Blonde Ramblings

A fan fiction from the Harry Potter Universe.

Eileen Prince has it all, at 17 she is recently graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Engaged to marry Apteryxes Malfoy – heir to the magnificent Malfoy estates. Chosen to represent Britain in the International Potions Tournament in Italy.

The only surviving child of Valletta Black (Minister for Magic), and Collain Prince (Head of the Auror Department). 

Eileen’s perfect life is about to be turned on its head.

Still in draft form. Roughly 1/3rd done. 34,000 words completed. 

Chapter 1 – Graduation Ball

Smoothing her hands over the long red ball gown, Eileen stared at her reflection in the mirror. She could never be called beautiful, but she hoped she looked at least pretty tonight; the satin clung in ways her school robes never had, lending curves to a body she had always thought boyishly straight. The house-elf standing on the stool behind her set the hairbrush down with a soft clack.

“There, Miss Eileen,” Kieran said, ears quivering anxiously.

“Thank you, Kieran.” Eileen’s voice came out thinner than she liked. She smoothed her skirt again, fingers straying to her stomach. If she had to run back to the bathroom one more time, she would hex her own reflection. The nausea had been with her for weeks now—through the last exams, through the endless packing and farewells—and she had decided it was nerves. Nerves about the graduation, about her upcoming marriage, about whether the Ministry would really choose her to represent Britain in the International Potions Tournament in Italy.

If it was only nerves, it would stop once the ceremonies were over. It had to.

She rinsed her mouth in the little washbasin, watching the water swirl away, then looked up again. Her dark hair shone in the candlelight, braided and pinned; her eyes were bright, not dimmed with real illness. Healthy, she told herself firmly. Just… keyed up.

The dormitory door opened.

Her father filled the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered in dark dress robes that did not quite hide the lines of an old soldier. General Collain Prince’s sandy hair was touched with grey now, and a faint white scar cut across the sun-browned skin at his temple—one of many he had brought back from the Global Wizarding War and the long years after it, chasing Grindelwald’s scattered followers across Europe in his work for the Ministry’s Muggle Liaison and International Security office.​

For once, there was no travel cloak over his arm, no case at his feet. Tonight he had come for her.

“Eileen,” he said, and his deep voice held more than a hint of pride. In three strides he crossed the room and wrapped his great arms around her, nearly smothering her against his chest in a bear hug. “Look at you. Merlin’s beard, girl, you’ll outshine half the Hall.”

She laughed, breathless, her lips brushing his moustache as she kissed his cheek. “I’m eighteen, Dad. I’ve been grown up for some time. You can’t make a fuss like this every time I walk into a room. What will you do on my wedding day?”

“Embarrass you thoroughly, I expect.” He held her out at arm’s length, studying her with open satisfaction. “But tonight is not about weddings, or Ministries, or anything else. Tonight is about you. Your exams. Your work. Your honours. Your mother may be Minister for Magic, but she did not brew a single potion in those NEWT exams. This is your doing, Eileen, not hers.”​

Heat rose to her face, a painful mix of pleasure and discomfort. “She organised the selection committee,” Eileen said, because it felt disloyal not to.

“Valetta Black organises a great many committees.” A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “They will remember her names on parchment. Tonight, I want them to remember yours.”

He offered his arm. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, grateful for the solidness of him. As they stepped out into the Gryffindor common room, Collain paused, looking around at the familiar scarlet hangings and squashy armchairs.

“Never seems to change, this place,” he murmured half to himself. “Even when the world outside goes mad.”

He had first known these walls as a boy, long before the war, before he and Albus Dumbledore had stood in very different halls arguing strategy and casualty figures while Grindelwald’s banners hung over European ministries. Now, at least, the only banners tonight would be house colours.​

The portrait of the Fat Lady swung open, and they stepped out into the corridor. The castle hummed with end-of-year energy. At the top of the marble staircase, Collain stopped and patted his daughter’s hand.

“There he is,” he said quietly.

Apteryxes Malfoy was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, one white-gloved hand resting lightly on the carved banister. His pale hair, almost silver, was tied back from his long, sharp face; the deep blue-black of his robes set off his grey-blue eyes. He turned as they descended, and his smile lit his features in a way that still made Eileen’s heart flip.

She felt the nausea give a warning twist and clamped down on it, refusing to double over now, not in front of Apteryxes and half the school.

“Steady,” her father murmured under his breath. Whether he meant her nerves or her footing, she wasn’t sure, but the warmth in his tone steadied both.

At the foot of the stairs, Apteryxes stepped forward, taking Eileen’s hand and brushing his lips lightly over her knuckles. “Eileen,” he said warmly.

“Apteryxes.” She rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then quickly wiped away the faint smear of lipstick. “You look very handsome.”

“As do you.” He glanced up at Collain. “General Prince.”

“Mr Malfoy.” Collain’s nod was courteous, his voice even. This was, after all, a good match for his daughter, even if he did not entirely trust any family that had sat out so much of the Grindelwald conflict in comfortable neutrality.

They had taken only a few steps towards the Great Hall when a tall, dark-haired man rushed forward, horn-rimmed spectacles sliding down his nose. “Minister Black! Miss Prince!” he called, clutching a quill and notebook in one hand, his camera slung at his side. “Mr Rogerson, Daily Prophet. A word, if I may? Miss Prince, how do you rate your chances of being selected for the International Potions Tournament?”

Eileen flushed. Her stomach lurched again. “I… I don’t know,” she said. “The announcement won’t be until next week.”

“But you must consider yourself a contender?” Rogerson persisted, walking backwards as he scribbled, trying to keep pace. “Dux of your year, Archibald trophy at fifteen… surely you—”

Apteryxes tightened his arm slightly around Eileen’s, a subtle shield. “My fiancée considers herself to have as much chance as any of the entrants,” he said smoothly. “If selected, I am certain she will do justice to the great honour bestowed upon her as representative of our great nation.”

There was a murmur from the surrounding crowd at his polished phrasing. Mr Rogerson brightened. “A photograph, then, Mr Malfoy? You, Miss Prince, and your family? Minister Black?”

Collain stepped forward to stand behind Eileen, his hand firm and reassuring on her shoulder. With his other hand he reached back and drew a slender woman out of the growing knot of officials and guests.

Valetta Black—Eileen’s mother—came only up to his shoulder, whip-thin in emerald robes that caught the torchlight. Her dark hair was perfectly arranged, her small dark eyes sharp behind a pair of spectacles that she now removed and tucked away. In public, no one ever called her Mrs Prince. In the Prophet and at the Ministry she was always Minister Black, the name she had made for herself long before she had married.

“Gentlemen, that is quite enough,” she said in her precise, carrying voice, holding up both hands to still the reporters. “My daughter’s graduation awaits. Any further queries may be directed to my office in the morning. Goodnight.”

She turned to face the camera as Rogerson stepped back and raised it. Collain’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the way the man said, “Thank you, Minister Black,” without a hint of “Prince” anywhere, but he said nothing. This was Eileen’s night. He would not start that old quarrel here.

The flash went off with a sharp pop.

“Merlin’s beard,” Valetta muttered, stepping closer to Eileen and briskly brushing a speck of lint from her shoulder. Her gaze swept her daughter’s face, taking in the high colour in her cheeks. “You’re no beauty, Eileen, but you look good enough.” Her tone made it halfway to a compliment before it broke. “Come, there isn’t much time before the ceremony. Go and join your classmates. Apteryxes, you’ll sit with General Prince at dinner. I must—ah, Dumbledore, there you are.”

Professor Dumbledore approached, tall and faintly absurd in pale blue silk robes patterned with silver moons, his long silvery beard flowing almost to his belt and his half-moon spectacles perched on his crooked nose. His bright blue eyes shone with amusement as he extended a hand.​

“Minister Black,” he said warmly. “General Prince. It is good to see you both under a roof where no one is trying to hex anyone else.”

Collain’s mouth twitched. “Professor. Hogwarts is a pleasant change from some of the halls we’ve stood in together.”

“Indeed.” Something unreadable flickered in Dumbledore’s gaze—memory of darker days in foreign chambers—but it passed. He turned to Eileen and patted her shoulder. “Miss Prince, you had better go and join the other Gryffindor students. The ceremony is about to begin, and I would not have you miss a single moment of your own triumph.”

Eileen mumbled agreement and slipped past him into the Great Hall.

She stopped on the threshold, breath catching. Overnight, the pale stone walls had vanished behind an illusion of ancient forest; trunks rose in twisting columns up to a canopy of leaves woven through with floating candles. Small winged lights—pixies or something like them—darted through the branches, leaving trails of red, blue, green, silver and gold. The four house tables were set among the trees as if they had grown there, and the air buzzed with voices and the rustle of robes.​

Her stomach fluttered again, but this time she could pretend it was only awe.

She drew a slow breath, squared her shoulders, and went to find the Gryffindor table.

* * * * *

By the time the last applause for the Leaving Feast died away, the forested Great Hall had shifted again. The tables slid themselves back against the walls, benches vanishing with a soft pop, and the floor between the trees cleared; the floating candles dipped lower, glowing like fireflies. Somewhere near the staff table, an enchanted gramophone crackled to life, and a slow, lilting waltz unfurled through the air.​

“Looks like Dumbledore’s decided to indulge the traditionalists,” her father murmured in her ear. “A proper dance to send you off.”

Valetta was already drifting towards a knot of Department heads and reporters, smile fixed, hands moving as if she were still at the podium in the Wizengamot. Collain squeezed Eileen’s hand once. “Go on,” he said quietly. “Take the floor. Let them see you for yourself.”

Apteryxes found her before she could second-guess herself, cutting through the clusters of students in his dark robes as if the crowd parted for him. He bowed slightly, one hand over his heart, the other extended.

“Miss Prince,” he said, eyes alight. “May I have this dance?”

Her stomach gave an ominous flutter, but she forced a smile. “You may, Mr Malfoy.”

He drew her into the circle of his arm, his hand warm and steady at her back. The music gathered around them as they stepped onto the floor. For a few blissful moments, she could pretend that the tightness in her middle was only the unfamiliar pull of the gown and the thrill of being held so close; that the strange heaviness in her limbs was nothing more than too many treacle tarts and too little sleep.

“You did well tonight,” Apteryxes murmured, guiding her through a turn between two enchanted oaks. “Rogerson will make a meal of it, of course. ‘Minister’s Daughter Dux of Gryffindor’—they’ll be printing that for days.”​

“Please don’t talk about the Prophet while we’re dancing,” Eileen said lightly. “I’d like one song without thinking about headlines.”

He laughed, soft and genuine, and tightened his arm in apology. “As my lady commands.”

They spun again. Heat rose in her cheeks; the hall blurred into a swirl of green and scarlet and flickering candlelight. For a moment, her insides lurched in a way that had nothing to do with Apteryxes’ smile, and a cold film of sweat prickled down her spine.

Not now.

She swallowed hard. The music seemed suddenly too loud, the air too thick.

“Apteryxes,” she said, forcing the words out between her teeth, “I—excuse me, I just need a moment.”

His brows drew together. “Eileen? Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she lied. “Too much pumpkin juice. I’ll be back before the next dance.”

She slipped from his arms before he could protest, weaving through the dancers towards the side door that led to the corridor and the girls’ bathroom. Each step sent a faint wave of nausea rolling up her throat. She barely made it into a stall before her body rebelled.

When it was over, she rinsed her mouth at the sink, gripping the porcelain until her knuckles were white. In the mirror, her face looked pale beneath the candlelight, freckles standing out sharply across her nose. Her eyes were too bright, too wide.

“Nerves,” she told her reflection. “That’s all.”

She splashed cool water on her cheeks, took three measured breaths, and straightened her shoulders. She would not spend the rest of her graduation hiding in a bathroom.

The music swelled again as she stepped back into the corridor, then grew clearer as she re-entered the Great Hall. The crowd had thickened on the dance floor; couples moved between the ghostly trunks, robes brushing, candles glinting in hair and on jewellery.

For a heartbeat she could not see him. Then the dancers parted and there he was—Apteryxes, still on the floor as he had promised.

And Davainea in his arms.

Her cousin’s long blonde hair tumbled like silk down her back, the soft green of her dress flattering her curves. Her head was tilted up, blue eyes laughing at something Apteryxes had just said; his hand rested at the small of her back, his expression easy and content as they moved together in time with the music.

Eileen stopped dead.

Of course, Davainea would dance with him. They were family; there were only so many partners to go around. Of course, Apteryxes would not stand alone on the edge of the floor waiting like some awkward fifth-year. Only… he looked so very at ease. And Davainea looked so very pleased to be the one in his arms.

The hall tilted for a moment. She realised she was standing in the path of a pair of Ravenclaw graduates and stepped aside automatically, one hand going to her middle.

“Eileen.”

Her father’s voice brought her back. Collain appeared at her elbow, tall and solid and blessedly familiar. Up close, his eyes narrowed.

“You’re pale,” he said quietly. “Paler than you were at the feast. Has it been getting worse?”

She tried for a shrug. “It’s nothing. The heat. The food. Davainea’s perfume.” The attempted joke fell flat.

He studied her for a long moment, then gently took her hand. His palm was calloused and warm. “We have a few minutes before we need to be seen again,” he said. “There’s no shame in seeing the Healer, Eileen. Even Dumbledore went down to the Hospital Wing now and then, and he’d faced more curses than anyone I know.”

Her gaze slid back to the dance floor, to where Apteryxes was turning Davainea under his arm, both of them smiling. Something sharp and inexplicable twisted again.

“In a moment.”She said softly, and smiled up at him, patting his hand lightly. “Come,  dance with me father.”

Collain Prince laughed, once more taking her hand and placing it on his arm. “How can I refuse?”