more ambition than sense. The rebellion had been squashed. The crown was safe. The danger was over.
He could go home.
And yet, standing in the doorway of the small cottage, its crooked walls and thatched roof oddly comforting, Harry didn’t feel the triumph he’d expected. His fingers tugged absently at the rough homespun shirt he’d come to tolerate. The air didn’t taste of relief—it tasted of ash and something unspoken.
Across from him, Hermione stood with her arms crossed, a teasing tilt to her brow. “Back to velvet and gold, then,” she said lightly.
He nodded slowly, as though convincing himself. “Yes. I suppose I must.”
The words hung heavy in the quiet space between them.
Hermione didn’t respond. She didn’t move either—just stood in the doorway with the sunlight casting her in gold, arms folded like armor and eyes unreadable.
Neither of them spoke.
Then, all at once, as if the silence had become unbearable, Harry blurted, “Come with me.”
Hermione’s brow lifted. “What?”
“To the palace,” he said, rushing now, tripping over his own thoughts. “As an advisor. Or—or as my fake wife. Or—maybe not fake. Or—well, real. Or something in between. Or—”
She stepped forward, grabbed the collar of his worn shirt, and kissed him.
Just once. Just long enough to make him shut up.
His brain stalled. His heart didn’t.
When she pulled back, she was grinning. “Tell your royal court they’re getting a goat too.”
He was still dazed when he whispered, “They’re not ready.”
She grinned. “He’ll fit right in.”
And in the palace, months later, no one quite knew what to make of Prince Harry’s new bride.
She walked barefoot in the gardens. She argued with ministers. She kept turnips in her office as paperweights.
But she made Harry laugh more than anyone ever had.
Even when he accidentally set the stove on fire. Again.
“Still can’t light a bloody match,” Hermione muttered, dragging him by the collar out of the smoke.
“I married you for your brain, not your fire safety,” he wheezed.
“Try marrying the goat next time.”
But she kissed his soot-stained cheek.
And he beamed.
Because maybe, just maybe, fake marriages with soup-scented princes led to real love after all.