✧. ┊ And I know you could fall
for a thousand kings.
𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁， 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗇
𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋
𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗌𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇．✧˖*°࿐
george weasley...
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FOURTY SIX
Victoria sat stiffly in the plush back seat of the Ministry car, her hands clenched in her lap. The sleek fabric of her gown—a deep emerald green chosen to complement her eyes—itched against her skin, and the tight bodice made it impossible to breathe properly. She hated it, every inch of it, but Minister Fudge had insisted she make an impression as a royal representative of the magical world at the Quidditch World Cup.
The Minister sat beside her, chattering away, completely oblivious to her discomfort.
"You know, Your Highness," he began, adjusting his hat, "we've been having discussions in the Ministry about appointing you a magical manager. Someone to help guide you in this... unique position you hold. Straddling both the magical and Muggle worlds is no small feat, after all."
Victoria turned her head sharply, her blonde curls brushing against her cheek. "A manager? Why would I need one?"
"Well," Fudge said with a laugh that grated on her nerves, "you are a princess, after all. There's a certain image to uphold. And given your connection to both worlds, it would benefit everyone if we ensured... cohesion, shall we say?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Cohesion? Or control?"
Fudge's smile faltered for a split second before returning, wider than before. "Now, now, there's no need to be defensive. It's for your own benefit, I assure you. We wouldn't want any... missteps to occur."
Victoria didn't reply, staring out the window as the bustling Muggle world passed them by. The thought of being managed, of having yet another layer of expectations placed on her shoulders, made her stomach churn.
"We're here!" Fudge announced cheerily as the car slowed to a stop outside a discreet Muggle train station.
The moment Victoria stepped out of the car, the flashing of cameras assaulted her senses. Paparazzi swarmed the station entrance, shouting her name and bombarding her with questions.
"Princess Victoria! How does it feel to attend the Quidditch World Cup?"
"Are you representing the crown here today?"
"Smile for us, Your Highness!"
Fudge's hand immediately found her waist, his grip firm and possessive as he guided her toward the station entrance. "Stay close," he murmured, his voice low.
Victoria flinched at the contact but kept her head high, her practiced royal expression—calm and composed—firmly in place. Inside, however, she was boiling. She despised the way Fudge touched her, the way he treated her like an accessory to parade around.
The cameras continued to flash, and she longed to swat his hand away, but she knew that would only fuel the headlines. Instead, she endured, her body rigid as they made their way through the crowd.
