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rainbowparadisestyles · 3 years

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“No Sir, I am not in love with him,” she replied, still refusing to look him in the eye.

Harry hums lowly, stepping closer, biting down on a smile when he saw her dirt-covered fingers tremble, “Ah, I see,” he replied, “Forgive my questioning, I suppose I’m just curious what your relationship is with him that would have you run and tattle on me for yesterday.”

“I didn’t tattle,” she rushes to say, and now she looks back up to him, her eyes still wide -- pleading with him to believe her, “I only told him I met you yesterday, and I feared you did not like me very much. That is all I said! He. . .if he said anything that was of his own volition.”

Oh, what a great king he will be -- Harry thinks to himself. A snort leaves him, “Well, I don’t doubt it was of his own volition. What, did you think I thought he took the orders of a servant?”

Harry is an asshole and Y/N didn't know a prince could be so mean

(21k+ words)

Harry is pissed off.

The morning had been difficult starting with when he woke; late, with his night clothes drenched in sweat from the same foolish nightmare he’d been having since he was a child with no chambermaid near to change his bedding, nor draw his bath. By the time he made it to the dining hall for breakfast, all the good of the feast had been picked over and the pastries had grown cold. He bumped into his smug-faced prick of a brother as Harry exited with a large peach wrapped in a handkerchief to at least quell the grumble in his belly, and was promptly scolded for sleeping in (to which Harry smiled gently at him and replied, “Mind your fucking business, Your highness,”). Really, the only thing that could fettle this shit of a morning would be seeing his favorite beautiful garden.

On his walks near the East-end, just past one of the inner flanking towers on the castle grounds, there is a gorgeous flourish of flowers. Harry always found beauty in plants, of course, and at some point in childhood, he had gathered as many written books about all different types, from marjoram, rosemary, and thyme to chrysanthemums, edelweiss, and orchids -- his favorite were lotus flowers. If his father had allowed it, Harry is sure he would have clung to one of the elder gardeners throughout his entire childhood, but this was back when most of the people in the court believed Harry still had a chance at reform -- to be a good boy, who listened well and did his duties as the second son. Had they known how Harry would turn out, he’s certain they would have let him neglect his studies and done as he wished. . .he had started doing that in his teen years anyway.

But his adoration for plants was not his reasoning for appreciating the East-end garden. No, he liked this garden as opposed to all the others, because of the pretty brunette woman tending to it. She was nice to look at; her breasts were large, her skin appeared soft and regularly tended to, her hair combed through and drawn from her face in perfect braids. Harry didn’t know her name, but he did know she smelled like gardenias and a beautiful set of lips he liked to imagine fixed around his cock while he shamelessly flirted with her. For a servant, she was a sight to see, and he had no problem entertaining thoughts of taking her right in the soft soil her knees usually lie in.

The woman was sweet, her cheeks grew rosy when Harry bid her compliments, and he loved the slow burn of a chase that would surely end in him fucking her stupid.

Yet as his teeth dug into the flesh of the fruit in his palm, and he rounded the corner where he’d usually see her arse up as her hands were covered in soil (but still managed to remain delicate and unscathed), he didn't find her there. No, instead he finds a different girl there entirely, and maybe on a different day, Harry wouldn’t have much cared. On a different day, he would have shrugged his shoulders, continued his walk, and contemplated how he would be spending the rest of his morning.

But today had just been so awful to start, and Harry had not rested well, so the anger that spiked through him was a tad unreasonable -- he could admit that -- but that didn’t stop him from acting on it.

He whistles to catch her attention; the girl’s head pops up and snaps over to look at him before her eyes go wide. She scrambles to sit upright, straightening out her back and bowing her head, with her hands -- covered in dirt -- rested atop of her thighs. The smock she wore was ill-fitting, unlike the way the other gardener’s clothes clung to her every curve and dip, this was much too big. So much so that it nearly swallowed her within it, “Good Morning, Your Highness! I hope the day is treating you well thus far.”

“Where is the other girl?” Harry inquired, ignoring her greeting as he paused right in front of her. His shoe stood just before her knee and his proximity noticeably shook her, “The one who typically gardens here.”

“Imogen?” The girl before him questioned, brows furrowed -- all this time and Harry had never learned her name; he reckons it didn’t much matter to him at that time, “I, um, I’m sorry Sir, but. . .well, she ran off with a baker boy from the village. My name is Y/N. I’m actually a chambermaid, but I’m filling in until they find a replacement.”

A baker boy! For fuck sake, she could have been bed by Harry -- the son of the bloody king, and she chose to run off with someone who makes bread to survive? It’s risible, really -- absolutely annoying! Had she not picked up on the obvious signs he’d been giving her? The clues that he was interested in something more than idle chatter on tepid days? Why the fuck would Harry take this route day-in and day-out if not for an interest in something there, and other than her and the garden, there was dick all to look at on the East-end.

And this chambermaid as her replacement?Y/N?

“I didn’t ask for your name,” he utters impassively, giving her a once over, scrutinizing every possible aspect of her and comparing it to the girl from before -- he was disappointed in this replacement, and confused by this gardener’s desire for a village boy when she could have spent her days getting fucked on silk sheets in the bed of a prince. Sure, maybe she had not known he bore any sort of desire toward her, but still -- shouldn’t she have had a crush on him by then? “You’re filthy.”

The girl’s face falls and Harry pivots on his heel, stalking off back toward the castle. He had decided then that he would keep his walks on the West-end for now -- there was no point to his current route anymore.

Or at least that had been the plan. Harry probably would have never bothered to see that girl again if not for his brother Edgar storming into the seamstress’s room while Harry was getting fitted for a new blouse (one that would be dazzling, with fabric dyed a beautiful shade of lavender to match his favorite trousers). He turned to glance at him before rolling his eyes, letting his gaze fall back onto the mirror as he watched the seamstress measure around his waist, “Ah, the future king came for a visit! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Don’t be a prick to Y/N,” Edgar demanded crossly, “She is gentle and kind; just because she’s replaced the woman you’ve been touching yourself to for the past three months doesn’t give you any reason to be such a fucking twat.”

Harry’s brows raised -- it was very rare that his brother was so passionately angered by something. Had their relationship been any different, then Harry thinks he probably would have heard him out. Shockingly, he isn’t a prick to everyone around him; it was truly just his brother that dug so deeply beneath his skin.

The firstborn and heir to the throne, Harry couldn’t hate him for the luck of the draw. He was brought into this world at the right time, by the right people, and he would be king because of it -- Harry didn’t care about that. He held no desire to be king, actually, and oftentimes pitied his brother for having no real choice in the matter. As a child he was always busier, their parents were far more critical of him, and a lot was expected of him, even when he was just barely nine years old. In that regard, Harry felt sorry for him.

But Edgar had always been a self-righteous dick, with a massive ego, and a superiority complex -- or at least after he turned eleven he sure was. When Edgar realized the severity and weight of the difference between him and Harry, he left his little brother behind and treated him poorly. Teased Harry horribly with their cousins, pushed him in mud, purposefully scared him, and his favorite move was to call him a cry baby when they took it too far and he sought out their mother or someone to help him, though Edgar never got reprimanded. He treated Harry as lesser than for being born second, which maybe it wouldn’t hurt him as badly as it had, had the rest of his family and all those in the castle did not treat him the same. He was worth nothing to them. He wasn’t as smart as Edgar, he wasn’t as personable nor friendly; when they were 12, Edgar set him up to think one of the court girls ruined his favorite knitted blanket by smashing blueberries into the yarn, and when Harry had rightfully scolded her for it, she began to cry, and Edgar spread the rumor that he was a rotten, horrible, mean-spirited brat too.

There was not much he could do against it; he had been a gentle child before Edgar destroyed that side of him, so Harry decided to be precisely the little brother that was rumored. He was bratty, crude, and a little bit mean; all he was good at was spending their wealth, wearing priceless cloth, and gorging on food, men, and women to his heart’s content. When Edgar became King, Harry would continue to fuck off and do as he pleased. . .what a shame they hadn’t gotten a third, more reliable, better son.

And maybe he could forgive him for all of that, passing it off as just kids being kids (and little boys were always the worst of them) -- but Edgar. . .left him that night. The night that plagues his dreams with horrid, awful, dreadful things.

He’d never forgive him for that.

“I didn’t take you as someone who fucked chambermaids brother, but I guess you never really know a bloke.” Harry taunted, raising his arms under the instruction of the seamstress, “What -- did your whore come crying to you that I was cruel?”

“I’m not sleeping with her,” Edgar fixed his gaze on him, incensed as he straightened out the cuffs of his button-front shirt, “She is a friend of mine. I won’t bother asking you to be kind to her because I know you won’t, but just leave her be, yeah?”

“Is that an order, Your Majesty?” He sneers.

Edgar rolls his eyes, “I’m serious.” He replied before stalking off, letting the door swing shut behind him as Harry watched.

How interesting -- he’s certain their relationship surpasses that of friends. What business did a prince have with a chambermaid anyway? Harry would be almost positive that they were fucking if not for the look in his brother’s eye. Edgar could say his little brother knew nothing about him, but the truth was, Harry thinks he knew the most about Edgar of all -- he especially knew when he was lying to him, and the fixed glare suggested that their “friendship” was more platonic than anything else. Perhaps Edgar had fallen in love with her or something. . .that’d be funny -- even more so if that love was unrequited.

While he may not know or understand the intricacies of their relationship, one thing that is for certain is that no friend of Edgar’s is a friend of Harry’s. If he’d minded his business, Harry would have probably forgotten the poor girl existed, but now he just has to go out of his way to see her. Harry thinks if teasing and taunting her is a novel way to get beneath his brother’s skin, he would enjoy every moment of it.

This would be fun.

. . .

A breeze carried the promise of autumn the next time Harry saw her, a day following Edgar’s disapproval of him speaking to her. The clouds were large, white, and fluffy, the sky a bright blue, but the sun was still partially hidden so there was a small chill in his bones. He was happy he thought to bring his knitted jacket that slung lazily over his shoulders to keep him at least partially covered because he might have retreated until the weather warmed. And if he had, he wouldn’t have gotten to enact his goading of Edgar’s dear friend.

Y/N was practically buried within the plants, her top half emerged in the hydrangea bushes and her bottom half stuck out. Harry whistles again to draw her attention from the bushes and is greeted with a small, startled, “Ah!’ and a jump of her shoulders, before she pulls back. There are few leaves in her hair but she brushes them away quickly, “Oh, good morning again, Your Highness.”

“Are you fucking Edgar?” Harry has never been one to beat around the bush -- he prefers to get answers to his questions with very little preamble. It was another of the many reasons he’d been told it was a good thing he hadn’t been born first; King’s had to have tact and prudence, both of which Harry was apparently lacking.

While Harry was certain he had already found the answer out, the blunt question was worth seeing her eyes grow wide (nobody ever expected a prince to have such a foul tongue), “No! Not at all, we -- I am only his friend,” she looked at him earnestly -- the spike in volume of her voice, and the tonal shift was amusing. It had almost been like she’d forgotten who she was speaking to, and Harry didn’t mind it. He thought the Your Highness this and Your Majesty that, was bollocks and outdated. He really only allows people to refer to him as such so they won’t get in trouble otherwise -- especially the servants. Referring to royalty in a way deemed disrespectful could spell punishment for them, sometimes very brutal depending on who you’ve “offended”. In closed quarters, Harry’s servants refer to him by name, and if they are uncomfortable with that, Sir works as well, “We do not do such things.” Her voice was quieter toward the end as she tipped her head down.

“Hm, are you in love with him then?” Harry pressed and she shook her head, “I like verbal answers, Chambermaid.”

“No Sir, I am not in love with him,” she replied, still refusing to look him in the eye.

Oh, what a great king he will be -- Harry thinks to himself. A snort leaves him, “Well, I don’t doubt it was of his own volition. What, did you think I thought he took the orders of a servant?”

“I --” she began, lowering her head again but Harry cut her off.

“No matter,” he rolled his eyes, “You’re right, I don’t like you. You’re covered in filth and a companion of my brother’s, so there was really no hope of friendship between the two of us.” He crouches down, his knees bent as he holds his weight on the balls of his feet. Harry takes her by the chin with his forefinger and his thumb to guide her face back up, inspecting her with a frown at his mouth and his brows furrowed -- she seemed familiar to him in many ways. He assumes that would make sense if the girl has been around since they were children, but he wonders why he doesn’t remember her much at all, “I do feel sorry for you, however, all things considered. My brother’s got a tiny prick.”

Her face warps, distressed, disgusted, affronted, “That is -- we are not --” she began, shaking her head, her voice raising at first but when his brows raised, it was as if she remembered who she was speaking to. Her shoulders sink and she casts her gaze down toward the ground once more, “Prince Edgar and I have no physical relations, Sir. I promise you.”

Harry continued to stare for a moment. This girl may not smell like gardenias, but she did smell of fresh linen and lemon, which made sense for what her full-time duties are. It was a scent he could appreciate, at the very least.

“What a pity,” he replied, letting go of her chin and rising back to a stand, “It’s about time he got his cock wet. Maybe he’d stop being so shrewd.”

Harry turns around and returns from which he came, a pip in his step that shouldn’t be there. God, was he so cruel that teasing this girl brought him this much joy? He particularly enjoyed it when she got riled up enough to start raising her voice at him and hoped to one day press her to the point where it continues to rise. None of this sudden memory that he was royalty -- no, he wanted to see her angry. Edgar’s “gentle and kind” little servant fuming, moments from cursing, yelling at him. . .it would be amusing. Like watching a bunny get mad.

A grin pulls at his mouth as he walks away; Harry really isn’t this cruel normally. It was usually an act, he’d admit as much, and sometimes there would be slight dribbles of guilt when he did something particularly harsh, but all guilt is absolved when he remembers being sweet as a child and being told that was an act. No, Harry is not allowed to be kind -- he isn’t allowed to be sweet, gentle, or mild-mannered; his Nan had once told him it was better this way. There would be no disagreements of who would be the better King if one of them was deemed unfit for the job. What was a twelve-year-old supposed to take from that? He wondered if that had been Edgar’s plan all along -- to sabotage any claim to the throne that he might take. Preventing a civil war that probably would have never happened, and sacrifice the relationship with his little brother in the process? He’d started being a prick when Harry was 7 and he was 10 -- had a 10-year-old really been thinking that far in advance? Had someone set him up to it?

Maybe Harry is spiteful; maybe Y/N is just another of a long list of people who Edgar treats better than he does his own blood. The poor thing was just caught on the brunt end of a feud she had no part in.

But she shouldn’t have such entertaining reactions if she wanted him to leave her be.

. . .

A week goes by of Harry slightly tormenting her; the weather had been gorgeous for days and it gave Harry ample excuse to go on his walks after they finished eating (though he didn’t really need an excuse — nobody cared to ask where he was going). He would claim that she was Edgar’s whore and watch as she scrambled to try and politely, respectfully tell him he was wrong while biting back her own upset and disdain. He comments how she’s covered in soil, rags on her for the ill-fit of her clothes taunts that her only friends are the plants when he caught her speaking to them (“It is meant to help them grow, Your Highness,” she had told him, to which he replied, “Sounds like a load of bollocks to me,”), and how shite the flowers have looked in her care (the last one was a lie -- they looked just fine, actually, but he wouldn’t praise her for it).

Each day he even took something to eat with him on the walk, purposefully saving one of his pastries or fruit so that he could stalk off with it after cleaning his plate, and each day he toggles with the idea of dropping the food near the garden to attract ants, but even Harry isn’t that mean. So instead he ends up clutching onto it, fiddling with it on his stroll -- if idle hands attract the devil, then he’s certain he’d be skipped.

So today was no different; he’d chosen a slice of lemon cake that vaguely reminded him of her from scent alone, and took toward the East-end. Harry’s surprised the route he’s been taking has not worn down into a beaten path from his footwork alone. He’d never gone on this walk this many days in a row, and it was enough to even garner the guard’s attention, who he had always been quite friendly with, “Another excursion, Your Highness?” His favorite -- Adam -- inquires, the only one of the men patrolling this area without being completely stoic. He stood a little taller than Harry and was mighty good with a sword. If everything went to shit and the castle was bombarded, he’s the one that Harry would be looking for.

“Of course,” he clapped Adam on his shoulder, squeezing tightly, “The weather is perfect for it, man. You should come out with me one of these days, I won’t tell.”

“With my luck the day I do that is the day the King decides he wants to take a stroll on the East-end and is wondering why his best guard has disappeared.” Adam saluted him loosely, “Have fun with your gardening woman.”

Harry wonders how Adam knew about her -- if he’d followed him once or if Y/N was going around telling everyone other than Edgar that Harry was teasing her. He decided not to question him on it though as he continued his route, gnawing at his bottom lip as he began choosing what he would say today. Maybe he would ridicule her for her clear unrequited love with Edgar (she defends him ruthlessly every time Harry brings him up, and what else other than love and blind loyalty). That could be quite fun.

His plans are spoiled, however, when he ambles over to the garden and does not find the familiar smock-covered form he’d grown used to. Harry’s brows dip in a deep furrow, his shoulders sink only slightly, “Oi,” he calls out, and the new girl turns to face him, bowing her head slightly and she began to greet him but he ignored it entirely, “Where is the girl -- the other girl who was taking care of this place?”

The one before him seemed nervous, “Imogen? I’m sorry to tell you, Sir, but she has --”

“No, no I know, her, the baker, yeah yeah -- I’m talking about Y/N. Where is she?”

The features in her face relaxed, “Oh! Y/N was only temporary until they could find some sort of replacement. She was going to stick it through the whole time they searched, but she told them she was worried the plants weren’t doing well under her care, so they are using me.”

Irritation flooded his veins -- had she really been listening to him? Yeah, he said the flowers looked awful but he hadn’t meant that. All it would have taken was for her to take a look at them to know they were just as healthy and bright as they always were. If anything, they looked slightly better. . .maybe there was some truth in speaking to them to aid their growth. How was he supposed to know she was going to take what he said to heart? This makes his fun much harder to come across -- would he have to scout her out in the castle each time he wanted to fuck with her? How annoying!

“Where is she now?” Harry inquires, recovering the lemon cake in his hand with the cloth to protect it from bugs, “Around here? Outside? Inside?”

“She should be in the servant’s chambers at this time, Sir. Her rounding does not start for another hour or so -- I can tell her you’re looking for her.”

He shook his head, “No, don’t bother. I’ll go find her myself.”

Was it unheard of for a prince to go into the servant’s chambers? No, but it wasn’t a very frequent occurrence, and it usually spelled trouble for whoever was being sought after. Harry had many eyes locked on him as he walks through the halls but nobody questioned him -- they all seemed too scared to like if they even breathed near him he might bite their fingers off. He couldn’t say he wasn’t used to this type of treatment though; when he was younger it used to really upset him, but now it bothers him none. What could he do about it though? It wasn’t worth fighting.

A set of stairs and a large wooden door is what separated the servant’s quarters from where he and his family stay with the other court members. On either side of the halls with walls made of many stones, there are curtains in the doorways of their rooms. There is great hustle and bustle down here, people moving up and down with hands full, going in and out of rooms that couldn’t be much bigger than a shoebox. From what Harry had been told they fit either one to two beds each, and may have a desk -- families get slightly larger rooms, but not by much. Not only do the servants tend to all the rooms in the castle, but they are expected to care for their area as well and under a strict regimen. His father wanted no part of their castle considered dirty for his own, selfish reasons -- his mother, who held a soft spot for them, simply wanted them to live comfortably. She was the reason why they got the same amount of supplies to take care of their living space as they do upstairs. They get much more food than other kingdoms allow their servants; objectively, this was the better place to be in comparison, though he always believed they deserved much more for the work they do.

When Harry finally finds her, the tension eases from his muscles, and that spark of playful delight trickles through when he sees her, returns. She’s speaking to someone -- a boy covered in soot, carrying a broom who was laughing brightly at something she’d said. This piques his interest immensely and his curiosity soars. What could she possibly be saying? Harry wonders what she could have said that was so funny, or if the boy just had a pitiful little crush and wanted desperately to bed her. Did Y/N share those feelings? Or was she too busy wishing Prince Edgar would throw away the thought of arranged marriage and choose the woman he loved to share the throne with him? And who better than his soft little servant who would probably defend him with a sword pointed in her direction?

“If I didn’t know any better,” he began, and he watches as Y/N stiffens at the sound of his voice, turning to face him with a small look of distress -- she carries a bucket in her arms, and the water sloshes around soundly, “I would say you’re trying to hide from me.” The man is a muddy brunette and just a little shorter than Harry, eyes big, bright, and blue as they stare at Harry like he’d never seen someone royal before. It made him uncomfortable, and the way his gaze bore into him was displeasing, “You’re needed in the tea room of the first guard tower.” He lies.

This seems to cure whatever stupor the man had fallen into, as he snaps down at the waist in a bow, “Yes, Your Highness, thank you, Sir, I’ll be off then,” he turned, nodding toward Y/N, “I’ll see you later, Y/N. Don’t forget!”

She nodded her head gently, smiling as he skipped off, before turning her attention back to Harry, who inquired, “Why are you filthy if you’re not in the garden?”

“Charlie needed some help with a few chimneys, Sir. I haven’t had a chance to wash my smock.” She answers, demure, head tilted down so she did not meet his eyes.

Harry hums, craning his neck to look back at the bloke — Charlie — who had scurried off down the hall. He catches the tail end of him rounding the corner, “What are you not forgetting tonight? A date?” When he meets her eyes again, he watches them soften and sadden as she replies.

“No, Sir, I am…I agreed to help him set up something. He does not have feelings like that for me.”

He searches her face quietly, as a small grin begins to broaden over his face, “Ohhh, I see. You like him don’t you?” Her eyes grow wide, “I’m sure Edgar will be sad to hear his whore may be two-timing him.”

“No!” It’s just under a shout, and she looks around quickly as she shakes her head, “No, not at all, to either — Sir, please don’t say such things so loudly. The others will begin talking.”

“Oh, my apologies Your Highness! I didn’t know I had to accept orders from a chambermaid,” Y/N looked horrified, opening her mouth but Harry continued on, “Well, you tell your friend that you won’t be able to help him. You’re needed in my chambers tonight.”

A frown warps her mouth, “But I already promised Charlie that—“

“Is a promise to a chimney sweep more important than a promise to the son of a king? It wasn’t a request, it’s an order; you must learn how to listen like a good little pup.” He milks the title, though the words “son of a king” taste sour on his tongue -- he hates to be looked at as just that, but it came in handy to get what he wanted. She silently surrenders, slumping over with sad eyes that didn’t suit her face. There’s a stir in his gut, something that has the potential to be guilt until he recognizes that if Edgar was the one to ask her, she would have done so without fuss and without dejection overcoming her body. How pitiful — she really did have feelings for this boy, didn’t she? Harry wonders if she would so devoutly defend this Charlie fellow as she does Edgar if Harry were to say something mean.

The sadness filling her face is unsettling — he wanted her to be angry with him, not dispirited and downcast. Harry sighs, “Say, open your mouth.” Y/N doesn’t fight it, dropping her softened lips and showing off a very pink tongue…a pretty tongue, Harry could admit as much, “That’s a good girl. See, you do listen well,” he pulls off a piece of the lemon cake between his forefinger and thumb, and carefully places it in her mouth. She closes her mouth around it but doesn’t begin to chew, only regards him suspiciously. Harry rolled his eyes, “It is not poisoned if that’s your concern; if I wanted to do away with you it would be much more intricate and interesting.”

Y/N chews thoughtfully, slowly, like she was savoring it; the taste, how it felt in her mouth, the weight of it against her tongue. When she swallows, her face seems just a little brighter, even a smile graces her mouth, “That was very good, Sir. Thank you.”

Harry took her by the wrist, ignoring how soft and tender the skin was, and how he wondered if it was that soft everywhere else, “You eat like an animal,” he uttered, and Y/N’s brows furrow -- she looks irritated more than sad, and he almost sighs in relief; he prefers her anger to her despondence, “Take it.” He rests the handkerchief and the slice of cake into her palm, “It will be the best thing you’ve ever eaten in your life and you have me to thank for it. Doesn’t that just piss you off?”

“No, Your Highness,” the denial does not reach her eyes in the slightest, “Thank you very much.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose, “Don’t forget to tell your soot-covered friend you’re busy tonight,” he reminded her, finally removing his hand from her arm, “I expect you at nightfall, Chambermaid. Don’t disappoint me.”

With this Harry leaves.

He has trouble suppressing his smile.

. . .

Harry was in an almost sickeningly good mood for the rest of the day.

To the point where it was noticeable, by the other servants, by the people of the court -- even his mother had rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, “You’re in good spirits today,” she said it low like if she said it too loud and dragged attention to them it would sour the smile on his face, “New clothes or jewelry? A new woman, perhaps?”

Harry sighed, slid his arm around her shoulders, and brought her close to him, “Nothing in particular,” he lied, “Can’t I just be in a good mood?”

“You rarely are, Love,” she leaned against him, “Whatever you’re doing, keep it going. I enjoy you like this.”

With his mother’s blessing, Harry will do as she wished.

After dinner, Harry made sure to go to his room, though night would still be a few hours off. He told his typical servants that they were off for the night to do as they pleased and they listened with few questions and large smiles on their faces. He wondered if they would still be as happy if they knew their off time was at the expense of Y/N -- he’d heard she was well known among all of them. Harry asked around, not so much because he was intrigued by her, but he was intrigued by Edgar’s intrigue. What was it about this girl that was so special? There were plenty of chambermaids that have been around since they were little.

But this girl. . .she went above and beyond her normal duties. The work of a chambermaid is reduced to few things, though to tend to several rooms a day was hard work. They took off the dirty bedding, took it to the laundry, and before the laundry was finished they would clean up so there was not dust nor dirt anywhere within the line of sight and even that of what you could not see. They cleaned the bathing rooms, made sure no mold or mildew was growing in the cracks and crevices; they may clean the larger sitting spaces, and dining areas, tea rooms, and guard towers. All of this and they are also held responsible to care for the servant’s quarters as well. It was a lot to accomplish in regular day-to-day life, let alone when they have a ball or gathering of any kind.

All of that work, yet Y/N was always accomplishing much more in a day. Was always helping everyone do this or that -- whether it be helping prepare meals, hand washing the bedding when the laundresses have to focus their attention on the clothing, or gardening when the original gardener ran off with a boy who bakes bread. She did anything that was asked of her and things that weren’t asked of her; she exceeded the expectations of many, and for that people appreciated her. Which was sweet, sure, but he had a feeling that people were using her because of that too. Kind people are unable to exist in this world without being taken advantage of -- it was, but it was the truth after all.

No wonder Edgar paid such close attention to her; he’d always had a soft spot for unadulterated altruism.

(Harry figured it was because he was a cruel bastard, or at least he did until he realized that the only person Edgar was truly cruel to, was him.)

Knowing more about her did little to satiate his desire to make her angry with him. To peel apart the layer of her that Edgar likes so much. . .to see a part of her that Edgar had never seen. He truly feels pity for her, getting caught up in a fight that she had no stake in -- in a fight that she probably didn’t even know existed, and wouldn’t understand if Harry explained himself. He just finds himself wanting to get closer to her -- not only to piss her off but to spend and squeeze as much time as he can from her. Edgar is only probably able to give her brief visits in between things, but Harry could see her all the time if he wanted. Nobody paid attention to what the hell he was doing; he could take Y/N on as his personal servant if he so chose to, and there would be no inquiry or question. And that would piss Edgar off more than anything, wouldn’t it?

How delightful would that be?

Through his window, Harry could tell the sun was beginning to sink, and not too long after he took notice there was a gentle knock on his door. “Come in!” He responded, and the brass knob twisted, Y/N entered the room in a very meek manner, carrying a linen basket with her that she set down by her feet before she tilted her chin toward her chest, looking to the ground.

“Good evening, Prince Harry,” she greeted him, “I hope you enjoyed your dinner.”

“It was alright,” he smiled from where he sat on the bed, “What’re the linens for?”

She blinked at him, “I -- I thought you requested me here to change your linens and clean up, Sir. Is that not what you wanted?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “I mean sure, you can if you want. I called you here to prepare my bath though.”

“Oh,” she pushes the basket off to sit beside the door, “I see. I will do so quickly.”

“No need to rush, take your time. I’ve got nowhere to be,” he then adds fiendishly, “Do you?”

Y/N clears her throat, “No, Sir.” She replies through gritted teeth, “But I do work efficiently and quickly, so if prepping your bath is all that is needed, I wonder if I’ll be able to take my leave afterward.”

Harry looked at her, head tilted, “If you took your leave after prepping my bath then who would help me wash? My usual servants are all off for tonight. Besides,” he smiled gently, “I’d like to pick your brain a bit, Chambermaid. It would bring me great pleasure to do so. Would you deny me that?”

The truth is, Harry doesn’t even have his typical servants help him in his baths. He places the soap near so he could reach it and takes to washing himself, though he does need some aid to cover his entire back. Otherwise, he took his baths alone and had them go do whatever they wanted or needed to while he soaked, and they knew to come in a little under thirty minutes or so when he would be finished.

Not all men and women of the court are like this though; Harry’s a rare specimen in that aspect. So Y/N wouldn’t question him wanting her at his side.

“No, Sir,” she responded, “I'll begin arranging it. Please excuse me for a moment.”

Y/N disappears into the room, and Harry sighs, toeing at the heel of his shoes to kick them off. Harry’s bathroom was like the others of his family; they were spoiled with large washrooms, with a segment of the stone cut out to fit a large, round tub in the floor. A small set of stairs were built in so they could lower into the tub with ease, and the water went up to the chest. Harry was unaware of the mechanics on how they filled and drained the thing, all he knew for sure was that there was a spout fixed in the wall that they got the water from. It was typically pretty cold, so they set it in a pretty big bucket over hot coals and stone until it bubbles to a boil. After it boils, they take it off, let it cook a little, then pour it into the tub -- so on and so forth, until the entirety of it is full.

The whole process took around an hour depending on who was preparing it. When Y/N appeared in the doorway of the room only about thirty minutes had passed, and he was skeptical that she had done it correctly. “That fast?” He squinted at her, walking toward her, “Are you sure you didn’t hurry so you could meet that Charlie bloke?”

“I did not rush, Your Highness. I told you I work diligently and quickly.”

“You’re well-spoken for a servant,” he begins to unclothe when he steps foot into the washroom, starting with the buttons of his shirt while he looks upon the steaming tub, “Can you read?”

“Yes, Sir,” she told him, the sleeves of her smock had been shoved up to her elbows, and the skin of her right hand was damp like she had placed her hand in the water recently to check the temperature from it.

Harry hummed lowly, sliding the blouse from his arms and handing it over to her, “Who taught you?”

As she took the fabric from his hands, Harry started on his trousers while she began to carefully fold the top, “Prince Edgar taught me when we were younger.”

A snort left him, “Of course he did,” he uttered -- how had these two spent so much time together without Harry knowing? Or remembering her, for that matter. He supposes somewhere in his brain he recalled her because she did look very familiar to him, but that was where it stopped. It was irritating beyond belief. “Let me guess, he brings you books to read? Ones you wouldn’t be able to get your hands on otherwise?”

She places the folded blouse into an empty basket, “He used to, but he has not had much time to do so lately,” she explained to him, “Would you like these clothes washed tonight, Sir? I could do them in the basin over there if you allow me to retrieve the detergent.”

“Don’t mind that,” he waved his hand, slipping out of his trousers, “You’ve known Edgar since we were little, correct? How old were you?”

Y/N responded almost immediately, “I was around 7, Sir.”

Harry’s brows raised, “7? You are kept in the servant’s chambers until you are 12, so how was he able to meet you?”

“There was a tall woman who was teaching him at the time; she explained to him that no good leader is unaware of every type of person they’re presiding over. She took him to the village to learn about the daily life there and the servant’s quarters to learn about us and our duties. This was around the time we met.”

A low hum left him; Harry vaguely remembers when Edgar was going out to the village nearly every day, and then recalls that he used to have more dirt beneath his fingernails after doing rounds with his teacher. It makes sense — by the time they were doing that, they had already given up on Harry, so he wasn’t taken on the extra trips. Only sat and was lectured about the arts, sciences, and literature. Except for that one night. . .

When he thinks about it, around the time Edgar was going on those trips correlates closely to that night. The night that set in stone how their relationship would be -- how could he ever forgive him for that? Harry still doesn’t know exactly how he got out of there, but after the fact, it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that Edgar had left him. . .fucking prick.

Harry uses the stairs to lower inside of the water; goosebumps pimple up his body when he shivers as he adjusts to the temperature change. The water was warm but not too warm and not too cold; it was similar to that of a hot spring. She hadn’t been kidding, he thinks to himself, she does work efficiently. He bends his knees so he can dip his shoulders beneath the water and let it slosh against the aching spot at the base of his neck -- he must have slept weirdly on it because it’d been tender and sore all day.

A slow, contented sigh slips through his mouth as he leans his head back against the edge of the tub, letting his eyes flicker closed. If Y/N knew Edgar around that time, then did she know about that night? Maybe she didn’t -- maybe it would ruin the outlook she has on his perfect brother. How could a perfect king do such an awful thing? A dreadful thing? Something that their teacher told them they mustn’t ever speak of aloud, lest they want talk to overrun the court and ruin everything.

And Harry listened because he was a good little boy, but nobody would know that, would day? How could they when he kept his mouth shut?

“What was it that Charlie boy wanted to do with you?” Harry inquired finally, letting his eyes flicker open to look at the steam rising from the water surrounding him; it is only then he realizes that Y/N is dropping lotus flower petals into the tub (they were good for softening the skin and reducing anxiety, and while he hadn’t requested them, it was a nice touch), “It must be something important if you were trying to run out of here to take care of it.”

Y/N drops each individual petal meticulously, “He needed help setting up his date,” she responded, and while her tone had already been particularly dry with him since she came down here, it took toward despondence almost immediately, “He wanted to tell Miri his feelings for her tonight then suggest they date and wanted to do it near the garden on the east-end where they met. He asked me to help him put it together.”

“Ohhhhh,” Harry turned to face her when she disappeared behind him, “So the boy you like wanted your help setting up a date for another girl? That’s almost enough to make me pity you,” he pouted his lip at her, gripping the side of the tub (and subsequently a bit of the floor) with his hands as she quietly closed the jar of petals, though her silence spoke volumes, “You want her to say no, don’t you? To reject his little proposal?”

Sat on her knees, she looked over to him with her eyes wide and brows furrowed, like what Harry had suggested almost made him a monster, “No!” She nearly shouted, “Of course not! I -- Charlie is my friend, I only wish for him to be happy.”

“I don’t believe you for a second,” Harry grinned, “I think you secretly hate the thought of him being happy with anybody else but you. You play like the sweet, supportive friend but at the end of the day, the thought of him getting his cock wet with “Miri” or whoever makes you livid. Which, I mean -- a bloke like that, he probably is just looking to get his cock wet, but in your little fantasy he was supposed to want to do it with you. Am I right? C’mon, I’m right aren’t I?”

Her brows remain furrowed, her lips are pulled back in a tight frown as she shakes her head, “You’re wrong,” she told him, looking away from him though it was clear his words stung, “Charlie. . .Charlie isn’t like that.”

Harry scoffs, “He’s a guy, Sweetheart, of course, he’s like that -- even your precious Edgar. I guess a virgin like you wouldn’t know though -- still hoping it happens over a bed lined with rose petals near a fire, aren’t you?” She doesn’t respond, but her emotions and words are so blatantly displayed on her face, Harry believes they could have a full conversation without her having uttered a word, “Though I guess whether it be Charlie or Edgar doesn’t matter much to you, does it? A servant boy you’ve got a crush on, or the next king you’re profoundly loyal to. Now, while your taste is severely lacking I do appreciate you at least have some range and variety,” he waves his arms back and forth, his knees still bent so his chin touches the water like he’s swimming though his feet could still touch the ground easily, “Little hint for you: Edgar doesn’t like his women inexperienced, so you’ll need to practice if you want to satisfy him.”

Her mouth falls open, and embarrassment oozes from every pore and orifice of her being. She blinks hard and looks around like she’s trying to find words to say, and while flustering her to this extent is enjoyable for Harry, he knows when to settle. Once more he sighs, “I guess it can’t be helped,” he murmured, “I am very open when it comes to sexual matters but not everyone mirrors my enthusiasm for being frank. If you’re uncomfortable with talk of your sexuality, then I will not reference you in such a way anymore.” He plucks a lotus blossom from where it floated along the top of the water, “I do have a question for you, however: why did you stop gardening at the east-end? I thought they were using you until they found an adequate replacement, but they just replaced you with another servant.”

The tension that had risen in her shoulders slowly ebbed away at the change in topic and the way her features lax suggests that she was grateful he dropped it, “You told me the flowers looked poor under my care, Sir. I thought I wasn’t doing well enough for them, and I didn’t want them to falter further, so I. . .well, I told them they ought to have someone else tend to them.”

Harry eyes her, and Y/N holds his gaze as she waits for him to continue, “Do you believe anything someone tells you?” He inquired.

“If someone of the royal family or court says something to me, Sir, I’m meant to believe it, am I not? Or at least act as I do,” she explained to him, and her candid response surprises him, “But I felt you had no reason to lie to me. You are very forthright in your distaste for me, so you have no reason to tell me I’m any good at gardening like the others. You had no reason to lie.”

I’ve plenty reason to lie -- at least that’s what he thinks, but he has no chance to remark on it. Not when he gets a glimpse of her palm for the first time, and he reaches out mindlessly to grab her by the fingers. Y/N gasps, attempting to tug her hand back but Harry fixes his grip on her, “What is this?” He inquires as he flips her hand palm up, revealing a scar that ran diagonally across it. The color of it was faint; it had clearly been quite a while since she had gotten it, but he cannot tell where it was from. It didn’t seem to impede the normal function of her hand though -- if anything, it appeared to be a birthmark.

She regards him curiously, “This is a scar I got when I was little, is all,” she responded, “Do you wish for me to wash your hair?”

Harry lets go of her fingers, allowing her to bring her hand back to herself, “Do it well,” he murmured as he spun around to face away from her, “If you get any soap on my eye, I’m telling that chimney sweep your feelings.”

He held his breath, waiting for her to finally bite back at him, nibbly hard at his bottom lip to suppress the urge to smile.

Yet there was nothing; Y/N quietly requests that he tilts his head back so she doesn’t get water in his eyes, wets his hair, and then begins to delicately massage his scalp. He blows out a breath, slightly irritated -- what would it take to make her snap at him? Everyone has a limit, don’t they? Even servants. . .especially them.

“You are a tough cookie to crack, Chambermaid,” Harry grumbled, attempting desperately not to show her how good her fingers felt, “That is not a compliment.”

“Sorry, Sir.” She replied.

. . .

It is much more of a hassle to find Y/N now that she isn’t stationed in the garden after breakfast, so Harry has to go out of his way to the servant’s chambers several times a week. He continued to bring something from the spread they had for their meal, whether it be fruit, bread, or a piece of dessert. Harry would comment on the state he found her in, say something with some bite to it, then offer (more like order her to eat) whatever he was handing to her. He watched her chew, reminded her she ate like an animal (she really didn’t), and then told her she was expected in his chamber later that night for his bath.

At first, the bath had only been something to keep her from the chimney sweep but she did so well that Harry could not imagine anyone else in there with him now. From the temperature of the water to the way her fingers felt buried in his hair -- she did so almost expertly. It made him wonder where she was getting all this practice from, so he considered that she was often in Edgar’s chambers doing this for him. However, when he brings it up, her face twisted into a horrified frown as she denied ever seeing Prince Edgar naked. Almost as if his bare body was too good for her gaze, which pissed him off a fair amount.

He was wearing her thin, he could tell. These days she’s become much more comfortable with him, showing in little ways like dropping any formalities she may place around his name after their initial greeting, or even sighing when she sees him coming up to her. Harry’s even gotten her to snip at him a few times, but she’s always able to reel herself back in before she could do anything that might be classified as “blatant disrespect”. Harry feels they are getting there though, and the amount of glee that fills him is almost absurd.

All of this work, just so that he could say he’d seen a part -- an emotion -- of Edgar’s close friend that Edgar himself hadn’t witnessed yet. It was petulant, and if he ever spoke this aloud it would make very little sense to anyone he was attempting to explain it to, but it couldn’t be helped. He never claimed to be anything above immature and could admit he was ill-tempered and childish.

But what else did he really have to do with his time, apart from relish in a small, unimportant victory like making a chambermaid mad? And he might have given up and let her be if it wasn’t so fun -- her reactions were amusing, and poking and prodding about in her head were the summit of his days lately, though he would be hard-pressed to admit it.

No matter how small, having a goal to work toward had always given Harry a sense of accomplishment.

There was buzz around the castle today; a party would be thrown in one of the smaller ballrooms (one of Harry’s favorite rooms in the entire castle, simply for the art that decorates the high dome ceiling akin to that of the Sistine Chapel; they had a woman by the name Piper Alcott swinging from a pulley system for three months painting when Harry was a child -- from what he remembers, she was paid a healthy sum in gold and diamonds). At this gathering, one of Edgar’s old teenage flings would be attending, and there are rumors that this will be to strike an agreement between the two territories. An arrangement that would ultimately lead to Edgar’s wedding.

Now, anyone who was anybody would know that the rumors were shit. It would benefit them very little to arrange anything with this territory, as Harry’s mother and father have done more for these people than they have ever done for them, but Harry doesn’t bother correcting anyone. If not just for the enjoyment he feels from petty drama, then definitely for the reason that the truth wouldn’t get around to Y/N.

Though when he brought this up to her, as she stood outside clipping sheets to lines of string to dry, she had very little reaction to it. Holding onto an apple, Harry pouted when she refuted his statement of, “I think Edgar’s leaving you for someone of the court, Chambermaid! How sad is it that both your realistic choice of a chimney sweep and your idealistic choice of a king didn't work out? I would be depressed if I were you.”

“The idea of marrying the next King to someone of a lower family would be foolish. Would it not be to someone of equal or higher standing to be worth it?” She inquired, and Harry huffed, dropping down to sit on the edge of the wall. The laundry room opened up directly off the castle into something like a balcony, the brick raised up only a few meters from the ground so the wind could catch the clothing (both for body and bed) and dry them quickly. It took Harry an ample amount of time to find this place, and he was greeted by Y/N’s pinched face as she gritted out a “Good Morning.”

“You’re no fun,” he groans, letting his palms dig into the rough edge of the brick, “Who told you that, huh? You and Edgar use politics as pillow talk?”

No matter how often he mentions it, the embarrassment still floods her face at the mention of something like that and in turn, floods him with unremitted glee, “He discussed it with me over his tea this morning,” Y/N explains, albeit sheepishly, “He told me to not believe such trivial gossip.”

Harry kisses his teeth, “What a sweet talker,” he looked up toward the sky and watches the thick, puffy white clouds gently float along, “Did he also mention that he used to fuck the princess coming to see us?”

Y/N coughs -- or, chokes, rather, “W-what?”

He bends at the waist to lean forward, looking past the billowing cotton to see she’s stilled, looking over to him with her brows furrowed, “Yeah,” he continued, “Luella Dowdenl; if I’m not mistaken, that is who he lost his virginity to.” A small grin begins to spread over his cheeks, “You didn’t know?”

“Of course I -- of course I didn’t know,” she gripes at him, brows still pinched and lips drew into a frown, “Prince Edgar and I don’t speak about things like that. He’s not vulgar towards people like you are.”

Harry bites down on his bottom lip to stop his grin from getting any bigger. So that’s what gets under her skin far enough she’s willing to grumble at him like that? He’d only been playing around before, but he guesses she did have a rather large crush on both that chimney sweep and Edgar; it’s almost sad enough for him to stop poking at her. Maybe he would have if not for such an amusing reaction he was given.

“Sure,” Harry shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe I’m vulgar, but when it comes down to it, Edgar is an absolute lecher in bed -- I’ve heard stories. Does that upset you?”

“No --” she begins to protest but Harry cuts her off briskly.

“Liar,” he accuses, “Edgar goes around acting like the primmest and most proper, most respectful bloke in the whole castle, but the truth of it is, his taste in bed is crude and filthy. You wouldn’t be able to match up to his standards in the slightest -- you’re much too virginal.”

Y/N appears from where she’d been halfway hiding within the sheets, “I am not a virgin!” She exclaims to him, a fire lit in her eyes that he’d only ever seen smoldering beneath the surface, “And I’m not -- I am not lying! I have no reason to lie, I don’t care what he does in bed, and I don’t care that he’s slept with the girl! It is none of my business, so stop bringing it up to me!”

Harry’s heart is hammering in the best way, thumping quickly in his chest; he doesn’t know what this overt, unashamed enjoyment of her frustration and dislike says about him -- but he isn’t in the mood to question it, “Ah, you’re upset,” he noted plainly, “And riled up enough to speak this way to a prince? I could have you punished, you know?” Harry rises to a stand, watching as her chest heaves with each breath and her face flips from adrenalin spiked upset, to a wave of worried anger. She stood her ground but her gaze says she regrets it, though Harry walks toward her and grabs her wrist, flipping her palm over -- the one with the scar -- and places the apple he’d been holding into her hand, “You’re lucky I find your reactions so amusing, Chambermaid. Make sure to be mindful of that tongue with the others, however -- they may not be so forgiving. I’ll see you in my chambers tonight.”

With this he leaves, his body flushed with warmth and excitement.

Harry cannot remember the last time he’d had this much fun.

. . .

Y/N couldn’t stand Harry.

How could anyone stand him? It was a near-impossible feat! He was ill-tempered, poor-mannered, unnaturally spiteful, and completely insufferable -- Y/N really had no idea how he and Prince Edgar could be related. The contrast is so stark, had she not known they were siblings she wouldn’t have even considered they were raised in the same castle, let alone by the same parents. It was absurd, honestly!

Y/N had always been aware of Harry, but they had never been very close. She saw him frequently when she was younger, but that was mostly because Edgar had taken a liking to her, and wherever he was, she was close behind. And for some time, wherever Edgar was, Harry was too, until their relationship had begun to falter. Y/N didn’t see it happening but she heard word of it whispered among the other servants and even people of the court who talk too loud with their mouths full during tea. Edgar never brought it up though, so Y/N didn’t either; she had always passed it off as some sort of sibling rivalry for the throne or something, and didn’t pay much mind to it.

But if Harry had always been like this, it wasn’t so hard to see why he and Edgar wouldn’t be close.

There was something about him that was fueled by picking on her, and Y/N had had enough of it. It had been one thing when he’d been brazen in his disgust for her replacing Imogen as the east-end caretaker of the garden. Y/N had heard there may have been somewhat of a relationship between the two and had expected him to be unhappy with the news of her departure (though Y/N believes it’s silly to be mad at the messenger). And she really hadn’t meant to “tattle” on him, but when Edgar asked how her day had been and she explained that she officially met Harry that day, and he didn’t like her very much -- well, he acted at his own discretion.

While the idea of Edgar finding Harry to scold him and defend her had made her heart flutter, she wished he’d said nothing at all. She’s got a healthy level of suspicion that suggests had Harry not realized she had any acquaintance with Edgar at all, he would have left her be. But he is insistent and obtrusive in every way imaginable, and he makes absolutely no sense at all! He says he dislikes her then goes out of his way to find her in the servant’s chambers. He continues to push and prod for her to expose her feelings about Edgar, though he already clearly knew that they existed. He refers to her by name when he’s asking others about her, but only calls her ‘Chambermaid’ in person. He told her how she ate disgusted him but still brings her fruits and desserts and bread from the hall after breakfast, and sometimes even the pastries served during lunch.

He was a bully! Prince Harry was bullying her because she has feelings for his brother? Unrequited feelings at that. And he almost seemed annoyed when she didn’t fight back with him! When she quietly resigned to his taunting and teasing, how most people of the court would expect of a chambermaid, one they claimed to dislike no less. How did that make any sense at all?

You’re right, I don’t like you. You’re covered in filth and a companion of my brother’s, so there was really no hope of friendship between the two of us.

So why won’t he leave her alone?

No matter how much Prince Harry is bothering her, she makes a point not to discuss it with Prince Edgar. He held so many responsibilities already that were far greater than a servant being mocked by royalty, and the little time they were able to share together, she’d prefer to speak about things other than his brother. Harry was right -- Y/N did have feelings for Edgar. Big, awful, dreadful, heavy feelings that had been festering since she was a child; it started out as a little gnat clinging to still water, then flourished to a horde. These feelings would probably feel lighter in weight and bright had they been for anyone else, but they weren’t. These. . .these stupid feelings were in vain -- there was no use to them. Y/N had never been so stupid to believe she ever had a chance with the future King of all people, and while it used to hurt when she was younger, she had finally accepted it.

Yet Harry wouldn’t stop reminding her. Saying this and that about how she wanted to sleep with him (she did) and she wanted to cuddle with him (she did) and how she wants to be the only woman he looks at (she wishes), but follows it up with exclaiming how sad it was for her to have such wants and desires. “I feel bad for you, Chambermaid,” he would say, his tone lacking anything that sounded remotely like empathy, “I really do.”

He saw right through her and it was troublesome. Nobody else had caught on that she had liked Charlie a little either -- not even Charlie himself -- but Harry knew (what Harry hadn’t pointed out was that Y/N forced herself to like Charlie so she could at least have a crush on someone more realistic, but she’s sure if he had spent any amount of time with the two of them he would have somehow figured it out). Everyone had always thought Y/N was just a loyal servant of Edgar’s who had been trained to his tastes since she was little, and had never considered she may be harboring any yearning to be with him -- but Harry knew. He could even tell when she’s had a long, tiring day, though he usually mentions it in a mean-spirited way.

“Tired after a day of being Edgar’s bootlicker, hm?”

He was as perceptive as he was cruel.

The one time he spared her of his pitiless spite is during the first bath she prepared, when he told her he wouldn’t speak about her sexually if that made her uncomfortable. Which in theory was kinder than she would expect from him, but was unwarranted -- she hadn’t been uncomfortable with him talking about her that way. If anything, she was more than intrigued to hear what he had to say about Edgar at the time and was desperately searching for some way to keep him speaking. Edgar didn’t like his women inexperienced? How so? What did he qualify as inexperienced? Was there any merit to these words or was Harry just speaking to get beneath her skin?

She wanted to know more, but the one time he decided to relent was the one time she didn’t want it, so in a way, it was just another sadistic move on his end.

Y/N was frustrated and curious -- what did Edgar like? Was it really vulgar? Y/N had snapped at Harry and in doing so, had told him she wasn’t a virgin, which was true, but she hardly would say she has much experience in the matter. She’d had sex the first time when she was around 17 and it was hardly anything to write home about either, but she didn’t want Harry to have the satisfaction of thinking she was just some novice -- though she definitely was.

One of her friends — Edith — had begun to poke fun at Harry’s interest in her earlier that day, “I’ve always thought he was the cuter of the two, lucky girl,” she told her as they scrubbed the stone floors of their shared room, “Do you know if he likes to bed chambermaids yet? He’s already feeding you, he might as well fuck you too.”

Objectively Y/N could admit that Harry was beautiful. Both of the brothers were, but there was an essence -- a light about him -- that even surpassed Edgar. He took after his mother more; his eyes were a pretty green and bright, his skin as smooth as porcelain, and he was always well-groomed. His jaw was sharp, his body well-toned but surprisingly soft around his hips and a little around his tummy. His hair was incredibly soft, it always looked nice even if it was more unruly (he preferred not to grease or gel it back from his face, embracing the curls that he’d gotten from the queen). He had a taste in clothing that was eccentric and eye-catching, and an all-encompassing presence as soon as he walked into a room.

But his attitude -- the vulgarity in his speech, and the brash way he regards everyone -- counteracts all of that.

“I don’t want him to bed me,” Y/N huffed, “He’s rotten!”

Edith clicked her tongue, “Liar, you so do -- who doesn’t?” She murmured as she scrubbed between the stones vigorously, “And it’s clear he wants to sleep with you. He was calling you a virgin, was he not? He probably wants you to ask him to teach you or summat.”

Y/N stuck her tongue out, “He’s probably shite in bed anyway,” she uttered decisively, voice low, “Men like that don’t care how their partner feels, they’re only ever acting in their own self-interest.”

Shrugging her shoulders, Edith dipped her brush into the bucket of warm, sudsy water, “I don’t know, I’ve heard from some in the court that he’s good. You’ll have to test him out, won’t you? Then tell me all about it so I can live through your actions, I’m so bored lately.”

Y/N replayed her conversation with Edith as she fixed his bath that night and even caught her gaze lingering a little longer on his body before he submerged in the water. The curve of his bum, the dimples at the base of his spine -- it was only when he turned around to face her that she tugged her gaze away, looking back to the jar of lotus petals she’d been fretting over, “What do you have planned for tonight?” He inquired, gripping the side of the tub.

“I’m meant to help decorate for the party,” she reached into the jar, grabbed a few petals, and let them drop into the water.

“Mm,” he hummed, “No you aren’t.”

She paused, looking at him with furrowed brows, “What?” Y/N knew somewhere in the back of her mind she needed to be careful with how she spoke to him -- he may let her get away with quite a lot, but she never knew when he would decide to snap and punish her for it. No matter how pleased he may seem when she spoke to him as if they were equals and he was just the obnoxious bloke who taunted her -- he was still the prince and she was still a subordinate. . .even lower than that.

Still, at the tone of her voice, Harry grinned incredibly wide, “I’ve decided you’re tending to my fire while I sleep. The nights are growing colder, don’t you think? I keep waking up with a shiver in my bones.”

Y/N’s fingernails cut into the flesh of her palm, “Pardon my questioning, Sir,” she gritted her teeth, attempting to keep her irritation from seeping into her voice, “But don’t you think it is a little unwarranted considering you have servants who are assigned to you for such a task. Where are they each night?”

“I give them the night off when you’re tending to me, Chambermaid,” he answered as if it were so clear, “How awful would it be for me to renege my promise of some free time from them?”

She took a steady breath to ground herself, and chewed hard on her bottom lip as she settled the anger building up inside of her, “Of course,” she spoke and struggled not to grimace, “How silly of me to think they ought to be the ones doing such a job, but Sir if I might -- if I might be able to just come tend to the fire every hour or so, so I can still perform my duties?”

“I believe your duty is to listen to me,” he dipped himself beneath the water, then re-emerges, with his hair slick down against his head and the nape of his neck, “Hm, what is it you’re to do? How are you decorating?”

“I’m embroidering,” she explained, “The queen wanted the insignia on each napkin.”

The grin never left Harry’s mouth, “Well, that’s a very portable task,” his cheeks were rosy from the warmth of the water -- had the circumstances been different, Y/N would have thought he was cute like this, but she wanted to smack him across the face, “You can just bring the supplies to my room, can you not?”

That’s how she ended up here, sitting in a chair at the side of Harry’s bed carefully stitching the looping patterns that created a tiger, into the corner of each napkin. In the grand scheme of things, it could be worse; the nights are growing colder, and the air in the servants' chambers is always very cold. There were worse things to be doing than embroidering in a room heated by fire, beside a gorgeous boy no matter how much of a prick he was.

It was intriguing to see him this way; his guard was let down, his features were soft, and he slept peacefully. Though it took him a while to settle after his bath -- he waited for her to come back to his room before he even crawled into his bed, and kept teasing her over little things as she got the fire going. It took her silently working while he quietly watched before he fell asleep.

On the fifth break she took from her needlework just after she added another log to the fire, she heard a little whimper. It was small, almost imperceptible if not for the silence of the room (apart from the crackling flames), but it was enough to drag her attention back to him. He’d worked the blankets down his body where it lay around his waist, his face was pinched, goosebumps pimpled along his body and his chest heaved. Another small sound, Y/N watches his lips part around it, “Help.”

Y/N doesn’t think she’s ever heard him sound so small before, at least not since they were little. It yanks at something in her heart that has her going to inspect him more closely, leaning over the mattress -- was he having a nightmare? The distress on his face would suggest the dream wasn’t very pleasant. Absently does she wonder what it may be about -- what did princes have to fear? There being too much food that their bellies couldn’t fit everything? The sheets they slept on not smelling of lemon? Women and men throwing themselves at their feet just for the sake of saying they looked in their direction?

When he whimpers for the third time, Y/N feels a sliver of guilt drip down to her gut at making light of the situation. Now that she thinks about it, Harry did have one thing to have nightmares about. Sometimes Edgar had nightmares too, about that night. . .she had been lucky enough that the memories of it didn’t haunt her. Really, Y/N couldn’t remember much of it at all -- she only knew that she’d been there, and it was the reason for the scar on her palm. She also knew that for some reason, Edgar had begun to show even more favor toward her than he already had, but he never explained why.

She doesn’t realize that her hand has left her side to brush the strands of hair from his face until the tips of her fingers touch the smooth skin of his forehead. Y/N keeps her touch tender and light as to not disturb him -- it was better to let him work himself through the nightmare, she thinks. If she were to wake him he’d only be irate with her, and would probably say something out of a sleepy fit of anger like the grumpy guy he is.

However, his dream may have already had him on the cusp of alertness, because as she began to pull the blanket up, a hand shot out to grab her wrist. She gasped quietly, looking back up to his face to find his eyes open, though bleary and lidded. He seems confused, alarmed, and not entirely awake -- her heart is hammering against her sternum from the way he startled but she tries to keep her voice calm, “I’m only covering you back up, Your Highness,” she murmured gently, “The blankets fell.”

He still stares at her, silently at first, before a raspy voice replies, “Stay by my side for the night?” It does not sound like an order, but a pitiful request -- she can feel her pulse drum against his fingers.

“Yes, I will,” she answered, holding his gaze, “I already told you I would tend to your fire tonight, Sir. I’ll be here when both the sun and you rise.”

Harry seemed pleased with her response, enough that he loosens his grip on her wrist and allows her to pull the blankets back up to his chest. His cheeks are flushed pink again, all rosy and sweet -- how gentle does he look like this? Almost like there was no trace of the spiteful, crude man that torments her throughout the day. Did it really take him being plagued by frightening dreams to soften even just slightly toward her?

“Thank you, Y/N.” He said moments before his eyes fluttered closed.

It was the first time he had ever called her by name.

. . .

Harry did not care much for parties.

The wine was nice and mingling with those outside the castle could be great fun as well, but Harry grew bored with that about an hour or so in. He’d always found them as thinly veiled excuses to dress in finery and allow those of the court to feel more important than they were. It also gave Edgar a chance to really strut his stuff as the predetermined king, and that irritated Harry to no end. Maybe the foods they brought out could remedy the outlook Harry had on such nights, but knowing that they would make duck and partridge because they were Edgar’s favorites soured that quickly -- nobody gave a shite what he liked, and that pissed him off even more.

So about two hours in, after Harry had his phone with a distant relative called Niall (who had plenty of stories to tell while he put away cup after cup of wine until he inevitably passed out before the four-hour mark), Harry is drunk and lounging around in a chair off in the corner, bored out of his wits. He had his leg up over the arm of the chair waving back and forth while he sloshed the little wine left in his cup around the bottom, supporting his chin with his hand. A small group had formed around him and been speaking to him for the better half of an hour at this point -- he believes one of them is named Lorene -- and Harry was only partly paying attention. He was distracted though, his eyes flitting around the room as he sought out his chambermaid.

All the servants wore different attire for their more extravagant gatherings, as it would be unsightly for them to be wandering around in their regular cleaning smocks. So they are dressed well, in matching grey gowns that cinch at the waist with halter bodices for the women, and grey ironed pants with white button-ups for the men. They even pin their hair up if it was long enough, or for those with shorter hair, they were allowed to gel it back. It was interesting to see them all done up, and Harry was incredibly curious to see what Y/N looked like this way.

He knew she would be working tonight, but in the two hours he’s spent mingling around the room, he had yet to see her. So when he catches sight of one of the other women he often sees Y/N hanging around -- he flags her down, waving his hand toward her. “Good evening, Your Highness,” she greeted him, lowering the tray of wine glasses she’s been holding, “This is mulberry wine.”

“Yes, thank you,” he reached for one, tosses back the rest of the wine he’d been playing with before exchanging the glasses, “You spend ample time with Y/N, do you not? The chambermaid?”

The girl smiled, even wider, almost as if she knew something the others around them didn’t, “Yes, I do. Would you like me to fetch her for you?”

Harry shook his head, “No, I can go to her myself if you could just direct me?”

“Of course, Sir!” She seemed all too chipper to be at his aid, and Harry wonders if Y/N has told this girl anything about their relationship. If she had, shouldn’t she have more reservations in taking him to her? He’s certain Y/N would be hard-pressed to find out the only reason Harry -- the man she quietly loathes -- found her, was because of her friend. If the roles were reversed, that would stir up a fight between Harry and any of his mates (but perhaps Harry’s temper is just poor).

As soon as he and the servant were out of earshot from the group that had been surrounding him, the women began gently, “If I might say something?” Harry hummed, encouraging her to continue, “Thank you for treating her with those sweets and fruits in the morning. Y/N often skips breakfast and barely makes time for lunch in order to get not only her duties done but others as well. She’s had much more energy the last few weeks. And since you’ve been asking her to your chambers for the bath, it stops the others from using her -- everyone knows she has trouble denying them help, and they take advantage of that.” Her voice is low, and Harry makes sure to slow down to her pace so he can hear her clearly, even tipping his ear down toward her to combat the music and chatter filling the room. “I know my gratitude may mean very little to you, but I just thought it should be said.”

Really, Harry had never considered what he was doing for her as something that needed to be thanked. Hell, Harry hadn’t even thought she was telling anybody that he was feeding her as frequently as he was. The knowledge that she shared this with someone sparked something inside of him -- he isn’t sure what it was exactly, but it was something that gave him a small smile.

“What is your name?” Harry inquired.

“I’m Edith.” She replied.

“Well, Edith, there’s no reason to thank me,” he told her, “I don’t mind taking her at night nor filling her belly with treats. Though I hadn’t thought she was very appreciative -- she always appears more like she wants to bite my head off than eat anything I’ve given her.”

Edith scrunched her face and shook her head, “She loves it,” she led him through the archway, into the corridor, pointing her finger down the hall as if to tell him ‘this way’ while she continued to speak, “Though she does get. . .confused, when it comes to you, Sir. She has no idea what you think of her.”

Harry caught sight of Y/N coming from the kitchen, gripping a tray of mini sponge cakes tightly and staring at it with a worried face. She looks. . .cute, from what he could see of her. Though there wasn’t much difference in how she looked today apart from her hair drawn up and pinned and the change in dress -- he could admit that she looked quite nice.

“Y/N!” Edith calls, rushing over as quickly as she could without tipping the tray of wine, and she dips closely, whispering something into her ear. Y/N’s eyes flicker over to where Harry stands and her face twists up like something foul had been dripped onto her tongue. Harry can distantly hear Edith remark, “Play nice!” before dipping away.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” she cleared her throat, “How are you enjoying the night?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders, “It’s like any other night, just more bodies and alcohol,” the glint of the light in her hair catches his eye, as he squints and leans forward, “What’s this? A jeweled hairpin?” He reaches out and touches it with the tip of his finger, “Ah, this is what you receive for being Edgar’s cock warmer, hm?”

Her face drops, features stern and stony, “No,” she said curtly, “He gave me this for my birthday, is all. I don’t have many excuses to wear it.”

“Hm,” Harry took a moment, chewing on whether or not he should let Y/N know that Edgar was a cheap, worthless bastard who had given her the hairpin that he’d tried to give a French princess who rejected him. . .but even Harry wasn’t that cruel. Though he does note, “I have one that would suit you much better,” because -- well, he does. It was clear that this was not bought with her in mind. A good accessory would do something to bring out the natural beauty in the owner, and this had been purchased for someone who had a specific color hair and a certain hue of their irises, both of which Y/N did not possess. Harry had bought one long ago, and he knew for a fact the carnelian crystals would not only match the trees succumbing to autumn but would suit Y/N much better.

Her brows furrow and she opens her mouth but he continues speaking so that she can’t, “Come outside with me.”

“What?” She raised the tray in her hands a little higher, like he hadn’t seen it in her hands, “Can’t you go alone, Sir? I must hand out these cakes, I’m unable to -- wait!”

It was easy to pluck the tray of desserts out of her hand with one of his, and he only has to pivot slightly to find someone walking by them, “I do not wish to be alone. You there,” he catches the bloke's attention, and watches as the man begins to bow, “No, none of that -- just take these and hand them out, won’t you?”

“Yes, Your Highness!” He says, twisting on his heel and heading back to the ballroom in which he had come.

Harry turned to face Y/N with a grin, and her shoulders sank as she acquiesced, “Okay,” she replied, “We can go outside, Sir, but I should really get back soon. The work doubles on nights like these.”

He waved his hand in the air as if he were brushing away what she said as unimportant, “I just want to step outside for a moment, then you can do as you please.”

There was no real reason that Harry wanted to go outside, other than wanting to step away from the fuss of the party. It was too much and he was beginning to develop a headache just behind his temples, which the violins were not easing in the slightest. His words had been true -- he didn’t feel like being alone, and if he was honest being outside in the night brought a chill to his spine. Harry could have gotten any servant to go out there with him, he knew that and Y/N knew that too, but he finds he is most comfortable with her. The air is not as. . .tense, as it was otherwise. Everyone else was so stiff and anxious, hoping not to upset him but their silence only bothers him. They don’t play into his whims either -- not his teases or his taunts.

Y/N’s good for that though. She reacts to everything, grumbles, and gripes, and shows every single emotion coursing through her right on her face. It was rare that someone in the court had not mastered the art of impassivity, and Y/N stood out like a kitten among rats.

So, he’s found that he likes to spend time with her best. This is why he had led her all the way outside, nodding at the guards who stood watch at one of the entries to a small balcony. With no grander reason than wanting to take a moment of fresh air with someone not completely boring to him.

He hadn’t guessed that Edgar would be outside fondling Luella’s breast, his tongue inspecting her mouth.

Y/N quietly gasps beside him, which stirs Edgar’s attention. He parts from Luella with a smack of their lips detaching, his hand falling from her chest -- the both of them look so embarrassed; Luella bashfully slinks away from him, turning away to look out toward the changing trees, while Edgar cleared his throat, “What. . .what are you two doing out here?”

The wind blows cool air, pimpling goosebumps along all of their skin. Harry lets out a startled laugh, the wine sloshing in his glass as he looked from Edgar to Luella, to Y/N, then back to his brother, “I reckon the chambermaid and I should be asking you that,” he snorted, “You couldn’t even wait for all your adoring fans to get drunk and fall asleep, huh? Had to get your cock wet this early into the night?”

“For fuck sake, Harry, there are ladies present --”

“See,” he turned toward Y/N, who had looked down toward her feet -- he couldn’t see her face very clearly in the light, “I told you he was a lecher, didn’t I, Sweetheart?”

Edgar scoffs, “I’m the lecher? You’d be a libertine if not a prince!”

Chuckling, Harry retorts, “That’s an awful fancy word, big brother, did you learn it in Princess Dowdenl’s mouth?”

“Forgive me, for speaking out of turn,” Y/N began suddenly beside him, and she tugs Harry’s attention back in her direction. Though he still could not clearly make out her face, he could hear the tremble in her voice -- the defeated inhale of a quivery breath -- and it tells him all he needs to know, of how she’s feeling in that moment, “But I must get back to help with the party. I hope you all enjoy your night.”

She turned quickly, her face still tipped down to the floor as she pushed herself back through the door. Harry begins to follow her, but now without looking at Edgar with a small shake of his head, “Well, look at what you’ve done,” he uttered, “You’ve upset the poor girl. Prick.”

Here is why Harry believes he’s much better than Edgar, despite how ruthlessly he picks on Y/N: he wasn’t giving her any false hope. Edgar may be sweet on her, sure, he may give her gifts, have tea with her, and go out of his way to make her feel special -- but that in itself is a different type of sadism. Even if Edgar truly wanted to be with Y/N, there was no earthly way that any one of the court, nor their parents, would accept a servant as the next queen, and bearer of Edgar’s heirs. He knows this, yet still, he pretends like they could be something more.

The truth of it is, Edgar probably just likes that Y/N has feelings for him without her particular gain in mind. Harry can spot someone scouting for a spouse that could make them wealthier, or give them more power, and Y/N was almost aggressively opposite of that. Not only that, he definitely just enjoyed that there was someone who thought he hung each of the stars, the rotten fuck.

Those feelings she had for Edgar, no matter how silly Harry thinks they are -- were very real to her. Probably having proliferated since childhood. . .Harry wouldn’t be surprised if Y/N was in love with Edgar, honestly, though he believes she would be in love with the idea of him more. The Edgar that Edgar decided to show her. All prior arguments and feuds aside, Harry knew his brother, and he was not the man he pretended to be for her. He was superficial, quietly rude, and incredibly fake -- Harry bets he went out of his way to confront him about messing with her so that she thought even better of him than she already did.

It’s disgusting and foul. . .at least Harry is honest with her.

Harry caught up to Y/N as she went down a more unoccupied corridor, faster than she’s ever seen her walk, and unresponsive to his calling her name. As soon as his hand rests on her shoulder, she tugs herself away from him, “Get away from me,” she demanded, and when Harry tries to stop her again, gripping her wrist, she lifts her hand up and throws it down, as she turned to face him, “I said get away from me!”

For the first time since Harry started speaking to Y/N, he feels at a loss for words.

Tears over-flood her eyes, trailing down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. Her lips seemed bitten and swollen, red already like she had been gnawing and chewing at them since the moment they had stepped outside. She looked so sad as she attempted to stare him down resolutely, but it would take an imbecile to not know that all she wanted was to be held, by the very man who just broke her heart.

“I could deal with the teasing,” she began, wiping at her face, “I could deal with the taunting and the mean words, and you saying rude things -- I didn’t. . .it’s annoying, but it’s manageable but this -- this I -- you’re awful!” Fresh tears pool over her face, “I know you hate him, I know you don’t like me, but to -- to show me that? I already knew I didn’t have a chance, you remind me every day, but you didn’t need to show me. What do you get out of -- out of being such a dick?”

Stunned, Harry looked at her earnestly, “Listen, I didn’t know they were out there! How could I have orchestrated something like that? As far as I was concerned the prick was still chatting up the others in the ballroom,” he shook his head, “I’m an asshole, I know that, but even I am not as cruel as to show you the man you care for entangled with another. You must believe me.” Her chest heaves as she squints at him, searching his face for any sign of falsehood. “Why would I lie to you, Chambermaid? What would I gain from that, hm?” He reasoned with her, “If I had any part in this, would I have not taken credit immediately? You know me well enough to realize I would have.”

Her shoulders sink in defeat as she finally recognizes he was right, “Still,” she barely spoke above a whisper, “You didn’t need to laugh at me.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you. It was the situation as a whole, and how dumb he looked that made me chuckle..” Sighing, he switches the glass of wine to his left hand as he reaches out toward her face with the right. Harry is gentle as he caresses her wet cheeks, wiping away the tears from her skin with the pad of his thumb, “Pitiful little thing,” he cooed at her, using his knuckles to rub against the other cheek as she hiccuped, “You’re all worked up, over such a prat.”

What possesses Harry to cradle her face in his hand? He isn’t sure; probably the same thing that possessed him to invite her to his chambers after her eyelids flutter closed and she melts into his touch, “Come to my room. You don’t have to do anything, you may just rest for a little while. Ought to make the fucker squirm if he can’t find you, don’t you think?”

Y/N, broken and melancholy, nods her head and allows him to grab her wrist again, only this time it is to direct her through the halls to his room. It was clearly understood by both parties that she knew better than anyone all the different routes to take to get to each and every single room in the castle, but neither spoke of it. Y/N quietly lets him guide her, and Harry makes note of the way her pulse drums against his fingertips.

They make it to his room with no fuss and no interruptions. Harry presses her in first and closes the door with a click behind them. The party sounded a village away from them now, as she stood helplessly in the middle of his room, unsure of what to do if she was not working for him. Harry huffs a laugh through his nose, setting the wine glass down on his dresser, “Sit on the bed, and direct me how to start a fire.”

Her face pinched in confusion, “Sir? Should I not just start the fire myself?”

“I told you that you may rest for a while. What would I look like to say that, then put you to work immediately?” He goes to grab the basket of pine needles from near his mirror, only knowing that this was a part of it because he’d watched his servants add them, “Surely, it can’t be that hard. Little known fact, Chambermaid,” he lowers to his knees, and grabs the iron and flint that were typically left in a bucket beside the fireplace itself, “I fear very little. I should be frightened of fires due to an incident back when I was younger, but I am not scared. Pretty doughty of me, wouldn’t you say?” Harry neglects to mention that he had probably shoved the memories so deep down in his brain he couldn’t remember how it felt to be scared of it.

Y/N laughs a little, but she still sounds so tired, “Very doughty, Sir,” she began, “I. . .I think I also had a brush with fire. It still scares me some.”

“How’d you get past that?” He reaches into the bucket of pine needles, sprinkling them in between the logs that had already been replaced that evening -- now that he thinks about it, Harry believes Y/N is the one who brought these into his room. She preferred being almost over-prepared and he believes this is why she’s able to work so quickly.

He hears the bedframe shift when she takes a seat, and Harry tosses a look back to see that she was sat on the very edge of a corner. It almost makes him chuckle aloud -- he guesses it would make sense that a servant wouldn’t be comfortable sitting on a prince’s bed, no matter the fact that they were the ones preparing it each night. Harry doesn’t press the issue. He isn’t going out of his way to be kind to her, but he did decide that he would give her a little bit of a break, from both her duties and from his torment. It’s the least he could offer, after unintentionally subjecting her to what he had.

“I don’t think I ever really got past it,” she finally answered him, “But I am made to do fires often, and few people of the court accept a chambermaid ignoring a fire because she’s “scared” of it. Now that I think about it, if I would have told you, I think you might have put me on fire duty each and every night from the start.”

Harry hums lowly, “As intriguing as that thought is, I wouldn’t have,” he strikes the iron against the piece of flint -- he’d learned how to create a fire long ago actually, he’d only asked her to direct him so he could get her talking but she seemed to be doing just fine with their conversation as is, “Fire is the one thing I don’t push when it comes to people. Had you told me you hated fire, I would have agreed with you and found a separate way to trouble you.”

It takes a few tries but Harry eventually does get the fire started, pridefully turning to face her with a gentle grin, “I’m not just a pretty face, you know?”

Y/N had a faraway look in her eyes until he spoke, and when her gaze met his, it seemed like her lips were moving before her brain could catch up, “Prince Harry? You said. . .you said once that if I were to ever -- if I were to ever be with Edgar, I couldn’t be inexperienced.”

Harry stares at her for a moment, his mind bubbling up with potential responses before he settles on a heavy sigh, plopping down to the floor on his bum, resting his forearms on his knees, “So I take it this wasn’t enough to curb your feelings, huh?” She is quiet, her eyes suggest she’s not proud of herself for it, “Well, you’re a loyal one, I’ll give you that much Yes, I said you couldn’t be inexperienced, but as I recall you told me you weren’t a virgin/”

She shook her head adamantly, “Because I’m not! I haven’t been since I was 17, but I certainly am not experienced in much else other than. . .um. . .like, the normal stuff.”

A snort leaves him, “The normal stuff? And what might that be, Chambermaid?”

The look on her face gives Harry a small thrill up his spine, as he bites down hard on his bottom lip while she fights for the words to say, her brows pinched inward, “You know like. . .intercourse, in itself, Sir. He -- we, um -- we did it.”

“You’re more pathetic than you look, d’ya know that?” Harry ran the pad of his thumb over his brow, questioning the pit of disgust that plants in his belly at the thought of Y/N in bed with someone else. . .it’s an odd feeling; he wasn’t necessarily jealous, because he had no reason to be, but he definitely was something. How odd. “Well, you’d definitely want to know more than just someone sticking their cock in you, that’s for sure.”

“But how am I supposed to practice?” She tilted her head some, “I don’t know anybody to do it with. The only other person I would have chosen might have been Charlie, but he and Miri have decided to officially start dating.”

Harry knows for sure that the prospect of Y/N practicing with some random servant sends a cold chill down his spine. Like cold slick tendrils, slithering through his gut, laying eggs and setting his stomach heavy. There’s this feeling again. . .it was unusually nagging, pulling at his better judgment and he wished to do away with it immediately. If it wasn’t jealousy, then what the fuck was it? Had he ever felt this way regarding someone before?

“Would,” Y/N began, shuffling, managing to make Harry’s incredibly comfortable bed look like a mattress made of hot coal and steel, “Sir, I know this is a lot to ask but do you think that perhaps. . .perhaps you can teach me? I don’t have to touch you or anything!” She rushes the last part out, Harry thinks it was probably due to his eyes widening -- for as meek as she is, her even suggesting it would be seen as audacious, let alone actually asking him, “I know it may be an unsavory thought to allow me to touch you in any way other than what is necessary, and for that reason, I only wondered if you could talk me through it?”

In his time on this earth, Harry had learned early that he did not like to be the one caught off guard. For this reason, he forces his face to relax, a smirk replacing his once agape mouth, as he turns it back around onto her “Do you have a crush on me as well, Chambermaid? Who knew you could be so filthy!”

“No!” She denied quickly, “No, I just thought it would be easier because. . .well, you know the situation already and everything, I wouldn’t have to explain myself.”

“I can say your taste has become remarkably better if this is true,” he continued, “I’m by far the better looking out of Edgar and me, and it’s about time you see that. For this reason, I’ll help you.”

Her whole body relaxes, and she smiles gently, “Thank you!” It’s the most expressive he’s seen her being happy, and she claps her hands together once, “I promise I will not take this for granted, Sir! I will do my best to learn very well.”

Harry ignores the small flutter in his heart.

“Go get honey from the kitchen,” he instructed her, “Then you’ll come back and prepare a bath for me.”

. . .

Y/N has always worked quickly, but it appeared to be twice as fast tonight; if she was nervous that he wanted to start so soon to her telling him, then she hid it well. Even Harry wasn’t sure why he was so eager to begin, but as he’d been doing with most of his feelings tonight, he thought it would be best had he not questioned it too deeply. It had been a while since he’d done anything intimate with anyone, so it was normal for him to be excited. Cumming by something other than his hand would be relieving, even if it was just her palm in replacement.

She drew the bath, filled it with petals, and washed his hair for him as she usually does. There was a tension in the air that could be sliced through, both occupied with the anticipation of what was to come, though Harry pretended that it was only her who was waiting for something. As he was walking up the stairs and removing himself from the tub, he teased her, “I may be willing to help you, Chambermaid, but that does not mean you’re allowed to stare at my cock so openly.”

“I was not!” Y/N exclaimed, “I was looking at your feet, Sir, I always do to make sure you don’t step in a puddle.”

Harry knew this because whenever she did see he was about to step in a puddle she was quick to throw a towel down and have him step on it instead -- but still, he recants, “Likely story,” he held out his arms so she could slide his robe on, “I’ve got a pretty one, so I understand why you’re gawking.”

Y/N is twitching and jittery as she shows him she got the honey and had even brought a cup of tea with her out of the assumption that was what the honey was for. It made him laugh when she asked how much he wanted in his cup, before he tutted his tongue, and sought out the glass of wine he’d brought in there earlier. “Do you like mulberry wine?” He inquired, and Y/N looked at him with uncertainty -- almost like it was a trick question.

“We are not allowed to have mulberry wine, Sir. That is reserved for those of the court.”

“You’ve never snuck a sip?” Harry watches her closely as her hands nurse the honey between them as she shakes her head, “Would you like to try it?”

Her eyes widened, “Really?”

“What reason would I have to lie?” He motioned for her to come closer to him, where he stood near the post of his bed. She had been standing idly to his seating area beside the fire, but it took her no time to come closer to him. Harry swirled the wine around in the bowl of the cup, “Reserved for the court, hm? Well, we wouldn’t want you to get in trouble for trying it. Perhaps if it was offered from the mouth of a prince -- do you think that would do?”

“I am -- I am unsure what you mean.” She admitted to him, and it almost made him chuckle -- for as smart as she could be, she was quite clueless at times.

So Harry tips the glass back and takes the wine between his lips, he holds it instead of swallowing and takes her by the jaw carefully. Y/N squeaks when Harry draws down on her bottom lip presses his mouth to hers and pushes the wine from his tongue to hers. Some of it dribbles down her chin, a thin red stain left like a creature of the night who’d just fed, “Swallow,” he reminded her and she did, still looking dazed by what had happened, her eyes remaining puffy from her crying earlier, “Good?”

“Very good, Sir,” she answered quickly, “Thank you.”

He nodded and granted her a smile, “Good. From now on if you have wine, you’ll take it from my mouth. Understand?”

“Yes.” She wiped the wine from her face.

Harry switches her the wine glass for the honey pot, telling her to set it on his nightstand while he pulls the tie of his robe. The cloth fell open, revealing first his torso and then his prick which had been getting harder and harder -- what they were about to do was finally settling into his brain. He shivered as he lowered to the mattress, sitting near the edge and stretching out so he was leaning on his elbows. When Y/N finally turned around to face him, she looked away from him bashfully, “What do you know about sucking someone off, hm?”

Clearing her throat, she plays with her fingers, “I don’t know much, Sir. Only that it involves putting the. . .in your mouth.”

“The ‘what’, Chambermaid? You’ll have to be more specific.”

Her brows furrow and her gaze meets his, “You know what. Don’t make me say it.”

“You’ll need to get used to saying it, but since it is your first time I suppose I’ll let it slide. Don’t expect me to always be so kind,” he told her, “You put someone’s cock in your mouth, sure, but there is much more to it than that. There is build-up, edging. . .a lot goes into it that you need to know about to fully satisfy your partner.”

She nodded as she maintained hard eye contact -- it was the first time she’d looked into his eyes for this long, but he reckons it has more to do with her trying desperately not to look at his prick than it did her feeling confident, “And Prince Edgar likes that?”

“Most people like that done to them if they’ve got a cock,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I do know that he once went soft in a woman’s mouth because she wasn’t very good. That would haunt me for weeks if someone went soft in my mouth of all places -- wouldn’t it for you?” Y/N agrees quietly as Harry pries the robe open more, “Now it can be hard knowing where and how to lick, so I thought it would be easier if you had something to guide you. You like honey, don’t you, Chambermaid? I recall you saying you enjoy it in your tea.”

“I do,” she motioned toward the honey, “You want me to lick it off of you?”

Harry hums, “Yes, I think that would be easiest. Now, if at any time you want to stop and if even now you do not want to start -- tell me immediately and we will end it. You will not be punished, I am no monster. This is for your benefit, so we will tailor it to you -- I do not wish for you to be uncomfortable or in pain. Alright?”

“Of course! I -- thank you very much.”

“Don’t thank me for basic human decency,” he took the handle of the honey dipper between his fingers, spinning it around a few times before slowly withdrawing it from the pot -- he slid it across his torso. Some on his chest, some along his tummy in different spots, spots at the dip of his hips, and down to his thighs. He drops the dipper back into the pot, “Come now.”

Y/N comes to him cautiously, like he was a sleeping bear in the woods, before standing awkwardly in front of him. She was still in her gown for the party, and she wrings the skirt between her hands, eyes shifted off to stare at the side of the bed like there was something written in the blankets. Harry chuckled, tutting his tongue, “You’re so tense -- relax. I’m not going to bite you.”

“I know,” she sighed, “I am just very nervous. I want to be good, but I know that takes practice. Still, I don’t want -- I don’t want you to go soft in my mouth.”

It was endearing. . .her want and strive to be good was very endearing, Harry found. It was right then that Harry understood how pleased he was that she asked him to help.

“I hardly think that’s possible,” Harry attempted to comfort her, “Just try your best.”

Sure, Harry would tease her when she became more comfortable but he would be gentle as was possible for him right now. This was something new, and despite his cock being out, he would bet she felt more vulnerable than even he did. She doesn’t tremble, but she’s slow and steady as she leans her body over his, resting her arms on either side of him to keep her at least partially steady as she hovers. Harry felt a small shiver trip down his spine when she lowered her head, and her tongue touched tentatively, and very gently against the honey just below his chest. His cock twitches in interest as she lulls over the spot again then lifts her head to look at him -- they were much closer than he anticipated.

“Like that?”

“Exactly like that,” he murmured, “Keep going.”

Her response is a small, proud smile before she ducks back down and more confidently drag her tongue along another strip of honey between the crevice of his pecs. Who would have thought the chambermaid he’d been tormenting could make him feel fond? He was feeding off her want to do well -- nobody really tried hard to impress Harry anymore, and even if, in the end, this was because she wanted to impress someone else. . .well, he enjoyed it. Enjoyed how wet her tongue felt as she dragged it against his skin, the way she began to scoot down lower, tasting what was on his tummy, and how he felt her smile when she suckled the dollop in the dip of his lower hip.

By the time she had licked it all off of his chest, belly, and sides, Harry was already fully hard. She’d unintentionally been pressing it down with her body until she lowered down to her knees and Harry pressed himself up to a sitting position. His cock bobs as he shifts closer to the edge of the bed, the tip already flushed a ruddy red and precum threatening to bubble at the tip. Harry was maybe a little too aroused, but fuck it was hard not to be this turned on. He was all about the build-up -- the gradual rise in foreplay, as it got more desirous and eager. Y/N hadn’t reached that point yet, as she was still slow, calm, and calculated in her movements -- but Harry was reaching it. He wanted the edge, sure, but he wanted her tongue on him more than that.

It was just because he’s been pent up, he tells himself -- that would make sense. He just needs to cum so badly it’s making him impatient, but for her, he tries to keep pace. This isn’t for him, or at least not entirely. He was helping her because he benefited from it, sure, but they were not focusing solely on his pleasure. It was meant to be a learning experience that Y/N could not have with anyone else, Harry decided, without his feelings being a little weird about it.

He took the honey dipper once more and spun it around in the viscous fluid, and dribbled some around his thighs, all leading closer to his cock that stood proudly now. Y/N regarded it with awe, and Harry bit down on his bottom lip before speaking, “Biggest you’ve seen, isn’t it?”

“Your cocksure ways make much more sense now,” she tells him, then continued her ministrations only this time on his thighs -- she was diligent in licking all of the honey off of him, and Harry’s cock twitched and throbbed each time she drew closer to it. The whole scene before him was obscenely erotic, like something he would have seen in the naughty paintings they sell in the back of some stores in the village below them. He was wet at the tip, slick and close to dripping. Her tongue was soft and delicate and keen on pleasing. Each time she pauses to move to a different spot, she looks up to him as if she’s asking if it felt good, and each time he gives a small, wordless nod to assure her.

When she finished cleaning him of the honey, she sat back on her knees and waited for his next instruction, “See how hard I am?” Harry took the pad of his index finger, and starting from the base of this shaft he strokes up the center, toward the head, then swirls it around in liquid oozing from him, “This is how hard you want them to be before you even touch it with your tongue.”

“What if they aren’t that hard though?” She asks him, and it seems to be physically difficult for her to tear her eyes from his cock and it makes him smug -- everyone always gets caught up when he’s like this in front of them.

“Then they aren’t worth your time,” he answered quickly, “You’ve done well to get me like this, and I’m a hard man to please, Chambermaid. Good job.” Once again, the soft smile that fits upon her mouth out of pride in her ability is enough to make him twitch. He withdraws his finger from the tip and takes the precum that clung to it toward her mouth. Harry rubs it over her lips, “Have a taste.”

Y/N timidly traces her lips with her tongue, lulling over them slowly and somehow managing to be unintentionally seductive in doing so, “You have such a lewd little mouth,” he utters, mostly to himself, “Open up.” Obediently, she listens, relaxing her jaw and allowing him to dip two fingers against her tongue, “Have you ever had an ice lolly? Practice with these fingers, Puppy, keep your teeth covered and I’ll see about giving you a treat.”

Brows furrowed, she squints at him but swirls her tongue around his fingers, lapping and licking between them. She suckles on them and makes good on keeping her teeth covered for the most part, apart from a few scrapes here and there. He pets down, feeling the texture of her taste buds, but when Y/N tries to take more of him he scolds her, “Be careful,” he murmured, “Take them slowly and stop when it’s too much -- there is no need to impress me.” Nodding as much as she could, she sticks to where she is, her lips wrapped around his first set of knuckles.

At some point Harry feels her huff a harsh breath through her nose like she wasn’t taking enough air in at a time, so he withdrew his fingers, mindful of the spit that clung to them, “Remember to breathe. Don’t want you passing out with your mouth on someone.”

“Is -- is it good? Am I doing the right things with my tongue?”

He has to take a small, deep breath to ground himself -- god, this was turning him on almost too much, “You’re doing well at experimenting. It’s important to try different things and pay attention to the reaction you’re getting, both from the person’s face, sounds, and the cock in your mouth. Then you adapt it to them.”

Y/N sighs, “This is a lot more work than I thought,” she explained to him, “Edith says she just holds her mouth open and lets people do what they wish.”

“Well, that’s certainly one way to do it. Everyone likes separate things, it just depends on who you’re with, and it comes easier with time. Like horseback riding or summat.”

It is unfamiliar to be this way, Harry finds. There are not many opportunities that anyone comes to Harry for advice about anything at all -- even if the subject matter is quite smutty, it still feels nice. Even more so when she seems receptive to his directions and the things he’s telling her.

He took the hand that she was sucking on his fingers from, and wrapped them loosely around his cock, giving himself one pump to relieve some of the pressure that had begun to build. A small groan leaves his throat as his eyes flutter closed and he pumped a second time. He had to be slow about it, and incredibly light -- he thinks all the suspense and preparation for it was really getting to him. That, coupled with the unadulterated urge to please him that Y/N was oozing out of every pore. . .he’d have to be careful not to cum as soon as she put her mouth on him. It would be difficult.

“I think I can do it without the honey -- licking you, I mean,” she says suddenly, “I didn’t mind how you tasted from what you rubbed on my lips, and all that honey will rot my teeth.”

For fuck sake -- this would be incredibly difficult.

“Alright,” he began, and reached for her mouth again -- this time she opens up without him having to move or say anything, and it makes his cock twitch, “You’re going to rub your tongue,” he made a show of touching her tongue again, then taking it out of her mouth, and caressing his shaft once more, “And take one long lick from base to tip. From there I’m going to let you take the reins and explore some. Do as I said and try to find out what I like, then modify and adjust your technique to match it.”

Y/N barely gives him time to blink before she’s on him, wet and soft, her tongue slides up his shaft toward the head and he throbs against her because of it. The sound that leaves him is somewhere around a startled moan, not expecting her to begin so quickly -- she must have been anxious to. Or she was eager. . .maybe she had finally reached the point where it was difficult for her to wait. The thought of that nearly makes him cum, but he focuses on his breathing until he calms down.

She takes experimenting literally, from little kitten licks to sliding the broad of her tongue around the crown. When she finally decides to take him into her mouth, she only pulls the very tip in to practice sucking on just that, and Harry feels himself twitching. His fingers dig into the sheets (the honey pot that had been in his hand, he’d balanced carefully on the bed-frame at the foot of the bed but it would wobble if he moved too much) as he watches her swollen, reddened lips pull in a little bit at a time.

It’s when she dips her tongue into his slit that Harry’s hips thrust up restlessly, shoving more into her mouth when a helpless mewl tears from his chest, “Ah, fuck,” he murmured, sliding his fingers into her hair and giving her a short tug, “Sorry -- you surprised me.”

Blinking at him, she catches her breath for a moment, “That was a good -- a good sound, right?”

“Of course it was,” he answered honestly, and he had more to say -- more to praise her with -- but he’s distracted by the pin still tucked into her hair. He gripped it between his fingers, “This cheap thing,” he uttered, pulling it from the carefully crafted bun it’d been placed into, tossing it to the side on the bed, “I know he gave it to you, but get rid of it. I wasn’t lying when I said he’d gotten it for someone else.”

Her mood seems to dampen at the reminder, shoulders slumping, “I know but. . .it was still a gift.”

Harry exhales, a small shake of his head, “You’re hopeless, aren’t you, Sweetheart? It’s pitiful,” he uses his knuckle to run across her spit-slicked lips, “I guess it can’t be helped. I’ll find you one actually worth something so you see what a worthless, cheap bastard he is.” She nipped at his knuckle -- almost like a little warning -- and despite the context of it, it kept his mood from souring, “Right then, get your tongue back on my cock before your unrequited love depresses me.”

Y/N dips back in, pulling the tip back into her mouth with no preamble to it. It is sloppy, the deeper she takes him in, the more she drools, but she tries to keep her tongue swirling and moving as she hollows her cheeks to give him a proper suck. More precum drips from his cock into her mouth, so she does it again, this time adding a small bob of her head -- he doesn’t expect it, which makes his thighs quiver slightly. He keeps his hand curled up in her hair but not to force her down, but when his fingers curl up tightly and he gives a slight pull with another throb against her tongue -- she pulls off. Her brows are pinched, and she almost looks frustrated that she stopped.

The scene is so lewd, though -- the look on her face, the way her eyes are still a little watery from when he thrusted in too far, all the spit and precum attaching her mouth to the head of his prick.

“I didn’t even go too deeply that time,” she whined, “Why did you stop me? I wanted to keep going.”

His heart is racing against his chest -- how could she be this unintentionally lascivious and cute?

“I wasn’t stopping you,” he murmured, “I pulled on your hair because I felt good. There’s a little bit of a difference between me tugging you off and just clutching tightly,” he then adds, a smirk on his mouth, “You wanted to keep going, huh? Why is that?”

She shuffles impatiently, shifting her weight from knee-to-knee, “I like the sounds you’re making,” she admits to him, “And the feel of it in my mouth. Your cheeks are all rosy too, I wondered if they would get pinker when you finished.”

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, he chews on it for a moment, taking in her words, letting them roll around and settle in his belly, “When you get back on me, I’m probably going to cum,” he murmured, “Whether you swallow it or not is up to you. It’ll be a mouthful, so when you feel me throb tip it to your cheek so you don’t choke on it.”

The notice doesn’t deter her -- Y/N takes him back in with double the fervor and enthusiasm she had before, only this time she adds her hand and wraps her fingers around what she couldn’t fit in her mouth. Harry’s eyelids flutter, his head tips back and he whimpers when the first wave of his orgasm flushed through him. It’s a lot — too much — like static running through his veins and fizzling throughout his body. Rope after rope empties into her mouth, and when it gets too full, she pops off of him, and he shoots one more over her face before the rest is dribbling over her lips.

He expects her to spit it out, but Y/N swallows it and gives a wet gasp shortly after. Harry laughs breathlessly, finally letting his fingers fall from her hair as he rests back on his arm, his torso stretched out before her, “How’s it taste?”

“I like it,” her chest rises and falls quickly as she sucks in air, “I thought I wouldn’t but I liked it.”

Harry thumbs away at the cum on her cheek, dipping it against her lips, “Who would have thought the Chambermaid was a cum whore? I bet your pussy’s wet too. Shall I Tell the others or will you?” He taunts her as she takes his thumb into her mouth, licking it off.

“You’re mean and vulgar and obnoxious, Your Highness,” she grumbled, “And you’re not allowed to yell at or punish me for saying it because I made you cum.”

Harry laughs as he plucks her bottom lip.

“Sure, Chambermaid. I’ll let it slide this once.”

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