My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

Hermione continued dancing with Ulrich, stepping along beside him with far more determination than Esther had shown.

Unlike her younger sister, Hermione was not content to simply let herself be carried entirely by his lead.

Esther, for all her nervousness, had trusted Ulrich almost completely. She had let him guide the dance, let him choose the rhythm, let him steady her through every step, and perhaps that had suited Esther’s nature. Esther liked being taken care of by him. She liked the safety of it, and so she had surrendered herself to his lead without resistance.

Hermione, however, was not Esther.

Even if she was the follower, even if the structure of the dance clearly placed the lead in the man’s hands, she still refused to give herself over so easily. Elana had taught them that a proper dance was never the work of one person alone. Yes, there was a leader and there was a follower, but the follower was not meant to be lifeless. She had to respond, adapt, offer something back, show grace, intention, and presence.

And Hermione, proud as she was, took that lesson perhaps more seriously than most.

She disliked too many things about noble customs already. She disliked the way women, especially noble women, were so often displayed like ornaments, praised for beauty, dressed in elegance, and then expected to move around the world at the command of men. She had no desire to become one more obedient figure who simply yielded and looked pretty while doing it.

So no, she was not going to let Ulrich take complete control of the dance without giving something back.

That did not mean she was better at dancing.

Far from it.

Of the three sisters, Hermione was definitely the least fluid. Esther had an unexpectedly soft grace once she relaxed, and Airam was surprisingly very good at it. Hermione, on the other hand, tended to overthink every step. She learned quickly, yes, but she was sharper than she was graceful, and that showed even here.

Still, she worked hard.

Very hard.

Her eyes kept dropping to Ulrich’s shoes and then to her own, matching angles, counting timing, forcing herself to understand the exact rhythm of his pace so she could insert herself into it rather than merely trail after him. It was difficult too, far more difficult than she liked, because Ulrich was annoyingly, shockingly good at dancing.

He moved too well.

Too naturally.

And because of that, trying to keep up with him while also preserving some sense of her own input became a quiet battle in itself. At one point, without noticing, Hermione’s hand at his side tightened slightly as she pressed into the rhythm, trying to impose a little more of herself into the flow of the dance.

Ulrich noticed that slight change quickly.

His gaze lowered to her.

Hermione immediately felt as if she had been caught doing something improper.

Her eyes darted up to meet his for half a second before she blushed and looked away again.

"Y—You are surprisingly good at dancing," she stammered out.

Ulrich’s expression did not change.

"I learned," he replied in the driest tone possible.

Hermione almost winced.

It had been a stupid thing to say.

Of course he had learned. Every noble had to learn the Skargardian Waltz. It was hardly some mysterious talent discovered in secret. But that had not been what she meant, and his answer made her feel as though she had blurted out something obvious in front of a tutor.

She sent him a faint, offended glare.

"I—I meant," she corrected herself quickly, "you do not look like someone who would dance this well."

Ulrich looked at her in silence.

The answer was not entirely simple.

Yes, he had learned from childhood as any noble boy of rank would have. But that alone was not the whole of it. There was also the faint residue of another life, another self, another time. Some habits had carried strangely across the distance between lives, and among them were memories of Faith.

The memory came so suddenly that Ulrich’s brows drew together for the briefest moment into a rare, slight frown.

Hermione noticed it at once.

It vanished almost immediately.

He controlled his face too well for it to remain there longer than a breath. He was Ulrich Van Rubenhart, and whatever lived beneath that name, whatever belonged to another life, another world, another grief, he had long since learned not to show it openly.

Still, Hermione had seen enough.

"Are you upset about something?" She asked before she could stop herself.

Ulrich’s gaze returned fully to her.

At once Hermione regretted speaking.

She looked away again, flustered.

"I—It is not like I am concerned," she said too quickly. "I am only making conversation. Elana said it is good to make conversation during dances..."

The last part came out smaller than she intended.

"I am not," Ulrich said shortly.

That answer should have ended it.

Hermione wanted, very badly, to say something else. Anything else. Mostly because silence only made her more aware that she was dancing with him, that his hand was at her side, that her own hand still rested against him, that every turn seemed to make her heart thump louder in her chest.

So she grabbed the first other subject that came to mind.

Unfortunately, it was one that had been bothering her from the beginning.

"W—Who was the lady you danced with first?" She asked, trying to sound disinterested.

However, the words came out with more force than she had intended, almost as though she had been holding them in longer than she realized.

She remembered seeing them together before. That woman had been smiling at him far too comfortably, and the whole exchange had looked irritating for reasons Hermione preferred not to examine too closely. Ulrich had claimed not to care for dancing, yet there he had been, stepping onto the floor with a very pretty noblewoman who seemed pleased with herself.

"Louise Van Rommels," Ulrich answered.

Hermione blinked.

"R—Rommels?" she repeated, startled. "That annoying boy’s sister?"

The reaction slipped out before she could smooth it into anything more polite.

At once Ethan’s face returned to her mind, that fake smile, too smooth to be sincere, stretched over the same smugness she had seen in the other boys who mocked them. He had been the one leading that little cluster before, carrying himself as if he were charming when he was only false.

Ulrich glanced at her.

Hermione pressed on before she could lose courage.

"The one who went to ask the princess for a dance first," she said. "He had that very fake smile. It looked almost pasted onto his face."

A faint pause followed.

Then, to Hermione’s surprise, the corner of Ulrich’s mouth moved just slightly.

"I do not like him," Hermione replied quickly.

"They are not all like that," Ulrich said.

The words came easily enough, but even as he said them, he did not fully believe them.

At the very least, he wanted to think this ugliness came from youth. From immaturity. From noble children raised too softly and praised too often. Yet even that excuse rang hollow. At their age, he did not remember being this insolent. This petty. This stupid in such a public and graceless manner.

They were nobles.

They should have known better than to behave like spoiled brats.

Hermione’s mouth tightened.

"They are all like that," she said. "And I do not want to see them again. They made Esther cry."

Ulrich looked down at her.

"You are part of House Rubenhart now," he said. "You will see them again."

Hermione bit her lower lip slightly.

That answer was not comforting in the slightest.

"And then what?" She asked, lifting her gaze to him again. "Do we just stand there and listen to their mockery and insults while staying silent?"

Ulrich’s expression did not change.

"If you do not wish for that," he said, "then force them to respect you."

Hermione blinked.

"What?"

Ulrich guided her through another turn before answering.

"They may hate you now," he said, "but you already possess everything needed to make them respect you."

He did not elaborate further.

He did not need to.

Hermione understood exactly what he meant.

Talent.

She had it.

So much of it that even those who disliked her would never be able to deny it forever. Whether in magic, intelligence, or sheer stubborn will, Hermione knew she had been given something extraordinary. She had always known it, even if she sometimes lacked the words to say it aloud without sounding arrogant.

Her fingers tightened slightly in his hand as the thought appeared.

"If I became an Archmage," she mumbled, almost to herself, "they would have no choice but to respect me..."

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