Excentryke's Musings

Title: The Squib Prince
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Fandom(s): The Princess Diaries / Harry Potter Series
Pairing: Mia Thermopolis/Harry Potter(Harrogate Gaunt Potter)
Word Count: 2.5k
Rating: PG
Prompt: January 2025 Prompts
Warnings: Squibs, warlords, arranged marriages
Prompt: For Emily Peacock who wanted The Princess Diaries and Harry Potter.  I didn’t go with your prompt.  This was a Genovian Ball instead of a Ministry Function.  I really couldn’t see a Muggle getting invited to a Ministry Function.  On World Building: This was written in the Dark Lord’s Daughter world with the variation that Maia Gaunt’s vined ring not only damaged Maia but made Harrogate (Harry) a Squib.  Lord Voldemort then arranged a marriage between his Squib nephew, Harrogate, and the Muggle Princess Mia to secure the Muggle throne and turn it magical (because Squibs can produce magical lines, re: Hermione who probably had a magical ancestor).  You know Voldemort would still use Harry in some way even if he was a Squib.  He always uses all the chess pieces he has.  Enjoy!

The Squib Prince

Amelia Minuette Thermopolis Rinaldi had stepped on her hem again.  It was getting rather annoying.  She had switched out her heels at the last moment and, unfortunately, her ballgown was hemmed with the original shoes she was supposed to wear in mind.

“Can I help with that?”

She looked up and saw a tall man with the most stunning dark blue eyes she had ever seen.  “Sorry?” she asked, her voice squeaking.

Her foot almost popped just looking at him.

He had messy black hair and a sexy British accent.

He smiled at her.  “Can I help you with that?” he repeated.

“With—?” she wondered, and then she stepped forward accidentally in a swaying motion and tread on her hem.  “Oh, that.”  She looked down at her light blue gown.  “I’m wearing the wrong shoes,” she tried to explain.

“The wrong—?”  He looked perplexed.  “Should we send someone to fetch the correct shoes?”

Mia grimaced.  “You would think that,” she agreed, leaning forward and taking off one of the offending heels and placing her stockinged foot directly on the floor.  “I can’t walk in the shoes I was supposed to wear so I switched them out.”

“Perhaps then,” he suggested in his sexy accent, making her sway a little (or perhaps she was teetering because she was only wearing one shoe now and her legs were lopsided), “you should take them both off and try dancing in your bare feet.”

He looked at her earnestly and she was willing to do anything he suggested, even give up half of her kingdom.

“O-okay,” she agreed, taking his hand and letting him set her down.

Mia stared into his deep blue eyes and gasped as his gloved hands slid down her dress, lifted up her hem, and then plucked the remaining shoe off her foot.

“How’s that?” he asked, his dark blue eyes shining.

“How’s what?” she breathed out, wondering who he was.

“How does that feel?”  He held up the offending shoe.

“Oh!” she squeaked very inelegantly, realizing they were still talking about her shoes.  “Lovely.”

“Great,” he agreed, handing her the shoe. 

Mia wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it, so she set it down beside her.  She would be happy never to see either of her shoes again.  They were strappy little things that could hardly be called footwear.

She stared into his eyes, getting lost in them.

“Are you Princess Amelia?”

She blinked.

He waited.

“Wait—what?”

“Are you Princess Amelia?” he repeated.

He was looking for her?  Usually called her “Princess Mia,” but her name was technically Amelia.  This beautiful man, with the messy black hair, shining blue eyes, and sexy voice was—was looking for her?  It was her grandmother’s ball, but he wasn’t here with someone already?

“Y-yes,” she agreed.  “That’s me.”

He smiled at her.

“Then may I have this dance?”

She blinked at him.  He wanted to dance with her?  With—her?

“Princess Amelia?”

“Of course!” she practically shouted, allowing him to take her hand and lift her to her bare feet.  A moment later, she was in his arms, his arm around her waist, her hand at his shoulder, and he was leading her into a waltz.

Mia had learnt the waltz as part of her “Princess Lessons” back when she lived in San Francisco.  They had been essential.  Michael had never known how to waltz so back at her first ball, he had simply turned her and she had been happy enough to do that.  Now, though, now she was eighteen and was here in Genovia for an emergency session of parliament, which was set to open tomorrow.  Queen Clarice, her grandmother, had thrown a ball in honor of the opening session and to introduce Mia to various dignitaries.  So far, she had danced with several lords and princes from other nations, along with a few politicians, but no one had captured her fancy like the man in whose arms she now danced.

Mia rested her head against the man’s shoulder.  He smelled of meadow grass and treacle pudding and the scent was alluring.  He wasn’t wearing cologne like several other of her dancing partners.

When the music concluded and the other couples stopped dancing and clapping could be heard around them, her dancing partner kept Mia in his arms for several long seconds.  He stopped swaying, but he still held her and she breathed in his scent until finally, she pulled away and looked into his dark blue eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked quietly.

A light blush glanced over his high cheekbones.  “No doubt Queen Clarice will tell you.”

Mia’s heart pounded in her chest and then got caught in her throat.  That wasn’t much of an answer.  Would she not like what she would learn?

“Won’t you tell me?” she whispered.

He reached out and cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb along her jawline.  “You’re more beautiful than I thought you’d be.”

Her eyes lit up.  “You think I’m beautiful?”

“They—” He paused and looked away.  “They teach us that you can’t be beautiful.”

That was confusing.  Her brows furrowed.  “Genovians?” she asked.  “Or Americans?”

His face fell.  “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

This only confused her more.  “Who are you?” she repeated.

Before he could answer, however, there was a stir across the ballroom and he immediately dropped his hand from her face and stepped back from her.

Mia turned and saw the Prime Minister approaching them.  “Ah, Princess Mia!” he cried and she turned toward him and tried to smile.  He reached for her and she gave him both her hands reluctantly and allowed him to kiss both of her cheeks.  “I see you have met the inestimable Lord Potter!”

“Lord Potter,” she repeated, looking at her dancing partner through the corner of her eyes.  “Yes.  Yes, I have.”

“The treaty is all being ironed out.  It has to be ratified by parliament,” The Prime Minister was now telling her, before he took back his hands and bowed formally to Lord Potter who was regarding him in curiosity.  “Is anyone else of your esteemed family here, Lord Potter?”

“Mother will be here tomorrow,” he answered. 

The Prime Minister looked at him in question.

“Lady Maia Gaunt.”

“Yes.  Lord Riddle is a Gaunt,” The Prime Minister murmured, clearly thinking.  He turned back to Mia.  “You have only just graduated from college—high school, I believe you call it in the United States.  You are mostly ignorant of the latest European developments.  The Riddles are a political power that are unrivaled.”

“The Riddles?” she repeated.  “Is this the European Union?” she asked, looking between the Prime Minister and Lord Potter.

“—No,” Lord Potter answered carefully.  “The European Union has no influence on us.”

Mia waited for him to explain more, but no other explanation was forthcoming.  She looked between the Prime Minister and Lord Potter, but they were both silent.  Mia did everything she could not to bite her lip and appear childish.

The music had started up and couples were dancing, giving the three of them a wide berth.

“Well,” she decided, “shall we dance or shall we get out of the way?”

“Dance! Dance!” the Prime Minister insisted, waving them toward each other.  “This is international diplomacy!”  He backed away from them, bumped into a waltzing couple, and then hurried away from them.

Mia stood and looked at Lord Potter, her heart caught in her throat.  He was still just as handsome as ever he was.

“I still don’t know who you are,” she admitted.

“No,” he agreed, “and it’s not my place to tell you.”

“It’s not?” she questioned, a pleading quality to her voice.  “What?  Is there a marriage contract between us?  Are you my prince charming?”

She had meant it as a joke, but when he didn’t answer her, Mia’s stomach dropped.

“Shut! Up!”

Lord Potter looked at her strangely.

She waved it away.

He reached forward and carefully drew her toward him.  She let her hand settled on his shoulder and rested her chin against her fingertips, allowing him to draw into the dance.  “I didn’t know Genovia engaged in arranged marriages,” she whispered quietly, letting her shock move through her, confused that her grandmother, Queen Clarice, hadn’t even mentioned the marriage when she had come to see her earlier that afternoon.

“This is quite the special case,” he answered.  “It’s unusual for us as well.  Uncle Marvolo was very—persuasive, however.”

“Who is,” she swallowed, trying to take everything in.  “Who is ‘Uncle Marvolo’?”

“Lord Riddle,” Lord Potter qualified, “in polite society.  He has a nom de guerre.  It’s not spoken.”

“Nom de guerre?” she asked, her voice trembling.  “What is he?  A warlord?”  A nom de guerre was a “war name.”  Like a nom de plume was a “pen name,” used for writing, a nom de guerre was an alias used for war. 

Lord Potter was silent, and she shivered despite herself.

She pulled away and looked into his blue eyes.  “Your Uncle Marvolo is a warlord?”

“Yes,” he told her carefully.  “He’s taken over most of Europe.  He started with the United Kingdom and expanded out.  The agreement is that he’ll let Queen Clarice retain her title and hand it off to you on your twenty-first birthday if his bloodline can marry into the title and it convert to the Riddle name.”  He paused.  “I’m a Potter, but I have to take my mother’s name of ‘Gaunt’ upon our engagement.  The Riddles are Gaunts.”

“So you are—” she checked, holding her breath.

“Harrogate Gaunt Potter.”

“Harrogate,” she repeated carefully, stretching her neck up, her ear brushing his cheek.  HAHR-oh-geht.  It wasn’t a name she had heard before.  “And we will be—”  She blinked her brown eyes and tried to concentrate on his words.  The music had stopped and people were clapping, but he was still holding her close.

“Princess Amelia Rinaldi Gaunt and Lord Harrogate Maximilian Gaunt.”

He would remain a ‘lord’ then.  The warlord was not insisting he become a prince.  Interesting. 

She pulled away from him, glanced into his dark blue eyes, and then pivoted her body so her hands were free and forced herself to clap for the orchestra.  She noticed that he seemed stunned for a moment and then he, too, was clapping.  His eyes never left hers. 

Mia’s gaze roved over the crowd and she noticed Lord Nicholas Devereaux.  He lifted his chin and nodded at her before he began to weave his way toward her through the crowd.

She turned back to Lord Potter.  “Let’s go out to the garden.”

He looked at her in confusion.

She pierced him with a gaze.  “Lord Devereaux looks like he’s about to claim a dance.”

Lord Potter looked over her shoulder and then offered his arm, and she took it, allowing him to lead her through the fellow dancers and out a side door.

Music was playing softly and there were fairy lights hanging above, but Mia was swept up into Lord Potter’s arms and felt lips brush up against hers.  Startled, her eyes nonetheless began to flutter shut and she felt her left leg begin to pop before she forced herself to her senses and pushed herself away from him—

“Harrogate,” she warned, her eyes flashing toward his dark blue ones.

“Amelia,” he responded, reaching for her gloved hand and taking it.

She narrowed her eyes at him.  “Mia,” she responded.

“Pardon?”

“I’m Princess ‘Mia.’  I know you called me “Princess Amelia” but no one calls me that, not even my grandmother.”

“It’s your name,” he answered in confusion.  “Just as my name is ‘Harrogate.’”  He said HAHR-oh-geht again.  Mia wondered how he spelled it.  “I’d hate for you to call me ‘Harry’ even though some of the boys at Eton call me that.”

She closed her eyes in frustration.  “Well,” she told him quickly.  “No one calls me ‘Amelia,’ not even Mom when she’s angry.  It’s only used in official ceremonies.  I’m always ‘Mia.’”

Lord Potter regarded her for a long moment.  “I should like to call you ‘Amelia.’  You’re to be my bride.  Names hold importance.”

“You’d be the only person on the planet.”

“I can assure you, Mother will also call you ‘Amelia.’  If you ever meet Uncle Marvolo or Cousin Magnolia, they shall also call you ‘Amelia.’  As I said, names have power.”

“This is ridiculous—”

“I assure you,” he sighed, running his hand through his messy hair, “it’s not ridiculous.”

She stamped her foot.  “Harry—”

“Harrogate,” he corrected sternly. 

“I’ll call you ‘Harrogate,” if you call me, ‘Mia,’” she bargained.

“We shall both call each other by our proper names.  I’ll have our marriage be one of mutual respect.”

“Calling me ‘Mia’ does not mean you don’t respect me,” she wheedled.

“I’m not calling you by the name of a child or a dog.”  His voice was firm and serious.  His eyes were deadly. 

A shiver ran through her.  If she didn’t believe it before, now she understood how his uncle could be a warlord.

She sighed.  “This is a side point.  It hardly matters.”

“Of course it matters—”

She wasn’t listening.  “What I meant to say—what I meant to ask—is why did you kiss me?”

“I thought it was obvious.”  He looked at her as if she were stupid. 

Mia felt stupid in that moment.

When he had kissed her, it had felt real.  It had felt like he had taken her to the garden (even though she had been the one to suggest it) in order to steal a kiss.  However, he was the nephew of a warlord, and their marriage was an arranged one.  She wasn’t even certain exactly what was happening.  All she knew was what he had told her.  She didn’t even know who the Riddles (or the Gaunts) were.  She didn’t know what was happening in Europe.  It hadn’t made it into the American news, and no one had informed her yet.  She hadn’t even been in Genovia for five hours.  She’d only had time to put on a ballgown, change into the wrong shoes, and dance with a man that it seemed she was supposed to marry.

She took a deep breath.  “I was in California twelve hours ago,” she informed him.  “I have no idea what’s happening in Europe.”

“I wanted to kiss you.”  He paused, taking her hand.  “Of course, I would always act the gentleman, a Gaunt would do no less, but I would have kissed you,” he told her, taking her hand and carefully plucking her fingers out of her evening glove, “even if a betrothal did not stand before us.”  He pulled the glove off of her hand, letting the cool air touch her skin.

Next, he took off his own glove and then reached for her and entwined their fingers.

“I am suddenly glad my uncle is set on world domination and has created me ‘Lord Potter.’  It means, that I can deign to touch your hand.”  He looked into her eyes.

Deign.  Lord Potter even spoke like a Prince Charming.  Odd.

“What if I were someone else?”

“What if you weren’t Amelia Rinaldi?” he qualified.

She nodded her head carefully. 

“Then I would be honor bound to whoever the princess would be,” he answered, “but I would have asked for a dance, either way.”

He pulled her closer to him and cupped her cheek.  “For once I’m pleased that I’m a Squib, otherwise I would have to marry a pureblood.”

“What’s a Squib?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he promised and then he kissed her again. 

This time she let him.  Her left leg popped, and she found herself forgetting to ask what a ‘pureblood’ was, though surely, if anyone had blue blood, it was certainly a Princess of Genovia.

The End.