Chapter Text
Once a year, every year, Hermione Granger took a trip to see her parents. It was a torture she inflicted upon herself, checking in on her parents who had no idea who she was. She would watch them from afar, assuring herself of their happiness, then have a good long cry in her hotel room afterward. Her friends understood why she had to do it, although they did beg her not to go alone, offering to share the burden with her. But this was a problem she created, two lives she altered forever because of her decisions. As such, it was a weight she bore alone.
The taste in her mouth was particularly bitter this year, because she was in dire need of advice from her parents. She had recently quit her job working for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, having been unable to make headway in changing antiquated laws. Her department heads looked down upon her, the brightest witch of her age, thinking her the same naive schoolgirl that knit hats for elves. They burdened her with depressing grunt work, refused to listen to her ideas, and halted progress at every turn.
In some ways, the wizarding world hadn’t changed at all following the war.
At least no one was presently trying to eradicate muggleborns. They had reached the bare minimum. Hooray.
Finally, the week prior, Hermione had reached her limit. She quit on a whim, leaving her office stunned into silence after a long-winded rant on basic rights and decency that ended with her tossing her security badge in the trash.
Harry, Ron, and Ginny supported her decision, although they questioned whether she may have acted too harshly in the moment. What her next move was, she had no idea. And she could really use her mom right now.
Hermione breathed through the tears that threatened to fall as she watched her mom in the garden. Monica Wilkins pulled stubborn weeds from the ground and deposited them in a nearby basket with a content smile on her face. Wendell was inside, preparing a spot of tea for them both. They were safe. They were happy. They had no idea who Hermione Granger was.
Mission complete, and heart thoroughly shattered, Hermione ambled down the sidewalk back toward her hotel. She wasn’t too keen on being inside and alone with her thoughts at the moment, so she took a detour down another street, extending the length of her walk. It’s not as though she had any work waiting for her, or anyone to answer to.
The pleasantness of Australia’s autumn weather felt contradictory to her dark and sour mood. Picture perfect clouds dotted a bright blue sky over her head. Even still, a cold feeling of loneliness crept into her bones. It invaded her blood, preventing any of the natural serotonin that beautiful days were supposed to produce. Hermione had no job, no family, and no real home to escape to. Her apartment in London was simply a means of habitation, devoid of life and love. She cursed her own thoroughness for destroying every last photo, memento, and keepsake she had of her parents for fear someone would inevitably discover them during the war.
It was times like this, in these rare, desperate moments, that Hermione almost regretted not running away from the war completely. Almost regretting joining the Order. Almost regretted fighting beside Harry.
Times when the cold feeling became so intense it nearly burned, and she almost regretted surviving the war at all. Thought that, perhaps, she was meant to die in Malfoy Manor, and her survival defied fate’s plans for her, thus dooming her to an empty-depressing half-life for the rest of her sorry days. Condemned to watch her only connections to this earth settle into the lives they always wanted, the lives they deserved, while she remained in stasis. A corpse suspended in formaldehyde watching life go by through the glass of her coffin.
Hermione could never, ever fault her friends for finding happiness where she could not. Harry, Ginny, and Ron deserved everything that was good in the world. She just found it hard to stand by and watch, sometimes.
Not that they didn’t try to include her. But it was different. Ron and Ginny have no idea how it feels to be without family. Harry understood better, but his childhood traumas have been soothed with knitted sweaters and cauldron cakes and Molly Weasley’s famous hugs. He was basically a Weasley, in every way that mattered, where Hermione never felt she quite fit in the clan. No matter how many times they dragged her to the Burrow and called her “sister” and tried to marry her off to Ron, Hermione still felt the “not-quiteness” of it all. The Weasley family was a bright and colorful puzzle, but despite how much Hermione shrunk herself down and blunted her edges, she just didn’t fit. It was exhausting.
Her and Ron gave it a go, but it quickly became clear they were never meant to be more than friends. It was a mutual decision. If anything, they became closer friends after realizing it was all they would ever be.
But even though her friends loved her, and she loved them, there was a noticeable distance between the Gryffindors that only grew as the years went by. It seemed everyone was content to move on while Hermione was stuck in place.
At least, during the war, she had a role to play. A purpose. She was essential, she was necessary. As fucked-up as it sounds, Hermione felt more assured of herself during the war than after it, despite coming out victorious.
Without work to distract her, Hermione had to come to terms with that reality.
A lone tear fell down her cheek and she sniffled, brushing it away. She had stopped on the sidewalk next to a tall iron fence. She leaned her forehead against the bars, which stood at least a foot taller than her, shutting her eyes tightly. She gripped the iron spires, praying they would center her, anchor her.
She hadn’t noticed the tiny figure on the other side.
“Why are you crying?”
Startled from her maudlin thoughts, Hermione struggled to shove all evidence of her impending breakdown behind an impassive mask.
A little boy with white blond hair and steel gray eyes had his face pressed up against the fence, peering through the iron bars at her. He, too, had red-rimmed eyes. The visual tugged at something in her brain, but she wasn’t calmed down enough to identify it.
The boy was watching her expectantly. Based on his size alone, she would guess he was roughly 5 years old. His eyes, however…. She saw a sorrow in them well beyond his years. It broke her heart, seeing pain that rivaled her own reflected back at her from a sad, scared, likely lost child.
He tapped the bars with his fingers, an impatient look marring his cherub cheeks. The tiny sneer tugged on her brain again.
“Well?” he demanded. “It’s impolite to stare.”
She nearly laughed at the prim and proper tone coming from such an unlikely source. Nothing better to do than be bossed around by a five year old, she kneeled down on the sidewalk so her face was level with his, separated by the iron bars.
Hermione didn’t know the first thing about little kids. But she figured the truth couldn’t hurt.
“I’m crying because I’m alone,” she explained.
His eyes widened at her. His lips pursed, and tears were welling in his eyes again. His white knuckled grip on the bars concerned her. Godric, had she just made a child cry? Has she stooped so low?
Before she could apologize or leave or find a bloody real adult, he whispered, almost too low for her to hear, “I’m crying because I’m alone, too.”
Taken aback, she couldn’t help asking, “Where are your parents?”
The boy shrugged. “Don’t have a mum. I have a Dad but… he disappeared. I can’t find him.”
She looked around his side of the fence, seeing what looked like a park and a large building beyond. She expected to see a frantic, white haired, gray eyed man any second now…
Her spine stiffened. An image was forming in her mind, one she had no intention of entertaining. It was a coincidence. Yes, coincidence. No one had seen or heard from Draco Malfoy in 6 years. As soon as his acquittal was stamped with Wizengamot approval, Malfoy faded into the background of society. People speculated where he was; some even assumed he was dead. Surely, if he had a child, someone would have published it in the Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly.
“Where did you last see your father?” she asked the boy. “Maybe I can help you find him.”
He only shook his head in disappointment. “A few days ago Dad left for work and Mitsy made me take a nap and when I woke up I was trapped in here,” he waved his hands to the land around and behind him on the other side of the bars.
Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean you woke up here? In a park?”
The boy turned and pointed at the faded letters on the building beyond the park. St. Mary’s Orphanage.
Hermione cringed internally. The poor boy was just a distraught, grieving orphan who thought someone trapped him in there and stole his Dad away. Where were the adults that presided over the children? Who lived here? Did no one have any issue with a complete stranger chatting up a little boy through a playground fence? Not that she was a threat to him, or anything, but on principle! Had no one explained to him how he came to be an orphan? It was a heavy topic for a child, but it had to be better than letting the boy think his father would return-
“My father’s not dead!” the boy suddenly hissed. His face twisted in a sneer she knew all too well. A sneer she would likely never forget.
She leaned away from the bars with a gasp as he waggled a tiny finger. “I can see it in your face. You think he’s dead, too! Well I don’t believe it! Dad is a powerful wizard, he wouldn’t let anyone take him from me. He told me so himself and Dad. Never. Lies!”
“A wizard?” Hermione breathed with raised eyebrows.
The boy rolled his eyes then, a gesture far too sassy for a five year old. He fell back on his butt, wrapping his arms around his knees. Glaring at the ground he muttered, “Muggles never understand.”
The tone, the glare, the petulant pout. It was too much. Fate decided living as a walking corpse was not enough punishment for obliviating her parents and sent her a miniature Malfoy. She laughed. It started as a rueful chuckle, and quickly turned into shoulder shaking, breathtaking cackling as she watched his face morph from anger to horror to mild concern. Each a perfect replica of Malfoy’s young pointy features.
She finally calmed down and wiped a tear from her eye, this one escaping for an entirely different reason than before. “What makes you think I’m a muggle?” she questioned him with a quirk of her brow and a small, teasing smile. “Because I don’t wear robes, or carry a wand in public?”
His eyes bugged out of his head. His jaw dropped dramatically. “You’re a witch!” he accused.
“Shoot, you’ve figured me out,” she teased some more, the ghost of a laugh still on her lips.
The kid looked at her skeptically. “If you’re truly a witch, what house were you in at Hogwarts?”
She nodded in approval at his blatant distrust of strangers. A good trait to have, for a kid. “Gryffindor,” she replied. “Though a hat-stall almost put me in Ravenclaw.”
Hermione had assumed that the mini-Malfoy would sneer and make comments about Slytherin’s superiority, because that’s what the fates had doomed her with, of course. A new bully that she unfortunately could not hex or punch in the face, due to the fact that it’s a child.
Imagine her surprise when he instead shot up in excitement, smiling for the first time in front of her. His smile transformed his face completely, and instead of a mini Malfoy at his worst, she saw the Malfoy that could have been, in a different life. A happy, carefree, joyful Malfoy.
She gazed on, enthralled and confused, as the mini-Malfoy jumped around and clapped his hands with glee. His giggles floated through her ears, passed into her temporal lobe and set off millions upon millions of neurons in her limbic system. Then dopamine and oxytocin released into her amygdala, assuaging her fears and worries. A child’s laughter, this child’s laughter, had just done more for her depression than any mind healer ever could.
Hermione puzzled over the new development while Mini finished up his victory dance.
“F-fan of Gryffindor, huh?” she asked lamely, still the definition of Dazed and Confused.
The Mini was still smiling, though he calmed somewhat and was once again clutching the bars. “Dad told me all about Gryffindors. Itching to risk their lives for the less fort-unate. Brave to the point of self-sacrificing. Savior-complexes bigger than-”
“Alright, alright. I get it. Sort of an overgeneralization, but who am I to judge if that’s the house you want-”
“I don’t want to BE a Gryffindor,” Mini interrupted. “I need one to help me get out of here and find my Dad.”
Suddenly, his little hand reached out and grabbed the collar of her shirt. He fisted it tightly, eyes wide and watery, lower lip wobbling.
“Someone put me in here when I was sleeping,” Mini said in a voice far too serious for his age, though it trembled with a fear he did not hide. “Dad would be here to save me by now if he could. Which means he’s in trouble. Gryffindors save people, right? That's what Dad said. You help the needy. I'm needy and I need help.”
Merlin. When did 5 year olds get so manipulative? The boy knew how to tug on her heartstrings to get the appropriate response, even if his story was unbelievable. Yet he also seemed strangely… genuine. Vulnerable in a way that an aspiring Slytherin would rarely let slip. Despite having oration skills far beyond his age group, she looked at him and remembered what he was. A scared little boy, crying on the edge of the playground, talking to a stranger because he was lonely.
She felt it, that familiar burn of righteousness deep in her belly. An innocent little boy ripped from his only family and shoved in a muggle orphanage where no one would understand him. Where he would be ostracized at the first sign of accidental magic, just like Tom Riddle was. To doom a child to such a fate was cruel and unjust and she could not stand for it!
The mini smiled in triumph at the change in her face, where he must have seen the anger she felt on his behalf.
Before she could jump into this absolute mess head first, she had to know one thing. It was so obvious, and she should have known from that very first moment. Continuing to deny it, to refuse to ask the question, to pretend that maybe she was wrong; it was a fool’s errand. The truth was there, plain as day, and she needed to hear it. Just once, before committing herself to helping the Mini.
She needed to ask him the question so she could come to terms with the answer.
She licked her chapped lips. Drew a shaky breath. “What’s your name?”
He looked at her, confused at the intensity in her voice. Not quite expecting just how emotional Gryffindors got at righteous causes.
“Scorpius,” he answered.
She swallowed hard, closing her eyes. “And what’s your Dad’s name,” she asked in vain, knowing the answer in her heart and still hating it. Hating that she would have to save the ungrateful, pasty arse of the person who hated her most in the world.
“Dad’s name is Draco Malfoy,” the Mini answered, almost in a whisper.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she imagined the sound of scissors closing on empty air, anticipatory clicks gathering closer and closer to her life-string. This was a tremendously stupid idea, but it was also the most alive she felt in 6 years. An adventure, a purpose, a life to save, innocence to protect, adrenaline pumping in her veins.
“My name is Hermione Granger,” she finally told the boy, discreetly using her wand to widen the bars in the fence, allowing him to pass through to her side. “I’ll help you.”
Against all odds, the phantom schnk, schnk, schnk of scissors grew quiet until it faded completely. Breathing came a little easier. There was a distinct rightness in this turn of events, however bizarre they may be. A feeling that had avoided her for many years, no matter how hard she tried to force it.
Scorpius Malfoy shuffled through the gap in the iron bars, eying her warily for the first time without a barrier between them. She was still kneeling on the ground, now with her wand out and discreetly tucked against her side. Her other hand extended toward him.
Scorpius stared at her hand with a discerning expression, so like Malfoy’s that she wondered if she had encountered the first instance of human cloning. But instead of ignoring her outstretched hand or making some witty quip about propriety, as she had come to expect of a Malfoy, he shocked her by throwing his arms around her neck.
The boy was attempting to smother his cries against her shoulder, between soft “thank yous” and “I was really scared.”
Hermione had made an error. She had superimposed her memory of Malfoy on this little boy, forgetting that he was NOT in fact a clone of her old bully hell bent on torturing her, but was instead a scared five year old who missed his dad.
She tentatively wrapped her arms around him, smoothing a hand over his hair. It felt like silk under her fingers. “Shhhh,” she told him. “It’s alright now.”
Was it alright now? Hermione’s plan at this point was half-formed, at best. More of a concept than an actual plan. Go back to England with Scorpius and…tell the Aurors? That crowd was happy to perpetuate the rumors that Malfoy was dead. In fact, they would likely celebrate if she told them Scorpius’s story.
No, Hermione was on her own in this. She might be the only person, aside from Scorpius, that cared whether Draco Malfoy lived or not. Even then, she wasn’t sure why she cared, other than not wanting to see a little boy cry anymore.
She grasped Scorpius by the shoulders and gently extracted his face from her shoulder. He was trying, and failing, to stop the tears running down his face. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the tears and snot from his face, and he let her.
“Where were you and Mal- your Dad living before you ended up here?” she asked. It was a good place to start looking, she supposed.
Scopius rattled off an address. She recognized the area; a suburb of Perth not far from the orphanage. A muggle suburb, shockingly enough.
If Malfoy was still alive, he was likely being held somewhere in Australia. International travel was heavily monitored, and transporting an unconscious or uncooperative former Death Eater out of the continent via floo, portkey, or apparition would surely alert authorities.
An investigation from her London apartment, therefore, would yield little results. She would need to stay in Australia if she was going to see this through. And, though she knew very little about the needs of children, she supposed taking Scorpius from the only home he’s ever known would only inflict further trauma.
Which reminded her of another complicated facet of her bare-bones plan. Where would Scorpius go? Surely she couldn’t leave him here in a muggle orphanage, but as far as she knew, Malfoy had no family left. Lucius received the Kiss and Narcissa’s death was reported in the papers a year later. No one even knew Malfoy had a son.
Except her.
She groaned internally. Curse her knee-jerk reaction to injustice. Scorpius would have to stay with her until she thought of a better idea. A five year old in a hotel room, though? No, she would need to find a rental for them to stay in. He would need clothes and food and other necessities and Hermione was wildly unprepared.
A headache was forming between her eyes and she rubbed the place between her brows with two fingers. This was the problem with rushing in without thought or preparation. How did Harry and Ron live like this? Jumping into situations head first and hoping it would all work out? Even so, she couldn't take it back now. And despite her reservations, there was still that feeling pumping in her blood telling her that this was right. A gut feeling. She couldn't remember the last time she acted on a gut feeling without careful consideration first, but she supposed there was a first time for everything.
“Has your Dad ever done Side-Along apparition with you before?” she asked.
“Yes,” he responded with an adorable look of disdain. “But it makes me feel sick.”
“I don’t like side-along either,” she said emphatically, “But I think we should make a quick stop at your home. Look for clues and get some of your things.” Yes, she could do this. Just take the first step and see what happens. Follow her instincts. Do what feels right and damn the consequences. It was a freeing sensation to throw all caution to the wind, but it worked out for Harry, so perhaps it was time she gave it a try herself. Maybe that's what had been missing all these years.
She reached into her trusty beaded bag and pulled out a familiar, well-loved invisibility cloak. Harry let her borrow it to visit her parents so she could get as close as she wanted, and watch for as long as she liked without someone calling the muggle police to report a stalker.
“This is an invisibility cloak,” she explained to the boy, who’s eyes lit up in excitement. “I want you to wear this cloak and hold onto me while we’re there. The bad guys might still be around. Do you understand?”
Scorpius nodded, running his hand along the fabric. She used her wand to resize the cloak to fit his tiny frame and wrapped it around him, keeping tight hold of his hand.
She cast a featherlight charm on him, and a weak sticking charm to her back. Something she had discovered recently when babysitting Teddy Lupin, to allow for endless piggy back rides while she performed other tasks. She smiled as she recalled Teddy falling asleep with his chin peeking over her shoulder as she did the dishes.
She explained this to Scorpius, who hesitated a moment before climbing onto her offered back. She settled him before solidifying the sticking charm. The cloak covered his entire body, hiding his presence while she remained visible. It was another moment before he tentatively wrapped his arms around her, resting his head at the base of her skull and hugging tightly.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I got you.”
Taking a deep breath, she turned on the spot and apparated.