Chapter 1: What Do You Mean?
Chapter Text
Hermione Granger was running late, and she was fuming.
In her thirty-one years, she had only ever been late once — and even that, Hermione had only begrudgingly made peace with because it had resulted in her precious seven-year-old daughter. A daughter who would soon be arriving at the cosy cottage where they were to spend their holiday getaway, only to find it locked and empty.
Happy eighth birthday, my darling! I’m so sorry Mummy made you wait at the door during this freezing December chill. She was too bloody polite to tell Cormac fucking McLaggen to fuck right off.
Fuckkk!
She wanted to scream as they made it all the way down to the Atrium, his ramblings only gaining momentum.
“McLaggen, as wonderful as your insight on the expansion of magical London is,” Hermione clipped, pulling open the elevator bars to stride across the Ministry Atrium, “I really am in a hurry today. And so you know for the future, I could not give a rat’s arse about what developments you’re blocking, as I don’t work in your department!”
“Right,” McLaggen said, jogging to keep up with her long strides. “I heard you’re taking the whole week off. It’s a Christmas miracle. I’m sure your knickers are infinitely grateful you’ve decided to let loose a little. Is there a man we should all thank? You know, Hermione, if you were interested, I’m still avail—”
Hermione skidded to a halt, which unfortunately resulted in her being manhandled by the buffoon she had thrice denied before, “McLaggen—”
“Cormac.”
“McLaggen, if you continue to speak to me like that, I will go to HR.”
Cormac snorted. “You know who my uncle is, right?”
Hermione clenched her jaw. Of course, she knew who Tiberius McLaggen was. “You know who I am, right?”
Hermione smirked as Cormac’s face paled. Undoubtedly consumed with visions of those who had once found themselves on her bad side — like Marietta Edgecombe and Rita Skeeter. “If you so much as think of my knickers again, I will ensure your chapter in my book of vindication makes the others look tame. Do you understand me, Cormac?”
She hoped pustules spelling the word cunt ran through his mind as she turned away from him, leaving him standing gape-mouthed in the Atrium.
Without a backward glance, she entered an available fireplace and Floo’d directly home.
She allowed herself five minutes. Five minutes to kick off her heels, untangle her hair from the matronly bun she wore at work, change from her stiff black robes into leggings and an oversized mint sweater, and finally grab the bottle of Chardonnay chilling in her fridge before stepping back into the floo.
“Inkwell Cottage, Bourton-on-the-Water,” Hermione enunciated before being whisked away amidst a rush of green powder and burnt cinder.
Barely allowing herself a moment to brush the ash out of her hair, Hermione ran to the front window and sighed in relief when she noted that her mother’s car was not parked outside.
It had honestly befuddled Hermione when Rose first insisted that instead of Flooing to the Cotswolds, she would prefer to make the drive with her grandmother, especially since it was entirely inconvenient for everyone involved.
Jean Granger lived in London, the same as Hermione and Rose, so making that three-hour drive made little to no sense — not to mention it was terrible for the environment. But Rose had only needed to look at her with wide, tear-filled eyes and say, “I never get to spend any of my birthdays with her or Papa. We’re always with Dad’s family.”
Which was true.
The Weasleys had always insisted that Rose be present with all her cousins for all significant occasions and holidays, allowing Hermione’s parents’ roles to fall by the wayside. This was one of the reasons Ron and Hermione had never been able to see eye-to-eye.
He had taken it for granted that his family was first and hers second — after all, what could two lonely adults possibly offer in exchange for the large gatherings at the Burrow? It was always taken for granted that Hermione felt lucky to have them back in her life at all, especially since their memory reversal had been excruciating.
It still was, in a way.
Their divorce had been inevitable and, for the most part, amicable. Ron and her friendship had (mostly) survived the marriage, but their ease around each other had not.
Hermione sometimes wondered if Rose felt her father’s absence, especially since his presence had only grown spottier lately — he was, after all, the head coach for the Chudley Cannons, which required him to travel all over the country. She had tried to broach the matter a few times, but Rose had yet to have a strong opinion for or against it.
Hermione often wondered whether that was answer enough.
She quickly wandered around the modest two-bedroom cottage, waving and tapping her wand so lights flickered on and the temperature grew warm. From her magically enlarged briefcase, Hermione removed a Red Velvet birthday cake, a pack of candles, Rose’s birthday present, and various decorations, which, with another flick, soared delicately to rearrange themselves around the sitting room. Hermione scooped up the remaining items on the dining table and stashed them in a kitchen drawer.
Thank Merlin. She had not ruined the week. Yet.
To celebrate the mild accomplishment, she twisted open the bottle she still clutched in her hand and went searching for a wine glass in the cupboards.
A glass of wine and a handful of peanuts from her briefcase later, Hermione finally spotted headlights outside on the dimly lit road. She opened the front door just as a car’s back door opened, and two small figures hurtled towards her. Hermione giggled at their heavy backpack-laden forms as her eyes adjusted to the darkness — Hold on.
“Mum!”
“Darling,” Hermione grinned as the figure following Rose came to a halt before her. “And hello to you.”
The boy smiled shyly back at her.
“Hermione, do you know Rose can list all the countries of the world? These two made a right mock of me all the way here for not being able to list a country for every alphabet — save the two that don’t have one.”
“You missed Qatar, huh?” Hermione said, leaning forward to kiss her mother’s cheek.
“Oman.” Jean bristled, stepping through the front door.
Hermione ushered Rose and the little blond boy inside with a slight furrow of her brows.
“Oh, it’s so pretty, Mum,” Rose squealed, grabbing the boy’s hand and pulling him to the sitting room to admire the decorations.
“I can’t stay too long,” Jean sighed. “The nursing home’s called twice already. Dad’s asking for me.”
Hermione inhaled. “He’s lucid?”
Jean shrugged. “I won’t know until I return to London. Come, get your luggage from the car so I can be off — and I’ll see you on the weekend for dinner. Maybe I’ll be able to bring Dad along if we make it an early one.”
Hermione followed her mother to the car, and with a cursory glance around the dark lane and a tap of her wand, the luggage vanished and reappeared within the cottage living room.
“Alright, love,” Jean said, squeezing Hermione’s hand before opening the front door. “It was such a lovely evening spending time with Rosie. She reminds me so much of you at that age.”
Hermione smiled.
“I’ll just go get the boy then. What’s his name?”
Jean frowned. “Oh, it’s something odd. Please don’t expect me to remember—”
Hermione laughed. “Surely you must remember if you drove him all the way here just to introduce him to Rose. Who is he?”
Jean’s brows furrowed. “He’s Rose’s friend. I certainly don’t know who he is.”
Hermione mimicked her mother’s scrunched expression, “What do you mean, Mum?”
“Hermione Jean, what do you mean? When I went to pick up Rose from school, the teacher handed me both of them. She seemed to have a signed note from both you and the boy’s father saying he was supposed to be picked up by me.”
Hermione’s eyes grew wide. “He certainly wasn’t, Mum! Who have you kidnapped?”
“Kidnapped?” Jean whisper-shouted. “I have certainly not kidnapped anyone.”
“I asked you to pick up Rose.” Hermione matched her volume. “I would have told you if she had a plus one.”
Hermione’s heart began to thrum wildly against her ribcage as she considered the panic the child’s parents must be in, not knowing where he was. She turned to storm back towards the cottage, her mother trailing behind her.
Oh, she was far too much like her mother. That sneaky little—
“Rose Weasley!” Hermione yelled. “Come here this instant!”
“Doesn’t feel too good when your child pulls one over you, does it?” Jean smirked. She’d never truly forgiven Hermione for the Obliviation stunt, and Hermione knew it would be on rotation, forever available to be used against her.
“Not now, Mum.”
It was a minute before the two children appeared, wearing equally guilt-ridden expressions that almost made them look like siblings despite their differing colouring. Where Rose had curly, red hair with olive skin and deep brown eyes, this strange boy had porcelain skin with transcendent grey eyes and a pointiness that made Hermione’s heart sink.
“Rose, will you please introduce me to your friend?” Hermione said with a feigned smile, one she knew only made her look constipated. It was the same one she practised in front of the mirror before being expected at any Ministry event. Suffice it to say, it was not pretty. Ron had once even called it ‘bloody scary.’
“I don’t want to,” Rose said quietly.
“That does not matter,” Hermione ground out, trying (and failing) to keep her calm. “I already think I know who your friend is.”
Scorpius Malfoy looked at her uneasily, his eyes shifting from the friend whose hand he clutched tightly to her towering mother.
“It’s my birthday!” Rose said, her chin jutting out. “I want him to stay, Mumma.”
Hermione glared at her daughter — a sign that she was well and truly out of her depths. She never glared at her daughter.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Granger,” Scorpius said in a defusing manner. “Rose has told me some lovely stories about you.”
“Thank you, Scorpius,” Hermione said, remembering the name from when Katie Bell had bemoaned his admission to the Wizarding primary school they sent their children to. “I have not heard as much about you as I would have liked to. But the night is still young, huh.”
When the boy didn’t correct her use of the name — it had been one last hope to hear him correct her — Hermione bade them to drop their bags at the table as she stormed to the Floo, knelt in front of it and threw down a fistful of emerald green powder.
“Number 12 Grimmauld Place,” Hermione clipped.
She found Harry and Ginny sitting in their drawing room, sharing a bottle of wine. “Harry.”
“Hermione,” Harry said, standing up. After all these years, he was well aware of that tone — his hand instinctively palmed the wand in his pocket. “We were going to Floo in at midnight to celebrate with Rose—”
“You need to come now,” Hermione whispered in a panic. “I think I may be an accessory to kidnapping Draco Malfoy’s son.”
Chapter 2: Two Can Tango, But Four Can Roar
Chapter Text
Harry clambered out of the fireplace first, his expression alarmed and on guard. Ginny followed behind, looking amused. In all her panic over the situation, Hermione missed the silent exchange taking place between Ginny and Rose.
“Hermione! How does one accidentally kidnap a child?” Harry asked, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he gazed at the pale boy sitting beside Rose on the Chesterfield. He didn’t have to ascertain the boy’s identity. It was as if a young Draco Malfoy sat amidst them, only sans his natural sneer.
He glanced once more at the boy and shivered before turning back towards her.
Hermione threw up her hands. “How does one accidentally defeat Lord Voldemort at eleven, Harry? Sometimes the unexplainable just happens.” She couldn’t help the volume her voice rose to.
Harry pursed his lips.
“I’ll be sure to save this memory in a Pensieve for the trial,” he deadpanned before allowing his eyes to settle once more on the young Malfoy. “You look exactly like your father.”
“Thank you, sir,” Scorpius beamed. “My Grand-mère says the same.”
“Hmm.” Harry frowned. Clearly, the boy had not taken the appropriate amount of offence to the comment.
“He’s cute,” Ginny grinned wickedly. “Rosie, you’d better keep an eye on him when you get to Hogwarts. The ladies will be all over him if he’s anything like his father.”
Harry blanched, and Hermione swallowed back bile.
Rose giggled. “Scorp and I are just friends, Aunty Gin.”
“Like your father and mother were?” Ginny raised a brow.
“No.” Rose mulled. “More like Mummy and Uncle Harry.”
Ginny nodded with a satisfied smirk. “Quite right, love.” She turned to shoot a wink at Hermione, who only huffed in response. The knowledge that she would soon be escorted to Azkaban (Merlin only knew what they would do to her Muggle mother) far outweighed the possibility that Rose might have a primary school boyfriend.
Even if he was a Malfoy.
The Malfoys had spent the past decade reclaiming their crown over all the Sacred Twenty-Eight families. Lucius commandeered much of the Wizengamot — don’t ask her how — while Narcissa campaigned for every notable charity in Wizarding Britain and France.
Malfoy himself, Hermione didn’t know much about, save his widower status, his success as a reputable solicitor and the fact that he had bankrupted The Daily Prophet with a successful defamation case a few years ago. A case he should have rightfully lost, or so the rumour went.
“Scorpius,” — the name tasted odd on Harry’s tongue — “Where does your father think you are currently?”
Hermione blinked. Of course, Auror Potter would know to ask the right questions. He was, after all, the Deputy Head of the department. If he wasn’t aware of a missing heir to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, it was likely because the family themselves didn’t know.
If she hadn’t already had no respect for the family before today, they were now in the negative digits.
It was almost 7 p.m. How does a family not know their child is missing?
She scoffed to herself, earning a withering glare from her daughter.
“Um.” Scorpius blushed rose pink. “That’s a long story.”
“Will you please explain?” Harry asked softly. Much more softly than Hermione would have. She once again envied her best friend’s natural ease and tact, at least the one he had now that he was no longer The Chosen One.
He had a way around children Hermione herself could never bring herself to have. If Rose hadn’t been Hermione Granger in miniature, Hermione knew she would have been a terrible parent.
She didn’t have the tenderness that came so naturally to the likes of Molly and Fleur and even Katie. To know Ginny didn’t have it either was a comfort she latched onto often and had done so for most of Rose’s infancy.
But to be fair, Ginny also ended up raising the likes of James and Albus — whom she loved with all her heart, but could never truly trust. Not after the Easter weekend when they’d decimated a quarter of the Black family library (with absolutely no remorse afterwards).
For what reason the fire had been lit evaded everyone. The travesty itself still gave her nightmares — a millennia’s worth of sacred texts and Black family Grimoires gone within a span of ten minutes. A wand had never been left abandoned at Grimmauld Place ever again.
“Well—” Scorpius began, eyeing Rose, who rolled her eyes in response. “If everything worked as planned, my father is probably still at work and has no idea I’m not currently home.”
Hermione looked from Scorpius to Rose and back. “What plan?” Harry’s wince told her she was hitting a feverish pitch, but she was past caring.
“Darling,” Jean said from near the door, “I really should be off. Your dad—”
“Yeah, okay, mum,” Hermione said, registering her mother’s fatigue even as concern flitted across her face. “I’ll take care of this. I’m sorry on Rose’s behalf.”
“Sorry, Nana.” Rose chimed.
“What plan?” Harry reiterated calmly.
Rose and Scorpius turned to look at each other warily but otherwise remained mum.
“Alright, okay.” Hermione exhaled once she had walked her mum out of the door. “I’m just going to shoot your father a Patronus letting him know to Apparate to the village to collect you.”
“Oh, um.” Scorpius blushed. “I don’t think he’ll be able to do that.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Scorpius flinched at the sight of the formidable Hermione Granger.
Rose Weasley was not the only person to have told him stories of the Most Brilliant Witch Of Her Age.
Scorpius slowly removed a Hawthorn wand from his bag, and Hermione and Harry groaned at the sight of it. They had both used Malfoy’s wand at one point in their lives and could not pretend to hope this was not the same exact wand that had inevitably won the war for Harry.
“How does Ferret not realise he’s missing his wand?” Ginny wondered aloud.
Scorpius looked at her scathingly before he turned to Hermione. “He doesn’t use it often at work, but I know he'll need it to Apparate here.”
“Time out, Rose,” Hermione said through gritted teeth, throwing her arm out towards the second bedroom where there were two twin beds. “Scorpius, I’m not your mother, so I’ll wait for your father to get here, but I know he will be just as displeased as I am with both of you. You could have caused a lot of trouble for both myself and your father tonight.”
Rose stood her ground, her hand still clutched firmly in Scorpius’, “Mum. I want Scorpius to stay; his birthday is next week, and he wants to stay with us until then.”
“Rose!”
Rose glared at her mother.
Hermione wasn’t sure whose daughter stood before her, for this was definitely not Rose. Her daughter was Hermione in miniature — she stood up for the deserving and the oppressed. Not a bloody Malfoy!
“Hermione,” Harry said quickly, “I think you should go get Malfoy.”
“Why me?” Hermione groaned. “You’ve interacted more with him than I have in the past decade.”
“Because I don’t think he’ll be too pleased to see the Deputy Head of the DMLE arrive at his house this late in the evening,” Harry said, running a hand through his hair.
“I’ve never been to the Manor, so I can’t Apparate there,” Ginny shrugged when Hermione gave her a pleading look.
“Fine,” Hermione said, her chest growing restrictive at the thought of going back to Malfoy Manor after successfully abstaining for over a decade. “Scorpius, what’s the nearest Apparition point outside Malfoy Manor?”
Rose squeezed Scorpius’ hand reassuringly as he gulped, “Just beyond the gates.”
“Of course, how convenient,” Hermione muttered. She turned to Harry and Ginny. “Will you please stay here while I get Malfoy?”
Ginny smirked. “You bet your arse we are. The kids are at the Burrow, and this will be far more entertaining than the movie we were going to watch.”
Hermione sent a scathing look her way before she exited the house and walked down to the nearest Apparition point.
She inhaled sharply, recalling a memory of the iron gates of Malfoy Manor, and with a twist, Hermione disappeared into the void.
* * *
Hermione only had a few moments to stare up at the formidable Manor before a nervous-looking elf Apparated before her, safely tucked behind the closed gates. She wore a crisp linen toga that made Hermione’s mouth twist with disdain, but her years working at the ministry had taught her to keep her mouth shut until the right moment — and this certainly was not the right moment.
“Hello,” Hermione said with a grim smile. “I’m Hermione Granger. I was wondering if I could speak to Mal... Mister Malfoy.” She suddenly pictured Lucius appearing at the gate and shuddered. “That is, Draco Malfoy.”
The elf’s eyes grew wide at her introduction, and Hermione wondered if access to Malfoy Manor would be denied to a Muggle-born.
The Malfoys had worked diligently after the war to claw their way back to the crown of society, but whether their feelings on blood supremacy had changed or not had never been clarified. Not when they were donating thousands of galleons to Hogwarts and St. Mungo’s.
The thought made her see red, momentarily. She was not walking on her usual moral high ground today, after all.
“Please follow Skippy, Ms Granger,” the elf squeaked quickly, waving the gates open. “Mr Malfoy is late returning home, but Skippy can send word of your request for an appointment.”
“Please, and do tell him it’s urgent,” Hermione said, frowning at the hand the elf held out to her.
“Skippy will Apparate Ms Granger to the drawing room,” Skippy said patiently, her hand still outstretched.
“Oh, no!” Hermione drew in a breath. “Is there anywhere else I can wait?”
“Of course, Miss. Skippy can take you to the Small Library if you prefer.”
Hermione gaped at the Small Library. It was the size of her apartment — which, to be fair, wasn’t very large considering it was a two-bedroom in the heart of London — but if this was the Small Library, what the bloody hell did the Malfoys keep in the Main Library?
The entire contents of the Library of Alexandria?
Hermione scoffed as she perused the shelf nearest her. The books looked practically untouched. An ornamental room for an ornamental family. It was unfair that someone like her, who would genuinely cherish such a room, would likely never own anything remotely close. She had more than seven hundred and twenty books — she had once lovingly counted. They were all bent and annotated from her many perusals and were now, unfortunately, shrunken and stowed in empty suitcases. She just didn’t have the space to display them.
“What’s the scoff for, Granger? Does the library not live up to your standards?” Malfoy said from behind her.
Hermione jumped. The book she had pulled from the shelf flew into the air and fell awkwardly at her feet, its cracking spine reverberating around the enclosed space.
Fuck.
“I can—” replace it? It was a first-edition copy of Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. She certainly could not.
With a flippant wave of his hand, the book vanished into thin air.
“I’m sorry—”
“No need. The elves will right it,” Malfoy said, moving silently through the doors.
She wondered if he cast a Silencing Charm on his dragon-hide boots. It would be the pretentious kind of Charm a Malfoy would add to their morning routine — perhaps not as pretentious as the custom-tailored-Indigo-blue three-piece suit he wore right now — but a close second.
“I’m surprised to see you here after all these years,” Malfoy said, standing by the sideboard where a decanter of whiskey and snifters sat on an ornate silver platter. “How long has it been? I believe I saw you at Twilfits the week before you married Weaselbee.”
“Oh,” Hermione didn’t remember seeing him. “I...”
The last time she could remember seeing him was on the one-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. He had stood quietly in the crowd beside his mother and had promptly vanished at the end of the ceremony without saying a word to anyone.
The man standing before her was at odds with the boy he had been then. His hair was still the silvery blond of his youth, but the pointiness of his face had been replaced by a chiselled jaw that almost made him handsome. He no longer walked with the swagger of his youth or the fear of his early adulthood — he walked with measure and confidence, and his words lacked the vile undertones she was so accustomed to. It momentarily eclipsed every other thought she had, including accidental kidnappings and Azkaban.
“Drink?”
Hermione took the snifter he held out to her, clutching it tightly. All the righteous indignation that Draco Malfoy was yet unaware of his son’s absence had fled and been replaced by nervous anxiety. She did need something stronger to get the words out of her chest.
“Tell me, what has brought War Heroine Hermione Granger to Malfoy Manor?” He cocked his head lazily to arch a curious brow at her, and she noticed that although he was visibly uncomfortable in her presence, his expression was cautious rather than cruel.
Hermione frowned at him, her hand subconsciously fingering her wand in her pocket as she considered how best to break her revelation to him.
At her lack of response, he turned himself fully to peer at her, curiosity emblazoning his gaze as his eyes roved over her.
Hermione felt uncomfortable — she hadn’t been seen in this state of undress outside of her home since she had been a teenager — especially not once she started working at the Ministry.
“Malfoy, do you, by chance, know where your son is?”
Malfoy’s eyes grew cold, and whatever semblance of openness that had been present moments before vanished. She felt as if the temperature of the room took heed of his mood and obeyed its command. “Of course, he should be dressing for dinner.”
Hermione couldn’t help but snort, “He is, in fact, not.”
“What do you mean, Granger?” Malfoy ground out. “Skippy!”
The elf who had left her in the Library to wait appeared, her fingers clutched together. “Yes, Master.”
Hermione’s jaw clenched at the word.
“Where is Scorpius?”
Skippy looked from Malfoy to Hermione before turning her frightened eyes back to Malfoy. “Master Scorpius tells Skippy he is going on holiday with friends. He is saying you have approved, sir.”
“Excuse me?” Malfoy’s voice was like a clap of thunder, and Hermione swore she saw the lit fireplace blow out for a moment before flames arose once more. He turned suddenly, his back growing tense as he rummaged through his pockets. “Where the arse is my wand?”
Skippy’s knees trembled, and Hermione wondered just how much of his father Draco had become.
“Cut it, Malfoy. You’re upsetting her,” Hermione snapped. “Both Rose and Scorpius had a signed note from us informing the school that my mother would be picking them up. I would venture to guess they have been planning this week for quite some time now, as they managed to make fools out of all of us. Also, your wand is with your son — you really ought to take better care of it.”
“Rose?”
“My daughter,” Hermione said coolly. She may not have known Rose and Scorpius were as close as they were, but she at least knew they were friends. Did Malfoy not know his son’s friend’s names?
“Take me to him,” He said, forgoing all courtesies as he stalked towards her.
Hermione clenched her jaw.
“Please.”
Malfoy clamped his jaw tightly, his molten silver gaze boring into her’s before he finally breathed, “Will you please take me to my son?”
“Certainly, Malfoy, it’s the only blasted reason I came to this gods-forsaken Manor.”
Hermione held out her hand.
Malfoy looked down at it with his infamous sneer. At that moment, Hermione could have sworn she felt a brush of air reminiscent of a time-turner — throwing her back to her teenage years at Hogwarts when that very look had been around every corner.
“Believe it or not, touching me will not actually make you dirty,” Hermione clipped, her hand holding steady as he continued to glare down at it.
“Thank you for jumping to conclusions,” he said sarcastically. “Why exactly are you asking me to hold your hand?”
“So you can use my wand to Apparate me outside your manor, and I can then Apparate you to your son.”
“I believe you know how the Floo works?” Malfoy said, lazily waving a hand at the lit fireplace fitted between the bookshelves.
“The cottage’s Floo is only linked to my flat.”
“Great, we’ll Floo to your flat, and then we’ll Floo to this cottage.”
“My flat is also not open to the two-way grid, so you’ll just be spit back out here because Malfoy Manor does not have access to it.”
“That’s incredibly inconvenient,” Malfoy glowered, grabbing her hand.
“I’m sorry if the safety—” But the rest of her words were lost in the sensation of compression signifying Apparition.
“You son of a tit,” Hermione growled, yanking her hand back as she steadied herself on the asphalt outside the manor gates. “You could have splinched me.”
“Charming,” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, Granger, you are not splinched.”
Hermione bit back a string of expletives that would have made her ex-husband blush as she ran a frustrated hand through her curls — what her daughter could possibly see in a boy raised by this man, she would never know.
Perhaps it was time to suggest Rose find new friends.
“Should I also hold out my hand like a child?” Malfoy asked mockingly, his hands once again ensconced within his trouser pockets.
“Only if you want to see your son,” Hermione smirked, crossing her arms. If he was going to act like a petulant child, so was she.
Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “I could just head into the DMLE and report you for abduction.”
“Let’s go, then,” Hermione said, gesturing for him to lead the way. “Please be sure to tell them that he is currently being held hostage by their Deputy Head, Harry Potter.”
“You left my son with Potter?” Malfoy gaped.
“Yes, why wouldn’t I?” Hermione frowned.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Malfoy said, throwing his hands up. “Maybe because I don’t want my seven-year-old son thinking he’ll be capable of taking on a basilisk in five years’ time.”
“Harry hardly goes around telling twelve-year-olds to follow in his footsteps,” Hermione rolled her eyes, “And if you’d stop being so infuriating, we’d rescue your son from the big bad wizard a lot quicker.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes before holding out his hand, and Hermione, because she was not a saint either, grabbed it and apparated him without warning — only he didn’t seem to care whatsoever.
“Where are we?” he asked, straining his eyes to look around the dark alley they had appeared in.
“Cotswolds,” Hermione said, striding past him.
If he had follow-up questions, he chose to leave them unsaid as he followed behind her, his long legs catching up to her swiftly as she turned into the lane where her holiday-home sat.
If it had been anyone else walking beside her, Hermione would have considered the setting rather romantic. The sky was showering a soft flurry of fine crystals upon them as they navigated the remote lane to the tune of Christmas jingles from the next street over — but the man next to her was not her date.
Which only reminded her that she had not had one in years.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t considered it after her divorce, but the idea of allowing just any man into Rose’s life by way of hers had felt too uncomfortable — and the men she did know personally were all married or taken. Divorce in the wizarding world was practically unheard of. Another reason she was unwilling to put herself out there. Even in the absence of The Prophet, society had found a way to blame her for Ron and her divorce.
Who needed print when word of mouth was enough to scathe?
“It’s this one,” Hermione muttered, trekking up the snow-laden pathway to the cottage.
Just as she began to pull her wand from her pocket, the door opened to reveal a smirking Ginny, who took her sweet time to eye Malfoy, barring access to the home as she did.
“Ferret.”
“Weaselette.”
“Children,” Hermione breathed, brushing past Ginny to enter before more of her hair grew frizzy due to the snow.
“Scorpius,” Malfoy glanced warily around the decorated room, his voice neither angry nor amused. It almost sounded as if he were coming to pick up his child from a scheduled play date.
“Hey, Dad,” Scorpius said sheepishly, appearing out of the guest room Hermione had banished Rose to before leaving. “How was your day at work?”
“Not my finest, seeing as I was missing a few case files today as well as my wand,” Malfoy said sarcastically. “Perhaps you may know where they are.”
Scorpius tried to bite back a grin but failed miserably. “I might.”
“If you wanted to attend a friend’s birthday party, all you had to do was ask, Scorp,” Malfoy said softly, his demeanour switching from his usual haughty self to a man Hermione had never seen before. “When have I ever said no to you?”
The warmth Draco Malfoy exuded left every single adult in the room speechless — not to mention Rose, who was peeking out of the room behind Scorpius, an odd look flashing across her face.
“Did you check for Polyjuice?” Harry whispered, stepping into Hermione so her attention turned sideways. “I believe this may be a larger conspiracy than we anticipated.”
Hermione swatted him away. “Rose, come say hi to Scorpius’ dad.”
Scorpius turned, and the two children shared a meaningful look before Rose finally stepped out, her fingers running through her wild curls nervously.
“Hello, Mister Malfoy.”
Hermione obviously didn’t expect Malfoy to sneer or call her Weaslette in his usual condescending cadence, but she was still surprised when he smiled — a genuine smile at that — and said, “Happy Birthday, Rose. You’re just as beautiful as Scorpius said you were, just like your mum.”
Rose swooned — and rather unexpectedly, so did Hermione’s stomach — before both settled with a deflating crash. He was lying out of his arse. The man hadn’t even known Rose’s name until half an hour ago.The sneaky Slytherin serpent.
“I look like my dad,” Rose said, scrunching her nose. “That’s what everyone says.”
“Pfft,” Malfoy rolled his eyes, “I knew your dad. He’d be so lucky as to be as beautiful as you.” This time, Hermione did hear the snark in his words, although it was mostly directed at Ron, so she let it slide. After all, he had promised to be here tonight and an hour — or Gods, two hours later — there was neither hide nor hair of him.
“You went to Hogwarts together,” Rose said. “My mum says you saved her.”
Malfoy’s eyes grew wide, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Harry frown at Malfoy, who seemed to have lost all forms of speech, his jaw ticking as he contemplated how to reply to Rose.
“Mister Malfoy was very important in the war,” Hermione said, clearing her throat. “But this is not the time, Rose. Scorpius’s dad has come to collect him.”
“But mum—”
“Dad.”
“Rose Weasley.”
“Scorpius!”
“Harry Potter is alive!”
Five sets of eyes turned on Ginny, who shrugged. “Sorry, I just wanted to join in.”
Hermione turned to glare at Ginny, “You wait until Molly brings James around, then I’ll stand back and mutter annoying quips.”
“See, Scorpius,” Malfoy said urgently, “Rose has family coming over. You know better than to intrude on someone’s personal time.”
“Please, Mister Malfoy, I don’t want Scorpius to leave,” Rose said, stepping in front of Scorpius. “James and Al are only coming to wish me at midnight. I want Scorpius to spend Christmas holidays with us.”
“Rose,” Hermione said, her eyes boring into her daughter’s. “I’m sure Scorpius wants to spend Christmas with his family.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Rose said. “He wants to spend Christmas and his birthday with us doing fun things — not having dinner with his grandparents.”
“Rose!”
“Scorp?” Malfoy said quietly, the tips of his ears turning uncomfortably red. “We don’t have to do that if you don’t want to; tell me what you want to do, and I’ll make it happen.”
Scorpius looked at Rose, who seemed to urge him on — infuriating Hermione further. She'd never seen her daughter behave more like — Ron.
“Father,” Scorpius said, straightening considerably. “I’d like to spend the holidays with Ms Granger and Rose, and I’d like you to join us. That’s what I want for my birthday this year.”
“That’s what I want for my birthday as well,” Rose chirped, eyeing her mother.
“I thought you wanted a week away from home,” Hermione said, her voice sharper than she intended.
“That can be my present from Dad since he forgot about coming at all,” Rose sniffed.
“It’s not midnight yet,” Hermione said squeakily, hoping to dear Merlin one of the million Weasleys had reminded him of the occasion. “He’ll be here, Rose.”
“And if he isn’t.” Rose challenged, cocking a brow.
“Granger, are you sure Weasley is her father?” Malfoy smirked. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you sired a child with your own self if that is the end result.”
“What does that mean, Mum?”
“Nothing,” Hermione said, glaring at Malfoy.
“So, about dad not showing up—”
“He will show up,” Hermione said, turning to make eyes at Ginny, who nodded understandingly — but did not immediately rush to another room to shoot her brother an emergency Patronus.
“What if he doesn’t?” Rose said, her stance growing wider.
“Rosie—”
“No!” Rose said, blinking back frustrated tears. “Don’t do that. I hate it when you make excuses for him. If he doesn’t come, then Scorp and Mister Malfoy can stay with us, like you said.”
“I did no—”
“He’ll show up, Rose,” Ginny said sweetly — too sweetly. “I promise, and if he doesn’t, your mother has no problem with the Malfoys gatecrashing your holiday. After all, when does Ron ever disappoint?” She hurried out of the room before Hermione could turn to scrutinise her.
When she turned to glare at Harry, he’d already put his hands up. “You and Ron both told me to stay out of your marriage. You can’t take it back now that it’s convenient for you.”
“Great friends you have, Granger,” Malfoy said so quietly that only she could hear. “Tell me Weaselette’s exaggerating?”
Hermione cleared her throat, conjuring up the will to defend her ex-husband and failing miserably, but the heat creeping up her neck seemed to have given Malfoy all he needed.
“Scorpius, how about we have a party at the Manor for your—” Malfoy began, moving to kneel in front of Scorpius.
“I want what Rose wants,” Scorpius said, his voice growing haughty for the first time the entire night — and whatever doubts Hermione internally had about this boy being Draco Malfoy’s progeny vanished in that instant. “Otherwise, I’ll go stay with Aunt Daphne like she keeps asking me to.”
Hermione watched the air go out of Malfoy, and she knew even before he turned to give her the most despondent look she had ever seen on anyone — let alone Draco Malfoy — both their fates were now tied to the appearance of one Ronald Weasley.
How reassuring.
Chapter Text
Hermione watched the clock over the mantle as it ticked closer to midnight.
She had excused herself earlier from the sitting room, where Rose and Scorpius were watching the floo like hawks, and had sent off three Patronuses in an attempt to get Ron’s attention. Two to him and one to Arthur in the hopes that he would be able to make a quick trip to Chudley to pick up his son and deliver him to the cottage.
Not for the first time, she internally screamed at Ron’s lack of interest in Muggle technology. A simple phone call — that was all it would have taken for her to get out of being guilt-tripped into spending a week with Malfoy — that too, her first week of holiday in four years. It was simply unfair, and she blamed Ron wholeheartedly.
In the absence of anything better to do, Hermione called for three pizzas from the take-out menus her hosts had left next to the hob. She had originally planned to take Rose to the Italian restaurant in the village but of course, nothing was turning out quite the way she had planned.
In gratitude, Malfoy looked down at the cheese and pepperoni slices, turned Slytherin-green and then passed it onto Scorpius wordlessly, who happily devoured two-and-a-half slices as fast as he could.
The bottle of wine she had brought from her flat ran out soon after, and Harry had made the arduous trip from the cottage to her flat and then to Grimmauld Place to bring back a selection of wines from the Black family cellars.
The wines, as spectacular as they were, had been scrutinised by Malfoy, both in admiration and also with great disdain — no one asked why — lest they be subjected to a thorough tantrum on how Sirius Black had no right bestowing the Black family townhouse and it’s tainted treasures upon Harry when Malfoy was its rightful owner.
“We’re here, we’re here,” Molly said, dusting ash off Al’s sleeping form. “Where’s my birthday girl?”
“Here, Grandmamma,” Rose said, none-too-excitedly, as Arthur arrived shortly after with James.
“There she is,” Molly beamed as Ginny removed her sleeping four-year-old from her mother’s arms. “Come here, let me see if you look a year older.”
“It doesn’t matter if I look it; I will be eight in… forty minutes.” Rose squirmed in Molly’s arm, and Hermione turned away quickly, hoping nobody else caught the grin she could not hide.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care for her ex-in-laws. She did, and they would always be like family — but she was no longer the twenty-one-year-old girl who had so willingly enmeshed herself into the Weasleys, taking it for granted that she would be welcomed into the fold in much the same manner Harry had been.
No, she knew better now.
Ginny had set a tone within the family from the moment she and Harry announced their engagement — she’d made it known that they were a family first, giving Harry equal status to herself within the fold — not that he had needed it. Hermione was certain Molly would have removed Ron from her family clock just to make space for Harry.
Ron, in turn, had not done the same for her.
Hermione didn’t think he’d done it on purpose, only that it had occurred, and he had been too absent to notice that Hermione was always the outsider looking in.
When Ginny and Harry argued or had conflicts regarding their boys, there were no sides to be taken. When Hermione and Ron had fought, she could only ever rely on Ginny and Harry to see her side — them and George, who hardly ever got involved in the first place.
It was the reason no one at the Burrow batted an eye when Ron went back on his promise to take over their domestic duties when Rose turned two, even though Hermione was meant to return to work. It was the reason she had to quietly wait another two years until Rose could go to school to return to the Ministry, finding she now ranked behind younger wizards who had graduated with lesser N.E.W.Ts because of her elongated absence.
It was also the reason she knew Molly badmouthed her for the divorce — something she had heard from Luna, who had heard it from Blaise’s mother, of all people.
Hermione didn’t care.
Divorce may be a taboo topic amongst wizards, but as Hermione was constantly made aware, she was Muggle-born, and to her, divorce had been a necessary solution to a rapidly disintegrating living situation.
Malfoy arched a brow at her, and the grin Hermione had been biting back curled into a grimace. “Molly, Arthur. Have you heard from Ron today?”
Arthur dipped his head apologetically as Molly straightened from her hug with Rose. “Oh, he left for Beijing yesterday. There was a mix-up with their newest recruit, and he had to go sort it out.”
Hermione’s blood grew cold. “In China?”
“Which other would it be, dear,” Molly rolled her eyes, turning to Rose to hand her a perfectly wrapped present — Molly’s work, undoubtedly. “Your dad sent this with me, said he knew you’d love it.”
Malfoy exhaled in frustration behind her, “And to think, I’ve spent a decade wondering if I was too harsh on him.”
“Mister Malfoy,” Arthur said tightly. “I wasn’t aware you and Hermione were friendly.”
“It’s new,” Ginny smirked from beside Harry, who was gripping her wrist in exasperation. “You wouldn’t know it from a distance, but they have quite a lot in common, don’t you think, Mum?”
“Hmm,” Molly grimaced. “How’s your family, Mister Malfoy? I’ve heard there has been some trouble with the Greengrasses. Bless them. To lose a daughter in such a tragic manner.”
“We’re well. Thank you for your concern.” Malfoy said with such practised control, Molly looked like she had been Silencio’d. “Scorpius, why don’t you, Rose, and the Potters go play until midnight, seeing as we’ll be here for a while.”
Molly turned to scrutinise Hermione, who nodded at Rose, before looking back at her ex-mother-in-law. “Will anyone else be joining us?”
“Oh no,” Molly sighed. “It’s just terribly inconvenient. They’d have to Floo to the Burrow first and then your flat, and then here — regardless, Perce and Audrey send their best wishes, as do Bill and Fleur. George said he’d be in touch with you himself when I Floo’d to ask him.”
“He has been,” Hermione nodded. “Right. It’s almost time, and I should set everything up.”
“I’ll uh,” Malfoy cleared his throat. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Hermione arched a brow at him, but he was already exiting through the cottage’s front door.
Molly hummed, looking around the already decorated sitting room. “I brought over treacle tart. Arthur?”
“Yes,” Arthur said, scurrying behind Hermione to produce a misshapen parcel.
“Sorry about Molly,” He said softly, following her into the kitchen. “She’s just upset. She was convinced you and Ron would have rekindled your relationship by now, and she believes it’s your fault it hasn’t.”
“Arthur,” Hermione sighed. “It’s been over two years, and I’ve hardly met Ron more than a handful of times, each time at the Burrow for some celebration or another. I don’t think that would be the case if either of us were interested in getting back together.”
“I know,” Arthur said, pushing back his glasses. “But Molly’s not too keen on that Brown girl.”
Hermione swallowed uncomfortably. “I didn’t know he and Lavender were seeing each other.”
“Mrs Brown mentioned at Xenophilius’s home the other weekend,” Arthur said quietly.
“Lavender is a wonderful woman,” Hermione said tightly. “I think Molly should be elated knowing Ron’s moving on.”
Arthur frowned. “Evidently, she is not.”
Hermione scoffed. “Molly should know by now that Ron and I don’t do well with others meddling in our affairs. It would have saved us all a lot of heartbreak.”
Arthur remained quiet, but it hardly mattered. As the only other person somehow always standing on the outside, looking in, he understood her sentiment better than most others.
* * *
At two minutes to midnight, Malfoy appeared at the doors to the cottage, holding a string of cotton candy balloons — one for each of the children — a small valise and a wrapped present he immediately deposited on the centre table where the rest of Rose’s presents had slowly accumulated.
“If I had known of this a little earlier, I’d have had more time to personalise the gift,” he muttered; and Hermione honestly did believe he was extremely upset that he hadn’t had, at the tips of his fingers, the perfect present for a little girl he had only met a few hours ago.
“You didn’t have to get her anything,” Hermione said, unable to hold back a genuine smile. “I’m assuming those are clothes for you and Scorpius.”
“I would have asked Skippy to bring it all over, but then I remembered all about your little S.P.U.N.K.”
“S.P.E.W.”
“One and the same.”
“Not at all,” Hermione glared at him. “One is an honest organisation, and the other is—”
“I know what it is,” Malfoy cocked his head. “And one could say the former is also a euphemism for the same.”
“If you’re depraved!” Hermione hissed.
“That’s relative,” Malfoy cocked his head before turning towards their children. “Happy Birthday, Miss Rose.”
Hermione’s mouth fell agape as her eyes darted to the clock to see it was twelve seconds past midnight. How dare he take that from her — but as the second’s hands continued to whirl rapidly she wasn’t allowed the time to express her rightful indignation.
“Happy birthday, Rosie,” Hermione said as she waited for Rose to pull away from Molly and Arthur, the various boys, and finally Ginny and Harry.
Hermione opened her arms, and Rose allowed her a quick moment before she was squirming.
“What do you want to do first—?”
“Presents!” Rose said, pulling away to run to the table.
“You have to cut your cake first, dear,” Molly said unnecessarily loudly as she pulled the present Malfoy had added at the top from Rose’s small, tightly wound fingers. “What must Mister Malfoy think of how you were raised?”
Hermione felt a flush creep up her neck — not at Rose’s action, but at Molly’s insinuation, which, whilst being incredibly wrong on every account — had undoubtedly also planted the aspersion in Malfoy’s head.
Hermione was a good mother. Not perfect. Not a natural, like Molly and Fleur. But she did her best, and she at least, was present in her daughter’s life.
“She can open her presents if she wishes, Molly,” Hermione said, attempting to keep contempt from her voice. “It’s Rose’s day. She can do as she pleases. Harry, perhaps we can open the Merlot now.”
“Now, now.” Molly shook her head as Arthur silently moved away — as if physically distancing himself would also distance himself from Molly’s persistence. “Hermione, not with the children—”
“Yes, Harry,” Ginny said, handing two bottles to Harry. “Open them up, and I’ll grab us fresh glasses. Rosie, hold up for me. I want to see what you got, too.”
“Yes, Aunty Gin,” Rose smiled, snatching her present back from Molly, who stood gaping at Ginny as if she had committed matricide.
“Do this one first,” James said, handing his older cousin the present he had brought along. “I made it in class yesterday.”
Rose smiled appreciatively as she unwrapped what Hermione assumed from her scrunched expression was a sticky parcel revealing a beaded necklace with the word “Roz” on it.
“Thanks, Jamie,” Rose smiled as she slipped it on for the six-year-old to beam at. “I love it.”
Harry smiled as James shyly ran into his arms to whisper.
“Open this one from your dad,” Molly said, handing Rose another package. Rose frowned at it but otherwise remained silent as she unlatched the corners to reveal a small — too small — pair of quidditch cleats. “He said he’ll take you to Chudley for Easter hols to teach you how to play chaser like Aunt Gin.”
“Aunt Gin can teach her to play like Aunt Gin,” Ginny said, smacking her lips after an enthusiastic sip of her Merlot.
“It’s great, Grandmamma,” Rose smiled before sending a quick look in Hermione’s direction.
“It is,” Hermione nodded. “We’ll floo call Dad tomorrow to thank him, Rosie.”
Rose nodded before quickly picking up Gin and Harry’s present, the most recent edition of Dragon Lore V, a Flight into the Saharan Fields by Owen Cauldwell and Sue Li.
“Oh,” Scorpius’s eyes grew wide as he looked down at the book Rose had clutched to her chest. “Wicked. This doesn’t come out until next month.”
“Charlie helped us get a signed pre-order,” Harry beamed, as Malfoy sat forward to better look at the book Scorpius was holding up to him.
Hermione’s eyes were fixed on Rose, who had picked up the present from Malfoy, flipping it quickly between her overeager fingers as she tore the wrapper off inelegantly.
“Is that—?” Hermione drew in a sharp breath.
“First edition of Pride and Prejudice with notes from Austen herself,” Malfoy smirked as Rose’s eyes grew wide, mimicking her mother’s awe as she flipped open the cover with trembling fingers.
“You just had it lying around, I suppose.” Hermione grimaced, clearing her throat roughly.
“I do have a big library,” Malfoy said with a smirk. “You’ve now borne witness.”
“I believe what I bore witness to was small,” Hermione said waspishly before draining her glass of Merlot.
“As compared to what?” Malfoy leaned into her, “Weasley’s library?”
Hermione turned to face him, the wine now well and truly settling into her veins. “Mine own,” she said with a smirk before standing up. “Rose, please thank everyone, and then off to bed. I have big plans for tomorrow.”
“We,” Malfoy purred softly behind her, undoubtedly to make her already flushed skin sear hotter still.
Perhaps that last glass of Merlot had been unwise.
“Thank you, Molly. Arthur.” Hermione said, working hard to moisten the dry walls of her mouth. “We’ll be by on Christmas Day for tea.”
Molly grimaced. “And what of Christmas Eve?”
“We’re visiting Nana and Papa,” Rose said quickly as Hermione swallowed back a sigh.
“Oh, but—” Molly said, her face falling. “We always have a Christmas sleepover. The kids will miss Rosie, Hermione; surely your parents—”
“Actually, Mum,” Ginny said, standing up as Harry lifted Albus into his arms, who whimpered before falling right back asleep. “Harry and I will be spending Christmas Eve with Dudley and Priscilla.”
“Who?” Molly said sharply.
“Harry’s cousin on Lily’s side,” Ginny rolled her eyes. “Their daughter is Al’s age, and she’s showing signs of magic already. We want them to get to know each other. Sorry, but we’ll make it up to you and Dad some other time.”
“But—”
“Molly,” Arthur said quietly. “Let Rosie have her night. We’ll discuss this some other time.”
Molly sniffed, picking up her handbag from the table she had abandoned it on.
“I know Ronald will be disappointed,” she said, sniffling back tears. “Perhaps I’ll invite the Browns.”
“Perhaps you should,” Hermione said coldly, lifting up a pouch of Floo powder so her in-laws could make the journey back via her flat. “I do so hope Ron will be able to return home by tomorrow night to take part in the sleepover.”
“The sleepover is for the children,” Molly said stiffly before Flooing away.
* * *
Hermione stood, feet planted apart, her hands on her hips, her mind slightly hazy from all the bottles of wine she, Ginny and Harry had indulged in — Malfoy had only had a respectable two glasses, and it grated on her now. The pompous… pureblood… prat.
“I can transfigure it for you.”
“Believe it or not, Granger,” he said irritably. “I, too, know how to transfigure a sofa into a bed.”
“So what’s the problem?” Hermione said, acidic, sweet, overtly crisply, like the wine he had not indulged in.
Malfoy cocked a brow. “Oh, nothing. Do be sure to have a good night’s sleep on it.” He mock-smiled before making his way into the master bedroom, adjacent to the room with the two singles Scorpius and Rose were already passed out in.
“Malfoy,” Hermione whisper-shouted as she followed behind him. “I rented the cottage for my holiday.”
“Oh, but your daughter so sweetly invited my son and I to stay over,” he said. “It’s only proper to offer your own bed for a guest.”
“Well, as you so kindly reminded me, our entire childhood,” Hermione said sardonically, “I’m not very proper.” She strode across the room, turned over the duvet, and climbed in, wearing the very same leggings and sweater she had donned six hours ago.
“Lucky for me,” Malfoy smirked, doing the same thing on the other side of the bed. Only having already changed into a jumper and joggers whilst Hermione had been packing away all of Rose’s presents, he was more than comfortable slipping into bed. “No one likes a proper witch in their bed.”
“Malfoy!” Hermione growled, skirting to the furthest edge of the bed.
“Grangerrr?” Malfoy purred, turning over to watch her squirm, though the moment he did, she stilled — the last thing she wanted was to see him gloat.
“Get out of my bed,” Hermione huffed, feeling the flush of her cheeks descend down her neck.
“No.” Malfoy smirked. His tone was particularly grating, and Hermione had to clench her fists, her nails digging into her palms to keep from throwing a pillow at him.
Maybe he had no scruples sharing a bed with just anyone, but she’d only ever shared a bed with one person. Not even during their days on the run with a lone tent had she slept beside Harry. One person — in her thirty-one years — and it felt incredibly uncomfortable being here in this situation with Draco Malfoy, of all people.
And perhaps, more than odd, it felt nice — an intrusive thought she wasn’t willing to touch with one of Ronald’s broomsticks.
She climbed out of bed, her hair full of static from the freshly pressed sheets.
“Er, I’ll go get some water.”
With a quick spell, the sofa in the sitting room expanded and stretched, the cushions growing flatter with every passing second.
Hermione conjured her nightwear, a clean set of dishcloths, one of which became a sheet as the other grew heavier to become a duvet.
Another flick of her wand, and the lights blew out — and the last thought she had on the anniversary of the night she had given birth to her daughter was: Why can’t I even pretend I’m ready to move on?
Notes:
Thank you all so much for your incredible support for the first three chapters! Your comments, kudos, and encouragement mean the world to me.
As always, so much love to my amazing Alpha: Cait, you're the best ❤️
I'm deeply grateful for this amazing community and your kindness. Until next time, happy reading!
Much Love 💖
Chapter Text
Hermione groaned quietly into her duvet as she pulled the wrappings tightly around herself, cushioning herself more snuggly into her warm, blissful cocoon.
She’d had truly grand plans for her holiday with Rose. They would wake up at noon and snack on raw cookie dough as she taught Rose to bake muffins and cookies — something her mother had taught her at that age, and Hermione was excited to continue in the tradition.
They’d watch sappy Christmas movies, go to the bookstore at leisure, and hopefully use the Polaroid camera she’d bought the week before to document each moment of their time together in the empty scrapbook at the bottom of her suitcase.
Naturally, none of her extensive planning had accounted for the fact that she’d be waking up at the arse crack of dawn to the incredibly uncomfortable feeling of Draco sodding Malfoy staring at her.
How did she know he was staring at her even though she had yet to open her eyes?
Because, for some unfortunate reason, she could quite literally feel his gaze boring into her from across the small sitting room — and also because she assumed it was not the children who had woken up so abysmally early only to fidget with the coffee machine on the counter.
And just in case Scorpius Malfoy was indeed a coffee connoisseur at the tender age of seven, she was even willing to bet her career at the Ministry that it wouldn’t have taken the young boy twenty minutes of hisses and exasperated sighs to get the simple machine to work.
There were, after all, precisely two buttons on the blasted thing.
“Fucking, spunk.”
S.P.E.W. Her eyes rolled behind her closed eyelids, but she had to give it to Malfoy — despite his troubles with the coffee machine, he had thus far resisted any temptation to call for a house-elf, and Hermione felt oddly respected in this moment, even as she bit back a smirk whilst continuing to feign sleep.
“You snore, you know,” Malfoy said after ten minutes of blissful silence, during which the room around her slowly filled with the delicious scent of fresh coffee with just the hint of… “So you may as well stop pretending to sleep.”
“I’m not pretending,” Hermione gritted out, chastening herself for the thoughts her mind had drifted to. “I am trying to go back to sleep.”
“I didn’t take you for the lazy kind, Granger,” Malfoy said, finally eliciting a reaction from Hermione, whose eyes flew wide open to glare at him.
“I am not lazy,” Hermione bit out. “I am on holiday, Malfoy!”
“Supposedly, so am I,” he said with a devilish grin and an arched eyebrow.
Hermione blinked at him.
Draco Malfoy was evidently both an arsehole and a complete psychopath. One look at him, freshly showered with slicked back wet hair, dressed in a grey, three-piece suit, complete with a light brown tie and matching socks at eight in the morning, and Hermione felt both incompetent and extremely curious as to whether Malfoy truly understood the concept of a holiday.
Not that she was the patron saint of letting loose, but even she knew that it incorporated some semblance of relaxing.
“Morning, Granger,” Malfoy quipped, leaning back against the breakfast counter, one leg crossing over the other as he raised a mug of coffee between his rather large hands — snapping her out of her entirely inappropriately long assessment of him. “Coffee?”
“Ugh!” Hermione groaned, flipping over to blink sleepily at the white fabric of the sofa as she breathed in her own scent.
The smell of coffee, coffee someone else had brewed, was euphoric. However, amidst it all was also the trace scent of her soap and bath products on his skin — and that was not simply euphoric — no, that was reminiscent of Amortentia. It was also ironic because now she felt compelled to throw out every single product she had so lovingly picked out for herself over the years. He had ruined them all for her, and it was a pity.
“It’s eight in the morning; why the hell are you awake and dressed like that?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you need me to explain the concept of morning to you?” Malfoy asked sarcastically. “What is the plan for today, by the way?”
She truly wished to tell him she would take care of the kids, and he could go back to whatever his initial plan had been for the day. But having spent the night before scrutinising Malfoy and the manner in which he and Scorpius interacted, she knew it was no good.
His son had asked Malfoy to stay, and she imagined not even the Dark Lord would have been able to sway him from following through — even if it meant spending his Yule on Hermione and Rose’s very Muggle Christmas holidays.
In an ideal world, it would have pulled at her heartstrings.
To see the man who had bullied her and made her feel inferior succumb to a lifestyle he had once looked down upon — likely still did — all simply because of the wishes of a seven-year-old with his exact features but none of his prejudice. But in the light of morning, it only drew her attention to the gaping hole in her own life.
In her daughter’s life.
She thought of Ron and all the many evenings she had covered for his absence if Rose truly understood what it meant. That Ron’s absence was not due simply to mismanagement of time but because he would rather be on a broomstick playing at being a father figure to seven grown men, all because they could throw a ball around. She supposed she had her answer now. Surely if her eight-year-old was capable of scheming and planning such an efficient parent trap, she was also old enough to see right through all her lies and omissions about her father.
But does that make it okay?
To allow Ron the luxury of being able to disappoint Rose, as well as Hermione? She had thought she was protecting their co-parenting relationship by allowing his absences to go unquestioned, but really, she was complicit.
Resolving to sending him a howler at some point during the day, Hermione decided to simply go along with what the children had planned — if only to buy her the time she needed to get some semblance of a grasp on her situation with her ex.
Huffing loudly, for surely the Gods were testing her patience and judgement in a most cruel and unusual way, Hermione sat up, her mass of wild curls impeding her vision as she righted herself quickly before stretching to pull her curls into a bun atop her head.
“Merlin’s fuck,” Malfoy shouted, whipping around to face the French doors that led out into the small back garden. “Put some clothes on, Granger.”
Hermione furrowed her brows.
Had she unwittingly stripped at some point during the night?
Hermione knew she was prone to removing her clothes as she slept, especially when it grew unbearably hot as she loathed sleeping in sweltering conditions, but whilst the cottage was warm it was not hot. Still, she hastily looked down at her torso and then back up at the back of Malfoy’s head, her brows furrowing further.
She was very much still wearing her green silk camisole and shorts.
“I am wearing clothes.”
“You’re wearing… underclothes,” Malfoy huffed as the tips of his ears turned bright pink. “I er, I’ll go have my coffee outside, and you can—” he gestured wildly at his torso before he all but ran out of the cottage.
“Well, at least I know how to get rid of you in the future,” Hermione scowled as she stretched her legs out, noting that her sleepwear was indeed rather Muggle for someone of the wizarding pureblood aristocracy. “Wish I’d known that was all it took back at Hogwarts.”
Getting up at last, she noted the whole pot of coffee Malfoy had prepared, whether by accident or on purpose, and her heart constricted.
It was such a small gesture, yet she had never experienced such kindness before. Truthfully, she doubted she ever would again. It was both poignant and bittersweet, like the brew itself. She couldn’t decide which part of the entire situation was saddest of all — the fact that it took thirty-one years for someone to prepare coffee for her whilst she slept, or the fact that it was Draco Malfoy of all people, or that the gesture, if it even was that, had moved her to tears.
* * *
Hermione frowned at the fridge, which was as empty as she had expected. The plan for the night before had been to take Rose out for dinner in the village and stop by the grocers on their way back so they’d have food for the morning. None of that had quite happened, and apart from the coffee, salt and pepper her hosts had provided by way of appreciation for her choosing their homestay, there was nothing else to feed the two groggy children now obscured behind the, yes, still empty, fridge door.
Where Rose was still dressed haphazardly in her kitten pyjamas, a scowl plastered across her freckled face, her auburn curls reminiscent of Hermione circa 1991; Scorpius was showered and dressed in starched trousers and a powder blue dress shirt — Merlin these Malfoy men. He looked up at her curiously from where he was sitting on the sofa — his stomach gurgling so loudly, Hermione was sure Skippy would hear it all the way in Wiltshire.
If only she hadn’t cleaned out her own fridge the day before — but as luck would have it, her flat only contained a single egg, which was not worth making the Floo-journey to retrieve.
Still, as Scorpius shifted uncomfortably, the tips of his ears turning rosy with every audible hunger pang, Hermione’s itinerary for the day became less and less important. Christmas tree decorating and baking would have to wait until some form of sustenance was sought.
“Right, Rose, shower!” Hermione said, standing to pull on a sweater as she untangled the semi-wet mop of hair she had pinned atop her head. “And make it quick, Scorpius is hungry and so am I.”
Scorpius nodded enthusiastically at her words, and Rose scarpered quickly. “I’m wearing my tutu!”
“So long as you’re dressed in ten minutes—” Hermione yelled out behind her before she heard the bathroom door in the children’s room shut with a loud thud. “I don’t really care if you’re wearing a toga.” That came out more of a whisper in the aftermath as Hermione turned towards the silvery gaze she knew she was pinned beneath.
She smiled at Scorpius, who was rubbing his palms on his knees nervously. “Hi.”
“Good morning Miss Granger,” Scorpius said, his cheeks growing slightly rosy. “Did my dad not stay last night?”
“Er,” Hermione stammered, casting a quick glance towards the back doors.
Malfoy had disappeared from the gardens shortly after Hermione had left the soft comfort of her transfigured bed, and it didn’t take a genius to know his sudden departure was related to Hermione lounging at the kitchen counter in her camisole and shorts, blissfully sipping coffee as the hem of her shorts rose slightly higher.
She had refrained from turning around to see if he had squirmed at the sight of her in her risque pyjamas (for they certainly were not) — but by the time she had finally turned around to chastise him into returning inside, he had simply vanished.
Her cup of coffee had lost all appeal at the sight of his wand lying beside her and she had hurried to go shower and dress more appropriately, hoping he would take that as his cue to return — seeing as his clothes seemed about as warm as they were relaxing.
It had been over two hours now, and he had still not returned from wherever he had wandered off to in order to escape the sight of her.
Perhaps if she had been younger, she would have taken great offence at Malfoy’s choice to brace freezing weather over witnessing her in her sleepwear, but she had married Ronald, and she knew better. Six years of marriage and living with a pureblood had taught her all she needed to know about the disparity between the world she came from and the world she lived within.
Still, such a reaction coming from Malfoy, of all people, had surprised her.
Whilst Hermione didn’t know much about his life post-war, she had definitely been around to hear rumours of his sexual prowess during their sixth year at Hogwarts — especially one particular instance that was rumoured to involve a broom cupboard, a particularly racy use of the Rictusempra Charm and the supposed need for an emergency trip to the Hospital Wing. The witch in question? Padma Patil — which only lent more credibility to the rumour her sister had spouted about for hours within Hermione’s dorm room.
Regardless, it only made Hermione believe that whoever Draco Malfoy had once been, he certainly was no longer the same boy.
“He just stepped out for a… walk,” Hermione said, her gaze softening at the way the boy visibly decompressed. “I’ll just—”
What?
She could hardly send him a Patronus — it was, after all, a muggle village and she couldn’t take any chances in case he was wandering aimlessly amidst muggles, as much as she would like to see it occur.
“I’ll go take a peek around. Just wait here with Rose. I won’t take too long.”
Scorpius beamed at her, and Hermione all but ran out of the cottage, her overcoat still in hand as his tiny stomach grumbled sharply once more behind her. The poor boy. She was going to hex Malfoy the first chance she got.
She honestly had no idea why she was currently trying to track him down — he was an adult wizard capable of returning to the cottage on his own, and yet, here she was, once again running around after a grown man who had little consideration for others.
Swallowing back an exasperated sigh, for it did her no good bemoaning her own idiocy, she continued on. Her eyes moving rapidly, catching on every strand of tinsel the village was decorated with, for it shone as brilliantly as his stupid silver hair.
“Granger.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Hermione yelped, whipping around. “Do you know how long I have been looking for you?”
“Ten minutes, give or take,” Malfoy smirked, leaning against the brick exterior of a bookshop she had gazed longingly at as she had trudged past, her cheeks numb from the cold. “I saw you turn into the street — your hair truly is something. I couldn’t miss it if I tried.”
“And yet it took you ten minutes to make yourself known,” Hermione glared at him, her arms crossing across her chest.
“I was in the middle of a fascinating chapter,” he shrugged, waving a book in her face. Too fast for her to catch proper sight of the title or the cover.
“How did you buy that?” Hermione frowned.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “The muggle world may be a mystery to me, but currency certainly is not.”
Hermione scoffed. “Oh, of course.”
Malfoy’s jaw clenched, and he narrowed his piercing gaze on her, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, I’m sure you know exactly what I mean.”
“I certainly can guess, but if your intention is to cast aspersions, you will have to make the accusations, Granger.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “I don’t believe I have to do anything, Malfoy. You seem to understand me quite clearly. Besides, we’re wasting time, your son is starving, and we have a lot to do if we want to stay consistent with the rest of my plans for the holiday.”
“How… relaxing.” Malfoy scoffed.
Hermione trailed her eyes over his starched and ridiculous outfit. “Takes one to know one.”
Malfoy muttered something unintelligible under his breath as she turned away from him, her fingers pulling at the mobile phone in her pocket.
“Hi, Rosie, yes, yes… he’s here. I’m going to send you my location. Now you know the rules — yes. No talking to strangers. Straight here. Make sure Scorpius knows, as well. Yes… yes… Put your coats on and—”
“Er,” Malfoy said, his hand coming to grasp at her elbow, as his grey gaze widened with concern. “Are you having some sort of episode, Granger?”
Hermione glared at him. “It’s called The Riverside Cafe. We’ll be waiting outside.”
Malfoy looked at her mobile curiously as she pulled it away from her ear and quickly tapped at it to send her location to Rose. “The only person who’s had an episode today is you, Malfoy. Your son’s been waiting for you to return for close to an hour.”
To his credit, Malfoy ran his fingers through his hair as something resembling sheepishness flitted across his face. “I… er… couldn’t remember the correct cottage once I left, and waiting at a bookshop seemed the most convenient way of running into you eventually.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, dropping her sneer.
“Is that a portable telephone?” Malfoy asked curiously. “I thought they required tentacles to work.”
“They’re called cords, and obviously not, seeing as this one works perfectly fine without one.”
“Are you always this snappish?” Malfoy asked, cocking his head.
“Are you always this ignorant?” Hermione asked with a grimace, knowing he was anything but.
He was curious, and even in their brief reacquaintance, he had done more than Ron had in six years of marriage. But was that something she was willing to give consideration to? No. Even without thinking all too much about it, she knew she was better off.
From the corner of her eye, she could see that he was scrutinising her, and it made her uncomfortable.
Yes, she could admit he was not the same boy who had bullied her or watched her be tortured — which only made it more confusing for her.
He was not asking anything Ron wouldn’t have, and yet his presence — his questions — only reminded her that Ron wasn’t the one beside her. That he hadn’t even bothered to make an appearance, hadn’t asked these questions, hadn’t made her coffee — not once.
It was silly, and she would be the first person to admit she was being unfair to both the man standing before her and the man she had once been married to, but it was true to how the chips had fallen.
“Granger, say the word, and Scorpius and I will leave. He’ll get over it—” In her reverie, she had missed much of what Malfoy had been saying to her, but she snapped out of it just as he stepped back from her, his eyes catching on the sight of Rose and Scorpius, now a mere five shops away.
Hermione’s gaze caught on Rose’s smile as she ran forward, one hand wrapped around Scorpius, who allowed her to tug him along, his gaze flying from one sight to the next in awe.
“No,” Hermione sighed, clasping her fingers together. She hadn’t seen Rose this happy in a long time, and surely she would not begrudge her daughter's happiness, even if she herself felt conflicted. Perhaps if Malfoy had given her a single reason to be wary, she would have, but he hadn’t, and as hard as it was to digest — if he were to go home, it would be because she was being unreasonable. “Don’t do that.”
She turned towards him, bracing herself as she faced his piercing gaze head-on. “You don’t like me, and I certainly don’t have fond memories of you either, but our children seem to care for each other. For them, I am willing to put aside my differences, if you are, Malfoy.”
Malfoy frowned at her, “I wouldn’t say I don’t like you. I hardly know you, Granger.”
“Hmm,” Hermione said, folding her arms, her head cocking in the same lilt he often wore. “You don’t even know my name?”
“Do you know mine?” Malfoy asked, quirking an eyebrow.
Hermione grimaced. “Is it Drogo?”
“Cute, Harmony.” Draco smirked. “But you’re right. For Scorpius and Rose, I am willing to not not like you”
“For Scorpius and Rose,” Hermione nodded.
Notes:
Before, I begin: The nightwear in question!
Firstly, thank you for all the love you have given The Stowaway Malfoy. It has absolutely floored me, and I am at a complete loss of words.
That being said, this fic has been given its very own channel on the Wizarding World WIPS Discord server, a place where some truly phenomenal WIPs are discussed, and I am beyond honoured to have this be one of them. I'll link the invite here if you want to come talk about it on the channel. It's an incredible space, and we love to see WIPs be given the love they deserve.
Invite Link: https://discord.gg/3EsFrmf7
Lots of Love to Cait for Alpha'ing.
Chapter Text
Their truce lasted for all of fifteen minutes, which, if Draco were to be honest, was a lot longer than he had expected. Incidentally, it was also the same length of time it took their party of four to settle at a secluded booth by the window and for Granger to realise she’d have to order for both Scorpius and Draco — which was only after he tried to order truffled quail eggs, which the establishment did not carry.
The waiter had raised one amused eyebrow, Draco had bristled, and Granger had treated him to one of her prized glares in kind.
“As you would know if you had deigned to read the menu,” Hermione scowled as he stood from the table, his hands sticky from the filthy piece of muggle parchment with jam stains on it — which he now realised had been the menu card.
“Excuse me,” Draco said, ignoring her jibe to instead head to the lavatory to wash his hands. It was a good thing Draco had already had his first encounter with muggle plumbing whilst everyone else had slept into late morning. He doubted this cafe, as quaint as it was, would take kindly to a sopping wet floor — and without his wand, his magic was far too restricted for the Evanesco he had performed at the cottage earlier that morning.
Hermione rolled her eyes, stripping off her coat to reveal another green sweater, this one a ribbed knit with a daring V-neck. Salazar’s fuck! Less than twenty-four hours and the witch had treated him to three items of clothing in various shades of his favourite colour, including the very Muggle and highly racy nightwear in Venomous Tentacula green — which he had found was equally as lethal, if not more so.
Upon his return, he found Granger deep in conversation with Scorpius, his bright grey eyes mesmerised by the older witch. It was a rather peculiar sight for Draco: to watch his son, who looked so like him during his youth, display such warmth and affection for her so brazenly.
It was the kind of look he had often only allowed himself briefly, and only ever to the back of Granger’s head. Which was also why he had often resorted to cruel and entirely untrue taunts about her hair — he had, after all, needed a reason to explain why he was always staring at her from behind. Crabbe and Goyle may have shared one singular pea-sized brain between them, but they had, unfortunately, had semi-decent vision.
He moved slowly, now realising the mini-Granger — for there was very little of Weasley in her except the colour of her hair — was watching him curiously. She blinked at him, her large brown eyes conveying warmth he had never quite received from those coloured hues before as a shy smile played at her lips. She bit down on it quickly, but he had seen a flash of it and it had pulled at his heart. If only her hair were a darker chestnut instead of auburn, she'd have been the picture of a younger Hermione Granger, and this was perhaps the first time that odd schoolboy fantasy of having her look at him kindly was being assuaged.
“Having a good birthday, Rose?” Draco asked, sitting down beside her so he was once again directly across Granger. She turned her chin to look at him momentarily before resuming her explanations on House-elf slavery to Scorpius, who, in turn, nodded along in awe of her directly contrasting opinions to what he himself experienced at home.
He would wager Skippy had a drastically life-altering choice coming her way in the new year.
“Yes,” Rose said, her smile growing wide now that her lip had tugged free of her teeth. “Mummy says we’ll cook my favourite meal tonight, and we’ll decorate the tree.”
Just as Draco began to ask if doing manual labour was muggle for fun — the server who had so rudely gawked at him earlier arrived, four sets of dishes overwhelming his arms. “Turkey Melt, Chicken Club, same for you, Dad and a Vegetable Focaccia for Mum.”
Draco’s eyes snapped up at the same time Granger’s did, a frown playing at her lips.
He waited for her to correct the server in the same high pitch she had often resorted to at Hogwarts when someone answered a professor incorrectly, but all she said was, “Thank you.” And then the man was leaving, believing one of Draco’s wildest fantasies to be Merlin’s truth for the rest of his life.
He felt the tips of his ears heat up, and he looked away from her before she could notice the flush spread more prominently across his cheeks.
“That’s orange juice,” Rose said as Scorpius inspected the bright yellow glass Granger had ordered for each of the children. “I like pumpkin juice, but this is Mummy’s favourite.”
Draco tamped down on the urge he felt to grab his son’s glass and taste it for himself, instead focusing on the forgotten plate before him. He looked down at the monstrous sandwich Granger had ordered for him, the house speciality supposedly — his silverware hanging limply in his hands.
“You couldn’t have ordered me something less messy, Herman?” Draco drawled, watching Granger make small, precise incisions into her more reasonably proportioned sandwich.
“No, Darko,” Granger rolled her eyes. “You said you’re not allergic to anything, and I ordered you and Scorpius the most popular dish they have.”
Scorpius, the little traitor, smiled appreciatively as he followed in the footsteps of her daughter, grabbing the sandwich — which was as big as his face — with his left hand and stuffing a corner into his mouth, much in the same manner as he had devoured the supposed pizza ordered for dinner the night before.
Italians, Muggle and wizarding, would have shuddered at the sight of the ghastly slices.
He made the mistake of once more glancing in envy at Granger’s more reasonably proportioned sandwich and caught sight of her just as she took a small bite. Her eyes closed momentarily, and then she made the most obnoxiously erotic expression before flicking her tongue out to lick at the salt crystals that remained on her plump pink lips, sending Draco’s blood rushing in two contrasting directions.
“How would you know?” Draco asked snarkily, in the hopes that she would mistake his arousal for simple revulsion. “Come to dine at this fine establishment often, do you, Granger?”
Granger rolled her eyes, “I suppose if you don’t know what a mobile is, you don’t know what the internet is either?”
“Some sort of Muggle medicine?” Draco asked, sounding the foreign word out silently so he would not make a fool of himself. “I imagine it takes a wide net to catch hold of all the atrocities they’ve stuffed in between two slices of bread.”
Granger narrowed her eyes. “Your ignorance is showing.”
“I am not ignorant,” Draco couldn’t help the bitter inflection of his words, despite the fact that her chest heaved ever so slightly, drawing his attention lower down her collar momentarily before he was once more reminded of her jibe.
He certainly wasn’t ignorant… on purpose.
Who did he have to turn to about the wiles and wisdoms of Muggles? Certainly not Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy. Neither Pansy nor Theo, whose extensive knowledge on Muggles began and ended with Muggle wine — which Draco was not too proud a wizard to admit was slightly superior for its many variations.
Whoever would have thought pineapple notes would be good in a wine?
“If you say so,” Granger said, her attention–a snitch that fluttered around him momentarily before being drawn away by their children, who continued to giggle and speak in hushed whispers, oblivious to the heat between their parents.
Draco glowered at his sandwich, knowing the moment he struck his fork and knife into it, it would completely dismantle, yet adamant to hold onto some semblance of control regardless.
It was moot.
He knew it already.
His son and her daughter had ensured it.
* * *
“Do you like to cook, Mr Malfoy?” Rose balanced precariously on the back of the shopping trolley Granger had asked him to guard as she and Scorpius mulled between two chaotically colourful boxes of something called cereal Scorpius had lit up at the mention of.
Apparently, when not colluding, Rose and Scorpius could be found sharing lunches at school, and cereal seemed to be something they were both quite fond of.
Draco opened his mouth, one hand resting on the trolley to keep it from speeding down the aisle. “I wouldn’t know, and you may call me Draco, Rose.”
“You don’t cook either, Draco?” Rose scrunched her face in distaste, her cheeks turning the same dusky pink of her ballerina’s tutu.
“I have never been in a position to, I suppose,” Draco said, his eyes roving over the veritable treasure trove of ingredients Granger had collected over the past twenty minutes. To be fair, he had never even been around unprepared foods before this moment, and the concept of shopping for it rather confused him. How did muggles know what to buy, and make it blend with what they had in the icebox they had at home? It all seemed like a large puzzle, and not at all as enticing as having an elf do it all for you.
That thought, of course, occurred moments before Scorpius ran forward, a box of something called Coco Pops hugged tightly to his chest, a shit-eating grin on his face that was mirrored on Granger’s.
“I see the sweet tooth is hereditary,” Granger smirked. “There was no convincing him to pick a box of Weetabix.”
Draco’s mouth fell agape as he grappled to comprehend what Granger had just said. She had taken note of his affinity for sweets during their time at Hogwarts — and remembered it. There was a memory of him in her head that was not tainted by cruelty, and he relished in it. However, just as he opened his mouth to tease her about it — for some instincts were hard not to follow upon — she took charge of Rose and the trolley, depriving him of the joy of seeing her blush at the admission.
Scorpius trailed behind her like a lovesick puppy.
Naturally, Draco was not far behind his son.
“Are we still doing spaghetti and meatballs for dinner?” Rose asked, jumping off the trolley.
“After five years of making the same thing for dinner on your birthday, I am hardly likely to forget this year. Which reminds me, Scorpius, what would you like for dinner on your birthday?”
Draco watched as an entire spectrum of emotions flitted across his face before he was schooling them back like the pureblooded aristocratic heir of house Malfoy he had been raised to be. Scorpius turned his eyes in Draco’s direction, as if Draco knew the answer. “I don’t know.”
“Scorp likes your chicken and potatoes,” Rose piped up smugly.
“All right,” Granger smiled, turning into the next aisle. “Go grab a small bag of potatoes then. We’re not all turning around now, or we’ll be late for tonight’s activities.”
Rose grabbed Scorpius’ hand and then they were running past the other patrons, their giggles echoing for a long time after they disappeared around the corner.
“They’re—” Draco began, but no words quite explained what he was thinking.
He and Pansy had been inseparable as children, their friendship far superior to anything else Draco had experienced at that age, but he couldn’t remember if he had ever held her hand and ran with abandon the way Rose and Scorpius did. It brought him great joy and satisfaction to stand here, experiencing his son live what would have been a fever dream to him in his starched, uncomfortable wizard’s robes.
“Something,” Granger giggled, her head turning away before he could watch the mirth manifest in her gaze.
“Something good?” Draco asked tentatively, his eyes focusing on the back of Granger’s head, where she was kneeling to pick between various boxes of pasta.
“I think so,” she said, turning around to peer up at him. “But then again, I would have been a friend to you, too, in our childhood. It should really be me asking you that question.”
Draco stared at his shoes, and she turned away, realising he had broken eye contact. “It’s okay, Malfoy. You were not the first person to make fun of me, and not surprisingly, you were not the last either.”
“I am—” he frowned. Saying the word sorry was simply not enough and he knew that. But so was saying anything short of ‘I made fun of you — your hair and your teeth, your blood status and your remarkable brain because I was compensating for the fact that I was bewitched, mind, body and soul from the moment you opened your mouth during our first lesson at Hogwarts.’ All true, and all absolutely pointless because — he was Draco Malfoy, and she was Hermione Granger.
Maybe there was nothing to say. Perhaps the best thing he could do was watch Scorpius be better, and there would still be one Malfoy worthy of some form of Granger.
“I never had many friends when I was Rose’s age,” Granger had been staring at him, and he realised she’d already picked up the pasta she wanted quite a long time ago. Her fingers picked at the flap nervously as she continued, “So I know how much those two need each other. Rose—”
She ripped at the seam of the box mindlessly and then made an adorable scrunching expression when the spaghetti noodles fell at her feet. “Whoops.”
Draco instinctively moved to remove his wand from his pocket, before realising he’d gone the entire day without it. He’d left it at the cottage this morning, and Granger had not brought it along with her.
She knelt on the floor and began to refill the noodles into the box and he moved forward to help.
“Don’t take this from her, Malfoy.” It was hardly more than a whisper between them where they knelt, their knees brushing as their hands carefully avoided each other in their efforts to clean up the mess they had between them.
“I should be asking you that,” Draco sighed, his chest constricting with the knowledge that she held all the power and all the reason. “Why would I take away something that brings so much joy to him when I’m standing right beside him, envious that I was so foolish as to not experience it myself.”
Hermione’s warm whiskey-hued gaze found his honest greys, and despite the fact that many of the noodles had rolled under the aisles where they would not be able to reach easily, they had managed to declutter some of the mess that lay between them.
* * *
“Salazar, Granger, no one will know. It’s just a tiny feather-light charm,” Draco sighed wearily as his palms smarted below the stinging weight of seven shopping bags.
“I’m sorry? Have you better learned to act since you were lying in the mud screaming about bloody chickens over a tiny scratch? Because no one bought it then, and nobody’s going to buy the ease with which you’re lugging groceries back home.” Hermione said, trailing up the entirely abandoned alley that led to the cottage.
“It was more than a scratch,” Draco grunted as he held out his hand for Rose to shift the heaviest of her shopping bags into his waiting palm. “At least do it for the children.”
“Daaad!” Scorpius whined behind him. “I’m okay. It’s just two bags.”
Draco blinked at his son, who had never so much as deigned to carry a glass of water from one room to the other, and smiled. “Alright.”
What was not alright was that simply buying and lugging their weekly shopping was not the end of it all. Soon, Draco was standing at the kitchen counter, watching as Hermione levitated everything into its appropriate space as he fiddled with his wand, useless to help as he honestly had no idea what more there was to do.
The children had wandered off, muttering something about a green grouch before the kitchen was quiet, and it was once again them. Granger and Malfoy — only it was not a hushed school library, and words were expected, or at the very least, appreciated.
“A drink?” Hermione asked after he had opened and closed his mouth, searching for a reasonable topic — hold on. When had he started thinking of her as Hermione?
“Yes,” Draco sighed in relief, moving quickly towards the last unopened bag to remove the selection they had both quickly grabbed as the kids had been away picking out baked goods. It was almost five, only an hour short, and if it was good enough for Hermione, it was good enough for him — who needed a drink now that they were standing in such small confines once more.
Visions of her standing right where she stood now in her risque night-wear once more flooded him, and he had to think of the night he had caught Filch kissing Umbridge’s desk that one time to keep himself from getting as excited as he had become this morning before he had run out of the back door.
“Gin?” Draco asked, removing the bright green bottle he had picked out for himself — remembering it from the time he had tasted it at Theo's birthday party a few years ago.
Hermione snorted by way of response.
Draco glared at her.
“What?”
“Enjoy your tree juice, Roco.” Hermione huffed, bypassing the drink he had begun to prepare for her to tap at the bottle of rum she had selected. “Some of us have more refined palettes.”
“Cute, Hormone,” Draco said, shaking his head as he picked up the bottle of rum and sniffed at it cautiously. “What do you add—?”
Hermione’s eyes grew wide, and she did a better job of hiding her smile than Rose had at breakfast. “Let me please be the one to introduce you to the delights of a Cuba Libre, Malfoy.”
“If you insist, Granger.”
Draco couldn’t help that her smile pulled at the corner of his lips, and then he too was smiling.
A cuba libre was — honestly? — he had no actual words to explain what it was exactly. Yes, it was alcoholic, and delectably fizzy on the tip of his tongue, but it also had the added complexity of warm spices with just the softest hint of citrus in its aftertaste. It was intoxicating, and he had yet to take a second sip.
“Good, huh?” Hermione smirked, leaning across the countertop to raise a self-satisfied brow at him.
“Odd,” Draco nodded after another small sip. “It’s quite dimensional.”
Hermione snorted before knocking back a large gulp. “It’s also quite an efficient method of getting just buzzed enough to tolerate what’s to come.”
Draco’s brows furrowed just as he heard the children move back into the sitting room behind him, carrying two large plastic boxes he had noticed amongst Hermione’s belongings in the bedroom.
“Rose can be… difficult,” was all Hermione said as she fixed them both two more drinks in nondescript teacups she’d charmed slightly larger. “Especially when she doesn’t get her way.”
Before Draco could pointedly look at the black kettle sitting directly behind her, she was moving out past him to watch the children, and he automatically followed, once more finding himself being drawn to the back of her head.
Their offspring stood before the bare Christmas tree that rose four feet above their heads, a jumble of tree decor scattered around their feet as Rose scrutinised the tree with determination.
“We have to do green and red,” Rose said, folding her arms in determined resolution.
“But we only have pink and white.” Scorpius frowned at the baubles he had clutched in his hands.
“Mummy invented a colour-changing charm that doesn’t wear off.” Rose grinned, turning to stare expectantly at the adults who had settled on each end of the sofa, now transfigured back into the original Chesterfield.
Draco shifted slightly to better watch Granger, who swallowed uncomfortably. “Is that right, Granger?”
Hermione didn’t deign him with one of her glares which only made Draco cock his head in amusement. “I don’t believe the ministry has approved any new spells this decade.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That you know of.”
“I am a solicitor,” Draco smirked as she refused to meet his gaze — a first, if he was not mistaken. “And thus, I do defend quite a few people who are caught using non-Ministry approved spells and charms, so I actually do know what has and has not been approved — and just so you know, for the future, I am quite good at getting them off.”
It was a filthy double entendre he had not quite set out to say — thank you, Muggle rum — but the sight of her flush spreading down and across the top of her decolletage pleased him more than it should have, and so he let the words hang between them, not issuing the retraction that was on the tip of his tongue.
“Getting them off what, Dad?” Scorpius asked as Rose stomped her foot, drawing Hermione’s attention back to the Christmas baubles that required charming.
“Nothing,” Hermione squeaked. “Yes, green and red, I can do that.” And then she was on her feet, her wand twirling in small sections over the floor so the colour distribution was roughly even as Draco met his son’s inquisitive gaze.
He wasn’t sure what Scorpius was searching for on his face, but whatever it was he did find made the young boy smile — a proper smile that revealed the dimples Draco got to experience so infrequently. Then he turned away, returning to bicker softly with Rose, who found Hermione’s colour charm was not providing the proper shade of Slytherin green, as was depicted in Hogwarts: A History.
It wasn’t long before Muggle Christmas jingles were playing softly around the room, and Scorpius and Rose were bickering about the placement of stars and snowflakes upon the tree as Hermione and Draco played their part in decorating — which was really just an exercise in whether the tree would be more Gryffindor or more Slytherin as they both only selected the colour of their former houses.
Rose and Scorpius, however, had no such agendas, except the one which was fuelling their current debate.
“Stars have to go at the top of the tree because they’re always above us,” Scorpius said, scrunching his nose at Rose.
“Yes, but the snowflakes are prettier, so we have to give them prime real estate!”
“What is prime real estate?”
“I don’t know, it’s what my mum says, and you know mums are always right.”
“Oh.”
Draco inhaled quietly, his eyes flickering to Scorpius, who had stilled, his face lowered and tilted away from the rest of their party. No, despite Draco’s best efforts, Scorpius certainly didn’t know that mums were often not to be trifled with — and Draco was all too aware of how bereft his son was for it.
Beside him, Hermione’s fingers relaxed around the large red bow she had been in a hurry to tie at the top of the tree before Draco could stick his own green star in its place. But before either of them could formulate the correct response, it seemed Rose had picked up on the tension.
She was hugging Scorpius, her arms wrapping around his waist tightly. “They can go at the bottom, Scorp. You’re right. The stars are the reason we have snowflakes.”
It was trauma — their children had bonded over the trauma of having only one parent available, and that was why they were so insistent on bringing their smaller families together.
Not for the first time in his life, did Draco curse his father and his penchant for schemes that always seemed to backfire at Draco’s expense — and now at Scorpius’ as well.
Notes:
As always, love to Cait who made me laugh throughout the edits of this chapter.
This Draco has been dubbed internally feral and externally feisty.
Chapter 6: A Not-So-Merry Band of Mustelids
Chapter Text
Carol of the Bells wafted in from the sitting room, where Hermione had left the kids and Malfoy with a tray of chocolate biscuits and hot cocoa. She didn’t particularly care to cook, only knowing a handful of recipes (none by heart), but she had learned over the years it was a busy woman’s equivalent to relaxing in a hot bath. One could mull and ponder as their hands sliced, washed, stirred, and prepared, and she genuinely needed to reflect on the conflicting feelings the past twenty-three hours had stirred within her.
The trip to the grocery store had emphasised how surreal it was having the two Malfoys on her holiday in a way the night before had not quite. It had been the simple act of buying twice as much of everything she had written on her shopping list that had made her realise the gravity of what the four of them had set out to do. A family holiday. Only they were not quite a family, save that their children had taken to sharing some sort of bond that transcended adult logic.
It was strange how intimacy was often found not in sensual touch but in moments that were so ordinary in one’s life that they often went rather unaccounted for. Like shopping for groceries, or a child knowing when another needed the soft comfort of an embrace, or two bitter school rivals united by their shared love for their children.
Malfoy had, of course, rather generously offered to pay for the groceries at the Co-op, going as far as to say it was only justified as they had all but invited themselves along — but Hermione had politely refused, partially due to her own strong sense of morals and mostly because she had secretly googled the price of Malfoy’s gift to Rose. In reality, she felt she was now obliged to buy him groceries for the next three years or refuse the gift entirely — which she didn’t want to do.
But she likely still would — at the end of the stay — once she had read the first edition and could effectively bring it up in every literary conversation for the rest of her life.
“Can I help?”
Hermione jumped, her heart thumping twice against her ribcage before it settled at the realisation she had accidentally dumped too much salt into the pot of water she had been boiling for the noodles.
“Bugger,” she muttered, moving towards the sink to dump it out and refill it. She caught a hazy glimpse of his reflection in the window, his ease starkly at odds with the boy she remembered from her youth. Yes, Malfoy was still snide and snarky, even now in his thirties, but she had yet to hear him be cruel even in passing, which confused her all the more.
She couldn’t comprehend where all the self-righteous rhetoric and pureblood ideology was. Had he learnt to bite back his words after the war, or did he no longer believe in it? Had he ever?
Yes. She was certain he had once believed she was unworthy of this shared gift that had inevitably brought them into each other’s sphere. Her first “Mudblood” had been too fervent to have been a simple childhood insult. She could still picture him all of twelve with slicked-back blond hair, his pointy face twisted in disgust at having to acknowledge her. His loathing abhorrence had been written clear across his face, and she had known in that moment whilst she belonged to this world, this world did not belong to the likes of her.
It was almost as if he could hear her thoughts because his eyes met hers in the reflection, and he stiffened, his jaw ticking with discomfort as he looked down at the kitchen counter that separated the sitting room and the kitchen in half.
“Snape’s method?” he asked after the long pause stretched and eroded the air between them.
He was studying how she had arranged everything on the counter in order of use and clumped what could be prepared simultaneously.
She placed the brimming pot once again on the hot stove before turning around. “It’s just as effective in the kitchen as it is in a potion’s lab,” she said, her eyes following the motion of his fingers as he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up deftly, exposing a neat set of muscular forearms that looked incredibly alluring.
“It’s not there,” he said quietly, his sterling grey gaze waiting for her when she looked back up at him.
She furrowed her brows momentarily before she reconsidered his words — oh! He thought—
“No!” ahe said, her voice alarmingly high-pitched. “No, I wasn’t — that’s not what I was looking for...” She bit her tongue to keep from revealing just what she had been looking at.
Malfoy blinked at her slowly before a satisfied smirk broke over his features, and Hermione almost wanted to take back the kindness she had offered him. He moved forward, now swaggering slightly until he stood directly over the recipe card she had placed exactly where Professor Snape had taught them to place their potions books — in the left corner. He bent low over it, the veins running up his arms now stark beneath his smooth alabaster skin as he braced himself to read the recipe carefully, a small smile curving up at the corners of his lips.
“Like what you see, Granger?” Malfoy asked smugly, picking up the knife she had set on the cutting board next to the onions and garlic. He looked up at her through his fair lashes and the feathered fringe of white-blonde hair that had come loose since he had styled it this morning and which now kissed his forehead lightly.
She mentally shook her head, recalling what he had said moments ago. She might have let this moment be if it had been anyone else, but it was not — and her ego simply would not allow it.
“Well, that depends, Malfoy. Did you like what you saw this morning?” Hermione asked. If the words came out more breathless than she had intended, it was only because she was exhausted and not because her mind was racing to think of someone, anyone else, who could displace the striking image before her.
Ron in a kitchen? No, she could only picture him stealing food from a pan, food that was still very much uncooked. Harry? No, as skilled as he was in a kitchen, that felt even more inappropriate than flushing at the sight of Draco Malfoy doing something as absurdly unsexy as chopping an onion. Except — he did make it look sexy, and she knew the image would haunt her for all eternity.
Just what she needed as a touch-starved, thirty-year-old divorcée and single mother: visions of her childhood nemesis looking sexy as he fondled a large bulbous vegetable.
“Fuck,” Malfoy growled in response to her earlier query, drawing her back to reality just in time to see the knife clatter deafeningly on the porcelain countertop. He stared at his finger where the knife had sliced it, a steady stream of dark red blood now dripping onto the white surface, jolting her into action.
“For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy!” Hermione exclaimed, running forward to inspect the injury.
Malfoy allowed her to gently take his hand between hers as she squinted at the gash before her.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, her voice coming out breathless once again, but for an entirely different reason.
“If I say yes, will you tell me I’m overreacting again?” Malfoy asked, his lip curling into an amused expression.
“No, because unlike that time, this actually does look quite deep,” Hermione said, her voice giving away her worry. “Come here so I can wash it.”
“No,” Malfoy huffed, moving to jerk his hand back, only she clutched onto it more tightly. “That’ll make it sting.”
“I would call that overreacting. I need to wash it to take a better look at it, Malfoy.”
“Just Episkey it.”
“That’s not proper protocol. We need to analyse the gash first,” Hermione said, recognising she had slipped into a mothering tone that was both uncalled for and highly inappropriate.
“Granger, let go of my hand so I can go Episkey it myself,” Malfoy said, equally as childlike as Rose would be.
“Absolutely not!” Hermione glared at him, but his gaze was firmly held by the sight of his blood now weeping all over her hands, tingeing her fair palms and olive wrists a deep crimson.
“Fine,” he said, discomfort seeping into his tone. “Do what you must.”
The proper assessment, and yes, an appropriate Episkey, set them back by fifteen minutes. Malfoy glowered at her as she removed the knife from within his reach, and if he muttered, “I can chop better than you. I was, after all, Snape’s best student," she chose to ignore him.
She had expected him to go skulking to the sitting room in protest, but he continued to look down at the recipe card in deep contemplation and helped with what he could — peeling garlic, straining the noodles — and when she had abandoned the hob to receive a call from Luna, she returned to find her sauce continuing to simmer gently instead of burning to ash, as she had half-expected, because he had kept stirring for her.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” she finally said as he wordlessly helped her remove the dinnerware from the cabinet she couldn’t quite reach.
She received a sneer in response. “It’s a simple recipe in a Muggle cauldron over a Muggle fire.”
“You know what I mean,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “If anything, I would have expected you to say I was doing it the hard way by not employing charms.”
Malfoy shrugged. “I was waiting until after tasting it to see if charmed food is better or worse.”
Hermione chuckled. “Ah, but now that you’ve helped me cook, I can just blame you if it tastes bad.”
“Quite right, Granger,” Malfoy smirked as he flipped a fork between his healed fingers. “Perhaps I’ll refrain from helping tomorrow so as to make a proper judgement.”
“You didn’t have to help tonight,” Hermione said, knowing she was looking a gift horse directly in the mouth — one that was not just likely to spook, but likely to kick and bite as well.
Malfoy shrugged. “I honestly could not switch out the bow for the star one more time. Our children are absolutely evil.”
For some reason, Hermione didn’t quite buy it, but she didn’t want him to leave either.
* * *
“And then what happened, Miss Rose?” Malfoy smirked into his glass of water as Rose ignored Hermione’s positively murderous glare across the table.
“Oh, Daddy says she turned into a very scary cat, and that’s why we shouldn’t experiment with unknown potions.”
“Is that so?” Malfoy looked like Christmas had come, well, two days earlier than anticipated. “When was this Granger? I certainly only remember you being absent from classes a handful of times. Did you know your mother once came to class with a flu that took the entire class out of commission for an entire week?”
“I don’t remember what year,” Rose said, bypassing Malfoy’s trivia fact as she scooped another large mouthful into her mouth. “When was it, Mum? I forget even though Dad is always telling the story.”
Hermione shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t remember.”
“That’s fine,” Rose said, chewing furiously to get her words out faster. “We’ll ask Dad if he firecalls.”
Malfoy’s mouth fell open in surprise, but whatever had come to him at that moment remained unsaid as Scorpius set his dinnerware down so he could speak.
“My uncle Theo says my dad turned into a ferret once.” Scorpius mulled. “Did you take a potion as well? Is that why that lady—”
“Aunty Gin,” Rose supplied.
“Yes, Aunty Gin — is that why she called you a Ferret?”
Hermione couldn’t help the amused smile that rose to her lips at the small interaction between the children — and the implication that they lived in a world in which Draco Malfoy’s son called Ginny Potter, nee. Weasley — Aunty Gin.
Malfoy gritted his teeth. “No, I did not have to take a potion for that.”
“No, no unverified potion ingredients were involved in that incident.” Hermione grinned, thrilled now that the tables had turned. “I was there.”
“You were?” Scorpius turned towards Hermione, his inquisitive gaze focusing on her. “Will you tell us? Dad said it never happened last time I asked.”
Hermione waggled her brows at Malfoy, who blushed a rosy pink before looking away from her, his fingers clamped around his fork and spoon.
Hermione’s smile faltered as she realised Malfoy didn’t want his son to know the whole story — not because it was embarrassing, but because of what had occurred in the moments leading up to the highly inappropriate punishment.
Before Hermione could break either of the Malfoys' hearts, Rose intervened on his behalf.
“Was Draco a cute ferret, Mummy?” Rose asked, cocking her head to the side to study Malfoy. All three of her companions seemed curious to hear her response as they all turned expectantly towards her.
“As far as mustelids go,” Hermione allowed, noting the admission had not immediately killed her, as expected.
“Seeing as weasels also belong to the family, that’s quite the compliment.” Malfoy cocked an eyebrow, masking the raw emotion she had glimpsed behind his usual air of nonchalance as if it hadn’t been there at all. It seemed he was a better actor than she gave him credit for.
“Rosie?” Hermione stiffened as Ron’s voice rang through the dining room. “You there, my love?” Across the table, so did Malfoy, whose eyes immediately flitted to his son, who also had frozen on the spot, his fork halfway to his mouth.
“Go talk to your dad,” Hermione smiled at Rose, who pushed off the chair slowly. “I’m right behind you.”
It seemed the ease and enjoyment of the night departed the table at the same time Rose did, and the rest of them finished their meals in silence as muted conversations drifted in from the sitting room.
Hermione itched to follow close behind Rose, but it was something Ron had accused her of a few months ago; that he was hardly ever allowed alone time with his daughter. Hermione had been so relieved that he was asking for any time at all, she had made it her mission to ensure it would never happen again. As it was, he was so often absent, and Hermione wanted her daughter to have a healthy relationship with her dad, regardless of how much said dad got on her nerves.
In her heart, Hermione knew it was but a whisper of what she shared with her father, whom she adored even on the days he didn’t remember her, especially when he swore he was Wendell Wilkins.
“He wants to talk to you.”
Hermione looked up from the stack of dishes she had set next to the sink, Malfoy and Scorpius following behind her with empty bowls and glasses.
“Yes, right.” Hermione nodded, applying a quick cleaning charm on the dishes before following Rose into the sitting room.
“Ron,” Hermione said, watching sparks and embers fly around his face in the floo. “I see you got my letter.”
Letter was putting it mildly. She had sent him a howler between the hours Malfoy had wandered off and the kids had not yet woken. It was excessive, she knew. But in her defence, she ought to have received a message from him first about his plans for his daughter’s birthday rather than a convoluted excuse from Molly.
He sighed in exasperation, “I did. Thank you for sending the address.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t added the address to the howler, but to be fair, she had sent him the address when she had booked the cottage three months ago.
“I had the most interesting conversation with Mum when I Floo’d her to get the address, though.” She heard the blatant accusation in his voice even as the cackling fire sparked over his words. “Would you care to explain, what the fucking fuck—”
“Yes, um, we have guests on our holiday,” Hermione said quickly, hoping Ron’s hard-earned and incredibly important reputation post-war would keep him from blowing a truly incredible gasket in front of Malfoy. It wasn’t so much that Ron would be harsh — his anger often flared and cooled in equal measure even as an adult — but Hermione found she preferred not to be chewed out in front of spectators, familial or otherwise.
“Hermione,” Ron gritted his teeth. “You don’t mean what I think you mean?”
“Ron, I can–” Hermione began calmly.
“Don’t fucking tell me they spent the night there! How can you be so reckless as to invite that man into our home—”
“My home—”
“—with my daughter?”
“Our daughter.”
“Are you screwing him, Hermione?”
It seemed that was all Malfoy needed to hear to step into the sitting room where Hermione stood, looking down at Ron’s face in the grate, her fists clenched tightly as she tried to remain calm in the face of his unwarranted anger.
“I think I’ll take the kids for ice cream, Granger, if that's alright with you,” Malfoy asked quietly. “The house is quite small, and they’ve heard enough, as it is.”
Hermione glanced at him wearily before nodding once. When her gaze settled once more on his face, she caught the briefest flicker of something that looked vaguely like relief or something more akin to gratitude.
“No, the bloody fuck you’re not.” Ron glared up at them. “Stay the fuck away from my family.”
“Perhaps if you hadn’t, I would,” Malfoy said coolly, before he was ushering the children out of the cottage, his wand tucked back neatly into his trouser pocket.
Rose, whose parting expression Hermione caught just as she looked away, seemed more relieved to leave than excited at the prospect of birthday ice cream.
“Tell me, Hermione,” Ron demanded before the front door was even shut.
“Tell you what, Ronald?” Hermione snapped, her rage festering.
“Are you fucking Malfoy?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Hermione growled, kneeling so she could look at him better. “You missed your daughter’s birthday, and this is what you want to discuss?”
“I apologised to her,” Ron said, and she knew he was shrugging even if she couldn’t see his shoulders.
“Of course, why would I need an apology, right?” Hermione said, her jaw cracking under the weight of her anger.
“Do you?” Ron spat. “Because from what I gather, you’re more than happy trading me in for another man.”
“You can’t trade something you don’t have.” Hermione narrowed her eyes.
“Oh, like, you’re so upset about our divorce.”
“You’re right, I’m not,” Hermione levelled him with her most cutting glare. “That doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you or your presence in Rose’s life.”
“It sure as hell doesn’t look like it.” Ron spat, and ash flew around her momentarily before it settled around her.
“Oh, and so should I really be saying, ‘look at you, Ronald, getting back together with Lavender Brown. You must not have ever cared about me at all.’”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because Lavender and I—”
“Lavender and you what?” Hermione narrowed her eyes.
“That doesn’t concern you,” Ron said. Was it the fire that burned brighter, or was Ronald flushed? She couldn’t tell her, but her mind pricked at the thought as if it was an extraneous detail worth exploring for more context.
Later.
“Fine, then perhaps you should take your own advice,” Hermione finally said. “We’re both divorced, we’re allowed to take judgement calls when the other person is absent, and I have a good reason for—”
However, as it always was with Ron, he didn’t care what she had to say. “Hermione, I mean it. Tell them to leave.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s Malfoy.”
Hermione mulled it over for a brief moment. Yes, it was Malfoy — only she didn’t think she knew what that meant anymore. “That’s not good enough, Ron.”
“I swear to Merlin, Hermione, don’t make me come back early.”
Hermione laughed. She didn’t know what overcame her; the laughter truly was uncalled for, yet she couldn’t stop herself.
“Ronald, if you come now, you’ll only be telling your daughter her birthday was not reason enough to come back early, but your animosity towards the Malfoys was.”
“That’s not—”
“What? You’re going to pretend you came back because you realised you want to be a family again?”
He remained silent, and so did she — because this was how arguments between them always went at the end. Nowhere.
“Just tell me, please.”
“Why?” Hermione finally sighed. “You’ve never cared about whether I was seeing someone before, not even when Cormac was going around telling everyone it was only a matter of time.”
“Because it’s him. He called you that word our entire childhood… he stood by as his aunt assaulted you in his home. I might not deserve you, Hermione, but neither does he.”
“That’s the problem, Ron.” Hermione sighed. “By that logic, I’m meant to stay single for the rest of my life, and that’s simply not fair to me. Your ineptitude does not warrant my misery.”
* * *
“Granger.”
“Fuck,” Hermione said, hiding her cigarette behind her back as she whipped around to face the darkened cottage.
“I’m neither your mother nor your daughter,” Malfoy said with a wave. “You can smoke your Muggle sticks all you want.”
Hermione exhaled slowly, smoke billowing around her as the tension in her jaw abated.
Malfoy and the children had returned shortly after Hermione’s firecall had ended with a tub of her favourite salted caramel ice cream that now sat untouched in the freezer. The timing had been perfect, and she assumed Malfoy had made it so to give her the space she would need to brush away the errant tears she hadn’t been able to keep at bay and a hot shower that had not entirely worked to relieve the tension that had crept into her shoulders the way her cigarette was working right this very moment.
It was a filthy habit, she was painfully aware. And had Malfoy indeed been her mother, Hermione was certain she would have been threatened with bodily injury, if not some form of dental work without anaesthetic. But it was something she had picked up after the war when she had been looking for her parents, and now a truly stressful day did not go without one indulgence.
“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” Hermione said before taking a long drag, noting the pin-striped pyjamas he had donned tonight. Did he have different pyjamas for every night? She was, herself, still wearing the green set from the night before underneath her overcoat, which she pulled closer around herself.
She didn’t mind the company tonight and was sure he would turn right back around and disappear into the house if he caught sight of it.
“I don’t generally banish witches to sofas as I sleep on the bed. I was exhausted from the stress of yesterday and didn’t realise you never came back.” Draco frowned, running a hand through his now completely dishevelled hair. “I apologise.”
Hermione took another drag of her cigarette, admiring how his smooth skin shone in the pale moonlight. Her gaze seemed to elicit some sort of word vomit from the man who rarely spoke more than the occasional snide remark — only, that was no longer true to her, was it?
“If I had known you would rather sleep on the sofa than beside me, I would have absolutely taken the sofa. I came out to tell you that I’ll take the Chesterfield tonight. The bed’s all yours.”
“Why are you being nice to me?” Hermione asked.
“What?”
“It’s been over twenty-four hours,” Hermione said, Ron’s words a whisper in her mind. Distant, but not silent. “You haven’t called me Mudblood or made some kind of dumb remark about my hair or my personality. In fact, when Rose mentioned the tragic cat story, you almost manoeuvred the conversation away from it, albeit to something else I’m not very proud of, but obviously, less embarrassed about.”
He remained silent for longer than Hermione had anticipated. She watched as his mouth fell open and then snapped shut quickly as his eyes evaded her gaze. Hermione had the sinking feeling she had done exactly what she had been afraid he would do — ruin this strange relationship their children seemed to treasure by being rude and inconsiderate.
He had made it clear, perhaps not in words but through every action, that whatever prejudices he had once held close were no longer prevalent. But in asking him to explain himself, had she made hers evident? She had to give it to her ex-husband, who had found a way to make her life difficult all the way from China.
“I was twelve,” Draco said cautiously, snapping her attention right back to England. He met her gaze steadily, his words a cool whisper that made her realise he had cast a warming charm around them at some point since he had followed her into the back garden. “When my father asked me who Hermione Granger was, and why she was ten percent ahead of the next highest grade? Which was—”
“You.” Hermione nodded. He’d always been right on her heels, his constant cruelty — the fuel to her fire. “That still means you had 104% at the end of first year.”
He didn’t glare at her, but something in the way he looked at her made Hermione wish to retract her words and let him speak whatever it was he was now adamant about getting out. “And I, knowing nothing about you except how you looked and how smart you were, and of course your name, waxed poetic about you to my father. I believe I may have even gone as far as to tell my father the only terrible thing about you was your choice in friends.”
Hermione chuckled as Draco picked up her smoke packet from the table she had discarded it on.
“Do you want to know what my father said? ‘Draco Malfoy, that is a — well you know the word, so I trust I don’t have to repeat him verbatim.” He paused, his eyes roving over the warning written on the label. “That girl is such, and if I so much as hear anything else about her come out of your mouth, you will find that the name Draco means nothing without the name Malfoy attached to it.”
Hermione wasn’t sure if the bitter taste enveloping her senses was that of the bum end of her cigarette or the thought that Draco Malfoy had been threatened with disinheritance for simply seeing her as an equal.
“So, naturally, being a Malfoy took precedence over the girl I was quite enamoured with at the age of twelve, especially when that girl also happened to be in Gryffindor and had terribly tragic tastes in friends,” Draco said, frowning at the cigarette she held near her face.
Hermione chuckled. The thought of a twelve-year-old Draco Malfoy having feelings for her, and chalking up the worst thing about her to be the friends she had and the house she was affiliated with was both absolutely ridiculous and yet also quite on par with who she expected the man before her to be.
“You know, if you had not absolutely bewitched my twelve-year-old self,” Draco said, his voice gentle and rather introspective. “I don’t think I would have said any of what I said to you, or hurt you the way I know I did.”
Hermione’s breath hitched. It was one thing to say you once had a schoolyard crush on someone, and it was entirely different to say you respected them as an equal, and he had said both.
“Do you—”
“I don’t think I ever did, Granger.” Draco sighed, and it was heartbreaking because she just knew at that moment that this was his first time admitting it out loud.
At thirty, this man was finally being allowed the space to admit he had never been a bigot at all — and she expected this had to be a moment of catharsis. To him and also to her — who could now breathe just a little easier knowing if her life had been far more complex than a child’s should have been, so had his. Only hers had been due to strangers, and his had been made so by his father — someone who ought to have protected him the way she had seen him protect his son.
She had not missed the moment he had hugged his son by the Christmas tree, even if the moment had not been hers to witness.
“Thank you,” he said, putting the packet back down between them.
“For?”
“For trusting me to take Rose for ice cream. You didn’t have to. I would have understood.”
They had yet to meet each other’s gaze after the admission. Between the darkness, her cigarette and his careful perusal of the cigarette packet, it had simply been evaded thus far — but now their gazes locked, and Hermione stilled at the sincerity she found in his gaze.
“I wanted to speak to you earlier this morning, but I went for my walk and—”
“Got lost.”
“Yes.” Had they blinked yet? She couldn’t be certain. It was the kitchen all over again — silence growing taut as they danced around their fragile truce. Just as she found some words within her, she was stopped by a sigh on his part.
“I hold you in the highest of regards, Granger.” he said simply. It was almost as if he was telling her the night was dark, and she was standing before her childhood, no not nemesis, both bully and once admirer, and that she was itching for another cigarette. “And it means a lot to me and my son that you have invited us into your life despite the fact that you had every reason not only to send us away but also to tell our children they cannot be friends.”
“I wouldn’t have—”
“Hermione Granger definitely could have.”
“I’m glad I didn’t.” It came out so unexpectedly that Hermione felt off-kilter. Or was it his use of her first name twice in one evening? She cleared her throat uncomfortably, and he broke off eye contact first.
“Take the bed, Granger,” Draco said with finality, watching as she played with the cigarette packet in her hand, as she wondered if just one more would be fine if she refrained from adding sugar to her tea the next day. “I’ll be fine on the sofa. My Transfiguration skills need to be fine-tuned, anyhow.”
The moment he turned around and disappeared back into the quiet cottage, it struck Hermione that although Draco had said plenty, he hadn’t actually said “I’m sorry” or apologised for his behaviour when they were children.
She was certain it was not an unintentional slip. She was only just beginning to get to know the man he had become, but even she could admit there was little he did without reason. His not apologising was some form of statement, she knew. Only what kind of statement, she couldn’t be sure.
As she pulled out another cigarette, she had the sinking feeling she would continue to ponder over this for days to come.
Notes:
Much love to Cait
Thank you so much for reading TSM! I want to extend a special thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment. Your feedback and encouragement are invaluable and I read every single one with gratitude.
Off to write more Tutu-Rose and Office-Ready-Scorp and maybe some Kink-Exploring Hermione and Draco now ♥️
Chapter Text
Draco inhaled in short, breathy gasps as he came to. He had been dreaming of warm brown eyes and serene smiles between whispered conversations that now evaded him. The intoxicating scent of the night Hermione had spent in the same make-shift bedding he lay enmeshed within was overwhelming, and his erection as hard and painful as the realisation of what he had done the night before.
Had he truly confessed his deepest feelings to the very person whom he desired?
He had. And the reality of it was now sitting like a Hippogriff on his chest.
It had not meant to happen in the way it had. From the moment he had woken up alone in her bed the previous morning he had known he would need to have the conversation. To express, in all finality, that he would never speak to her the way he had done in their youth. He had mulled over it all morning as he had watched her sleep — rather creepily, he was well aware — but also unable to look away from the sight of her uninhibited expression.
For a brief moment, it had almost felt like they were back in the Hogwarts library, her asleep atop some tome or another, him only ever a table away, his eyes fixed on her, and he had cherished it. That was until she had sat up, and he had seen more than he had ever imagined he would.
He had fantasised, of course. But even the wildest of his imaginings couldn’t quite live up to the teasing sight of Hermione Granger in the soft sunlight of an early winter morning. He had allowed himself the briefest of glances before he had fled the cottage when really he ought to have gone in the opposite direction to take a second shower.
Salazar. He was a lost cause, and now she knew just as well.
It had been Weasley’s suggestion that Granger and her daughter were in harm’s way that had ultimately led him to make the confession — to help her understand the extent of his cruelty was in direct correlation to the magnitude of his infatuation. It had been important in that moment. A necessary upheaval to continue on the path of earning her forgiveness instead of simply asking for it. For himself, for his son, who had stood silently beside his friend, her hand clasped tightly in his, as her father berated her mother for Draco’s past. Her large doe eyes fixed on him as if she was trying to correlate the man she had spent the whole day with to the man her father said he was.
He had a handful of days to make it right before this stay ended, and they both returned to their normal reality — only as impossible as it was to have such desires, he wanted for it never to end. A thought he chastised himself for with equal parts fervour and desire.
Conjuring a pair of comfortable joggers, he decided he’d go for a quick run. He wouldn’t be able to escape his confession or his idyllic fantasies, but he certainly could burn off the unsettling nerves now fluttering in his stomach.
* * *
Hermione growled into the duvet. Her bed was a blasted inferno and no matter how many times she cast a cooling charm on it, the heat would simply not abate. She’d removed her top at some ungodly hour when she’d woken up to drink water from her nightstand; then she’d removed her shorts when she’d heard the back door open and shut — the man really did not sleep. Casting another cooling charm, she flipped over onto her front, snuggling into the now more tolerable warmth of the duvet, and fell right back asleep, dreaming of sterling silver eyes following her through the stacks.
She wasn’t sure how long her cooling charm lasted, only that she awoke, slicked in sweat whilst it was still dark outside; the escaped wisps from her messy bun now sticking uncomfortably to the nape of her neck. Hermione groaned, just one morning — that was all she wanted. Just one morning of sleeping until noon and it was proving nigh impossible. Ensuring the bedroom door was still shut, she ripped the covers off herself and shuffled towards the ensuite. A cold shower would surely help, and then she’d turn down the thermostat and go back to sleep in the duvet from hell. Peacefully.
She moved wearily through the darkness, her eyes still half-lidded in silent protest as she opened the door and smacked straight into a very naked, very aroused, very wet man with an obscene, squelching thwack!
For the briefest of moments, her mind simply could not comprehend what was occurring. All she knew was there were foreign body parts in contact, and the darkness was not helping, and — hadn’t Draco left at some point during the night?
Draco groaned and Hermione twisted, then — Merlin, was that his? — she had to bite back a shudder as every other thought was replaced by: where did it end because it was everywhere.
Hermione pulled her hand up immediately, accidentally catching his jaw with the back of her hand.
“What the—” Draco yelped as he stumbled backwards, his foot slipping on the wet puddle that had accumulated below him as Hermione tried to forget the memory of what was forever burned into her brain. She felt his hand come up for purchase only to brush up the side of her breast before he retracted it with alarming urgency — only to end up having it become entangled between her arm and breast.
“Malfoy!” Hermione yelped as she moved forward with him, her lips brushing against the smooth plain of his chest. He let out a strangled stutter — Was Malfoy ticklish? Odd time to be having such an unwelcome thought, Hermione chastised herself as she went crashing down with him, the shower curtain she had tried to grab onto trapping them below as hooks cascaded violently on top of them.
“Stop moving,” Draco moaned as she writhed atop him, trying to escape the shower curtain that was hot and sticky on her back. “For Salazar’s sake, stop Granger!”
Hermione felt her nipples perk as his hands found her waist, and she groaned, whether from pleasure or from her body’s betrayal, she couldn’t be certain — only that there was no way he did not feel her arousal lying as she was pressed half on top of him.
He winced as her hand landed perilously close to his half-mast. They lay there, a heavy mass of entangled limbs, breathy panting, and, Hermione assumed, wildly overactive imaginations as they made sense of what had just occurred.
“I can’t breathe,” Hermione finally rasped as she tried to push off him, her hand slipping on his slippery, smooth torso — his hand moving between them instinctively only to brush against her inner thigh. “And it’s a little too late to protect your modesty, Malfoy. I’ve already felt all of you.”
That seemed to shut him up, and Hermione was able to slip down further, the shower curtain moving with her as she balanced her knees on the tiled floor, her face coming perilously close to an appendage she could see much better now that her eyes had adjusted to the dark.
Merlin, if she hadn’t already known this was not Ron, she definitely knew now.
Above her, Malfoy winced like a wounded animal as her hair brushed against his thighs, and then he was completely still. Likely as mortified as she was. Hermione wrapped the curtain around herself, knowing that if she was able to see him, he could see her as well.
“Why are you naked and wet in the dark?” she demanded, moving to add some distance between them.
“Why are you naked and sweat-soaked?” Draco croaked as he stood to tower over her.
“I wanted to shower.”
“I was showering,” Draco hissed in pain as Hermione twirled around, the edges of the shower curtain she was wrapped in whipping him across his shins.
“In the dark?” Hermione huffed as she flipped on the lights, blinding them both momentarily.
“I didn’t want to wake you by turning them on,” Draco shrugged, wrapping a towel low around his hips, drawing her attention exactly where she did not want it to go. “Why do you think I had the bathroom wrapped under a silencing charm?”
“Oh.” Hermione grimaced. “I thought I heard you leave the cottage earlier.”
“I went for a run,” Draco cocked his head, his eyes questioning. “But I do know the cottage now, so I was able to come back.”
“I have just — so many questions,” Hermione frowned, her hand beginning to cramp around the shower curtain she held around herself. “Like why would someone run in the dark? Or run at all?”
“If we’re asking questions about how exactly one ends up in a naked wrestling match on the floor of the shower,” Draco drawled, “why were you sweaty… not to mention, naked before even entering the bathroom?”
“Because apparently the devil himself made that duvet I was sleeping in,” Hermione groaned. “It’s like an inferno.”
“Oh.” Although he was working hard to keep his face schooled, Hermione knew that expression. It was oddly reminiscent of Rose’s face when she was caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to do.
“Did you do something to the duvet when you slept in it the night before?”
Beads of water escaped Draco’s wet strands and ran down the curve of his sculpted cheekbone as he met her gaze sheepishly. “I forgot to tell you. I sometimes apply a heating charm to my linens when I sleep. In my defence, a simple Finite would have ended it.”
Hermione glared at him. “You sleep in fire-soaked sheets?”
Draco cocked his head, a hint of a dimple appearing on his left cheek, revealing his amusement. “Only when I don’t have another source of heat in my bed.”
Hermione’s heart thrummed wildly, and her fingers loosened ever so slightly before she gripped them tightly once more, even as some recently awakened part of her protested.
How long had it been since she had been around a semi-naked man. Six months before her divorce? That was still close to three years without sex, and Draco Malfoy looked so — She licked her lips, noticing the slow trail of his cloudy greys as they followed the path of her tongue.
He looked back up at her and froze when he realised she had been observing him.
He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair, his defined torso rippling with movement.
“You know you are, in fact, not a dragon,” Hermione said weakly. “But I should also apologise for, well you know…”
“Groping me?” Draco smirked, wet blond strands falling back onto his forehead as he tilted his head to peer down at her. “Quite a bit, to be fair.”
“I did not grope you that much,” Hermione sputtered, gooseflesh erupting on the nape of her neck at the memory of him in her hand. Godric, she needed to get laid soon if this was all it took to fluster her. “I just… couldn’t avoid it.”
Draco’s smile grew wider, but he seemed to reconsider whatever it was he had been about to say. “Come on, Granger, I usually see women who’ve been somewhat intimate with me to their homes. Since that’s really not an option, let me make you coffee as you take your shower.”
Hermione nodded dumbly, forgetting all about her plans to sleep in as he moved past her, once more overwhelming her with the scent of her products on his skin.
* * *
Soft sunlight was just beginning to filter into the cottage when Hermione sighed and opened her bedroom door.
She had contemplated going back to bed after her shower, her mortification now burning like bile in an empty stomach, but the thought of facing Draco for the first time in front of the children had both terrified her and bolstered her courage. It would eventually occur and the last thing she wanted was for Rose to pick up on any lingering embarrassment from either of them.
The little monster would absolutely call them out on it and neither would have an acceptable excuse.
Draco, now dressed in grey trousers and a black turtleneck, stood by the back doors, two mugs of coffee clutched between his fingers as he gazed out into the distance. Hermione stilled for a moment, admiring the strong line of his sculpted jaw and the way his shoulders squared with quiet confidence. He was an enigma in his varying mannerisms. Soft and engaging for Scorpius and Rose. Quiet and aloof for those he did not know or trust, like Molly, whom he had silenced with one sentence. And then there was the Draco he brought forth for her, one of playful snark and banter she now recognised they both enjoyed.
Sudden inexplicable warmth bloomed in her belly, and she cleared her throat — as if that would make up for the long minutes she had been standing behind him, simply oggling. Not to mention that she had liked looking at him.
He turned slightly at her approach but did not otherwise react beyond holding out the additional mug.
“Thanks,” Hermione said stiffly, remembering the weight and warmth of his hand as it wrapped around her waist. She felt his eyes rove over her burning cheeks before moving down to study the attire she had picked out for herself. An old and well-worn forest green jumper Hermione knew washed her out when she did not have some colour. He smirked at it, and she rolled her eyes, following him into the gardens.
“I’m not getting dressed up just because the Malfoys seem to perpetually be on their way to a corporate meeting,” she said, self-consciously, moving to put distance between her and him — her thoughts, his perceptive gaze. Whatever would allow the morning’s activities to banish themselves from her head.
“You wear green a lot,” Draco shrugged, pulling out a chair for her.
Hermione frowned down at where his hand rested on the top back, waiting to push the chair in once she sat down. For a moment, she considered leaving him waiting as she took the other chair for herself, but he had made coffee for her two mornings in a row, and she found she quite liked this unnecessarily chivalrous side of him. “It just catches me off guard, I suppose.”
“Oh, that,” Hermione said, allowing him to gently push her in before moving to take the seat across from her. “You noticed.”
“It suits you,” he smirked, his piercing gaze never leaving hers as he brought his mug up to take a healthy sip. “Slytherin Green, that is.”
Hermione bit her lip, the hair on the nape of her neck standing to attention as a hazy memory of her dream rematerialised — his striking silver eyes following her through the stacks. She had always known Draco had watched her, but now she saw what her younger self had missed.
Desire.
“It’s my dad’s favourite colour,” she blurted out shrilly, her cheeks searing hot, like the coffee she had spilt on herself in her haste to make a statement. Any statement. Anything to override the realisation she liked being desired by this man she was getting to know.
Draco gave her an amused smirk, his wand at the ready as he Scourgified her jumper for her — drawing her attention to the fact that he had thus far hardly used it at all. Save the occasional charm to ensure comfort; she couldn’t think of one instance where Draco had flouted his wand or used magic. “You wear green almost every day because it’s your father’s favourite colour?”
Hermione cleared her throat, her fingers straining around her mug. “I guess, yes. He’s not been well recently, and I guess it doesn’t make much sense, but wearing green makes me feel closer to him.”
“Oh,” Draco said, his smirk fading fast. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s alright. I expect you, of all people, know what it’s like,” Hermione smiled softly, hoping it conveyed more than she felt capable of when discussing loss. “I was very sad to hear about Astoria’s passing.”
“You knew Astoria?” Draco asked, his slate grey eyes growing wide.
“I knew of her,” Hermione nodded. “Her sister Daphne and I were project partners in Arithmancy every year for three years, so I heard bits and pieces over the years.”
“Ah,” Draco’s eyes wrinkled with mirth. “That must have been…”
“Incredibly telling about Daphne, yes.” Hermione mused. “I can safely tell you I was on Astoria’s side of every squabble for three years.”
Draco shook his head, his attention drawn away as he levitated a fresh pot of coffee from the kitchen and set it to pouring more for himself. Hermione thought perhaps this was his way of avoiding further conversations about his deceased wife, and she could respect that maybe he didn’t want to talk about something that still affected both father and son.
“I have to admit I was surprised,” Hermione began, accepting the pot from him when he was done. “When I read the headline announcing your betrothal, I assumed by Greengrass they meant Daphne. She was rather vocal about her feelings for you during our time at Hogwarts.”
Draco arched an eyebrow. “Spoke often about me, Granger?”
“Only because I had to cooperate with Daphne for our assignments,” Hermione scoffed, making Draco smile wider. “And definitely under duress.”
“I know for a fact that my hair was a favourite topic of hers.” Draco grinned. “Astoria used to call her the Ice Queen and me her favourite unicorn of them all.”
Hermione giggled, memories of Daphne simpering on and on about his soft, shiny hair flashing before her eyes. “Your hair, your wit, your charm. Oh, Draco’s so witty; his hair sparkles like the sun and rainbows shine out of his arse.”
“So then yes — the most brilliant witch of her age spent her years at Hogwarts studying arithmancy while talking about my arse,” Draco said, his cocky smile a blatant farce. “I can’t say I mind, Hermsy, even if it was to Daphne and not me.”
Hermione chuckled. “Yes, I suppose she did Dracula.”
They lapsed into silence, and Hermione was quite sure he was also considering how to best approach the underlying tension that seemed to have snapped into them at Hermione’s admission.
“Granger?”
Hermione looked up at him only to find herself drowning in pools of quicksilver. Her breath hitched silently, and she wondered now, in bright daylight, what she hadn’t considered in the cover of the night. Had the crush he’d had when he had been a boy persisted even after?
“Yes?” Hermione asked, blinking away her haze.
“Rose said something about Christmas Eve dinner with your parents,” Draco said, his cheeks rosy from the warmth. “Would you prefer if Scorpius and I sat out of tonight’s festivities?”
Hermione’s brows furrowed. “If you would like to. I wouldn’t compel you if you don’t want to. And don’t let Rose bully you or Scorpius either. If you’d rather go to the Manor to visit your family for the eve, you should.” This elicited a chuckle from Draco before he was schooling his features back as he pondered what she had said.
“If you’re comfortable,” Draco said tentatively, “then yes, we would very much like to join you at your parent’s house.”
“Alright,” Hermione said cautiously, working desperately to keep her mouth from gaping. “I think maybe my dad will be there tonight. Don’t be surprised if he acts a little strange. He has Alzheimer's. Especially when it comes to remembering my name in particular, so just a fair warning.”
“Oh,” Draco sat up, his fingers twitching against the expanse of his mug on the table. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”
Hermione smiled at him. “Thank you, Draco.”
* * *
Draco frowned down at the book he had picked up the previous day. The cover had been one with a scenic vista of the Scottish Highlands, and the blurb depicted a tragic tale of forbidden love set against the backdrop of a bitter winter. Wizarding fiction was wonderful, and Draco had always loved indulging in a fantastic tale full of tropes and romanticism, so he had been rather excited to read his first muggle fiction written later than the 1800s.
Only he was very pleasantly surprised to find that his chapter did not end when the man stripped off his breaches. Did muggles write sex into their books? He had certainly not been expecting this revelation at noon on a random Friday. The thought had him queasy even before he was interrupted mid-read by one very unwelcome child.
“Draco,” Rose peered up at him from the edge of his book. “Can you scooch, please? I must have a couch swoon.”
Draco snapped the book shut and thrust it into the space between the cushions, watching curiously as the curly-haired child climbed up onto the Chesterfeld beside him and dramatically laid down, her legs sticking off the couch so as to refrain from letting them drape across his lap.
“Not a good morning?” Draco raised a brow at Scorpius, who had climbed up onto the armchair across from them, his own expression one of inherent interest at Rose’s moping. Scorpius grinned at Draco by way of response.
“It is not,” Rose sighed dramatically before blinking open one eye. “Can you speak to my mummy?”
“Regarding?” Draco said in wry amusement.
“Miss Granger wants to teach Rose to bake, and Rose does not want to bake.” Scorpius supplied when all Rose did was huff furiously at his question.
“It’ll be fun,” Hermione called from the master bedroom, where she had retired earlier. “We can bake cookies.”
“We can buy cookies too,” Rose said, crossing her arms across her chest. “It’s not fair. Why is it always girls who bake? I’ve never seen anyone try to teach Louis or James how to bake.”
Hermione appeared at the end of the hallway, her hair a riotous mess from what he assumed was a reading session turned into a nap.
“I’d like to learn how to bake,” Scorpius said, jumping out of his armchair at the sight of Hermione. “What is baking?”
Hermione moved forward to blink at Scorpius and then turned towards Draco, who shook his head in exasperation.
“Baking is muggle pastry making,” Draco said, his eyes turning questioningly to Hermione, who nodded back at him dramatically. He knew. Why was he getting treated to her disbelief?
“Oh,” Scorpius’s eyes lit up, and he began to remove his cufflinks, which Draco saw brought a broad smile to Hermione’s eyes. “I’ve always wanted to know how to make a cupcake.”
“Scorpius, do you even know where the kitchen is at the Manor?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Do we have a kitchen?” Scorpius asked seriously. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.”
“Where do you think our food comes from?” Draco’s eyebrows furrowed, and Scorpius shrugged in response.
“I thought the elves magicked it.”
“You can’t conjure food from nothing.” Hermione and Draco said simultaneously. “Principal Exception to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration”
Rose smirked at Scorpius, “Told you.”
“Told him what?” Hermione asked, turning to her daughter, who it seemed was done swooning; she was sitting up now.
“Nothing.” Rose and Scorpius said simultaneously, as Scorpius evaded meeting Draco’s burning gaze.
“What have you two been discussing?” Hermione asked, her voice rising to a feverish pitch. “If there is one more trap, I will ground you until the day before you start Hogwarts.”
Draco snorted. “That’s very specific, Granger.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Come on Scorp, we’ll bake cookies and cupcakes. Usually, Rose tells me what flavour she likes, but as she’s not helping, you can decide.” She said, sending one more passive-aggressive squint in Rose’s direction. Rose simply did not seem to care.
Scorpius ran up to Draco and handed him his Malfoy signet cuff-links so he could roll up his sleeves messily as he hurried behind Hermione.
Rose turned to Draco.
“What were you reading?”
“Nothing,” Draco said quickly.
“That’s not possible,” Rose frowned. “Books have words, and words mean things, so it can’t be nothing.”
“Well, this one is nothing,” Draco said, narrowing his eyes in the face of the stubborn girl’s penetrative gaze.
“Is it one of Mum’s no-touch books?” Rose asked, her eyes growing wide with glee. “They have kissing pictures on the front, so I know I’m not supposed to read them when I find them in her bedroom.”
Draco smirked. “I’m sure she would not want you to speak about them either.”
Rose shrugged. “Why do people kiss on the lips?”
“I’m sure I’m not the person you should be asking that,” Draco said, his cheeks burning. “Maybe you should ask your mum.”
“I don’t want to ask her.” She said softly, mischief growing sad.
“Why not?” Draco asked, his chest constricting at the depth of emotion he found in her cherubic face.
“Because I want to know why everyone else gets kisses and she doesn’t,” Rose said in a dramatically loud whisper.
* * *
Rose had not cracked and had not joined Hermione and Scorpius to bake the peanut butter cookies Scorpius had been rather curious about. He had stood beside Hermione, watching as she turned on the oven to let it preheat, never allowing her to wander too far from him. He trailed around behind her asking questions, and the only time he had turned his nose up was when she had asked him if he wanted to eat raw cookie dough, to which he had simply replied by staring at the cracked eggs she had just mixed in.
She was learning he was a boy of few words, but his emotions were never truly hidden to anyone paying attention. He craved a mother figure, and Hermione desperately wished she could fill that chasm somehow. If she and Draco had not been on such precarious grounds, she may have asked him if Daphne or one of Scorpius’ grandmothers could have made extra efforts with him.
Perhaps at the end of their stay, when they parted, she still would.
Draco had stopped by an hour into their baking to make himself more coffee — Merlin, no wonder the man hardly slept — and Hermione had seen the moment he had been overcome by emotion at the delight on his boy’s face.
They were quite similar, really, Scorpius and Draco. They both tended to hide their emotions in plain sight, only ever lurking behind a sneer or upturned nose, which she was surprised to find was easier to read now that she had spent time with them.
“Please, for the love of god, Malfoy—” Hermione said as Scorpius emerged from the children’s bedroom wearing brown trousers and a white cashmere button-down sweater. “Buy your son some jeans and T-shirts.”
“I’ll be sure to add some to his birthday haul this year,” Draco drawled, sliding his book back in between the cushions. She had to get her hands on it to see just what had been making him blush all day because she had been paying attention to him all day, and her curiosity was now overwhelming her.
“Well, we’re all ready,” Hermione sighed, sitting down beside him. “Rose will be right out after she puts together her ensemble.”
“Her ensemble?” Draco asked as Scorpius squeezed in between them.
“Rose likes to do fashion shows,” Scorpius explained with a mischievous smile. “I told her I liked her skirt once, and well, we’re all here now.”
Hermione laughed. “Yes, that would do it.”
“Fashion show!” Rose screamed from the bedroom.
“One moment,” Hermione called out, her wand ready.
Lights flickered off as colourful jars of flames appeared in the hallway, and then audacious music was playing from Hermione’s little teleportable telephone as Rose made her way out into the hallway wearing a — crimson princess dress, furry, white slippers and a green cardigan with a red bunny on the back.
“Exquisite,” Hermione nodded as the girl twirled for dramatic effect.
“Beautiful,” Scorpius clapped, his features overjoyed.
They both turned to Draco, who relaxed his scrunched expression.
“On theme?”
Scorpius groaned into his hands.
“Yes, Draco.” Rose jumped forward, her curls bouncing. “But tell me I look like a princess.”
“You look like the most beautiful princess I have ever laid my eyes on.” Draco nodded solemnly, receiving a long, hard, scrutinising look in return. “I promise.”
“Alright, Draco,” Rose said softly. “I trust you.”
Hermione gaped at Rose, who held out a hand to Draco, who moved forward to take it sincerely to press a solemn kiss to it.
“I am honoured, Miss Rose,” Draco said softly as Scorpius leaned into his dad, a look of pure joy plastered across his face. “I will endeavour never to lose it, I promise.”
Hermione blinked through her tears as Rose did the same, only hers slipped from the corner of her eyes and then she was backing away slowly like a spooked unicorn — blubbering about needing to put her lip gloss on because she had forgotten.
If Hermione saw the sheen of gloss sparkling in the semi-darkness, she did not correct Rose, who needed this moment for herself.
Notes:
I sampled a scene from the 2009 Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynalds film "The Proposal" in this chapter.
As always, so much love to Cait
Chapter Text
“I trust you.”
Draco exhaled slowly, his heart thudding bluntly against his chest as auburn curls flew furiously out of the sitting room — but not before he had noticed tears spill from the corner of Rose’s eyes and the choked, incoherent mumbling he did not entirely register.
I trust you.
Such simple words, yet he had never heard them strung together and directed towards him in his thirty years. Not by his parents when he had stepped up to take the dark mark — which had been more of an obligation for him and not a request. His friends certainly had not trusted he did not want to join the ranks of murderers and bigots, and neither had Astoria conveyed such faith in him when she had agreed to marry him or when he had promised he would do right by her and his child.
Scorpius, of course, had never had any reason to convey such a simple assertion, and yet Draco hadn’t realised how much he yearned to hear it until this young girl — Granger’s daughter, of all people — had uttered the words to him.
He honestly didn’t know how he felt about that.
He turned towards Hermione, who didn’t meet his eye even though she noticeably stilled under the heat of his inquisitive gaze. She waited patiently for the bedroom door to shut before releasing her hold over her magic — Muggle lights flickering back on as the bright jars of bluebell flames disappeared.
“Is she—?” Draco began, but Hermione was quick to nod her head at him, her whisky-hued eyes finding his over Scorpius’ worried head, which effectively silenced him.
“She’ll ask if she wants comfort,” Hermione said, not unkindly. “Rose does not like to be mollycoddled, ironically.”
Draco nodded, his gaze flickering to his son, who was listening keenly even as he pretended to be engrossed in the muted picture box playing in front of them.
“Was it something I said?” Draco asked, unable to ignore the vision of her backing away from him.
Hermione’s gaze softened as she moved to turn better towards him, her hand absentmindedly soothing circles into Scorpius’ back, who stiffened for a moment before he leant back into her touch, the corners of his lips tilting up. “No. I don’t think so. But I know she’ll only lie to me if I probe.”
Draco would have let it go if he hadn’t felt the overwhelming need to follow after Rose and hug her to his chest. Instead, he turned to Scorpius. “What are the chances you know more about what just happened?”
“I do,” Scorpius said dismissively before snapping his mouth shut to convey that was all he had to say on the subject. Draco waited for Hermione to push further, but she simply chewed on her lip as if deep in contemplation before smacking her hands on her knees.
“Well, alright.” Hermione sighed. “Since we’ll be flooing through my flat to get to my mum’s home, I’ll go ahead and make sure it’s—” She bit back whatever she had been about to say, her eyes growing round for a flicker of a moment before she was looking away, a soft blush spreading over her cheeks.
Draco smirked at the sight before him. It was something he had noticed had been occurring more often since the events of earlier that morning — or could it be because of what he had said the night before?
The conversation had not been broached all day, but just as he allowed himself to ponder this indulgence, Hermione broke eye contact by standing up, her curls bouncing vibrantly behind her as she put distance between them.
“Right.” She cleared her throat, her gaze avoiding his. “if Rose is not ready in five minutes, Scorpius, will you please go get her?”
“Miss Hermione,” Scorpius said, his eyes never far from the witch as she twirled around the sitting room, grabbing odd bits and bobs she threw into her reticule. Malfoy frowned, not knowing why she would need the picture box wand for the evening’s activities but not commenting on it. “Do you think there are enough cookies for Santa?”
“More than plenty,” Hermione smiled as she grabbed her overcoat. “Do you want one more?”
Scorpius shook his head slowly, his fine blond strands falling into his eyes. “I’d like my dad to try them.”
Hermione’s eyes twinkled, and she nodded at him with a wide grin. “Of course. Go get as many as you like.”
Scorpius launched off the Chesterfield excitedly as Draco frowned at Hermione, who watched his son with an odd look he had only ever seen on his own mother’s face.
“Santa?” he asked, trying to distance himself from the uncomfortable feelings spreading down his chest.
“You’ll find out tonight,” Hermione said with a secretive smile before it grew tight. “You’ll be okay with getting them both through the Floo?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “No. I’ll likely end up sending them to the Moon.”
Hermione bristled at him, and his heart skipped a beat. Salazar, what he wouldn’t do to elicit more exasperated noises from her.
“Relax, Granger. Your daughter has the portable phone. You’ll know if we need you to come rescue us.”
“It’s called a mobile.” Hermione scrutinised him for a long moment before nodding. “See you in five, then,” she said as she turned towards the Floo, the skirts of her blush pink dress swishing softly against her toned olive calves as she hurried towards the hearth.
Draco allowed his gaze the briefest of moments to follow close behind her.
He had certainly spent several hours that day Occluding the memories of her pressed up against him during the as-yet-unmentioned incident that morning, but if there was something Draco knew for sure about himself, it was that he was not a saint.
And his Occlusion had been middling at best.
He could still feel the imprint of her body and the way she had felt on top of him — slicked with sweat, so much more potent than the smell of the sheets that had caused him to shower straight after his run in the first place. It had been heavenly, and he could still recall the soft hitch of her breath when she had brushed her fingers up his shaft. It had been a brief touch, simply a taste of what it could be, yet it had haunted him all day — that, and — the recollection of her mouth popping open in the dim moonlight from the window. Merlin, all he wanted was a—
“Cookie?” Scorpius asked, shoving a plate into Draco’s hands where they rested on his lap.
“Thank you,” Draco muttered, looking at the three cookies Scorpius had neatly stacked on a large plate. "Are they all for me?”
Scorpius rolled his eyes, something he had recently caught onto. “Miss Hermione says cookies are like love, best shared often and libear-ally.”
“Liberally,” Draco mused. “Then perhaps we ought to wait for Rose. I assume the third is for her?”
Scorpius nodded, frowning at the place where his sleeves had become coated in thick pink frosting from the cupcakes Draco knew Hermione had baked for him.
“What? No cupcake for us?” Draco mused as he performed a wordless Scourgify on Scorpius’ sleeve (and the corner of his lips).
“She said cookies should be shared.” Scorpius grinned devilishly. “The cupcakes are all for me.”
“That is… valid,” Draco’s lip quirked at Scorpius and then at Rose, who had appeared in the hallway, a pair of oversized, black sunglasses hitched high on her nose.
Draco raised an eyebrow at her questioningly. She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “Your hair is very bright. It hurts my eyes.”
Draco grinned. He’d have to teach the child to tell better lies before the week was over. If there was one thing he, Draco Malfoy, knew for certain, it was that Rose Weasley was a Slytherin in the making, and all Slytherins needed to learn how to lie — and lie well.
Rose’s pocket began to buzz, and Draco assumed it was the phone again, only she ignored it, moving to pick up the last remaining cookie on the plate. This child.
“To family.”
“To family.” Scorpius nodded solemnly.
Draco bit into his cookie instead of joining in with them.
For whilst he may have internal delusions as grand as the Great Wall of China, he was not, in fact, delusional.
Not really.
* * *
“But you’re unmarried.” Draco blanched.
“I’m divorced, not inept.” Hermione rolled her eyes as she stepped to the right to shield his view of the water-stained window ledge he’d spotted the moment he’d Floo’d into the water closet she called her flat. “And single women are just as self-reliant as men. Just so you know.”
“I know that! But you are a single woman with a young daughter.” Draco drawled, his eyes outwardly rolling as he internally panicked at the sight before him.
Yes, the Granger flat was furnished beautifully, and the decor was more inviting than anything he could call home at the Manor, but… he could quite literally hear their neighbours through the walls — which could only mean they were far too thin to ensure safety.
Draco was going to Avada Weasley on sight.
He looked down at Scorpius, who looked right back up at him, equally perturbed.
“Dad?”
“Granger, surely—”
“A woman can live independently if she wishes.” Hermione glared at him. “Unmarried, Married, or otherwise.”
“Yes, but,” Draco said, knowing all too well her tone was not one to be trifled with, but well — he was Draco and she was Hermione — “Surely there are other flats more suitable? Muggle or otherwise? You can Floo from anywhere to the Ministry, I’m sure.”
“I like London, and you have a penchant for the dramatics.” Hermione glared at Draco as she moved across the sitting room towards the front door. “You Dra-ma queen.”
Draco ground his teeth, realising he’d grown too comfortable with her.
How? It had only been a couple of days — and one semi-dubious groping session. And yet he had said things he knew he wouldn’t have even considered thinking three days ago — his answering nickname getting lost in his reverie.
“Let’s go, we’re late.” Hermione sighed, her furrowed brows indicating she, too, was mulling over the implications of their little tiff.
She moved to open the door leading out into the dimly lit hallway, and Draco bit back a prominent grimace as he followed behind Scorpius and Rose. He was certain the building couldn’t be all bad if Hermione had found it acceptable to live in — but it was not the home he saw for her.
The cottage they were all currently living in was more appropriate. She deserved a beautiful home in the countryside with enough space for her books and a lush, wild garden full of greenery she could look at every time she missed her father.
He wondered if she would accept it if he made it out to be a gift from his son to her daughter.
Probably not, but he would ponder over it later.
The Granger Matriarch’s home was a short walk from Hermione’s flat, yet Draco found the walk incredibly taxing.
The overcast sky had grown dark and dangerous, threatening a deluge of snow soon. Yet even then, the streets were noisier than what Draco had grown accustomed to in the quiet little Muggle village he was becoming quite fond of, and vehicular traffic seemed never to abate — despite it being the eve before Muggle Yule (a religious holiday, as he had been informed by Hermione earlier that day).
Draco, who only knew the basic tenets of religion from ancient texts within the Manor Libraries, couldn’t quite marry what he had read to what he was experiencing firsthand.
They wound around large groups of loud Muggles who stood on the sidewalk outside pubs, drinking alcoholic beverages despite the wintery chill. Their loud, carefree laughter and boisterous singing inspired curiosity and fear for Hermione, who was closest to them.
“It’s the holiday season,” Hermione said, peering at him over the heads of the two children between them.
Rose and Scorpius, who had decided there wasn’t chaos enough already, continued to pull them along like an impenetrable wall maintained by clutched hands — leaving anyone who wished to cross past the foursome to simply stand to one side as they walked forward.
“Well, to be fair, Londoners don’t really need a reason to have an early evening drink; it’s a sacred part of the workday.”
“Do you stand on the corner of the road and drink beer as well, Hermosa?” Draco asked, quirking his head at her only to have his gaze held longer than he had anticipated. She tripped forward, stumbling over the outstretched leg of a drunk and devout celebrant before righting herself quickly, her hair masking what he knew was the beginning tinge of a blush.
He wondered belatedly if she knew Spanish or if she knew he knew Spanish.
“Why? Do you want to join me for my next muggle pub night, Drax?” Hermione asked, her voice sharper and on edge.
He really, really did, and he couldn’t be sure if the answer was not written straight across his face.
* * *
“Ah, you must be Mr Malfoy,” Jean Granger said, ushering their party into her townhome.
Her very large and safe townhome, which could very easily house two additional people, Draco internally bristled.
If he had questions about why Hermione and Rose didn’t live with her — as was the custom in his own world for unattached witches — he didn’t ponder them for too long in an effort to not make himself queasy.
He knew, from his own experiences of bringing witches home, how incredibly awkward it was to find them having tea with one’s mother the following morning.
Jean raised a subtle eyebrow at him.
Right, he had to stop before his thoughts got ahead of themselves.
“Mrs Granger,” Draco said, shaking her outstretched hand. “Thank you for graciously offering to host me and my son.”
“Oh, it is my pleasure.” She shook her head, her soft brown eyes twinkling with mirth. “I have been very invested in the goings-on in the Cotswolds since I accidentally picked up your son from school. Hermione mentioned you’re now all holidaying together.”
It wasn’t a question, yet he heard the implication clear as day, and so did Hermione, who was tucking away their coats in the closet behind him.
Hermione rolled her eyes, passing Rose and Scorpius to kiss her mother’s cheek. “The night’s still young mum. I’m sure you’ll have all the details you want by the time we get up from dinner.”
Jean chuckled, leading them through to the sitting room.
Draco halted at the threshold as he took in the minimal decor of the stately home, all done in simple monochromatic colours. A veritable treasure trove of books lined one wall, and even though it was not what the manor boasted, he felt a pang of hurt on Hermione’s behalf.
He had gathered from a quick sweep of her home that she had only two shelves dedicated to reading material, and it had felt wrong.
He was simply going to have to Muggle-Avada Weasley because the wizarding way would be a mercy.
Mr Granger sat in a soft, black leather armchair, his attention fixed on a well-worn book he was well and truly entranced with. His hair was a wilderness of curls, and despite their varying colours, it was apparent that the girls had inherited their chaotic locks from him. He continued to read, even as everyone entered, the children’s hushed discussion, by no means silent.
“Daniel,” Jean said softly. “We have guests for Christmas dinner. You remember my niece Hermione and her daughter Rose.” She said it rather casually, but from how Hermione had stiffened, he knew it was not an off-the-cuff statement.
Mr Granger looked up from his book, confusion lacing his hazel eyes even as he quickly said, “Of course, of course.”
He stared at Hermione with deep contemplation before Rose moved forward to wave at him.
He smiled at Rose as he shut his book. “Oh and such beautiful children. I believe I’ve met Rosie, but not—” Daniel paused.
“Scorpius Malfoy, sir.” Scorpius smiled with a slight wave before following to sit beside Rose on the large settee against the large French windows that overlooked the darkening street outside.
“And this must be your husband,” Daniel said, turning to Draco. "Daniel Granger, it's a pleasure to finally meet you, son. And oh my, he’s quite the looker... er…”
“Hermione,” Hermione said softly.
“Hermione.” Daniel nodded, giving her an apologetic look. “Not that Hermione here isn’t beautiful, lucky man you are, Mr—”
“Er, da–” Hermione flushed. “Daniel. That’s not—”
“Draco Malfoy,” Draco tried to keep his face straight as he shook Hermione’s father’s hand, “And just a… friend.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Daniel waved a hand before making space for Draco to sit beside him on the loveseat across from his original seat.
“I am never wrong about a pair. And if you two are wasting time beating around the bush, then you have another thing coming for you — look at Monica and I…”
He frowned.
“Sorry dear — Jean and I. Married fifteen years.” He smiled at his wife, brilliant adoration enveloping his features. “Best years of my life, and to think I would have had less if I hadn’t just mustered the courage to ask her out.”
“Thirty-five, dear,” Jean said from the doorway where she and Hermione stood, conversing in low whispers.
“Is it really?” Daniel Granger sighed. “Where has all the time gone?”
“Into love, darling.” Jean said, with a soft smile. She moved towards her husband, leaving her daughter standing by the door — silently observing the gentle, intimate gestures between her parents that Draco felt were as foreign to her as they were to him. When she finally looked away, he saw that unlike Rose, who had retreated to hide her tears, Hermione let hers well up and did not hide when they finally escaped.
Draco found Daniel was still steadfastly watching him despite the curve in conversation. He shifted slowly, meeting Daniel’s contemplative gaze with his curiosity.
“The mind is a fickle creature. It is why we rely on the heart for what matters most.” The words were a shadow of a whisper meant only for Draco’s ears as Hermione’s attention was diverted towards Rose, and he knew the words had been timed as such.
Draco held Daniel’s gaze steady as words he didn’t know he had in him erupted from him in an equally soft cadence.
“You’re quite right, Daniel. I can’t say I’m a religious man, but I am learning to have faith.”
Daniel’s eyes glinted, and although Draco didn’t know how much of what he had tried to convey was comprehended, he felt as if Hermione’s father had rather unknowingly given Draco his blessing to take the next step.
The only question was if Draco could, or more aptly — if he should.
* * *
Hermione sat at the spherical dining table, her flute of merlot pressed to her lips as she registered the scene before her. It was a full table, a happy table, a familial table.
Scorpius grinned at her mother, humbly accepting her jovial chastening at the state of his empty plate. Her father, seated directly across from her, spoke at length to Draco about his fascination with Greek mythologies, which she was unsurprised to note Draco knew much about.
Rose was the only other person who was silent and contemplative.
With her glasses now off (Jean had refused to allow them at her dining table), her gaze never wavered from Hermione. Hermione, in turn, wondered what her daughter was watching for. When her own thoughts ran wild, she raised an eyebrow at Rose, but Rose only shook her head before shovelling another spoonful into her mouth.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Draco said as dinner wrapped up and Hermione helped her mother clear away the table (her mother had refused Draco’s offerings of help).
“Right down the hall and first door on the left,” Jean said as Hermione applied a notice-me-not charm around the sink where the dishes began to scrub themselves.
“Thanks, darling,” her mother said, pulling open the fridge door to remove Rose’s favourite sticky toffee pudding. “I wish I could do that nifty little hex.”
“It’s a charm, Mum.” Hermione shook her head as she moved to take the knife from her mother’s hand. “Should I?”
“Oh, no,” Jean said, nodding towards the door. “Go sit with your dad. It’s a good day for him, and you see them less than I do.”
Hermione nodded appreciatively. It truly was one of his better days, and even though he never remembered her, good days or bad, he had been less hostile towards her tonight — which she would take in a heartbeat.
“Call for me if you need help,” Hermione said, moving through the open doors to the dining room.
Her dad blinked at her as she sat down across from him.
“Hermione,” Hermione said with a comforting smile.
“Hermione,” her dad nodded, his eyes wandering past the children enmeshed in a game of rock, paper, scissors. “Now, I must ask. Were you named for Helen of Troy’s daughter or Queen Hermione?”
“Helen of Troy,” Hermione smiled.
“Ah,” he smiled, his wrinkles creasing softly around his eyes. “You know it was a name I had considered so very romantic in my youth. To name my daughter Hermione as an ode to Jean — the most beautiful woman I ever laid my eyes on.”
“Did you?” Hermione feigned ignorance. “Well, Jean and I didn’t reconnect until I was far too old, but I have come to think of her as my mother in my ways.”
“It is truly mysterious how things work out in the end.” Daniel said, raising his glass of de-alcoholised wine. “What must occur always finds a way.”
“Yes,” Hermione said, watching Draco follow her mother down the hallway — a tray of coffee and cups balanced between his steady fingers as he engaged with her quietly. “Some things are just kismet.”
* * *
“Hermione, darling,” her mother said as the children donned their coats.
Malfoy had already stepped out through the front door, once more dressed all in black, now with his overcoat back on over his white button-up.
“Will you please come here for a second? I have something for you to take back for your mum.”
Hermione furrowed her brow as she moved past her father towards the hallway her mother had nodded towards.
“Is something wrong with dad?” Hermione asked as she stopped short of her mother.
“That boy used to bully you back at school.” Her mother stated.
Hermione’s eyes grew wide.
She had never, not once, named him in front of her parents. In fact, of all the cruelty Draco had ever shown her, the only time she had spoken of any of it had been to tell her parents she was having a hard time adjusting due to her non-traditional background. Her parents certainly did not know what Mudblood meant or who had played a hand in her learning the word at thirteen.
If her mother was asking questions, it was because Draco had said something to her, and she certainly didn’t know how best to proceed into a conversation she didn’t have the upper hand in.
“What did he say?” Hermione asked cautiously.
“Well, not much after he realised I had no idea what he was talking about.” Jean bristled. “But until that point, I believe he was on his way to an apology.”
Hermione frowned. She hadn’t received an apology.
“He has feelings for you.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “I believe he said he had feelings for me.”
Jean’s eyes twinkled, and Hermione knew she had let slip something her mother had only been guessing at.
“No, darling. That man very much has feelings for you.”
Hermione worried her lip between her teeth, “I think Ron was cheating on me before we divorced.”
Jean threw her hands up. “Hermione.”
“I know,” Hermione glared at her mother. “I know, I’m not supposed to care.”
“Hermione,” Jean sighed. “You were never supposed to marry that man.”
“You only say that because you know how it ended,” Hermione sniffed even as she mentally berated herself for saying anything at all to her mother.
“No,” Jean said, narrowing her eyes. “You got married because you got pregnant. That was not a good reason to have gotten married in the first place.”
“I will never regret—”
“Hermione,” Jean said, tucking one of Hermione’s errant locks behind her ear. "You’re a witch, but you’re also muggle-born. They’re not mutually exclusive, just as being a mother and a woman is never mutually exclusive. You didn’t need to be married to have a child, and you certainly don’t need to be lonely simply because you have become accustomed to being alone.”
“For what it’s worth, Hermione,” Jean whispered, leading Hermione back towards the front door, where Draco stood waiting with their children — well, mainly Rose, who had wrapped her arms around his.
He turned instinctively towards her, his skin glowing hazily in the dim lamplight of the stoop.
“I like this one.”
* * *
They walked silently down the narrow path that ran through the village Christmas market — Scorpius and Rose clutching fingers even as they awkwardly slurped on their ice creams using their non-dominant hands. Hermione had allowed them the additional splurge for the evening even as she thought back to the sticky toffee pudding they had both scarfed down in spades. Draco had declined, only to have his eye catch on the store next door.
Hermione had all but wrestled Draco the moment her gaze had followed his — Merlin, it was a miracle the man slept at all.
“Uh-uh,” She said, looping an arm around him. “That’ll be your seventh cup today.”
“Are you counting my cups of coffee?” Draco mused, allowing her to jerk him forward unceremoniously.
“Yes,” Hermione deadpanned. “I’ll have to tell St. Mungo’s exactly how many cups of coffee led me to Avada’ing you if you’re why I don’t get to sleep in tomorrow.”
“Why would you take me to St. Mungo’s if you’ve already Avada’d me?” Draco asked, turning into her slightly so he could rest his hand appropriately on her back as she skirted past some very overjoyed and very drunk passersby. “It’s not as if they could Renervate me at that point?”
“To ensure you are indeed dead, of course, Dramamine.” Hermione grinned. “I’d then naturally abscond and live on Polyjuice Potion for the rest of my life.”
“Think about committing murder often, do you, Hermione?”
“I was married to Ron,” Hermione mused. “So a little, and then we got divorced, and then a lot.”
Draco’s lip curled with distaste as she fixed her gaze on the children, now quite a few feet ahead of them where they were standing at the threshold of a stall selling Christmas Globes.
“Honestly, Granger, of all the men in the world, wizarding and Muggle — Weasley?” His face was his practised mask of nonchalance, but curiosity peaked at the corners of his eyes, and she knew his question was neither a blasé remark nor rhetorical.
Hermione swallowed thickly as her mother’s parting words flashed through her mind.
No. Hermione was being ridiculous, just as her mother had been when she had decided to put unwarranted thoughts in her head.
They had clearly both indulged in far too much wine over dinner.
On the other hand, Malfoy seemed to have a two-drink limit he never quite crossed — much like the lines he chose to only ever toe with her. Flirting, teasing, admitting he once had feelings for her — she was certain if he still did, he would have said so.
He may have pureblooded sensibilities about semi-asleep witches in Muggle nightwear, but he had been having sex in Hogwarts broom cupboards as early as fifth year.
Surely, if he still had any kind of strong feelings for her, she would know.
Wouldn’t she?
Draco Malfoy was an enigma capable of much, but he was certainly not shy about—
“Granger?” Draco said, his arm snaking around her waist as he pulled her out of the path of a rowdy group of young men who seemed to be on a very merry pub crawl.
“Are you okay?” He asked, his eyes a molten pool of quicksilver she felt she was slowly drowning in.
No, she most certainly was not okay, and she knew she was about to do something very, very stupid.
Fuck.
Notes:
Happy Birthday Eve, Cait
I know, I'm a tease, but I promise this chapter had to be split in two for a reason!
Thank you for your lovely, comments, kudos and all the theories over on Discord! If you're on the WWW server, I promise I read everything and some of you have really caught onto some of the little hints I sprinkle about! I actively have to stop myself from confirming some of them.
If you'd like to join the server, this is the link: https://discord.gg/9gkWFPhu and my thread is called The Stowaway Malfoy.
Chapter Text
“We’re getting late!” Hermione yelped into his chest.
Something very, very stupid indeed, she silently groaned.
She moved out of his arms forcefully, palpable tension searing hot and viscous through her veins as her heart thrummed wildly in her chest.
She could have done it.
She could have stayed in the warm enclosure of his embrace. She could have wrapped her fingers around his stiff collar or roved her hands up the sculpted plane of his chest, only to tug him closer by the nape of his neck. She could have pressed her lips to his for a kiss she now felt agonisingly bereft of — the children had not been watching, and it would have felt good.
She knew it would have felt good.
Then why didn’t you?
She could still feel the heat of Draco's touch lingering on her skin, tempting her to breach the distance she had created between them. Her eyes darted to his plump pink lips before wandering up to meet his gaze once more. He stood waiting, his silver eyes now searching hers, and she realised she had ignored his question to instead gape at him for an inappropriately long time. Her heart pounded in her ears as warmth flooded her face; her mind felt ravaged as desire clashed with her desperation for rationality.
“Granger?” he asked softly, his brows furrowing.
She had no honest answer, either for herself or him.
Only the intuitive knowledge that this man, this enigma that was an adult Draco Malfoy, was perplexing; like a question on an exam sheet Hermione knew she had miscalculated. Only she didn’t know if she had the time to unravel it before the clock ran out. It was a feeling she was not comfortable with, not any longer. Once, she had been willing to die for Harry. But that had been before she had become a mother. Now, she lived entirely for Rose. And she could not jeopardise Rose’s relationship with Scorpius by starting something she wasn’t sure she was willing to see through.
Because she knew that as well.
There would be no half-measures with this man who now trailed ahead of her, his eyes never wavering from their children — from his son and her daughter — her daughter, with a man he did not care for. Someone absent whilst he was present — present at his son's request, yes, but present in equal measure for both children despite the looming shadow of her ex.
“This way,” she rasped out shakily as Rose began to lead in the wrong direction. “This is the right way.”
* * *
Rose held out her open palm to Draco, her winter-gloved, furry hand steady and patient at his eye level.
His gaze travelled up from Rose’s hand to her rosy cheeks, a smile beginning to tug on the corners of his lips as he allowed his hand to land gently within her grasp. If he swallowed back a silent sigh, Hermione couldn’t blame him. It was close to nine p.m., and the man had hardly slept more than a handful of hours on the stiff sofa she knew all too well was far too small for him.
A sofa he didn’t necessarily need to be banished to — another recently awakened part of her added, most unhelpfully.
To add to all the conflicting emotions wreaking havoc within Hermione’s stomach, she now felt guilty for not allowing the man his indulgent cup of coffee. The same man who had merely gestured for her to lead the way through the village market after she had all but shouted directly into his chest as her thoughts had begun to run away with her.
She wondered if Ginny would be kind enough to come down to the cottage just to Obliviate Hermione. And if she were amenable to that, would she also please remove the now two instances of knowing exactly how his body felt pressed up against hers, because Merlin, with that sensation overwhelming her every thought — she was capable of forgetting her own name.
She watched in both surprise and muted glee as Draco allowed Rose to tug him up from where he sat on the bench, his eyes rapidly flickering between the behemoth task ahead of him and the young girl smiling with an air of jittery anticipation.
“You really don’t have to,” Hermione said over Rose’s head, mentally reminding herself to have a word with her daughter about keeping her intimidation tactics to a minimum, especially since, as it was, the Malfoy men seemed unable to resist her quirky charm and overt dramatics.
Rose turned to scowl at Hermione, who pointedly ignored the little hellion she simply could not believe she was to blame for.
Draco looked at her and then towards the large spherical rink at her back, and she wondered if he regretted everything that had led up to this moment.
It was one thing to be coordinated on a flying, semi-sentient broomstick, as was the extent of sports in the world Draco Malfoy came from. It was an entirely different experience to balance oneself on thin metal blades upon slick, fake ice, especially for someone as tall as Draco — not to mention her daughter was as coordinated as Hermione was, which was to say, not at all.
Hermione cleared her throat to reiterate the same to Rose, who needed to understand she could not have the world simply because she deigned to, and being that Hermione was not a Malfoy, she had no qualms about doing so.
Yet before she could open her mouth, Malfoy did.
“No faith in me?” Draco cocked his head as his hand disappeared into his coat pocket, and even if there was no visible disturbance in sight, she knew he had cast a silent balancing charm on himself. “You wound me, Hermione.”
The slippery snake.
She stared after him as he bypassed her with a quick quiver of his brow to follow behind Rose — who trembled by the rink's edge as she struggled to step onto it. He stepped out in front of her, his skates grinding down for support as he tugged her forward onto the ice, her knees bending inward momentarily before she steadied herself using his support.
Hermione watched as he helped her balance, his lips moving faintly as they moved away from the edge of the rink, Rose’s gaze slowly rising from her feet to his face. Hermione gulped silently, hastily moving her dancing curls out of her face, unwilling to miss a moment of the scene unfolding before her.
It was what she had always wanted of Ron, for him to step up and find common ground with Rose, who was always excited to learn new things even if she was not good at them. It would be callous of her to say he had not taken Rose flying when she had been younger, but the occasions had grown thin before becoming non-existent as he had escalated from junior coach to head. Hermione understood. Her work in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts department was wearisome on good days and downright exhausting on others, yet she felt that if Ron had wanted to make an effort, she would have seen it.
“Miss Hermione,” Scorpius said from behind her.
“Yes, sorry,” Hermione said, hurrying to sit beside him so she could pull on her skates. “Do you want a stabilising charm, Scorp?”
Scorpius watched Rose as she shuddered forward, her hand clutched around Draco’s extended arm.
“Maybe later, if I’m as wobbly as Rose is,” he said with a snarky grin, holding out his hand for Hermione.
Hermione chuckled. “Well, in that case, I definitely need one,” she said as the tips of her fingers brushed against the vinewood wand in her pocket, eliciting warmth that tingled down her torso and flourished at her feet.
She allowed Scorpius to pull her up — well, she allowed him to think he pulled her up — and guided him towards the edge so he could step smoothly onto the slippery surface.
He giggled as she buckled beside him, despite the balancing charm, and then he was quiet, his slate grey eyes growing wide with worry.
“I’m sorry for laughing at you.”
Hermione blew a curl out of her face in mock hurt before she realised he was genuinely upset, his lip worried between his teeth. Hermione used the pads of her fingertips to tilt his face up towards her. “I would have, too, Scorpius. I’ll be giving you plenty of chances to laugh at my expense in the next hour, so be sure to make the most of them, okay?”
Scorpius nodded, a smile tugging one corner of his lip up, so incredibly reminiscent of Draco during their youth. How often had she seen Draco throw that same warm smile at Pansy, Greg, or even Snape? Countless times. It felt disorienting to have the starkly similar face — one she had watched warily around every corner of Hogwarts — light up for her. He had truly been a striking boy in his youth, but the man he had become was like a lightning bolt, capable of tearing her world down entirely.
“Only if you laugh when I fall, too,” Scorpius said with a resolute nod, bringing her back.
“Deal,” Hermione grinned as they began to skate forward, gliding slowly as they looked for the rest of their party amidst the crowd ahead.
It was not an impressively large rink, but it was more crowded than she had anticipated, given the village’s growing popularity as a local Christmas retreat for holidaymakers. Young couples and families skated around the twenty-foot-tall Christmas tree occupying centre stage, their familiarity with each other a stark contrast to her own small group that was slowly learning to live within close proximity.
Scorpius released her hand to steer around a teenage couple making good use of the mistletoe strung up at odd intervals by the fairy lights overhead — the only source of illumination, with the moon well and truly hidden behind stormy skies that threatened to give way.
Hermione quickly followed behind him, her charm allowing her to rev up to a speed that was slightly faster than a sloth as she skimmed her surroundings to catch sight of Draco and Rose. How was it that a man dressed from head to toe in the darkest shade of black was somehow evading detection amidst a brilliant spectacle of colours? On her third scan, she gave up entirely — but only after almost smacking straight into the same couple who had decided they would get the most out of the evening by kissing under every single parasitic shrub they could.
Scorpius giggled as he swooshed forward, his long blond fringe obscuring his eyes momentarily before flying back to pin steadfastly behind his ears.
“Looking for someone?” Draco whispered in her ear as Rose glided past her to join Scorpius ahead of them — she had to learn the balancing charm Draco had performed, for it surely could not be the same one she used. “Or are you trying to shake something out of your hair?”
“Oh.” Hermione exhaled, the hair on the nape of her neck rising in synchronicity with her heartbeat as she felt his warm breath fan across her cheeks.
She gazed up at him, only to find him smirking down at her, and she just knew he was mentally tallying every instance in which he had left her speechless — breathless.
Hermione cleared her throat, her eyes tracking him as he skated around her, his left hand tucked into the pocket where he kept his wand ensconced. She narrowed her eyes as she noticed that not a single strand on either Rose’s or Scorpius’ hair moved as they skated wonkily ahead of them.
He had put a stasis charm on both of their heads.
It would have amused her, if she were not preoccupied with the lingering sensual feel of his hot breath in her ear. She felt herself flush a vibrant shade of crimson as she roved her eyes over his tall, lean physique. The one she had moved atop, naked, wet and flushed, that very morning.
“That’s very risky,” Hermione rasped. “You could breach the Statute of Secrecy. It’d be quite obvious something was wrong if they fell and not a hair moved out of place.”
Draco, who had slowed his pace to skate near her, turned so that his gaze was boring into hers.
“I’d definitely breach the damned Statute if either of them fell and got hurt,” Draco said. And Merlin, her knickers were soaked right through, and she did not need to feel the butterflies in her stomach to know they were ravenous with lust at the look she found within his stare.
Glittering snowflakes powdered his hair from the steady, slow trickle that had threatened to break over them all day. Hermione had to actively keep herself from reaching forward to brush the crystalline particles from his delicate locks.
“Come on, Mum,” Rose yelled, drawing her from the crystal clear depths of molten pools she had slowly but surely been drowning within. “We’re going to race around the rink to see who’s fastest.”
“No, you’re not,” Hermione yelled out, but Rose’s glasses had come back on, and it seemed her ears had turned off, for she was already a good twenty feet ahead of Hermione by the time her head whipped around.
“Rose Ginevra Weasley!” Hermione skidded harshly as she tried to wind around a couple who were undoubtedly trying to end the night with a broken leg each as they snogged and dance-skated past her.
Hermione slid around them, her balancing charm snapping into overdrive as it tried to course correct for how far wide she had thrown both her arms when she had felt herself slip on the bed of feathered snow accumulating atop the ice.
For the third time that day, she felt Draco’s arms wrap around her, cinching her waist as he drew her forward into his chest, only to engulf her in the smell of mint, coffee and the scent of her cinnamon-vanilla-perfumed soap on his skin. Hermione held her face still, drowning in the soothing cashmere that covered the hard expanse of his chest as adrenaline continued to course through her body.
He did not move away as she had expected once she was steady on her feet, his hold on her remaining steady, pressing, as his steady pulse lulled hers into even synchronicity. Hermione opened her eyes to glance up at him — only to find him studying her face cautiously. She racked her brain for something to say, but everything that rose to the tip of her tongue tasted like the words, kiss me, and so she remained silent.
“It happens to me when I fly laps. The anticipation of a fall is sometimes more stressful than the fall itself,” he said as she opened her mouth and closed it for the third time.
You don’t fucking say, Hermione thought bitterly.
“You have to kiss Miss Hermione, Dad.”
Hermione’s gaze snapped to the little boy standing just ahead of them, having not ventured far after all.
“What?” Hermione squeaked.
Draco stepped back from her, turning to study his son with a hard look as Scorpius looked up at them with wide doe-eyes that she was beginning to think he used as a way of deflecting from the fact that he was no less cunning than Rose.
“You’re standing below mistletoe,” Scorpius said, his index fingers rising slightly to point above them. “That means you have to kiss.”
They both turned to look up quickly. They were indeed standing beneath mistletoe, but so was he, as it was everywhere. Their gazes met briefly before Draco turned back towards Scorpius.
“I don’t think—”
“It’s tradition,” Scorpius said simply. “And you say good traditions should be honoured.”
Draco nodded, “Yes, Scorp, but—”
“My mum says that too,” Rose, it appeared, had made her way around the small expanse of the rink in record time. “It’s why I have to go to Grandmama’s house even when I don’t want to. It’s also why I’m a Weasley when I want to be a Granger, isn’t that right, Mum?”
Hermione bit back a groan. Not this again! “Rose—”
“Scorpius Park—”
“Well, you can’t teach us to do things when you don’t do them yourselves,” Scorpius frowned. “You’re always telling Grandad the same thing.”
Before Hermione could register that Draco had grown pensive at Scorpius’ words, Rose, her ever-present thorn, decided to add fuel to the fire.
“Precisely, Scorpy.” Rose crossed her arms before turning back towards Hermione. “If you can ignore tradition, then so can I. You can’t tell me I can’t be Rose Granger because it’s not tradition… not unless you kiss Draco.”
Hermione gaped at Rose, who smiled back angelically, having cornered her into an argument she thought she had settled long ago. She knew her daughter all too well — Rose would go around telling everyone, including the Weasleys and Ron, that she was Rose Granger and that Hermione had approved it. And no one would believe Hermione if she were to explain she’d spent over a year desperately trying to get Rose to like her father.
Because that was a simple fact Hermione was becoming accustomed to: Rose did not like Ron, even if she did not state it aloud, and Hermione could not begin to understand what had happened for their relationship to have grown so strained on her end.
She knew, in an abstract sort of way, not every daughter had a loving relationship, not like she had with her father — but Rose’s aversion to Ron was not that — and for the first time since Rose had broached the topic of becoming a Granger, Hermione considered that there was a more acute reason for Rose to no longer want to be a Weasley. She knew her daughter, knew her well enough to know it was not a childlike fantasy or a desire for something forbidden driving this conversation back to the surface every few months.
There was very little Rose did that she did not believe in with her heart and soul, and it only reminded Hermione of who she had been in her youth.
Who she was, no longer.
Not even the war had broken that spirit of hers, yet something as simple as marriage had, or perhaps marriage to the wrong person.
Yes. Ron had not been a terrible husband; he had simply been wrong for her.
She turned away from the two children, her resolve solidifying firmly as she caught something similar settle within Draco’s crystalline gaze as he turned away from Scorpius.
She would stop.
She would stop trying to be the perfect mother, the perfect ex-wife and the perfect daughter; just for a moment, she would be perfectly Hermione, who did not shy away from her curiosities.
And right now, she was curious about the taste of Draco’s lips on hers, and more than that, she wondered if perhaps he was, too.
Hermione tilted her head just as she felt him inch closer, his eyes roaming up from where he had been studying the flush that had taken root at the base of her neck. Their gazes finally locked, and she felt the charge between them as if it were alive.
A collision of soft brown earth meeting a tidal wave of icy grey waters — she wasn’t sure if she would survive. Or if she wanted to.
“May I?” he asked, whisper-soft.
Hers was a parched reply.
“Yes.”
He captured her lips just as she flicked her tongue out to lick at the seam between her lips, and the deluge that broke over her was far more significant than rain after a scorching drought.
His touch was a dichotomy between delicate caresses and steadfast deliberation, his thumb brushing up the curve of her jaw with feather-light strokes that tingled down the nape of her neck and pooled like lead in her stomach. Hermione’s fingers curled around the collar of his overcoat, tugging him in closer as she felt his tongue tease its way into her mouth. Merlin, it was sin and salvation, all wrapped up in a teasing kiss.
Flush against him, she wanted to pull him in closer, to lick the coffee and sugar she could taste on him so it would permanently remain with her. She arched her neck as his fingers travelled up her back to spread at the base of her crown so that they were taut amidst her windswept curls.
“Get a room,” Rose said from a ways away.
Hermione’s eyes snapped open just as Draco dropped his hand, and she once again found she needed to use his strong, hard, expansive shoulders for purchase.
“Excuse me?” she squeaked.
Yes, they could have just gone in for a quick peck, but by no means had they kissed beyond what was acceptable — or, well, fuck it. Nothing about this was acceptable, and she was not about to let a newly minted eight year old from—
“It’s what Aunt Gin always says to Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur. I thought it was like saying excuse you, after a sneeze.”
Scorpius rolled his eyes, his chest decompressing wearily.
Draco barked out a laugh, which he immediately bit back as Hermione sent a glare his way.
“Rose,” Hermione said, breathing through the fact that she had both this child of hers to thank for the kiss and for ending it far sooner than she had wanted it to. “You really ought to be paying more attention to yourself than what adults are saying.”
Rose frowned, her hand already searching for Scorpius’ as she cocked her head to the side.
“No. I don’t think so.”
* * *
If the feather-soft hail of snow turned turbulent, Draco did not register it. Neither did he register Scorpius, who turned every so often to stare back at his father, his piercing grey eyes narrowed with worry at the state of dishevel Draco’s hair had fallen to — walking behind Hermione and the children, staring at his own two feet.
She had tasted of sweet toffee pudding and spiced wine that had rushed straight to his head, leaving him intoxicated in a manner his own two glasses had not. It had been a headrush like no other, and from within that haze emerged the delectable knowledge of Hermione’s soft, pliable lips on his. The way they had willingly opened for him, reciprocating the fervour of his tongue with her own ferocity.
Ferocity he had long admired by way of her precise words and the strangled noises she swallowed back on the occasions she wanted to restrain her ire. But nothing, nothing quite compared to what the vigour of her attention felt like when pressed into his lips, a hint of a smile beginning to play at hers.
It had been but a tease — one that ended both just appropriately in time and far, far too quickly.
There was a before, and there was an after.
Draco knew from his own experiences.
Going to Hogwarts.
Starting a war that was thrust upon him.
His son’s birth.
The loss of his wife.
His first, and likely, last kiss with Hermione.
All momentous.
All life-altering.
He thought of Astoria and what she would say if he were to tell her it had happened for him. Not it-it, but something. Something more than he had ever imagined. Something more than he had ever deigned to. She would understand better than most, he knew.
Their time together had been fragmented, as was to be expected with two children disguised as adults making the best of their broken situations — her duties to her family and their betrothal agreement; him with his struggles with living with his actions during the war and his growing estrangement with his father.
Yet they had learned to mend their cracked and leaking glasses with molten gold, embracing their situation for what it was and how better they could make it. In return, he had received Scorpius, who had filled his dark and despairing world with joy and contentment. Scorpius, who had given Draco the motivation his father and all his speeches of glory and respect had not.
Astoria would tell him not to let the opportunity pass him by, just as she never allowed her circumstances to dictate her life. But it was easier said than done, and he did not miss the small fact that Hermione had yet to meet his gaze.
“Draco,” Rose said, peering at him through the cottage door Hermione and Scorpius had disappeared through. “Come in, you’ll catch a cold, silly.”
Draco looked up at her, catching sight of the furrow embedded between her brows as she chewed on her lip.
She was so often a picture of her mother in her mannerisms — in the way she was undeniably herself and the momentum with which she took charge of things that required attention. He couldn’t help but think she had burrowed herself deep into his heart, and a corner of it would remain for her. Just as a corner of his heart would always belong to the fiery witch who he had never considered himself worthy of.
“Yes,” Draco smiled even as his stomach flipped at the thought that perhaps it was for the best that Hermione was set on ignoring what had occurred not a half hour prior.
He moved past the kitchen silently, his gaze flickering towards the witch where she stood by the sink, filling a kettle, only once. He caught her watching him in the reflection of the window, but by the time he registered her gaze on him, she was already looking away, her shoulders tensing slightly. He continued on his path towards the master bedroom, anxious to be showered and out of her way as soon as he could, so as not to cause her more discomfort.
* * *
He emerged from the bedroom, freshly showered and ready to transfigure the Chesterfield for the second night in a row, only to find two pensive children sitting on it. Their pyjama-clad feet dangled off the sofa as they bickered over glasses of warm milk and a shared plate of cookies — heads reclined back, the day’s toll now weary on their small, contented faces.
Salazar! And he had thought he had a sweet tooth growing up.
“But if he likes cookies, he must like cupcakes too,” Scorpius furrowed his brows as Rose shook her head vigorously. “Everyone likes cupcakes.”
“He's weird.” She stifled a yawn only to scrunch her nose at the glass she held between her fingers. “What adult likes drinking milk? And why coal? If I were to punish bad boys and girls, I would just set my elves on them.”
“Excuse you, Rose Weasley,” he heard Hermione interject from an obscured corner of the sitting room.
“I mean the fake ones, of course. But my point is, where does he get all his coal from? It makes no sense.”
“He also uses the chimney, not the fireplace, to get inside.”
“Yes, but he’s a Muggle, so he probably doesn’t know about floo travel, Scorp.”
“If he can fly and use the chimney to travel and has elves, I don’t think he’s a Muggle,” Scorp said, smacking his lips with satisfaction.
“Who’s he?” Draco asked, folding the sleeves of his ivory silk nightshirt up to his elbows. He peered at them through his damp fringe before his attention was subverted by a large squeak from around the corner of the tree.
He watched as something slipped from Hermione’s grasp, only to become entangled in the branches directly below. She sighed with relief, snatching the small object into her hands before tucking it discreetly back onto the tree.
His eyebrow began to arch, a smirk forming at his lips, only to once again become acutely aware of the charged tension between them.
Draco narrowed his eyes at the back of her frustratingly magnificent head, and he knew, she knew, that he was waiting for her to acknowledge him. Acknowledge him with what? Well, he didn’t have all the answers, but even a brief nod of goodnight would suffice to keep his thoughts from spiralling.
Not that they hadn’t spiralled on the walk back home. Or in his frigid-cold shower. Or, as he had gotten dressed — lights on, though he had considered for a moment to forgo them in the hopes that it might make her appear once more.
By the time she was shuffling out of the sitting room, he was downright glaring at her, and he didn’t understand why.
Standing as he was, waiting for her to simply meet his gaze, his hard-pressed agitation was peaking. The kiss had been a mistake; allowing himself the indulgence of slipping his tongue into her mouth had been even more so; he knew that. He didn’t expect one extorted kiss to change the comfortable dynamic they had only just established. He hadn’t even meant to kiss her as thoroughly as they had, but once he had tasted her, well, it had been like trying to pull a Niffler off a galleon.
Worse, a Niffler could still be distracted. He — well — he’d been a lost cause for a while now.
But she knew that.
He’d told her he had feelings for her — a conversation she had decided not to comment on nor bring up again in the light of day.
He didn’t need her to voice her dismissal to know it was unrequited. He knew, perhaps better than even her that there was no point in exploring anything more they could be. He was comfortable with what he had.
He had made her smile over these past two days, and their arguments were less hostile and more teasing. He did not need more, not when the ease of their relaxed boundaries allowed her to be comfortable enough to loop her arm around his and pull him away from what would have been far too much coffee for one day.
He liked that.
He liked it more than he cared to admit to the witch who was already pulling away from him.
He would take what little she had to give, but telling her that would be another admission, and he wasn’t sure if it would make things between them better or worse.
* * *
Draco sat in an armchair, the only thing holding his resolve in place — a filthy, sex-crazed novel. Every time he was positively convinced the protagonist would certainly not be able to go on without a break or some kind of replenishment, he was proven woefully mistaken.
The steady, gentle trickle of snowfall had turned into a storm of flurries, swirling chaotically in the chilly wind of the night air, only to settle on the windowpanes that were rapidly growing frosty. The fireplace crackled soothingly at his back, and by the time his chapter ended with yet another happy ending — no, he was not bitter at all — Rose and Scorpius were both fast asleep on his sofa.
It seemed they had not done so well with their own resolve to stay up until midnight and were now cuddled together beneath a throw blanket. He watched Scorpius snuggle closer to Rose, his arm wrapping around her waist as he snored softly into her curls. In turn, she dropped her head onto his, her eyelashes fluttering before she was still once more.
Draco wordlessly summoned the Muggle instant camera Hermione had shown him earlier when she had been baking with Scorpius. He smiled as he held it up to his eye and clicked the button she had used when she’d taken a sneaky picture of him drinking his coffee.
He frowned at the blank parchment it ejected before trying again from another angle. By the time he had dropped six of the frustratingly blank picture cards onto the coffee table, he was done with the whole ordeal.
If Hermione had wanted to see the cutest sight in the world, she ought not to have gone to bed without saying a word to him or the children.
Not even a goodnight, he scowled.
Draco levitated the children with another wordless charm, cautiously manoeuvring them through the air and into their respective beds. He tucked the covers around Rose, who quickly turned over onto her stomach, burrowing deeper into the warmth of her bed without waking.
Scorpius, however, blinked up at him as Draco tried to pull the cover up to his chest. He smiled as his fingers came to rest over Draco’s hand on the cover.
“Hi.”
“Hey,” Draco whispered, kneeling beside the bed so he was level with Scorpius.
“Is it Christmas?”
“Not yet,” Draco said, sweeping Scorpius’ fringe back. “But Rose is asleep, and so should you be.”
Scorpius nodded slowly, chewing on his lip as he scrutinised his father.
“Okay.”
Draco gently poked at Scorpius’ dimple. “Goodnight.”
He was almost at the door when Scorpius’ whisper carried across the room.
“Do you think Miss Hermione would agree to let us stay with her?”
Draco turned around slowly, his movements stiff and cautious as he pondered how to respond.
“Scorp, you know this is just for a week.”
“Does it have to be?” He sat up, his body leaning forward as he balanced on his elbows, meeting Draco’s gaze in the dark.
Draco didn’t know if he had the right words, so he only shook his head, knowing it was a blatant lie. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Scorpius opened his mouth, his gaze flickering to Rose across the room. Draco narrowed his eyes as Scorpius reconsidered what he had been about to say before flashing an innocent smile at Draco.
“All right. Night, Dad.”
“Goodnight.”
Draco closed the door behind him and turned down the hall toward the sitting room, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. He pulled his wand from his pocket, ready to transfigure the sofa back into his bed for the night, longing for the moment he could finally rest — only to realise he wasn’t alone.
Hermione, it seemed, had not gone to bed an hour ago as he had assumed. She stood by the coffee table, once again clad in the racy green underwear she considered appropriate sleepwear. She turned slightly, noting his presence, the damp curls framing her face drawing his attention once more.
“They fell asleep.” She thumbed through the photographs he had discarded, believing them to be blank. “You took pictures with my camera.”
Draco nodded before realising she could not see him even if she had felt his presence.
“Granger.”
The scent of her, freshly showered, overwhelmed Draco as he rounded the sofa, prodding (more roughly than necessarily needed) at the cushions so they flattened out into a bed for him. Silence hung heavy in the air between them, and he fought against every urge to turn around and ask her what he could do to make everything go back to how it had been before they kissed.
Granger, I know you do not care for me in a romantic way, can we please pretend I did not attack your mouth the first opportunity I got?
Or.
Granger, I ought to have told you this earlier, but I’ve decided to become a celibate hermit as of two hours ago. Please feel free to gaze upon me once more.
With his bed now ready and made, there was no reason not to turn around — only the moment he did, he wanted to disappear entirely.
She stood by the armchair he had sat upon for much of the night, her fingers clasped upon his book, as she smirked at the dog-eared page he had left open for when he returned.
“Draco Malfoy, are you reading Muggle regency smut?” she cackled, her gaze flickering up to lock with his.
Draco didn’t know what smut was, but he could make out enough for the tips of his ears to blush hot crimson as he strode towards her, wishing to pry his book out of her hands. It was not a terrible book. Erotic elements aside, it was truly a wonderful tale of forbidden love between inherently flawed characters.
She pulled the book into her chest as if she knew he would not dare allow his fingers to roam so close to her exposed décolletage.
“Is this what you bought from the bookshop that day?” she smirked at him, and now, it was he who was unwilling to meet her eyes. “I’ve been wondering for days.”
“My book, Granger.”
“No,” she said, her voice decidedly firm as she arched her neck up to meet his reluctant gaze.
Salazar!
She was breathtaking — beautiful — bewitching. He’d known this already, but standing a hair’s breadth from her, he noticed what he hadn’t before. There were three freckles that combined to become one heart just above her lip. Her eyelashes were thick, not long like his — yet they framed her gaze so perfectly it made her eyes appear large and enchanting. When she smiled shyly, as she was now, her face lit up in an utterly beguiling manner.
Draco felt her hand brush up between them, the one not currently pressing his book into her chest. For a moment, he thought she was going to caress his cheek. However, as he began to drown in the whisky hues of her eyes, he registered that her hand had never landed on him.
He felt her magic swirl around them as she lowered her wand, her gaze never wavering from his.
He followed the path of her eyes upward to where she had suspended mistletoe directly above them. Not the crimson and emerald one from their earlier tryst, but a resplendent ivory bouquet — the magical kind that rooted them to the spot. As if he were not rooted already.
“Merry Christmas,” she murmured.
He hadn’t realised she had inched closer until her minty breath was fanning across his face, drawing him in closer yet. Her gaze flickered from his eyes to his lips and back — and Merlin, he was hopelessly gone.
Draco tilted his face down, allowing himself to finally, finally accept what it was he found reflected within her gaze.
Desire. Desperation…
“Happy Christmas,” he whispered, neither knowing nor caring whether the clock had yet struck midnight before moving the fraction of an inch that remained between them.
…Utter delirium.
If their first kiss had been a tender caress, this was an embrace between lovers, past and present. Their lips connected with an urgency that was twofold. He nipped at her lip as she wound her hand around his neck, her cry both sharp and hungry.
Her hands moved up his chest before deciding it was not nearly enough.
He agreed silently.
Her hand wound into the short-cropped hair just above his neck, pulling him forward indelicately. He licked at the indent of his teeth as his hands moved from his sides to her waist until both his hands were entangled within the wet tendrils of her hair. If his grasp elicited pain, she only expressed it as a wanting moan into his mouth. A moan he greedily swallowed as her hands pressed him forward, asking for all that he wished to expel.
He knew when the spell she had cast overhead broke, for the moment it did, his hands moved down to wrap around her thighs, pulling her legs around his waist. Her lips never left his, even as she allowed him to lift her up, only to place her on the bed he had made for him — himself alone.
She groaned, opening herself up wider to him as he settled between her legs. The nightwear — the accursed nightwear — rode up to cram into nooks and crannies he felt beneath his roaming fingers.
Draco groaned before he once again felt her tongue battle his, dancing a rhythm unknown and yet not as their frenzy took reign.
Kissing Hermione before had been a dream. Kissing her here and now, uninhibited as she was, was a revelation — one that drove away every thought and worry he had been stewing in for hours.
He felt her fingertips brush down his abdomen before she was playing with the drawstring of his trousers — his cock hard and aching, pressed against her thigh.
“Draco.” She mewled as he pressed further into her.
He stilled.
His name on her tongue — he could have creamed his pants just at that, if her mouth were still upon him.
He removed his lips from her jaw; his eyes lidded and uncertain as he met her gaze once more. There were a million reasons—
Before he could begin his journey into self-doubt once more, she opened her pretty pink lips, her fierce gaze boring into his stormy greys.
“Take me to bed.”
Notes:
As always, love to my Alpha Cait
Shameless Plug: If you want to read some smutty fics in preparation for next week, I have two smutty one-shots: For those who like the inappropriate use of Legilimency Tag: A Legitimate Excuse & for those who like dabbling in Dark Arts with Morally-Grey Professors: You Put A Spell On Me
The tags on You Put A Spell On Me may be dark, but I have every intention of expanding the fic to make up for them!
Thank you for reading.
Happy Sunday!
Chapter 10: A Prayer Upon Thy Lips
Notes:
*In compliance with the books, Hermione does not have Mudblood carved into her forearm.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Through her now overwhelming haze of anticipation, Hermione watched the silver of Draco’s eyes cool momentarily — before scorching molten once more.
She had, perhaps, a half-second to register the promise she found within his gaze before Draco’s fingers fanned hot and heavy across the back of her thighs — his grip tensing with a possessive urgency that made Hermione shudder beneath him.
In one swift motion, she felt herself being lifted — her world spinning as he pulled her into his arms — their heated breaths mingling in the infinitesimal air between them.
Hermione’s lips found his once more, and Draco groaned into her mouth as she licked at the seam of his lips.
A question asked.
His hand wound into the damp clutch of curls she had haphazardly pinned atop her head, beginning the inevitable by removing her hair clip first.
A question answered.
Her curls cascaded down around them, obscuring the faint light of the lit Christmas tree from both their visions. With a frustrated moan, Hermione began to pull back. Her hand drifted up from where it had been grasping at the collar of his nightshirt, desperate to quickly wrangle her tresses back behind her ears, only to still as Draco moved simultaneously.
His fingers moved down to press firmly at her neck as his teeth gently nipped his dissent into her lips. Hermione’s eyes snapped open, the formerly faint silhouette of light — burning brighter — before fading to a distant thought at the sight before her.
His pupils were blown wide, a stormy sea of swirling black and grey waters churning with anticipation. As if the gods agreed with her assessment, somewhere in the distance, thunder roared, and she knew—
She was ready to drown.
Desperate to drown.
Her lips collided with his, tangling indelicately as her fingers rewound into the hair at the nape of his neck. The brush of her nails on his skin elicited a shiver that ramped into a frenzy of long, haphazard strides that ended in the deafening clangour of a picture frame falling at their feet as Hermione’s back collided into the wall right outside the children’s room.
They froze.
Hearts pounding, breathing ragged, gazes locked in the darkened hallway — listening for the pitter-patter of small feet that would end this fever dream for them.
A fever dream she had required an hour-long everything shower to build her courage up to — she would not, could not let it pass her by now that she had grounded herself in her resolve. She wanted him. His lips, his touch, the way he made her heart hammer as if she were perpetually intoxicated.
The way he made her feel more herself than she had in a long time.
A sudden flash of lightning danced through the darkness, briefly illuminating the tense tableau they formed. Hermione’s gaze dipped to his lips as her tongue darted out — for his eyes to trace as she licked the taste of him off herself.
Lightning gave way to a roar of thunder.
They moved in tandem — wordless, wandless magic flaring around them with an intensity that made Hermione clench.
A Reparo from him. A Muffliato from her.
They did not wait to see if their ministrations proved successful.
The three strides that remained between where they stood (or where Draco stood, Hermione wrapped around him like a koala bear) and where they wished to journey to blurring.
His lips found hers with urgency as loud and thunderous as the storm raging outside — a mere shadow of the storm she had built within herself over these past few hours.
She felt the door to the bedroom at her back as her fingers danced down the buttons of his shirt, releasing those she could from their confines as he continued to massage her hips.
Venturing neither lower nor any higher.
In return for his cruelty, she evaded the dance of his tongue, licking at his incisors as she willed him to close the gap. To commit to divesting her of the last shreds of her rationale.
As if in tune with her thoughts, he pulled away — his whispered tsk, tsk muffled against her jawline as he trailed down her neck, his tongue light and teasing as he searched for—
“Draco, fuck—” Hermione mewled when he found it — something even she had not known was there before. At the sound of her, he clamped down in triumph, a smirk blooming against her flesh.
Her fingers stilled their ministrations — content to simply bask in the charge of electricity that began within him and journeyed through her, only to reverberate back up from her toes to settle deliciously within her core.
For a brief moment, she yearned to take control — to forgo the task of unbuttoning him out of his shirt for the simple act of vanishing that which lay between him and her — their flimsy layers an impediment both undesired and unrequired.
But within her blossomed something new, something unexpected, and it now battled ferociously to dominate her every other urge — the need, the desire, the absolution of giving into Draco’s touch entirely.
To relinquish her control for this man whom she was beginning to believe capable of taking it — and not just that, but of cherishing it for what it was.
What it meant to her.
To submit.
To want to submit.
The door at her back gave way, and she was certain it had been her magic that had compelled it to do so — yielding — for Draco to step forward into the room they hadn’t graced together since the very first night.
A lifetime ago.
* * *
Draco whirled them around to sit on the foot of the bed, settling Hermione down over his lap so that her knees bracketed his thighs — once more positioning her above him so she was looking down into the unwavering gaze of a reverential man.
His thumbs brushed up the velveteen satin of her thighs as she ground down, her core warm and soothing — her gaze fury and fire — promising a burn both delicious and ever more permanent than the one he had once felt upon his arm.
A burn he was willing to be branded by, even if he only received this one night in exchange.
His hand moved instinctively — winding back into the mass of soft curls he was willing to drown in, only it was she who gasped, her breath hitching as she arched forward, pressing firmly into his hold.
Draco felt her nipples pebble through the flimsy underwear he simply could not escape, and as if he were no longer a rational man capable of coherency. He could not ponder any further than his urge to rip the blasted garment off entirely.
He could not — should not. But gods, he couldn’t stop.
Desire coursed through him — every instinct vehemently screaming for more.
“Draco.” Hermione breathed as his fingers ghosted longingly over the sliver of skin at her waist.
They had been silent, so silent, for far too long — he was surprised she sounded so even-keeled when he, himself, was on the brink of self-implosion.
“Granger,” Draco’s tenor was smooth — a facade as impenetrable as the one of his youth — his every lesson in Occlumency proving to be in culmination for this very moment — buried alive, as he was, in the feathery, long tresses of his Amortentia.
“If you don’t want to—”
Draco squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers bruising where he used his grip on her hips to ground himself.
Did the witch not understand?
A war waged within him, and he was both victor and the spoils of war.
“I’m sorry if I misunderstood—” she said, reeling away as a mortified flush spread across her cheeks.
The small, minuscule thread of restraint Draco had been holding onto broke.
“Gods, Hermione.” He growled, his whispered whimper escaping a feral groan. His hand moved on its own accord. A fistful of curls — soft, thick, tangible. Pulling her attention in the hopes that it could convey what he was incapable of voicing, his gaze bore into hers.
He was but a man kneeling before a deity he revered.
The fates agreed — their ire a resounding clap of thunder at his audacity — but he was already basking in the light he found in the depths of her amber hues.
His fervour meeting her tenacity.
His tongue delved into her once more as his other hand roamed over her body, revelling in the frisson of her tender warmth that smouldered when she reciprocated his touch with hers.
Her lips trailed down his jaw as his hands moved up her body — her waist, her shoulders, the sides of her breasts, he wished to be everywhere, all at once — a man starved, if ever there was one.
He hooked his finger into the strap of her camisole, his lips trailing south to kiss the hollow of her clavicle as she whined atop him. He smirked into her skin as a shiver coursed down her spine, settling at her apex directly — over his hard, aching, leaking length.
“You simply don’t understand, do you?” Draco licked at the saltiness of her skin even as he craved the sweet heat he knew he’d find at the end of his journey. “There is nothing…”
He bent down to kiss along the trim of her camisole. Her heartbeat a clap of thunder against his lips.
“...I…”
The hand he had wound into her glorious curls raked down her neck before his fingers curled around the other strap, pulling it lower.
“...Desire…”
His gaze followed the path of his alabaster fingers, a contrast of plain ivory against the beautiful warmth of her skin.
“...More.”
He gazed up at her through the dishevelled wisps of blond her fingers had artfully crafted, holding her rapt attention as he sucked her nipple into his mouth.
The moan that wracked through the room was a symphony, a glorious orchestra that put all other sounds he had catalogued to shame.
Hermione’s fingers threaded through his hair as her back arched, the heat of her breath ghosting his ear as he flicked the hard centre of her areola.
His tongue swiped in slow tight circles, his teeth remaining clamped around her breast — savouring the sharp peak it formed in his mouth as his thumb swirled silkily around the other.
“Draco… Draco… Oh—Draco.” Hermione moaned, his name a prayer upon her lips when it was he who had been bestowed the pleasure of kneeling at her altar. “Fuck — Not enough — Merlin.”
Hermione grasped the collar of his shirt as Draco switched his attention to her other breast, wishing to lave equal attention to both.
She yanked his shirt off over his shoulders, the two buttons she had been unable to excise earlier — scattering with an echoing whine as they went hurtling across the room.
Draco’s hand curled like a vice around her waist as he flipped them over.
He kissed down the column of her sternum as her nails raked down his body. His shoulder blades, his biceps, a soft brush of her thumb against his cheekbone, before winding back into his hair — her intention in contrast to his own.
His hands clamped around her waist as he shimmied lower still, her thighs bending willingly as he balanced himself between them.
Her answer to the kiss he placed at the base of her belly button — the hitch of a breath.
“That isn’t necessary.” Her whisper was soft — a nervous flutter of words that made her breasts quiver in the pale moonlight.
“You would deny me a treat so sweet?” Draco murmured, even as his cock twitched at the idea that this was a first for her. Despite his best efforts to keep the thought at bay, he wondered if this, too, was another way the weasel had failed her.
He would not allow the opportunity to pass him by.
His lips moved along her thigh, savouring the feel of her heat as it gradually built the further he ventured. It was not enough, not nearly enough.
For him or her.
He pressed a kiss into the skin of her inner thigh before switching to the other leg, his fingers curling around the trim of her venomous tentacula-green shorts, the anticipation of their removal driving his heartbeat into overdrive.
It was at this moment he realised he was a masochist. For even as she gave in to his touch — he held still a moment longer, savouring the taste of anticipation on her skin as he licked up the shaft of her leg.
Her hand descended, pulling furiously at him as his arms around her hips locked more sturdily.
“Hermione?” He purred as his fingers slowly pulled the accursed shorts lower, revealing the indentation of her apex where it began at the base of her torso.
“Malfoy!”
“What? No Dra-cula? Or Dra-ma queen?” Draco purred into the juncture just below the apex of her thighs, the silk of her shorts teasing his nose as the scent of her arousal hit him.
Amortentia?
It was but simple syrup compared to the scent of her, heated and harried — for him.
Her lips parted as her gaze honed in on his — watching, waiting.
“Yes.”
He peeled her shorts off slowly. In complete juxtaposition to the past twenty minutes. The frenzy of their earlier endeavours seeping away as his fingers parted her gently — unravelling a most-cherished Christmas present.
He felt a frisson of anticipation course through her body as he laid down before her, his gaze never wavering from hers as he pulled her into position using the grip he had around her pelvis.
Was there a way to describe one’s Amortentia?
Draco knew you could pick it apart for top notes that reminded you of certain tangibles, but there was no distinct terminology to describe how it made you feel.
Of how it danced on the tip of your tongue, leaving a trail of small implosions in its wake that made you shiver with delirium.
Of how it settled around you: a cooling charm in dead summer or the warmth of burning fire in winter.
Of how it felt to taste the nectar of Hermione Granger’s arousal straight from the source and to know it was in response to him.
Of how it felt to come to a home you had always yearned for but never quite known.
She let out a strangled scream as Draco’s tongue weaved into her heat, teasing around her entrance in a spiralling knot before delving into her core.
He lapped at her essence with fervoured abandon. His gaze piercing through the darkness to watch Hermione as her neck arched, her breasts heaving raggedly as she tried to grasp onto the sheets beneath her with quivering fingers.
Draco rocked her in his arms, fucking her on his tongue briefly before dragging through her folds once more. He was patient in his search for all her sensitive spots, finding each with a satisfied thump off his own heartbeat. He circled back up to her clit, the ghost of his warm breath creating a charge that made her cry before evading it as his fingers tapped his amusement into her hip bone.
“No — Malf— You — tease.” Hermione’s incoherent barrage was worlds away as Draco dragged his tongue down, pointing it slightly to better whirl around her entrance. “Gods. I— I—”
He watched as her hands came to rest above her face, obscuring the look of pleasure he had gleaned.
“Tsk tsk,” he pinched her hip, his warm breath eliciting a shiver he felt against his lips. “I want to watch you come for me.”
Her breath hitched, and Draco groaned into her beautiful, delectable cunt.
“You’ll let me watch as you shatter on my tongue, won’t you, love?”
He wasn’t sure where the words sprang from or how he even sounded, deep within his own descent. He only knew that he felt the inherent urge to verbalise his desires — and all he wanted in this moment was her orgasm.
Lie.
He wanted all her orgasms.
On his tongue. By his fingers.
Gods-willing, if he lasted through the pleasure of both without coming like a prepubescent boy — as he was on the verge of — he wanted to have her come on his cock so he could kiss her through all her pretty sounds.
His tongue brushed at the edge of her clit, as his fingers forayed down from her hip.
Her hands dropped, coming to rest on Draco’s shoulders as her gaze — lidded and heavy — followed their journey with rapt attention.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Draco’s displeasure at hearing someone else’s name was lost to the sound of her whine as his fingers drove into her core — his mouth clamping over her clit as her leg wound around his torso, yanking him more firmly into her. He sucked her clit, the flat of his tongue pulsing against her nub as his fingers revelled in the plush heat of her core.
Her scream broke into a sob, and he catalogued every keen, every shiver that reverberated off her form. The way her hands spasmed against his shoulders, and — when he finally drove a third finger into her core — the harsh yank at his hair as she rutted into his mouth.
He tongued her clit in the same manner he had her nipples. Small tight circles that made her whimper and plead deliciously.
She bucked off the bed, her hands a death grip on Draco’s shoulders as she moaned his name — tensing and trembling with equal fervour as he switched between fucking her more firmly with his fingers, followed by a relief that ventured into a steady thrumming of his tongue on her clit.
Gods, he was certain he was not going to last.
The way she said dray-COH, dray-COH — over and over and over again — winding him as fervently as he wound her.
He felt her orgasm crest, her nails sharp and cutting on his form as her arousal smeared across his nose and mouth. Draco plunged his fingers into her punishingly, thrusting hard and fast as his crescendo threatened its own arrival alongside hers.
As she came, he was torn. His gaze flickered between the beauty of her flushed skin and the short spasms that danced upon his tongue, now pink and swollen.
He groaned into her clit as he felt her clench around his fingers — her walls searing him anew — a brand of its own, he considered, as her final keen tore through the room. A brand most worthy.
He ought to have known.
From the moment her lips touched his — or the moment he touched hers — he should have known he was not going to come out alive.
She laid still in his arms, her shallow breathing deafening as his senses adjusted to the calm after the storm.
Quiet. Sated. The cusp of something unknown.
He conjured the throw from the sitting room for her, his hands feeling awkward now that they were not wrapped around her.
“Thank you.” She licked her lips as her hands wound around the cover, clutching it to her chest.
Draco felt the tension as it warped around him, the frisson of pleasure he had felt as he came in his trousers now simply sticky and messy.
“You’re welcome.”
The words tasted wrong on his tongue.
You’re welcome. You’re welcome?
Gods. He felt all of fifteen once more.
Stuttering and stammering after losing his virginity to Pansy Parkinson in the prefect’s bathroom. One whole minute of awkward, unbridled bliss that had led to a lifetime of merciless teasing about being her one and only reason for preferring women.
A lie, he knew all too well.
Her one true reason was the same as his own.
They had both been consumed by a love they could not pursue. His for a witch who he was undeserving of — even if his father would frame it the other way around.
Hers, also for a witch — contracted to marry either a Pucey or a Malfoy from birth. Astoria, who loved her back just as furiously, even when there had been no hope of skirting the duties she had been born into.
“Er, Malfoy?”
Draco blinked at the witch before him.
The one he knew he loved — had loved from a distance, for a long time, even if he had never allowed himself to admit it.
Somewhere over the years, the infatuation of his youth had flourished into admiration — perhaps during the war when she had fought for a world that would have sacrificed her without a second thought. Admiration, growing into deep-founded respect — through the stories he heard from Luna Lovegood, now Luna Zabini, who hadn’t required much time to realise Draco’s preferred conversation tended to revolve around one sole department within the ministry. And the ones his father spoke of, frustrated as he often was by her noble work impeding his ambitions.
He couldn’t be certain when respect and admiration, and of course infatuation had resulted in love — only that by the time he’d realised, he’d already pledged himself to Pansy and Astoria, and she had been on the verge of her own marriage.
Not in his wildest dreams had he considered this possible — what had occurred, and what possibly could yet.
Intimacy.
His heart pounded as the weight of the day settled on him — of the realisation that he couldn’t be certain what this all meant to her.
He was well-versed in casual sex.
This had not been that for him.
And he wasn’t sure how to proceed from here. There was little reprieve to be found within his own head, and he wondered if perhaps she was waiting for him to leave — for him to excuse himself to his pitiful bed in the sitting room.
Or perhaps to go for a shower?
Did she know he had come at the vision of her exquisite descent into delirium? That the vision of her coming for him would forever plague him if he were to walk forth, never to be granted it again.
They stayed still for long moments before Hermione sat up, her hand pressing the throw into her chest as her mass of curls expanded from the friction of the sheets.
“Gods, were you always this obvious?” Hermione said in a huff.
“What?” Draco furrowed his brows.
“Or maybe it’s because I’ve had to learn to read Rose’s expressions — I still can’t all the time, by the way.” She said, scooting to create space beside her.
“I can practically see your mind whirring behind your eyes.”
Draco grimaced.
“Draco.” Hermione’s pitch was feverish despite her low volume. Her hand wrapped around Draco’s wrist to tug him forward into her. “Come here.”
Her lips were soft and warm against his. The cover he had conjured tossed away as she pulled him into her, her body moulding beneath him as he opened his mouth at the insistence of her tongue as it slipped in between his teeth to dance lazily atop his tongue.
Their bodies blended effortlessly, warm air meeting a charge — a storm of roving hands and laboured breathing. They shifted slowly, Draco’s hand working its way back into her curls as Hermione turned on her side, her knee landing perilously close to the wet patch at the fork of his trousers.
Draco stilled, and Hermione smirked into his lips.
“It’s hot.” She whispered.
“That I came in my trousers?” Draco quirked a brow.
“That you found your pleasure in mine.” Hermione breathed. “I— No one’s done that for me before.”
Draco did not want to think of other men having done anything to her as she lay in his arms, the scent of her enveloping him once more.
“Have you?” Hermione asked, curiosity peaking around her eyes. “You were quite good.”
Draco basked under the brush of her fingers as she hesitantly traced the pearlescent remains of his Sectumsempra scars.
“I have… dabbled.” He said slowly, swallowing back the words that rose to the tip of his tongue. Not with such enthusiasm and not in years — gods — not since he had been unblemished and unmarked, a young boy floundering in his instincts in the hopes of forgetting his fantasies.
“Hmm.” Hermione hummed. “Lucky me. To be one of your dabbles.”
Draco’s breath stilled as her delicate hands ventured lower still.
“Draco.”
“Hermione.” Draco’s nostrils flared as her fingers hooked into his pyjamas.
“When you said you were bewitched by me.” Her voice was a gentle caress as she stripped him slowly. “Did you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Hermione smiled, her eyes twinkling sinfully as she hooked her thigh over his, moving to straddle him as her tongue traced the curve of his jaw.
He shivered as her hands explored the ridges and plains of his chest.
“Because you should know, there was a time when I was enchanted by you.”
Salazar. The witch was merciless.
To say such beautiful words so casually as she slid his cock through her wet folds.
“That was until you opened your filthy mouth.” She bent down to ghost her breath over his ears, her teeth nipping at his earlobe as she began to rock. “But I see you’ve found a better use for it since.”
Draco’s cock twitched. Strength blooming from a reservoir he had not known until she had gone searching.
She moaned as his cock stirred at her entrance.
“You like my filthy mouth?” Draco murmured, turning to whisper the words into her lips.
“Mhm.” Hermione nodded. “I’d like to find out what else it can do.”
“Just my mouth?” Draco asked as his fingers ghosted over her waist.
He hissed as her fingers moved to wrap around his hand, tugging it up to where her breasts rocked in tandem with her hips.
“Your lips, your tongue, your fingers, your cock.” She whimpered as he pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, causing a shudder to flow down her body.
“Why?”
Fuck.
Hermione stilled above him, her gaze seeking his through full, dark lashes that feathered softly as she blinked at him. He watched as the haze of her arousal cleared momentarily, her lips parting long before words flowed through them.
“Because I want to, because you make me want to — and that hasn’t happened for me in a very long time.”
She did not say his name, but Draco could piece enough together.
She did not love him the way he loved her — which was not surprising. But this was certainly not casual for her either. Not if her ex-husband was the only other man she had been with.
It was more than he deserved. In his heart, he knew. But perhaps that was another choice to be made.
A choice like when he had chosen to marry Astoria, knowing it would never amount to more than a marriage of convenience, but choosing to do it anyway.
When he had chosen to be a better father to Scorpius than his father had been to him — circumnavigating traditional roles to be both mother and father for the only person who had loved him, for whom.
When he had chosen to spend the week with Hermione and her daughter when he had known Scorpius’ threat to be empty.
When he had chosen not to apologise to Hermione but rather earn her forgiveness by showing her daughter the love Hermione had been denied by his kind. By providing her with the love of a fatherly figure. The kind she yearned for — deserved in every sense of the word.
The choice was simple.
He could wallow in the knowledge that she was a field of stars and he the night sky. Capable of diminishing her light. Capable of allowing her to burn brighter still. And Merlin, he wanted that. He could strive to be better, to be worthy of one day earning the love he could now admit he yearned for himself.
“Draco.” Her fingers at his chin pulled him from his thoughts as her gaze bore into his. “The only thing is…”
“The children.”
She released a ragged breath as she nodded.
“They can’t know. Not now.”
Draco nodded.
He understood. Of course, he did.
The relationship between their children was precious. Purity in a manner that had evaded both him and her, torn by a war they had neither wanted nor cared for as their friends died around them. Neither wanted to be the reason their children lost a friendship so wholesome.
“Okay,” Draco said.
“Okay.” Hermione nodded.
Notes:
Kink Exploration Commences~
But I also know you're wondering what we have in store for the next 14 chapters — and well, we have alot coming up.
As always, thank you for reading, your love, kudos, comments, and all your recs on TikTok, Instagram and Reddit. I occasionally see TSM in the wild, and it brings me such pure joy. I hope to bring the same to you.
Lots of love to Cait.
Chapter 11: Reverence and Reservations
Notes:
*This chapter contains Kink Exploration.
Content Warning
Consensual Tickling, Marking.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione awoke in a glorious haze. A soft, slow smile forming on her lips as she surrendered to the gradual deluge of sensations — both foreign and familiar — that greeted her with the rising sun.
Draco’s breath was a delicate caress on the nape of her neck, each gentle stroke a contrast to the delicious soreness between her thighs.
She shivered minutely, cheeks flushing at the tangible reminder of what had occurred the night before. The orgasm he had delivered to her using just his fingers and his tongue — the way his haloed gaze had bore into hers as she had come for him.
Long, delicate fingers appeared in her line of sight as she blinked open her eyes slowly.
She had already known his arm was draped across her waist — had felt it a moment before the ghost of his breath had pulled her attention away — but the sight of it possessively curving around her was a vision in its own right.
It tugged at her heart, and she had to breathe short, shallow gulps of air to keep from being overwhelmed by the sight.
By him.
The way he held her, tight and possessive. The way he burrowed deeper into her. Contorting around her small frame so his face was buried in her curls. The way he made her feel. As if she was enough — more than enough.
Not a wife or a childhood friend or the mother of his child.
She was none of that to him, and yet, she felt as if — in being nothing at all, she was everything.
A woman.
Worthy of being cherished and desired and revered for herself.
Hermione concentrated on his steady, even breathing, the way his heartbeat felt at her back — allowing it to steady her own. Allowing her to once more focus on all that encapsulated her in this moment.
She inhaled the soothing scent of him — of her on him — for long moments before she could no longer resist the urge that had taken root in her.
Careful to keep as even as his breathing, she turned within his grasp, his body moving in sync with hers — accommodating for her new position by slotting his thigh in between hers.
A current of electricity coursed up her spine, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.
He was beautiful.
She had always known he was beautiful.
Yet here and now, bathed in soft morning light, the truth of him became something she simply couldn’t deny — not as she had in years past — he was ethereal.
Up close, she could see how the light kissed him tenderly — softening the sharp angles of his face and transforming his now-familiar stoic expression into something rare and unguarded. As if he had finally found a fleeting moment of peace as he slumbered — an expression she had not known she had been bereft of until now.
She wanted to reach out and trace the soft pink hue highlighted across his cheeks and nose, and just as she focused on it, she realised she could see where the curves of her curls had embedded themselves onto his face — sharp, fine lines of dusty pink amidst a sea of soft rose.
He had held her so close, so intently, she had unwittingly marked him with her tresses.
She wondered briefly if the intensity was for her or simply because he had missed the intimacy of sleeping within someone’s embrace, just as she had, for years that far preceded her divorce.
Only his wife had died during childbirth, so perhaps his need for this was more significant than hers.
Different, in some capacity, she could not begin to fathom.
The thought itched its way into her brain, and she realised they’d also have to talk about that at some point. Though, perhaps not when she was lying beside him, naked and slick with fresh arousal.
“You snore, you know,” he said in a husky whisper, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
Hermione snorted indelicately before covering her face.
A reminder of another morning. One where it had been he who had watched her sleep.
She wondered now what he had seen in her that morning.
He peeked one eye open.
The stormy greys of his gaze now still, serene waters pulling her out to drift gently.
“Good morning.” Hermione licked her lips, her gaze never wavering from his, even as his eyes dipped to watch her tongue dart across her lips.
“Morning.” He rasped, his eyes journeying down lower still to rest on her bare shoulder where it peeked out from below the duvet they were entangled within.
She felt him stiffen momentarily, his thigh searing where it was still clamped between hers.
“Are you going to run off to buy more smutty books now?” Hermione teased, remembering how he had blanched at the sight of her in her nightwear that first morning. “I can recommend some favourites of mine if you are.”
To her ears, and likely to his, she knew she sounded airy — unperturbed by the stillness that had suddenly manifested around them. But it was in direct contrast to her heart, now pounding like a drum within her ears, wondering which way they’d break in the light of day.
If he would renege on what they had started the night before.
He huffed, his arm curling around her like a vice as his thigh pressed more firmly into her centre.
“The only thing that has any intention of running this morning is my tongue all over you,” Draco murmured, his lips tracing up the curve of her shoulder before pulling back. “My wand—”
“Excuse me?” Hermione squeaked, an unexpected thrill shooting up her body at where her thoughts had immediately gone.
Sixth year, broom cupboard, Padma Patil — one very inappropriate use of a Rictusempra that had sent the girl to the hospital wing in a giddy daze. It had been all Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil had spoken about for months — what had occurred, what they thought he may have done, and what the odds were Parvati could get him to do it to her.
“For a mouth freshening charm…”
Draco’s gaze narrowed as he lifted his head.
“Oh.” Hermione breathed, acutely aware of the flush spreading down and across the expanse of her chest. She watched Draco’s eyes dilate at the sight of her blush — noticed the way his nostrils flared when he registered, beneath his fingers, the shiver she had been unable to restrain.
“Yes,” she said quickly, conjuring her own wand from where she had dropped it at the foot of the bed. “Mouth freshening charms. Good idea.”
Hermione hated them. Positively detested forgoing the ritual of brushing her teeth in the morning for a charm that did not taste half as nice — but to evade the way Malfoy was staring at her, she would allow herself to be subject to them for a lifetime to come.
The corner of his lip quirked up as a flash of cognisance flitted through his gaze.
His own wand flew through the air, his cleansing charm occurring in quick succession to hers before his lips were once more hovering over the tender spot he had found the night before.
“Heard some rumours about me, did you, Granger?”
“No-oooh.” Hermione moaned softly as his tongue circled the lovebite she knew was marked in shades of violet and indigo on her.
“I--d--know--nothing—” She stammered as his fingers gripped her just below her breasts, the brush of his thumb drawing out a sharp peak that made her heart thud violently with want above his grip.
She knew he felt it — felt it as acutely as she felt his hardening length at her hip.
She wasn’t sure why she was lying — only that the thrill of having unmentionable acts performed on her was both arousing and mortifying in equal measure.
Emotions and physical intimacy, she could handle.
Any more?
It would be like showing up to an exam without even knowing the subject it was for.
In admitting she was curious about what more it could be, she would also be admitting her sheer lack of knowledge beyond the vanilla flavour palette she was rather accustomed to.
“Say, Granger… Are you ticklish?” His brows furrowed, and she could read his displeasure at not having her entire attention on how he nipped at her lip. Harsh, claiming, dangerously hungry for her answer.
She knew why he was asking.
He knew she knew of the rumour — and from the way he looked down at her — feathery blond tresses falling into his eyes, a dimpled smile stretching wide to reveal his perfect white teeth — she also knew he was not going to let it go without a fight.
“No-ahh!” She swallowed back the giggle that rose to her lips as her back arched off the bed to press more firmly into his hovering frame. His fingers continued to trail down her stomach, eliciting a trail of gooseflesh in their wake, even as she fought not to give in.
“You know,” he hummed, his fingers slowing down as he placed a kiss on her jutted jawline. “If you tell me what you like, what you might like, what you are curious about — it will feel a lot better for the both of us.”
Hermione groaned as his fingers journeyed lower still, pulling forth a vivid recollection of the night before.
Merlin, last night!
She’d only ever read of what he had done for her.
To her, it had always been a delusional fantasy women wrote in books, gloriously filthy, smutty books because no man was willing to perform it. But what did Hermione know? Her husband had never offered, and she had never asked.
Which only brought her back to why she refused to utter the word that rested on the tip of her tongue.
Yes.
Draco Malfoy had gone down on her.
Yes. It thudded against her sternum.
He had ravished her with equal parts hunger and restraint.
Yes. It clenched at her core, where his fingers parted her slowly as he settled between her thighs.
This was the last thread of restraint she had before Draco Malfoy ruined her entirely.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes to everything.” She said, her eyes finding his just as a tidal wave was borne.
She gasped as he plunged himself into her. Thrusting all the way to the hilt as her hands trembled against his shoulders. Merlin — How did someone forget the size of an appendage that now haunted her mind as well as her — “Gods--Draco!” Hermione whimpered, her core clenching around his girth as he stilled above her.
“Hermione.”
“Please.” Hermione’s hands went to his hips, her nails digging into his arse with a renewed desperation for more. “I need you, Draco.”
He had felt so good inside her, above her — everywhere.
Vulnerability came in ebbs and flows. Give and take. Him and Her. Last night’s reverence and this morning’s reservations. The rise and fall of tides and the spin of the moon. Earth and Sun, fire and life, water and air. Draco and Hermione.
The push and pull of their hands synchronised as they explored each other once more. A contrast between light and dark. The founding of each other first within a dusky haze and then afresh, in the glow of day.
Not quite the calm after the storm, but the calmness found within one.
He kissed her. He kissed her like she had never been kissed before.
Sweetly at first — his lips moulding to hers as his hands explored the tender skin of her stomach, fingers brushing down lightly until he could grab her hips — a moan escaping him at the press of her ankle at his arse when she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in closer yet.
Then, with exploration and the beginning of understanding, came wild abandon — teeth clashing, nails scraped against skin, the hiss of her breath into his mouth as he pulsed within her — the thrum of his fingers at her clit.
She did not know when he turned them, flipping them onto their sides so his hand could wind into her hair.
Her hair.
She did not miss a single instance where he touched it, grabbed it, buried himself within it.
It was odd how it drove her delirious when it was he who seemed to be getting his fix.
The way he touched it — his fingers both a scalding yank and a soothing balm. The heat of his fingers as he threaded into her tangles, her neck bending to his will — The shiver of his breath as it caressed and tingled along her scalp when she sought more. Was it possible to orgasm without clitoral stimulation?
His hands in her hair made her have faith, yet.
As he pulled her on top of him, his eyes roving over her body — breasts, hips, hands, hair, lips, eyes — it occurred to her that for all the yielding she had resolved to do the night before — Draco had handed control right back to her.
Placing her in position to be above him — not once, not twice, every single time.
Her thumbs brushed over his torso, her gaze locked in on his once more as she rocked her hips back and forth, grinding her clit into his pelvic bone as his nails embedded themselves into her arse.
If the previous night had been a haze.
This morning was clarity.
Merlin — it was a clarity she was unaccustomed to.
Through lidded, heavy eyes, she watched his hands come up to cup her breasts, where they bounced with the movement of her hips.
“Gods, fuck.” Draco groaned as her fingers journeyed to meet his over her nipple, a silent nudge to do as he pleased — to venture further — explore alongside her. “Dreamt about this--always you--fuck, a dream--”
His words were lost to her as she registered the teasing essence of his magic spiral around her.
A sinful phantom caress that ghosted across her nipples with feather-like strokes as his hands wrapped around her arse, his hips snapping faster as she arched her back.
Her incoherency at his touch escaped in fervoured moans that even she could not understand as he continued to whisper dirty things below.
“Do you like that?” He asked, his words punctuated with every thrust as he took over for her — allowing her to simply luxuriate in the vortex he had created around her. “Tell me what you like, darling; I’ll give you everything you want. Just name it.”
“You, Jesus fuck, yes.” Hermione keened as she felt the thrum of his magic ripple down her spine. It was a light application of the charm, one that elicited shivers and goose-flesh, but he found every erogenous spot on her body — listening for the hitch of her breath as his magic explored her body. “Keep--just keep.”
She had not known the backs of her knees were sensitive until he found out for her. Ghosting over each knee languidly before pulling a wail from her when it tingled down her arched soles. Her cunt clenched at every overwhelming sensation he wrung from her body.
She felt his fingers push her forward, his hand coming to rest at the base of her spine as he drew her back into his chest with a firm grip on her neck.
A current shot up her spine at the gentle touch, at the thought that he would not be so gentle if she told him she had liked the pressure of his hand on her neck.
His kiss was punishing on this meeting, and she felt the vibrato of his rapidly building orgasm on the tip of her tongue as he claimed it once more.
His hips were thunderous now, his hands holding her steady as he fucked the life back into her.
She wanted more, all, everything there was to be had, and yet more. So much more than what she knew.
She wanted to imprint herself onto him as he had imprinted himself within her. In her mind, her life, her cunt, her soul.
“Are you–” Hemione’s breath hitched as she felt the charm once more.
“Fuck, yes.” His words were a bite at her shoulder.
A soft symphony of thrums she knew she did not require to come alongside him — but Merlin, if it did not make her clench tighter around him.
“Gods, please, yes.” He growled.
The thrumming grew frantic, his magic growing carnal with the anticipation of his release. She felt it in the way the charm wound her up, her orgasm sparking at first, only to explode when hot, thick ropes of come shot through her.
A riotous cacophony pounded against her ears as she struggled to breathe through her shattering — what magic had Malfoy performed for her orgasm to linger so overwhelmingly long?
— Thump. Thump. Thump —
The heat of Malfoy’s breath seared across her collarbone as his fingers grew taut on her waist.
— Thump. Thump. Thump —
She blinked slowly, her eyelids ascending and descending in rapid succession.
“Mumma!”
Hermione froze — sweat-soaked skin clinging firmly to Draco’s chest as she tried desperately to reorient herself.
— Thump. Thump. Thump —
“Why is this door locked? Mumma… Where is Draco?” Rose yelled through the door.
Then, after a moment.
“His bed is looking funny.”
Hermione’s eyes bugged as Draco snorted below her, his throaty chuckle zapping down her body so she clenched around his softening cock.
The bed…
The bed that he had made but not slept in… the one he had thrown her hair clip down upon after they had mussed it good and proper.
Fuck.
He groaned at the squeeze of her, and Hermione scrambled to slide off him, the squelching sound of his eviction deafening in the silence that permeated the room.
Fuckkkk!
Hermione’s heart pounded frantically as she twisted and turned, writhing on the slippery sheets, trying to regain the strength she required to reply to Rose.
“Huh… oh, I am changing clothes, darling.” Hermione ground her jaw, realising how incredibly out of breath she sounded for someone who had supposedly only been taking a shower.
“Oh.” Rose paused, and Hermione let out a sigh of relief as she stood to wrap herself in the duvet.
Draco watched her from where he continued to lounge, stark naked, his arm propped behind his head, as his eyes followed her around the room.
Hermione ignored the smirk that came to bloom on his lips as she tried to search for her clothing before bypassing it for a bad job in order to search for fresh — less fragrant — clothing.
She heard whispers from the other side of the door and then a small “...but my dad!” and she knew Scorpius was right on the other side as well, his fragile little heart yearning for his father.
“Where is Draco!?!?” Rose yelled out, and Hermione had to steady herself, bracing herself using the wall beside the door as her thoughts continued to fluster her.
That fucking tickling charm was detrimental to a woman’s mental faculties.
“I don’t know,” Hermione groaned, her mind racing to catch up with what was occurring.
Rose and Scorpius could not know, not yet — not when it was so new, and she did not know what any of this meant to her or him. But the cottage was only so big, and if he wasn’t in the room with her — “He probably went for a run.”
She regretted it the moment she said it.
Draco sat up.
“Yeah, he probably went for a run.” Hermione doubled down at the sight of his cool, composed, amused face. “You know how he is in the mornings. He’ll probably be back any minute.”
“Yeah,” Rose said slowly after a long pause. “Can you come out now? We’re hungry.”
“Yes, darling.” Hermione panted through gritted teeth as she pulled on her faded green jumper from the day before. “Just a moment.”
* * *
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, will you?” Draco huffed as Hermione’s hands wrapped around his biceps. “My shoes…”
“Here, take mine.” She pulled off the trainers he had watched her put on — at first, a wrong shoe on each foot before she had hopped around him, trying to course correct.
“Granger, you can’t just—”
She shoved him out through the large, snow-frosted window — strength blooming from a reservoir he imagined only a mother knew. “Come around in five… and here.”
He caught his wand with the deft precision of a Seeker.
“Hermione,” he ground out, his teeth chattering as he steadied himself within the six inches of snow that had fallen the night before. “Merlin’s sake, I’m wearing nothing but soiled pyjamas! My shirt doesn’t even have all of its buttons!”
Salazar, trust Hermione fucking Granger to give him the best fucking ride of his life, only to dump him out of her window the moment it ended — shoe and sockless.
“You are very good at Transfiguration, as you say often,” Hermione said as another set of knocks pounded at the door behind her.
Gods, their children were pests. Lovely, beautiful pests he wished to love and spoil for what their mischief had led to, but not this morning, no.
“Draco, please. You and I agreed. They can’t know just yet.”
He blinked into her warm eyes. Had he ever encountered another pair, brown or otherwise, that reflected such depth and emotion so vividly? If he had, it did not matter for nothing quite compared to her shades of brown.
“I know.” He wished to sound calm and collected, but his balls were now both sated and numb, and he did not know how to begin categorising the range of feelings he had experienced.
A veritable treasure trove of emotions within a handful of moments.
“Fine,” he shivered — to no one because she was already gone. “Merry Christmas to you too.”
He could already feel the cold that had seeped into his toes, creeping up his legs. The shoes, even stretched to their capacity, were far too small. Not to mention — bright pink, feminine, and Muggle — with some kind of sticky contraption he could not pull apart — and once he did, it refused to stick again once more.
Grumbling to himself, for the woman was both mesmerising and maddening, he quickly changed the colour of his nightwear to a dark shade of black and hobbled forward towards the back entrance of the cottage. All the while praying to Merlin, Morgana and Medusa, their children would be too busy eating breakfast to see right through his shoddy excuse. Her shoddy excuse.
He peeked through the window at the kitchen sink to find Hermione staring directly at him.
A smirk danced across her lips at the state of him — undoubtedly pink, stressed and visibly frozen.
“Oh, there he is,” she said, her pitch far too shrill. “See, I told you Draco probably went for a run.”
Draco rolled his eyes. The woman was as subtle as the Hogwarts Express — and as loud as one, too.
Taking a fortifying gulp, he moved forward, making quick work of entering through the backdoor of the house and rounding around the kitchen counter. He returned Rose’s contented smile before moving around her stool to drop a kiss on Scorpius’s head — before hurrying to stand behind them.
“I’m just gonna—” he began.
“Yes.” Hermione nodded enthusiastically, her cheeks still flushed from their earlier activity.
Merlin, if anyone else, even someone as thick-headed as Weasley, were present, they would know in a snap of a second just what a run meant between them.
“—shower.”
“Excellent.” She nodded before hiding her face in a cup of coffee.
Draco rolled his eyes at Hermione, who pointedly refused to acknowledge him any further, before turning to head towards the bedroom he had just been dumped out of.
“Dad.”
Draco bit back a groan, his eyes fluttering shut before he turned slowly, ensuring he was partially obscured by the bend within the hallway.
“Yes,” he said, meeting Scorpius’s even gaze as pins and needles pricked at his frost-bitten toes.
Scorpius smiled mischievously at Draco from above Rose’s slumped body, where she was scarfing down a bowl of cereal.
“I like your shoes.”
Draco felt a crimson blush as it settled high on his cheekbones.
“I couldn’t find mine, and Miss Hermione was very kind to lend me hers,” Draco said, clearing his throat. “Right, shower.”
“They’re by the front door,” Rose called out behind him.
* * *
“Coffee?”
Oh, she was mesmerising, maddening, and a minx.
Draco’s narrowed gaze followed the slope of her shoulder to her collarbone and then up the column of her neck. He could see the soft sheen of the glamour she had placed on the litany of marks he had painted upon her — a kink he had never thought twice of before. Not until he had seen the indentation of his lips on her neck, her lips, her breasts — the dusky rose of sunrise amidst an expanse of soft golden skies — when he had released her breast from his mouth, swollen and marked. Gods, he wanted to mottle her pretty skin in every shade of pink and more.
He wondered if she’d let him.
She had stripped off her jumper and now sat at the kitchen counter humming as she flipped through pages of his book — the children chattered away distantly in their bedroom.
“Gods,” Draco grumbled as she licked a bead of moisture from her lips. His fingers curved around the back of her stool before he could make sense of what his body was doing. “You are a tease.”
He punctuated his words with soft kisses to her lips, tasting the bittersweet high of her tongue as it melted into his mouth.
“Mhmm.” She groaned, pushing him away. “None of that.”
“I just wanted to taste coffee you had made for a change,” Draco smirked, moving around her. “Palettable.”
“Palettable, really?” Hermione narrowed her eyes.
Draco hummed, swiping the mug of coffee she had been about to rescind from him before she could. “I’ve found nothing quite compares to the taste of your cu— linary skills,” Draco finished lamely as a set of heads appeared in the hallway behind her.
“What?” Hermione’s brows furrowed.
“Is it time for presents?” Rose asked, running forward, dressed today like a leprechaun.
Draco raised an eyebrow at Rose, who was too busy skirting around him in order to get to the Christmas tree to see it.
“Dad,” Scorpius appeared at his side, his small, delicate hands tugging at Draco’s sleeve. “Can I have a word?”
Draco licked his lips as Hermione shivered beside him.
“About?” Draco asked, his voice coming out parched.
Scorpius’s foot danced as he considered answering.
“It’s private.” He tugged at Draco’s sleeve once more, silently begging Draco to follow him into the hallway.
Draco obliged, moving cautiously behind his son into the children’s bedroom.
“Gifts!”
“What?”
“I don’t have a gift for Miss Hermione or Rose.”
“Do you have a gift for me?” Draco chuckled.
“One problem at a time,” Scorpius groaned, his cheeks puffing with devastation. “I can’t believe I forgot all about Christmas gifts.”
“Scorp,” Draco chuckled. “We’ll get Skippy—”
“No!” Scorp blanched. “Miss Hermione says that’s slave labour.”
“What is slave labour?”
Scorpius frowned, turning a deathly shade of white.
“I don’t know. But it’s very, very bad, and we have to set her free.”
Draco smirked.
“Okay, we’ll discuss it with Skippy when we talk to her.”
“And Knitty, Lopper and Mipsy, and Amory and Pinksly too.”
“Aunty Pans is more likely to set her hair on fire.” Draco chuckled.
“She’d do it for me.” Scorpius narrowed his eyes. “She says I’m her best friend, and Rose is my best friend, and I’d do anything for her.”
“Yes, she would,” Draco nodded, his hands raking through Scorpius’ hair. “But maybe this is a real-people conversation and not something to tell her over Floo call when they call to wish you for your birthday.”
“Fine.” Scorpius scowled. “But it will be done.”
Draco shook his head and thought of the same words spilling from his mouth once upon a time. Only he had demanded for a broomstick so he could catch the same witch’s attention — if only he had asked for universal house-elf freedoms.
“Yes, promptly.” Draco nodded.
“So… gifts,” Scorpius said, looking up at Draco with wide grey eyes. “ Oh, and Rose says Miss Hermione does not like receiving galleons, but Rose does, so that’s taken care of. But we’ll have to visit Gringotts.”
Draco arched a brow. “How many galleons are you thinking, Scorpius?”
Scorpius scratched his ear.
“I don’t know. How much do you think a Muggle car costs?”
“Why?” Draco narrowed his eyes.
“No reason,” Scorpius said quickly before running out of the room. Something told Draco there was a reason, and it would not be good — or fun for Draco or Hermione.
* * *
“Rocking around! The Christmas treeeeee!” Rose sang, rather off-tune, as Scorpius tried to stutter out words he definitely did not know — humming to the symphony when he missed the beats playing from Hermione’s crack-box where it was positioned on the coffee table.
Draco smiled, leaning against a wall as he observed in awe.
Muggle Christmas was… unusual.
Hermione stood in the sitting room, her wand waving in small figure-eights that made furniture fly around her as Rose and Scorpius ran around her, carrying various items of clothing.
Draco’s running sweatshirt was transfigured into an overlarge duvet that Rose and Scorpius stretched to fit over the rug. Hermione’s green jumper became a tent, which was then stuffed to the brim with pillows, and small jars of colourful candles floated to hover above.
Rose and Scorpius didn’t care for what came next — more pillows and transfigured blankets and sheets — their singing coming out muffled from where they had disappeared within the tent.
“It’s a tradition,” Hermione said, moving around the stack of furniture to one end of the room to stand beside Draco. “When I was younger, my dad used to pitch a tent in the living room, and we’d all fall asleep on piles and piles of blankets and pillows watching all the classic Christmas movies.”
“Is that… an old tradition?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought electricity was a modern invention.”
Hermione smiled at him — and he once more realised how far they had come since that first morning when she had snapped at him for not knowing how tele-portable phones worked.
“Every family has their own Christmas traditions, and we were always not very religious. But that doesn’t mean we can’t honour the occasion.”
“Oh.”
“How is Yule at home, for you?” Hermione asked suddenly, curiosity burning bright in her eyes. “The Weasleys practise something more modern, but I’ve always wondered what the Yule festivities are like in other old families.”
“It’s—” Draco said. “The families used to get together for a Yule Feast and Bonfire. The Malfoys hosted one during our third year, but I don’t partake any longer. For us, it’s usually a dinner with my parents, and Pansy and…”
He bit back a groan at Hermione’s raised eyebrow. “And her wife visit us most years. Theo, of course, shows up at some point, but he’s less reliable depending on whether he’s in a relationship at the time or not.”
“Theo Nott?” Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “He always visits with Luna and Blaise when we have our monthly dinners. Oh, he’s such a sweetheart.”
“And not interested in witches.” Draco grimaced at the way her eyes had lit up.
Hermione smirked, the mirth within her gaze scorching as she met his evenly, “Oh, I know, not that it matters.”
“Do you?” Draco raised an eyebrow, turning to whisper in her ear.
“I definitely do know I’m not interested in Theo Nott,” she breathed. “Not when I have someone else on my mind.”
“Mmmm.” Draco hummed, the noise coming from low in his chest. “Who do you have in mind?”
“Maybe the question is what I have on my mind?” Hermione purred.
He felt the shiver that ran down her Occlumency barriers — and he was surprised that she had one. No, no — he’d have to be an idiot not to think she hadn’t studied obscure old magic systems that were a mystery to most non-purebloods. He was far more surprised that she would drop her shields. Allow him to invade the sacred hallowed grounds that were her mind.
Fuck.
Before he could foray through the door she had cracked open, she was walking away from him, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
Gods, it drove him mad with lust. The notion that he could ravish her mind the way he had her body the night before.
And she knew it.
Gods, she knew it.
The mischievous, maddening, mesmerising minx.
Notes:
It may feel as though it’s all too good, and they’re jumping in too fast — which is partially true. But also they’ve been communicating like two mature adults, and Draco has worked incredibly hard on himself over the past decade. There is a reason I’m writing the way I am, and I ask you to trust the process when I say, the smutty-ness is much needed 👀
Is Rose really dressed as a Leprechaun, or does Draco not know of any other green characters? Who knows? Silly Man - as Mlekoimiodd so lovingly calls him.
Love to Cait for keeping me calm this week. Love to Mlekoimiodd for offering to cheer read for me.
Also, My beautiful friend Chesnut1992 wrote two incredible one-shots in honour of my birthday last week that are up, and I'm obsessed — so shameless birthday promo from me! Go check them out if you please (and if you like a toxic bb Draco self-correcting and, of course, some excellent Dramione smut.)
Chapter 12: A Tête-à-Tête and T.I.T.s
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In hindsight, Hermione ought to have known one could not tickle a sleeping dragon without feeling the heat of his fire when he awoke. (It was, after all, quite literally a derivative of the first sentence written within her beloved copy of Hogwarts: A History).
It started slow; the game they found themselves playing as late morning drifted into a lazy afternoon. To recompense for her teasing remark — and likely this morning’s tumble out the window — Draco cornered her in the hallway, restraining her with a simple but effective sticking charm to the soles of her feet.
“Huh? Hmmph.”
He moved her effortlessly, guiding her until her back pressed flush against the wall, her neck arching in perfect synchrony with his complementary movements.
“Dray — ohh.”
He pinched her side with playful affection, drawing a sharp gasp from her that he eagerly swallowed from her lips. With a silent spell — the most gentle brush of magic she had ever experienced (that made her toes curl in her socks) — he removed the glamours she had placed upon her skin.
His stormy gaze swept over her exposed neck, intensity rolling off him in scorching waves that left her breathless within his grasp. Hermione inhaled raggedly, basking in the intoxicating blend of his bergamot scent as it swirled in the lingering mint of her toothpaste.
“Mhm?” His breath at her temple was a sinful reminder of their morning — a tickle of heat that rippled down her body only to settle with a bereft clench at her core.
His fingertips traced the tender imprint of his lips, skimming around the faint indentations of his teeth where he had bitten down to keep from coming too quickly. Hermione had to bite her lips to keep from moaning at Draco’s touch, and she knew — from the way his lips twitched into a barely-there smile — he could feel the wild cadence of her pulse as it thrummed beneath his fingertips.
“Yes, love?” Draco’s gaze curved along her jaw, fingers moving along the base of her neck to tilt her face up. She could feel the weight of him on her thigh as he nipped at her ear — searing upon her, another indentation of himself.
As if she could ever forget all the many ways he had already branded himself on her.
“We really shouldn’t.”
It may have taken thirty-one years for it to occur — but Hermione could now admit to herself: under the right circumstances, she was a filthy liar.
She relished it — this — the inner child Draco brought forth with his witty remarks and obstinate banter. The way he skillfully manoeuvred around obstacles such as children and over-caution to pull forth the intricate intimacy that could be found within a normal day. Desires that demanded to be fulfilled immediately or risk driving you to the brink of madness. Stolen kisses and innocuous moments which lingered upon her skin for long moments after he vanished.
His tongue laved down the sensitive flesh of her neck to trace more kisses in between love bites. “They’re outside playing in the snow like the heathens they are.”
They, in fact, were not.
Soft whispers amidst childlike giggles and sneaky steps broke through her reverie. The sticking charm on her dissipated as quickly as Draco moved away from her, striding down the hallway in the direction she had been intending to journey towards, leaving her a wretched, breathless mess as she emerged back into the sitting room.
“My mittens,” Rose said, holding out her small hands, her eyes trained on the hallway behind Hermione. “Can you change them to match the rest of my outfit?”
“Of course.” Hermione rasped, exhaling only once Rose had turned away, her feet quickly carrying her back to Scorpius, who stood by the glass back doors, a snowball pressed to his chest as he studied Hermione with intrigued mercurial eyes — so like his father’s.
Later, Hermione would not even remember what colour the mittens had been before they were changed to Grinch-Green to go with the rest of Rose’s festive ensemble. She would, however, agonise over the fact that she had not reapplied the glamours Draco had removed, and Scorpius had likely caught the hint of light purple only partially hidden below her tangle of curls.
She didn’t see Draco for the rest of the hour, the ghost of his tongue on her neck keeping her company until he appeared once more, smutty book in hand.
He sat down casually on his preferred armchair — now positioned on the edge of the blanket fort they had created for later that night — his thumb fanning voraciously through pages until he found the dogear he had been searching for. She bristled at the indecency of it — the dogear, and definitely not how hot and bothered he had left her in the hallway — her attention enraptured by the movement of his hands as they ghosted tenderly over the pages.
She caught the briefest upturn of his lips: the only indication Draco knew where her eyes were now trained. Hermione scowled at him as the children’s whispers faded into the ether, her inattention accidentally causing her to squirt far too much whipped cream into Rose’s hot chocolate.
“Merlin.” Hermione cursed under her breath as a large dollop hovered on the edge before landing on her fingers.
She caught the sharp snap of Draco’s neck as she pulled them into her mouth, her lips clamping down just as his nostrils flared minutely. Two could tango, it seemed. Hermione smirked as his eyes lingered over her lips long after she had released her fingers with a small ‘pop’ that went unregistered by the children, where they were blowing innocently on their freshly prepared mugs of chocolate.
A small voice within Hermione told her she could get used to the way he looked at her. Learn to savour the way he remained composed whilst reading hard-core erotica — but was undone by way of an inadvertently, only-mildly arousing gesture on her.
The same voice that told her she could give as well as she got.
The effects of her two orgasms must have been more profound than she originally thought, for when his gaze finally travelled up from her mouth — she honed in on it and allowed him to delve further into her, yet.
His presence within her was like a cool breeze after an arid summer.
A shiver ran up her spine as he caressed the confines of her mind before floating down through her consciousness. Materialising before her in the library she had conjured for this brief interlude.
Before she could begin to tease him in the manner she intended to, his lips were on hers.
His hands curved around her waist as he pushed her back into her carefully organised shelf of memories — ironically, the same shelf where she stored memories of her marriage and the weeks-long spiral of guilt when she had wondered if a divorce was really the right solution.
This moment right here, as Draco’s fingers inched lower to gently hook into the lace trim of her knickers, screamed: yes, yes, yes!
She did not want to think of Ron and Draco in the same breath of a thought, but it was incredibly difficult not to. They were, for better or worse, her only two comparables when it came to any sort of romance in her life — and thus, inevitable contrasts in her mind. It was, simply, to her: as if asking someone to explain why salty food was not sweet, or vice versa, whilst being asked to refrain from mentioning the taste of the other.
“Gods, you play unfairly,” Draco murmured between kisses. “Can’t let a man read in peace without—” He inhaled sharply as she captured his lip between her teeth, nipping hard as his fingers strummed her clit.
“I thought--” Whatever her intention for this foray had been was inherently lost to the fervour with which his tongue clashed with hers, the taste of his morning coffee adding richness to her mouth.
“What?” He panted as his fingers journeyed lower to swipe through the moisture between her legs. “Tell me what you want, love.”
“Want–” She ground down her pelvis, her body snapping taut at an angle so his fingers could soothe the aching throb of her core. “You—”
Draco groaned as Hermione’s hand skimmed down his placket, his erection searing her fingertips with heat as she palmed him above his trousers.
“-to know—” Hermione’s body waged a war with her mind.
He’d opened up a dam of want and desire the night before, and she was drowning in a flash flood of pent-up emotions. “I can--tease, too.”
She heard his audible groan as the confines of her library spun around them before vanishing entirely — as if snapped shut within the book Draco unceremoniously dropped onto his lap — two sets of curious eyes turned in his direction at the sound.
“What is it, Draco?” Rose asked, a thin film of whipped cream coating her lip. “Are you okay?”
Scorpius, ever the perfect gentleman, dabbed at his mouth with his sleeve before turning his attention to his father. “Are you hurt?”
“Yes, Draco, are you quite alright?” Hermione smirked. “You’re looking rather peaky.”
Draco cleared his throat roughly, his Adam's apple bobbing with discomfit. “It seems my book is insistent upon being frustrating,” his voice came out in a croaky murmur that made Hermione smile wider as her tongue flickered out to lick the taste of coffee and cream off her lips.
Scorpius nodded solemnly before turning his attention back to the mug of hot chocolate clasped between his fingers. With everyone distracted, he pinched a bobbing marshmallow using his thumb and forefinger and quickly scooped it into his mouth, smacking his lips enthusiastically as a small, satisfied dimple formed on his cheek.
Rose, it seemed, was not thoroughly satisfied with Draco’s answer.
She hopped off her stool, her furry green jumpsuit swishing humorously with the haste of her movement as she skipped forward to stand in front of Draco.
Draco held her gaze attentively, his face remaining stoic as he allowed the young girl to roam her eyes over his face, her lips pursing in deep contemplation as she puzzled over Draco’s appearance.
“Alrighty, come with me,” she said after her thorough inspection. The gentlest of furrows took root between Draco’s eyebrows, but he took the hand Rose offered him, allowing her to gently pull him up onto his feet — his book neatly falling in between the cushions so as not to catch the child’s attention.
She led him towards the Chesterfield and gently nudged him to sit down to one side, propping a pillow up behind his neck quickly.
“You must couch swoon for exactly seven minutes,” Rose said, folding her arms in a manner reminiscent of Madame Pomfrey. “Any longer, and my mummy says it becomes a couch mope, and those only lead to couch rotting.”
“Couch rotting?”
“Those are exclusively for monthlies,” Rose said with a wise arch of her bushy brow.
Draco blanched.
“Excuse me?”
“Monthlies, Draco.” Rose blew a curl out of her face. “That’s one week a month where you can yell and scream and ask Merlin to let you die — have you never had a monthly? My mum has them… every month.”
Hermione could feel heat spreading across her cheeks, and had she not been working to keep from cackling at Draco’s expression at being roped into a conversation about the female reproductive system, ambiguous as it was — she would have been mortified at the exchange taking place across the room.
“I don’t have monthlies,” Draco huffed. “Though a leisurely couch-rotting does sound good, I will not lie.”
“Well, tough,” Rose said, tapping her foot. “You get a seven-minute couch swoon, and then you have to get ready to go to the Burrow with us. Maybe as a treat, we can all do a couch-rot after. Oh, and with toffee fudge biscuits.”
“Rose,” Hermione said, all amusement curdling at the thought of Draco at the Burrow — with her once-in-laws, Ron, and possibly the woman he had cheated on her with. A question that — knowing herself, as well as she did — would likely come up at some point, despite her every intention for it not to.
She could feel Scorpius trailing behind her, so now all three were huddled around Draco — who was currently one minute into his prescribed couch swoon — resembling more a baby unicorn surrounded by a horde of teenage boys à la Care of Magical Creatures, circa 1995.
(Or thirteen-year-old Draco Malfoy, surrounded by one confused Rubeus Hagrid, one eagle-eyed hippogriff and one besotted Pansy Parkinson).
“Rose,” Hermione said, her voice soft and cautious. “I don’t know if—”
Gods, why couldn’t she have shagged Draco Malfoy the day after she had to go to meet her in-laws.
She wouldn’t call Draco’s gaze upon her stony, but it still felt as if there were three sets of eyes, all expecting her to say something flawless. Only she didn’t know what those words could be.
“I’m not sure—”
“Scorpius and I should at least visit with his grandmother,” Draco said, rising slightly only to be curtailed by a firm hand at his shoulder. It was almost as if Rose believed, if she did not allow him to get off the couch, they would not have to leave her.
“Why?”
“Rose Weasley.” That, unsurprisingly, did little to calm her daughter.
“I want Draco to come and Scorpius to come — I just want them to come!” Her voice hovered on the precipice of cracking, and Hermione knew to tread carefully.
Before she could, Draco took Rose’s hand into his, pressing it firmly to his chest.
“We’ll be here when you return from tea with your grandparents. We’ll even make that corn-puff you like.”
“Popcorn.”
“That is what I said,” Draco said, his nose rising with mock indignation.
Rose giggled, blinking back tears.
“Is not.”
“Of course it is. I’ll have to get a good ear-cleaning potion whilst I’m at home. You simply must have a Wumples infestation.”
Hermione was quite sure no one, save for Scorpius, noticed when she took a few slow, deliberate steps away from the festive gathering. Her mind had already drifted from the cosy warmth of the Christmas scene she'd so carefully crafted, leaving behind the soft glow of twinkling lights and the scent of pine to foray into a place she had been decidedly ignoring.
Her thoughts settled in the quiet, familiar space of her library, where she mentally braced herself for the battle that awaited her later that evening. Only this time, she wasn’t steeling herself for a confrontation with a dark wizard. She was preparing to face her ex-husband — her once lovable, slightly idiotic best friend. As flawed as he had been as a husband, Hermione could not think his intentions to be disingenuous. Did not want to believe him capable of being disingenuous.
Regardless, she had to ask the questions she had long ignored — questions she had believed to be a by-product of her divorce — and not, perhaps, a subconscious reason as to why her divorce had never felt wrong.
* * *
“This is not good, Rose. Not good at all.”
“It’ll be fine, Scorpy. Here, take this, hide it, quickly.”
“It took us months to pull off tits. How can you just expect me to wing it now? Salazar, I feel ill,” Scorpius moaned.
Draco’s fingers paused mid-motion, the silver engraved cufflink slipping into place with a soft click. His gaze shifted, sharp and focused, locking onto the barely ajar door of the childrens bedroom.
“It’s T.I.T.S,” Rose grumbled in a low whisper. “Not tits.”
“T.I.T.S is tits,” Scorpius said haughtily. “And the whole point of having a short code name is to spend less time saying it… not more, Rosie.”
“Mission T.I.T.S takes less time to say than Mission: This is Top Secret.”
“Yes, and mission tits takes even less time.” Scorpius said with a self-satisfied inflection. “And that’s not what’s important right now, anywho.”
Draco’s feet moved of their own accord, each step soundless as he drifted toward the door. He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop on their children, but the muffled exchange drifting into the hallway had snagged his attention. After all, it wasn’t every day the father of a seven-year-old overheard a debate about the word tits — and one that made little to no sense to him, the adult.
His fingers barely brushed the door as he nudged it open, but the creak of the hinge betrayed him. The sound was barely a whisper, yet loud enough to announce his presence. Rose, with the sharp instincts of a child always aware of a parent’s watchful eye, yanked the door fully open, revealing the scene within.
Scorpius quickly latched his bag shut, while the heavy exhale Rose had taken was softly released, stress dissipating from her petite, wearisome shoulders.
“May I help you, Draco?”
“Excuse me?” He arched one fine brow — though he knew his mask was precariously fragile. If either Rose or Scorpius so much as giggled, it would crumble entirely. He could already feel the corners of his mouth twitching, memories of his own colourful vocabulary as a child threatening to surface.
Rose, her cheeks flushed, stared down at her toes as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world. “It’s top secret,” she muttered, her voice small but resolute, her determination to maintain the ruse nearly admirable.
“Yes, I gathered,” Draco drawled. “But please, for the love of Merlin, stop saying—”
“I told him not to,” Rose said quickly.
“What, tits?” Scorpius said, his cheeks turning pale with mortification. “Why, what does it mean?”
Rose shrugged.
“You’ll have to ask my dad. He says it all the time — Merlin’s tits. Circe’s tits. Godric’s tits. Just plain old tits.”
“Stop,” Draco said, biting his cheek. “Please, stop.”
“Why?” Rose asked, her brows furrowing too quickly for him to believe she was not aware of more than she let on. “What does it mean?”
“Dead baby Kneazles,” Draco deadpanned.
He only registered Rose had followed behind him when he heard Scorpius cry out after them. “You didn’t tell me tits was a bad word, Rose Weasley.”
“That’s because you’re not supposed to call it that,” Rose sang, skipping to a standstill beside Draco. “It’s T.I.T.S.”
“Care to explain?” Draco asked, his eyes searching through the home for Hermione, who he assumed would have taken a different approach to this entire ordeal.
Though, he had learned over the past day, she had no leg to stand on, for she had a colourful mouth too.
“Well, it depends,” Rose said, squaring her shoulders. “Did you like kissing my mum?”
“What?” Draco spluttered, hot coffee scalding his throat as red and green swam in his vision.
“Yesterday,” Rose smirked. “You kissed her at the park, or—”
“Oh,” Draco said, finding his nails were rather fascinating to study. “Er, kisses generally are quite… nice.”
“I thought Slytherins were cunning and devious liars,” Rose frowned at him. “My dad says that. But you, Draco, are a terrible liar.”
“Am not!” Draco huffed. “I lie exceptionally well when I want to, thank you very much.”
“So you’re saying,” Rose mulled, “you liked kissing my mum, and you want me to know that you did, and that’s why you lied so terribly right now.”
“Am not,” Draco said, his eyes darting across the empty room. Gods willing, if Hermione did not return pronto, he was going to go for another run in the snow, shoes and socks be damned.
“Are too,” Rose said, hands moving up to rest on her hips so she looked the spitting image of her mother during that first year at Hogwarts. “You know Draco, we can only help you if you help yourself.”
Draco narrowed his eyes at the young girl.
“Help with what, exactly?”
Rose smirked. “Aw, Draco. You are silly. With making you my dad of course.”
“Miss Hermione has to be my mum, as well,” Scorpius, who’d been eavesdropping from around the hallway, called out. “That was the plan. You can’t have my dad, if I can’t have your mum, also.”
Draco could not be sure what seared more — his cheeks or his throat, having taken a sip of his coffee at precisely the wrong time.
Moreover, he was not allowed to deliberate on Mission T.I.T.S any longer.
Hermione, who it seemed had gone last-minute Christmas shopping — though, don’t ask him where — returned only to fall into a loud argument with Rose about her ensemble.
As it turned out, the little leprechaun was not only not a leprechaun, she was dressed as the anti-yule-man — which, as Draco came to understand by way of Hermione yelling at the bathroom door, would do wonders to offend the Weasley clan — who knew him to be someone who robbed children of toys and was, generally, an unpleasant and often ungracious dinner companion.
He was learning Rose had all the subtlety of an Erumpent looking to mate.
“Through the Floo,” Hermione grimaced, trailing behind a sulking Rose, who had lost the argument and was now dressed in funeral black. Though Draco did catch a flash of green fur disappearing into her (undoubtedly illegally charmed) reticule, he wisely said nothing. “Come on, the faster we get there, the faster we can leave.”
“If you say so.” Draco was quick to usher Scorpius out of Rose’s warpath as she stomped into the Floo, disappearing with a clipped “Granger-Weasley Flat, London.”
“Er, would it be okay to Floo through to the Manor using your flat?” Draco asked, his gaze trailing over Hermione’s flushed cheeks.
“My Floo isn’t open to the grid,” Hermione said dejectedly. A bottle of rum — the same one they had shared on their first day together — flew out of the cupboard, followed by a tumbler.
“My study is,” Draco replied, hoping he wouldn’t have to spell out more in front of Scorpius, “and is also only accessible to me within the Manor.”
It seemed Hermione was far too preoccupied with other things to register the offer (of sorts) he had made to her.
“Right, yeah, sure,” she muttered, filling the tumbler with two knuckles’ worth before downing it equally as fast. “Side-Along Apparition isn’t recommended for children under fifteen. I don’t see any other way you could — Oh!”
Draco wasn’t sure if it had been his exasperated sigh or his whispered, “Merlin, Salazar and Circe,” that had clued her in.
“Right, yes.” She nodded, blinking so quickly, Draco couldn’t be sure if she didn’t lose eyelashes to the momentum. “The kids can use it to visit each other. Right, yes, and Rose will love that so much. Of course, yes, let’s do that. Open up the Floos… oh, that sounds crass.”
Draco gently placed a hand on Scorpius’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go wait at Miss Granger’s flat? Maybe Rose is still there.”
Scorpius nodded, his gaze flicking between his father and Hermione for a moment longer than necessary. He didn’t have to voice his question, and neither did Draco have to convey his answer.
He was going to make sure she was okay, and that was all Scorpius needed to know.
“Granger-Weasley Flat, London,” Scorpius said with quiet comportment, only to be spiralled into frenzied oblivion as he travelled a vast distance in five seconds flat.
“Hermione.”
Had he ever seen anything more devastating? Fat tears fought to escape through her voluminous lashes as Hermione struggled to wrangle her emotions into order. To anyone else, it would have seemed like she was battling to stay composed, resisting the wave of feeling that threatened to consume her. But to Draco, who had once seen the same hollow expression staring back at him in his sixth year, it was painfully clear.
This wasn’t just her fighting to stay composed — it was a silent plea. A plea for someone to tell her it was okay to fall apart.
And it was more than okay.
“Tell me,” Draco said quietly, stepping closer.
“What?” Her voice did not betray her, and oddly it broke Draco’s heart even further.
“What do you need?” he asked, praying to all the Gods he could — old and new, wizarding and Muggle — he did not say the wrong thing. “I know, at my mother’s advice, rather ironically, advice in such instances is never the right thing. But I can do other things. I can pour you another drink… or go tell Molly and Arthur you and Rose do not wish to come. I may even be able to convince Theo to accidentally, on purpose, set wards around Ottery St. Catchpole that disable all kinds of magical transportation. You only need to say the word.”
“I—” Hermione gulped, her fingers shaking around the tumbler as she deliberated another. Nerves won out, and she poured herself a minuscule third shot. “I can do this myself, thank you, Draco.”
Draco frowned, stepping closer still. What this was — he wasn’t certain. Only that there was something to be addressed, and he hoped to never be the cause for such emotion on her face. “I know you can. Merlin, don’t I know — you could even take on my father. I’m just saying you don’t have to…”
It was, decidedly, the wrong thing to say.
Her face crumpled. Tears spilled through her lashes, streaming down her cheeks, and it was only Draco’s quick reflexes that stopped her from dropping the tumbler entirely. In an instant, he was there, his arm wrapping around her, pulling her in before she could fully collapse.
Draco didn’t know whether it was his arm that reached out first or if it was Hermione’s hands fisting into his collar that drew them together. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way she melted against him, her forehead pressing into his shoulder, and the way his heart ached at the sight of her — this woman, who could stand against the world, who could face any challenge thrown her way, but who, right now, needed someone to hold her while she broke.
They stood there, holding each other in a way that should not have felt this natural, not given their past. But it did. Gods, it did.
“This feels… nice,” Hermione said, her breath growing steadier against his chest. “Thank you.”
Before Draco could say the words that hovered on the tip of his tongue, she was already pulling away. Her wand flicked, casting a silent Scourgify that swept away the minimal makeup she had applied that morning. Her face, bare and familiar, looked back at him — her eyes a little softer, her nose a shade brighter than usual, but otherwise the same as she did any other day.
“Hermione,” He said.
She turned, her eyes twinkling with the last of her unshed tears.
“I’m okay,” she said, smiling bashfully. “I’m a little like her, or perhaps more accurately, she’s a lot like me. A good cry can do wonders for the soul. And then, once you’re done, you go kick arse, as per usual.”
Draco couldn’t help it. The corners of his lips quirked up rather involuntarily.
“Is that what you’ll be doing? Kicking arse at the Weasley Christmas festivities?”
Hermione grinned. “In between a few bites of pie, if I see an opening. Now come on.” She held out her arm for him. “I don’t trust those two alone for a minute longer. Next thing you know, they’ll be kidnapping the neighbour’s children to come and spend the holidays with us, as well.”
Draco smirked. That was rather unlikely, seeing as he now knew just what their children’s true intentions for this holiday had been — but he’d wait until she was a little less preoccupied to share details about Mission T.I.T.S with her.
Draco held out an arm, ushering Hermione forward into her flat before stepping through, himself. The flat was much the same as he remembered it, and the moment his gaze caught on the sad bookshelves in the corner of the living room, something new sparked within him.
Rose and Scorpius were sat on the sofa adjacent to the Floo, and their whispers halted in quick succession as the rush of the flames muted behind them — leaving the room silent. He watched as Rose took in her mother’s appearance, her bottom lip trembling slightly before she clamped it shut between her teeth.
Draco caught Scorpius’ gaze just as he exhaled a weary sigh before shifting his gaze down to ponder his shoes.
Draco couldn’t blame him. Scorpius had never been one for conflict. Even at home, when Draco and Lucius rowed, all that could be expected of Scorpius was for him to pick himself up and move out of the room. Usually to go call for Skippy, who would then lavish him with treats until either Narcissa or Draco lured him out of his room with the promise of a fly about the grounds or a game of Yahtzee — his mother’s preferred pastime.
“Come on, Rose,” Hermione sighed. “It’ll be an hour at most, I promise.”
Rose moved forward dejectedly, the fury of her earlier exit fizzling away as she stepped into the Floo.
“Draco?” she said, her eyes boring into him where he stood beside her mother.
“I’ll have the popcorn ready,” he said quietly, offering her a weak smile, whilst knowing the words fell flat. There wasn’t much else he could say.
The past few days had felt like they’d existed in a safe little blanket fort, a fragile bubble where he had started to embrace the role of a surrogate father to her. But now, as she stood before him, on the edge of journeying back to her actual father, Draco was reminded of the boundaries that still existed.
On the other side of the Floo, likely stood Weasley — and that reality, stark and unavoidable, was not his to usurp.
Rose smiled, but it wasn’t the bright, carefree one he had grown used to these past few days. This one was tentative, almost bittersweet.
Before Draco could pull her into the hug he suddenly longed to give, she was already being whisked away, vanishing within emerald-green flames that roared loudly only to leave behind a burgeoning quiet in her absence.
“You’ll be able to get the fireplace connected?” Hermione asked quietly, scooping up a handful of Floo powder to follow behind.
He nodded, holding her gaze for the small moment she took before she, too, vanished into flame and fire.
Draco revolved quickly on his heels, his hawthorn deftly pinched between his fingers before he caught Scorpius’ attention. Scorpius stood up slowly, his cardigan slightly crumpled from the way he had sat down on the squished sofa directly beneath the shelves of books that had caught his attention earlier.
“What do you say about making Miss Hermione a Christmas present instead of buying her something?” Draco asked, cataloguing the excited tremble of Scorpius’ breath as it hitched with excitement.
“What do you have in mind?”
Draco smirked at his son, whose own eyes twinkled with a playful mirth.
“Ah, but first, a Notice-Me-Not charm,” Draco said, swishing his wand through the room. “And you need to keep this a secret.”
“Of course,” Scorpius nodded. “Do you think we need a codename? Though, hmmm, that really is more Rose’s department.”
“How many codenames have you two come up with?” Draco asked, turning away from the magic he had just expelled from his wand. They’d need to be fast if he wanted to begin setting up and still have time to visit his mother before Rose and Hermione were expected back at the cottage.
“Oh, who can count that high?” Scorpius groaned. “Rose has a plan and a codename for everything.”
Notes:
Mission T.I.T.S goes out to the lovely people on Discord & SL in particular, for if they had not made me think about this codename, it would definitely not exist. If you’re on the Wizarding World WIPs server come say hi on The Stowaway Malfoy Channel; or would like to be — here’s an invite link: https://discord.gg/7QXecj7Y
Thank you so much for your constant love and support. I'm truly humbled and honoured to receive the love I do from every single one of you, and every interaction makes me feel warm and fuzzy!
As always, much love and appreciation to Cait for alpha'ing and Mlekoimiodd for cheer-reading.
P.S. I wrote a smutty oneshot in honour of Hermione's birthday this week. Here is a link if you want to check it out: A Manor of Iniquity - It also has some very lovely NSFW artwork by the very lovely SparklesMagicLightLove . It was also Podficced by LucyHyde for ETL if you wish to listen to it <3 : A Manor of Iniquity Podfic Lucy is an incredible narrator, so I def recommend it.
Chapter 13: Piping Hot Tea, Served By A Weasley
Notes:
This chapter is 7.8k+ words, and our longest yet. Buckle in with tea or te-quila, whatever you so fancy, and ride the highs and lows my darlings.
We do yo-yo a little between POVs, but for the most part they're quite distinct from each other.
Content Warning
Homophobia, Misogyny, prejudicial biases.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It ought to have felt odd — absolutely unnatural — leaving Draco and Scorpius standing in her home. Yet as Hermione followed behind Rose, spinning to a halt in a place she had once called home — it was this place, coming here — that felt inherently wrong.
In the blink of an eye, the warm silver pools of affection mirrored in father and son’s gazes blurred away, and she found herself standing in the empty Floo parlour of the Burrow. Dull and faded reds and golds — colours she knew ought to have felt like home but simply didn’t.
Not in the same way the mismatched blacks, pinks and greens of their blanket fort did.
Even the scent of freshly baked mince pies and evergreen did little to pacify her as she breathed deeply, listening for muffled voices that drifted in from the kitchen. It was strange how, instead of dredging up memories of past holidays — full of laughter, warmth, and the inherent sense of belonging — the room and its cosy vibe brought up a sense of foreboding.
As if, in giving in to Molly’s wishes, she had traded in a wonderful dream for harsh reality.
A lover(?) for an ex-husband.
A child that wasn’t hers (but felt like hers) for a family that said they were hers, even if they really were not, not any longer.
But above all else — comfort — for the unsettling feeling that it wasn't the Burrow that had changed at all. Entirely the opposite, really.
Could one change in a handful of days? Or was it that a handful of days — days full of warmth and comfort, of feeling wanted and desired — was enough for one to want to admit they had changed?
Hermione didn’t know for certain, only that she was about to find out. She dusted the ash from her hair, and carefully stepped out of the hearth, recognising that Rose had not waited for her within the empty parlour with a pang.
* * *
Draco Floo’d to the Manor shortly after Scorpius, only to find, upon arrival, his son gazing around his personal study with deep uncertainty. As if in a handful of days the Cottage had become a home to him, and the Manor he had lived his entire life within was some unnatural oddity.
He knew because he felt it, too. Even standing within his own study (albeit decorated by some Malfoy or his wife, once upon a time), with its deep emerald and onyx hues and opulent grandeur — he realised the cold, meticulous precision of the Manor. It had not been created to exude the kind of comfort the Cottage held, or even Hermione’s, entirely unsafe, but inherently cosy flat.
There was power and oppression — tradition and legacy, as his father would call it — steeped into every wall, every sterling silver sconce, and every darkened, lacquered floorboard of the Manor. The air weighed heavy, like his heart, with the ghost of unspoken expectations.
“Now what?” Scorpius asked, drawing Draco’s attention back to him. “You said one hour, and that means we only have 45 minutes more.”
“Well,” Draco said, gently ushering him towards the door that led out into the East Wing. “We have to pick up a present for Rose, and I think I know something she would rather like. And we’ll also pop in and wish Grand-mère a Merry Christmas.”
“And Grand-père?” Scorpius’s voice was hopeful, though Draco could hear the hesitance beneath it.
A muscle in Draco’s jaw clenched. “Yes,” he said tightly, “and Grand-père.”
A loud Crack reverberated off the walls as Knitty, his mother’s house-elf, appeared before them, her pristine white pillowcase billowing. “Mistress requests Masters Draco and Masters Scorpius in the dining room,” she said, bowing before Disapparating just as quickly.
Scorpius frowned down at his shoes, and for the first time that day, Draco noticed they were not his own but rather Rose’s light blue trainers. “I am not dressed for dinner.”
“Good thing we won’t be staying for dinner,” Draco muttered under his breath, his thoughts already swirling around how quickly they could leave.
* * *
“Ah, ma chérie, you iz ‘ere!” Fleur’s voice rang through the kitchen, bright and welcoming as Hermione stepped into sight. The warmth of it clashed sharply with the knot of nerves tightening in her chest. Fleur’s accent, once a source of mocking in the early years — Phlegm, they had called her — now felt like a beacon of kindness amidst the swirl of unspoken tensions in the house.
Fleur leaned in, pressing air kisses to both of Hermione’s cheeks before stepping back, her eyes bright with excitement. “I ‘az missed you, chérie,” she said, “and Louis ‘az been askin’ for his aunty ‘ermione all morning!”
Hermione offered a polite smile, though her gaze quickly shifted to the window, where the children played on the lawns outside. Victoire and Louis, resplendent in their matching broomsticks, soared across the sky while Lucy and Albus chased each other below, their laughter piercing the air with infectious joy. To one side, Hermione saw Rose standing beside Ginny, their heads bowed together in deep conversation. A strange ache bloomed in her chest, and she wondered if perhaps Ginny knew more about what Rose felt towards Ron.
“‘Ermione,” Fleur’s voice cut through her thoughts, and Hermione blinked, slowly turning back to face her. The tension she had been holding in her chest released slightly as she met the familiar, warm smile of the woman she had once judged far too harshly.
But before she could respond, Molly bustled in from the kitchen, her arms laden with trays. “There you are!” she said breathlessly. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived, dear. I was worried Rose had come through the Floo on her own. You know how dangerous that can be…”
Molly’s words trailed off as she unceremoniously thrust a tray of tumblers into Hermione’s arms, not even waiting for a reply.
“Will you be a dear?” Molly added, already halfway out the door.
Hermione bit back the sigh rising in her throat, her arms instinctively adjusting to the weight of the tray. Old habits died hard. And with Molly, there was no room to protest. Instead, Hermione smiled, the well-practised mask slipping into place as she moved towards the punchbowl.
But as she filled the tumblers with mulled wine, she could feel the weight of the day already beginning to press down on her.
No, the Burrow hadn’t changed at all.
And therein lay the problem.
“Hermione, there’s also—”
Pretending not to hear, Hermione continued forward, letting the door from the kitchen into the back garden close behind her.
There were few charms to divorce, but if a free pass to ignoring a mother-in-law was not one, she did not know what was.
* * *
“Draco.” His mother’s voice carried an air of restrained politeness. In that split second before he stepped into the dining room, Draco knew he wouldn’t find his parents alone. It had likely been his father who had sent Knitty to call for him and Scorpius, having sensed their presence within the wards. His mother would never have compelled him to sit across from the family he had once married into.
Draco schooled his features at the sight of their heads above the elaborate armchairs, their faces turning slightly at his approach.
It was nothing short of a triumph that, in the eight long years they had been tethered by blood and familial magic, Narcissa Malfoy had yet to tip the contents of her goblet over Grantham Greengrass’ head. And that, in itself, was no small feat for a woman who had once lied to Voldemort without so much as a quiver.
If there was one thing Narcissa wasn’t, it was fearful — except, perhaps, of what she might do if she ever truly let herself be in this particular company.
Draco had once bet Astoria it would happen within five years of their marriage. Astoria had wagered ten. "But only because Narcissa would plan it to perfection," she'd said, eyes twinkling, "so Father would know he had been slighted but could never truly prove it."
The memory brought a fleeting smile to his lips before the weight of the present pulled him back. His gaze settled on the guests — those who had driven him to do what he had done.
“Draco,” Narcissa repeated as he entered the room, rising gracefully from her seat. By way of gesture, he approached the gleaming marble table — a new addition to the Manor since she had stripped it down to its very foundations.
Scorpius trailed somberly behind him, his small hand clutching at Draco's trousers. Belatedly, he realised he had forgone his robes, and his father had taken note of his state of undress.
“I thought you and Scorpius were spending Christmas with the Zabinis.”
His mother’s tone was polite, but the subtle lift of her brow hinted at a deeper curiosity beneath the formality, and Draco realised his and Scorpius’ absence over the past few days had not gone unnoticed.
“We’re only visiting to pay our respects,” Draco said, leaning forward to delicately kiss her cheek. “Had I known we were hosting Yule, I would have made other arrangements.”
He didn’t need to clarify to his mother — they would not have come at all.
Lucius huffed silently from where he sat at the head of the table. Draco ignored both him and the fact that, by all rights, that was Draco’s seat.
“Oh, Draco,” Narcissa said smoothly. “Festive occasions bring out the spontaneity within us all, and your father so adores having old friends drop in on us.”
Ah, that made more sense.
“Father,” Draco acknowledged with a curt nod before turning to the others seated at the table. “Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass. Daphne.”
Grantham nodded, his gaze already fixed greedily on Scorpius, who edged closer to Draco.
“Scorpius and I can stay for a cup of tea,” Draco said, pulling out a chair for his son. Scorpius climbed into it cautiously, his eyes never leaving his father. Draco settled beside him, placing the boy securely between himself and Narcissa. “We have very little time before we must return.”
It was a testament to Narcissa’s disdain for the Greengrasses that she did not immediately reprimand Draco for the slight. Proper etiquette dictated that hosting took precedence — no matter how uninvited the guests might be.
“I haven’t seen Blaise in an age,” Daphne said, sipping from her goblet of wine. “I hear he has a child now.”
“He and Luna have two,” Draco said sharply. “And if I recall, the last time you saw them was at their wedding. I'm not surprised they haven't kept in touch after your... gesture.”
Daphne's lips curved into a dismissive smile. “I was merely concerned for his well-being. One can never be too careful about ulterior motives.”
“You slipped Veritaserum into Luna's wine to see if she was manipulating Blaise into marriage,” Draco said icily. “Hardly the actions of a concerned friend.”
She shrugged elegantly. “I simply don't see how someone like Blaise ended up with someone like her. But I suppose not everyone holds to our standards, Draco.”
His jaw tightened. “And what standards would those be?”
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes gleaming. “You know exactly what I mean. It's why you haven't remarried since Astoria. There's no one of suitable lineage available, and marrying outside our circle is simply... unbecoming.”
Draco felt a sharp surge of irritation, but he schooled his features into a cold mask. “If you're so concerned with familial duties and preserving noble lines, Daphne, perhaps you should have started closer to home.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
He met her gaze evenly. “You know what I mean. In fact, everyone at this table does. Or are we going to continue pretending that had she been allowed out of the contracts, she would still be here today? Happy and married to—”
“That does not concern us, Draco,” Lucius cleared his throat.
“I shall not tolerate more discussion about the repulsive—” Grantham fumed, his gaze flicking to Scorpius.
“Scorpius is her legacy,” Elizabeth Greengrass interrupted softly, her hand moving to clutch at her husband’s arm in a pacifying gesture he shrugged off forcefully. “Astoria did right by her family.”
“You would talk about such things in front of Scorpius?” Daphne tilted her head, her voice dripping with faux concern as she peered at Scorpius through long, pale lashes. “It’s not right.”
Grantham's glare darkened as he turned his attention back to Draco. “He is not solely the scion of the Malfoy lineage. He holds upon his shoulders the Greengrass legacy as well.”
“Until I remarry,” Daphne's voice was quiet, cutting through the tension like a blade. Draco’s eyes flickered to her hand, noting the absence of her wedding band and the lack of proper mourning attire. How long ago had Pucey fallen off his broomstick? A couple of months, if even that?
A smirk curled the edges of Draco’s lips as his gaze swept around the room, taking stock of every person whose attention was now trained on him. A vindictive grin bloomed, and he knew his next words were going to hit two birds with one stone. And he did not care in the slightest. Not anymore.
“Scorpius knows everything.”
* * *
“So tell me, tell me,” Ginny grinned, pulling Hermione down into the chair beside her the moment she had finished making her way around the table, kissing each of her extended family members a merry Christmas.
“Has it been a merry ferrety Christmas?” Ginny’s oceanic eyes twinkled with mischief as she grabbed the last tumbler of mulled wine off the tray Hermione had placed on the expansive wooden table and thrust it into her hand. Hermione rolled her eyes, sinking into the chair as her gaze drifted through the window. Inside, Fleur was gently nudging Molly away from the stove, her matronly smile softening the tension as she took over.
Hermione couldn’t help but compare herself to Fleur. She, too, had once felt the sting of not quite fitting in with the Weasley fold. Yet, Fleur had never waited for an invitation. She had waltzed in — blonde locks bouncing, charm radiating — and carved her space within the family, whether they were ready for it or not.
“Rose says he kissed you, so don’t even bother lying to me.”
Hermione nearly choked on her mulled wine, the warm spices scorching her throat as she tried — and failed — to suppress the flush creeping across her cheeks.
The sputtering cough caught George’s attention. He sat between Arthur and Bill, who were more engaged in their own conversation than listening to him. His sharp gaze flickered to Hermione for a moment before a lopsided grin tugged at his lips. When his eyes shifted away, she could practically feel the weight of his newfound knowledge settling around them. Almost as if George knew, too.
Desperate for a distraction, Hermione turned her attention to the other end of the yard. Twinkling fairies hovered within glass lanterns strung haphazardly from crooked tree branches, their tiny wings casting an ethereal glow against the backdrop of muted browns and greens.
Above them, a delicate bubble charm had been placed, catching the soft snowfall before it touched the ground. Each snowflake refracted light from the setting sun, creating a mesmerising tapestry of colours — a sky painted with shimmering auroras.
The Weasley children darted beneath it, their shouts of joy echoing across the garden.
Rose, slightly apart, had moved to stand beside Harry, who was kneeling on a blanket of enchanted, stasis-charmed snow, guiding Albus as he clung to a toy broom. The toddler hovered awkwardly a few feet above the ground before jerking to a stop, laughing with glee as Rose leaned in to ruffle his hair.
She smiled at him, and it did not meet her eyes.
“Oh,” Ginny smirked. “Oh, oh — I see.”
Hermione tore her gaze from the backyard, catching sight of Ginny just as she edged even closer, her grin positively wicked.
“You see nothing,” Hermione muttered, waving a hand dismissively.
Just then, James darted past Rose, tugging at her curls. Rose spun around, her long black dress swirling with the motion — revealing, to Hermione’s horror, the unmistakable bottom half of her Grinch suit.
Merlin.
“Oh, darling,” Ginny said, patting Hermione's arm in mock sympathy. “You'd be surprised just how well I do see.” Her gaze drifted pointedly to the edge of Hermione's turtleneck, where a faint purplish mark peeked out. A smirk tugged at the corner of Ginny's lips.
Hermione blanched as the memory of Draco’s long, delicate fingers moving down her throat resurfaced — from when he had removed her glamours in the hallway. The love-bites. How long had she been walking around with them on display?
Fuck!
Her heart raced as she tugged subtly at her collar, trying to conceal what she was certain was there, even if she could not see it herself.
Ginny’s eyes sparkled gleefully at Hermione’s faux pas. “I’d say for once in her life, Rose knows a little less than I do.”
“What are we talking about here?” George said mock-conspiratorially, taking the chair to Hermione’s other side. Hermione felt the familiar brush of a Muffliato go up around them, though she imagined George had fine-tuned it as no one around them noticed the barrier go up. “If it’s the hickey, Hermione, my love, that’s a lost cause. I think the only person who hasn’t seen it is Mum, and that’s because she’d rather eat her own foot than admit you and Ronnikins won’t be reconciling anytime soon.”
Hermione threw her hands up, “It might be a bruise. Just because it looks like something doesn’t mean it is.”
“If it looks like a Niffler, and sticks his head into a pot of gold, it is a Niffler.” George said, stretching his arms so that a sudden draft of warmth from the warming charms rushed her way. As if she was not already scorching under their scrutiny. “And who doesn’t like a Niffler? Say Gin, do we know how many vaults the Malfoys have at Gringotts? Perhaps Bill knows.”
She felt his hand move to lift the Muffliato, and only managed to dig her nails into his hand before he could call out.
“Stop, don’t.” Hermione glowered. “I promise to tell you both, just not here and not today.”
“That’s all we want,” Ginny grinned smugly. “That, and to make sure you do know we don’t care about blond ferrets and their shortcomings, not if they make you happy.”
George nodded, “That reminds me…”
Hermione watched as Molly led a bewildered-looking man out through the backdoor, his curls dancing lazily from the draft that followed behind him from within the house.
“You’re not the only Niffler around here, love.” George winked at her before moving across the yard to take Theo’s hand within his.
“Oh, have I not mentioned?” George said as the extended family’s eyes moved in pace with him. “I’m seeing Theodore Nott, and he’s quite important to me.”
* * *
The room fell into a tense silence, the air thick with shock. Grantham’s face darkened, his mouth twitching with fury.
“He’s a child,” Daphne spat, her eyes flashing with irritation. “He cannot possibly understand—”
“He understands perfectly well,” Draco cut her off, his voice firm. “Astoria wanted him to know, and so did I, for that matter.”
Narcissa glanced at Draco, her expression unreadable to most, but he could see the faintest hint of approval in her eyes.
He had long wondered if she knew the truth of the lengths he had gone to — of what he had done when nothing else made sense.
Now, within this moment, he knew for certain she did. Part of being the Mistress of a Manor such as his was knowing all the secrets that lay within — of knowing when to keep quiet and when to reveal one’s hand.
Her eyes flickered down to Scorpius, and Draco knew she was asking if it was worth having it out in front of him.
Scorpius, for his part, remained still, his small hands resting calmly in his lap as though none of the tension around him affected him at all. His calm only seemed to unnerve Grantham further, and Draco knew without a doubt it was.
“Astoria did not want to marry me, nor any other man, for that matter,” Draco said, his words laced with acid. “If she had been allowed to love the woman she loved and wanted to be with, she would still be here today — and that is the simple truth.”
“I will not hear of—”
“Why?” Draco said, his eyes narrowing. “Does it hurt to know if she had not been made to marry me, she would not have needed to go through with an ill-advised pregnancy that permeated into the blood curse that took her away?”
Daphne recovered quickly, her lips curving into a venomous smile. “So you would allow your legacy to falter if Scorpius were the same. Let the Malfoy lineage die at the feet of something as unnatural.”
“Of course,” Draco said coolly. “The Malfoy legacy lives on to protect its members, not in spite of them.”
Now. Under his domain.
He left the words unsaid, but from the flash in his father’s eyes, he knew the jibe had cut both ways.
“If Scorpius ever struggles with what he bears, I’ll ensure he chooses himself.”
The insinuation was clear, and everyone, save Narcissa’s smile, faltered.
“That is correct,” Narcissa said with practised ease. “We have all learnt from the war, have we not?”
The thud of Grantham’s chair falling as he rose, his face, puce with anger, said no.
* * *
Bill and Arthur were the first to rise, their gazes flicking between where Molly still stood by the door — her complexion wan as she grappled with the revelation — and George, who had wound his hand into Theo’s, pulling him closer into his chest.
It was strange, but not entirely surprising — the regressive conformities the wizarding world clung to. You could stroll into Knockturn Alley and purchase Amortentia without a second glance, but love — true love, that didn’t follow traditional norms — remained a point of contention.
One never to be spoken of. Not publicly. Never in polite society.
It was the reason divorces were unheard of, and infidelity clauses within marriage bonds were rare — it was the reason she had married Ron when the only motive to take the step had been a botched contraception charm.
Hermione would never regret having Rose, but marriage had never been a requirement for it, had it?
Hermione’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table, her knuckles white as she cast a glance at George — funny, carefree George — now standing vulnerable, exposed in a way she’d never seen before. And Theo, standing tall beside him, still an outsider in many ways, now doubly so.
It struck her just how brave they were.
Granted, the Weasleys would never be unkind to them — but anyone else within this room would have decided the weight of disapproval was not worth it.
Not George, however, and certainly never Theo. She loved them all the more for it.
“Theo,” Hermione said with a warm smile, standing up to break the quiet that had descended over them all. “Come sit. How are you?”
The silence cracked, though it didn’t shatter.
Molly moved back inside, towards the kitchen, her face still set in a hard, unreadable line, Bill following close behind her, his eyes flicking between his mother and Percy, who had appeared from the sitting room. Awkward as ever, he glanced at George and Theo before quickly averting his eyes, muttering something about requiring a book from his room before vanishing upstairs.
“Yes, what’ll you have? Theo, you look like a man with good taste. Firewhisky?” Ginny said from beside Hermione.
Theo’s bright green eyes softened with gratitude as he tugged George towards the chairs, diverting his attention from where Molly and Bill were now quietly speaking just within the house. Seemingly unaware or uncaring that from this vantage point they were very much visible.
George noticed, the moment he sat down, seamlessly pulling Theo down between himself and Hermione.
“They’ll be okay,” Ginny said, clearing her throat. “Between us all, there are enough Weasleys to go around and then some. I think in a decade or so, the wizarding world will be grateful there aren’t another couple more redheads running around. We do make a dastardly sight when we congregate.”
Hermione blinked, startled by the way Ginny effortlessly deflated the tension in the room. There was something about her — her blunt, no-nonsense humour — that allowed her to tread where no one else dared.
Because it was the lack of magical offspring from same-sex couples that was the root cause for such stigma in society. In fact, of all the couples married within the family, Hermione and Ron were the only pair who had stopped at one — something she knew she had never been forgiven for.
A chuckle bubbled out of George’s throat, and Theo’s mouth curled into a wry smile.
“Jokes on them because George could have been the most fertile witch in the world, and I’d still have no intention of having children.”
“Salut,” Ginny said, levitating the bottle of firewhisky Bill had abandoned to pour into fresh tumblers.
Albus came charging in from the direction of the woods, his small frame struggling below the weight of his toy broomstick. Harry followed close behind, his glasses fogged from the cold outside as he entered through the invisible barrier of the warming charms. He removed them quickly, cleaning them with his sleeve, before propping them back onto his nose. His gaze landed on George and Theo, and his brow furrowed slightly, but otherwise, he made no gesture toward Theo except to say “Hi.”
Tension dissipated from Arthur’s shoulders as Harry sat down beside him, propping Albus up on one knee. He’d sat through the entire exchange rather quietly, and Hermione wondered now, what he had thought of it all. He sighed wearily as Harry said something quietly to him before taking Harry’s offered kindness and breaking into an enthused conversation that centred mainly around the various functions of whistles.
It was sometimes like this — festive occasions. High highs and low lows, and somewhere amidst it all, you found moments of kindness that stayed with you for far longer than they would have if they had occurred any other day.
Hermione glanced through the window, watching Rose and James as they darted around the sitting room. For every word she spoke to her cousin, Rose’s eyes seemed to flick back towards the timepiece above the mantle, her gaze lingering on the minute hand.
Time was slipping away. The hour for tea was running short, and Hermione wasn’t sure whether to feel relief or irritation that Ron, once again, was absent. “Where’s Ron?” she finally asked, turning back to the group.
“He said he’ll be here soon,” Harry replied, taking a sip from his tumbler. “Said he had something he wanted to tell you.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her chest tightening with the weight of old, unspoken questions. Did he Floo you? Did he try to rope you into our disagreement?
She didn’t need to ask. Harry’s brief, resigned glance said it all.
Yes, and we’ll talk about it, his expression promised, though his lips didn’t move.
She nodded once, feeling a knot form in her stomach, of course.
Theo was now whispering something to George, their heads close together, but their eyes flicked warily towards the door as footsteps approached.
“Is that Lavender Brown?” Ginny asked. Harry sighed, his brow furrowing as Hermione’s head whipped in the other direction.
There, standing just within the hallway that led out into the Floo parlour, was Lavender Brown, accompanied by an elderly couple who could only be her parents.
“What is she doing here?” Rose had jumped to her feet, her auburn curls bouncing as she stormed through the sitting room. Her face was set with a mixture of confusion and anger.
“Who invited her?”
“Ah,” George said lightly, leaning back in his chair as Hermione sprang to her feet, “large families do have their perks, don’t they?”
Hermione groaned as she stomped through the snow, her head spinning with questions until only one remained.
* * *
“You would deny the Greengrass legacy from continuing on?” Grantham’s fists crashed down on the marble table, his fury spilling into the room like a storm. “After everything? Must I remind you of the state the Malfoy name was in when—”
“Grantham,” Lucius drawled, his voice cutting through the room with chilling precision. “I would do you the courtesy of not reminding you there are witches present. Such indelicate conversations can easily go amiss.”
Draco’s gaze sharpened. “Shambles, is it? You believe it was you who salvaged anything for me? Astoria begged you to release her — begged — and you refused, trapping her in a life neither of us wanted.” His hands trembled slightly, the weight of what he was about to say pressing on his shoulders, heavy and inescapable. “You have treated members of your family as mere broodmares. Nothing more.”
The words came out harsher than he intended, but once said, there was no taking them back. The tension in the room thickened, and for a brief moment, Draco caught his breath, his eyes flicking to Scorpius. Had he understood? His son’s calm, assessing gaze remained unshaken, but Draco swallowed hard, knowing he should not have said what he did.
He owed Scorpius and Astoria better.
He tried again, lowering his voice, trying to temper the rage that had boiled over. “You have two daughters. One of whom is more than willing to carry your legacy. Perhaps your attentions are better spent closer to home.”
Grantham’s glare darkened further. “That was never part of the contracts. The contracts were explicit: any males you and Astoria had would be heirs to both legacies.”
“Any additional children,” Draco corrected through gritted teeth. “In your haste to secure an alliance, you may have missed the fine details. Scorpius is no one else’s but mine. He will never carry the weight of two families’ demands. He will be free to choose his own path without anyone’s expectations shackling him.”
The words reverberated in the room like a final verdict. Lucius rose then, the soft click of his cane against the marble punctuating the tension. He swept his cold, imperious gaze over the room. “Mipsy will see you out, Grantham. In the future, do await invitations.”
The dismissal was as sharp as a blade. Grantham’s fury was palpable, but Draco didn’t care. He had said what needed to be said. He said what he hadn’t had the courage to for just shy of eight years.
“It’s time we leave as well,” Draco said, his voice steady now. “Thank you for the tea, Mother, Father. Scorpius and I have other obligations.”
Scorpius, who had been quietly watching, stood and approached Narcissa, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “Thank you, Grand-mère,” he murmured politely before giving a small wave to the rest of the table. “Goodbye.” He bounded out quickly then, Rose’s blue sneakers making obscene noises on the expensive marble floors under the duress of his haste.
Draco turned and followed his son out, his mind already whirling. They had stayed longer than promised, and as they approached the hallway, Scorpius broke the silence.
“Rose’s gift.”
Draco halted mid-step, a groan escaping his lips. They had promised Rose an hour, and already they were five minutes over. She would not be pleased.
Still, he pivoted toward the library, where the gift he had settled on was waiting. They would retrieve it quickly and return to the cottage. Draco was well aware she would still be a little upset, but he’d take all her anger and spend the rest of the evening making it up to her — he’d do it for the rest of his life — if only he could bask in the happiness he felt when she looked at him as more than just another Malfoy.
Anger, hurt, happiness — he wanted it all.
* * *
“Leave,” Rose spat, her voice tight with barely contained fury, her bottom lip trembling as she struggled to swallow the lump forming in her throat. Her wide eyes glistened, but she stubbornly held back the tears threatening to spill. “I don’t want you here.”
James appeared just behind her, his face a mask of confusion, the bright green of his eyes — so like Harry’s — narrowing in concern. “Rose?”
“Rose!” Molly’s voice rang out, sharp with embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed a deep pink, and she glanced around the room for someone to reprimand the child.
Hermione’s own question — how do you know my daughter? — hung unsaid, lost amidst the swirl of emotions. She watched as Rose turned, her glare fierce and directed not at Lavender but at Molly, as if the elder Weasley was somehow complicit.
Lavender stood frozen in place. Confusion painted her face a dusky pink that brought forth the silvery tracks of Greyback’s attack on her. “Hi, Rose,” she said cautiously, her voice a shaky attempt at friendliness. “I’ve heard a lot about you from your father.”
That was it — the final straw.
Rose whirled on her feet, her whole body trembling as a loud, heart-wrenching sob escaped her lips. The sound was sharp — raw, undiluted pain—and it hung in the air long after she had darted up the rickety staircase.
Hermione’s heart twisted painfully, her pulse quickening as dread filled her. She turned and rushed after her daughter, her mind racing.
What had Ron done?
Rose flung Ginny’s old bedroom door shut, and Hermione knew that had been a choice on her daughter’s part — who had climbed three sets of stairs but had chosen not to climb the handful more steps that would have taken her up to her father’s old bedroom.
Hermione pressed her palm to the door, steadying herself. “I’m going to count to ten,” she said softly, fighting to keep her own emotions at bay. “Then I’m coming in, and you’re going to explain to me what’s going on.”
Hermione waited for Rose to deny her as she did whenever she needed to cry — but it hurt like another spell to her chest when Rose didn’t.
She needed it out, and Hermione wondered how long a child like Rose had to hurt before she simply could not keep it to herself.
Hermione counted slowly, her chest aching with every second that passed. When she reached ten and Rose still hadn’t spoken, Hermione gently turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Rose was curled up on the bed, her small frame trembling, her face buried in Ginny’s old pillow as if she could hide from the world within its soft comfort. Her sobs were quieter now but still shook her body. Hermione’s heart broke at the sight. She crossed the room and lay down beside her daughter, positioning herself so that her face was right next to Rose’s.
"Rose," she whispered gently, brushing her fingers through her daughter’s tangled curls. "Whatever it is... please tell me."
Slowly, Rose opened her eyes, the anger that had burned in them earlier now replaced by something deeper — something far more heartbreaking. Hermione saw it in the way her daughter’s lips trembled, in the way her small hands clutched the pillow. All the fight had left her, replaced by a pain so raw, so deep, that it threatened to break Hermione in two.
“Are you mad because Dad and I got divorced?” It was a safe place to begin — it was a question she had asked before.
Rose shook her head, the movement slow, her small fingers tracing the curve of Hermione’s nose the way she had done when she was younger.
“Are you upset because Dad didn’t come today?”
Rose shook her head again, but this time, there was hesitation. A swirl of confusion and uncertainty flickered across her face. Almost as if she had both hoped — and not — for him to show himself.
“But it has something to do with the lady downstairs?”
Rose didn’t say anything at first, but then she nodded, just once, before shifting closer, her head coming to rest in the crook of Hermione’s shoulder.
“I went to Hogwarts with Lavender, you know,” Hermione said quietly, her fingers still brushing through Rose’s hair, trying to soothe her. “She once spent half an hour teaching me how to comb my hair so it would curl properly so I could look pretty for a very important night.”
“The Yule Ball.”
“Yes.” Hermione smiled. “And she helped me pick a dress, too.”
Rose stilled beneath her hand, and Hermione continued.
“She was very brave during the war. Do you know she was attacked by a werewolf during the last battle because she was trying to protect her friend from getting hurt?”
“Like Teddy’s dad?” Rose asked, her breath ghosting across Hermione’s chest as she snuggled in closer.
“No, Teddy’s dad was a kind man,” Hermione said, pulling back to look at Rose. The tears had stopped, and a soft curiosity peaked around her eyes. “This man was very bad, and one day, I’ll tell you about him. For now, will you tell me how you know Lavender?”
Rose bit her lip as though the words were stuck in her throat. “She comes into the shop,” she whispered. “When Daddy helps Uncle George.”
“Okay.” Hermione nodded, her heartbeat growing steadier. That made sense. Lavender lived in Diagon Alley, and Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was very popular amongst all ages.
“Did you meet her there with your dad?” Hermione asked.
“I didn’t meet her. But I listened one time.”
Hermione’s heart skipped a beat.
“Will you tell me what you heard?”
Rose stilled beside her, and Hermione pulled her chin up using a light brush of her fingers.
“Why don’t you want to tell me?” Hermione asked, pulling free Rose’s lips with a swipe of her thumb.
Fresh tears appeared in the corner of her eyes, and she blinked rapidly.
“Rose, if you tell me, I promise you’ll feel better.”
“But it’ll hurt you.” Rose’s voice cracked.
“Sweetheart,” Hermione said, sitting up to pull Rose in between her knees. She kissed her forehead. “I’ll be fine, and whatever it is, I promise we’ll deal with it together. Like we do. Now, tell me, what did you hear?”
Rose’s voice was barely a whisper, her body tense against Hermione’s.
“He said... he told her that... that he just wanted a son.” Rose’s breath hitched, and Hermione felt her daughter tremble against her chest. “And... and that you couldn’t even do that for him.”
“Oh, Rose.” Hermione felt tears prick at her own eyes, the weight of those words too much to bear. She pulled Rose close, her arms tightening protectively around her daughter as if she could shield her from the gravity of the betrayal in Ron’s callous words.
Yes, she had denied Ron a second child, and there were no lies to be found within his words. But to have said that, not only to another woman but in a space where he could have — was — heard by his daughter.
It was unforgivable.
“I’m so sorry,” she breathed into her crown of curls. “I’m so sorry you heard that, and I’m so sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me. You are more than enough. You are everything to me. Your father’s words — what he said — it was wrong. It has nothing to do with you. You are perfect just as you are.”
“Can we go back to Draco and Scorpius?” Rose asked.
“Yes.” Hermione nodded. “And you can take that horrid dress off. But you will tell Lavender goodbye, even if you don’t say it to anyone else, okay? Unless she said something as well.”
Rose shook her head, having needed a moment only to take her dress off and stuff it into her reticule.
“Okay, then, you will be kind to Lavender. And I’ll take care of your father,” Hermione said, kissing Rose’s head. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
* * *
“Draco.”
The sound of his father’s voice cut through the quiet of the foyer, halting Draco mid-step. He hadn’t heard the whispers between his parents until he was already halfway across the room, Scorpius trailing behind, having taken longer than expected to tuck Rose’s gift into his bag.
Draco turned slowly, facing both his parents, a heavy sigh escaping him. Exhaustion weighed down his limbs, and the events of the evening pressed in on him like a suffocating shroud. “Mother. Father.” He paused, his voice tinged with weariness. “Have the Greengrasses left?”
“Mipsy locked them out of the Floo,” Narcissa said smoothly.
“Good.” Draco ran a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to pull at the strands as the weight of the evening settled into his bones.
“That was quite a stand to take in front of Grantham,” Lucius remarked, his voice low and deliberate. His hand rested on the head of his cane, thumb brushing lazily over the serpentine teeth, though Draco could feel the calculation behind his father’s gaze. “I was quite surprised to hear you speak up.”
Draco felt a wave of cold anger rise in his chest. His father’s dispassionate tone gnawed at him as if everything Draco had fought for tonight — the truth about Astoria, the defence of his son — had merely been a performance. His eyes hardened. “Were you?”
Lucius raised one platinum brow.
“Not particularly,” Lucius shrugged. “Grantham has had it coming for years now. What I did find surprising was that you have finally found it in your heart to speak to me about my failures.”
Draco's jaw tightened, his hands clenched at his sides. “I don’t know what makes you think any of that was about you,” he said, his voice laced with soft precision.
“Wasn’t it?” Lucius asked quietly, his voice dropping, his usual coldness replaced with something more vulnerable. “You have punished me for over a decade by closing yourself off. You do not allow your son near me unless you or your mother — or even a house-elf — is present. Do you know what it feels like to be an unwanted shadow within your own home?”
“I do,” Draco said coldly. “Better than you can imagine, seeing as you were not here when he came.”
“Draco,” Narcissa said, moving forward. “Scorpius—”
“I have no secrets from my son,” Draco snapped, regretting the harshness the moment the words left his mouth, especially under his mother’s reproachful gaze.
“Yes, darling,” Narcissa said quietly. “But there is a difference between having secrets and putting far too much weight on his shoulders at such a young age. I know such regret better than anyone else, seeing as it was I who sold you to the Dark Lord. Your father, as you said, was not here.”
The weight of her words lingered in the air like a curse.
“Cissa,” Lucius said, drawing Draco’s attention back to his father. “It is I who started us down this road, and it will be I who answers Draco’s questions.”
His mother’s eyes glinted mercurially, but then she merely swept past Draco to stand at Scorpius’ side.
After years of wanting answers, faced with the idea that his father would give them — that he may assuage a fraction of what Draco had lived with — Draco found his mind blank.
“Have your thoughts on blood supremacy changed?” Draco finally asked, knowing that this was the heart of the matter.
Lucius remained quiet, his grey eyes as stormy as the skies that often loomed over the manor. Draco waited, tension coiling in his chest like a serpent ready to strike.
His question was a double-edged sword, and he knew it. If Lucius said no, Draco would pull back — if he said yes, then all of it would have been for nought, and they would have something else to contend with.
“I–” Lucius faltered. “I cannot say… I am trying, Draco.”
“You would allow beasts within this manor. Beasts who committed reprehensible atrocities within these walls, but someone having magic whose origin cannot be accounted for is where you draw the line?” Draco laughed. “Do you have any idea of what I saw occur in the cellars? I was fifteen!”
Soft buzzing intruded the air around them, and Lucius seemed relieved by the interruption.
“What’s that infernal noise?” Narcissa asked, her nose wrinkling in distaste.
Draco turned toward Scorpius, whose eyes widened as everyone’s attention shifted to him and the bag on his shoulder.
“Rose said she’d call from Miss Hermione’s phone if her dad showed up,” Scorpius explained slowly. “I guess… he showed up.”
“Hermione?” Lucius’s eyes narrowed. “This is about that woman?”
“Lucius,” Narcissa warned, her tone sharp.
The buzzing sound faded, only for one of the sconces to flicker and extinguish in its wake.
“I don’t owe you an explanation,” Draco said, stuffing the phone into Scorpius’s bag. “I am a widower.”
“Are you, Draco?” Lucius said quietly. “Because, whilst I may not be head of this household any longer, I am not entirely unaware of the secrets held within its walls.”
The buzzing resumed, and Narcissa picked up Rose’s bubble-gum pink phone. “How does this contraption work?”
“You, er, flip it open, and press this button… like this,” Scorpius said hesitantly. “Then you can talk.”
Static crackled through the room, mingling with the tension, and then a voice, small and scared, emerged.
“Scorpius… please, pl—, hello?” Rose’s voice was stuffy as if she had been crying, and Draco snapped to attention. “It’s.. bad, and I just… lies… he… lies Scorpius?”
Draco was across the room before he realised it, snatching the phone from his mother’s hand.
“Rose, where are you?” he demanded.
The response was swallowed by static, but Draco caught the end of the word. “Burrow.”
“We need to go,” he said, tossing the phone back into Scorpius’s bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
“It’s always been her,” Lucius muttered, but no one paid him any mind.
“How do we get there?” Draco asked, panic rising.
“The Floo’s never been open to the Weasleys,” Narcissa sighed. “Perhaps you can—”
“You can take Cissa’s elf.” Lucius said quietly. “She once belonged to Cedrella. Chances are she has a thread tying her to any offspring of hers.”
Arthur Weasley’s mother — who had been burned off the Black family tapestry for simply marrying a “Blood Traitor.”
“Knitty,” Narcissa said, calling for her.
“Skippy,” Draco said, calling for Scorpius’s elf as his mother’s earlier words rang in his ear. “I want you to take Scorpius to the cottage. I have the address—”
“I will not go.” Scorpius’s voice was firm, his eyes blazing with determination. “I will come with you.”
“Scorpius.”
“Dad.” He blinked at Draco. “I know she needs me.”
The two elves crowded around father and son, their bony fingers reaching out.
“The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole.” Draco relented, taking hold of Scorpius’ hand. “Within the boundaries of the home, if you will.”
Knitty looked to Skippy, who nodded, allowing magic to flow from one being through the other three.
Draco found himself gazing into his father’s grey eyes, so like his own and his son’s, just before Knitty’s magic crackled around him — taking hold — and then the world blurred as they were whisked away.
Notes:
Oh, did I not mention the fluff would end? Hehe (I know I did). The angst is angsting... and I'm sorry for the cliffhanger.
I wish you ample couch swoons. They truly are good for the soul. 10/10 Rose (soon-to-be) Granger-Malfoy approved and prescribed.Knitty the house-elf is named after the very lovely Knittywitty who is such a beautiful person and so full of love. Sending my love your way, darling.
As always, much love and appreciation to Cait for alpha'ing and Mlekoimiodd for cheer-reading. As well as my amazing friend Chesnut1992, who took a peek at this earlier to assuage my growing dread.
Chapter 14: The Christmas Grinch
Notes:
Cait, the lovely lovely alpha that she is drew our boys with the one "corn puff" to rule them all:
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione led Rose down the staircase, praying silently that they'd be able to evade any further fussing before they departed at last. As much as she wished to try out a variety of curses on Ronald right this moment, she also knew she’d be better able to advocate for her child with a clear head.
Their marriage had been a testament to how awful they were at communicating — how often they fought without ever really listening. They just couldn’t express what they needed through the haze of bitter emotions they brought out in each other — the urge to snap back, always winning out over conflict resolution. Hurting each other had become second nature over the years, as if making the other bleed could somehow ease their own pain.
For Rose’s sake, this could not go the same way.
With a quick wave of her wand, her purse rose off the table in the yard and floated in through an open window. She caught Ginny’s eye, but bless the witch, she did not blink and Hermione silently conveyed her and Rose’s goodbyes. Ginny nodded, a swift drop of her chin, before she turned to pull Fleur into conversation, effectively catching hold of Molly’s attention where she sat with her back to the house, beside Lavender and her mother.
A good parent — a better parent than her — would have held Rose to the promise of kindness she had asked for on the other witch’s behalf. She wholeheartedly believed the apology was deserved, but that would only invite attention to their plans to leave, and Hermione was feeling simply too exhausted. She’d set up something for later in the week — an intimate meeting between Rose and Lavender — and maybe they’d both be more amenable to making amends in a neutral space, away from prying ears. Maybe she too would have a chance to get to know this woman — who may very well one day, become an important figure in her daughter’s life — better.
But for now, her mind floated out to Draco and Scorpius, likely back at the cottage, patiently waiting with their one lone 'corn-puff' for them to arrive. Perhaps she’d even ask Draco to brew her a cup of coffee. It tended to taste better when he prepared it for her, and she’d grown accustomed to the simple gesture of comfort. Mindlessly she struggled with the strap of her purse, her heart beginning to feel lighter, when she heard the unmistakable rush of the Floo only a fleeting moment before Rose skipped over the threshold and into the parlour.
As always, Ronald had perfect timing.
Hermione had a brief moment to armour herself before she was moving forward to stand beside Rose — her mind whirling to find the best approach going forward — only he had not arrived alone.
“Ronald,” Hermione said coolly, her hand moving to rest on Rose’s shoulder in the hope that it would convey a sense of calm to her.
Ron turned slowly, his cerulean gaze widening for a moment as the whisper of his hushed conversation with the other man died at his lips. “Cormac. You two together make for an odd sight.”
“Hermione,” they both said, their voices overlapping — Ron’s wary, Cormac’s more amused — creating an awkward echo of her name that rang within the ashen air.
Cormac’s smile twisted as she met his stony eyes, but before she could say more on the subject of these two, once rivals, spending Christmas Day together, the snap of Ron’s gaze was pulling at her attention.
“Rose,” Ron breathed, striding forward to kneel before her. Hermione watched him closely as he held her and noticed, perhaps for the first time, the slight tick in his jaw as Rose's arms remained rigid, locked against her body, even as his arms encircled her. He pulled her face into his chest, and Hermione watched him as he inhaled the scent of her curls.
The gesture threw Hermione back to when she’d been a baby — his baby.
Yes, Ron had been a terrible husband to her, but he’d once been a decent father, hadn’t he? Not the best, not always present — for her or Rose — but his intentions had never been duplicitous. She could still remember when he’d tried to learn how to drive so he’d be able to take her to the hospital when the day came — she’d absolutely refused a magical birth, much to Molly’s dismay. He’d lost patience and her father had taken on the task for them, but he had tried. Though much had changed since then, and now, she couldn’t be sure. Not when her emotions were raw and on edge. Of all the moments he could have made an appearance, he had to choose one when Hermione was least calm, least in control.
Ron cupped Rose’s face between his hands tenderly. Whispering in soft tones, he wished her Happy Christmas and apologised profusely for missing her birthday. His voice was gentle, fatherly, but Rose’s response was subdued — soft words, hesitant and unsure. There was no warmth, no eagerness,and Hermione realised — her heart breaking in small fragments of powdered glass as she did — it was because she did not know how to engage with him any longer.
Tears bloomed in Hermione’s vision.
The divide was colossal, and she was lost as to what she could do to make it better — to have their relationship be as sacred as hers was with her father, who, even on the days he didn’t remember her, somehow still made her feel as if she remained etched in his heart permanently.
Rose took a small step away from Ron, and in her bid to cover for it, Hermione said the first words she could think of. “We were actually just leaving, Ron, but would it be okay for you to visit us next week? You could—”
Ron tilted his head up, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Blimey, Mione, I just got here,” his voice was strained — a manner she was more accustomed to. “Can you wait—”
Beside her, Rose shuffled uneasily.
“No,” Hermione said, holding her ground. “I’ve already made a huge mistake bringing Rose here today, and we’d like to leave.”
She knew she was in the wrong, knew she could have handled the unease pressing in on her better, but the words had been said, and all she could do was wait and prepare for the fallout to occur.
“Bringing Rose here?” Ron repeated. “Why — what’s the problem with ‘here?’”
“Nothing, Ron,” Hermione sighed warily. “We’ve been here for a while, and we’d just like to go home now.”
Ron’s jaw clenched, his mind undoubtedly wrestling with the instinct to dig his heels in as he usually did. Hermione wondered if it would always be like this between them, if perhaps they ought to have known their childish arguments could only ever become weighted confrontations as adults. His eyes flickered between Hermione and Rose, but then, with a deep breath, he seemed to think better of it. The tension in his shoulders eased only minutely, but he exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” he said, a quiet surrender. “But before you leave, I do want a moment, please.”
His words hung in the air, no longer a demand but more of a request.
“What is it?” Hermione said, sighing slowly. A headache was beginning to settle at her temples, and she wished she could call her mother to come sort this all out for her.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this in front of Rose,” Ron suggested, his cheeks colouring red as his eyes found Cormac once more. The small exchange made Hermione’s nerves sizzle, and for some inexplicable reason — one she could not begin to understand — it made her shields go up once more.
“That’s rich,” Hermione said stiffly.
Ron narrowed his gaze, even as he held out his hand, gesturing for her to follow him into the hallway that led towards the annex which housed Molly and Arthur’s bedroom.
She glanced towards Cormac, whose smirk was tinged with wry amusement as he met her gaze. A silent spectator to their fractured family. Even if she hadn’t known him to be a terrible gossip, there was no denying the chaotic energy he radiated — as if he were constantly looking to create trouble where none existed and eager to fan the flames wherever he found a spark.
Hermione hesitated for a beat before turning to Rose, who was still standing quietly, observing each interaction with an uneasy tension of her own.
“Mum…” Rose’s voice was quiet, tentative, her wide brown hues searching Hermione’s face for something. Reassurance.
Hermione bent slightly to meet her daughter’s eyes, brushing a stray curl from her face before pressing a kiss to her head. “Just a few minutes, I promise,” she said softly, hoping the warmth in her voice would ease Rose’s worry. “I’m just going to tell Dad that we’re all going to sit down for a talk next week, and then I’ll be right back. Ok?”
For a long moment, Rose held her gaze, reminding her so much of her father when they’d been young. Sitting within this very home, making promises of survival — of the life they hoped to have when the war was over. A look of hope that bloomed even amidst darkness and shadows.
“Perhaps you can go find Lavender until then,” Hermione said, nodding towards the garden. “If you want. Or you can go say goodbye to Aunty Gin and Uncle Harry.” She handed Rose her purse — a gesture she hoped would convey that they were not settling down to stay; that their departure was imminent.
Rose nodded slowly, her grip on Hermione’s purse tightening. “Okay.”
The hallway felt longer than it should have, and the conversation she knew they had to have loomed even larger in her mind. She cast a glance back at Cormac, who stood rigidly by the fireplace, pretending not to be following them with his eyes, even as the itch to follow behind them was reflected in his posture.
She noted it to ponder over when she was less preoccupied. She had not missed the subtle exchange that had taken place between him and Ron, and her curiosity reared its ugly head.
Ron led her right to the end of the hallway, and then he turned cautiously, awkwardness swirling around them for long moments as they took each other in.
It had been months since they had last stood so close, and in person she could see all the differences, small and significant. He’d grown his hair out, and it was now long and unruly, just like it had been during the summer of the Quidditch World Cup all those years ago. The beard was new too — fuller, more rugged — and there was something about the way it framed his face that made him look older; grounded. A whisper of grey was beginning to thread its way through the fiery red, subtle yet unmistakable, and she could admit he seemed lighter in a manner she was unaccustomed to. Perhaps it was the laugh lines around his eyes that had deepened and set. As if he’d spent more time smiling lately, and with a pang of something bittersweet — a mix of regret and a reluctant kind of happiness for him — she wondered if the reason for it all was the woman in the other room.
“Happy Christmas,” Ron began.
“Happy Christmas,” Hermione murmured.
“Thank you for bringing her,” he smiled. It was not the sort of smile that creased around his eyes — that leant to the laugh lines she had observed. It was the sort of half-smile they had shared during their marriage, and she knew he was just as on edge as she was. “I… I was rude over the Floo, and I wasn’t sure if you’d…”
“Ronald, I do mean it,” Hermione said, cutting him off. “Rose and I have had a long day, and though I do want us to sit together for a talk soon, it can’t be today.”
“I do want that too,” he said quickly. “But I wanted to explain… the thing… I… I know Rosie’s friends with that boy and—”
“Scorpius?” Hermione said, disbelief causing her pitch to rise. “You want to talk about Malfoy with me?”
Ron grimaced. “I want to talk to you about the kind of person we’re allowing Rose to have a relationship with — the kind of man that boy’s father is.”
“I know who Draco Malfoy is,” Hermione snapped. “And here I was thinking you wanted to talk to me about your daughter.”
She began moving back towards the parlour, her head throbbing with a mixture of indignation and anger.
“No, wait — this is about Rose.”
“Really?” Hermione whirled around. “Because it sounds a lot like you’re having a tantrum about a man you haven’t met in close to a decade—and his son, whose name you don’t even know.”
“Hermione,” he gritted. “I’m trying to talk to you about the kind of family — the kind of person Malfoy is, and why I don’t want him near my daughter.”
“Our daughter,” Hermione hissed. “Our daughter, who is, at this very moment, only upset with one man, and it certainly is not Draco Malfoy. Do you have any idea how hurt Rose is — the kind of feelings she has towards you? Do you have any idea what you have done?”
“What have I done now?” Ron hissed. “Even after everything I’ve done, for her, for us, I’m still always in the wrong, aren’t I?”
Really? She wished to scoff. She wanted to tell him they'd been waiting for over an hour, and he hadn’t shown up until right at the end. She wanted to tell him about the pain and heartache his neglect had inflicted on his daughter — neglect that had grown and twisted in ways he couldn’t begin to understand, even if he tried. She wanted to tell him to let them go — before she said something she knew would only further the divide. She wanted to tell him Rose was old enough to recognise effort and intent, and he was failing as her father. But the fury in her heart, and the fury within his gaze was the same as it had always been. If she said something now, she was certain she’d say it all wrong — and if he were to hear her, it would only be to have a retort, not to actually listen to what she had to say.
“You are, Ron. And if you want to have a relationship with your daughter, you’ll come over for tea at the flat next week — where we can talk more effectively,” Hermione said quietly. “She wants to have a relationship with you, I know she does. But it can only happen if you make her a priority.”
“Hermione,” Ron said, his eyes growing round as he faltered for words. “I want that. I do… just promise me until we can talk you won’t plan any more visits with—”
“No!” Rose's shriek cut through the room like a blade “You're a liar... a liar... I hate you. Stop talking!” The words were sharp and sudden, and it made Hermione flinch.
Ron’s gaze snapped to attention, a vague but semi-familiar edge of protectiveness sharpening his features. Hermione stumbled into the parlour, adrenaline sharpening her instincts as she took in the scene before her.
She could feel the crackling hum of accidental magic swirling in the air, the energy thick and restless, brought on by equal parts anger and fear. Her eyes darted toward the shattered sconces on the wall, their fragments strewn across the floor — and amidst it all, smirking lazily, stood Cormac McLaggen.
“What did you do?” Ron snapped, his glare directed at Cormac.
Cormac merely shrugged, his nonchalance grating on Hermione's nerves. “She’s got quite the flair for dramatics, that one.”
Hermione shot him a look of pure frustration before turning her full attention to the matter at hand. “Where is she?” Her heart was pounding now, urgency winding around her throat as she pushed past both men, her focus intently on finding her daughter. “Rose?”
The muffled sound of wild, uncontrollable sobs echoed faintly from the powder room that connected the parlour to the sitting room, and Hermione followed it — her hands trembling as she reached for the door, only to find it stuck. Panic flared within her as she tugged at the handle with growing desperation.
“Rose?” she called out, louder this time, her knuckles rapping hard against the door. “Rose, what happened? Please, sweetheart, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Through the door, she could hear soft murmuring, indistinct but urgent — fractured between sobs that wouldn’t stop.
“Rose, darling, please, let me in,” Hermione pleaded, her voice shaking as she pressed her hand against the door, desperately hoping to reach through whatever barrier her daughter had put up.
“I was only telling her about her friend Draco.”
“I told you, I didn’t want my daughter anywhere near us when I told her,” Ron snarled, moving to stand beside Hermione. “She’s fucking eight.”
“Oh? But do you know what she told me, Weasley? She wants him to be her dad,” Cormac said, with a cruel tilt of his head. Beside her Ron stiffened, and she could feel the air around them grow warmer with the heat of his mixed emotions.
Oh Rose.
“It’d be cute, if it weren’t a willing lamb laying down before a serpent,” he continued, like a jagged knife intent at a whetting stone.
“What the fuck did you just say?” Hermione asked slowly, cold rage beginning to creep up her spine. She finally turned, her eyes narrowing as she faced Cormac, whose maddening smirk grew more prominent with her attention.
It was then that Hermione noticed they weren’t alone. Harry and Ginny had appeared, standing just inside the mouth of the hallway. Their silent presence didn’t surprise her; they’d not exactly kept their voices down, and she was comforted when Harry’s steady gaze found hers. They once again found themselves engaging in a silent conversation.
What do you want me to do?
I don’t know. Just stand by me… she wanted to say.
“You didn’t tell her?” Cormac’s voice was full of mock surprise, his eyebrows rising dramatically as he crossed his arms. “Should’ve known you didn’t have it in you, Weasley. But maybe if you knew they were shagging, you would’ve — every man wishes his ex-wife dead, but certainly not in the manner of Malfoy’s first wife.”
“Excuse me?” Ron’s voice dropped dangerously low, each word laced with venom. His gaze snapped to Hermione, his eyes filled with accusation. “What do you mean shagging?”
“Ron…” Lavender’s voice cut through the thick haze of confusion swirling in Hermione’s head.
She had slipped into the room, manoeuvring around Ginny and Harry, her face pale and drawn — as if she was dreading where this conversation was leading.
Not confused, like Hermione. No, a sense of dread plagued her aquamarine eyes and Hermione was certain she had more of the pieces to the puzzle before her than she did. Hermione’s lips twitched into a tense line as she wondered just what else this woman — whom she had not kept in touch with — knew of the intimate aspects of her life.
A silent intimate moment passed between Ron and Lavender, and it was unexpected, almost unsettling, to witness the familiarity within their exchange. A long, slow exhale escaped his lips, sounding suspiciously like a reluctant sigh — and though his eyes found the hint of violet on her neck at that moment, he resigned to look away.
“You should leave,” Lavender said quietly, turning to Cormac. “This is neither the time nor the place.”
“See, I disagree. Unless you don’t want her to know… maybe you’re more sinister than I gave you credit for Lav.” There was a sick pleasure woven into Cormac’s words. The hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck stood on end — nothing that made a man like Cormac McLaggen this smug could be good news. “I suppose you’ve got your own grudges, always coming second to her.”
“Whatever you have to say doesn’t interest me in the slightest, McLaggen,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. “Draco and Scorpius have been nothing but kind to Rose and me. That’s all I care about. Now if you’ll excuse us and leave.”
From her periphery she saw as Cormac took a step forward, his grin widening. “Oh, so you don’t want to know what I told little Rosie Weasley? Maybe you don’t care, not when you think you always know better. Maybe you should run back to him — he’s on your vacation with you, isn’t he? And in a few years, when he tires of you too, we’ll finally see if Draco Malfoy got away with murder, and if he can do it a second time as well. These things tend to repeat themselves with people like him.”
His words were a trap, carefully crafted to pique the interest of everyone in the room. And judging by the sudden shift in attention, it had worked. Hermione felt the heat of fury rise beneath her composed exterior. She met Cormac’s taunting demeanour with an unwavering stare, refusing to back down.
Ginny sneered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t have time for your riddles,” Hermione bit out, ignoring the way her heart leapt in her chest. “And if you said anything of this sort to my daughter, the only murder you will have to worry about is yours, when I break your fucking neck.”
“Cormac,” Ron said, stepping into him. “You’ve said enough.”
“No,” Cormac shrugged off Ron’s hand. There was a gleam of manic insanity to him. “You wanted me to give her proof, and I intend to. It’s there on my uncle’s desk at the Ministry. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”
“If it’s sealed—” Hermione began icily, but her words were drowned.
“You’re a liar!” Rose cried, her voice trembling with fury as she slammed the door open, nicking Hermione painfully on the shoulder where she stood. “You’re a mean, old liar, and you need to leave. Get out! Get out!” Her small hands collided with Cormac’s knees as she pushed him with all her might. “GET OUT!”
The complexity of Rose’s unbridled magic was extensive. There was a charge around her that kept everyone at bay, unable to bypass the shields she had conjured around her using simple childlike conviction. She kicked out at Cormac’s feet before barrelling into him once more.
Cormac barely budged, his lip twitching into a twisted grin. “Not an ounce of you in her, Weasley. Are you sure she’s even yours?”
“What the hell is going on here?” George said, striding forward into the parlour. “Bill can’t keep them all out any longer—”
“Now, his — I can see it,” Cormac said, cocking his head.
“Cormac, that’s enough,” Ron said in a low, dangerous voice, trying and failing to get through to Rose. “I didn’t invite you here to add nightshade to the cauldron.”
“No, you invited me here because your wife’s getting cosy with a murderer, and you’re too much of a coward to tell her yourself,” Cormac retorted, his patience with Rose’s assault clearly waning. He peeled her hands off him with a careless shove, sending her stumbling back.
Hermione moved first, but Ron was closer and caught Rose just before she hit the floor, pulling her into his arms. His face was contorted with rage as he glared at Cormac. “Don’t you ever touch my daughter again, you piece of shit,” he growled.
“Is she?” Cormac raised an eyebrow in a mocking challenge.
Hermione felt something ignite deep within her — a firestorm of raw, uncontrollable magic surged through her, crackling in her veins.
“Liar... liar... liar!” Rose screamed, darting out of Ron’s hands. “I hate you.”
Harry stepped forward, his wand pointed directly at Cormac, his expression cold and resolute. George moved forward, his instincts causing him to remove his own wand, though confusion piqued around his features.
“Leave, before I make you,” Harry hissed, his chest colliding with Cormac’s.
Cormac replied by putting his hands up in a sign of mockery.
“Potter, don’t tell me you don’t know what really happened. Weren’t you one of the Aurors on the case?” Cormac said tilting his chin. “His wife came back from St. Mungo’s right as rain, you know. The Prophet even reported it before the Malfoys shut them down. What do you think actually happened at that Manor for her to have bled to death like that?”
Sparks flew from Hermione’s wand, but the reverberating sound around her was not one that corresponded with her tame “Silencio.” Cormac dodged her hex, allowing it to ricochet off the barren exterior behind him before it slammed against the opposing window, shattering it to dust.
“Draco!” Rose’s small voice, muffled but urgent, cut through the tension like a lifeline. She ran past Ron where he had crouched over her to take the spray of glass to his back.
Hermione’s eyes snapped to her daughter just as the room fell silent, and a moment later, Draco Malfoy appeared in the doorway. His presence, as commanding as ever, and members of the extended family who had lined the hallway instinctively parted to let him through.
He moved with quiet authority, his face a mask of cold calm as his sharp eyes swept over the scene before him.
Cormac, standing pressed to the wall, George and Harry’s wands pointed at his chest to Ron, his back sprayed in glittering fragments of glass to Lavender and Hermione still rooted to the spot somewhere within the battlefield.
Rose had already flung herself into his arms, burying her face into his shoulder as she clung to him like a child seeking refuge. Hermione watched the way his arm tightened protectively around her daughter, the gentleness contrasting with the barely restrained fury in his eyes. In his arms, Rose was hysterical, her sobs tearing through her in ragged, breathless gasps as she broke within his arms. Scorpius, clutching Draco’s free hand, looked around the room curiously before his gaze settled on Ron.
Ron stared up at Draco, his face pale and drawn at the sight of Rose, seeking solace within the embrace of a man he despised. A flurry of emotions crossed his features before all that remained was an endless ocean of pain and heartbreak within his unblinking gaze.
Draco’s eyes finally met Hermione’s, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them. His jaw was clenched, and the cool, indifferent mask was slipping, revealing the depth of his displeasure.
“Granger.” Her name was a question, and she wondered if he was asking if she was alright, or if she believed McLaggen. She couldn’t be certain why he had come, or how long ago — but she could read in his posture he had heard enough to piece the puzzle together.
Before she could convey a response, McLaggen was moving across the room.
“Malfoy.”
Draco’s name fell from Cormac’s lips like an accusation, but Draco remained unmoved, his posture rigid, his expression steely.
“McLaggen,” Draco said, his voice cold and controlled, each word enunciated with deliberate precision, “if you have questions about Astoria, please do everyone the courtesy of putting them directly to me.”
Cormac’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with vindictive satisfaction. “I doubt even you could afford my silence.”
“I don’t need to,” Draco replied evenly, setting Rose down gently. Her small hands lingered on his trousers for only a moment before Scorpius was at her side, tugging her hand into his as if offering her his protection in lieu of Draco’s. “But perhaps I can pay for you to be taught some decency.”
The words hung in the air, and Cormac’s eyes flashed with indignation, but he was quick to mask his emotions — his sneer returning almost immediately. “I was simply doing Hermione a favour. See, when Lavender mentioned Ron was upset about your children being friendly, I felt it was my moral obligation to come tell her what I knew.”
Lavender met Hermione’s stare, her cheeks flushing rosy, before she looked down at where her hands were clasped in front of her.
“And what is it that you think you know?”
Cormac narrowed his eyes, his lip curling up into an ugly sneer. “I know your wife didn’t die at St. Mungo’s as everyone believes.”
Silence fell over the room, thick and suffocating. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, her fingers tightening instinctively around her wand, but Draco remained calm — unnervingly so.
“She didn’t,” Draco said simply, his voice steady, as if they were discussing nothing more than the weather. “I can’t control all the rumours in the world.”
“But you can buy out The Daily Prophet,” Cormac spat, his words sharp with venom. “My mother lost her job because of it.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, still composed. “I didn’t buy out The Daily Prophet. I sued them for defamation, and won. It is between the proprietors and their financial advisors what led them to close shop.”
“More lies,” Cormac growled, his earlier glee curdling into frustration.
Draco shrugged, his calm demeanour only further agitating Cormac. “There was a very prominent case in front of the Wizengamot — your own uncle deliberated over it. Perhaps you should take yourself home and ask these questions to those who rightfully deserve them.”
The room felt as though it was holding its breath, waiting for Cormac’s next blow to come.
Hermione’s eyes flicked briefly to Scorpius, who stood beside Rose with an expression of quiet resolve. He seemed utterly unphased by the line of questioning — far too composed for a child his age, as though these accusations were nothing new to him.
Hermione’s chest tightened. How often had this boy heard aspersions cast against his father to have such a measured response? To stand so still, not even blinking at yet another cruel insinuation, as if this was just the normal rhythm of his life? The thought made her heart ache, a sudden well of sadness swelling up inside her. No child should be that practised in the art of silence, in the art of bearing shame that wasn’t theirs to carry.
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the sharp edge of her anger toward Ron, Cormac, and the rest dulled, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct for the boy who stood so bravely in the midst of this storm — no anchor except his father. His father, who deserved better — so much better than was his lot. Words rose to the tip of her tongue — a defence, a prayer of belief and protection that she wished to wrap both father and son within, but she found no space to speak to them in the cacophony of McLaggen’s vitriol.
Hermione took a step forward, anger spilling off her in waves and whorls she was certain made her hair dance like the serpentine coils of Medusa, herself.
He didn’t see her as she stepped forward, his verbal spewage far from over.
His eyes gleamed with malevolence as he asked the question that sent a shiver through the room. “And your wife? Who should I ask if you did indeed commit that crime?”
“You’d better shut up McLaggen,” Theo had followed behind Draco and was now standing beside him, his hands pale where they were clenched into a fist at his side.
Draco’s eyes darkened, flashing with something dangerous. His jaw clenched imperceptibly, but still, he did not rise to the bait. “What crime would that be?” His tone was soft, but there was an edge to it, a warning for Cormac to step back if he knew what was good for him.
“Admit you killed your wife, you death eater scum.” The words echoed only to be broken when Hermione’s palm collided with Cormac’s cheek, the sharp pierce of it reverberating as the room at large stilled.
“I hope he ruins your life, just as he’s done everyone else’s.” Cormac seethed, stepping into Hermione. “Or are you going to pretend he hasn’t evaded the question at hand? Draco Malfoy killed his wife, and everyone else suffered for it except him.”
“No, he didn’t!” Rose’s voice rang out with fierce defiance, startling everyone in the room. “He didn’t do anything bad to Scorp’s mummy!” Her small fist clenched at her side, her face flushed with the intensity of her belief. “Draco, tell him… tell him you didn’t do it. Tell them you helped her run away so she could be safe! Why aren’t you telling the truth?”
For a brief, fleeting moment, something flickered across Draco’s face as he turned towards their children — surprise.
The adults exchanged glances, brows furrowed, murmurs of uncertainty rippling through the space like waves disturbed by a sudden storm. Hermione could see it in their faces — the questions, the doubts, the disbelief that had not been there when Cormac had made his vile accusations. All except Theo, whose mouth had fallen agape, his eyes yearning to connect with Draco’s, who was adamantly refusing to meet Theo’s stare as he remained silent amidst a sea of murmurs.
Hermione’s attention, however, had been tugged away by something else. Something far, far more immediate, and heartbreaking. As everyone’s focus had turned to Draco and Rose’s outburst, Hermione caught the moment when Scorpius let go of Rose’s hand, and stepped away from her.
Notes:
Eeeek, I haven't been able to do weekly updates in a hot minute, so you must be surprised.
Honestly, this chapter drove me a little insane, but as always Cait was an MVP and my therapist, and we got through it—or did we?
More about that Bombshell that just dropped.
Ahhhhh! Did anyone notice I never tagged "Widowed Draco Malfoy?" — I know one person did ask me to tag it, and I had to sadly ignore their message (I'm sorryyyyyy, I apologise profusely if you are still with me on this journey). I know for the most part spoilers are inevitable, and one day this little spoiler won't be so secret, but I hope for everyone reading this as a WIP, it gave you a little bit of a surprise.
If you go back, the only person who mentions Draco is a "widower" is Hermione in chapter 2. Draco always thinks of Astoria as someone who is "no longer his wife" or "no longer with him" or some variation of that, and during the dinner sequence, right at the beginning of chapter 13, he actually does let it slip for a moment when he tells Grantham Greengrass "You have two daughters." — Honestly Draco, mind your tongue in the heat of the moment. Gods, infuriating, lovable man..
P.S. I know we wanted more of Weasley bashing, but honestly, I would prefer to keep my bashing by way of "you're hardly important in the grand scheme of things, Ronald."
P.P.S. Cormac's a little shit, and his anger is two-fold— one, because he resents the Malfoys for all that they are and two— I know the first chapter of TSM was a ways ago, but Hermione has also constantly rejected his advances and he's a vindictive man both in canon and in this fanfic.As always, much love and appreciation to Cait for alpha'ing and Mlekoimiodd for cheer-reading. As well as my amazing friend Chesnut1992 for the emergency calls 😂
Chapter 15: The Scorpion and His Rose
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Two years ago.
“Mrs Gem.”
Rose looked up from where she sat at her desk, a maroon crayon clutched between her fingers, though, in all honesty, she’d stopped drawing her picture of Morgana a while back. Nick had been whispering fiercely to her left, and all she wanted was to turn around and tell him to hush because she was trying to think. But Nick was a mean boy. The kind who pulled at her pigtails and tried to count how many freckles littered her face, then laughed about the shapes he found within them. And she did not want him and his friends to make fun of her again this morning—not when she had so much to ponder. So she’d simply been sitting quietly — fuming instead of thinking — for the past ten minutes, wishing she had a wand so she could hex him silent.
“Right, yes,” Mrs Gem said.
Her gaze curiously followed her teacher across the expanse of the room to the door where one of the office ladies stood, holding onto the hand of a small boy Rose had never seen before. He was small, even smaller than her, with hair that resembled spun silk and shimmered like her mother’s wedding band under the soft sunlight streaming in through the window. It was the kind of hair Rose knew would look beautiful if she were to braid it into a crown atop his head. She loved beautiful things, and this boy was beautiful in a manner she couldn’t quite explain. She wondered if it was his eyes — soft, silver, and curious as they swept across the room — assessing every aspect of it as if it were a wonder of the world. Her mother would know what it was. She always knew the right words for everything.
The other children around her had stopped what they were doing, and an eerie sort of silence had descended upon them. Rose did not like that. The boy, it seemed, didn’t either. He shifted awkwardly on his feet, his lips thinning into an unreadable expression before he turned back towards the man standing behind him.
Rose frowned.
Her dad never dropped her off at school. In fact, she was quite sure he wouldn’t even know where to take her, if her mum ever asked him to — they’d likely end up somewhere in Siberia, wherever that was. But this boy’s father had.
The man had the same pale hair as his son — and Rose thought he too would look equally as beautiful in a braided crown. The father bent down, whispering something low into the boy’s ear, and though Rose couldn’t hear what he said, the boy smiled — a small, fleeting thing — but it made Rose smile too. There was something comforting about the way the father spoke to his son, a softness that made her chest feel warm for reasons she couldn’t quite explain. He turned then, with his son, and her heart skipped a beat when his gaze honed in on her, as if he knew who she was. She smiled shyly at him, and after a short pause that made his eyes go wide briefly, the older man smiled back, cautiously.
“You can sit down wherever you like,” Mrs Gem said quietly, ushering the young boy in through the door before stepping out, herself. The door locked with a loud click behind him, and Rose saw the flash of panic in his eyes at the sound of it, even if he did not turn around.
Rose pursed her lips.
It reminded her of when Nick had first joined their class a few months ago. Mrs Gem had made him introduce himself in front of everyone and assigned him a buddy-friend to help him settle in. Of course, once Nick had told everyone that his father was ‘Crumb’ — some famous wizard she didn’t really care about — he hadn’t needed a pity buddy. He had fit right in, and before long, he had become a menace with menace friends who all laughed at his stupid jokes. Rose didn’t like how she hadn’t done the same for this new boy, standing in front of her like an animal at a zoo.
Rose stood up, the scrape of her chair breaking through the whispers that had begun when Mrs Gem had left, and moved forward confidently — keeping her gaze firmly planted on the boy in front of her. He watched her with an expression she didn’t know — one she sometimes saw in her mother’s eyes — and when she held out her hand, his eyes grew round with a mix of wonder and relief.
“Hi,” she said with a smile, “I’m Rose.”
The boy stared down at her fingers before he lifted his hand and placed it within her grasp.
“Scorpius.” It was hardly more than a whisper, but Rose liked that she now knew something everyone else didn’t. They hadn’t been kind to the boy. They didn’t deserve to know his name when they were too busy ogling him.
“This way,” she said, tugging him along with her to the reading corner, where students could visit if they were done with their work. Rose wasn’t really done with her drawing — but it also was just a drawing — her artistic liberties said it was done. She climbed onto a large cushion and patted the one beside it encouragingly. “Sit.”
The boy hesitated before unbuttoning his jacket — the stiff kind that her father wore when he went for important meetings. He was dressed strangely, Rose observed. She knew some wizards and witches dressed strangely because they did not know how to dress themselves in muggle fashions, but he was strange because he wore clothes like his father. It made him appear both older and even younger than six, which she assumed was his age — just like hers.
He sat down beside her and returned her smile with a shy smile of his own.
“I like your…” he frowned at her skirt. “Is it still called a skirt if it's short? My grandmother wears skirts, but they’re long and they flow in the wind. I don’t think yours would flow very much.”
Rose looked down at her denim skort. She wasn’t sure how she could explain what a skort was to him, without doing what she usually did — and her mother had told her that was crude.
“It’s still a skirt,” She giggled. “But a different kind of skirt.”
She could feel eyes on them, and when she turned back towards Nick, who was smirking at her as his friend whispered in his ear, she narrowed her eyes at him and wrinkled her nose in distaste.
She turned back around and caught the moment when Scorpius’s smile faltered.
“You don’t have to sit with me.” Scorpius said quietly, his fingers roaming over the trim of the cushion he sat upon. “My dad said it might be like this.”
“Like what?” Rose frowned. “They’re all losers, and Nick is a terrible bully. And my mum says I’m allowed one punch because that’s all she was allowed as well — but I have to save it for someone who really deserves it.”
“Someone punched my dad too,” Scorpius said suddenly, his lip tugging up into a quirky smile. It was the kind of smile that looked like it didn’t quite belong on his face — like he wasn’t used to wearing it but was trying it out for the first time. “He said he deserved it.”
Rose raised an eyebrow, stifling a giggle. “Maybe it was my mum,” she quipped back, her own grin spreading as she reached for the book sitting beside her, the worn cover familiar under her fingertips. It was her favourite — The Tales of Beedle the Bard, with pages so well-thumbed that the edges had begun to curl.
“Maybe it was,” Scorpius replied, his silver eyes gleaming with mischief as he accepted the book from her hands. He sat cross-legged next to her, the cushion beneath him sinking slightly, and turned the book over, inspecting the cover before flipping it open to the first page.
He read silently, ignoring the whispers that grated against her ears, and over the following many weeks, she found she liked that best about him — even more than his hair, which did look beautiful braided into a crown.
Scorpius was quiet, and he didn’t like engaging — Rose held onto her punch, knowing the day would come when Nicolas Krum would receive it for making fun of Scorpius’s dad. When the whispers became too much, she considered asking her mum, before deciding to ask her uncle Harry about Draco Malfoy, and though he was surprised by her question, he only had little to say on the subject.
They’d gone to school together, and they’d never been friends. He’d been in the same war her mother and father, and uncle Harry had been — just on a different side. “A side he hadn’t picked, but had taken the weight for,” Scorpius explained, when she finally asked him, after three months of skirting around it. And when she asked what that meant, he told her, with a shrug, it was what his grandmother said sometimes.
“He says family is important, but the best kind of families are formed with love and good intentions,” Scorpius said, doing his best impression of his father, and then repeated it again a few weeks later, when Rose told him her parents had gotten divorced.
They liked to go out to the outskirts of the small Quidditch pitch their school housed. It was, strictly speaking, out of bounds for the younger classes, but Rose had found that teachers were more willing to give Rose and Scorpius space because of the bullying Scorpius was prone to. It had been Nick’s friend Magnus who’d told everyone Scorpius’s father had been a Death Eater, and Scorpius had, once more ignored the jibe and pulled Rose along with him — her fist clenched and ready — out to the fields where they spent the rest of their break laid out amongst wildflowers.
“We have so many periwinkles planted in the Manor grounds,” Scorpius smiled, as Rose pulled at the petals of one, morosely. “Grand-mére says they’re my dad’s favourite flower, even though they’re pluh-bee-un,” he sounded the word out carefully, before smiling at her bashfully.
On any other day she would have asked him a million questions. About the Manor. About his Grand-mére and the gardens she planted — rows upon rows of wildflowers in the colour of her mother’s dress. The one she had stared at wistfully before passing it onto Victoire when she had turned 10 the previous year, as a gift for receiving her Hogwarts letter. But it was her father’s birthday, and she didn’t know if she would get to give him the card she had made for him.
Ever since she had been young, she had known him to travel for work often, but when they’d all lived together, she’d still see glimpses of him everywhere. In the shoes he left unracked, and the Quidditch magazines that arrived by owl every weekend. In the mornings when she had a few minutes to spare before she had to Floo to school, when she’d sneak into her parents’ room and kiss him on his nose as he slept. She hadn’t seen him in months, and the last time she had — she’d seen him speaking with another lady.
Lavender, she’d heard him call her.
Another purple flower, like the one she clutched between her fingers. She scrunched the periwinkle within her palm, and let it flow in the warm breeze of summer that was beginning to settle around them.
Scorpius didn’t say anything, and she knew he understood better than anyone else: how it felt to miss a parent who wasn’t around — only his mum had died, and her dad was still alive — just not around.
* * *
Summer brought with it its own challenges, and for Scorpius it brought equal parts excitement and sadness. He would not see Rose for a few months, and when she asked him if he had a muggle phone, he had to shake his head. He would have suggested they owl each other, but giant birds swooping in and out of buildings with letters addressed by six-year-olds were never very inconspicuous. So, by mutual agreement, Rose and Scorpius had decided not to tell their parents of their burgeoning friendship.
Scorpius knew his father would not mind — in fact, his father would be ecstatic to know Scorpius had made a friend, and one as enthralling as Rose — but still, he had suspicions about whether Rose would be allowed to stay friends with him if her parents found out. So they had both decided to keep quiet — and parted with promises to be friends still, when they returned for their following year of primary school.
Skippy had pretended not to notice Rose’s wistful eyes, and Scorpius had thrown her a small smile, before he had Floo’d home to the Manor, where his father waited with a valise in one hand, and a box of Honeydukes chocolates for his favourite aunts in the other.
As they did every summer, they were off to Belgium, though they told his grandparents they were off to visit Uncle Theo in Mallorca.
Aunty Pans reminded him of Rose, or perhaps Rose reminded him of Aunty Pans — he wasn’t sure whom he knew better now, as she never visited them in England because Aunty Ria was not welcome. Despite their differing appearances, Rose and Pansy were both fierce and protective — and he had seen Aunty Pansy twist his father’s ear in the same way Rose had threatened to twist his — when he had told her she needn’t be his friend if it made the other children be mean to her.
He loved his Aunty Pans, but Aunty Ria, or Stori, as his father called her when they drank too much wine and spoke about a time when Scorpius had not been born, was his favourite.
She had soft brown hair that fell unevenly down to her chin and tattoos he could see when she wore dresses with tiny, delicate straps. Flowers for his Aunty Pansy, whom she loved, bloomed upon her shoulders and fingers. A dragon, etched in dark ink for his father, whom she admired, coiled down her wand arm in elegant swirls. And, over her heart, nestled amongst a glittering expanse of stars, lay a scorpion — for him — for whom she would give her life.
She was not his mum, he knew — they had all talked about it the previous holidays when they had visited — but she was his mother. And she had almost lost her life bringing him into the world. He was glad she hadn’t died, even if she had lost her magic — something he could only imagine was incredibly difficult. He hadn’t held a wand yet, but within him, he could feel the soft thrum of it — magic — waiting to be honed. He would have wondered if love was worth risking something that felt like such an integral part of his being if he hadn’t already seen with his eyes the happiness they held. It was not something he glimpsed often. It was something missing within his father’s life, even as he held onto his magic.
And when they took trips into Spa, the closest Muggle city, he saw magic could be, even without. It was within the cups of iced mocha and sparkling lemonade his aunties shared because they wished to have both. It was within the teasing and tinkling laughter at his father’s expense. It was in the ease with which they lived and invited them to share.
Sometimes it upset him that they weren’t able to visit him at home — that his Grand-mère reminisced about his ‘mum’ when she was neither that, nor truly gone — but then his aunt Daphne would visit, and he knew it was for the best.
He would take a hundred secret vacations if only to lay near his father, pretending to sleep, as they all — all of his favourite people minus one — laughed and drank wine and spoke of silly things like swots and school libraries and whatever a “weasel” was.
He never got to see his father laugh, and it made his heart feel warm and fuzzy whenever he did experience the deep rumble.
The feeling came only second to peeking an eye slyly open to see as his father turned pink at the mention of Rose’s mum, which happened the following summer vacation, when they vacationed in Portugal because Aunty Pansy had grown bored of always hosting and decided to “put that Malfoy money to good use, because Salazar knows, it needs to be spent before Gringotts runs out of space to keep it all.”
“I heard she got divorced,” Aunty Ria said.
“About time,” Aunty Pansy said.
“Not a lot of single wizards in London, huh Draco,” Aunty Ria said, pouring more wine into his father’s goblet as Scorpius shifted his blankets slyly. Just enough to get a better view of his family from where he was laying on a swing set adjacent to their positions on the outdoor couch set.
“I heard McLaggen’s still single,” Draco said, nonchalantly as Pansy’s hand rushed towards him. He ducked at the last moment, and her hand grazed through his hair, which was significantly worse, because she pulled it in violent protest. “And I heard he’s vying, quite desperately.”
“McLaggen? Seriously, Draco? Do you want me to hex you in the balls?” Pansy glared at him.
“That was a much more prudent threat when I still had children to have. Now I have Scorp.”
“You could have so much more, still,” Astoria said softly.
His father didn’t answer, and he thought of Rose the previous school year — worrying because her mother seemed lonely. Worrying because her father had a new friend when her mother seemed to be wilting away. Worrying because she missed him, and didn’t know if he could still be her father, if she didn’t see him as often as had once. He had almost broken then, almost told her of the secret he carried in his heart — that his mother loved him even if she was his aunt. That his father had taught him distance only bloomed in the absence of love. And perhaps he would tell her still, one day — but not without asking for permission first.
He caught Aunty Pansy’s eye, who arched a brow at him, and he quickly pulled his blanket over his head, hoping she would keep his secret.
And she did… until the next morning, when she found him searching through the kitchen of their vacation villa for cereal — which she said they didn’t have because “breakfast is the most important meal of the day — and sugar is a treat to be enjoyed after dinner.”
“I see you’ve become quite the little earwig.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Scorp said, putting on his best impression of Rose, who never showed her hand — not unless it was him across the battlefield.
For some reason she could lie to everyone except him, and it made him feel special.
“I think you’ve become a little liar and I should tell your father.” Pansy said, bending at the waist to look him in the eyes.
“Were you talking about Hermione Granger last night?” Scorpius asked, cautiously — not missing when her eyebrows shot into her fringe.
“How do you know about Hermione Granger?” she asked, tilting his chin up to peer at him in the manner she used with his father, when she wanted to arm-twist him into luxurious vacations for them all.
“Uh-uh.” Scorpius shook his head, knowing his audience well. Somewhere in his periphery he noticed as the elves — Pinksly, Amory and Skippy — settled down at the kitchen counter to watch them go head to head. He knew they liked to wager chores whenever it occurred, and he was simply not going to let Skippy down. He detested folding laundry, and he would not be folding any today, if it killed Scorp to get him dinner prep instead. “I asked first.”
“I’m older.”
“I’m your best friend.” He smirked.
“Fine,” She said, pouting. “An answer for an answer.”
“How many answers?” Scorpius raised her.
“Three, each.” Pansy grinned.
“Okay,” Scorpius said, holding out a hand. “Deal.”
“Deal,” his second-best friend nodded.
“Were you talking about Hermione Granger last night?”
“Yes,” Aunty Pans said, pulling him along with her so they were once again outside on the large porch that looked out onto a private beach. “How do you know Hermione Granger?”
Scorpius smiled conspiratorially, allowing her to pull him back under the blanket his father had abandoned on the swing set — when he had carried him to bed last night, long after he had fallen asleep upon it.
“She’s my best friend’s mum, and you are sworn to secrecy, Aunty Pans,” he said, gripping her arm in the manner he had seen his father do when he vowed to Aunty Ria their secrets were safe with him. “And I will know if you tell because you’re the only person who knows.”
“Smart man,” she said, tucking him into the crook of her elbow. “A Slytherin if I ever saw one.”
Scorpius shrugged.
“I would prefer to be a Gryffindor,”
“Blasphemy,” she said, her hand smacking her chest with faux indignation. “Take it back.”
“Ravenclaw then,” he grinned.
They sat silently, choosing their next two questions wisely as their eyes found his father in the distance, running laps as he did, every morning. Scorpius knew he hardly slept and he couldn’t understand why. He loved sleeping in till late morning, and as far as he knew, so did his grandparents and every other person he knew.
“Why do you care if she got divorced from Rose's dad?”
“Is that your friend’s name?”
“Mhm,” he smiled. “Rose Weasley.”
She scrunched her nose as she contemplated her words.
“Do you think she is pretty, your friend Rose?” She asked, slowly.
“Very pretty,” Scorpius nodded. “And wickedly funny, and she can also outrun me because she’s taller. But not for long. Skippy says boys are just late to mature, and I’ll be as tall as Dad one day.”
Her hair shook with laughter as she pulled him onto her lap, making space for Aunty Ria, who had, at some point, snuck up on them.
“So no.” Astoria shook her head. “Pansy he’s too young to have a crush.”
“I was five when I first fell in love with Draco,” she replied. “It was so pure and innocent.”
“You’re only proving my point,” Astoria rolled her eyes. “He’s seven, and probably—”
“There is a boy I find very pretty too,” Scorpius said, turning his head to scrutinise Astoria. She was wearing something that exposed more of the scorpion on her chest this morning, and he liked the way the tail curved up only to point back down towards her heart — though that disappeared beneath her shirt. He only ever saw it — all of it — if she wore her bathing suit. Maybe later that day, he would see it once more. “But Rose is my best friend.”
“I thought I was your best friend,” Pansy said, pulling his face back towards her as her brows furrowed.
“You’ve already asked all of your questions,” he grinned wickedly.
“Have not.”
“Have too!” he said counting them off on his fingers. “And I’ve only asked one.”
“Two,” Astoria admonished him.
“Ravenclaws,” Pansy muttered, pinching Astoria, who herself had proudly sported blue and bronze back at Hogwarts. “I changed my mind. You can either be a Slytherin or a puff.”
“You’re not the sorting hat, and I can be whatever I want,” Scorpius crossed his arms over his chest.
“Am I not allowed three questions, Scorp?” Astoria smiled sweetly at him.
“Nope,” Scorpius popped his p. “We didn’t shake hands.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Astoria raised her brow. “Three questions for me, and I’ll let you pick out my next tattoo.”
“You’re getting another one?” Scorpius’s gaze went wide. “Where? Why?”
“Three questions and a tattoo,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Deal,” Scorpius said, leaning forward to tug at her hand. “Roses. A field of roses.”
“Deal,” Astoria said, shaking his hand.
“Hermione Roses?” Pansy murmured into his head, pulling him back into her chest — but before Scorpius could use another of his now five questions, Astoria drew his attention back.
“Happily.”
“A quote as well?” Pansy asked, raising an eyebrow. “Something Shakespearean.”
“Let’s leave something for Draco,” Astoria shook her head, turning her attention back to Scorpius, who was frowning at them with deep furrowed confusion. “Now, what would you like to know?”
“Why do you tease my dad about Rose’s mum?”
“Really going in with the kill, with that one.”
“Wit beyond measure,” Pansy said, sourly. “Who needs all that wit?”
“As if all that cunning without wit didn’t almost land you in the dungeons during the battle.”
“I was simply trying to hasten what was inevitable.”
They tinkled with soft laughter, but Scorpius didn’t let them skirt around his questions, and for her seventh ‘freedom’ anniversary, his Aunty Ria had inked: Hermione Roses — one bouquet beside the dragon on her arm, and the other, curved around his namesake’s tail, right above her heart.
He returned from vacation with permission, and the beginnings of a plan — a parting gift from his Aunty Pans, who he supposed was in a bid to become his number one best friend once more.
“A sister is a sister, not a best friend,” Aunty Pansy whispered conspiratorially, as she hugged him goodbye, with promises to see him next summer. He hoped to introduce Rose to her then, knowing he would rue the day for the rest of his life, but planning on it, all the same.
Before he touched the portkey that would take him back to the Manor, his eyes searched out Astoria’s, and within them was a blessing of tears, conveying she too wished for what he wanted for his family. For his father, and for himself.
* * *
Scorpius pulled Rose out to the fields the moment their recess bell tolled, not allowing her to punch Nick as she had intended to the moment they were free of Miss Daria’s watchful eye.
“But he called you Voldemort’s lovechild,” Rose growled. “My mother taught me all about babies. You can’t even have babies if it’s two men hugging.”
“Babies aren’t made by hugging, Rose,” Scorp sighed, keeping a firm hold over her wrist as he pushed through the narrow copse of trees that led out into the field of wildflowers that were their sanctuary.
“Of course they are. I saw a picture in one of my mum’s no-touch books. She’s gone and hidden them all now, but I know what I saw.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” Scorpius rolled his eyes.
“Does too.”
“Then we’d already have a hundred babies,” Scorpius said. “We hug every day.”
“We always have our clothes on.” Rose said, shaking her head. “And you have to kiss as you hug.”
“What? Never mind babies!” Scorpius said, gently pushing her down so he could kneel before her. “I have to tell you what I learned over summer.”
“What?” Rose said excitedly, her fist loosening to scoop up a daisy. She tucked it behind Scorpius’ ear as he beamed widely at her. His eyes burned with an excitement she had never witnessed before, and all thoughts of Nick and his stupid friend Magnus scattered to the winds.
“Do you know what a crush is?” he asked shyly, knowing they had never discussed anything of the sort before.
Rose blushed, looking down at where she had clenched her fist once more.
“Maybe,” she said, knowing she had no intention of telling Scorpius the real reason she wished to punch that prat Nick. Such a beautiful boy. Such a terrible personality.
“Well, I found out who my dad had a crush on when he went to Hogwarts,” Scorpius said excitedly, taking Rose’s clenched fist into his palm before loosening it so he could place a periwinkle upon her palm. “My aunties told me.”
That last was a whisper, as if he was unsure of how much more to say.
“I need you to swear yourself to secrecy.”
Rose responded by spitting into her palm and holding it out immediately — something she had seen her mother and Uncle Harry do whenever they drank too much rum and gossiped about boring ministerial stuff that made her Aunty Gin couch mope.
He looked down curiously at her palm, even as his arm extended wide, as if to grab her elbow.
“What?”
“Huh?”
They both giggled, falling off-topic for long minutes, before they once more remembered why they had extended their limbs towards each other.
“We do both,” Scorpius said, nodding solemnly. “I can only tell you if you promise to never say a word of it. It’s a big secret, and only you can know.”
“Your secrets are always safe with me,” Rose said softly, even as curiosity piqued within her. She wanted to know everything about this boy she loved — to know of his home and his aunties he had never mentioned before. To learn more about his father, whom she remembered still, and had gone through Witch Weeklies to learn more about. She’d never seen him after that first day when he had escorted Scorpius to school, but sometimes she could still picture his gaze when it had landed on her. It had made her feel something similar to when her grandfather looked at her — a warmth that was inexplicable, even on those days he struggled to recall who she was.
Once they had shaken hands, in the ways of wizards and Muggles alike, Scorpius inhaled deeply, and told her about his aunties — and it made her tear up, to know of the weight he carried within his heart — similar, but separate to the one he carried on his shoulders. Stoic and silent.
With all her heart and love, she vowed to share the burden, promising never to let it pass from her lips. Vowing to only ever let herself be his friend, who always held his hand, squeezing it gently to remind him he was never alone.
“My aunty Pans may have suggested something,” he said, the corners of his lips tugging up into a smirk. “But we’ll have to keep it a secret, and plan it exactly so.”
“Mission This Is Top Secret!” Rose grinned, as the bell rang for them to return to class. “Mission T.I.T.S.”
“Mission Tits,” Scorpius beamed, pulling her into his chest. “And then we’ll never be without each other again. Not even for a day.”
Notes:
I hope you liked this little interlude of fluff dedicated to our precious babies.
Also, THANK YOU, for all your comments! The last two chapters have received so much love, and I'm slowly but surely making my way through responses, but also prioritising writing so I can get updates out as fast as I can.
Magnus is of course a shoutout to the fantastic fic How To Become Minister by the very lovely and incredibly talented serenergen
So so so much love and appreciation to Cait and Mlekoimiodd for all their incredible love. This story is richer for all their comments and questions, and I cannot express it enough.
Chapter 16: A Perfect Storm
Notes:
TRIGGER Warning
We talk about Astoria on the night of Scorpius' birth. We do not get graphic, but Draco does describe the atmosphere around it. I will insert an asterisk before and after. It's only for a short paragraph and a bit.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Draco knew silence. It was an old friend, one he had first met the summer before sixth year, when his aunt Bellatrix had, without invitation, moved into the Manor. The hallways had grown eerily quiet within her presence, and one day, he’d woken up to realise birdsong, too, had been eradicated from the Manor grounds.
Despite their cruel introduction, he maintained, silence itself was not so.
It had its moments.
When he had been on the cusp of adulthood (and death) he had basked in the silence that could be found within the Hogwarts Library on stormy winter nights. Beyond the Silencio’d glass windows, winds howled and rain poured down, shrouding a table at the back window into shadows and darkness. It was there, where a curly-haired swot held court over thick tomes — her annoyed gaze burning golden within the light from her hovering jars of bluebell flames as young children scarpered away in quiet haste.
Always there.
As the world he knew burned within the vicious flames of roaring Fiendfyre, she was a constant presence. A silence he sought.
It was within that silence, he heard her speak to herself, ruminating over complex problems like Protean Charms and the ability to modify them to suit the caster’s intent. It was within that silence, he found the strength to live when dying at Dumbledore’s hand had seemed the most convenient option for all. And it was to silence he turned back to — when death loomed once more — only this time at the hands of The Dark Lord, who would only require a cursory sweep of his thoughts to know he had deliberately withheld information on The Golden Trio, even as they lay, bound and wandless at his feet.
Silence had its moments, in which, from within a maelstrom, something quiet and powerful blossomed — like wildflowers.
Tough and resilient. Growing despite their conditions.
Wildflowers like Hermione. Like Rose. Like his son, whose wide, panic-stricken eyes had filled with terror as Draco sought them out.
Even as his mind raced now, a part of him turned inward — thinking of the last time silence had shrouded him.
*
His son had come into the world on such a silent night, three months too soon. He remembered the eerie quiet of it because Pansy’s cries too had run dry by then. He had married Astoria for Pansy, and perhaps it was irony — or divine justice, for their cowardice — that the consummation of that marriage would take her away. They hadn’t known of the blood curse — hadn’t known that instead of watching her grow plump with fertility, they’d spend the next six months watching her wither. The healer’s words had been a whispered death sentence, a hush that carried more weight than a Killing Curse.
“Mother and child will not make it,” the healer had said. “Magic, too, has its limits. And the blood curse is hungry for a sacrifice.”
*
But like silence — like wildflowers — Scorpius had flourished, and brought forth more joy than the three of them could have envisioned that fateful Yule when Astoria had said her goodbyes.
This, though — this was not the same silence. This was not the heavy quiet borne of impending cruelty, nor the gentle serenity from within which wildflowers bloomed. This was a third kind of silence: the kind found at the heart of uncertainty. The kind that echoed in the space between knowing and not knowing. A stillness that felt both heavy and weightless. It hung in the air like the calm before a storm — filled with unspoken words and unresolved questions.
He didn’t know how to go forth within it.
Hermione’s gaze, less golden on this night, locked with his, and he saw as something shifted within her eyes. Something he had only ever glimpsed before. Something that had never been his to have.
“Obliviate.”
The room erupted into chaos — a cacophony of shouts, movement, and the familiar essence of Hermione’s magic as it lingered amidst them all.
“Hermione!” Potter roared, flinging his glasses across the room as he pushed away from the man who had slumped down at his feet. His eyes were wide, wild, as if he couldn’t believe what had just occurred. Draco on the other hand — could. What he struggled with was the realisation that Hermione would risk it all for him.
“Merlin’s tits!” Weasley strode forward, a string of curses following in his wake as his hand reached for her wand. It was such an intimate act: to reach for someone else’s wand. Even as chaos broke around them, Draco registered the moment when his fingers connected with the precious Vinewood (which Draco knew his mother had returned after his aunt’s death) that was not his to hold. Not now that they were no longer married.
Was it odd that as his carefully constructed glass castle shattered, it was this which drew his attention above all else?
“Don’t.” Hermione jerked her wrist back before Weasley’s fingers could close around the polished wood. Her eyes flashed dangerously, and whatever she said to him was drowned out by the sharp hiss of movement as Ginevra stormed forward, her wand raised high.
“Stupefy,” she breathed, sending a blast of red light crashing into McLaggen, who slumped once more against the wall before being knocked unconscious.
The impact echoed through the room, mingling with the tension as though it were a tangible thing, before silence once more took charge.
“There,” Ginevra said, her voice brisk as she tucked her wand away. “That should buy us some time.”
“Not you too,” Potter looked pained — and rather strange, without his glasses which had landed haphazardly at Rose’s feet. “Does nobody care that I am obligated to arrest you both for use of unprovoked hexes?”
“I’d hardly call any of this unprovoked, Potter,” Theo drawled, his voice cutting through the din of the room. “There was quite a lot of provocation, if I recall correctly.”
“Not to mention the aspersions that were cast.” The Weasley twin, George, not Fred — stepped up beside Theo, his wand flipping gracefully between his fingers as he surveyed the room with a wry grin. “I believe duelling for one’s honour is rather archaic, but it does make for a nice change of scenery, don’t you agree, my love?”
“Quite.” Theo smirked, and Draco had to work hard to keep his neck from snapping in Theo’s direction. What was it about curly haired swots and redheads?
Potter grimaced, his hands splaying at his hips as he looked from Hermione to Theo to George and finally met Draco’s silent gaze.
Draco, who was still rooted to the spot. Trying to understand — to gauge what required handling first. Rose, who was still sniffling behind him, or Hermione, who had committed a crime just moments earlier — or his need to get a message to Pansy immediately. Obliviating McLaggen would not be enough, not when there were too many loose ends within this very room.
“Is it true?” Potter asked weakly, his unseeing eyes shifting from him to Rose. Draco stepped to the side, impeding his vision of her. She’d been a wreck when he’d arrived, and he had only reluctantly released her, knowing Cormac’s agitation put her at risk should wands appear.
Draco narrowed his gaze at Potter. As if he was going to admit or deny anything here. He could still feel Theo’s gaze boring into his profile, and it only pressed at the urgency of needing to get word back to Pansy and Stori. This was a revelation that would, inevitably, jeopardise everything they had worked hard to create these past eight years.
“Harry Potter,” Hermione seethed, her fingers pressing into her temples. “You are not asking what I think you are.”
“Gods, Hermione, I just—” Potter turned back towards her, only to trip over Ginevra’s foot where she was tapping it in contemplation. “Merlin’s mouldy fudge! Where are my glasses?”
“Here, Uncle Harry,” Rose said between sniffles, stomping painfully over McLaggen’s hand to get to him. “Why did–why–you throw–if you needed them?”
“Thank you,” Potter murmured, shoving them back on. “Rose, would you go check on James and Al for me?”
The child was as bright as Hermione, and promptly ignored what was inherently a polite dismissal.
“Theo,” Draco murmured. He turned slowly to look at his childhood friend, whose eyes were already seeking him. “Can you get word to Pansy?”
Theo’s eyes flickered, searching Draco’s face, even as his lips thinned into a question he would not verbalise. Not yet. Theo would wait to have it out with him until later, in private, as was their way.
A deep breath escaped him before he finally nodded. “She doesn’t always answer floocalls.” His voice was quieter now, as if realising there was a reason as to why that was.
“She’ll answer any call from my study, no matter how busy she is. Take Knitty with you, she knows how to get in.” Draco watched as Theo began to turn. “And listen…”
Theo stopped, revolving slowly on his feet. Draco’s hand twitched at his side.
“Don’t…” Draco started, knowing whatever he said now would not be enough, “We’ll all talk about it soon, just… not now.”
Theo’s gaze lingered, a question hovering on the edge of his lips, but he nodded once, his jaw tightening. With one last glance, he turned and made for the door, disappearing into the dim corridor beyond, leaving Draco at the mercy of the silence he had once welcomed but now felt suffocated by.
“Will it all be alright?” Hermione asked softly, her voice a breath of fresh air.
He hadn’t seen her move across the room, but at some point she had skirted around Weasley and found herself standing beside him. One hand hesitantly placed upon his arm — comfort.
Draco turned towards her, his mind racing as to what he could say to her.
The past few days had been a whirlwind. A secluded interlude from the realities of life; and before he’d had a chance to wonder if it could perhaps be even more — everything had crashed down around them. But as his gaze met hers, he found a spark. The one he’d seen from a distance as this witch found and conquered magicks unknown — only, was he in the wrong for thinking within this moment it may have been burning for him?
“I don’t know.”
She’d wrapped an arm around Scorpius, pulling him in tightly against her body. Draco looked down, noticing, for perhaps the first time, the colour that had drained from his son’s face. Scorpius shuddered — half leaning into Hermione — his gaze neither meeting hers nor his. Choosing instead to scrutinise his shoes. Rose’s shoes.
Salazar. It was time for them to leave — he didn’t know why the thought came to him. Only that his instincts urged him there was no good to come of staying here longer. He turned towards Hermione, words rising to the tip of his tongue but faltering. Would she leave with them? Or would she wish to stay here — amongst those who had known her for more than a few days.
But one glance between them was enough.
“Ginny. Harry.” Hermione stepped forward, handing Scorpius over to Draco. “Ronald.”
They all turned towards her, their own muted chattering falling to the wayside. It was a sight to behold — Hermione Granger in her glory. The way she was able to command a space. He wondered if she was like that in every sphere? Did her co-workers tremble when she walked towards them within the Ministry hallways? Did they watch as her curls danced with determination, as if turning on the spot to apparate — only the thing to disappear was one’s own rationale and ability to breathe.
“This is—” She frowned, as if words had failed her. Had it been any other circumstance — knowing anything to do with him had made The Hermione Granger speechless would have brought him great joy. The sad tale of Draco Malfoy, who had only this moment under his belt for such a magnificent feat.
“Utter shite,” Ginevra supplied, stepping forward. Her wand rotating within her fingers. “Say, Lav. I won’t even begin asking you why you feel the need to be talking about Rose when she hasn’t even met you. But we’ll save that conversation for another night, shall we?”
Lavender Brown, whom Draco knew fuck all about beyond her penchant for gossip-mongering — the witch was the highest, most well paid editor of Witch Weekly — seemed to shrink back. Only instead of finding her intended, or whatever the fuck the Weasel was to her, she found a brick wall, as exposed to the elements as she was.
“I didn’t… I never meant.” Lavender spluttered. “My intention was not this.” She finally said, her tears illuminating the silver embedded within her pale skin. She looked the ghost Fenrir Greyback had left her when he had found another prey. “Cormac’s an old friend and we were simply talking about anything. I didn’t know he had an axe to grind.”
“Our point, exactly.” Ginevra said, with a casual flip of her hand — silencing her. “This, everything here, is not for you to know. You can’t be trusted not to squeal about it to the first person you come across who wants to talk about just anything.”
Lavender’s eyes searched out Weasley’s, who remained silent as he glared at the little space there was between Hermione and Draco. When it became apparent that she had no knight in shining armour to turn toward, she shifted her gaze back to Ginevra, then Hermione and finally to Draco.
“I do talk. I know myself enough, and I won’t deny it.” Lavender said, her voice growing in volume with every word. She ran a rough hand through her hair, pushing it back so she looked as dishevelled as the state before her. “I, rather mindlessly and for reasons I feel rather ashamed about, did talk about Ron and Hermione, and you by association. To me, it was nothing more than trivial gossip. If there is more to this story, and I do believe that there is, I apologise. If I need to be Obliviated as well, I will allow it.”
Her eyes — had he ever paid attention to her before? — they were round and sincere, and even he — Draco Malfoy, who did not trust anyone — knew she spoke her truth and spoke it freely. She was the same as countless witches and wizards he knew of. People who had nothing better to do with their day than to exchange gossip with those in their rota, relaying bits of anything and everything they had heard as if it made them more interesting. Did it free her of the disaster that was upon them? No. It made her as guilty as he had been, spewing venom because he’d heard it come from those he cared about. Only he’d been a child. And here she stood — in her thirties, doing much the same, still.
He wasn’t upset — he wasn’t even furious with her. He pitied her.
“I can do it,” George said, stepping forward, his wand already at the ready. “Memory spells do ignite a passion within me, and I’m always willing to learn more about them.”
Hermione physically flinched at George’s statement, though no one else saw it.
For Draco, it was a split-second decision. The truth boiled down to two questions — well, three. Did he trust the Weasleys? No. Did he trust Hermione? Implicitly. Where did her trust lie?
“Granger,” for it had to be Granger within this room — where her ex-husband, Rose’s father, glared at him as if he had just murdered someone in front of him — and the others believed him capable of murdering his son’s mother. She turned to him in a manner that made his heart sing. As if he were a bird, and his song her morning beacon.
Quite aptly, before he could continue what he had been about to say, a heron soared through the air, landing gracefully between Draco and Hermione.
“Ria says ‘to hell.’” Theo’s voice drawled, and Draco knew from the way his voice rippled out, slow and cautious, he’d found Stori at the end of his Floo call — Not Pansy. No Pansy would have had many different words, and none of those words would have allowed Theo to send a Patronus here, where children may be present to hear them. “That it’s time, and she’s ready.”
“We’re leaving,” Draco said simply, knowing he owed as much to Astoria, if not more than he did to Pansy. He turned towards Hermione. The question was simple: Do Scorp and I go home? Or is home with you and Rose at the cottage?
She nodded slowly, her gaze flickering from him to the Patronus and back. Yet she conceded. She conceded. Even if he knew her little, he knew what it meant for her to allow someone else to take charge.
“What about—?” Ginevra continued to scrutinise Lavender.
“I won’t say a word.” Lavender’s gaze bore into his profile. “I swear, whatever happens, I will have no further part to play.”
He was done. Astoria had made a decision — and there was a fallout from Pansy to expect later on — he had his own to think of now.
“I’d hope not,” Draco said, dismissively. “I expect you wish to continue to have relationships with people within this room. Our word is the least we have to offer, Brown.”
He turned then, finding Rose’s hand waiting for his. He took it gently, knowing all the while that her father stood — silent and stoic — watching as his daughter sought Draco out, again.
It didn’t bring him any satisfaction.
He knew what it felt like to grow disillusioned with one’s father. It hurt like a Crucio on both ends. He didn’t care for Weasley and he was certain he never would. But this — this he didn’t even wish it upon Weasley — certainly never on Rose. Rose who held a piece of his heart. Of Scorpius’s heart, just the same.
“Back to the cottage?” she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Yes,” Draco said quietly, wondering why they had ever left at all.
“What do I do with him?” Potter mumbled, gesturing at McLaggen, as Hermione began after them.
“Ronald can take care of it,” She said, and there was no fight left in her either. “He is the strategist within this room.”
* * *
The cottage was just as they had left it. Draco’s book was still hidden between the couch cushions, a sign of interrupted rest, its worn spine peeking out slightly, waiting for his return. The blanket fort stood as an untouched refuge, its colourful fabric sagging in some places, the pillows cradled in the same shape as when they had last huddled together. The Christmas tree stood sentinel in the corner, its soft lights casting a comforting glow over the room, while beneath it, the presents were neatly arranged, save for one. The one still tucked away within the confines of Scorpius’ bag — the final piece waiting to complete the picture.
Hermione was the last to step out of the Floo, the emerald flames briefly flaring before dying down. Somewhere between the journey from The Burrow, her flat, and now here, she had tied her hair back in a loose knot, and her face was freshly washed. She took a deep breath, grounding herself, before moving toward the sofa where Draco sat, eyes distant.
“We should talk,” she said, joining him on the sofa where he sat. “After dinner.”
“Okay.”
Hermione squeezed his hand gently. Her gaze drifted to Scorpius, who was kneeling beside the tree. He carefully added his gift to the pile, his small, delicate hands moving with caution. Skippy, the house-elf, lingered nearby, her ears perked as she watched the scene. Scorpius moved past her, sparing her a polite smile before he padded quietly down the hall to his room.
Draco watched from the corner of his eye as Hermione scrutinised their newest guest, but if Hermione had words to say about Skippy’s presence, she found now was not the time for that either.
“I had thought I’d have enough time to make a proper dinner,” she finally sighed, carding a rough hand through her hair. “But how does takeaway sound instead?”
Draco frowned, his gaze shifting to Skippy, who perked up even more at the mention of dinner, her large eyes now fixed longingly on the kitchen. “Will anything be open?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s the beauty of magic,” Hermione hummed with a hint of a smile. “And in a city like London, there’ll be something open for us even at—” she glanced at the clock on the mantle, “Merlin, eight in the evening.”
“Miss Granger doesn’t need to worry,” Skippy interjected, her voice filled with eagerness. “Skippy will be more than happy to make dinner.” There was a hopefulness in her voice, a desire to prove herself, and Hermione seemed to catch it, her expression softening.
“I’m sure you cook exceptionally well, Skippy,” Hermione said, offering the elf a kind smile. “But have you ever had an Indian takeaway?”
Skippy shook her head, her ears flopping slightly.
“Well then it is decided.” Hermione slapped her hands on her thighs. “You must join us for dinner and experience it for yourself. It’s truly excellent, and I’m sure you’ll have no problems replicating the recipes in the future — if Scorpius loves it as much as Rose does. Which I’m sure he will.”
The conniving witch.
She’d worded it just so, and though Skippy looked forlorn at the missed opportunity to feed more people — she brooked no argument either. The house-elf’s large cobalt eyes darted to Draco, seeking confirmation. He managed the slightest nod, hoping Hermione wouldn’t notice from her angle.
Salazar, he loved her.
“I’ll call it in,” Hermione said. “Draco.”
‘Salazar, I love her.’
“Draco.”
He blinked, realising he’d been staring at his own hands, twisting them together absentmindedly as he grappled with the weight of the admission. She had moved around the blanket fort, searching for the purse she had discarded earlier, her fingers flipping open her phone.
“Would you like to come with me to get the food?” she asked, her gaze holding his, her tone softening.
“Of course, Granger.”
They left Skippy in charge of the children — Rose, who had disappeared into the bathroom for a shower, and Scorpius, who stood by the Floo, watching them with wide, contemplative eyes. Hermione gave him a gentle smile, switching out her heels for her trainers, her movements careful.
“It’s a ten-minute walk from my flat,” Hermione told Scorpius kindly. “We won’t be gone for more than twenty-five minutes. Thirty max.”
“Okay,” Scorpius replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
Draco moved to him, kneeling so their eyes were level. “We’ll talk about it when we get back,” he said softly. “After dinner.”
“Okay.”
Draco lifted his chin with a sweep of his thumb.
“Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of it.”
Scorpius nodded. Even the word okay had failed him.
Draco followed Hermione through the Floo, landing for what felt like the hundredth time in her flat that day. He allowed himself to watch Hermione as she walked right past the notice-me-not charm he had cast — Merlin, had it been only a handful of hours?
“So you’re not widowed,” Hermione said, leading him through the dimly lit hallways of her building.
“I am not.”
“What would you be then?” she asked, frowning as she held open the door to the street. The chill of winter greeted them, biting at their cheeks, and Draco welcomed it, breathing in the sharpness. He loved the cold — the flush it brought to Scorpius’ cheeks when they went flying, the way it tousled Hermione’s hair, her grimace as she tried to wrangle the pages of her book against the wind. There had been a simplicity to it, to life, for those few fleeting days. A taste of something he hadn’t had since he was fourteen.
“I don’t like the idea that I’ve slept with a married man,” Hermione said, her voice blunt, though there was something fragile beneath it, a layer of hesitation. “Even if he’s separated.”
Draco rolled his eyes, his lips curling into a wry smile. He reached for her hand, entwining their fingers, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. “You and Weasley didn’t get married in the pureblood customs.”
“No.” She said, not pulling away. “I was already pregnant, and the risk of combining our cores would have been dire.”
“Astoria and I combined our cores.” Draco said, quieter now.
“So you are married.” Hermione stilled. “The marrying of magical cores makes it almost impossible to get divorced.”
Draco swallowed, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles. “Astoria lost her magic,” he said quietly. “When she became pregnant — we hadn’t known she had a blood curse. It was a generational curse that her father hid — from her, from me… My father didn’t even know.” He looked away, his jaw tightening. “We thought it would kill her. Or Scorpius. It was a nasty curse — it tore through her in the six months she was pregnant.”
“Scorpius was born prematurely?” Hermione asked, her voice softer now. She stopped in her tracks, pulling him gently to a halt just ahead of her.
Draco turned to face her, his eyes finding hers. “By three months,” he murmured.
“Draco.” His name was a whisper, a caress in the frigid air. She took a step closer, her hand coming up to rest on his arm, her warmth seeping through his coat.
“She had to let go of her magic. It was the only way to survive. For Scorpius to survive.”
“So it is as if she died — the marriage bond died.” Hermione whispered.
“Yes.”
“And she’s happy?” Hermione asked, peering up at him.
A grin spread across his lips.
“Astoria’s living her best life. She and Pansy are.”
“Oh?” Hermione’s gaze widened. “Pansy!”
It was like watching her put a puzzle together — as if she’d discovered a sixth principle exception to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration. She was radiant, her cheeks now lush with colour.
“I told you she had a wife,” Draco smirked.
“And you very conveniently did not mention that her wife is also your ex-wife.” Hermione rolled her eyes. They had resumed walking, her leading him gently through the curving lanes of Muggle London.
“I couldn’t—”
“I know,” Hermione said, squeezing his hand. “I — I’m sorry it came out in the way it did.”
Draco sighed. “There’s nothing to apologise for Granger. It wasn’t your fault, and it certainly isn’t Rose’s. If I had known she knew, I would have spoken to her.”
“Scorpius told her.”
“I have to assume so, since nobody else knows.”
“What now?” They’d arrived at the restaurant he assumed Hermione had ordered their food from, seeing as it had “Taj Indian” written in flashing neon lights — and was the only shop open within the cul-de-sac.
They stopped right before the threshold of the restaurant, a few paces away from a lone man smoking his cigarette in complete silence. Hermione eyed him enviously.
“Nobody can touch Pansy and Astoria,” Draco said quietly. “They’re married under Muggle Law, and it’s been over seven years since they registered the marriage with the Belgian Ministry of Magic, which means the time to register an objection has passed. The Greengrasses can raise a riot and try to defame Astoria, but the truth of the matter is — I have a larger claim on Astoria than they do. They can’t bring her home — and they certainly can’t auction her to another suitor, not when she’s still officially Astoria Malfoy.”
“Is she?” Hermione raised a brow.
“The Parkinson-Malfoys.” Draco smiled sheepishly. “Pansy pitched a fit. Tried to make it Malfoy-Parkinson, but truth be told, she was just relieved nobody made her take on Greengrass for her last name.”
Silence descended upon them, and Hermione continued to watch the lone man, the red ring of his cigarette a beam of light within darkness.
“Is that what she meant? Ria? ‘To hell?’”
“Astoria’s been wanting to come back for some time. Not permanently, no.” Draco shook his head as Hermione’s breath hitched. “They’re happy where they are. But Pansy has also had to make adjustments in her life. She only visits her family for a week or so — can’t tell her brothers or her mother anything about her life. They’re under the impression she lives in Japan. Astoria loathes it. The sacrifices. They’ve been having this argument for quite some time. About making themselves known, now that the Greengrasses can’t touch them, but Pansy’s been solidly against putting Astoria in a situation that may get ugly.”
“Daphne doesn’t know, does she?”
“No. Daphne— Daphne wasn’t very kind to her when Astoria tried to come out to her.”
They paid for the food, three heaping bags full Draco was certain would mostly end up in the icebox they had at the cottage. He wordlessly charmed them with a feather-light charm, including the bag that Hermione insisted she was capable of carrying “as she had hands, just like him.”
He imagined she had many more questions she was biting back, but they continued to walk the streets in a silence that reminded him of sharing the library with her. Only, on this night, their wrists touched every so often, and no one pulled back.
“Are you going to need to talk to them?” Hermione asked, pulling open her front door.
Draco sighed wearily.
“I was thinking I’d do it after dinner — after I speak to Scorp.”
“Will you come back?”
There was something in the furrow of her brows — in the way she shifted from one foot to the other — that made him realise they hadn’t spoken about the previous night. That maybe “Will you come back?” was really “Are we still where we were this morning?”
“If you’ll have me,” he said, setting the food down on her table. This flat really was too small, and it wasn’t long before he was standing before her, taking her bag and levitating it so that it joined the other two.
She turned her chin up to look at him.
“Our children are trying to set us up.”
“Is it working?” Draco murmured, his thumb tracing along the shell of her ear.
“They’re our children. What do you think?” She smiled, her fingers finding the hem of his sleeve.
“Exceeds Expectations?”
“For now,” Hermione mused.
“Do you want to hear their name for it?” Draco said, allowing his hands to curve down along her neck.
“Name for what?”
“Name… like your spunk.”
“S.P.E.W,” Hermione admonished.
“Yes, that, but for us,” Draco said, tilting her head back as his other arm wound around her.
“What is it?” Her breath hitched.
“Mission Tits.”
“Tits?”
“T.I.T.S. This is Top Secret.”
She laughed, a gloriously delightful laugh that filled the space between them with warmth that chased away the lingering chill from their walk. The sound of it was so intoxicating, so utterly unguarded, that Draco found himself mesmerised, unable to resist its pull. In that moment, with the world around them dimming into irrelevance, he leaned down, drawn by the softness of her mouth, and captured her laughter with his lips.
It was not like the kiss they had shared the previous night, nor the one from earlier this afternoon. Their hands didn’t roam beyond where they were already connected — his at the nape of her neck, hers’ grazing through his hair. It was a small moment of innocence they had managed to capture. A sun-shower. And she tasted like it too. And he, a man caught in an endless rainstorm — finding the most perfect patch of sunlight amidst it all.
“We should go,” Hermione said. “The night’s not over yet.”
Draco groaned. Indeed. He didn’t think it was either. He hadn’t caught it when it occurred, but something had happened between Scorpius and Rose and there were amends to be made, yet.
He allowed her to Floo first following behind her with the three bags of food. As the emerald flames around him dissipated, he saw — they were already too late.
“Hermione?”
Draco’s gaze lingered on her where she knelt at the centre of their blanket fort, holding an overwrought Rose to her chest. She looked up then, her eyes misting even as Rose continued to bawl into her chest. Draco could see, in the way her shoulders shook violently — every sob louder and more heart-wrenching — that this was not the same as when she had escaped into her room to wipe away tears. She was unravelling before his eyes.
“Draco,” Hermione whispered, her voice strained and barely audible over Rose's heart-wrenching cries.
“What happened?” He moved slowly, his eyes searching… searching… searching.
“He’s not here,” Hermione said, following his gaze around the room. “Skippy said he left for the Manor.”
“How?” His voice was tight, a mix of confusion and rising panic.
“Through the Floo,” Hermione replied, her hand moving in soothing circles over Rose's trembling back. “They’ve had a row.”
At her words, Rose spluttered before breaking into a fresh peal of sobs.
Draco inhaled slowly.
“Skippy?”
"Yes, Master," Skippy appeared hesitantly from the kitchen, her large eyes glistening with her own distress. She held a glass of water, which Hermione took gratefully, pressing it to Rose's lips.
“What’s happened?”
Skippy’s own eyes were watery, and she shifted uneasily under his gaze.
Skippy wrung her hands together, her ears drooping. “Skippy tried — she tried so hard to make them stop. But the young Miss and Master were yelling and crying. They said hurtful things.” Her voice quivered, and she looked down at her feet. “Master Scorpius said he wanted to go home. That he no longer wanted—” She could not finish her sentence, and perhaps it was for the best. He did not think it was worth repeating.
Draco’s eyes connected with Hermione, and she looked as heartbroken as he felt.
“I should go.”
Hermione nodded slowly, her gaze torn between Rose where she was a mess of wild curls and Draco, where he moved back towards the Floo. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder, the emerald flames roaring to life as he stepped into the hearth.
The sight of the blanket fort — still unused, still waiting for them to come home — followed him to the Manor.
Notes:
Thank you for all your love and for bearing with my absence -- I've been terribly unwell -- but I am feeling better and hopefully I've fixed what was causing all my headaches. I think
We will learn more about Rose and Scorp's fight, but I didn't have the heart to sketch it all out in graphic format as it would have been so incredibly difficult, but we will learn more with Hermione and Draco.
Lots of love to Cait for alpha'ing and Mlekoimiodd for cheer-reading.
Chapter 17: Holiday Greetings and Un-Happy Meetings
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Time had come to a standstill, so why was it racing faster?
Blink. Seven a.m.
Hermione was supposed to be on holiday. She shouldn’t be awake. She rolled over. Just the same as the world at large, which, too, continued to turn.
Outside her window, a distant bird twittered, as if in mocking agreement.
Blink. Eight a.m.
She hadn’t moved a muscle, lying in a tangle of cool sheets, her fingers curled around her duvet as she stared at her ceiling. She’d lived in this flat since before officially divorcing Ron; was she just now noticing her bedroom had popcorn ceiling?
The uneven texture grated on her nerves.
She thought of Draco’s lone corn-puff, still waiting for them to return...
Blink. Nine a.m.
She and Draco were okay. It was the kids who needed them. Then why did this day hurt more than the day she had moved into this very flat?
No. She couldn’t compare the two. It would only break her heart more.
She strained her ears, listening for the smallest of noises from her daughter’s room — a rustle of sheets, a creak of the floorboards — any sign that Rose had woken up.
Nothing.
Blink. Ten a.m.
The need to use the bathroom forced her out of bed. Painful cramps doubled her over. Of course. They would come today.
Mother Nature had an impeccable sense of irony — perhaps she should be renamed Mother Nature-in-Law for her untimely intrusions.
Where was her blasted purse?
A fleeting panic gripped her before she remembered it was at the cottage.
Everything was at the cottage.
Blink. Ten-oh-five a.m.
Two tampons left. She’d need more. Either she’d have to brave the cold for a trip to Boots, or she’d have to return to the cottage.
The cottage — where they had meant to stay until the morning of the thirtieth...
The cottage her daughter hadn’t been able to stay in, not for a moment longer after Skippy, too, had Disapparated — having waited hours for their... for the... for Scorpius and Draco to return.
Rose had hardly stopped crying during those hours Hermione had held her. Her trembling sobs turned to uneven hiccups until finally — finally — they were replaced with gentle trembles as Rose breathed deeply. In the quiet cocoon of their blanket fort, where Rose’s tears had run dry, Hermione waited with bated breath for words to break the silence.
And when Rose had finally spoken, it was only to say, "I want my bed." And that had been that.
The end.
Hermione knew there would be no returning to the cottage now — not for them, not without the Malfoys. And the Malfoys had too much on their plates to worry about their cosy cottage or them.
She wondered if there was a hex to remodel the ceiling. Maybe a glamour?
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she’d go back and pack all their bags, collect the three bags of takeaway that would inevitably end up in the bin, and pick up the gifts that adorned their abandoned Christmas tree.
Tomorrow she’d wonder if Malfoy and she had ended before it could even become more.
Blink. Eleven a.m.
Christmas — It was the best of times, it was the worst of times — she decided today she’d reread a favourite. She’d lie on her couch, buried under the softest blanket she could find, and do nothing except wait for Rose to come out of her bedroom, starved, as she inevitably would be. Then once she was fed and content, Hermione would gently coax her to share what had occurred the previous night. The words that had been said — words Skippy had been unable to repeat.
It would be ugly; she was well aware. She’d been at the end of countless rows with Harry and Ron — knew exactly how they went — how deep those words cut and the scars that lingered long after. She also remembered how difficult it had been for her, with no one truly in her corner. No one except Hagrid, who — still, to this day — was the only adult who had tried to help them make amends.
Yet she also knew that space and time were both essential in matters of the heart. Precious, fragile, pure hearts — and yet, her own lurched — she wasn’t sure she wanted either. Neither time nor space would heal Hermione.
Alas. Today, she’d give the people she desperately wanted around her the space she knew they needed, and herself the time to find the best approach.
If there was anyone who could do it, it was (not) her.
Yet she decided it would have to be.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair...”
As she began to read, the world outside faded just a little, and for now, that was enough. If she couldn’t sleep in on her holiday — she’d have to make do with not being Hermione Granger for a few hours before she carried on with the mantle.
* * *
“Wake up.”
“Huh.”
Theodore Nott was a menace.
In fact, Draco was convinced every Slytherin ever sorted into the wretched house was a menace, but Theo was in a league of his own. He had no sense of boundaries — evidenced by the way he flopped onto Draco’s luxurious four-poster bed, promptly stealing all the sheets warmed by Draco’s carefully placed charm, leaving him exposed to the Manor’s draft in just his pyjama bottoms.
“Theo!”
“Coco.”
It was far too early in the morning to whack him for his childish, absurd, absolutely ridiculous nickname. Still, the back of Draco’s hand connected with Theo’s cushioned stomach.
“That’s not the explanation I was promised, Coco.”
“Ugh.” Draco groaned, wandlessly dimming the sconces he’d forgotten to snuff the night before. “What time is it?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven?” Draco bolted upright, his heart hammering.
In the twelve years since he had been released from the icy hold of Azkaban, Draco had never slept past six. Mornings had always crept up on him, finding him already alert, awake, bracing for another day of a life he’d slowly pieced back together. Never, except the one night he’d fallen asleep beside her.
The woman he loved. The woman he’d kissed the night before. The woman he wished was here, lying beside him instead of...
“Fuck off, Theo.”
“Oh no...” Theo said, rolling over so that his head was propped up on his elbow. “Not until you tell me everything, darling.”
“I need coffee.” Draco sighed wearily, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Excellent, I already ordered Mipsy to bring around a tray. Should be here any moment.”
Draco leaned back, letting his head fall against the headboard.
The previous night had been an unmitigated disaster, and by the time he’d Floo’d to follow behind Scorpius, his son had already locked himself in his bedroom. It would have only taken a simple spell — an Alohomora Draco had been able to perform since he was Scorpius’s age, taking his mother’s wand for a ride whenever she wasn’t looking — but he hadn’t been able to muster the courage to intrude. He knew better than most how important it was to reflect on the words you spat out of sheer anger or frustration. Yet, he’d sat outside his son’s bedroom until four in the morning — lost as to how he could be there for him without becoming his own father.
Pansy had also not received his Floo call — a first in almost eight years.
“Master Draco, Master Theo,” Mipsy announced with a deferential nod, Apparating directly into Draco’s chambers with a gleaming silver tray that seemed to strain under its burden — delicate porcelain cups, a teapot still steaming, and an assortment of preserves and pastries. She set the tray on the table by the window with practised grace, her large eyes flickering with pride as she arranged the tea accoutrements just so. “Tea and coffee.”
Theo stretched his arms wide, a yawn escaping him as he shuffled toward the two wingback chairs positioned by the window. Upholstered in rich, deep green velvet to match the rest of Draco’s bedroom, they framed the large window that overlooked the frost-kissed gardens below, sprawling and immaculately maintained despite the season’s chill. He dropped into one of them with a contented sigh, sparing a glance at Draco, who was already seated and looking contemplatively over the gardens.
His mother’s roses and periwinkles stared back at him.
“Mipsy,” Draco said tightly. “Has Scorpius awoken yet?”
“Not yet, sir,” Mipsy said quietly. “Skippy is checking on the young master every hour.”
Draco nodded slowly before turning his attention back to the other child within close proximity.
“You’re here early.” Draco grimaced, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He downed it in one gulp, the liquid scalding as it made its way down his throat, before pouring himself more of the liquid elixir.
Mipsy made it just right — strong, aromatic and bitter. Perfect for someone who hardly ever slept at all.
“Au contraire,” Theo murmured, stirring his tea — a concoction more sweetened milk than brew, with a few Ceylon leaves tossed in for show. “Didn’t leave last night. Crashed in the bridal suite.” He nodded towards the adjoining room, connected to Draco’s by a concealed door, its rich wainscoting blending seamlessly into the wood-panelled walls of the bedroom.
“I see.”
“Had a lovely chat with Pansy when she called back an hour after I spoke to Stori.”
“Lovely?”
“How I missed her foul mouth.”
Draco snorted into his cup — now savouring the aroma as it spread around him — the warmth of it seeping into his bones.
“Is it too much to ask you to put on a shirt?” Theo arched a brow at Draco, drinking his milk.
“Worried about what Red will say?” Draco shot back, suddenly remembering the other revelation of the previous day.
“Oh, don’t pout.” Theo rolled his eyes. “I invited you and Scorp over for dinner so I could tell you about Georgie, but my owls have gone unanswered this entire week. Narcissa mentioned something about Blaise and Luna, but when they were over for drinks the other night, they hadn’t seen you around either.”
“I... that is, Scorpius and I were spending the holidays with Granger and her daughter.”
“You don’t say,” Theo said dryly. “What else have you hidden from me? Were you a spy for the Order during the war? Are you secretly a brunette? Is Scorpius really Voldemort’s love child?”
“Funny,” Draco said acerbically.
“Draco, about—”
“Theo, let me catch my breath, would you?” Draco grumbled. His mind had been racing since the moment he’d taken his first sip of coffee. He’d have to balance a fine line between being available for Scorpius without becoming overbearing. He’d also have to try and get in touch with Astoria — whose entire life may or may not, even as he sat here, be going up in flames. Would he need an emergency portkey to Belgium? Those were pesky to get at such a last minute, especially during the holidays, and even then there was the fallout to expect. “A lot has happened, and I have a feeling today’s going to be much the same as yesterday was.”
“You’re not wrong about that,” came a crisp, dry voice that was decidedly not Theo’s. “Is it too early in the day for wine? Fuck it, firewhisky will do.”
* * *
“Hungry?” Hermione asked softly. She watched Rose creep quietly around the small breakfast table that separated the snug sitting area from the open kitchen.
Rose froze, her back to Hermione, head turned away. From her vantage point on the couch, still wrapped up in a thick, knitted blanket, Hermione couldn’t see her daughter’s face — only the messy bun of curls that had come undone, strands flopping to one side. Slowly, Rose turned, her eyes meeting Hermione’s with a guarded expression.
“Just for cereal,” Rose mumbled, her voice tight, as though any further words might crack something inside her.
“Okay,” Hermione replied, keeping her tone even despite her chest constricting in pain.
“Okay.” Rose padded across the kitchen in her worn, kitten-patterned slippers she still insisted on wearing even though they were almost too small now. Her small feet moved soundlessly on the linoleum floor as she rummaged through the fridge. “There’s no milk.”
Hermione groaned, remembering her ill-fated purge of the fridge the morning of their getaway. Could anything go right this fucking week?
“I can go to the cottage and get—”
“No.” Rose’s voice was sharp, almost a shout. She dropped the box of cereal onto the counter with a thud, the sound reverberating through the quiet flat. She continued her search of the kitchen before retrieving an old, half-empty box of porridge sachets from the pantry.
“You don’t like porridge.” Hermione raised a brow.
“I don’t want anything from the cottage,” Rose said bitterly. “I never want to think of it again.”
“Rose—” Hermione said, sitting up slowly.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Rose snapped, before her cheeks turned scarlet — the picture of Ronald when he said something he immediately regretted.
Hermione felt furious tears well up. He’d caused damage she would never forgive him for.
“I’m sorry,” Rose whispered, the anger in her voice dissipating as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a trembling remorse.
“It’s okay,” Hermione managed, her voice thick. She pushed herself up and crossed the small space between them, the floor cold beneath her bare feet. “Do you want help?”
Rose bit her lip, looking down at the sachet in her hand, then held it out for Hermione.
The electric kettle on and buzzing, they settled at the breakfast table. Rose stared down at her clasped hands, while Hermione breathed in the aroma of coffee swirling around her. Between tea and coffee, she found she much preferred tea as she grew older — but coffee smelled like...
She hurried to her feet, grateful for the kettle’s click. In a bowl, she mixed the sachet of oatmeal with sugar, cinnamon and hot water. It looked disgusting, and she…
She needed someone.
Not someone.
Them.
Or her parents.
She was the parent in this household, but that didn’t mean she didn’t need her own. She wished she had her phone. Everywhere she turned — it called her back to the cottage she, herself, didn’t have any heart to travel to. The abandoned blanket-fort swam in her vision, and she excused herself to go take a shower. Rose hadn’t said a word, and she needed time to figure out a path forward.
Blink. Eleven-forty-five a.m:
She had no intention of leaving the shower, even though she knew she should.
Rose needs you. The thought sliced through her fog of self-pity.
Maybe the reason she kept putting it off was not because Rose wasn’t ready. Maybe it was because she wasn’t ready for Rose to tell her she never wanted to see the Malfoys again.
She needed her father.
No.
Hermione Granger didn’t need anyone.
She wiped away the condensation on her mirror, meeting her eyes evenly.
She needed to prioritise her daughter, and that meant prioritising Rose’s friendship with Scorpius — because they brought so much joy to each other’s lives — not because of her and Draco. She’d seen the love Rose and Scorpius held for each other. The embrace Rose had given him when she’d been mindless in her words, when they’d been decorating the Christmas tree. She’d seen the look on Scorpius’ face when he’d taken hold of Rose’s hand when she’d been overwrought, trembling under the weight of Cormac’s insinuations.
Their relationship, or whatever it was, was secondary to the friendship of their children., she mentally reminded herself
And she could do it — If there was anyone who could — it was Hermione.
All she needed was to trust her judgement.
She hoped it would be enough to make everything right.
The survival of her relationship with Draco — whether as friendly acquaintances (who’d seen each other naked) or as the more they’d been journeying towards — was secondary. Their children would come first.
That had been the promise.
They’d both made it.
She smiled into the mirror — practising it.
It is bloody scary.
Point one for Ronald Weasley.
* * *
Pansy stalked forward, her azure eyes — frozen ice.
“Hello, Theo, darling,” she purred, though her voice was as sharp as a shard of glass. She shot Draco a scathing look, her lip curling. “Draco.”
“I didn’t realise my bedroom was open for the season,” Draco drawled, his tone sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes tracked Astoria as she entered behind Pansy, her footsteps light and soundless on the plush carpet. She carried a gleaming silver tray laden with breakfast sandwiches — buttery croissants, and freshly baked sourdough with the sharp tang of cream cheese mingling with the crisp, refreshing scent of cucumber.
Thank Merlin. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until now. He would need sustenance for whatever emotional storm was about to hit.
“Straight from our kitchen,” Astoria murmured, her voice a balm in direct contrast to her wife’s sharp-edged sarcasm. She set the tray down on the small table by the window with practised grace. “Leave the cucumber and cream ones for Scorp. They’re his favourite.”
“Stori.” Theo’s voice cracked, and he leapt up from the chair, the sudden movement uncharacteristic of his usual languid demeanour. He crossed the room in three long strides, a feat Draco knew well. He’d paced this room enough times to recognise that kind of urgency — the kind born of grief and disbelief mingled together.
Theo pulled Astoria into his arms, crushing her head against his chest. His lips moved frantically, pressing kisses to the crown of her head, her temple, her hairline. It was as if he couldn’t decide which part of her to kiss first, as though he feared she might vanish again if he let her go for even a second.
“That’s my wife you’re manhandling,” Pansy quipped, folding her arms over her chest. The words were delivered with her usual dry wit, but her eyes betrayed her. They shimmered with unshed tears, the icy façade cracking.
“Oh, fuck off,” Theo grimaced, hugging Astoria tighter still. “You and Draco are dead to me.”
“Two for one, huh?” Astoria chuckled, but her laugh died on her lips as Theo pulled back to glare at her.
“How could you?” His voice was rough, like sandpaper scraping across the silence. He didn’t wait for a response before dragging her back into his embrace, burying his face in her hair. “How could you all?”
“Theo,” Astoria said softly, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Nobody could know. It worked because nobody knew.”
“I mourned you,” Theo whispered into her hair. “I mourned you, Stori.”
“I know,” Astoria said, stroking her fingers gently through Theo’s curls. “I know, darling.”
“Don’t ‘darling’ me,” Theo snapped, jerking away from her touch. He looked ready to storm out, his shoulders tense, every muscle coiled like a spring about to snap. But then, in a move so very Theo, he snatched the platter of sandwiches from the table, plopped himself down on Draco’s bed, and took a large, defiant bite out of one of them — the one Draco was certain had cucumbers in it.
Children.
* * *
Rose snuggled deeper into the space between Hermione’s thighs, her small body radiating warmth as Hermione’s hands absently stroked through the wild tangle of curls that had become well and truly matted over the past half day. It was to be a couch mope day, and Hermione decided it was well earned. They flipped through the channels, and when Hermione lingered upon a child-friendly rerun of Love Actually, one of their favourites, Rose deftly took control of the remote and switched through the channels until she found the ‘perfect movie’ for Boxing Day.
Karate Kid.
Hermione shuddered to think of exactly who Rose was picturing at the end of her moves.
“Merlin, you gave me a fright!”Ginny’s voice pierced the quiet, startling Hermione from her thoughts. “I thought in your absence, your house had been taken over by a gang of prepubescent thugs.”
Hermione lifted her head from the sofa cushion she’d been nestled into, only to find Ginny standing just before her, one hand pressed to her chest, her new maroon sweater now dusted with soot. Some things never changed.
“Gin.” Hermione glanced at Rose, who had sprawled out on the other end of the sofa, her arm hanging limply over the side. Rose’s soft, even snores filled the room, the kind that only came with the exhaustion of a sleepless night. It seemed in resting her eyes, she’d actually fallen asleep, and missed most of the movie. “What are you doing here?”
“Question of the hour, I think,” Ginny said, flopping down onto Hermione’s lone armchair. “I was on my way to the cottage, but it seems the cottage has been abandoned.”
“Let’s step out onto the balcony,” Hermione suggested, already cautiously rising.
Calling it a balcony was generous. It was a cramped six-by-six ledge with a rickety iron railing that overlooked the building’s dumpsters. Excellent for those nights Hermione snuck out for a cigarette — but terrible for viewing purposes. Luckily for Hermione, she was rather adept at experimental charms and had managed a panoramic glamour, so it seemed as if she were looking out over a scenic vista that could otherwise be found in Battersea Park.
Hermione lit a cigarette with a quick flick of her wand, taking a deep drag and letting the smoke curl through her lungs. The familiar burn settled something inside her. She held the cigarette out to Ginny, who plucked it from her fingers without hesitation. Ginny didn’t smoke, had never succumbed to the habit the way Hermione had, but she would sometimes take a drag out of curiosity.
Ginny inhaled shallowly, her nose wrinkling in that familiar way as she exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the crisp afternoon air.
“I’ll never understand why you turn to these little killer sticks,” she muttered, handing it back with a grimace.
Hermione took it back, allowing herself a small, wry smile before taking another drag.
“And she still hasn’t told you what was said?”
Hermione shook her head, her lips tightening around the filter. She had to give credit to Ginny, who’d taken every revelation of the past four days in stride — no ‘you shagged the ferret?’ quip had passed her lips. It was uncharacteristic of her — and by no means was Hermione under the impression that it was off the table for future conversations — but for now, she allowed it to go forth uncommented, and for that Hermione was grateful.
“No,” she admitted, taking another deep drag. The smoke filled her lungs, and she held it there for a moment before exhaling slowly, the heat of it grounding her. “I’m waiting for the right moment to bring it up.”
“That’s wise,” Ginny agreed, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the flimsy railing. It creaked beneath her, and Hermione’s fingers twitched towards her wand. The charm holding the railing was strong, but she didn’t trust it completely — and she certainly didn’t trust Ginny not to push her luck. “Do you remember the cheese incident?”
Hermione shuddered at the distant memory of it.
“You know,” Ginny began after a long, contemplative silence, “I didn’t talk to Ron for almost a year once.”
Hermione frowned.
Ginny’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Right after the Goblet of Fire mess,” she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. “When Ron was being an absolute arse about Harry’s name coming out. We exchanged words in passing — ‘Percy’s looking for you,’ or ‘Mum said to answer her letters,’ — but for months, I couldn’t bring myself to properly speak to him. I couldn’t forgive him for abandoning Harry when he needed him most.”
Hermione stared at her, truly seeing her friend. Ginny had always been a force of nature: a witch who carved out her own space in a family full of strong personalities. She’d fought her way into Harry’s heart and made herself indispensable, a true pillar of strength. Ginevra Weasley was a formidable woman.
“When did you forgive him?” Hermione asked, her voice small.
Ginny let out a sharp laugh, devoid of humour. “Oh, I still haven’t entirely forgiven him,” she admitted, the smile slipping from her face. “But I did learn to see things from his point of view. That’s the thing about sibling relationships,” she added, her hand reaching out to squeeze Hermione’s arm gently. “They’re uniquely complicated. We hurt more for them because we expect the world of them.”
Ginny nodded towards the living room, where Rose’s quiet snores continued. “Those two,” she said, her voice softening, “they may be only children to the rest of the world, but they found a sibling in each other.”
“Like Harry and—”
“Yes,” Ginny interrupted with a small, knowing smile. “Like you and Harry. But unlike you two, they have no great threat against humanity pushing them to make up immediately. And there’s no Ron driving them together, or pulling them apart. They have the luxury of time — and that’s a blessing and a curse.”
Hermione felt a lump rise in her throat, a tight, painful pressure that she swallowed down. “Do you think they’ll be alright?” she whispered.
Ginny’s eyes softened, and she squeezed Hermione’s arm again, her grip firm and reassuring. “I do,” she said simply. “They’re resilient, just like their parents. And you know what they say about the blood of the coven, and all.”
Hermione nodded, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. She took one last drag of her cigarette, the smoke curling around her like a protective shroud. “Yeah,” she murmured, almost to herself. “They are.”
“So until then—” Ginny paused, mulling something over with a tilt of her head, then flipped her hair decisively. Before Hermione could even stub out her cigarette and take a step back towards the door, Ginny was gone — the sound of her boots barely fading before the green flames of the Floo Network roared to life, swallowing her whole.
The rush of emerald fire left only a faint trace of soot, and Hermione was left blinking at the empty grate, the abruptness of it like a door slamming shut.
* * *
“I can understand the situation and still be furious about the repercussions,” Pansy growled, slamming the door to the powder room behind her with a force that rattled nearby sconces. No one so much as flinched when Theo nonchalantly conjured a fresh bottle of firewhisky from the sideboard, pouring a second hefty shot into everyone’s snifter without asking. It was going to be that kind of afternoon.
There’d been no point in staying holed up in Draco’s bedroom — not when the wards were keyed to alert the entire household the moment a visitor crossed into the threshold. So, they’d migrated to Draco’s parlour, tucked away in his private wing, knowing eventually they’d be sought out.
Astoria had paused outside Scorpius’s bedroom, her hand hovering over the handle, a shadow of hesitation flickering across her features. Before she could decide whether to demand entry, Skippy had materialised with a reverential bow, assuring both Astoria and Draco that they would be the first to know the moment Scorpius showed signs of leaving his room.
It hadn’t taken long for Mipsy to sniff out their plans for the afternoon, and she’d popped in with a twitch of her ears and a look of quiet disapproval that made Draco shiver. Within minutes, she’d launched her own form of rebellion: conjuring a dozen chafing dishes filled with hors d'oeuvres, lining them up meticulously beside the bottles of liquid lunch. Her silent message was clear — if they were going to drink themselves into oblivion, they’d do it with a full stomach.
The spread was impressive, even by Mipsy’s standards. There were creamy slices of brie drizzled with sticky fig jam, golden mushroom-stuffed pastries still warm from the oven, and delicate tarts filled with smoked salmon mousse. The scent of the buttery pastries mingled with the rich, peaty aroma of the firewhisky, curling through the room and making it impossible to ignore the grumbling of their stomachs.
Eventually, they all caved. One by one, they picked up warm plates and began filling them to the brim, the tension in the room easing ever so slightly with the comfort of good food and strong drink. Theo popped a brie-topped cracker into his mouth with a satisfied hum, while Pansy savagely bit into a mushroom tart as if it had personally offended her.
“And here I thought it was Scorpius slamming doors like a petulant child,” Lucius drawled, shifting his grip on his cane, standing with deliberate poise by the far wall of Draco’s sitting room. “My, my. You look remarkably sun-kissed for a ghost. Dare I say, death has done wonders for your complexion.”
Astoria turned slowly, meeting Lucius’ gaze evenly as he stalked forward, his mouth twisting at the sight of her fitted trousers and tank top.
“Lucius.”
“Astoria,” Lucius said, tilting his head slightly so his gaze could come to rest on Pansy. “Miss Parkinson, or should I say, Mrs Parkinson-Malfoy.”
“That must mean I should address you as Father,” Pansy deadpanned even as her knuckles turned white around her snifter.
“The more the merrier,” Lucius said acerbically. “Narcissa and I always wanted a large brood of rowdy children to drain our coffers dry.”
“We’ll be sure to look for our names in your will,” Pansy matched his tone.
“Father, I see you were notified of our guests.” Lucius moved across the room, bypassing all of Mipsy’s valiant efforts to pour himself a hefty measure of Draco’s most prized firewhisky — a batch older than Dumbledore himself — and decidedly unopened for a reason.
“Naturally,” Lucius sneered.
“How long have you known?”
Lucius turned on his heel, assessing the room at large — everyone stilled to hear his answer.
“Ever since a thread on the Malfoy tapestry joined the Malfoys to the Parkinsons,” Lucius said dryly. “That’s what? Seven years now. My congratulations are heartfelt, even if belated.”
He raised his glass to Astoria before downing it.
“You kept quiet,” Astoria said. If Draco hadn’t already known it before, he saw it now: how time had changed Astoria. A raven turned eagle, who met Lucius head-on. “Why?”
Pansy, who’d taken hold of Astoria’s hand, watched as Lucius’s gaze flickered to their interlocked fingers.
“I owed it to Draco, I suppose,” he muttered, before throwing back his drink.
Draco felt heat rise up his sternum, and just as he began to wonder if it was the same feeling he’d felt before — when he’d been just a boy, doting on his father’s every word — it was replaced by a pulse of energy at his core. He turned towards Theo.
“Your guest has arrived,” he said blandly.
“Excellent.” Theo smiled, jumping up. “I was wondering if he’d have the nerve.”
“Really?” Draco raised a brow. “In what world does George Weasley not have nerve?”
“Master Draco,” Mipsy announced,Apparated into the room with a loud crack. “Mister George Weasley.”
Lucius glared at the sight before him — Pansy and Astoria, Theo and George — and then finally turned towards Draco, who shrugged, biting back a smirk. Oh, how times had changed.
“I don’t believe a Weasley has set foot inside Malfoy Manor since the late seventeen hundreds,” Lucius finally said, sweeping across the room to take a seat.
“I believe a war hero by the name of Ronald Weasley graced us in the Spring of 1998 — unless, of course, you’re discounting those who were dragged through the gates in chains.”
“Hmph,” Lucius said, his lip curling up into a sneer as he settled in more comfortably under the weight of Draco’s scrutiny.
At that, George looked from Draco to Lucius and then finally at Theo, who clutched his hand tighter.
“Now, now, Draco.” Theo waved his hand. “Let the liquor truly set in before we hash out topics such as torture and imprisonment.”
“I’ll drink to that,” George said, meeting Lucius’ discerning gaze steadily.
“Would someone like to explain why my home has become King’s Cross Station on this fine afternoon?” Narcissa asked from the doorway, looking equal parts ecstatic at the company and miffed at being the last to arrive.
* * *
The first to arrive was Harry, followed by Luna and Blaise, and then finally Ginny, who was holding the bag of Indian food Hermione had left abandoned at the cottage — along with her toiletries bag.
Merlin, bless the witch.
Instead of words, a loud grumble escaped Hermione’s stomach.
“Hungry?” Harry asked, kissing her cheek before swiping her half-empty packet of gingersnaps.
“Harry, Luna, Blaise… er, hello,” Hermione said, setting her coffee cup down. “This is a surprise.”
“Is it?” Ginny raised a brow as she started unpacking the food. “Harry, you’re better with this thing,” she added, nodding toward Hermione’s microwave.
“By better, she means I know not to try boiling eggs in it,” Harry said, moving past her with a grin. “They er… tend to explode if you do that, as Ginny learned the hard way.”
“Happy holidays, Granger,” Blaise said smoothly, moving past his wife — who had taken hold of both of Hermione’s hands — to set down a shrunken crate on her kitchen counter. He winked at her before tapping his wand against the crate. “Engorgio.”
The crate swelled to its original size, the words Zabini Estates now clearly visible in elegant, gold lettering.
“Yes, I do see it,” Luna murmured, her gaze fixed on Hermione’s hands. Then her piercing aquamarine eyes found Hermione’s, and she smiled brilliantly. “I had a dream about you last night.”
“Did you?” Hermione asked, her lip tugging up into a reluctant smile she knew was exclusively for Luna. “What was it about?”
“You were swimming with a selkie,” Luna said dreamily. “But it wasn’t the sea — it was a library, filled with floating books. And instead of being led into the depths, you made it so the selkie rose to the surface with you. It truly is a wonderful achievement, Hermione.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed, but she couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped. “It is, but it’s a dream Luna. My work with merpeople is historically unsuccessful.”
Luna hummed by way of response before turning back toward her husband, who had begun rummaging in Hermione’s kitchen for acceptable stemware.
“Go on,” Ginny said, pressing the bag of toiletries into Hermione’s hands. “Go freshen up. We’ll handle everything here — you’ve got the easy job.”
The smell of tikka masala and garlic naan filled the kitchen, and for the first time in hours, Hermione felt the tight knot in her chest begin to loosen. She nodded, giving them all a small, grateful smile before retreating down the hall to make herself more presentable — or well, dab on a little lipstick.
Rose had awoken for a second time by the time she returned, and from the scowl on her face, Hermione could guess she had recognised the bag of Indian takeaway from the previous night — but Ginny was not having it — and for that, Hermione was grateful.
“You’d call me a liar?” Ginny mock swooned onto the sofa, where Rose was still seated, glaring at the food Harry had set up, buffet-style, on the kitchen counter.
“I would call you Aunty Gin,” Rose rolled her eyes.
“And Aunty Gin had a hankering for Indian, I swear,” Ginny said, pressing her hand to her chest. “Uncle Harry bought all that food just for me, and you know what I thought? I bet Rose would love it.”
“You did not.” Rose pouted, but her eyes flickered to where Harry had begun compiling his plate, taking extra care to show off the delicious, tomatoey curry he knew to be Rose’s favourite. “But I am starving.”
Hermione’s stomach soared, and she squeezed Ginny’s hand as Rose handed Harry a fresh plate to make for her.
* * *
“There’s absolutely no way,” Draco muttered to Astoria, who’d sat down beside him on a settee. “He’s got to be starving by now.”
“You know,” Narcissa said from where she had settled beside Lucius on the adjacent sofa, “there was a time when you wanted the fastest broomstick or a self-stirring cauldron. You’d camp out in your bedroom, and I’d worry for hours that you hadn’t eaten — only to find out Mipsy had been feeding you all along, and you’d sworn her to secrecy because you thought you’d get your way if it seemed you’d been starving for it.”
Lucius chuckled, even as his eyes didn’t waver from where Theo had wrapped an arm around George at the sideboard, whispering in low tones that made the redhead shake his head before feeding Theo a tart.
“Yes, but—” Draco narrowed his gaze before swearing loudly. “Fucking ‘Miss Hermione says slave labour is bad.’”
“Skippy!” he said, summoning the youngest of the house-elves that lived within the Manor.
She appeared a moment later — though not instantaneously — her large eyes wide with panic as she twisted her fingers at her front.
“Master calls Skippy?” she squeaked, allowing herself to take in the room at large before turning to Draco.
“When did Scorpius wake?” Draco asked with quiet amusement. “And please, know that you will not be held accountable for his actions.”
More than anything else before, this made Lucius’ mouth fall open.
“Master Scorpius has been up since ten but is currently not taking visitors in his rooms, sir,” Skippy whispered. “He is saying he is having a proper bed mope, and Skippy must not allow it to be disturbed.”
Notes:
References
1. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair...” - A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
Chapter 18: Once Bitten Twice Shy
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“A what?” Pansy tilted her head in Skippy’s direction, then flicked a questioning glance at Draco.
“Salazar, that boy takes after his father,” Narcissa remarked, arching one perfectly shaped brow at Draco. He rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a flicker of fond exasperation. He’d always been accused of having a flair for the dramatic, but this — this was pure Rose Weasley. And how did one explain the phenomenon that was Rose Weasley, in absentia?
Skippy, too, seemed at a loss for words, and for the first time since stepping foot into Malfoy Manor, George Weasley was proving useful — beyond his role of scandalising Lucius, who still appeared to be wrestling with Theo’s choice of lover. Whether it was because he was a man or because he was a Weasley, only Lucius could say for certain.
“It’s what Hermione and her daughter do when they need some downtime and want to be left alone for a little while,” George supplied, his gaze meeting Draco’s. “A little couch mope. Though the last time someone took it too seriously, they ended up facing the wrath of half my family for it.”
Fuck.
Draco scrubbed a hand over his face, the realisation of his colossal blunder settling over him like a thick, suffocating fog. He’d been so blindsided by Scorpius’s abrupt departure — a boy who never so much as flinched, even in the direst situations — he’d… well he wouldn’t say he’d forgotten all about Rose, but he’d certainly not given her the assurances he should have before departing. He glanced around the parlour, at the faces gathered for him and Scorpius, and for the first time since he’d woken up, let himself wonder what the scene was like back at the cottage.
Were Rose and Hermione alone? Had anyone made sure they’d eaten, the way Mipsy had done for him and the way Skippy had for Scorp? Had Rose stopped crying? Or was she still as he had left her the night before, clinging to Hermione as sobs wracked her tiny frame?
“I trust you, Draco.” Rose’s voice lingered in his memory, the way her lashes had glistened with unshed tears as she’d said those simple words that had spun his world on a new axis. And he’d—
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Was it already too late? Had he shattered that fragile trust, doing exactly what her father had done — time and time again?
He hadn’t realised he’d clenched his hands at his side until Astoria’s cool, steadying hand came to rest over his, grounding him.
“Ginny mentioned visiting them,” George said, breaking the silence that had stretched on like a chasm. “Probably took Harry with her.”
It was a small peace offering, but it was something. Draco met George’s eyes, nodding slowly. Whatever unspoken apology lingered there seemed to settle something in George; the storm in his blue eyes calming if only for a moment.
“Blaise mentioned that Luna’s been talking all morning about visiting Hermione,” Theo added, his tone breezy despite the tension in the room. “It’s why he’s not here — he told me to inform you and Stori to kindly fuck off. Said he’ll swing by tomorrow to yell at you in person, and threatened to hex me blue if I let you leave without giving him the chance. Oh, and Draco, he said you’re officially dead to him now.”
“Theo.” Astoria glared at him.
“Only conveying important messages I’ve been given.” Theo grimaced before levitating a fresh bottle of firewhisky forward. “My point is—”
Draco stood abruptly, striding from one end of the parlour to the other, a restless energy thrumming beneath his skin. He felt Mipsy Disapparate with a small crack, sensing his need without a word spoken. He crossed to his desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment and a bottle of ink, his movements swift but unsteady. The room fell silent, as though everyone held their breath, watching him.
He wasn’t sure how long it took him to pen the letter — each word carefully chosen, raw with sincerity. His quill scratched against the parchment, the ink pooling where his hand trembled slightly. When he finally lifted his gaze, his mother stood beside him, quiet as a shadow. Between her slender fingers, she held a single bloom.
It was delicate, almost fragile, its tiny petals a soft shade of blue that seemed to glow in the dim light. Narcissa met his eyes, her expression inscrutable, but something unspoken passed between them. He knew she didn’t understand the full context, couldn’t possibly know the depths of his regret or the promise he was making. Yet somehow, she had chosen perfectly. The look she gave him before turning away told him she’d make the time to learn more about this.
He cradled the flower gently in his palm, as if it held the weight of his apology. With great care, he wrapped up the scroll and sealed it with a flick of his wand. Mipsy reappeared at his side, his eagle-owl perched on her shoulder — a sleek, silent sentinel ready to carry his missive forth.
“For Miss Rose Weasley,” Draco said quietly.
* * *
“Good, huh?” Harry smiled as Rose tore another bite of her naan and dipped it into her curry. “James likes to use the leftover curry as dipping sauce for his mac and cheese.”
Rose scrunched up her nose as she continued to chew thoroughly.
“You’d think it wouldn’t go well together, but it is delicious,” Harry insisted, sharing a conspiratorial smile with Rose. Blaise stepped forward, refilling Luna’s mug with the last of his finest pinot, obscuring Hermione’s view of the other side of the room.
Blaise frowned down at the cup, but if he had any thoughts about his wife’s unconventional drinking habits, he kept them to himself as he settled back down beside Hermione on the couch.
“So, are we really not going to talk about the bombshell that dropped yesterday?” Blaise asked, arching a brow at Ginny, his tone deceptively casual.
Before Hermione could cast a Muffliato to shield their conversation from the breakfast table, Ginny deftly stepped on Blaise’s foot, distracting Rose just long enough for Hermione to complete the charm.
“Blaise is suffering from a terrible case of Narglitis,” Luna said serenely, running a soothing hand over his back. “Too much mistletoe exposure. I’d take him to St Mungo’s, but it’s a busy time of year, and he’s only just started showing symptoms — like forgetting that Ginny told us not to mention yesterday.”
Blaise offered an exaggerated shrug, clearly unrepentant, though he did summon a fresh bottle of wine and offer it to Hermione.
“I thought Lavender promised not to say a word,” Hermione muttered, setting her plate down with a sigh.
“Ah,” Blaise grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Lavender might be a notorious gossip, but no one’s been busier these past twenty-four hours than our very own Theodore Nott.”
Guilt twisted in Hermione’s gut, a silent apology flitting through her mind to the woman she’d unfairly blamed in her initial shock.
“How busy?” Hermione asked curiously, wondering if he was — at this moment — with a certain blond man who kept creeping into her thoughts as if he had made a home of it.
As if the Malfoys were in need of more real estate.
“Well I can’t say we’ve been briefed on all the details,” Blaise drawled, stretching his legs out in front of him. “But Theo turned up at our flat last night, completely pissed.”
“Oh.” Hermione’s voice softened with understanding. It would be difficult coming to terms with the revelations of the previous night, especially for this particular pit of snakes, who’d never ventured too far from each other, come war or peace. She wondered how it would feel for her to believe Harry had been dead for seven years, only to realise he’d faked his death and hidden it from her. She, too, would get pissed beyond measure.
“They came back today,” Blaise said. “Not that I’ve had a chance to speak to Pansy or Draco myself — but they’ll all be at Malfoy Manor by now.”
Hermione nodded slowly, her eyes seeking out Rose’s where she still sat — in deep conversation with Harry.
“Why aren’t you there with them?” she asked softly, knowing if it were her in Blaise’s position, nothing and no one would have stood in her way.
“Because I’m an excellent husband,” Blaise replied, flashing her a devilish grin. “And because Luna felt Draco would prefer it if we were here today.” At that Luna leaned into Blaise, smiling conspiratorially at no one but the blank wall behind Hermione.
* * *
“How long has it been?” His mother was sitting beside his father once more by the time Draco turned back from his desk, having watched his familiar disappear into the thicket of trees to the north of his family’s estate.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Lucius grumbled, holding her hand tightly, as if — were he to let go — he would find himself taken in by a man, or worse, a Muggle-born.
Draco’s lips twitched at the thought. This certainly was not the company his father kept, not that he had much company these days. For all his lobbying and general scheming, he did have power once more , but it had been an age since he’d truly had a friend, let alone anyone who’d upend their lives for something as minor as a child’s smile.
For that was what Astoria and Theo were currently up to — scheming — to rope Scorpius out of his foul mood. All Draco wished for was Rose to storm into his home, a new mission fluttering in her heart — perhaps Mission Scorpius Must Understand the Situation.
Mission S.M.U.T.S., she’d call it.
Argh. He was no good with those pesky acronyms Hermione and Rose favoured.
“We haven’t had laughter — we haven’t had joy — within these walls, Lucy,” Narcissa murmured, turning to her husband. “Tell me this isn’t a pleasant change of scenery. Tell me holding onto the old ways is worth missing out on this.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it pleasant,” Lucius said, though his remark carried none of the bitterness Draco had become accustomed to since the war. “It is an improvement.”
“That is because the circumstances are not the most favourable today, Lucius,” Narcissa finally said, rising to her feet. “Not because the choices aren’t. Come you two, we have a sulkie to go find.”
“Was that a joke, Mother?” Draco cleared his throat. His drawl didn’t quite hit the way he would have liked it to — still reeling from his father’s minute concession.
“Well, if the broomstick fits,” Narcissa said, running a hand down her skirts so that they flared out exquisitely. “Astoria, if you will. Theodore, do tell Lucius all about how you two came to be. He’s quite eager to hear about your star-crossed romance.”
George, who’d drifted to a quiet corner of the room turned on his feet, a smirk blossoming at the prospect of what Narcissa had called for.
“Oh, allow me Narcissa, darling.” George winked as he moved around Pansy. “You see, Lucius, there is a lovely little pub in Knockturn Alley by the name of La Petite Volde-Mort that caters specifically to the sins that could not-be-named during his reign. Harry Potter, of all people, told me about it!”
* * *
“Was it scary?”
Harry braced himself on the ledge of Hermione’s kitchen counter before turning his head toward Rose, his face screwed up in contemplation.
“Fear is — Rosie, you have to understand — fear comes from a place of reluctance. By then, I knew, reluctant or not, I’d have to face the dragon.” He handed her a plate and then watched as she half-heartedly wiped at it with a dish rag. “That was not the scary part. Not for me.”
“Oh?” Rose asked, dropping the wet plate onto a stack of more wet dishes Hermione knew she’d have to dry later using a charm. She was still seated in her sitting room, but the conversation around her had become muted, and she was certain that all of them — Ginny, Luna and Blaise — were listening to the conversation taking place in the kitchen. “Was it going into the lake? Mummy said there were merpeople and grindylows and even a shark!”
“Half a shark,” Harry corrected. “But the scary half — bloody hell — I can picture the teeth now.” He closed his eyes and then blinked at Rose. “No, no. The scary part was going out to face the dragon — knowing that if anything happened to me, the last thing I’d ever said to my best friend was… well, I’d told him I knew he’d be glad to see me dead.”
Rose gasped, the dish she’d been wiping slipped from between her fingers — clattering for a moment on the linoleum floor, thudding once more — and shattering into fine dust.
“Why would you think that, Uncle Harry?” she gaped.
“Well, because we’d both been nasty to each other — and it was difficult to think we’d ever make it past the hurt,” Harry said quietly. “There was a moment when it seemed as if it would be the last thing I ever said to my…” He paused, his gaze meeting Hermione’s, who only nodded because she already knew, “—my best friend.”
“Maybe they weren’t your best friend, then,” Rose sniffed. “If they made you feel as if you’d done something wrong, when you only wanted to do the right thing.”
“Oh no, Rosie,” Harry said, clearing away the mess at his feet with a silent wave of his hand. He knelt before her, his fingers tilting her face up so that he was able to look into her eyes with the striking emerald green Hermione knew was capable of killing with kindness. “You see, sometimes the things we say reveal more about us than about the person we throw our words at. When everything was lost for me — this friend and your mother, well, I can’t say I was always kind to her either — but they never lost hope with me, and I can say I never lost hope in them either.”
“But did you ever wish you’d never met them at all?” Rose asked, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Harry wiped them away before wrapping an arm around her and pulling her onto his knee, the way he did with James and Albus.
“I did, my love,” Harry said quietly. “More often than I care to admit — but you have to understand — the circumstances around me were so large, and I was just a boy. A boy who didn’t know anything except what it felt like to feel alone. It was easier to retreat into something I’d already faced than to confront something new that would hurt as well — and all I could think was, what if I lose this too?”
“But he… he… I was only trying to protect Draco,” Rose spluttered, and from the way Harry didn’t blink, Hermione knew whatever she’d conveyed to Ginny had been reiterated to Harry. “I was only trying to protect Draco.”
“Do you want to know why I named Albus Albus even though it’s a silly name?” Harry asked — and Gods — the way Harry was able to speak to children made Hermione want to bawl because he truly was the father every little girl and boy deserved. And it was because he hadn’t had it himself. Neither a father nor a mother. It was a fact she knew — a fact she had known all her life within the wizarding world — yet it hit her like a dagger to the chest.
“There was a man,” Harry continued, his voice soft and steady, “who understood when to tell the truth and when it was better to hold his tongue. He wasn’t perfect — far from it — but he had the courage to admit when he was wrong. He knew the power of an apology, even when it was the hardest thing to say.” He paused, casting a brief look towards Hermione, as if sharing a moment of quiet understanding with her. “He taught me that being right isn’t as important as being kind. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is say, ‘I’m sorry.’”
* * *
“Sorry,” Draco muttered, retracting his hand from where it had brushed against Astoria’s on the doorknob. The metal felt cold beneath his fingers, a stark contrast to the warmth of her skin.
Astoria rolled her eyes, letting out a breath that fogged the air between them. “Rowena, one day back in the thick of it, and already men are blushing at the inconvenience of touching hands. Not to mention, Draco — we’ve done far more than this to end up standing here outside Scorpius’s door.”
“Oh yes, a delightful memory,” Draco deadpanned, a shiver of discomfort running down his spine despite the levity in his voice. “Like it was such fun having Pansy stand over me, barking instructions on how to properly pleasure you.”
Astoria’s lips curved into a smirk, her eyes dancing with a teasing glint. “She is nothing if not thorough. And no less a dragon in her own right.”
Draco’s gaze flicked away, half-exasperated. “Would it be rude to admit that all I remember of bedding you is Pansy?”
Astoria’s smirk deepened. “It would be accurate, Draco. Considering it was her bossing you around that got me off.”
A soft, pointed throat-clearing interrupted them. “Hem-hem.”
Draco turned, scowling at the door before them, as if it had conjured his mother’s disapproving hum out of thin air.
“Mother,” Draco huffed, folding his arms over his chest, “if we were capable of creating him, we’re certainly capable of speaking to him.”
Narcissa’s lips curled into a fond, amused smile.
“Draco, my darling,” she drawled, a hint of mischief gleaming in her pale blue eyes. “I don’t see Pansy around to assist this time.”
Draco shot his mother a look that was half-glare, half-resignation, born of years of playful, verbal sparring that was their way. “Funny,” he said, his voice laced with dry sarcasm. “Though I imagine Pansy would have something to say about your involvement.”
“Oh, I think so,” Narcissa mused, unbothered by his retort, her smile widening as though she’d won some small victory. She turned her attention back to Astoria, gracefully extending her hand to clasp Astoria’s delicately adorned wrist.
“I’m having the room next door set up for you and Pansy,” she said, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper that seemed to fill the space between them. “I trust you’ll find it comfortable.”
Astoria’s lips parted, but before she could utter an acceptance or a rejection, Narcissa continued.
“I look forward to hearing more about your life, once you and Pansy settle in,” Narcissa said with a sad smile. “How I have missed your presence within these walls.”
Astoria searched Narcissa’s face, as though trying to discern whether the words were genuine or merely a courteous formality, but the wistfulness in Narcissa’s expression kept her from deliberating too long. There was a rare, unspoken warmth there, a motherly affection that Narcissa rarely showed to anyone outside her immediate family — and perhaps that was the answer Astoria had been searching for.
Whether they were still family…
Astoria’s eyes softened in response, and she dipped her head in a subtle nod of gratitude. “It’s good to be back, Narcissa,” she murmured. “I have missed you most ardently, and I’m honoured you’d allow us to stay with you.”
Narcissa’s fingers tightened briefly, a silent reassurance. “This home is yours, Astoria. For you, it always stands — you are a Malfoy, just as Pansy is now — and perhaps your return will mark a change for more wonderful additions to this family.”
At that, Draco rolled his eyes. “If you’re scheming Mother—”
“I hardly need to, not when Scorpius and his little friend do enough,” Narcissa said with a sly smile. “I suppose the penchant skipped a generation with you, Draco.” She patted him on the shoulder before deciding being frustratingly cryptic was the departure most fitting.
“Mother!” Draco drawled.
“Yes, darling?” She turned, her delicate fingers already pressed of the handle to the guest bedroom adjacent to Scorpius’ chambers.
“Just what else do you and Father know?” It was a whim.
“Only that the next time Scorpius requests a forgery of your signature, and vows to fill these halls with laughter and love, I’ll know he’s good for his words,” Narcissa said with a sly smile. “You really ought to make it harder to copy, Draco.” And with those parting words of wisdom, she disappeared into the guest bedroom, leaving Draco to face Astoria’s raised eyebrow.
* * *
“What?” Hermione demanded, screwing up her face as Blaise stepped out cautiously. She took a long drag of her cigarette, eyes narrowing at the sight of him — an uninvited but not entirely unwelcome presence here upon her balcony with her.
“Nothing,” Blaise replied with a shrug, dropping his brow as he deftly finessed Hermione’s packet of Bensons out from between her fingers. He examined it with mild curiosity, rolling the packet between his hands, before plucking out the last smoke. “I suppose it’s taking me a minute — I never pegged you for having any bad habits.”
Hermione exhaled a thin plume of smoke, watching it dissipate into the night like a fleeting thought. “I am multi-dimensional,” she quipped, leaning back against the sliding door. “Or did you expect me to remain the same insufferable know-it-all I was, forever?”
“You ask as if I don’t already know you, Granger.” Blaise tilted his head, slipping a smoke between his lips before lighting it. He took a slow drag, eyes focused on her panoramic vista which was growing dim as evening met night. “But if you want to know, I always assumed you would be the kind to lecture smokers, not join them.”
“Believe me, the younger me would agree.” Hermione huffed out a wry laugh. “It’s amazing what a little childhood trauma and a healthy dose of disillusionment will do for one’s perspective.”
Blaise’s expression softened, just for a moment, the smirk fading into something closer to understanding. He leaned against the balcony railing, looking out at the twinkling lights adorning the neighbouring balconies.
“So, what are we disillusioned about tonight?” he asked, blowing out a lazy ring of smoke that drifted between them before dissipating. “Or should I ask, who?”
Hermione’s gaze flicked up to meet his — something raw and unguarded flashing in her eyes before she masked it with a tight smile. “Are you asking or inferring?”
“The world may be vast, Granger,” Blaise said, leaning on the railing — Gods, someone was going to fall off, weren’t they? — he craned his neck back to smirk at her. “But us sneaky, Slytherin’ serpents stick together.”
“You have a knack for alliteration, you big, bad, beautifully belligerent Blaise,” Hermione deadpanned, ignoring the way her heart fluttered.
Blaise had been friends with Draco during their Hogwarts years. Did he know of the feelings he’d carried — but, at the same time, she couldn’t recall an instance since he’d married Luna, when he’d brought anything of the sort up.
Blaise turned slowly on the spot, resting his elbows on the railing, as he peered at her inquisitively.
“Belligerent?” Blaise echoed, the word rolling off his tongue as if he were tasting it. He smirked, letting the cigarette dangle loosely from his lips, the ember casting a faint, orange glow across his face. “Funny, I thought I was being rather charming.”
Hermione’s eyes flicked to his, and she found herself caught there for a moment too long. It wasn’t just the cigarette or the sharp, clean lines of his jaw. It was the way he looked at her, as though he saw everything she’d worked so hard to conceal — as if he saw her — flawed and all. Wanting to give weight to Rose and Scorpius’ fight, whilst wondering how it impacted her and Draco.
She couldn’t help the blush that crept up her cheeks, but, still, she retained the façade she had wrapped around her.
“You’re a lot of things, Zabini,” she said quietly, pushing herself up from the sliding door to join him at the railing, the cold metal biting into her wrists. “Charming isn’t the first word that comes to mind.”
He raised an eyebrow, feigning a wounded look. “And what is the first word, then?”
She took another drag of her cigarette, eyes narrowing at him through the smoke. Penetrative, she thought, even as she said, “Incorrigible.”
Blaise barked a laugh, a sound that cut through the quiet of the night. He tapped ash off the end of his cigarette, tilting his head as he studied her. “I’ll take it,” he said easily, as if it were the highest compliment. “But you didn’t answer my question, Granger.”
Hermione frowned, trying to remember what he’d asked before she’d distracted herself with his proximity. “What question?”
Blaise leaned closer, the line of his shoulder brushing against hers. He pitched his voice lower, almost conspiratorial. “Who are you disillusioned with tonight?”
There it was — the crux of it. He’d peeled back the veneer of their banter like it was nothing, cutting right to the heart of the matter. It was unnerving, the way he could do that, and she fought the urge to look away.
“Do you really want to know, or are you just fishing?” she asked, the challenge in her tone clear.
“Can’t it be both?” he grinned, but there was something different in his eyes now. A seriousness she wasn’t sure she wanted to confront.
“Blaise.” Hermione sighed. “I don’t know what Theo’s said—”
“Theo said very little about you or Rose,” Blaise said quietly. “But I’ve known Draco a long time, Hermione. I hope you’ll keep that in mind.”
Hermione allowed her gaze to meet Blaise’s in the shrouded darkness of the evening.
“I don’t understand—”
“People know my mother as someone who married often and well,” Blaise said, tossing the blunt end of his cigarette down into the dumpster below. “But they forget that she was a single mother in between all the husbands. I know better than most the challenges that come with taking a leap of faith when your child is involved.”
* * *
“Aunty Ria!” Scorpius’s voice cracked with a mixture of disbelief and relief as he leapt out of bed, the tangled sheets trailing behind him like the remnants of a bad dream. Draco had barely stepped into the room when his son collided into Astoria’s embrace.
“Hello, darling,” she murmured, wrapping herself around him before bending slightly to press a kiss to the crown of his head.
Scorpius pulled back abruptly, his expression shifting from joy to panic as his brows furrowed. “Wait — what are you doing here?” His voice trembled, happiness faltering as reality set in. He turned sharply to Draco, eyes wide and frightened. “Dad?”
“It’s okay, Scorp,” Draco murmured as Astoria tugged him towards the bed, settling him beside her as she took in his dishevelled blond locks.
“But…” Scorpius began, but whatever he’d been about to say became lost as Astoria pulled his chin towards her. “But… Aunty Daph and Grand-”
“Shh, it’s okay, Scorp,” Astoria interrupted gently. “Breathe, my love.”
Scorpius exhaled shakily, a puff of air that did little to dispel the tension etched across his brow. He didn’t relax into her touch; instead, his little body seemed coiled, like a spring wound too tightly.
“You said,” he whispered, his voice small and cracking with emotion, “you said it wasn’t safe for you to come back.”
“I did say that,” Astoria admitted, her voice barely above a murmur. “And at the time, it was true. Things were dangerous, and I couldn’t risk coming back. But it’s different now, Scorp. It has been for a few months, and you should have been told so, too.”
Scorpius’s gaze flicked to Draco, seeking the truth in his father’s eyes. “Is it really?” he asked, the tremble in his voice betraying his fear.
“It is, Scorpius,” he said gently. “I promise you, things have changed.”
Scorpius bit his lip, glancing down as if he didn’t quite believe him. “But why did everything change? What happened?”
Astoria exchanged a glance with Draco, a look heavy with the weight of the past they hadn’t yet unpacked. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling as though she were steadying herself. “We’ll explain, darling,” she promised.
Draco nodded, moving forward to occupy a space at the foot of Scorpius’s bed. “We’ll tell you everything, Scorp. But after that, we need to know what happened yesterday. With Rose.”
At the mention of Rose’s name, Scorpius flinched as if he’d been struck. His face crumpled, and he burrowed deeper into Astoria’s side, allowing his face to be obscured by her hair where it had grown a little longer.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered, his voice muffled against her. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Can I please just stay with Aunty Ria today?” He looked up then, his eyes wide and pleading, the raw vulnerability in them almost unbearable. “Is Aunty Pansy here too?”
Astoria’s smile softened, a rare, genuine warmth lighting her features. She cupped his cheek, brushing away a stray tear with her thumb. “Of course she is, love,” she said, her voice full of a quiet joy. “How could she not be?”
Scorpius’s face brightened, the shadow of his earlier fear lifting slightly. He nodded, sniffling as he pressed his face back into Astoria’s shoulder. “Good,” he whispered, his voice small but filled with a tentative hope. “I missed her.”
* * *
“I’ve missed this,” Luna hummed, pulling away from Hermione, her fingers lingering on Hermione’s arms as though she wasn’t quite ready to let go. “It’s been so long since we all got together like this.”
Hermione nodded, a wave of nostalgia washing over her. She realised they hadn’t all been in one room since before her divorce. Now that she thought of it, she hadn’t seen Neville — who’d once been a constant between Luna and Ginny — since she’d been eight months pregnant with Rose, her swollen belly a constant source of unsolicited advice and pats from everyone. Life had pulled them in different directions, scattering their once-close circle like leaves in the wind. Though she still met Luna and Ginny for the occasional girl’s night, it had been ages since they’d gathered like this — within the intimacy of a home, no expectations, just the quiet comfort of being there for one another.
“We’ll do this again soon, Luna,” Hermione said. “It really has been such an excellent night.”
Luna’s face lit up with one of her trademark serene smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sooner than I think you expect.” She stepped aside just as Blaise leaned in, pressing a kiss to Hermione’s cheek.
“Will you be going to the Manor tomorrow?” Hermione asked, unable to help herself.
“Likely,” Blaise nodded, giving her a sidelong glance, as if he knew exactly why she was asking.
“Will you tell Draco we’re back at the flat?” Hermione tried to keep her voice steady, but it wavered, just a bit.
“I think you can manage that yourself, Granger,” Blaise said, nodding towards the balcony. Hermione frowned before she turned her face in the direction of Blaise’s attention.
Hermione’s breath caught as she spotted the owl perched on the iron railing. The sleek, chestnut feathers gleamed under the silver wash of moonlight, and its sharp, amber eyes seemed to pierce right through her, as though it could see every unspoken thought swirling in her mind. It was unmistakably Draco’s owl — she would recognise the regal bird anywhere. The sight of it sent a jolt of something electric through her, a flutter of nerves she hadn’t felt in years.
“Oh,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
The room behind her fell silent, a shift in the air like the collective intake of breath before a plunge. Blaise’s lips curled into a knowing smile, but he didn’t say anything, simply stepping back to give her the space she needed.
Luna leaned in, her expression as dreamy as ever, though her eyes were sharp, as if she could see beyond the veil of the present moment. “I think he’s been waiting a while,” she murmured, almost conspiratorially. “He’s quite patient, though, isn’t he?”
“That’s our cue, darling,” Blaise said, slipping his arm around Luna’s waist. He led her towards the Floo, their departure light and swift, as though they were both in on a secret no one else knew. “We’ll make our way back through Grimmauld, collect the kids.”
Harry gave Blaise a nod, sharing a look of quiet understanding. “I’m right behind you.”
Ginny didn’t say goodbye, her focus instead shifting towards the balcony. She stepped forward, sliding the door open to allow the owl inside. The bird soared in with silent grace, landing on the back of a chair, its talons gripping the fabric tightly.
“Hello there,” Hermione said softly, approaching the owl with a careful, gentle hand. “Is that for me?”
The owl hooted once, a low, reverberating sound that almost felt like a disapproving no.
Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “Is it for Rose?” she asked, her voice tinged with hope.
The owl hooted twice, his sharp eyes scanning the room, as if searching for the little girl he was meant to find.
“She’s gone to get ready for bed,” Hermione explained, her voice soothing. “But I can pass it along.”
The owl watched her intently, considering her words, before finally extending his leg. Hermione untied the small scroll with careful fingers, feeling the weight of the neatly wrapped parchment. Before she could even think to ask the bird to wait for a reply, he spread his wings and launched himself back into the night.
Hermione looked down at the scroll, the elegant Malfoy seal catching the light. She turned back towards Ginny, who was watching her with a smirk that bordered on smug.
“I suppose this is the difference,” Ginny mused, more to herself than to Hermione. She summoned her coat with a flick of her wand, the fabric flying into her outstretched hand with a whoosh.
Hermione heard the shower turn off down the hall. She hoped whatever the letter contained, it would be enough for Rose and Hermione to speak tomorrow.
“I ran into Ron when I went to collect Harry,” Ginny said, her voice softer now as she stepped closer to Hermione, squeezing her hand. “It was actually his suggestion to have Harry speak to Rose tonight. He would have come himself, but he thought — well, he thought maybe it’d be easier if he waited until tomorrow.”
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, blinking back the tears that stung at her eyes. “I’ll think about it,” she managed. “Thank him for me, will you?”
“I will.” Ginny’s smile was gentle, a rare softness that only a few were privileged to see. “Now go — make sure the next time we talk about ferrets, I have something worth sinking my teeth into.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. She watched as Ginny stepped into the Floo, disappearing in a swirl of emerald flames, leaving the flat quiet once more.
The silence was different this time. It wasn’t heavy, but filled with a sense of anticipation. Hermione made her way down the hall, the scroll clutched tightly in her hand. When she reached Rose’s room, she found her daughter sitting cross-legged on the bed, her damp hair curling around her face.
“This arrived for you,” Hermione said, sliding onto the bed beside her.
Rose’s eyes went wide, her small fingers already reaching for the scroll. “What is it?” she asked, her voice a mix of excitement and trepidation.
“A letter from Draco,” Hermione replied, watching her daughter’s face carefully, searching for any sign of hesitation.
Rose’s expression softened, a flicker of something vulnerable passing over her features. She tore the seal open with a delicate, almost reverent touch and found, buried within the letter, a single, perfect bluebell flower.
Humility, gratitude, and everlasting love.
It was a promise.
Notes:
I am writing away to get this story out before this festive season begins or worse, ends! I'm still hoping to have at least everything except the epilogues (Chapters 23 and 24) done before we get too far into December! If I'm consistent, maybe I can crack out those epilogues too! We shall see. Comment replies will be a little delayed, but I am looking forward to replying very very soon!
I hope you liked the ensemble coming into play within these two chapters! Some of these characters have a part to play, and I'm incredibly excited to get the next four chapters out as soon as possible.
Thank you for sticking with me on this journey, and for all the love for OUR babies. I was reading through comments, and it truly did make me tear up to see how many of you think of Rose and Scorpius as your babies - I truly could not ask for a greater compliment. They are our babies, and we'll reconcile them soon!
Edit: 2000 kudos! I’m not crying, we’re all crying smacks on a pair of sunglasses, because you’re all too beautiful
As always, much love and appreciation to Cait for alpha'ing and Mlekoimiodd for cheer-reading. As well as Chestnut1992 for being the world's greatest friend and for all her advice ♥️
Chapter 19: Of Grievances and Anger and Love
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Dearest Rose,
I am so very sorry for the events of yesterday and the burden you had to bear on my behalf. It was never my intention to leave you carrying such a weight, but I am deeply grateful for the trust you showed me. It’s a gift I did not deserve, yet you offered it freely, and for that, you have my sincerest thanks and all my love.
I regret leaving so abruptly last night, darling Rose. I failed you in a moment when you deserved better from me. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my haste, and I promise I will make it right.
Every mission meets its setbacks, and this is only that; not the end of Mission T.I.T.S. I know in my heart, no matter what was said, Scorpius agrees, even if he is a little sad right now.
With love,
Forever and always,
Draco
The letter — or as Hermione thought of it, The Letter — had become a third entity within their home. It had been carried to bed (where it had immediately been dressed in a stasis charm so it wouldn’t crumple through the night) and then to the bathroom when Rose awoke before eventually being seated at the breakfast table — where, with a sigh, Hermione resolved to go back to the cottage.
She simply couldn’t force her child to down another spoonful of porridge.
By the time Hermione had showered and readied herself to make the trip over, the letter had made its way into the sitting room, where Rose clutched it as she cosied herself onto the sofa for another session of couch moping — and yes — another perusal of Draco’s words, which Hermione was convinced Rose could now recite word for word.
Her fingers moved reverentially, tracing every word across the parchment as though she could feel Draco’s presence within them and couldn’t keep from reaching out for him every so often. So much so that Hermione had not been allowed more than a brief glance the previous night and had been denied any further access to it ever since.
Hermione yearned to take another peek at his words in the light of day, but persuading Rose to part with the letter was a moot point — and Hermione had to trust her own memory for the warmth its arrival had flooded within her.
So when the Floo flared close to noon, Hermione knew the letter had not been accidentally left in the centre of the breakfast table but rather strategically placed by a child who had delayed showering until this very moment.
“Hello,” Hermione said, turning slowly to face her ex-husband. “Tea?”
Ron stepped out of the hearth, brushing soot and ash from his shoulders before casting a polite Scourgify on the carpet.
“Hey.” His voice was casual, but his eyes betrayed his unease as they roamed her flat. He hadn’t visited too often before today — only once, when it had been unfurnished and impersonal. Now it was undeniably a home, though not their home.
Hermione wondered what it felt like for him to stand here, surrounded by walls he didn’t belong to. And then she wondered if it mattered. She’d never been to his place — the one he’d bought in Chudley soon after their divorce. Mostly because there hadn’t been any reason to. And even more so, because it had never occurred to her to want to.
“I’d like some, yeah,” he muttered, his eyes darting towards the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and the bath.
“She’s taking a shower.”
“She’s hiding,” Ron corrected, his tone devoid of judgement — resigned.
Hermione could have lied — would have lied the previous week.
“Yes.” She nodded, meeting his eyes.
He nodded slowly, his hand reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a small bag and enlarged it on the counter.
“Ginny mentioned you might need groceries,” he said awkwardly. “It’s just the basics—milk, bread, eggs, some chicken. Mum wanted me to wait so she could bake a casserole, but I didn’t want to be late.”
Hermione blinked at the offering. It was practical, thoughtful, and far more than she’d expected. “You didn’t have to—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ron interrupted. “Ginny said you were out and well... you can thank her if you wish.”
“I will,” Hermione replied, levitating the items to their rightful places, save for the milk.
She poured it into a jug and placed it on the tea tray, carrying it to the breakfast table where Ron had settled.
Her heart tightened as she saw what was already in his hands: The Letter.
She braced herself for it — for the anger and outrage — for the loud, impassioned Ronald she’d come to expect. But the man before her was quieter, subdued, his thumb brushing absently over the heavy cardstock as he stared down at it — reading the words she herself had been denied all morning.
“Will you just speak?” Hermione finally asked, her voice sharper than intended. The silence had stretched too long, leaving her mind to drift — unhelpfully — to Draco. Not the wisest of places for it to be when she sat across from her ex.
Ron exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t know where to begin.”
It made her heart sink, but before she could truly fathom the disaster she’d invited upon herself by letting him come over, he continued.
“I don’t like him,” Ron said, his voice steady but tinged with bitterness. “I don’t like him for many reasons — reasons I will not allow anyone else to justify. I know him, just as you and Harry do. I know the things he said, I know the harm he caused in his youth. To you, to me — you’re not the only one he bullied.” His hand tightened around the letter as he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “But I suppose that’s my burden to bear — not yours.”
Hermione blinked, her cup hovering mid-air between the table and her lips. He certainly wasn’t wrong on any counts, and that, in all honesty, threw her.
Ron deflated visibly, his gaze dropping to the letter in his hand. “She went to him. She went to him.” His voice cracked slightly, the words laced with something raw. “Twice.”
“I was there,” Hermione said softly, lowering her cup to the table. “Both times.”
Ron shook his head as though trying to reconcile two irreconcilable truths. “I can’t wrap my head around the man I know and the man I’m being asked to believe he is — by you, by Rose — by Ginny and Harry and George.”
The letter trembled in his grip. Hermione’s eyes flicked to it, her mind turning over the countless parallels she could draw between the prejudices the Malfoys had once held and those Ron continued to. The comparisons hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them. Not because she feared his reaction — those days were behind her — but because she wanted something better for him. Growth. Understanding. The kind of transformation Draco had been forced to undertake, even under the most dire of circumstances. The kind she’d want for herself if she were ever at a crossroads and didn’t know where to turn.
She gripped her teacup tighter, wishing it were coffee despite her self-imposed moratorium on its comforting scent in Ron’s presence.
“Your daughter will be incredibly hurt if anything happens to that letter,” Hermione finally said, as she waited for his eyes to meet hers.
Ron’s grip on the letter loosened, his knuckles relaxing as he set it down on the table between them. The gesture carried no anger, no spite — only further stoicism.
“Maybe we should talk about what’s most important,” Hermione prompted, clearing her throat.
“Rose.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable, before Ron raked a hand through his hair, dishevelling it further.
“I messed up,” he admitted, the words barely more than a whisper. “I know I messed up — the problem is, I don’t know when it started. I don’t know when the distance began, or what I did that made her want... more of it.”
“She doesn’t want distance,” Hermione said slowly.
“No,” Ron muttered, his voice thick. “Just a new father.”
Hermione grimaced.
Ron’s eyes flicked to her lips, his gaze lingering on the way they pressed into a thin line. He seemed to search for a denial that didn’t come, before his attention returned to the letter in front of him.
“He talks to her as if she’s his child,” Ron said bluntly. “As if he already has her.”
She could hear the words he left unspoken as if they had been hissed at her — she looks at him as if in confirmation.
“I don’t think so,” Hermione replied, her fingertips skimming the edges of the heavy cardstock. “If anything, he spoke to her the way he would to an adult — with respect and admiration.”
“And I speak to her like a child?” She could hear the inflection in his tone, an accusation bubbling beneath the surface — a ripple in the brew about to boil.
“You don’t speak to her at all,” Hermione said gently but firmly. “There was a time when we all lived together, and it wasn’t so evident that that was happening — and then we separated…”
Ron glanced away, his shoulders stiffening. A faint flush crept up his neck, one of shame or frustration — she couldn’t tell which.
“I wanted to give her everything I never had,” he said finally, his voice low. “Everything I wish I’d had. Everything the likes of Draco Malfoy made fun of me and my poor family for.”
“We’re talking about Rose right now.”
Ron’s gaze snapped back to hers, but he didn’t argue.
“About what we can do to bridge this gap, if you want it. If she wants that too.” Hermione continued with determination — reminding Ron of what was at stake. Reminding him of why he’d Floo’d over and why she’d allowed him to, even after the disaster that had been Christmas Day.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, lost in their own thoughts, the faint rush of water from the shower down the hall filling the silence. It was an oddly soothing backdrop to the weight between them.
“We weren’t ready to be married, were we?” Ron sighed, breaking the quiet. His voice carried a resignation that twisted something deep inside Hermione.
He was admitting a truth she’d known but had been reluctant to admit herself.
She didn’t answer immediately, watching as Ron flicked his wand towards the kitchen cupboards. A bottle of whisky floated down, its amber contents catching the light. He poured a generous shot into his cup before hesitating, glancing at her. Hermione gave a small nod, and he poured the same for her, the liquid sloshing slightly as it settled.
“And then,” he continued, swirling the whisky absently, his gaze fixed on the table, “all of a sudden we were pregnant. There was a child on the way, and no space for her in our one-bedroom flat. Mum was going on and on about how beautiful Harry and Ginny’s wedding had been, and the ring he’d given her — and how expensive and prestigious it looked in the magazines.” His mouth twisted as he said the last word, grotesque with remembered bitterness.
The sight pulled Hermione back to a time she preferred not to revisit.
“I know,” she said softly, her voice catching as she blinked back tears. The memory was a heavy one, wrapped in fear and exhaustion. More than once during that time, she’d wished for the simplicity of another Horcrux to hunt. The stakes had felt less dire than the storm brewing in their lives.
The weight of expectation — of a baby on top of a wedding that had to happen, and had to happen just so because it was between two-thirds of the Golden Trio — had soured everything. It had marred her one and only pregnancy, painting it in shades of resentment and regret.
They’d never stood a chance. And perhaps her mother had been right when she’d said they could have had Rose without all the heartbreak of marrying before they were ready.
Hindsight really was a fucking bitch.
She could still picture the exact moment Ron had come home the night before the wedding — his shoulders slumped in defeat — and then he’d told her what he’d done. Resigned from playing Keeper so he could take on a better-paying job as a coach for a smaller club elsewhere — she couldn’t even remember its name.
It had been a practical decision, a necessary step forward. But Hermione had known better. It wasn’t practicality; it was a concession. A trade. One future for another.
And then she’d done the same. Because she had to. Because he had.
Ron looked down at his cup, his fingers tightening around it. “It felt like everything we did was only ever in an effort to catch up. Like we’d started too far behind to ever get ahead.”
Hermione nodded, her gaze fixed on the table. She’d forgotten about Ron’s sacrifice — forgotten that, before she’d been expected to stay at home for years, and when she had longed to return to work — he’d also yearned for another life.
Guilt roiled in her stomach.
“I thought,” Ron began again, his voice quieter now, though he did not notice her turmoil, “I thought if I could just give her everything I didn’t have growing up... it would make up for the fact that I was miserable.”
He did not meet her eyes at the confession, but if he had, he might have seen the flash of guilt that conveyed she too had been miserable.
“It wasn’t,” Hermione said kindly. “It never could be, not when it’s framed in that context.”
Ron looked at her, his face a mixture of sadness and regret. “The worst part is — I don’t hate it, you know. I resented being put in that position, to take up this job, but now I’ve come to like it. What does that say about me?”
“That you’ve got an emotional range far beyond a teaspoon,” Hermione gave him a watery smile. “Complex emotions are quite the thing, aren’t they?”
It was true for both of them. One day, she’d apologise properly to him. For all the selfish thoughts she’d had and for the mistakes she knew she’d made as well.
But, not today — not when they were finally talking — not when today had to be about Rose and Ron and their family. Ron and she would have their conversation. One in which she would accept equal blame for their irreconcilable differences, and hope for forgiveness herself.
“Annoying, really,” Ron grumbled, gagging at a large sip of his spiked tea — pulling her back out of her thoughts. “This is disgusting.”
“I’d imagine so,” Hermione said, taking a sip of her own. “I don’t know why you didn’t just pour out separate shots.”
Despite their issues with the drink, they both sipped more of it.
Children really were the better beings. They would have moved on from it by now.
“Do you think it’s too late to make amends?”
Hermione mulled over the variety of answers that rushed forward — yes, no, maybe, I don’t know. “If you want to make amends, it shouldn’t matter if it’s too late.” Again, for him, and herself.
Ron scrunched his nose, and she knew it was in an effort to keep from rolling his eyes at her the way he did when she answered without really answering.
“Er,” Hermione cleared her throat. “Do you?”
“Yes!” The word was said with a conviction Hermione knew Ron was incapable of duplicating if it were not sincere. His eyes bore into her, and neither of them blinked for what felt like an eternity. “Yes,” he repeated, his hands clasping before him. “Please, Hermione.”
“Okay,” she nodded. “Then might I suggest talking to her yourself. Maybe not today, as she’s struggling with something else right now, but in the new year? It could be our resolution — to communicate better — to want to be better.”
He nodded slowly, though from the way his gaze flicked to the hallway, she knew he was not pleased that he wouldn’t be getting to meet with Rose.
“What’s going on?” he asked abruptly, curiosity peaking around his eyes — though not unkindly. His fingers tapped the letter, as if he, too, knew her words had something to do with the missive that sat between them.
“Scorpius and Rose had a falling out because of what happened at Christmas tea.”
The flush that had crept up his neck and settled there spread up to Ron’s ears — and he moved away from the letter as if it had turned into a Howler and bitten at his fingers in reprimand.
“Because of—” he faltered, and she could see the incredulity in his eyes.
“Because Rose told everyone about Astoria being alive, yes,” Hermione said, a little more coldly than she intended. “Because it was not her secret to tell, and because Scorpius had trusted her to keep it quiet. Because you put her in a situation in which she felt she had no choice but to reveal it.”
“Blimey, ‘Mione.” It was such a soft whisper, it made Hermione realise just how loud she’d gotten.
“Sorry,” she grumbled, downing her tea before conjuring a fresh pair of tumblers for a real drink. “It’s one thing for all of us to be fighting, and quite another for the children to have a falling out over it. They’re both hurting.”
Ron knocked back the shot of whisky, and just as she began to realise she’d inadvertently lowered her guard he surprised her.
“I’m sorry.” His gaze was concentrated on the space behind her ,as his lips pursed. “I— I thought I was in the right bringing Cormac, and I know now I acted with haste.”
Hermione arched her brow.
“You thought you were in the right?”
“He’d convinced me Malfoy was dangerous, that he’d…” Ron exhaled slowly. “He said he’d seen evidence of, well, you know. I was already on edge because I knew they were spending time with you and Rose, and I panicked. I really didn’t think it would cause the kind of harm it has.”
“Ron, at some point, not thinking will have to stop being a justifiable excuse.”
At that, he narrowed his eyes.
“You also didn’t think it was a big enough deal that Molly had to inform us you wouldn’t be able to make it to Rose’s birthday,” Hermione said, coolly.
At that, Ron flushed and averted his gaze.
“I was upset,” he said slowly. “Because you’d said I could have Rose for the holidays, and the next thing I know, you’re whisking her away from me for a mother-daughter holiday.”
“Only because you said that, and when I tried to follow up on it, I received no answer,” Hermione threw up her hands. “Ron, you could have spoken to me.”
“Yes well, historically speaking, we’ve never been the best at that, have we?”
“No,” Hermione said, folding her arms. “But that doesn’t mean that it can’t change. This can’t be the burden we pass on to Rose as her inheritance.”
Ron scrubbed a hand over his face, leaving behind ruddy cheeks that made him look as if he’d just stepped off a broom after winning Gryffindor another match. It reminded Hermione of the boy she’d fallen in love with — windswept hair and a teasing remark on his tongue that would remain with her for days. It was a lovely memory to have, even if she was no longer in love with him.
“I can be better, for her,” Ron nodded. “I can earn her forgiveness and I can earn her trust once more.”
Hermione nodded. “It’ll take time, Ron. You should know that.”
“I know.”
“She heard you tell Lavender you wanted a son.”
Ron’s brows furrowed, as if he didn’t understand what her words meant or where they had come from, before realisation dawned on him. The rosiness of his complexion turned stark white.
“I didn’t — that’s not — I didn’t mean it like that.”
Hermione huffed.
“I don’t see why those words were said at all, and yes, I know what you meant — that I refused to have a second child — but to her, without the context, it felt like something else entirely.”
Ron didn’t respond immediately. He sat rooted to the spot, his face pale and rigid. It made her wryly wonder if a Basilisk had taken up residence in her flat during their absence and had now opened one eye to turn the man before her into stone. The petrified expression carved into his features made her stomach twist, and she cleared her throat.
“You know bringing another child into our marriage would have only been more heartbreak.”
“I know.” His voice was quiet. “Hermione… I said that a long time ago. I — I know — I understand better now that it would have only made things worse between us.”
“How long ago?” Hermione asked. “Because for however long it is, she’s been carrying that on her shoulders. All alone.”
Ron’s face scrunched into a screwed-up expression before he exhaled with a defeated resolve.
“A long time.”
By the time Ron stood from the table, Hermione following behind him slightly less gracefully — going straight into her maternal book of advice for Rose: four shots of whisky on nothing but porridge is not a good idea — the air around them was slightly clearer, but by no means unpolluted.
Conflicts didn’t resolve themselves within a day, certainly not conflicts of the familial kind that had festered for years.
Yet, from the way it had gone, Hermione was optimistic — but not naive.
“Ron,” she said as he pulled on his jacket, “this can’t be a one-off.”
Ron’s eyes found hers — and it was such a strange, fleeting thought, she found herself thinking — she was much more at home in the stormy grey waves that were Draco’s than the cerulean still skies of Ron’s.
She’d never been much of a flyer.
He nodded, and she wondered if her brown was any different for him than Lavender’s blue — did he see the difference between the earth and sky too?
“I won’t let it be,” he said, before moving forward to kiss her cheek. He pulled away quickly, but his hands remained on her arms as he held her gaze. “I— I don’t want to lose her. Hermione, you have to believe me.”
“I’m going to invite Lavender over for coffee,” Hermione said. “I’d like for Rose to get to know her if she’s a part of your life.”
It was both a statement and a question — one she wished to know on Rose’s behalf — not because she was curious. If the circumstances around this meeting had been slightly different, she might even have brought it up properly — asked Ron if he’d been unfaithful — but she supposed the answer didn’t really matter. She would not allow her own feelings towards Ron and Lavender’s indiscretion, if there had been one, to tint Rose’s view of them. Perhaps one day, when the feelings weren’t as raw, she’d be able to get the answer anyway. At a time when it would not add more weight to her world.
“She’d like that,” Ron said. “She’s not very pleased with me, either.”
Hermione sighed. “Do you think it’s over?”
“I have a lot of amends to make. That includes you, as well.”
Hermione tilted her head up to look at him curiously.
“Maybe we can work on becoming friends again as well,” Hermione said with dignified hope. “Not friends — like we’re cordial now that our marriage has ended — but the way it was before it became complicated.”
Ron nodded.
“I’d like that,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “I have missed you.”
Hermione nodded, offering a small smile because she’d missed him too. You could love someone and not like them all the time — that was as simple as it had to be. Ron was a decent man. He even had the potential to be a lovely husband — just not for her.
They’d been mismatched from the start, two pieces that could fit in a pinch but were never meant to lock into place forever. They were always meant to be friends, and maybe finding their way back to that was the healthiest thing for everyone, especially Rose.
Ron moved to scoop out a handful of Floo-powder only to find the jar she kept above the mantle empty. It wasn’t a surprise — she really ought to have known it would run empty with all the comings and goings that had taken place in her flat.
“Here,” Hermione said, already moving toward a bookshelf where she kept a pot of extra Floo powder disguised as a plant. She gestured with her wand, murmuring, “Finite.”
Magic crackled around her before rippling outward.
The pot of Floo powder appeared but so did something else she hadn’t expected.
Hermione froze.
She’d only ever experienced magic like this once before — and from the way Ron stilled beside her, his hand dropping to his side, she could tell he was experiencing it for only the second time in his life as well.
It was a miniature Room of Requirement, but different. The air hummed with intent, the boundaries shifting as though alive. What had once been an ordinary corner of her flat now seemed transformed, a nook that could expand endlessly into a space tailored entirely for her. A library large enough to house every book she owned and any she might acquire in her lifetime.
“Did you?” Ron asked, his voice barely audible.
“No,” Hermione breathed. “I —” She hesitated before letting her fingers trail through the boundary of magic. The sensation was electric, the kind of warmth and familiarity that spoke to the essence of its creator. She knew this magic. She could never forget it, no matter how hard she might try.
“I think,” she murmured, her voice almost trembling, “this is my Christmas present...”
“From Malfoy.” Ron finished.
The words hung in the air, heavy. She glanced at Ron, whose expression shifted, though she couldn’t quite discern whether it was discomfort, curiosity, or something else entirely.
Her hand ghosted over the edge of the magic. “This magic could only belong to him.” Her voice softened as she finished, knowing that it was the truth as surely as she knew the sound of her own name.
“Are you and Malfoy…?” Ron trailed off, his question laced with unease.
Hermione blinked, pulling her hand back as heat rushed to her cheeks. She turned away, willing herself not to think of Draco — not to let his name linger in her thoughts when she was already consumed by him in ways she didn’t dare admit aloud.
“Does it matter?” she replied, her tone sharper than she intended. The flush on her face deepened, but she busied herself inspecting the flowerpot as if it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
The space seemed to respond to her discomfort. The nook grew doors that shut softly behind her, almost as if it were giving her permission to explore its secrets in private. She let out a breath, unsure whether to curse Draco for his constant ability to distract her or thank him for creating something so inexplicably thoughtful.
Ron sighed, his fingers ghosting over the edge of the magic. He didn’t push further, but his shoulders slumped slightly as he spoke.
“Suppose not. But even with all this, I need you to know you deserve better, Hermione. Better than him. Better than me.”
“You said that already,” Hermione replied, frowning as she recalled the conversation they’d had on Rose’s birthday.
Ron didn’t look at her, his focus still on the magic, as if it might offer answers he couldn’t find in her expression.
“But the truth is, Ron, Malfoy is a better man. Not because he thinks it will win him some sort of prize — or because he will be deserving of something he otherwise wouldn’t be. At some point, the boy we knew became a man I certainly didn’t know before this week — and the simple truth is, he did it all for himself.”
Ron’s eyes flickered as if he was processing and then he gave one swift nod, turning slowly to make his way back towards the hearth. He grabbed a handful of Floo Powder from the new jar and then hesitated. He rotated on the spot, a small smile playing on his lips.
It was the same smile of their childhood, only the crinkles around his eyes made him look less exasperated and more amused. They could have been standing in the Gryffindor Common Room once more, a table piled high with books between them.
“Thank you.”
He tossed the powder into the grate — the hearth roared around him, emerald flames licking at the edges of the stone before swallowing him in a swirl of green.
* * *
Far away, in the Manor’s parlour, another hearth flickered softly, its amber flames casting long shadows on the elegant stonework. The air around it warped subtly, a shimmer of heat distorting the space before the flames flared brighter, almost as if it were taking a deep breath, before roaring upward in vivid emerald.
Blaise Zabini emerged through the flames, brushing ash from his chest with a sharp, precise motion. His dark eyes scanned the room, taking everything in at once — until they landed on Pansy.
She was perched on a chaise lounge, a copy of Witch Weekly she’d swiped from the array of magazines and papers Mipsy had set on the sideboard, spread open in her lap.
The Manor had not hosted so many guests since the war, and the elves bustled about with visible excitement, their movements quick and purposeful — taking great care to ensure comfort for all. It seemed to him as if they did not actually mind catering to large gatherings, so long as those large gatherings kept their wands and daggers to themselves. His musings, as he perused the selection of Belgian papers within the array on the sideboard, dissipated as he recognised the magical signature that had permeated the air around them. He turned where he stood, pressing his back to the wall to watch the scene unfolding before him.
“Parks.”
Pansy’s fingers stilled on the glossy page before she looked up, her gaze locking with Blaise’s.
“Zabini.”
Their exchange was sharp, clipped, but the tension broke when Blaise strode forward, crossing the space between them in a few long steps. He pulled Pansy up by the arms and into his chest, his fingers gripping her tightly as though he feared she might slip away.
“What the fuck, Parks,” he whispered harshly into her ear, the words tumbling out like a litany of hexes.
“...fucking thought you were broken...”
“...so mad...”
“...could have fucking told me...”
“...missed you...”
Draco watched as Pansy buried her face into Blaise’s shoulder, her fingers clutching the back of his robes. Beside Draco, Scorpius stiffened, his eyes boring into the scene taking place before him.
Of two best friends reuniting after an eon apart — of grievances and anger and love — of all three and how they wove together to make unbreakable chains.
“You’d think it was Pansy who has returned from the dead.” Theo said with a low chuckle, though it was only half-hearted. They were all friends, incredibly close friends — but Blaise and Pansy had a relationship that was not often found — one incredibly close to what he’d perceived between Rose and Scorpius. A platonic soulmate — someone who simply knew — simply felt — simply could not exist without their other.
Blaise’s gaze shifted, finding Astoria where she sat beside Theo. His lips curved into a faint smile, and a lone tear escaped, trailing down his sharp cheekbone.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“Hello, Blaise,” Astoria replied, her own eyes glistening. “Luna didn’t come?”
“She’ll follow in a minute,” Blaise said, stroking Pansy’s hair. “She has to drop the kids off at Xeno’s.”
Astoria reached out, her hand brushing lightly against Draco’s sleeve where he stood. “Maybe we could go for a walk now,” she murmured, glancing toward Scorpius, who had been silently observing the scene with a growing despondence.
“Yes, let’s,” Draco said, straightening up and kicking off the wall. He composed his features as best he could before meeting Scorpius’ contemplative eyes. “Scorpius.”
The boy hesitated, his posture rigid, but he wordlessly followed Astoria as she floated toward the large French doors leading out to the West Gardens — preserved for the winter with a strong stasis charm by the garden-elves. Draco trailed behind, his steps measured as he glanced back at the lively parlour. The warmth of the hearth and the muffled voices faded as they stepped into the crisp, cool air outside.
“The wildflowers have really taken to the garden, have they not?” Astoria asked softly, her gaze skimming over the delicate blooms. Her voice was calm, almost wistful, as they meandered along the stone path that wound through the grounds. The air was crisp, carrying the faint, earthy scent of winter, but the warming charms woven into the garden made it pleasant, the chill lingering only at the edges.
Scorpius walked ahead of them, his small figure taut with unspoken emotions. With every step, his shoulders seemed to slump further, his head tilting downward as though the weight of his thoughts pressed heavily on him. By the time they reached the cluster of rose bushes marking the east quadrant of the grounds, Draco found himself falling behind, watching the way his son resolutely avoided looking at the roses lining their path.
Astoria glanced over her shoulder at Draco, her expression unreadable, before speaking again, this time with quiet intent. “Your father tells me you’ve had a falling out with your friend.”
Scorpius didn’t respond, his steps faltering slightly but never stopping.
“Skippy told me what you said,” Astoria continued, her tone gentle but firm.
That was news to Draco, who hadn’t thought to ask the young elf more questions once they’d all arrived back at the Manor.
“Did you mean it?” she asked, matching Scorpius’s pace. Her question wasn’t accusatory but probing, her voice as warm as the charms keeping the winter air at bay. She looked down at him, waiting patiently for an answer. “Do you really wish you’d never met her?”
The only sound was the crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Then, finally, Scorpius’s voice broke the stillness—a soft sob, barely audible but enough to send a shiver down Draco’s spine. “No.”
Astoria’s steps slowed, and without hesitation, she scooped Scorpius into her arms. “Oh, Scorp,” she murmured, cradling him as though he were still a toddler. His face pressed against her shoulder, his small frame trembling. Draco’s heart clenched at the sight, and he efficiently withdrew a chair from the garden table that sat just to the corner.
Astoria sank down onto it, adjusting Scorpius on her lap so his legs dangled over her knees. He allowed her to manoeuvre him, clinging to her as if, if he were to let go, he’d also let go of what little composure he had left.
Draco approached them cautiously, only to falter — not knowing if he should hover, sit beside them or kneel before Scorpius as he wished to do. So accustomed to being both the only parent available and the father of a stoic little boy, he felt as if he were, once again, the twenty-two-year-old man holding a wailing newborn as two of his only confidants took an illegal Portkey, and disappeared into the unknown.
He hadn’t known when to expect to hear back from them or if he ever would. Times had changed — countless times over for Draco — and yet those defining moments were just as present even while the world around him resurrected itself.
He decided to pull a chair out and move it so he was seated adjacent to Astoria and Scorpius.
“She broke my trust,” Scorpius said eventually, his voice muffled but trembling with emotion. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, and Draco suppressed a groan, praying his mother wasn’t watching from one of the Manor’s many windows. “I told her she couldn’t say — and she— and you— and I told her…”
“Oh, Scorpius.” She tucked him in closer to her chest so she could rest her chin on his head. “You know she didn’t intend to break your trust.”
“But she did it,” Scorpius insisted, and though Draco could hear the pain and conviction within his voice — see the hurt and heartbreak in the rapid blinking of his eyes as he strained to keep from shedding the tears that had pooled in his eyes. “How can I ever trust her again?”
At that, Astoria chuckled, snapping Draco’s attention back to her.
“Oh, darling,” Astoria breathed. “Who said trust works like that?”
“Everyone.”
Draco silently agreed with Scorpius, though he allowed Astoria to continue.
Astoria’s gaze flicked to Draco briefly, her expression softening before she looked back at Scorpius. “You know, my love,” she murmured, “there once was a boy, who made terrible decisions — he had to lose faith in the world he was presented, and in turn people lost faith in him because of the choices that were placed in front of him — but he made the most of what he was handed, and when he had the chance to reflect, he worked to make sure those mistakes wouldn’t define him.”
Scorpius stilled, his arm frozen mid-motion as he wiped at his nose again. Draco conjured a handkerchief, handing it to him silently, and the boy took it without protest.
“Your father made sure those choices wouldn’t haunt him—or you, or his friends,” Astoria said gently.
“During the war?” Scorpius asked, already knowing as much as he could understand of the war and his father’s history, at seven — which was quite a lot, if truth be told. “But this isn’t the war.”
“Wasn’t it?” Astoria asked, thoughtfully. “From what I hear, someone was attacking your father, and Rose had two choices. She could either let that happen, or she could protect someone she cares about. Someone she knows you care about.”
Scorpius shifted, his small frame remaining tense as he squirmed under the weight of Astoria’s question. He tilted his head a minuscule of a fraction and Draco knew he was looking at him, studying his expression carefully, as if searching for confirmation.
“Do you think when everyone lost faith with your father, it was wrong for us to re-extend our trust?” Astoria asked, and she was wicked in a manner even Pansy was incapable of. Draco already knew what she was about to say, and it was — mighty Slytherin of her. “Don’t you think trust inherently requires faith? And is there ever a limit to faith when it comes to someone you love?”
“But it hurts,” Scorpius said softly. “It hurts because I love her.”
Astoria pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I know, darling, but it won’t hurt forever. And she’s hurting too, just like you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because sisters can be like that,” Astoria said. “I have my own, don’t I?”
“But you don’t like Aunt Daphne.”
“Maybe if we’d both tried harder…” And Draco was certain she was no longer talking to Scorpius but simply talking aloud. “We could have been spared such an end.”
Astoria’s voice trailed off, her gaze dropping to the roses beside them.
“Right,” Draco said, knowing it was best left there, for Astoria had turned to him in expectation — having become overcome. He wondered if it was because there was no longer an ocean between her and her sister now — only a twist of determination, deliberation, destination — an apparition that she was incapable of without magic. “I think this is good for now.”
Scorpius scrambled off Astoria’s lap, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before stomping ahead of them, his steps echoing through the garden path. Draco watched him go, his heart heavy but hopeful.
Draco waited, his steps slowing slightly as he debated whether to bring up Daphne. The thought lingered, a faint itch in the back of his mind. He was certain he would never have much of a relationship with her, but he wouldn’t judge Astoria for seeking her out now that she had returned to the country. It wasn’t his place to begrudge her that — especially after all she had endured — after what she had just now said. Still, the silence between them stretched, and when it became apparent Astoria wasn’t going to broach the subject herself, Draco allowed the topic to dissipate into the crisp winter air, like smoke fading into the breeze.
“That was positively Slytherin of you,” Draco murmured, falling into step beside her once she’d wiped away the few tears that had slipped through her composure. “You’ve become more like your wife.”
Astoria hummed, a soft, melodic sound that betrayed nothing as she extended her arm to trail her fingertips along the nearest blooms. The roses were vibrant even in winter, their deep red petals vivid against the muted tones of the stasis-charmed garden. Draco’s gaze drifted to the delicate tattoo inked on the inside of her wrist — the Hermione Roses she’d had inked upon herself this past summer. At the time, he’d catalogued the choice as odd, but it had never occurred to him to question it further.
They’d known, he realised. And he was certain if he were to inquire more about the beginnings of Mission T.I.T.S., he’d find one or both of the Parkinson-Malfoys had had a hand in the scheming.
“But was I wrong?” Astoria asked, tilting her head questioningly at him. “Only somebody who’s lost trust knows the virtue of it fully. Does that not justify a leap of faith if they are truly sorry?”
Draco let the words settle. She wasn’t wrong, and they both knew it. There was no room to argue against the wisdom of her statement, not when he’d lived its truth himself.
“Was I a leap of faith?” Draco already knew the answer — yes — but they’d never truly discussed it after Scorpius. After it had all panned out as well as it had. And it would be a grave injustice to only require closure at the end of terrible events.
Astoria stopped, turning to face him fully. Her hands clasped lightly in front of her, the pale winter light catching the faint shimmer of her wedding band. “I knew when I married you, Draco,” she began, her voice steady but warm, “you would be kind to Pansy, if not me. I did not know if you would understand — and I certainly never expected you to go out of your way to keep us together, as you have. But I had faith in you to surprise me, yes.”
She stepped closer, her eyes meeting his with unwavering certainty. “And you did. More than I ever expected.” She squeezed his hand briefly, her touch grounding, before stepping back with a small, self-assured smile.
Draco cleared his throat, suddenly unsure how to respond. “Er, right—thank you,” he said awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Astoria laughed softly, a sound that was both amused and knowing. Whatever it was she found entertaining, she kept it to herself.
“When did you know about their little plan?” Draco drawled, finding as always, comfort in the thought of silent libraries and exasperated huffs from a table in the back.
Astoria’s smile grew sly. “I’ll give it to the children,” she replied. “The seed may have been planted by Pansy, but the execution was all them.”
They stepped into the shadow of the open doors, the warm glow of the parlour spilling out into the cool garden air. Astoria’s gaze shifted toward him, her brow lifting slightly as she continued, “Which reminds me — are those scratches on your neck?”
Draco pointedly ignored the comment, his expression remaining stoic as he adjusted the cuffs of his coat. He had no intention of indulging her. There was far too much they all knew about each other’s sex lives as it was; he would spare at least one of them (if Hermione ever became one of them) that indignity.
“Come on, you,” Draco said briskly, catching her hand and tugging her forward. “I believe Theo and Pansy are planning a party for Scorpius’s birthday, and someone’s got to supervise the children.”
Notes:
Thank you so much for all your love and for keeping up with The Stowaway Malfoy, as I'm sure the holiday season stress begins for you all as well!
I'm still hoping to wrap up soon, and Cait and Mlekoimiodd are both being extra patient with the volume of words I'm throwing at them to read and alphabet! They make my life so much easier, and I can never thank them enough! They're, simply speaking, the voice of reason and deserve so much love for all their efforts and love to me during the writing process!
Super huge shoutout to Chestnut1992 who helped me decide on Draco building Hermione a bookshelf for her Christmas present! It is the best present he could have given her.
Ron - now I know I could have leaned more into Hermione's conversation with him - and she will talk to him more about how he has disappointed Rose in the future. As she told Ron, this can't be a one-off, and she's already setting boundaries she wouldn't have a week ago by allowing Rose to choose not to meet him. This might be the last time we see Ron in this story and so I'll wrap his part of it up by saying one chapter or one conversation was never going to bridge the divide - and it will take years for that to happen. It is my hope that this week woke him up from his slumber, and he actively does purse making amends with at least Rose. Perhaps, we'll meet Ron in the epilogue - we'll see!
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Chapter 20: Where It All Began
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione hadn’t made great strides with the book she was meant to be reading. The words blurred and jumbled together before bleeding into the edges of her mind. This was a new kind of challenge — one she’d never faced as a child, curled under a blanket with a toy torch — staying up far past her bedtime to devour as much of her book as she could, as quickly as she could. Reading as an adult, she’d learned, happened in fits and bursts. Snatches of stolen time between responsibilities, or in moments like these, where she tried to concentrate in spite of the ambience of exasperated huffs (hers) and pensive sighs (Rose’s).
Their flat was otherwise quiet today, and the Floo had not flared once since Ron had left two days ago, which was proving to be both a blessing and a curse. A faint hum of noise from the street below mingled with the occasional chirp of birds, but otherwise, it was just the two of them, stationed at opposite ends of the sofa — legs tucked beneath them, books perched firmly in their laps. Not a single page had been turned in what felt like hours.
Hermione lowered her book to take a peek at Rose, who immediately shifted her copy of Beedle the Bard up, burying her nose into the same page she’d been staring at for the past hour.
The quiet of the day had become rather stagnant, and Hermione found herself growing as sullen as Rose had been these past few days. They hadn’t discussed Scorpius beyond what Hermione had overheard of Rose and Harry’s conversation, and Ron’s visit had also gone uncommented on.
That particular silence had told Hermione far more than Rose’s words could have.
Rose — normally as inquisitive as Hermione had been at that age — had not asked a single question, which led Hermione to suspect she’d been eavesdropping on their entire conversation. Not that Hermione could blame her. She’d have done the same at Rose’s age.
Sure enough, when Hermione had gone hunting through the bathroom drawers, she’d found a tangled mess of Extendable Ears carefully hidden beneath a jumble of disposable shower caps. And when Hermione had pulled them out and set them atop the breakfast table — in an effort to convey she knew of Rose’s little ploy — they’d gone entirely ignored before disappearing at some point during the previous night.
Tension between them simmered quietly now, broken only by another sigh from Rose, longer and deeper than the last.
“Yes, Rose?” Hermione asked, letting her book fall to her blanketed lap.
“Nothing.”
“Okay.” Hermione Granger was known for having many qualities, but patience had never been something she excelled at. And Rose knew this.
With a huff and the resolve to draw her out, Hermione set Dickens down and summoned a battered copy of Austen — the old, tattered kind one could pick up at any given second-hand bookshop — not the priceless first edition currently sitting miles and miles away.
Another sigh followed almost immediately, as though Hermione’s calm acceptance had done nothing to lessen whatever storm was brewing in her daughter’s mind.
“Rose, if you don’t tell me, I can’t help you,” Hermione said gently, not looking up from her book. “I have yet to learn how to read minds.”
Rose didn’t look up. Instead, she buried her nose deeper into her book, the spine tilted at such an angle that all Hermione could see was the crown of her messy bun, curls springing out in every direction in a mirror image of what Hermione herself looked like.
“...is Scorp… day…” Rose mumbled into the pages of her book, her voice so muffled it took Hermione a moment to register what she’d said.
“Excuse me?”
The sigh that escaped Rose’s lungs was so heavy it seemed to carry the weight of the world. Anyone else might have believed it was Rose herself keeping the earth spinning on its axis — so weary was the sound. The melodrama of this child, honestly.
“It’s Scorpius’ birthday today,” Rose repeated slowly, not meeting her eyes. “Today’s the 29th.”
“Oh.” Hermione closed her book completely, her expression softening. She’d known it was this week — it had been the reason the children had initially said they wished to spend the holidays together but she hadn’t known which day it would fall on. Hermione let her book fall onto her lap, picturing Scorpius’ sterling-grey eyes — the way they’d grown wide and fearful before he’d turned to Draco for the answer to Hermione’s simple question that first morning they’d spent time together. She hadn’t known him then — and couldn’t say for certain she knew him all that well now either — but they had laid a foundation to bridge the gap.
The bridge now teetered above them, threatening to give way directly onto the murky waters they were desperate to seek refuge in.
She studied Rose for a moment, noting the slump of her shoulders, the way her fingers toyed with the corner of the book she wasn’t truly reading. How could she? When both their minds had drifted with the wind to Wiltshire, where another child sat — equally as sad, Hermione was certain.
“You know I did promise him a birthday dinner; it would be rude not to deliver on it.”
Rose lifted her head to meet Hermione’s eyes, before looking away quickly.
“If you want to,” Rose murmured, her voice tinged with hesitance. She shifted in her seat, her knees pulling tighter to her chest as her fingers resumed their nervous picking at her book’s spine.
Hermione smiled smugly into her book, a hint of triumph curling her lips — she had her.
“Of course, now I can’t remember what it was he wanted,” she frowned, flipping open the book so she was staring at a random page — Elizabeth’s disastrous trip to Netherfield, as it happened to be. “Was it lasagne?”
“Roast chicken,” Rose said into her book, barely above a whisper. “And those potatoes with the crispy edges you make.”
“Oh, yes.” Hermione snapped her book shut and rose to her feet. “And maybe cupcakes. He loved the strawberry frosting I made at the— oh, but I hardly have time to do all that by myself.”
Rose hesitated, the words bubbling on her lips. Her fingers stilled, curling against the book as she finally said, “I could help, if you need me to. If you told me how to — and if you do the icing.”
Her tone was offhand, but the way Rose’s toes tapped nervously against the sofa told Hermione the truth: she wanted to help, but she feared how Scorpius might react.
“It’s a deal,” Hermione said brightly, striding towards the kitchen.
Rose set her book aside, her movements slow and deliberate. She paused, watching Hermione for a moment as if searching for reassurance. When Hermione glanced back and smiled warmly, Rose stood, smoothing her pyjamas and padding hesitantly after her mother.
There was uncertainty in her steps, but also resolve — a quiet determination to try. It was an opening, and Hermione was going to take it. She only hoped Scorpius would be receptive and open to seeing it for what it could be.
For all of Ron’s “it’s just the basics,” Hermione found she had nearly everything she needed to prepare her Roast Chicken and Potatoes, and a quick note to Ginny at Grimmauld Place ensured she’d get the remaining ingredients delivered in no time. Hermione considered making the trip to the cottage but decided against it; Rose was trailing her with an urgency that was rare, if not unprecedented. She moved about the kitchen like a tiny shadow, ready to hand over whatever Hermione might need before she even asked.
Hermione hadn’t wanted to disrupt this delicate moment of harmony by mentioning the cottage. The symbiosis they’d found today was too fragile, too precious to risk over logistics. Besides, she’d have to make the trip later to collect their belongings; their stay would end the following day, and the last thing she needed was Mr Walters coming at her with a broomstick — or worse, a Howler — for overstaying her welcome.
“Music?” Hermione suggested as she retrieved the matching aprons she’d bought two years ago, one of which had never seen the light of day.
“Sure, none of that old stuff, though,” Rose grumbled, slipping the apron over her head and tying it with a huff. “Spice Girls if we must.”
“Are you calling me old?” Hermione deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.
“Kneazles live up to twenty-five, and Crooks was pretty old by the end,” Rose retorted with a cheeky grin. Her expression softened almost immediately, her voice tinged with a wistful note. “Oh, can we get another one? I miss him so, so, soooo much.”
Hermione’s first instinct was to remind Rose that beings weren’t interchangeable, that one couldn’t simply replace a friend — whether human or feline — with another. But she held back, rolling her eyes instead and ushering Rose away from the hob where butter was just beginning to melt in the pan.
“Go on, play your music,” she said, setting up her counter just as she liked it. “And then get cracking.”
Rose darted off to the stereo, and moments later, the upbeat strains of Spice Up Your Life filled the kitchen. Hermione couldn’t help but smile as she glanced at Rose, who was now bopping along to the beat while gathering ingredients.
Her enthusiasm didn’t translate to skill, however.
The first egg Rose cracked missed the bowl entirely, shattering on the counter and oozing down the side into a sticky puddle at Hermione’s feet. The yolk splattered across her fuzzy slippers, earning an exasperated groan from Hermione and a sheepish giggle from Rose.
“Oops.”
“Rose,” Hermione began, her voice carrying the weary patience of someone who’d cleaned up far too many messes, “watch where you’re aiming. Into the bowl, please.”
“I know, I know!” Rose scrambled to grab a cloth, but in her haste, she knocked over the bag of flour. It toppled with an ominous thud, sending a white plume into the air that settled over both of them like fresh-fallen snow.
Hermione froze, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, while Rose stood wide-eyed in the middle of the chaos, the now-empty flour bag clutched to her chest.
Scorpius had been Gordon Ramsay compared to Rose.
“Well,” Hermione said, repressing a smile as she brushed flour from her hair, “this is going splendidly.”
“Maybe I should… um… do something else?” Rose offered hesitantly, her gaze darting to the door as though contemplating escape. Her cheeks were pink, and her lower lip jutted out ever so slightly in a pout.
“Oh no, you’re not getting out of this that easily,” Hermione said, a cross between amusement and exasperation. “You made this mess; you’re going to help fix it. Grab the whisk, and let’s try this again.”
The second egg cracked with marginally more success, though a chunk of shell still made its way into the bowl. Rose squinted at it, her tongue poking out in concentration as she fished the offending piece out with her fingertips.
“There,” she said triumphantly, holding up the tiny shard like it was a trophy.
“Brilliant,” Hermione said dryly, though her lips twitched with the threat of a smile. She handed Rose the whisk. “Now, mix that gently. Gently, Rose.”
Rose attacked the bowl with all the subtlety of a troll wielding a club, sending droplets of batter flying. Hermione stepped in to steady her hands, guiding the whisk with careful movements.
“Like this,” Hermione said, her voice softer now. “You don’t have to go at it like you’re battling a mountain troll.”
Rose huffed but relaxed her grip, following Hermione’s lead. The batter began to smooth out, and a tentative smile crept across her face.
They worked together in this fashion, Hermione guiding and correcting while Rose alternated between moments of determination and hesitant glances towards her mother. It was clear she wanted to help, to be a part of this, but the weight of her guilt and anger — and perhaps her lingering fears about Scorpius — kept her from fully leaning into the moment.
Hermione didn’t press her, allowing the rhythm of their work to speak louder than the silences that stretched between them. The chicken roasted to perfection in the oven, and the cupcakes, though not entirely uniform, were charming in their imperfections. The pink frosting had a whimsical swirl, and the sight of them brought a small, fleeting smile to Rose’s lips as she carefully placed them in the box.
When everything was packed, Hermione applied a stasis charm to the Tupperware, ensuring nothing would spill or spoil. She reached for the cloth bag she’d illegally charmed with an extension charm — because of course she had — and carefully lowered the containers inside. If Draco Malfoy wanted to make a fuss about her misuse of illegal magic, he was welcome to come get her off, lawyer that he was.
“No,” Rose said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet.
Hermione stilled, her fingers gripping the handles of the bag. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
Rose stepped back, her shoulders tense. She avoided Hermione’s gaze, her hands fiddling with the edge of her apron before tugging it off and tossing it onto the kitchen counter. It landed in a crumpled heap, sliding off the edge as though in solidarity with Rose’s retreat.
“You should go,” Rose said, taking another step back. Her voice wavered, caught somewhere between defiance and resignation. “I— I don’t think he’ll want me to come.”
“Rose.” Hermione’s voice softened, her brow furrowing as she set the bag down. She stepped forward, but Rose moved further away, wrapping her arms around her chest as if trying to shield herself from the conversation.
“No,” Rose repeated, shaking her head. “I want to visit Aunty Gin.”
Hermione’s mouth opened, then closed, her mind scrambling to find the right words. “Rose, we did this all for—”
“James said he misses me,” Rose interrupted, running a hand through her curls in a gesture so reminiscent of Hermione herself that it made her heart ache. “I want to go see him. You can tell Aunty Gin to send me back when you come back.”
“Rose,” Hermione began again, stepping closer, but her daughter’s eyes darted to the fireplace, determination hardening her features.
“We worked so hard on this. Scorpius—”
“He won’t want me there,” Rose said, her voice cracking just enough for Hermione to catch the raw fear beneath her bravado.
“Rose,” Hermione tried again, her own voice trembling now. “I know you’re scared, but—”
“I’m not scared!” Rose snapped, though her hands betrayed her, trembling as she reached for the Floo powder on the mantel. “I just don’t want to go. I don’t want to see him look at me like that again.”
Hermione took another step forward, but before she could bridge the gap, Rose threw the powder into the grate. The flames roared to life, their emerald glow casting fleeting shadows across the kitchen.
“Rose, wait—”
But before Hermione could finish, her daughter stepped into the fireplace, her voice firm but hurried as she called out, “Number 12 Grimmauld Place!”
And just like that, she was gone, the flare of green flames leaving Hermione alone in the kitchen.
Hermione let out a long, weary sigh resting her hands on the edge of the counter. Once she was done liberating magical creatures, she thought wryly, perhaps her next cause would be inventing a way to keep temperamental children from Flooing away at the first sign of conflict.
Maybe.
* * *
This night was just as crisp as the last time Hermione had Apparated to Malfoy Manor — one week prior to the day — only this time when she looked up at the looming gates before her, she did not see the place she had once been tortured.
No. In its stead, she saw a legacy. One that had stood through two wars, weathered a public inquisition, and yet somehow birthed a new beginning for an old and powerful family.
The wrought-iron gates, intricate with serpentine designs, glinted faintly in the dim moonlight. Beyond them, the grand silhouette of the Manor rose against the horizon, its windows glowing with soft, amber light.
Before she could take a step closer, a faint pop of Apparition startled her, and a house-elf appeared at the gate.
She was not Skippy, whose young, eager face Hermione had come to recognise, but another elf — older, with wrinkles that curved like delicate filigree around her wide, bright eyes.
“May Mipsy help you?” the elf asked, her voice high-pitched but warm.
“Hello,” Hermione said, biting back the urge to ask just how many elves were in the Malfoy family’s employ. “I was wondering if I could speak to Draco Malfoy. I’m Hermione Granger.”
At the mention of her name, the elf’s ears perked fully, and Hermione could feel a ripple of excitement radiate from her.
“Of course, Miss Granger, Mipsy will escort you in immediately,” the elf said, bowing low before turning sharply on her heel and gesturing for Hermione to step through the now-parting gates. “Skippy said you prefer the small library.”
Hermione suppressed a wry smile. She wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, just how colossal the "large library" would have to be to render the sprawling, grand space she'd visited before deserving of the diminutive title small.
Hermione hesitated briefly, her fingers brushing the cloth bag at her side before she took the offered hand. In an instant, the familiar sensation of compression swept over her, and when it eased, she found herself standing once more in the so-called small library.
On this occasion, she saw what she had missed the first time: the rich warmth of the wood that made up the towering shelves. The deep, lustrous colours of the chaise lounge and the accompanying armchairs, and the brilliant silvery curtains that were draped to the side so the view of the gardens below was visible through the large Palladian windows.
Even the books were alive with a faint hum of magic, their spines gilded and embossed in runes and ancient languages she wished she were more familiar with.
A crack reverberated through the air, and then amidst the magic of the small library, stood—
“Draco.”
His hair was dishevelled, fine strands falling into his eyes — eyes that burned, molten and alive, as though pulsating in rhythm with the thrumming magic of the ancient texts surrounding them. He looked as if he’d run here.
Just as she knew she looked — as if she’d hurried here, herself — her curls had never been her best confidant.
“Hermione.” His voice was low, carrying a warmth that seemed to weave into the charged air of the library. His gaze roved down her body, lingering for the briefest moment on the ribbed olive-green jumper dress she’d chosen before his eyes flicked to the parcel she clutched in her hands. His expression shifting into a frown, as if he were displeased by the intrusion to his perusal.
“It’s for Scorpius,” Hermione explained quickly, her words rushing out as his intensity weighed on her. Hermione clutched onto the parcel as if it could ground her — keep her from drifting out to sea with the current she found in his eyes. “Rose and I promised him a birthday dinner, and so we thought—”
Before she could finish, a rush of air swirled around them, heated and electric, as though the room itself were alive — channelling Draco’s emotions with an almost sentient awareness — just as it had been the last time she’d been here.
“Mipsy,” Draco murmured, his tone an unspoken command.
“Yes, sir,” came the elf’s swift reply, and with a snap of her fingers, the weight of the parcel vanished from Hermione’s hands.
“I hope to see you soon, Miss Granger,” Mipsy added with a bright chirp before disappearing with a pop herself.
The silence that followed was palpable, taut with an unspoken hope. The absence of the parcel felt insignificant now, overshadowed by the sheer presence of Draco and the space he commanded so effortlessly. His eyes continued down, resuming their earlier journey before lifting to take in the whole picture before him.
Hermione swallowed, her heart hammering in her chest as the awareness of being utterly alone with him, once more, intensified. It had only been four days since she’d seen him. Somewhere in her brain, she knew that fact. Yet it felt to her as if it had been an eon — and she was not willing to go a second longer.
They moved simultaneously.
His hands descended first, gripping Hermione around her waist — the pressure proving minimal compared to the manner in which his lips descended upon her jaw — trailing up in a deliberately slow path that made her whine, only for him to capture her lips as they parted.
The warmth of coffee swept across her tongue, and she shivered, basking in the richness of it as it permeated her senses. He backed her into the shelves she’d been admiring mere minutes ago, only they no longer registered — not when his hands were inching up, pushing past the barrier of her sweater dress, the possessive press of his fingers channelling the ocean — squeezing her waist, caressing her thighs, gripping her arse, reeling her in until she was pressed to him.
Hermione gasped softly at the imprint of his erection where it scorched her stomach, earning her a chuckle from Draco, whose fingers continued to knead her arse before dragging her up into his arms so she could feel him harden further where she needed him most. Her core clenched even as she bit back the mewl that threatened to escape her.
Draco’s lips trailed deliberately down the column of her neck, his breath hot and uneven against her skin where it had healed since the last time he had worshipped her so. Each kiss was a spark, igniting what had been smouldering beneath the surface this past week.
She would be a liar if she said she had not frequently thought of the night he’d pressed her into the bed, his hands vice-like around her thighs, drawing out an allegro she hadn’t considered herself capable of. The memory had come to her every night, every moment — hoping to Merlin it would not be her one and only experience.
“Four days. Four fucking days,” Draco murmured against her neck, his voice low and rough, the words half an accusation, half a confession. “Felt like a lifetime.”
Hermione tilted her head, granting him more access as her fingers slipped into his hair. It was softer than she remembered, and despite the circumstances, she worked hard to ingrain the texture of it so she would never again forget how it felt to skim her fingers through his feathery-soft locks.
“I know,” she breathed, her voice trembling with a scintillating mixture of desire and desperation. “I know.”
She tugged his face back up, capturing his bottom lip between her teeth.
“Been thinking about you—” He groaned, breaking away to pant, his eyes overwhelming her vision.
“I’d be displeased if you hadn’t,” Hermione murmured, pulling at his turtleneck — needing desperately to divest them of the last barriers keeping them from being where they were meant to be. “I’ve only thought of you every moment of every day—”
Draco growled low in his throat, his grip on her waist firming as he manoeuvred her around, pressing her breasts into the shelf so he could rip the clip from her hair.
“—Every day.”
He pressed his face into her curls, inhaling deeply — drinking in the scent of her — his breath skimming across her scalp and down her neck until it settled with a throb in her core.
“What have you been thinking about, Granger?” His fingers ghosted across the hem of her dress. The cool woodwork before her was a stark contrast to the heat radiating between them, and Hermione gasped as his teeth descended, nipping at her earlobe.
She was utterly surrounded by him, and even then — it was simply not enough.
“You — this — about what more you have to show me.” She gripped the shelves tightly, arching her arse back into him. “If you’re always so tender, or if you’ll fuck me the way your tongue did, that first night.”
She turned to look over her shoulder at him, only to have his lips descend on her, and everything else — time, space, even reason — ceased to exist. The kiss was desperate, tongues tangled with all the words they hadn’t said, the ones they simply couldn’t.
“Do you have any idea,” he muttered between kisses, “how maddening you are? How fucking mesmerising?”
She felt her dress hike up only to tear with the haste of his movement. She didn’t mind in the least. It had been the reason she’d shown up here — hoping against all hope whatever had started that morning of Christmas Day was not over so soon — in something she knew he would like.
“Gods.” His hands roamed lower, mapping the curve of her hips before she heard the clink of his belt. “Did you wear matching knickers just for me, Granger?”
“Draco,” Hermione whined, snapping his attention back to her face, where she’d turned to glare at him from her periphery. “If you’re going to live out a fantasy we’ve both had, you’d better do it before my legs start cramping.”
He clicked his tongue.
“You think you’re such a good girl, but really you’re a minx with a penchant for making men suffer.” Hermione felt a current shoot up her spine as he wrapped a hand around her mane of curls.
“I am,” Hermione groaned. “Please, Draco. For you—”
His fingers wrapped around her knickers, lowering them ever so slowly until she reached down and slid them off herself, stepping one heel pointedly on it.
“Gods, fuck, Hermione,” Draco murmured, dipping his fingers into her core as she arched more firmly into his touch, pulling her knee up, so it was slotted between books that shivered as if with anticipation.
He pumped into her tenderly before building up into a crescendo.
Hermione moaned, squeezing her eyes shut to keep herself from seeing spots. It was a visceral reaction, and she needed him — she needed him because she wasn’t certain, couldn’t be certain when this moment ended, if they’d be able to make it work with their two children hanging in the balance.
He removed his fingers carefully before coating his length with her essence.
“You’ve always looked so beautiful surrounded by books,” his breath caressed her ear as he lined himself up behind her. She moved forward to rest her knee more firmly on the shelf in front of her. “But nothing quite compares to this.”
His fingertips grazed the underside of her ribs. Hermione’s breath hitched, her senses alight with the path he traced. Just as anticipation flared into urgency, he pushed forward, sliding into her to the hilt with a deep rumble that made Hermione shudder with exhilaration.
This, this, this — the way he made her feel, the way he felt about her — it was intoxicating.
“Oh, darling,” he slid out with a guttural groan before snapping his hips so he was once more buried deep inside her. “Your cunt is divine. If only I could taste it as I fucked you.”
She shivered at his words, finding there was little he could say she would not lap up and beg more for. Please.
The room, dimly lit and heavy with the scent of old wood and magic, felt almost alive with the intensity of their movements. Draco’s fingers entwined with hers on the shelf, even as his other hand roamed up to snap her bra off. It fell forward to her elbows, but she hardly registered anything beyond the slide of his cock as he thrust into her with a force that could have rattled the very foundation of Malfoy Manor.
“Draco,” she mewled, allowing her body to fall forward, pressing into the rapidly heating woodwork as she turned her neck.
His name on her lips seemed to undo him. A feral sound escaped his throat, a mix of need and surrender. He bent forward, his teeth descending on the tender skin of her shoulder. His lips were ravenous, trailing fire along her shoulder and up her neck, where he lingered, breathing her in as if she were the very air he needed to survive. Hermione tilted her head instinctively, granting him access — and when he captured her lips once more, she kissed him back with a hunger that bordered on delirium.
It was a hunger unlike the last four days — living on porridge — it was a hunger you didn’t know you had until it all but consumed you.
“More,” she pleaded, her voice trembling. “Need—more.”
Her request spurred him on. His hands slid up her sides, gripping her waist with a possessive urgency that left no question about the depth of his desire.
“You’ll be the death of me, Hermione,” he muttered before unsheathing himself.
She’d hardly mourned the loss of him pressed up against her back before he flipped her around, pulling her up into his arms — one mighty stroke sheathing her on his cock once more.
The ridges of the shelves at her back fell away as she drowned in the depth of his stormy seas. The air between them was heated with their laboured panting. He drew her back down on his cock, and she cried out, the stirrings of an orgasm beginning as he lifted her up and drew her back down.
Again. Again. Again.
The world around them blurred, reduced to nothing but the heat of their bodies and the unrelenting pull between them. Every movement was deliberate yet wild, each thrust, each kiss, each touch unravelling them both until nothing remained but raw need.
The foundation of Malfoy Manor may have stood for a millennia, unyielding, but within these walls, they were the storm — an unrelenting force of nature that could obliterate it in the blink of an eye.
They were the wild of the ocean, grey and stormy as it crashed down upon the peaceful, serene banks of rich, brown soil. Again and again and again, their movements mirrored the waves — ceaseless, powerful, and consuming. Each crest brought a gasp, a cry, a whispered name as their bodies gave and took in equal measure.
The line between control and surrender blurred, dissolving like foam against the tide.
Hermione’s orgasm tore through her, consuming and obliterating in ripples, like sand caught in the pull of the tide — swept away, weightless, and utterly at the mercy of the ocean’s strength. It surged through her, each wave leaving her breathless as it pulled her deeper into the drift, surrendering her to its will.
Her body trembled, her cunt clenched — caught in the rapture of sensation that seemed endless, as though the storm within her had no intention of abating. Draco’s name fell from her lips, broken and raw, a sound that mirrored the crashing waves inside her. She clung to him, her nails digging into his shoulders, he the only anchor in the unrelenting tide.
Hot spurts filled her, and Draco, too, relented, his hips slowing as he fucked everything he had to give into her — a gentle wave carrying on as if a tsunami had not just been unleashed moments earlier. His grip on her arse remained as it had been, only now she registered the sting of his nails — the press of her breasts at his shoulders — the way he leaned forward, nestling his head into the comfort of her bosom.
Neither moved, and were it up to Hermione, neither would, ever again. The world could stop, the heavens could fall, and she wouldn’t care so long as she remained right here, tangled in the heat of him, their breaths mingling, their bodies still humming from the aftershocks of the storm they’d created.
Only, life never quite played out in the way Hermione envisioned it.
The sound came first — sharp, deliberate, and ricocheting to the beat of her hammering heart. Hermione stiffened, her heart lurching back into frantic motion as Draco moved to cover her body just as the doors to the library flew open.
“Gods, Lucius,” a familiar voice drawled, the irritation dripping from every syllable. “Must you be so proper all the time? Ria and I hardly care for visitors, let alone a—” Pansy Parkinson’s words halted mid-sentence, her sharp eyes honing in on Hermione’s, who peeked over Draco’s shoulder with a mixture of mortification and dread.
“Why hello, Granger,” Pansy said smoothly, her lips curving into a knowing smirk. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Hermione’s body deflated, her cheeks blazing with heat as she tried to make herself as small as possible behind Draco’s broad frame — not that it would cover for the fact that she was, currently, stark naked and wrapped around the Malfoy heir — in Malfoy Manor.
Draco’s shoulders tensed, his grip on Hermione tightening slightly as he spoke without shifting his head. “Parkinson. Father.”
“Welcome back,” Hermione said feebly, allowing her knee to loosen where she had been gripping Draco’s nude arse.
Pansy’s smirk widened, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes. “It’s almost as if I’ve been transported into a parallel universe. Only better.”
A sharp gasp drew their attention to Lucius Malfoy, who stood frozen in the doorway, his pale complexion tinged with mortified outrage. “My tenth-century texts on Sanskrit runes,” he managed, his voice strained. “Draco!”
Draco’s jaw tightened, his tone dripping with exasperation. “I, too, would like this to end before the books are truly scandalised. Would you please excuse us?”
Lucius’s gaze flickered from the books to Hermione’s flushed face, then finally to his son’s bare arse, before recoiling with a visible shudder. Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked away, muttering curses under his breath as his footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Pansy, however, lingered, leaning casually against the doorframe, her arms crossed and her smirk firmly in place. “Came, did you?” she asked with a wink, her words landing like a match tossed into Hermione’s embarrassment. “You can thank me later, Granger.”
“Fuck off, Pans,” Draco growled, still shielding her from view even as he jostled Hermione to keep her weight from becoming overbearing in his arms.
“Oh, come on, Malfoy,” Pansy drawled, already turning towards the door. “There was a time you didn’t know the difference between harder and faster. I’m glad I could pay it forward to The Golden Girl.”
“There was a time you didn’t know you preferred women over men,” Draco snapped, his tone dry and cutting. “Now get out, Parks.”
Pansy’s laughter echoed in the room as she sauntered out, throwing one last wink over her shoulder. The double doors closed behind her with a dull thud, leaving Draco and Hermione alone once more.
Draco exhaled heavily, his grip softening as Hermione slowly unwound herself from him, planting her feet on the floor. The loss of contact was immediate and palpable — a chill in the absence of his warmth.
Draco Reparo’d her dress for her as she slid her underwear back on, snapping her bra back into place with great difficulty even as she maintained her best air of nonchalance.
“Thank you,” she murmured, pulling her dress back over her head as Draco zipped up his trousers, his turtleneck still mysteriously absent.
“I should probably—” Hermione began, but Draco interrupted her with a sudden, almost desperate, “No.”
Her gaze snapped to his, startled by the intensity in his voice. His flush deepened to Gryffindor red as he hesitated, running a hand through his tousled hair. “You came all this way for Scorpius — you should at least stay for dinner.”
Hermione smiled sadly, her heart clenching at the look on his face. “I can’t,” she said softly, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “Not when Rose isn’t here. It wouldn’t feel right.”
Draco’s expression fell, a mix of understanding and frustration flickering across his features. “And she won’t come?”
“She’s adamant that Scorpius doesn’t want to see her.”
Draco sighed, raking a hand through his hair again. “Scorpius does want to see her. He misses her… He loves her… He just needs a push.”
Hermione nodded, her voice gentle. “We’ll wait for it. Rose will understand.”
Draco’s jaw tightened as he looked away, his frustration spilling into his voice. “I know she will. The thing is, Hermione — I don’t want to wait.”
Hermione watched him conjure a plain white shirt with a deft wave of his hand, the fabric settling over his shoulders like it had been made to belong there. His long, delicate fingers worked with deliberation as he buttoned it slowly. She couldn’t help but think of those same fingers, the way they had mapped her body with such finesse — balancing tenderness and tenacity in a way that left her breathless. She didn’t want to wait either.
Her eyes followed the path of his hands, moving upwards with each button he fastened. By the time she reached his face, she froze. His eyes were already on her, and the raw vulnerability in his gaze struck her.
“Christmas was already ruined. I don’t want to ring in the New Year on the same note.” He took a hesitant step forward. “Do you want to leave, Granger?”
His hand reached out slowly, fingers brushing against hers where she’d clasped them in front of her. Her resolve wavered, his touch setting her skin alight. The vulnerability in his eyes, the honesty in his words — it was all too much. She tilted her head up to look at him.
“No,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to walk away.”
Draco’s lips curved up and she wanted to capture it between her lips, to taste how sweet his smile would be for herself.
“Then we must simply outsmart our children,” Draco said, his fingers emblazoning a path up the column of her neck. “They were clever with their little ruse, but I’m sure between us, we can come up with something just as good.”
“You want to children-trap them.” Hermione watched him, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips as Draco’s hand lingered near her neck, his fingers brushing lightly against her skin, sending tiny shivers racing down her spine. How had they come to this moment?
She thought back to that first night — when Scorpius had shown up at her door. The night she’d journeyed here to this library for the first time, with dread and unease in her heart, bracing herself for an encounter with a man she thought she knew.
Draco Malfoy — who’d caught her by surprise at every corner. Who’d taken a cursory glance around her flat and taken it upon himself to fix a problem that no one else had even registered. A man who’d held her in regard, admired her from a distance.
A man who’d shown up to a birthday party for an eight-year-old he didn’t know with the most perfect birthday present, one she now knew had really been for her.
“Think of it as Sub-mission: Little One’s Vacation Enhancement.”
“Sub-mission: L.O.V.E,” Hermione chuckled. “You really are no good at these, are you?”
Draco pouted dramatically, his lower lip jutting out in a way that was equal parts exasperating and endearing. “Oh yes, because S.P.E.W was such a stroke of genius. Truly, I’m humbled in the presence of such linguistic artistry.”
“Honestly, there is no topping tits.” Hermione rolled her eyes, her grin widening. “Those two—”
A pang reverberated through her chest. The weight of her past mistakes hovered at the edge of her thoughts — an argument left to fester, unspoken words that had turned into fractures between her and Ron. She wouldn’t let that happen again. She couldn’t.
Taking a steadying breath, Hermione softened, her expression shifting from teasing to contemplative. “Draco,” she said slowly, her voice careful. “I didn’t realise earlier, but I think I may have splinched myself on my way here. Could you get a message to Ginny and ask her to bring Rose here? You know, so she can look after her poor old mum while she recuperates?”
Draco smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “How very Mrs. Bennet of you, Granger.”
“You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves,” she declared with mock indignation.
Draco’s smirk deepened, his grey eyes alight with amusement. “On the contrary, Mrs. Bennet, I have the utmost compassion for your nerves. But I can’t say I’m opposed to a bit of vexing — it’s one of my greatest pleasures in life.”
Notes:
Quote References:
1. “You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves,” Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
2. “On the contrary, Mrs. Bennet, I have the utmost compassion for your nerves. But I can’t say I’m opposed to a bit of vexing — it’s one of my greatest pleasures in life.” Pride and Prejudice, Jane AustenSubmission LOVE was Cait's addition to this chapter and I adore it! Absolute perfection!
FOUR Chapters left to go - with a teeny-tiny possibility that chapter 22 (the last chapter that will take place in this particular week) may end up being split into 2 shorter ones . We'll see when I finally sit down and write it. I'm 90% into writing chapter 21, with Cait going above and beyond alpha'ing as she travels - though she knows I will wait patiently until she returns for the edits.
No spoilers for the epilogue(s) - except that they will be fun and will feature so much fluff, you'll want to skip all the Christmas desserts you're planning on having!!! Maybe. [As Draco says, don't deny those sweet treats, folks]
Apologies, I am truly truly truly running behind on comment replies now, and am striving to reply to a handful whenever I can - but please know I love receiving them and reading them, and of course replying to them. I'm just on a mission to have this ready for a truly worthy Christmas binge if anyone should want to in December! A super huge shoutout to SleepyBookGirl, who is currently vacationing in The Cotswolds because of this lil fic. The girls and I squealed when we read that! Have a wonderfully cosy holiday <3
I will always thank Cait and Mlekoimiodd for being such wonderful support. And this smut was cheer read by Zeebee3 who gave me so much love as I panicked about it.
Chapter 21: Malfoys Don't Share, Unless They Want To
Chapter Text
It took Ginevra Weasley — or Potter, Draco wasn’t entirely sure which name she went by these days — all of fifteen minutes to ruin the post-coital bliss he’d been happily luxuriating in. (Honestly, if it were up to him, he’d have dragged Hermione off to his chambers and waited until Scorpius was old enough — say, eighteen — to properly explain why his father absolutely had to disappear the night of his eighth birthday.) But no, Draco had settled for the responsible option, sending his mother’s elf to Grimmauld Place with Hermione’s missive. No matter his own desires, he also desperately wished to see Rose and Scorpius reunited. And so when Red’s reply came back — short, smug, and entirely unwarranted: On our way, ferret. Hope you’re excited to host three Potters as well. — he was decidedly not pleased.
Draco let out a long-suffering sigh but resisted the urge to send Knitty back with a follow-up note clarifying that the invitation was strictly for Rose and that Ginevra was only meant to be the delivery service. There were, unfortunately, bigger problems demanding his attention and very little time.
Once Knitty had returned and Hermione finally felt composed enough to leave the sanctuary of the library, Draco had escorted her to the guest room where she’d be spending the night. He’d also taken the opportunity to introduce her to Mipsy, his personal elf and ward of the household. That, predictably, earned him a glare so fierce it could have turned him to stone. Honestly, she looked like Medusa — and he fucking loved it. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud. He valued his life far too much, so he’d only shrugged and left her in Mipsy’s very capable, very eager hands.
Draco Malfoy wasn’t the coward he’d been in his youth, but he was still a Slytherin. And being a Slytherin meant knowing when to pick your battles — or when to sidestep them entirely. Besides, the room technically was his bridal suite. If Hermione wanted to punish him, he could always take his chances with a more productive sort of wrath. Preferably one that would also celebrate his little ploy, later that night.
“We need every room,” Draco blatantly lied, slipping on his best mask of indifference the moment Mipsy cornered him alone.
“Of course, Master Draco,” she replied, looking far too pleased with the arrangement. Her ears twitched, no doubt holding back a pointed remark about the twenty-seven other empty rooms in the Manor, before she hustled into the room after Hermione — who’d made a beeline for the large windows, her focus already on the sun dipping below the forest to the north.
With that settled, Draco set about following Hermione’s instructions as best he could. The first was that Mipsy wasn’t to wait on her — a condition Draco only managed to meet because of her second request.
That one involved borrowing an owl to write to the cottage owner, apologising for overstaying their welcome and promising to pay twice whatever their intrusion might have cost — a request that left him biting back a smirk for many reasons. Nevertheless, he’d set Mipsy on the task and hadn’t worried about the hurt feelings Hermione’s initial request would have brought down upon the Manor.
All things considered, it was a rather elegant solution. Not a permanent one, of course, but it bought him time to navigate the precarious middle ground between what Hermione considered the exploitation of house-elves and the reality that some, like Mipsy, would be utterly miserable without their families.
He knew because he’d tried to free her, summer after fourth year. He really had. But instead of gratitude, he’d been subjected to a teary-eyed tirade that rivalled a Howler, capped off with a shoe to the head. The second shoe had followed promptly when he’d tried to stop her from burning her fingers as punishment for throwing the first. The chaotic cycle had only ended because Draco, exasperated and hungry, had conceded defeat and asked for dinner.
He had ignored the charred edges of his potatoes as recompense.
Yes, if everything had to go right, keeping the elves out of Hermione’s hair had to be the first order of business — and he trusted Mipsy to get them all organised. His family, on the other hand — that he would have to manage by himself.
It was while wandering through the Manor, searching for Astoria and his mother to inform them of his and Hermione’s impromptu plan, that Pansy once again materialised out of thin air.
“You really ought to be squatting more, Draco,” she quipped with a smirk, falling into step beside him with ease. “I can show you some sumo-squats later if you’re game.”
Draco glanced sideways at her and immediately regretted it. She was dressed in a blush-pink blazer and matching trousers — only she’d foregone a blouse entirely — leaving the lace of her midnight-blue bralette on full display. He quickly averted his gaze.
Witches these days.
“My arse is none of your business,” he retorted, irritation creeping into his tone. “And for the record, it’s perfectly pert, thank you very much.”
Pansy smirked, revelling in his discomfort. “Have you seen Ria’s arse lately? I suppose I’m just spoiled for the better.”
“Where is Stori?” he asked, ignoring the familiar throb in his sternum — the magical indicator that his visitors had arrived in his study and needed to be granted access to the rest of the Manor.
“In the Grand Library with Scorp,” Pansy replied breezily. “Why?”
Draco hesitated for a moment, glancing down the corridor in the direction of the library. “I need to talk to her,” he muttered, his tone distracted. “But I suppose — would you let her know Rose is coming, and she’ll be staying with us for a few days.”
To her credit, if Pansy had any dry remarks to offer, she kept them to herself.
“Is this a good idea, Draco?” she asked softly — all her earlier humour abandoned.
“I’m doing what needs to be done,” Draco said firmly. “For Scorpius. And for Rose.”
“And for Granger.”
“I won’t force them to reconcile if they’re not ready,” Draco frowned. “But I also won’t sit back and let them wallow because they don’t know how to make amends.”
“Like you all through our childhood.” Pansy cocked her head.
“Yes, but Scorpius is better than me,” Draco said, striding into his study with a measure of confidence he had to feign.
“Weaselette, Potter Spawn… Rose.”
“Ferret,” Ginny retorted with a scathing glare from where she was already sprawled on one of his plush armchairs, as though she were lounging in her home.
Draco ignored her — and her two sons — moving towards the only child in the room he cared to look at.
She was standing at his desk, the lone picture it held clasped between her fingers. “Is this Aunty Ria and Aunty Pans?” Rose asked softly, gazing at the photograph.
It was of Scorpius as a newborn, wailing loudly as Pansy stood behind Astoria, her arm draped around her shoulders. Astoria cradled the swaddled infant, blinking sleepily as Pansy pressed a kiss to her temple. The photo looped around once more, and Pansy was now holding Scorpius in her arms as Astoria reached forward to take him.
“Yes.” Draco smiled. “And they’re both so excited you’re here.”
At that, Rose’s eyes snapped to his, the colour draining from her face.
“They’re here?” Her voice trembled with apprehension. “They had to come back?”
Draco’s heart clenched as he watched her shoulders tense, her body stiffening as she shifted her gaze past him. He didn’t need to turn to know that Pansy had followed him in at her mention and was now standing by the door, curiously taking in Hermione’s daughter.
“Yes, Pansy and Astoria came back, but only because they wanted to,” Draco said gently, rounding the desk to close the distance between them.
He crouched slightly, taking one of Rose’s hands in his own. Her fingers were cold in his grasp, but she didn’t pull away. “Not because of anything else. And Scorpius—” his voice softened further, “—he’s very pleased to have them back as well.”
Rose’s eyes flickered back to the photograph, her lip trembling as her thoughts seemed to wage a quiet war within her. “He doesn’t want to see me. I broke my promise to him.” It was the softest of whispers, carrying hurt, not anger.
Draco shook his head, squeezing her hand gently. “No, Rose. He does very much want to see you. He just doesn’t know how to take back his words. But we’re all here to help. For Scorpius, and for you too, if you’d like that.”
Pansy stepped up behind Draco, keeping a little distance as her usual sharpness softened. “Hello, Rose,” she said, offering a tentative smile. “I’m very excited to meet you. Scorp’s told me so much about you. Just yesterday, he was telling me all about your plans for Hogwarts.”
Rose glanced at her, uncertainty clouding her features — but Pansy’s tone and the way she beamed at her seemed to chip away at Rose’s guarded expression. Slowly, Rose smiled back, her grip on Draco’s hand loosening just slightly. “Hello, Aunty Pans.”
Draco exhaled silently, relief washing over him. “See? Nothing to worry about,” he said quietly. “We’ll take it one step at a time, Rose.”
Rose nodded again, her gaze lingering on the photograph. “Okay,” she murmured, setting it back gently. “One step at a time.”
Draco smiled, his heart lifting just a little as she leaned into him before moving to take Pansy’s proffered hand. Pansy grinned, leading her past the wards of Draco’s study, their conversation picking up as though they had known each other an eon already.
Draco gestured Ginevra through the wards before securing them once more. However, when he followed a moment later, he found her waiting for him in the hallway.
The elder Potter boy, James, had already darted forward, gleefully snatching up Rose’s hand as Pansy led them up the grand staircase that spiralled to the second level, where the bedrooms were located in the West Wing. Meanwhile, Albus — Ridiculous name! — blinked heavily at Draco from the secure fold of his mother’s arm, his green eyes round and solemn in a way that was unnervingly reminiscent of Potter.
Which made Draco wonder just how long it would be before the Chosen One showed up at his home as well.
“Splinched, is she?” Ginevra smirked, her tone far too knowing to bring Draco any comfort.
“Yes. Nasty business,” Draco replied cautiously. He didn’t know this witch well, but he knew that tone — and it was oddly reminiscent of his mother’s when she already knew an answer and was merely waiting for a confession.
“Was that before or after the book-thumping, wall-banging sex I heard all about over my evening cup of tea?” Ginny asked with a casualness that sent Draco stumbling mid-step.
“From Father?” he blurted, mind scrambling to put the pieces together.
Ginny stopped short, turning to gape at him. “What? Why was Lucius there?”
“Who told you, then?” Draco demanded, his composure rapidly unravelling. He could feel the tips of his ears heating. Merlin help him if—
“Walburga,” Ginny said simply.
“Wal — my great-aunt Walburga?” Draco repeated, his voice rising an octave in disbelief.
“How many Walburgas do you know?” Ginny rolled her eyes before continuing past him. “Nasty bint, but after six years of me threatening to hex her lips together, I’ve finally broken her. Did you know, in her youth she was a great beauty? Some sultan of Arabia proposed marriage to her, but she didn’t care for arid temperatures, so she married her first cousin instead.”
She gave him a pointed look. “Strange family, the Blacks.”
“Wasn’t your grandmother a Black?” Draco drawled.
“Yes, well — that’s why I can say it.”
“Her portrait at the Manor has been suspiciously less bigoted.” Draco ran a hand down his face. “And here I thought the portrait magic was finally wearing off.”
“Nope. Still quite bigoted. But I’ve conditioned her so if she says something very nasty, she immediately thinks of earwigs crawling on her portrait — doesn’t like them much.” Ginny smirked. “Reminds her of her husband’s hands. Apparently, he had six fingers or something.”
“And that worked?” Draco asked dryly.
“That, and I have tea with her once a week — give her whatever gossip I’ve heard from Mum. It’s a dull life, being a portrait. Except, of course, when you’re playing voyeur to filthy wall sex, which, don’t worry — Hermione will fill me in on. I don’t think you and I are there just yet.”
“Yet?”
“Well, of course. You have a thing for her, don’t you?” Ginny said, her tone almost too casual. “I remember — you always looked at her like I looked at Harry. It was hard to miss.”
Draco narrowed his eyes, the tips of his ears burning. “You told her?”
“Nope,” Ginny replied, her deliberate enunciation paired with a maddeningly smug smile. “My brother was competing, wasn’t he? Thought I’d leave the field level.”
Draco huffed, his glare intensifying.
“How noble of you.”
Ginny shrugged, her grin widening. “Not that I regret it, mind you. Our lives would be rather bare of Rose if I’d sent Hermione your way too early. But now that that idiot has bungled it all, I’m more than willing to support new... initiatives.”
“Oh yes, and how would you do that?” he asked, scowling.
“The same as how I helped Rose, when I forged the signature on her silly little note.” Ginny’s sharp smile made her teeth glint in the dim light from the sconces. “Obviously, I didn’t expect it to get this far, but I am pleasantly elated that it has.”
Draco stared at her, his jaw tightening. “You’re insufferable. You almost make me pity Potter.”
“And yet,” she said, her smirk softening into something almost wistful, “you’re not denying you do want her — and by wanting her, I mean, you have feelings for her that go beyond spending a week shacked up together.”
Draco hesitated, his tongue caught between a biting retort and the truth.
“Look,” Ginny said, her voice dropping to something quieter, more sincere. “I’m not standing against you on this, Malfoy. If anything, I’m rooting for you. Merlin knows Hermione deserves someone who actually sees her for who she is and, even more importantly, likes her for it.”
Draco’s throat tightened, his chest constricting at the weight of her words. He didn’t respond, but his silence seemed to speak volumes, because Ginny simply smiled — a little softer, a little less smug this time.
“You and I are going to get on splendidly, I think,” she said, patting his back blithely before disappearing through the door that led into his bridal suite — er, the guest room.
“Mum! What happened, are you okay?”
Draco watched as Rose strode across the room and flung her arms around Hermione’s waist, where she stood by the vanity — a mirror to the one in his bedroom. Her small fingers bunched the material he’d just Reparo’d half an hour ago, so that he could see the indentation of his nails where they had dug into her thighs.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” Hermione murmured, smoothing her hand over Rose’s hair. Her voice was steady, but Draco caught the flicker of guilt that crossed her face. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
Draco cleared his throat, and Hermione’s eyes went wide as she hurried to add, “But you know you shouldn’t Apparate soon after you’ve just healed. And, er, Draco just thought it would be best if I stayed here tonight.”
Rose pulled back, her large brown eyes narrowing suspiciously as she searched Hermione’s face. “Couldn’t you have taken the Floo home? I thought Draco connected them.”
Damn.
Draco barely suppressed a chuckle as he watched Hermione’s cheeks flush a shade of pink he found particularly delectable. Her lips parted, no doubt scrambling for a plausible explanation, but before she could fumble the plan, he decided to step in.
“And,” Draco said, pushing himself off the door with a casual shrug, “I wouldn’t let her leave. The thing is, Rose…” He glanced down at her with a quirk of his lips. “You and your mum are now spending the holidays at the Manor. Think of it as my revenge for abducting Scorp for your birthday. A Parent Trap, if you will.”
“It can’t be called a parent trap, though.”
He shot a pointed frown at Ginny, who had already deposited her child onto the large bed. The boy quickly crawled across the expanse, before tucking himself under the thick covers as if to nap.
“Of course it can,” Draco grumbled. “I, a parent, have trapped the Grangers into spending the rest of the holidays with us. A parent trap if there ever was one — though you, of course, are excused.”
“That’s abduction, Ferret, and it’s generally frowned upon.” Ginny smirked, entirely unfazed. “Lucky for you, Harry’s off being a responsible Auror elsewhere, and I’m happy to be your alibi. I think it’s high time for some holiday cheer, anyhow. You know, family bonding, that sort of thing — we are cousins, after all.”
“Distantly.”
“Not if this parent trap of yours works the way you want it to,” Ginny shot back.
“Don’t you have a large enough family already?” Pansy asked with a quirk of her brow.
“Yes, and most of the ones I like are already here,” Ginny said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “George always was my favourite brother. And it’s either holiday here or go to the Burrow, and I feel like it would be rather mean of me to kick Ron when he’s already down.”
Draco arched a brow at that, his curiosity piqued. Hermione, sensing his question before he could voice it, mouthed quietly, “Later.”
Draco rolled his eyes but let it drop — for now. Truthfully, he wasn’t particularly upset by Red’s intrusion. They’d need all the help they could get to coax Rose and Scorpius into making amends, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Ginny’s deviousness would pair surprisingly well with Pansy’s.
“Mipsy will be by shortly before the dinner bell rings,” he said briskly, straightening his jacket before reluctantly stepping back toward the door. “Try not to destroy the room in the meantime.”
With one last glance at Hermione and Rose, who were already being drawn into Ginny’s chaotic orbit, Draco turned and strode out, leaving the Grangers in the hands of the two most unpredictable witches he knew.
“What are you doing, Father?” Draco asked, exasperation clear in his tone as he stepped into the Grand Library, having hoped, at last, for a word with Astoria — only to be delayed once more by theatrics. His gaze followed the steady stream of crates being levitated through the doors by Knitty and Lopper, the house-elves vanishing into the deeper stacks with their burdens.
“Oh, Draco,” Lucius replied, not looking up from the armchair he occupied at the foot of the grand shelf housing the family grimoires. “I am reorganising.”
“Excuse me — are those—” Draco’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the familiar leather spines stacked beside Lucius. “Are those books from my library?”
“They are my books,” Lucius drawled, setting aside a sleek ebony-bound volume with a casual air. “I left them behind for you when I moved into the East Wing. Unfortunately, the only attention they’ve received over the years seems to have been this evening.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “The books were not harmed at any point during—” He stopped short, his mouth snapping shut as a faint flush rose to his cheeks.
Lucius arched a brow, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
“Dramatic?” he echoed, rising gracefully from his seat. “Dead wives returning to the land of the living. Relations taking place in public spaces with witches who are most certainly not your undead wife. And I’ve gone from hosting one Gryffindor to three in mere days. Should I expect a cete of badgers next?”
Lucius cocked his head in expectation, as though awaiting confirmation.
“You’re only proving my point,” Draco muttered, glancing sidelong at his father. “You never know — stranger things have happened in the Manor. Besides, you may already be living with a Gryffindor.”
Lucius stopped pacing, his silver-grey eyes narrowing as he stared at his son. “Living with a Gryffindor?” he repeated, his voice laced with scepticism and disdain.
Draco smirked, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “We won’t know about Scorpius until the day it happens. Unlike me, I don’t think he particularly cares to follow in the family footsteps.”
Lucius’s frown deepened as Draco began inspecting the books stacked on the table beside his father’s armchair. After a beat, the older man’s expression shifted, the corners of his mouth twitching as he drew his conclusions.
“If your goal is to bring home that girl,” Lucius said smoothly, “I wouldn’t doubt it. Mothers have a unique way of shaping children.”
Draco faltered slightly, his composure breaking for the briefest of moments before he masked it. “You’re being presumptuous.”
“Am I?” Lucius gave him a pointed look, his tone sharp with discernment.
“We’ve only just gotten reacquainted. It’s hardly been a week,” Draco said sharply. “And don’t call her that girl. She has a name — a very respectable one within our society.”
“A week and already life as I have known it these past thirteen years has changed,” Lucius said dryly. “I look forward to seeing what else this new future holds.”
Draco clenched his jaw.
“If you have something to say about Hermione and me, you’d better say it now. You’ll have the one opportunity — and one only. After that, I will never hear her name from your mouth again.”
Lucius tilted his head slightly, studying Draco as though appraising a rare and fascinating artifact. “You misinterpret me,” he said. “I have no intention of forbidding your choices — far be it from me to meddle in matters of the heart.”
“And yet, you meddle all the same,” Draco bit out.
Lucius let out a faint chuckle, his lips curving into a thin smile. “And it has gotten me nothing and nowhere, Draco. Perhaps I am tired of being on the wrong side of everything.”
“That’s not good enough,” Draco said quietly, vulnerability slipping through anger.
Lucius sighed softly, his voice dropping to something almost sincere. “Then perhaps you’d prefer I make amends in a way that suits you better. I hope to get to know her myself. And don’t think for a moment that I wasn’t curious before. Why it was always her. Why, no matter how far away I led you, you were undeterred in your feelings. Why you would disobey my orders to stay in our tent, instead roaming anarchy to warn a witch of Death Eaters — of your own father — knowing she did not care for you.”
Draco’s breath caught, his fists clenching at his sides. “Know that if it comes down to choosing between dark and light, I will choose the light unflinchingly this time.”
“It will never come to that,” Lucius’ tone carried none of his usual disdain, only a measured sincerity. “I have had enough of it myself and have no intention of dragging us all down again. If Miss Granger is amenable to having a relationship with the rest of your family, I will look forward to getting to know her — and her daughter.”
“Good,” Draco said curtly. He studied the subtle set of his father’s shoulders, watching for the slightest sign of resistance. “You can start at dinner tonight. I’ve asked Hermione and Rose to stay with us since we’re all here already.”
“Rose?” a small voice piped up.
Both men turned to see Scorpius peering out from the shadows, his wide eyes darting nervously between them. Astoria followed a step behind, holding a long parchment in her hand.
“Is she here?” Scorpius asked, his voice small but hopeful.
“Lucius,” Astoria interrupted, her gaze flicking briefly to Draco before she held up the parchment. “This is the complete list of people Pansy and I are willing to see if you’re truly adamant about hosting a celebration to reintroduce us to society. Perhaps we can discuss this now? Elsewhere.”
“Yes, let’s,” Lucius said, though his sharp eyes lingered on the tense curve of Scorpius’s shoulders, nervously waiting for his father’s response. “I shall inform your mother that we’ll have two additional guests.”
“Five,” Draco corrected coolly. “The Potters will also be staying, I believe. Six, if Potter himself decides to knock, though I’ve been led to believe he’s otherwise occupied.”
Lucius’s lips twitched faintly as he extended his arm toward Astoria. “The more the merrier. Shall we, Astoria?”
Draco waited until they had turned toward the door before addressing Scorpius, his voice softening. “She’s with her mother, in the room Miss Hermione will be staying in tonight.”
Scorpius perked up slightly, his curiosity and hope momentarily overriding his nerves, before he visibly deflated — a flurry of emotions flitting across his face before he looked down at his shoes.
Rose’s shoes.
“It’s your birthday dinner,” Draco continued with a faint smile. “Miss Hermione came all this way with a meal she and Rose made just for you.”
Scorpius’s eyes brightened for a moment, though he seemed unsure how to process the gesture. He glanced once more at Draco, his voice quiet. “For me?”
“For you,” Draco confirmed, crouching slightly to meet his son’s gaze. “And Miss Hermione said Rose even baked cupcakes — she wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t want to be here.”
Scorpius nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he whispered, “Okay.” Then, with a slightly more confident smile he added, “I’ll go get ready.”
Draco straightened, watching his son hurry off before he turned his gaze toward the door where his father and Astoria had disappeared. Tonight’s dinner would be a test — for adults and children alike — and Draco had every intention of ensuring they all passed.
* * *
The Potters had been escorted to the room across from Hermione’s ‘guest’ bedroom by Narcissa herself, who had entered her suite with a Cheshire smile that made Hermione’s stomach flutter nervously. It wasn’t that she thought poorly of Narcissa — or even that she suspected Narcissa thought poorly of her. Quite the opposite, really. In what little Pansy, Ginny, and she had discussed about the Parkinson-Malfoys’ return to England, both Lucius and Narcissa had been painted as surprisingly broad-minded — far more so than Hermione or Ginny would have believed if it hadn’t come from Pansy herself.
And yet, Hermione couldn’t shake the lingering image of Lucius’s piercing gaze in the library. It had been sharp and assessing, making her feel as though she were under a magnifying glass. The weight of it now pressed on her chest, and suddenly, she found herself unreasonably desperate for at least one of Draco’s parents to hold a good first impression of her.
Dinner tonight simply had to go well.
Behind her, Rose lay sprawled on the crumpled bed, staring at the ornate chandelier on the mint-green ceiling. She hummed tunelessly, lost in her thoughts, as Hermione sat before the vanity in one corner of the room. Her hands worked tirelessly, attempting to tame her unruly curls into something resembling the sleek, elegant style Lavender had once shown her for the Yule Ball — the one and only instance in which her hair had truly resembled… hair.
The mirror reflected Hermione’s frown of concentration as she pinned and twisted, her curls stubbornly springing free. She sighed, muttering under her breath about "hopeless causes" just as a soft knock sounded at the door.
Skippy peeked in with wide, curious eyes. “Miss Hermione, is there anything Skippy can do for you and Miss Rose?” At Hermione’s warm smile, she stepped through the threshold and snapped her fingers so the covers around Rose fitted themselves back into place — all without jostling Rose who had sat up in bed only to stare down at her feet.
“Nothing,” Rose said quietly, though her screwed up expression suggested she wished to ask a million questions of the young elf.
“We’re fine, thank you, Skippy,” Hermione said, not unkindly. There would be time later to assess the elves’ situation, but she didn’t think she’d find the kind of abuse she was accustomed to with other Pure-blood households who continued to keep elves. For one, none of the elves she’d met so far were rude or entirely disenchanted; for another — she could hardly continue to explore the beginnings of something with Draco whilst simultaneously plotting sabotage to his ancestral estate.
Skippy looked forlorn at their responses, her ears twitching as she nodded far too brightly for it to be believable.
Hermione sighed. “Unless there’s something—” she gestured helplessly to her hair.
Skippy’s gaze darted to the unruly mass of curls before immediately brightening. “Oh yes, Miss Hermione, there is enough Sleekeazy’s in Master Draco’s bathroom to last all of the occupants of Malfoy Manor decades! Skippy can show you!”
Hermione blinked, startled by the house-elf’s declaration, then laughed softly. “Of course there is,” she murmured, shaking her head. The posh prat had always been a little too obsessed with hair, and she secretly delighted in knowing his hair required charms and potions, and was not naturally as perfect as he would have everyone believe.
Rose, who had been lounging on the bed, perked up at the sound of their conversation. She rolled onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Does Scorp use it too?” she asked curiously.
“Oh never, Miss Rose,” Skippy said, pressing her long, spindly fingers to the wall directly across from Rose. “Master Scorp is not liking the stickiness.”
With a faint creak, the panel in front of Rose shifted. Skippy tugged it open all the way, revealing a large ensuite bathroom and attached walk-in closets — closets that looked far too lavishly organised to belong to a mere guest bedroom. Polished silver fixtures gleamed under dim candle lighting, and shelves filled with a meticulous array of potions lined one wall.
“Is that—” Hermione gestured toward the sleek door on the far side of the sprawling bathroom, her brow furrowed in dawning comprehension.
“It is Master Draco’s room,” Skippy said cheerfully, moving with practised efficiency to pull open the bathroom drawers. Inside was an impressive selection of Sleekeazy potions, each labelled in Draco’s distinctively neat handwriting. “Does Miss want extra strength, or the smoothing variety?”
Hermione did her best to ignore the soft gasp that escaped Rose, though it was hard to miss the way her daughter’s eyes went as wide as saucers when she realised just how close Hermione’s room was to Draco’s. Rose might not have understood all the implications, but if there was one thing she absolutely wasn’t, it was clueless. Hermione could practically see the wheels turning behind those sharp, perceptive eyes, and she wasn’t sure if she was amused or mildly terrified.
“The smoothing kind will be fine,” Hermione said quickly, plucking a bottle. “And perhaps you could escort Rose to her room so she can pin up her hair before dinner.”
“Yes, Miss,” Skippy said, skipping out of the bathroom.
Rose hesitated, one foot dragging against the plush rug as she threw her mother a pointed look — curious, cheeky, and far too knowing for someone her age. Hermione shot her a raised brow in response, and after a beat, Rose relented. She turned on her heel, her curls bouncing as she followed Skippy to the door. She glanced back once, her expression dancing on the edge of a smirk, before disappearing into the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Hermione in silence.
For a moment, Hermione stood where she was, letting the quiet settle like dust around her. Her gaze drifted, almost unwillingly, to the panelled door that led through to Draco’s room, before turning back towards the vanity.
She sank onto the cushioned stool and looked at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back didn’t look like someone in control of her emotions. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips curved in a grin so big it was almost embarrassing, her brown eyes bright and sparkling under the soft glow of the sconces. It was the kind of expression she hadn’t worn in years.
Hermione Granger sat before her, smiling— smiling like she was seventeen, smiling like she hadn’t even when she had been seventeen — and it was all for Draco Malfoy.
Hermione had only just managed to bite it back when the dinner gong sounded, and Mipsy appeared to escort her through to the dining room.
“Thank you,” Hermione smiled, inclining her head as a house-elf levitated a decanter of wine around her frame with practiced precision. Deep crimson liquid cascaded down into the ornate goblet before her, its surface catching the light from the enormous crystal chandelier that hung above the dining table like a glittering constellation. The elf nodded once, his ears dipping with the movement of his head before moving on to fill Theo’s goblet.
Coming down to dinner, Hermione hadn’t known what to expect of the seating arrangements, but she had been pleasantly surprised when she’d arrived, Mipsy ushering her in before departing to fetch Luna and Blaise.
The table hadn’t been arranged in the rigid, old-fashioned Pure-blood style she’d encountered at work socials. Instead, it had been set with care and consideration — one could even call it calculated in its balance of comfort.
Ginny sat beside Luna, who was chatting animatedly about something that had Ginny snorting into her goblet, while Pansy, on her other side, engaged in a lively discussion with Blaise, who sat across from her. Narcissa sat beside Lucius, her delicate features soft with laughter as she whispered something into her husband’s ear. Hermione couldn’t quite make out what was said, but the faint flush on Narcissa’s cheeks betrayed her mirth.
Unfortunately for Hermione, this set-up put the elder Malfoy directly across from her — at much the same angle as when she’d last looked him in the eyes. But that went uncommented on as she turned to Theo to engage him in a conversation about his relationship with George, who was nestled between James and Astoria at the other end of the table.
Only Draco seemed to have drawn the short straw. Reluctantly, and with a faint scowl, he had taken his seat at the head of the table. His attention, however, frequently strayed to the children seated at the far end — where they, too had been mingled rather well. Luna’s youngest, Felix, and Albus giggled, mashing what looked like small pasta shells in their fists and waving them at each other. James and Izzy, too, were engaged in an animated conversation, though it did little to obscure the fact that Rose and Scorpius, seated directly across from each other, had yet to say a word to one another.
“And then, would you believe it, Scorpius,” George began, his lively tone breaking through the quiet and effortlessly drawing Scorpius into the conversation Rose had already been participating in — albeit in far softer tones than Hermione was used to hearing from her daughter. “Rose turns around and tells me, if I were really clever, I’d find a way to magically connect one end of an Extendable Ear to my own head so the wiring could be discarded.”
“Like Muggle earphones,” Rose said quietly, just as Scorpius added, “Like the earsets she wears sometimes.”
Rose blinked at Scorpius, who met her gaze.
Hermione’s fingers tightened around her wine glass, her heart thudding as her eyes darted between the two children. She didn’t dare miss a moment of their interaction. Around her, the table seemed to quiet, the lively conversation dimming into softer tones, as though others were equally drawn to the tentative exchange unfolding.
“Yes,” Rose said at last, her voice carrying a hint of defiance as she held Scorpius’s gaze.
“I remember,” Scorpius replied. “You could listen to music on it. And one time Miss Hermione yelled at you for taking your phone to school.”
“It was an accident,” Rose retorted, rolling her eyes. “I just accidentally put it in my bag.” Hermione knew that to be an outright lie — she always reminded Rose to leave her phone at home. But the realisation of who Rose had wanted to show it to made her smile into her goblet.
Scorpius gave her a conspiratorial smile, one that made Hermione’s breath catch. He looked back down at his plate quickly, as if realising what he’d just done.
The moment wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to suggest the smallest crack in the tension between the children. Enough to allow Hermione a glimmer of hope for the evening ahead.
She turned back towards Theo, but her attention snagged on Draco, catching his eye. He, too, seemed pleased, the faintest trace of a smile playing on his lips. His gaze flicked to his father, and Hermione followed it, realising with a jolt that Lucius was watching her.
“Mr Malfoy,” Hermione began, summoning confidence from a rather shallow pool when it came to this man, “I would love to know more about those ancient Sanskrit scrolls you mentioned earlier.”
There. It was done — and there was no taking it back, no matter how strangled the choking sound was on Draco’s end.
Which it was — very loud.
Lopper scuttled forward, his tiny hands thumping Draco’s back as Hermione turned her head, concern creasing her brow. Draco, however, had managed to stop choking on his wine and was now staring at her with an expression that could only be described as deep, unrelenting mortification. His silver eyes burned into hers, wide and incredulous, and Hermione’s lips twitched in amusement despite herself. Well, it wasn’t as though not mentioning it would erase the memory of their evening from Lucius’ mind — and from the smirks thrown her way, she was certain nobody at the table was unaware of their earlier tryst in the library.
For someone who’d wanted to lick her senseless while fucking her earlier, Draco really was such a prude in public. Hermione wondered briefly just how difficult it might be to get her hands on one of those experimental time-turners Kingsley had mentioned in passing — before realising Lucius was waiting for her attention.
With a deep breath, she turned back to Lucius, who was now poised to answer her question, a glint of intrigue in his pale grey eyes.
“I procured those texts the summer I left Hogwarts,” he began, his voice carefully even, though a slight strain betrayed his effort. “You see, there was a time I fancied myself a curse breaker — quite the romantic notion. Of course, back then, times were different, and wizards of reputable families did not incline themselves to mundane tasks such as working…”
He let the word linger, a faint curl to his lip suggesting his disdain for the concept even now. Lucius’s pale grey eyes flicked briefly to Narcissa, who smiled faintly, a touch of amusement in her expression.
“However,” he continued, settling back into his seat with a measured grace, “the scrolls themselves were of particular interest. A collection of ancient Sanskrit inscriptions detailing protective wards and curses that could be combined elaborately to perform the function of one all-purpose counter-curse, acquired from an auction in Delhi. Quite the challenge to interpret, given the linguistic complexity and the magical layering involved — it has been my life’s mission to…”
* * *
“I would feel rather ignored if it weren’t for the fact that I know you lost interest in the subject of Father’s scrolls right around the time we moved into the parlour.” Draco murmured, stepping up behind Hermione where she had excused herself from Lucius to pour herself more wine.
Not in a thousand lifetimes would Hermione have pegged Lucius Malfoy as a talker, but their conversation had lasted all through dinner.
What had begun as a discussion of ancient Sanskrit scrolls had meandered into an intricate web of tangential topics — from historical warding practices to the politics of magical artefact acquisition.
After a brief interlude to admire the flambéing of fruit, which had occurred, at Lopper’s insistence, directly at the table (eliciting a gasp from Rose and a bemused smirk from Scorpius), the conversation had picked up once again. Lucius had offered Hermione his arm, escorting her to the parlour with the kind of old-world charm she would have thought entirely performative if not for the genuine spark of engagement in his pale grey eyes.
Draco, meanwhile, had fallen to the task of escorting Rose and Scorpius, leaving Narcissa to gracefully take the lead with Pansy and Ginny trailing behind her.
Now, with Draco standing close enough that Hermione could feel the warmth of him at her back, she smiled faintly without turning. “It’s almost as if he’s waited thirty years for someone to want to speak to him,” she replied, her tone deliberately casual as she poured her wine. “It’s endearing.”
“It’s called monopolising all your attention,” Draco grimaced, though there was a slight lilt to his voice that suggested he wasn’t entirely displeased. “None of us Malfoys know how to share, it seems.”
Hermione chuckled softly, turning to follow Draco’s gaze, which had been drawn to Scorpius and Rose. Even as they worked to mend the rift between them, neither child strayed far from the other. Their quiet proximity came at the expense of James, who stood nearby with a pronounced pout, his small arms crossed indignantly over his chest.
The sofa the children had claimed was just large enough for two, and James clearly felt he was entitled to a spot beside his favourite cousin. His hands went to his hips as he stared Scorpius down with the unwavering determination only a Potter could manage in the face of a Malfoy. It made Hermione smirk, and beside her, Draco chuckled.
Scorpius narrowed his eyes, holding James’s gaze in a silent battle of wills. Finally, with a huff of reluctant surrender, he scooted over, creating just enough space for James to wedge himself between him and Rose.
“Unless they want to,” Hermione murmured, a note of amusement in her voice.
Draco arched a brow at her.
“Scorpius knows no one can replace him in Rose’s life,” Hermione explained softly, her gaze lingering on the children.
Draco’s expression softened, his eyes flicking back to the sofa where the three children now sat. Scorpius still looked slightly put out, but there was no mistaking the subtle way Rose’s fingers brushed Scorpius’ around James.
“Good.” Draco’s breath was hot against her ear, the low rumble of his voice sending a shiver down Hermione’s spine. For a moment, she wondered if they were still talking about their children.
Before she could reply, Draco’s hand reached out, deftly plucking the goblet of wine from her grasp. His fingers brushed hers in the process, the brief contact sparking an entirely unwelcome flutter in her chest. He pressed it to his lips, taking a slow — sinfully slow — sip before flicking his tongue out to catch an errant bead of moisture on his tongue.
“Delicious,” he smirked.
“Is it?” Hermione hummed.
“Positively. Better than what I was drinking.”
“You’re drinking the same wine,” she replied, arching a brow.
“Am I?” he murmured, his tone a low drawl, leaning closer as though testing her resolve. She felt the ghost of his fingertips brush hers again, the sensation lingering longer than it should have.
Before the charged silence between them could stretch any further, a soft but commanding voice cut through.
“I think it’s time for the children to go to bed,” Narcissa said smoothly, her sudden presence startling them both.
Hermione turned sharply, her cheeks flushing as though she’d been caught doing something far more illicit. Draco, meanwhile, was decidedly not okay from the way his ears had turned pink, his smirk faltering into something far more sheepish under his mother’s knowing gaze.
“Skippy,” Narcissa called out, her voice as poised as ever, though the faintest quirk of her lips suggested amusement.
A house-elf appeared instantly, bowing low before Narcissa with a quick, “Yes, Mistress?”
“Please escort the children to their rooms,” Narcissa instructed, her serene tone carrying just enough authority to leave no room for argument.
Hermione couldn’t help but glance back at Draco as Skippy hurried off to gather the little ones. He was still flushed, his composure just barely recovering as he straightened his jacket, refusing to meet her gaze.
“Your parents have impeccable timing,” Hermione said quietly, her lips twitching.
Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair, the movement ruffling it in a way that made him look almost boyish. “They’re unaccustomed to having guests — and take far too much pleasure in the goings-on of my life. Woe be to all only children.”
“No wonder Rose and Scorpius decided they wanted none of that,” Hermione mused, her gaze drifting to where Knitty and Mipsy had appeared, deftly taking instructions from Blaise and Ginny to shepherd the youngest children toward their rooms. Skippy, meanwhile, was valiantly trying to wrangle Izzy into her small arms as the little girl squirmed and giggled under the attention of her long fingers.
James followed Rose like a loyal puppy, his wide eyes darting between her and Scorpius, who had moved toward Lucius to bid his grandfather goodnight. They hadn’t yet broken through the ice, but they had gravitated around each other, as if without the force between them — they were unmoored.
Draco didn’t respond immediately to Hermione’s observation, his focus similarly drawn to Lucius. The older Malfoy now sat slightly stiff, his usual composure faltering ever so slightly as one very curly-haired child boldly approached him. Rose was unmistakably her mother’s daughter, her chin tilted in quiet determination as she confronted Lucius with all the defiance of someone entirely unimpressed by his imposing demeanour.
Hermione’s lips twitched as she glanced at Draco, whose expression flickered with something unreadable. “Is that trepidation I see?” she teased gently.
Draco snorted softly, though his eyes remained locked on the interaction. “More like intrigue,” he muttered.
Hermione chuckled under her breath.
“You’re Scorp’s Grand-père,” Rose stated.
“Yes,” Lucius drawled, looking momentarily like a cornered Kneazle, his pale gaze flicking to Draco as if seeking an explanation for this bold child.
“And Draco’s dad,” Rose added, her hands resting firmly on her hips.
“Father,” Lucius corrected smoothly, his lips curling faintly in disdain. “Dad is a very plebeian term of endearment. And yes, unless Draco has more secrets up his sleeve, I do believe that is why Scorpius is my grandson.”
“You like to talk a lot,” Rose observed matter-of-factly, tilting her head as she studied him.
Lucius blinked, clearly taken aback.
“I think you and I are going to get along very well, Lucy,” Rose declared with the confidence of someone who had already decided how the relationship would go.
Draco choked back a laugh, hastily turning it into a cough as Lucius’s expression wavered between affront and reluctant amusement.
“Merlin help us,” Draco murmured, leaning slightly toward Hermione. “She’s got him already.”
“You must stop underestimating us Grangers.” Hermione smirked. “We have you Malfoys on the ropes.” She moved forward to kiss Rose on the forehead before Skippy whisked her away for the night — but she didn’t miss the whispered groan that echoed behind her.
“Don’t I fucking know it,” came Draco’s low mutter.
“Right,” Lucius interjected, clearing his throat with a pointedness that suggested he was eager to reclaim the attention Rose had so effortlessly stolen just before her dramatic departure. His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on each of them as if weighing their worthiness to be part of what he was about to propose.
“I’ve spoken to Narcissa,” he began, his tone smooth and commanding. “And although Pansy is reluctant — as expected — Astoria, too, agrees. We must have a New Year’s Ball.”
Draco visibly stiffened beside Hermione. “Father,” Draco began, his tone clipped with warning, but Lucius held up a hand, silencing him with a look that brooked no dissent.
“And though it is last minute,” Lucius continued, calm and resolute, “I expect everyone here to stay on with us until the morning after.”
“Excellent,” Theo chimed in, flopping unceremoniously onto the chaise beside Lucius. “What’s the occasion, Lucy?”
Leave it to Rose, Hermione thought, to leave a trail of mayhem and mischief behind in her wake.
“A new beginning,” Narcissa said, sweeping gracefully across the room, batting Theo away from her husband with an elegant wave of her hand. “For the Malfoy family as a whole. The Parkinson-Malfoys, and any others who may wish to align themselves with us in the future.”
“I hate you all,” Draco muttered darkly, glaring at his mother. But with a skip of her heartbeat, Hermione noticed that he did not deny her implication.
“It’s okay, Ferret,” Ginny piped up, her tone bright and teasing as she leaned back against the settee. “You, of all people, know it’s a fine line between love and hate.”
* * *
Hermione stared at the panelled wall across from her, willing it to swing open. The moment dinner had ended, she’d showered, scrubbed her skin raw, battled her hair into submission with a bottle of Sleekeazy’s, and donned the best nightwear Mipsy had brought along from her flat. But now that she’d been left alone to sleep, she could only wonder — what the hell? — was she supposed to project her intentions across the cavernous, luxurious bathroom that separated them?
She huffed, flopping flat onto the bed like a petulant child, her hair splayed around her like a halo. Seconds passed. Minutes perhaps. Then, as if some unseen force yanked her upright, she sat back up abruptly. One did not invite guests — did not flirt with them so brazenly, and give them such intimate access — only to then leave them unattended.
It was simply rude. And Draco Malfoy, the man she knew now, certainly was not the kind to be rude to her. Posh, prude, completely and entirely vexing? Yes. Most definitely. If he were ever to be none of these things, she’d be suspicious — but he was not rude! Well, not recently.
Not the Draco Malfoy she was now realising she had very very strong feelings for.
With a decisive yank, Hermione stripped the sheets from her legs and strode across the expanse of the bridal suite — for yes, she was well-read enough to know exactly what this room was in aristocratic circles.
The gilded trimmings, the romantic drapery, the faint scent of lavender and bergamot clinging to the linens — it was all designed for the lady of a Manor — and it worked as an excellent aphrodisiac.
She would have been furious, if she was not frustrated.
Her fingers brushed the smooth wood of the panel, looking for the latch Skippy had pressed earlier, when she’d shown Hermione into the adjoining bathroom to freshen up before bed. Her fingers glided over the faint grooves in the panel, and then — click.
The panel unlatched easily. As did the next one, only a moment later.
Beyond the hidden doorway, a soft glow of candlelight welcomed her, illuminating Draco’s half of the expansive suite.
Hermione inhaled deeply just before she stepped forward.
The room was a mirage of deep emerald and onyx — a perfect counterbalance to the soft mint of her room. The walls were panelled with rich dark wood, their surfaces gleaming faintly in the faint candlelight of the lone candle by the window. Heavy emerald drapes framed tall windows, the fabric shimmering faintly with what must have been a subtle enchantment.
He was lounging in an armchair near the window, barefoot, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a tumbler of amber liquid resting casually in his hand. The soft flicker of the candlelight played across his face, catching the faint hint of a smirk that tugged at his lips.
He looked up as the panel shifted, his expression expectant rather than surprised, as though her arrival was something he had been quietly willing into existence.
“You knew I’d come,” she said, stepping inside and shutting the panel firmly behind her.
Draco’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. “I wouldn’t say I knew,” he replied, his voice low and smooth, “but I certainly hoped.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she allowed her feet to carry her forward. “You could have come yourself, you know.”
At her approach, Draco rose to his feet, all graceful poise and pureblood breeding. “I didn’t want to be presumptuous,” he said, the words laced with a teasing edge.
Before she could counter, his hand caught her wrist, firm yet gentle, and with a deft pull, he brought her closer. His other hand slid up to cradle her jaw, and he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the line where her jaw met her ear.
Hermione froze, just for a moment, the warmth of his lips and the brush of his breath catching her off guard. Then, instinctively, her free hand moved to his chest, resting lightly against the fine fabric of his shirt as his scent — bergamot, cedar, and something uniquely Draco — enveloped her.
“I’d call this presumptuous,” she murmured, her voice low but steady, though the slight flush on her cheeks betrayed her.
Draco pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his silver eyes searching hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. “Not nearly as presumptuous as I could be,” he said, his smirk returning, softer this time, edged with something deeper.
Hermione raised a brow, though she didn’t step away. “Is that so?”
Draco’s hand lingered on her jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheekbone. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
She exhaled, a quiet laugh escaping her lips despite herself. “I suppose I am.”
She allowed him to gently tug her forward — towards the large four poster bed — fighting desperately to keep the blush from overwhelming her face.
When they reached the edge of the bed, Draco released her wrist with deliberate care, his fingers lingering just long enough to make her skin tingle. She hesitated for a beat, her eyes flicking to his, but his expression was uncharacteristically soft, his smirk giving way to something almost vulnerable.
She climbed in, settling herself against the cool silk sheets that warmed instantly beneath her skin. They felt impossibly soft, buttery against her exposed arms and legs, and the faint scent that lingered in the fabric grounding her in the moment.
Draco stood for a moment, watching her as though committing the sight to memory, before slipping onto the bed beside her with an effortless grace that made her heart flutter.
Hermione turned her head, her eyes meeting his in the dim light, and the air seemed to still around them.
The way he looked at her made her breath catch. It was as though nothing else quite existed, as though the entire world had narrowed to this room, this bed, this moment.
And she knew, with startling clarity, that he wasn’t wrong — because right now, nothing else did exist outside of him. For the first time in four days, her mind had ceased to churn, silenced by the warmth of the moment and the steady rhythm of his breathing as he pulled her into his chest.
Hermione let herself sink into him, her head nestled just beneath his chin. Neither of them spoke. Words would have felt out of place, too small for the enormity of the comfort they had found in the moment. Instead, Hermione closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his body seep into her own, the silk sheets whispering softly against her skin as she shifted slightly to settle closer.
Draco’s fingers flexed once against her hip, almost imperceptibly, before stilling again. His breath stirred her hair, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Hermione allowed herself to let go of the constant need to overthink, to overanalyse.
In this moment, with his arm around her and the world outside forgotten, it felt like enough.
Notes:
Did the chapter count tick up by one? Maybe! Eeeek! I couldn't help myself - the fluff must fluff, and we have a lot of lovely stories to tie up. Thank you so much for reading and for all your love! I get so excited whenever I receive a message on my socials or see someone writing lovely things on Reddit. And, of course, all the love I receive in the comments here on AO3! Truly, you guys have made writing this little fic one of the best experiences of my life.
See you very, very soon for Chapter 22!
Lots of holiday cheer and good vibes to you all, as well as Cait and Mlekoimiodd for all their love, energy and commitment to this fic <3
Chapter 22: Journeys End In A Declaration
Notes:
A “Manor House” as described within this fic, and as I have been led to believe by google is the central part of a Manor. The part that branches out into wings. If I’m wrong, please do correct me :)
Chapter Text
Mipsy apparated into Draco’s chambers silently — somehow already aware of the still-sleeping form beside him and taking great care not to wake her. Draco sat up slowly, blinking away the remnants of sleep as she levitated a tray of coffee towards him, accompanied by detailed instructions from his mother on everything he would be required to do to get things in order.
Most of it was just signing off on invoices, but with thirty or so to go through, plus the accounting that would be required in the ledgers, he already knew his morning had been shot to hell. Still, he was determined not to let it derail his grand plan for the following night — all of which required meticulous planning as well.
"Mistress says everything will be perfect," the elf chirped in a high-pitched whisper. “And she says that she is taking care of everyone’s formal attire as it is so very last minute. She is not wishing to put out guests with such a short notice — Madame Twilfit is taking measurements, and has already started with Misses Pansy and Astoria. She does, however, require a deposit to begin.”
Wonderful.
More accounts to bury his nose in rather than where he really wanted to bury it.
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, glancing briefly at the list before setting it aside in favour of the coffee. “Thank you, Mipsy. I’ll be down momentarily.”
“Mipsy will be back with more accoutrement when Miss wakes,” the elf offered with a wistful smile. “You is not saying anything to anyone about it. The rest of the house had been ordered to eat in the dining hall as the elves is very busy today — too busy for breakfast in bed for every room.”
With a low bow, she vanished, leaving Draco sitting up in bed, sipping coffee as his eyes roved over Hermione.
The morning sun streaming through the curtains turned her curls into a halo of gold and chestnut, framing her face serenely against the green silk of his pillows. She had one leg peeking out from beneath the duvet, as if to keep from overheating (he knew she preferred the cold) but had somehow also scooted closer to his side during the night, so she was almost diagonal on the bed.
He wished to never have to look away.
By the time he made it down to the Manor House, preparations were already in full swing. The air was abuzz with a quiet, efficient chaos that only house-elves could master. Mipsy was orchestrating the decoration of the chandeliers with enchanted fairy lights, while one of the garden elves was levitating pristine floral arrangements into place — decorating the hallway that connected the Floo Parlour to the grand staircase that led up to the ballroom.
His mother, of course, stood at the centre of it all, calm and composed within the eye of the storm.
“Draco,” Narcissa greeted him without looking up from her clipboard, where she was jotting down notes with quick, decisive strokes. “I trust Mipsy delivered my instructions?”
“She did,” Draco said, approaching her. “Though thirty invoices before breakfast was a bit much.”
Narcissa raised an elegant eyebrow. “You’ve always been quick with numbers, darling. Not to mention, this is nothing compared to the accounts I saw in your study earlier.”
“That is a secret,” Draco murmured. “Stop meddling, Mother.”
“I am not meddling,” Narcissa hummed. “I am simply pleased, Draco. And I’m making it known. Also, darling — I was wondering if you would prefer robes in shades of periwinkle, or if Hermione might prefer to dress in emerald?”
Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You could be a bit more subtle, you know. Not everything needs to be a declaration.”
“And yet, here we are,” Narcissa replied smoothly, her quill scratching against the parchment as she made another note. “A ball, hastily arranged but perfectly executed, in honour of a very significant choice.” She glanced up at him, her piercing gaze softening ever so slightly. “You may think I’m meddling, Draco, but I am only ensuring that no one bats an eye when news of Astoria and Pansy breaks in Witch Weekly. The Greengrasses are terribly unpleasant, but they know their station in society. They will not cause trouble for the girls if they see them aligned with the Malfoys and the Golden Trio. Neither will any other families who may not care for the direction our family turns in the New Year.”
“How positively cunning. It’s a wonder more people don’t know this side of you,” Draco said with a smirk. “But I suppose that is why you can do what no one else can.”
* * *
“Hello, Granger.”
Hermione tilted her head, letting her gaze wander the Grand Library — a sprawling space that had quickly become her favourite room within the Manor — beating even Draco’s bedroom. The entire third floor of the Manor House was devoted to it, with shelves that soared up, disappearing into the enchanted ceiling, their dark wood glowing warmly under the soft light of floating lanterns. Even the air smelled faintly of her Amortentia: aged parchment and polished wood — a familiar blend that wrapped around her like a comforting winter cloak, missing only the scent of coffee to make it truly all-consuming.
From the moment Mipsy had escorted her in, she’d fallen in love with the space — the crackle of the fireplace at the far end and the way it softened the silence. The way every book and scroll seemed to hum with secrets waiting to be uncovered, their teasing so very reminiscent of their owner. And yet, despite the serenity, her thoughts stumbled as she met a pair of striking emerald eyes, their sharpness accentuated by perfectly applied liquid liner.
“Pansy,” Hermione said, offering a tentative smile. “You can call me Hermione, you know.”
“If I must,” Pansy replied dryly, though she made no move to do so. Her gaze swept over the neatly arranged scrolls Hermione was admiring — an impressive assortment Lucius had ordered Mipsy to prepare for Hermione.
Pansy’s scrutiny lingered a moment longer before she returned her attention to Hermione, her expression unreadable.
“Would you like to sit?” Hermione asked, gesturing towards a set of fine leather-backed chairs nestled in a quiet corner of the library, bathed in soft, golden light that filtered through the towering cathedral windows.
Pansy looked as though she might refuse, but at the last moment, she sighed dramatically and flopped down onto the chair that was less directly in the sunlight.
“Your daughter is exhausting,” Pansy declared without preamble. “I love her already.”
“Er, thank you?” Hermione replied, blinking. “She does like to be the centre of attention.”
“Good for her,” Pansy said breezily. “I wouldn’t be surprised if, in twenty years, she’s running for Minister with charm like hers. She already has Lucius eating out of the palm of her hand, which is saying something. Trust me.”
“She hasn’t shown any interest in politics,” Hermione said with a faint smile. “But if she ever does, you’ll be the first person I owl.” Then, narrowing her eyes slightly, she added, “When did you see her with Lucius?”
“Just now,” Pansy replied, gesturing lazily toward the library door. “Scorpius and Rose are on some grand mission to find the Manor kitchens. Apparently, they’ve concocted a theory that they don’t actually exist. She cornered Lucius in the hallway outside the parlour to interrogate him about it. Scorpius looked both amused and horrified.”
Hermione smirked despite herself. “And did she get any answers?”
“Of course,” Pansy said, her lips curling into a sly grin. “Lucius told her he’d give her the Manor’s blueprints if she promised never to reveal where all the hidden alcoves and secret rooms are located. I don’t think even Draco has managed that.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t quite suppress her amusement. “I suppose I’ll have to find her and talk to her.”
“Why?” Pansy asked with a shrug. “Lucius offered, and honestly, it’s good for him. He seemed entertained, and Scorpius certainly was.”
Hermione chuckled softly, imagining her daughter’s determined expression as she went toe-to-toe with Lucius Malfoy. “That does sound like her.”
They lapsed into awkward silence, and Hermione was certain that whatever it was Pansy had sought her out for, it had most definitely not been to tell her of her daughter’s antics.
“Gods,” Pansy huffed when the silence became unbearable. “Astoria’s going to kill me, but it’s just — you and Draco?”
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
“What about it?”
It was as if a veil had dropped — Hermione couldn’t shake the unsettling thought that this witch might secretly be a Metamorphmagus who had finally decided to reveal her true face. The striking, scintillating woman before her had become a shadow of her former self. Vulnerability softened the sharp lines of her beauty, rendering her almost unrecognisable. Even her usual air of effortless confidence was gone, replaced by something raw and fragile.
“Don’t break his heart, Granger,” Pansy said quietly. “I don’t know what you two are doing, or where you’re at, and I don’t want to push you, but I do need to know you understand the gravity of his feelings for you.”
“I—” Hermione could feel her cheeks beginning to flush. “I really should have this conversation with Draco.”
“Okay,” Pansy said, slapping her thighs before jumping up. “Good. Do that.”
It was almost as if she was in just as much a hurry to leave Hermione as she had been to intrude on her, yet she turned around — a hesitant reappearance from between the stacks.
“I’m really happy, you know,” she added. “Circumstances aside, knowing he finally made a move on you — it’s been the best thing to happen to us since Scorpius.”
“Us?” Hermione asked — to absolutely no one, for Pansy had not waited to offer an explanation for her odd statement.
The reply, of sorts, came not from Pansy but from Astoria, who appeared less than an hour later.
By then, Hermione had abandoned the leatherback armchair for a cramped corner of the library where the shelves loomed so close together they almost seemed to lean inward. It was an alcove suffused with quiet magicks, the kind of place where Hermione imagined one ventured to trade in secrets of the highest order. She had sunk deep into an overstuffed chair, her legs tucked beneath her as she pored over a particularly ancient text, the dust of its pages catching in the lantern’s glow.
The faintest rustle of movement pulled her attention from the text, and Hermione glanced up to find Astoria Greengrass stepping into the narrow space, her expression a mix of hesitation and determination. The light caught the soft waves of her hair, casting shadows that danced across her pale features.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Astoria said.
Hermione smiled, shutting the book on her lap. “Not at all.”
“I heard Pansy cornered you,” Astoria said, leaning casually against the bookshelf. Her tone was light, but an undertone of concern coloured her words. “I’m sorry about that. She really shouldn’t have.”
“She didn’t say anything I took offence to,” Hermione replied quickly, shaking her head. “She’s looking out for Draco. I can understand that.”
Astoria’s lips curved into a small smile, and she turned more fully toward Hermione. The soft light from the nearby lanterns illuminated her face, but Hermione’s gaze was drawn instead to the ink she had only glimpsed in passing the previous few days.
An intricate design trailed delicately along Astoria’s exposed wrist, winding upward in a pattern that was both striking and fearsome. Her body was adorned with symbols of the people she loved — pansies for Pansy, a dragon for Draco, and, from what little Hermione could decipher from the way her neckline was cut, a scorpion inked over her heart for Scorpius. However, amidst it all, nestled with surprising tenderness, sat Hermione Roses, their petals intricately engraved and glowing faintly under the library’s warm light.
“Scorpius chose them,” Astoria said with a small smile, noticing Hermione’s gaze lingering on the design.
“When?” Hermione asked, her voice barely above a whisper, the question echoing softly in the quiet.
“Summer,” Astoria replied with a knowing smirk, her tone light yet meaningful.
“And you—” Hermione began, trailing off as uncertainty crept into her voice.
“I’m a firm believer in attracting what we desire,” Astoria interrupted gently, her smile turning playful. “I willed it, the children willed it — Draco, well… Gods, I won’t even begin about him — mostly because it’s not my place,” she added with a soft laugh. “I owe far too much to Draco to do that to him. But I suppose the reason I sought you out was to tell you this: you can take your time. Pansy will understand, as will Draco.” She lowered her chin, her expression suddenly serious, as if she wanted to drive the point home.
Hermione hesitated, her fingers brushing against the closed book in her lap. “The children are already so emotional,” she admitted quietly, the words tumbling out before she could stop herself. “What if we only make things worse for them by exploring this any more?”
Astoria tilted her head thoughtfully, her gaze unwavering. “The children,” she said with a hum, “will behave as all siblings do when confronted with conflict. If anything, the last few days have been a testament to their ability to approach the situation with an openness that very few children are capable of at their age. I certainly can’t say I was so willing with my own sister when I was eight.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed, her doubt still lingering.
“They had a fight, Hermione,” Astoria continued gently. “All children do. And what did they do after that? They took time to figure out their feelings. When the time comes, they will apologise. And they will forgive. If you ask me, that’s not something to fear. I think it’s an excellent display of maturity that they can navigate their emotions so honestly.”
* * *
Part of bringing Scorpius and Rose back into each other’s vicinity had been giving them the space they required to make amends.
They would gravitate towards each other every so often, as if not realising they were doing it, until they got too close and panicked. Draco knew better than to intervene, but he still wished to do more than observe. At first, it had been tentative — stolen glances across the Manor gardens, quiet exchanges of words when they thought no one was looking. But as the hours passed, those cautious steps turned into something more natural. By the time lunch was served as a picnic outdoors, they were sitting together under one of the larger oak trees, Rose poring over a large parchment as Scorpius animatedly explained something, his hands gesturing wildly.
Draco watched from the window overlooking the grounds, taking a break between approving yet another set of invoices. They had doubled, then quadrupled — but he knew better than to confront his mother. It was her money, after all, and he was only the (unfortunate) executor.
“They’ll work it out,” Hermione said softly, appearing at his side.
Draco glanced at her, surprised — he hadn’t heard her enter. He wondered if the elves had started applying those pesky Muffliatos to everyone’s soles. “Astoria and Pansy both spoke to him,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of concern. “He’s far too much like me sometimes.”
“Rose is the same,” Hermione replied, her gaze on the children below. There was no judgment in her tone, only a quiet understanding. “Stubborn. Proud. Always trying to figure out the world before it figures her out.”
Draco hummed in agreement, his eyes following Scorpius as the boy gestured animatedly, his enthusiasm spilling over despite his earlier reticence. “Scorpius holds on to things. Grudges. Doubts. Even when he doesn’t want to.”
“Rose lets things fester,” Hermione admitted, her shoulders sagging slightly. “She feels things so deeply but doesn’t always know how to process it. She’s more like me than I care to admit.”
Draco turned to her then, his expression softening. “That’s not a bad thing, Granger. If she’s anything like you, she’ll find her way. They both will.”
Hermione met his gaze, a small smile tugging at her lips. “That’s generous of you, considering I’ve spent most of my life arguing with you.”
Draco smirked. “And yet, here we are. Proof that even the most unlikely of pairings can work things out.”
Hermione chuckled, the sound soft and a little hesitant. “Do you—” She stopped, her fingers picking at her nails as she searched for the right words.
Draco tilted his head, his attention narrowing on her. “Do I... what?”
Her gaze flickered down as though the question itself cost her something. “Do you want that?” she asked, her voice edged with a nervousness he hadn’t seen in her before.
“Want what?” he asked, though his heart thudded at what she might say next. Surely, this witch wasn’t about to ask him what he thought she was.
“To be a pair?” she whispered, her words barely audible. “I mean, I know we talked about being set up — but I need to know what you want.”
Draco shook his head slowly, a faint, almost incredulous smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“I want this,” he said softly. “Us. The children. I want to go back to the cottage and sit on the sofa while you try to distract me with all sorts of indecent thoughts flashing in your head. I want to take Rose ice-skating and kiss you under every mistletoe there is—”
“There were a lot,” Hermione interjected, a ghost of a laugh escaping her.
“I’ll pay them to add even more,” Draco replied without missing a beat, his smirk returning briefly before fading into something more tender. He paused, the weight of his next words settling between them. “I want to watch you baking with Scorpius, and I want it to never end.”
He stepped closer then, his movements slow and deliberate, giving her every opportunity to stop him. When she didn’t, he reached out, his thumb brushing against her cheek as he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze.
“I told you, Granger,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “you had me bewitched a long time ago.”
Her lips met his softly, tentatively, but the warmth that spread between them was immediate. Draco froze briefly before he melted into the kiss, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, holding her gently.
It wasn’t rushed or fiery. It was quiet, deliberate — an unspoken promise shared between them. Hermione pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, her cheeks flushed and her lips curving into a shy smile.
“I think you might have bewitched me, too,” she whispered. “You always were my toughest competition.”
“And greatest rival,” Draco added, his voice low and teasing.
“Yes, well.” Hermione’s words were a soft murmur against his lips, her eyes alight with affection and challenge. “I expect no less in this—”
“Relationship,” Draco supplied smoothly.
“Yes,” she said, her smile widening into a beam that made his heart clench. “Though I think you one-upped me on the Christmas presents this year.”
“You found it?” Draco sighed, leaning his forehead against hers. “Of course you did.”
“Oh yes,” Hermione replied, her tone triumphant. “And you’re going to have to teach me that charm.”
“Never,” Draco smirked, his hand slipping down to rest on her waist. “You’ll have to one-up me all on your own, Granger. Don’t forget, competition is our thing.”
“Yes, but,” Hermione murmured, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper as her fingers trailed up his chest, “I now have the advantage of seduction on my side.”
Draco arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “And you think I don’t?”
Her eyes sparkled as she met his gaze. “If anyone’s going to be seducing anyone, it’ll be me.”
Draco chuckled, the sound rich and warm as he leaned closer, his lips ghosting over hers. “Oh, Granger,” he murmured, his tone a mixture of challenge and promise, “I’d like to see you try.”
Hermione grinned, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she pulled him closer. “You’ll regret saying that.”
“I doubt it, but I certainly won’t try to stop you,” he said, his lips finally meeting hers again in a kiss that was anything but soft this time — equal parts challenge and surrender, the perfect balance of who they were.
Of what they could be.
That night they made love a different way — neither an exploration nor any urgency hindering Draco from admiring Hermione as she straddled him.
Her eyes locked with his, heavy-lidded and dark with arousal, holding him in place as though daring him to look away. Draco didn’t — couldn’t — his chest rising and falling as she stirred up heat from within him. Her movements were slow, deliberate, and entirely self-assured. The way her hands slid up his chest to his shoulders — making him shiver under her touch — the way she ground down, rocking her hips to create delicious friction.
There was no rush, no fumbling for grip — it was a leisurely rendezvous.
Draco's hands moved instinctively, his fingers gripping her hips, the pressure grounding him as she leaned forward, her curls framing her face. She kissed him deeply, thoroughly, as though every brush of her lips was meant to tell him something she couldn't quite say aloud.
“A successful seduction, don’t you think?” she breathed, her voice climbing higher as she sought her climax.
“I think so,” Draco said, his fingertips trailing up her spine. “Though it is my win, witch.” He rolled them over, trapping her beneath his hips so he could nip at her collarbone. Sliding back into her, his strokes measured evenly as his thumb swirled lazily at her clit.
“What,” Hermione panted. “Absolutely not.”
She pulled back enough to meet his gaze fully.
“I seduced you. This is my seduction.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t remember you showing up in my chambers stark naked.”
Draco’s grip on her tightened, his trimmed nails biting gently into her skin as he lowered his lips to her perked nipples, blowing tenderly on one before the other.
“Ah, but my seduction started the previous day when I made access to my room available — and ensured you knew just how to find me.” Draco thrust forward, delighting in the little whine he earned for the force of his movement.
“Oh, you planned it all, did you?” Hermione managed, her body trembling slightly in his hold.
“Every step,” Draco murmured, his lips grazing the delicate skin of her breast before trailing back up to her neck, where he nipped lightly.
Hermione gasped as his hips snapped forward again, the measured rhythm he’d set threatening to unravel her control. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, “you simply can’t get enough.”
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but all that escaped was a shaky moan as his thumb circled her clit with deliberate precision. Her hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in as she fought to keep her composure, though he made that impossibly difficult.
“You—” she began, but her breath hitched as he thrust again, deeper this time, stealing whatever argument she’d been about to make.
Draco chuckled, the sound low and rich, vibrating against her throat. “I what, Granger?”
She glared at him through her haze of pleasure, her lips twitching with defiance even as her body betrayed her. “You’ve still not proved — oh, Gods — your case,” she panted, her voice breaking as his thumb pressed down harder, coaxing her closer to the edge.
“Shall I prove it some more?” Draco purred, his movements slowing as he dragged his lips up to her ear, his voice a husky whisper as she shuddered with the force of her second orgasm of the night. “I could definitely last for a third round of debates.”
“I couldn’t,” she whined, urging him to thrust more rapidly with the press of her heel on the back of his thigh. “Won’t you come for me, Draco?”
She leaned forward again, capturing his lips in another kiss as he pistoned into her, her lips as measured as his intent. And Draco, for all his control and composure, could do nothing but surrender to her — to the way she made him feel utterly and completely hers.
He came to the realisation she was now his as well.
* * *
“Miss Hermione! I’ve been looking for you,” Scorpius announced, dropping his plate onto the nearest surface with a clatter before striding across the parlour toward her. He wrapped his arms around Hermione, his grip tight and earnest. She waited patiently for him to loosen his hold before scooping him up into her arms.
“I didn’t get to thank you for dinner,” he said softly, his cheek pressed against her shoulder. “And I missed you.”
Eight was that age when picking up children became a challenge, but she managed — if only for a moment. A moment was all she really needed to convey how much she had missed him too.
“Did you like your cupcakes?” she asked, shifting them both so she could settle into an armchair. Much of Scorpius’ weight shifted onto the cushion beside her, and she sighed in relief. She didn’t want to let go of him, and it seemed he didn’t want to let go of her either, his arms still firmly wrapped around her shoulders.
“Mhhhm,” Scorpius murmured, smiling up at her. “I told Skippy to hide the last two. Aunty Pansy wanted one, so don’t tell her.”
“Swear on Godric,” Hermione said with a grin.
Scorpius giggled, his eyes sparkling. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I heard you and Rose have been on a mission to find the kitchens.”
“We were, and we found them! They’re on the ground floor of the Manor House, but the elves keep them concealed because they don’t like being disturbed,” Scorpius explained. “And then Grand-mère said I had to come up and try on my robes for tonight, and Rose was hungry, so we came to grab some sandwiches. We’re also waiting for James—” He scrunched his nose. “He wants to play hide and seek, and Rose says I have to be nice to him since he’ll be my cousin too if you and Dad marry.”
Hermione blinked, her mouth opening slightly in surprise. Scorpius nodded toward Rose, not realising what he’d just said, who was seated beside Lucius on the sofa, meticulously picking at cucumber slices. Rose’s expression was animated as she chattered away, and Lucius, to Hermione’s astonishment, appeared to be listening intently, though his face betrayed the faintest hint of bemusement.
When Lucius caught Hermione’s gaze, he offered a small, polite smile before turning his attention back to Rose, who munched happily between words, clearly delighted to have such a captive audience.
“She’s trying to convince him to cut his hair,” Scorpius whispered conspiratorially. “She told Grand-père it’s really shiny and beautiful but doesn’t suit his bone structure. What’s a man bun, by the way?”
Hermione blanched, a reaction that only made Scorpius dissolve into a fit of giggles.
“You look just like he did when he heard that,” Scorpius teased, his laughter infectious.
“Rose really needs to learn when to stop talking,” Hermione muttered, a hint of exasperation in her voice. A pang of recognition struck her, though, as she thought of all the times adults must have felt the same about her as a child. For a moment, she sympathised with McGonagall, who had indulged her endless commentary at school.
The thought fled as Scorpius suddenly fell quiet.
“Rose is kind,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I apologised to her last night — after we were escorted to our bedrooms.”
Hermione arched a brow, her curiosity piqued.
“Yes,” Scorpius sighed, rolling his eyes as if preemptively defending himself against her unspoken questions. “She’s across the hall from me. I snuck into her bedroom and spent the night. But Miss Hermione—”
His voice faltered, and his lip trembled. Hermione’s heart clenched as she recognised the weight of what he was about to say even before the words left his mouth.
“She forgave me for the things I said,” he admitted, “but I can’t — I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for the things I said to her.”
“Oh, darling,” Hermione said, her voice soft and steady. “It is human nature to feel — both good and bad feelings. There are so many things I thought I’d never forgive myself for, but with time, you learn to accept that you can’t be perfect all the time. You said something you wish you could take back — and chances are, you will again one day. That’s just part of growing up.”
Scorpius scrunched his nose, his expression both thoughtful and reluctant. “But what if I don’t want to say mean things ever again? What if I hurt someone like that again?”
Hermione smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “That’s the beauty of it, Scorpius. Because you feel this way now, it means you’re learning. Each time you think before you speak or try to be kind, you’re already doing better. It doesn’t mean you won’t make mistakes, but it does mean you’ll keep growing.”
His brow furrowed as he mulled over her words, his small hands fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “So… it’s okay to make mistakes?”
“Did you forgive Rose for telling your secret?” Hermione asked gently, her voice steady but soft.
“Yes,” Scorpius sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I know she didn’t mean to, I—” He paused, his eyes drifting toward the floor as he searched for the right words. “It was a lot, what happened with that man that day. It took me a while to understand, but I do now.”
Hermione’s heart ached at the vulnerability in his tone, the detrmined courage of a boy who had faced more than any his age should. She reached out, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“See,” she said with a small, encouraging smile. “Rose made a mistake, and you forgave her — because you understood she didn’t mean harm. If you can extend that kindness to her, you can extend the same to yourself.”
Scorpius blinked at her, his lips pressed into a small, uncertain line. “But it feels different… because it’s me. It feels harder.”
Hermione nodded, her expression warm and understanding. “It does feel harder. We’re always our own worst critics, Scorpius. But you’re just as deserving of forgiveness as anyone else. Mistakes don’t make you a bad person — they make you human. And forgiving yourself is a part of learning and growing.”
Scorpius considered her words for a long moment, his fidgeting slowing as a thoughtful expression settled on his face. “I’ll try,” he whispered at last.
“That’s all you need to do,” Hermione said softly, gently squeezing his shoulder. “Just try.”
“Dad said he used to say very unkind things to you, too, when he was a boy,” Scorpius mulled. “And you forgave him, even if he can’t forgive himself.”
“One day, he will,” Hermione said softly. “Carrying a burden like that takes away so much joy, Scorpius. And if there’s anyone who deserves joy, it’s the man that little boy chose to become — don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” Scorpius said softly, his eyes tracking his father’s long, purposeful strides as he entered the parlour.
Draco’s gaze swept the room instinctively — first finding Scorpius, then Hermione, and finally Rose. It was as if, at that moment, they were all bound to the same rhythm, drawn together like celestial bodies in a shared orbit, revolving around one another with an unspoken gravity.
Like a family.
Chapter 23: A New Beginning, Same Old Us
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Whoever may have doubted Narcissa Malfoy’s ability to orchestrate a grand ball on a mere day's notice found that there was very little the Lady of the Manor could not achieve when she put her mind to it — and Narcissa Malfoy was very determined. Garlands of evergreen intertwined with charmed winter roses adorned the towering archways, their petals shimmering faintly as though kissed by frost. The scent of fresh pine and delicate blooms mingled with the faintest hint of beeswax and polish, a testament to the house-elves’ meticulous and thorough care over the previous two days.
In kind, Narcissa, ever gracious, had dismissed them to enjoy the evening as they wished, leaving the celebration in the very capable hands of hired waitstaff. With quiet efficiency and seamless precision, they ensured every glass remained full, every guest was guided to their seat, and the glimmering platters of French delicacies made its way through the entire room.
The ballroom, glimpsed through an open door down the corridor, glowed with soft, golden lights, the chandelier crystals reflecting an almost celestial brilliance. Faint strains of the orchestra drifted down the halls, a lilting melody that seemed to weave its way through the Manor, carrying on its zephyr an air of anticipation and enchantment.
Draco stood at the threshold of his private wing, his posture straight and composed, though his expression betrayed a hint of impatience. He had worn the ornate periwinkle robes his mother had chosen for him, the intricate embroidery on his cuffs glinting faintly as he shifted to look down at his wristwatch. The shade was only a hue richer than Scorpius’ own robes, adding to the boy’s princely appearance as he stood beside his father, looking equally regal and entirely ill-tempered.
“How long does it take?” Scorpius moaned, clutching his stomach dramatically as it let out a loud gurgle. “They just have to put on dresses.”
“And do their hair,” Draco mused, his lips twitching with a faint smirk. “Those curls require time, Scorpius.”
Scorpius groaned, crossing his arms with exaggerated exasperation. “But I’m starving! And Skippy said they were almost ready ages ago.”
Draco arched a brow, his gaze sweeping down the hallway toward the room where Hermione and Rose were still preparing. The faintest flicker of amusement crossed his face. “You’ll learn, Scorp,” he said, a teasing lilt in his tone. “Almost ready doesn’t always mean what you think it should. Patience is a virtue.”
“Patience is boring,” Scorpius muttered, wrinkling his nose.
“But worth the wait,” Draco murmured, his voice trailing off as his gaze shifted.
Scorpius followed his father’s line of sight, turning just as Hermione and Rose appeared at the far end of the corridor. His earlier complaints fell silent, his wide eyes fixed on them.
Rose’s dress, a soft lilac that shimmered like starlight, swirled gracefully around her as she walked. The delicate fabric seemed to catch and hold the light, perfectly complementing the rich periwinkle of Scorpius’ robes. She moved with a vibrant energy, her curls bouncing as she broke into a grin, her excitement contagious in its effect.
Beside her, Hermione floated forward, her emerald gown a vision of elegance, its shimmering fabric catching the glow of the enchanted sconces. The tanzanite choker Narcissa had insisted she wore sparkled with every step she took, a striking contrast against her honeyed skin. Draco’s gaze lingered longer than he intended, caught off guard by the effortless grace with which she carried herself.
A swot by day, a succubus by night.
“Let’s go!” Scorpius blurted, his excitement breaking Draco’s reverie.
“Scorpius,” Draco said gently, his tone more amused than admonishing, his eyes incapable of wavering from the vision before him despite his son’s theatrics.
Scorpius quickly straightened, looking earnestly at the witches before him. “You look beautiful, Miss Hermione,” he said, his cheeks tinged pink. “Rose, I like you better in your skort, but you look very pretty too.”
Rose’s face lit up with a beaming smile. “Thank you! You look very proper, too, like a prince from a fairy-tale.”
“Come on, now,” Scorpius said, grabbing her hand. “Or James will eat all the Rose Crème Tarts. Merlin, he has a sweet tooth.” He tugged her along, only tripping over the hem of his robes once in his haste.
Draco turned to face Hermione, who sensed his attention — turning towards him just as he reached out to lace his fingers with hers. “You look beautiful.” He didn’t think he would ever get accustomed to the subtle dusky rose of her blush — and he never wanted to — the way she smiled, the apples of her cheeks rising high even as she scrunched her nose in embarrassment.
“Interesting robes,” she murmured.
“Mother likes to make statements,” Draco drawled. “And by that, I mean we will be the statement. The entire press team from Witch Weekly was extended an invitation.”
“Oh no,” Hermione groaned, her expression crumpling with devastation. For a moment, Draco’s heart stuttered in his chest, the thought creeping in that perhaps, unlike him, she wasn’t ready to make their association so public.
But then she continued, “Lavender is an editor there — and with everything involving Ron — I need to tell Rose that Lavender’s around.”
Draco exhaled slowly, relief mingling with the persistent racing of his heart as it sought to return to a steady rhythm.
“Actually,” he said carefully, “Lavender isn’t a part of the Witch Weekly team tonight, but she is here. As is Ron.”
Hermione’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “What?” she exclaimed, her voice sharp with disbelief. “What?” she repeated, her brows knitting together in consternation.
“I thought Rose would have told you,” Draco said. “Or Red.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Potter will be here tonight,” Draco explained slowly. “And when Rose found out, she asked if Weasley — er, Ronald — could be extended an invitation. I didn’t press her for details. But she did seem hopeful.”
“She’s testing him,” Hermione groaned. “She wants to know if he was serious about trying with her.”
“He is,” Draco said quietly, ignoring the taste of the words on his tongue at the admission. It would be difficult to share her love with another man but he would do it, and he expected for Rose’s love, in kind, so would Weasley. “He arrived on the dot.”
Hermione blinked, her mouth now firmly gaping.
“Which is rather rude,” Draco quipped, hoping to make her smile. “Because everyone knows to arrive at least ten minutes after the official time in case the hosts are running late on their arrangements.”
“And Lavender?” Hermione asked.
“Rose said to extend a plus one,” Draco said. “I think she knew who it would be extended to.”
“That child,” Hermione exhaled slowly, her chest heaving. He’d have to have a word with his mother about the style of neckline she’d gone with — he already expected it to earn him a shoe to the head, but Granger’s tits were his tits.
Gods. T.I.T.S had infested his brain.
“She’ll be the death of me one day,” Hermione grumbled.
“Oh, my love, not just you,” Draco quipped, resigning himself to glare murderously at anyone who stared too hard at his tits. “She’s gonna take quite a few people down with her — you and me included — Scorpius, as well, most likely.”
Hermione’s mouth fell agape — and because Draco didn’t want to know if it was because of what he’d just called her or what he’d said right after, he quickly manoeuvred her forward — elated that she had hardly thought twice about appearing on his arm in a crowd full of people.
The Grand Ballroom was not as filled as it would have been in Draco’s youth, and he did not mind it in the least. The Bulstrodes and the Goyles had chosen to attend — the Averys had sent their regards — and the Mulcibers, Rowles, and Crabbes had not been invited. Nor had any of the Greengrasses been extended an invitation.
Still, there were those whom Narcissa knew from her philanthropic endeavours who had accepted invitations, looking comfortably at ease within her presence — and those people his father lobbied with within the Wizengamot, though Draco was certain some of them had been blackmailed into attending from their grim perusal of the tainted Manor walls.
Draco hadn’t felt the need to extend any invitations beyond those who worked for him at his law firm, which was not as big as one would assume of a Malfoy. And even then, his assistant was the only person who met his gaze with a truly contented smile before ushering his wife into a conversation with one of the other paralegals.
Pansy’s brothers had taken to the dance floor with Astoria, all three lining up — each taking charge from another the moment a song ended, only to grimace when their turn ended, just the same as the next. Pansy had similarly been passed around — from Blaise to Theo to George and finally to Draco, who knew he had to make an appearance early on so as to be excused for the rest of the night.
“Hey,” Draco said, catching Pansy’s hand. He spun her smoothly before pulling her close once more.
“Hey,” Pansy replied, her lips curving into a genuine smile — not the sly smirk he was so accustomed to.
“As romantic as you think this is,” she teased, her tone warm but cutting, “you look completely washed out in periwinkle.”
“You’re unbelievably rude,” Draco muttered, rolling his eyes.
“You love me,” she shot back with a knowing smirk.
“I do,” he admitted, twirling her effortlessly across the polished floor. “And for the record, I think I look charming.”
“Charmed, more like,” Pansy said with an exasperated huff. They separated briefly as the dance required, only to return to the formation with practised ease.
“You should have danced with Granger first,” Pansy remarked, her tone light but pointed.
“You should have danced with Stori first,” Draco countered, arching a brow. “Why didn’t you?”
“For the same reason you didn’t, I suppose,” Pansy replied, her smirk giving way to something closer to reflection. “Not everyone is Narcissa. It takes a certain courage to make a declaration.”
Draco twirled her again, his grip steady as they moved seamlessly through the steps.
“It has to happen,” he said, his voice quieter now.
“Yes,” Pansy agreed, her smile faint but knowing. “And life will change forever.”
“Pansy,” Draco said, his eyes catching Hermione’s across the room, “life as we know it already has.”
She stood precisely where one would expect Hermione Granger to — flanked by a Potter and a Weasley. But neither were Harry nor Ron. Ginevra, radiant in a flowing gown of pale gold, spoke animatedly, her gestures as lively as her smile. On her other side, George’s arm wound casually around Hermione’s waist, his grin mischievous as he persuaded her to join him on the dance floor where Theo had pulled Blaise’s mother forward to dance with him.
It seemed for all of Narcissa’s scheming, they each were reluctant to be the first to show their hand — which was typical for a party in which Slytherins dominated the rest of the houses. Still, he wondered which couple would break from their comfortable mold first.
“She really is something, huh?” Pansy murmured, her voice soft but full of warmth.
Draco’s gaze flicked instinctively toward Hermione, because, of course, she was. But Pansy’s eyes weren’t on Hermione — they were fixed on something behind Draco’s shoulder. He frowned slightly, adjusting their angle with a turn of the dance so he could see what had caught her attention.
There, near the edge of the dance floor, Rose was standing on tiptoes, her small hands clasped in his father’s as Lucius led her through a dance with uncharacteristic care. The unlikely pair moved awkwardly but with surprising grace, Rose’s face glowing with delight while Lucius wore an expression somewhere between amusement and begrudging fondness. Scorpius stood not far off, swaying his hips mindlessly — his eyes never wavering from James, who had indeed found the Rose Crème tarts Scorpius was fond of.
However, Scorpius’ gaze stood no comparison to Weasley, who had shifted closer to the dance floor, flanked by Potter, whose hand was resting squarely on the other man’s shoulder. Weasley’s lips were a thin line, watching as Rose giggled, stepping once more on Lucius’ foot. Whatever his father drawled in response made her guffaw, and Draco saw the moment when Weasley’s shoulders deflated, and he took a step back, allowing his friend to steer him away.
“Well,” Pansy murmured with a sly smile, having caught much of what Draco had. “One of us had to take the onus of scandal on ourselves. Leave it to that child to outshine us all.”
“She is something,” Draco said with a faint smirk. “And she makes Scorpius act like a child, which — Merlin. Remember when he wanted history books for his sixth birthday? She brings out something from within him I hadn’t known he had.”
“He was always a child,” Pansy said softly.
Draco’s smirk faded, replaced by a sombre look as he shook his head. “No,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I don’t think I ever really allowed him a childhood.”
Pansy’s eyes danced across his face, searching for something he wasn’t sure he wished her to find.
“I wanted him to be prepared,” Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper as he leaned closer, unable to meet her gaze. “Prepared for what my past held for his future.” He paused, the words catching in his throat before spilling out. “I robbed him of his innocence because of it.”
“Draco.”
“No,” he gasped, the word escaping him as if dragged from a place deep inside. It had been weighing on him for days — the guilt of keeping secrets from his friends, of failing to be there for Rose when she needed him most. The visceral pain of not knowing how things with Hermione would be when the time came. But more than anything, he had realised just how much he had hurt Scorpius by confiding so much weight on him, burdening a boy with things no child should have to carry. “I know I messed up.”
“You didn’t.” Her voice hit him like a lightning bolt, startling him with its force.
Before he could protest, she stepped closer, her hands firm as they guided him to meet her gaze. He couldn’t look away now, even if he wanted to.
“You tried something,” she said, her tone fierce and unyielding. “Fuck, Draco, that’s what parenthood is! Trying. None of us were born knowing how to do this — not a single one of us. And unless you’re about to tell me you’re disappointed in Scorpius — and don’t even think about going there — you need to understand this: you did so damn well. That boy is as close to perfect as a human being can be. You did good, Draco.”
Her words soothed him like a balm against his guilt, but she wasn’t finished.
“Some kids just need a little help finding the child within,” she continued, her voice softening now, though her conviction didn’t waver. “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad things worked out the way they did. I’m glad he needed that little girl, and truth be told, I think that little girl needed him just as much.”
She paused, her eyes holding his with quiet strength. “I’m glad, Draco. I’m glad it all turned out the way it did.”
“Are you?” Draco asked.
“I’m scared,” Pansy said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy to be back. To have you and Scorp, and all the people I love back within reach. You can feel many things simultaneously, apparently.”
“Yes,” Draco chuckled, spinning her obnoxiously fast the way he had in fourth year, earning him a sharp heel on his foot.
It seemed they all had children within them, yearning to come out.
Draco bowed as the song ended, his movements once more precise and effortless. Without missing a beat, Pansy turned and strode purposefully toward Astoria, who turned as if she could feel Pansy’s approach even before seeing her. The two women exchanged knowing looks, and within moments they had orbited into a new formation, together, Pansy pulling Astoria close to her chest, as her brothers moved away — silently watching, with knowing smiles as the two women took centre stage.
The strains of the orchestra’s next piece swelled to fill the ballroom, a slow waltz that made him wonder where Hermione had disappeared to after her dance with George.
“May I have this dance, Draco?”
Draco smiled, turning to find Rose standing before him, her hand extended, her lilac gown catching light in a way that made it seem dusted with stars. Her eyes sparkled with mirth, and her lip curled up in an expectant smile.
“Of course, Miss Rose,” Draco hummed, taking her small hand in his and offering a formal bow. “The honour is entirely mine.”
Rose looked up at him, her smile widening, and she straightened her posture with renewed determination. Together, they moved in careful rhythm, her smaller steps aligning with his longer strides as they glided across the marble floor.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” Draco murmured as they turned, her lilac skirts swirling like petals in a gentle breeze.
“I’m okay,” Rose countered with a giggle, though her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Scorpius and I practiced a little yesterday, but he doesn’t like to dance.”
“You’ve already got all the Malfoys dancing around you,” Draco mused.
“Not around me,” Rose said cheekily. “With me.”
“Touche,” Draco murmured, catching sight of Hermione, who was watching from the edge of the ballroom, her emerald gown standing out against the muted hues of those around her. She held his gaze, her lips curving into a soft smile — one hand resting on Scorpius’ shoulder.
Rose must have noticed, too, because her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re looking at Mum again.”
Draco’s lips twitched. “Am I?”
“You know you are,” Rose rolled her eyes. “She says she doesn’t like dancing either.”
“I see,” Draco frowned. She hadn’t seemed to mind the only other time he’d seen her in such a setting.
“You should ask her to dance, anyway,” Rose said with a sly smile. “I think she loves dancing but doesn’t get to, and so she just says it's because she doesn’t like it.”
Draco let out a soft chuckle, adjusting their pace with a deft shift in his step to guide Rose through a more intricate turn. “Is that so?”
Rose tilted her head thoughtfully, her curls bouncing with the movement. “I’ve seen her dance alone in the kitchen,” she said, matter-of-fact, her voice a touch quieter. “I can put two and two together.”
Draco was sure she could put two and two together, come up with five, and still have it be right.
“And what if I don’t like dancing.”
“Not possible,” Rose said with a small shrug of her shoulders. “You like dancing, I can tell. You dance like you enjoy it, I can see it on your face. And it’s perfect. You and my mum are perfect.” She sighed contentedly.
“Perhaps,” he said slowly, his voice tinged with amusement. “I see Mission T.I.T.S has survived the fallout after all.”
Rose’s cheeks flushed, though her smile remained unrepentant. “You said it was only a setback,” she scrunched her nose. “That means you want it to succeed too. And my mum, well — she thinks she’s a great liar, but she can’t lie to me. I know she wants it as well.”
Draco let out a small laugh, shaking his head as they reached the edge of the dance floor. He released her hand, bowing slightly as the music drew to a close. “Okay, I’ll tell you what, Rose. Come find me at ten minutes to midnight, and I’ll see what I can do about your mission.”
Rose curtsied with an exaggerated flourish, her grin as bright as the enchanted roses lining the room. “Dance with my mum, and you have a deal.”
They heard a soft clearing of the throat. Rose’s smile faltered as Ron came into view, his dress robes understated — a deep navy blue that made him appear older. Or was it because of the grim expression on his face?
Draco straightened, slowly turning to meet his gaze.
“Weasley,” Draco said cautiously. “I’m glad you could attend.”
“Thank you for sending me an invitation, Malfoy,” Weasley said cordially. Too cordially. Draco could see the strain where it creased around his lips. “I was wondering if I could have Rose’s next dance.”
They both turned expectantly towards the girl standing between them, her eyes searching out her Mother’s. She was still at the edge of the room, Scorpius now tugging at her hand, pointing her attention in their direction. Rose turned back slowly, looking from Draco to her father.
“Okay.” She said softly. “Yes, I’d like to dance.”
Her eyes bore into Draco’s, and he knew what she was asking. He shook his head softly, amusement tugging the corners of his lip up into a smirk.
“I’ll go find your Mother.” Draco stepped back, his gaze lingering on the pair as Ron extended a hand to Rose. The stiffness in Ron’s posture softened as she placed her smaller hand in his, her expression somewhere between wary and determination. It was an odd sort of moment — neither entirely awkward nor entirely comfortable — yet it held significance.
Rose’s trust was something she didn’t give lightly, and whatever reservations Ron may have held, it was clear he understood the privilege of earning it.
Draco’s lips twitched as he turned, weaving his way through the throng of guests, his eyes automatically seeking out Hermione.
She was no longer at the edge of the ballroom, instead she stood a little ways away from Luna — swaying mindlessly on the spot as she waited for Blaise to put Felix to bed — and right beside his mother.
Scorpius’ hand in hers, Hermione nodded along to Narcissa’s words, her eyes bright and cheerful — her wine glass hovering near her lips.
Narcissa’s aquamarine eyes sparkled at his approach, and she took a deliberate sip from her own flute of champagne before vanishing it.
“I look forward to hearing more,” she said, her voice warm with genuine interest. “Perhaps we can sit down with Mipsy in the new year to discuss what a middle ground for elves might look like. She’s been with us for decades and is an invaluable source of insight. And,” she added, her tone softening with something almost like remorse, “she was particularly close to Dobby. I believe she would welcome the changes he inspired, personally.”
“That would be amazing, Narcissa.” Hermione’s expression brightened, a spark of joy lighting her features. For a moment, she looked as though the following Christmas had arrived early — or, at the very least, had not been entirely ruined this year.
“Until then,” Narcissa continued with a sly smile, “I intend to steal my husband away for a dance. I might not have been his first partner of the evening, but I fully intend to be his last.” Her eyes flicked knowingly to Draco, a faint smirk gracing her lips as she inclined her head toward him.
“Thank you, Mrs Malfoy,” Hermione said, her tone warm and tinged with a hint of awe as Narcissa departed with her usual effortless elegance.
Hermione glanced down at Scorpius, still standing at her side with his arms crossed and a faint pout tugging at his lips. “No dancing for you, then? You’re absolutely sure?”
“Positive,” Scorpius groaned theatrically, dragging out the word as though it physically pained him. “I ate way too many cupcakes to move that fast.”
“Okay,” Hermione laughed, her voice soft and indulgent as Scorpius ambled away. He cast a mischievous grin in Draco’s direction, pausing only to flag down the nearest waiter for a glass of water, who scrambled with haste to procure one.
“Granger,” Draco drawled, closing the space that had been created with Scorpius’ abrupt departure. “Are you working at a New Year’s Ball?”
Hermione blinked, surprise flickering across her face before it softened into a guilty smile.
“Guilty,” she said, scrunching her nose. “But only because my time off ends in a day.” She allowed him to lead her to the edge of the dancefloor.
“Mhhm. A day, you say?” he said, leaning forward to catch her fingers so he could intertwine them with his. “Then we’ll have to make it a day you’ll never forget.”
Hermione arched her brow.
“This entire week has been unforgettable.” She smiled. “I’m sorry, I don’t see how you can top it.”
Draco’s smirk deepened, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that sent a flicker of heat through the space between them. He slid his free hand to her waist, the pressure firm yet gentle as he pulled her closer. Their bodies aligned with an intimacy they had grown rather fond of.
She looked up at him, her dark lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks, her gaze soft but searching. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as though she were trying to resist him and failing beautifully. Her breath hitched, just slightly, as his thumb grazed the back of her hand in a quiet, grounding gesture.
“Granger,” he asked. “May I have this dance?”
“I suppose it would be impolite to refuse,” she murmured. “And don’t change the subject.”
“I am doing nothing of the sort,” he said, pulling her close to whisper into her ear. “I am waiting for the finale.” They moved together, steps falling into a rhythm they had already been exploring the previous few days, ensconced within the Manor, at liberty to touch and tease as they pleased.
They danced in celebration of how far they had come — Draco leading only to falter when Hermione inadvertently took charge — Hermione allowing him to gracefully manoeuver her when she did not know where it was she was meant to be.
For two adversaries — arch rivals, and reluctant enemies — they danced as if they were both in love. Draco knew he was already there, and he knew he would wait however long it would take her to make her way there as well.
For now, he was content to lead her, twirling her when she’d allow him, laughing when she did not — twirling around himself when she got frustrated with the steps and began leading him instead.
It was all he could have wanted.
For however rough their paths had been to this moment, he would not wish for it to be any other way.
To Draco, it had all been worth it.
* * *
“But Astoria… and Pansy!” Hermione yelped, her voice tinged with exasperation as Theo dragged her away from the growing crowd near the stage.
There were precisely nine minutes until midnight — until the women of the hour took the stage and rang in the new year with a speech — Hermione knew because she had been counting down for the last hour. Her feet throbbed in her heels, her toes were beyond numb, and her earrings felt as though they might rip her lobes clean off.
Despite the pain of it all, she hadn’t been able to stop smiling. Not since her third dance with Draco, which had been promptly followed by her first dance with Scorpius, who had confessed in a hushed, mortified tone that he’d been “sick.”
Hermione had watched him devour six cupcakes throughout the evening, so she wasn’t the least bit surprised.
Lucky for witches and wizards alike, and as Astoria later conveyed, holding Scorpius to her chest as he recuperated from their own dance — wizarding balls of the Sacred kind often came with a veritable treasure trove of potions to help them throughout the night. Scorpius scarfed down the Pepper-Up like a champ, only to then inhale half a cup of tiramisu an unfortunate waiter had passed by with, earning glares from both Astoria and Hermione for the, albeit unknowingly, ill-timed intrusion.
They’d shared a moment of disbelief interspersed with mirth before Astoria had been drawn away, leaving to do what she’d been waiting to do for what felt like hours now. Only for Hermione to be accosted by Theo, who was now leading her away from the Manor House.
“Here,” Theo said, bringing Hermione to a still. “This is where I must bid you adieu, fair maiden, but not for too long.” He grinned, whirling Hermione around to face him. “I don’t know all the details, but you’ll fill me in later, won’t you, love?”
Hermione nodded without truly understanding what it was she was signing up for.
“Good.” Theo grinned, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “I’ll see you in the new year, Hermione.”
Before Hermione could begin wondering why she’d been escorted to an empty room, Scorpius was joining her, followed by Rose and Draco, who both arrived in a panic that made Hermione’s brows knit with consternation.
“Quick,” Draco said, ushering Scorpius forward towards the Floo. “You know where to go?”
Scorpius nodded, his grin positively conspiratorial as he grabbed a handful of Floo powder. “Malfoy Christmas Cottage,” he enunciated carefully, his voice steady with intent. The green flames roared to life, curling around him before he vanished entirely.
Rose darted in behind him, her curiosity outweighing any hesitation. With a decisive flick of her wrist, she followed suit, disappearing into the emerald glow with a flash.
“What—?” Hermione began, her brow furrowing as she turned to Draco.
“Go on,” he said, his hand motioning her toward the hearth, his tone softer now, reassuring. “I’m right behind you.”
Hermione hesitated briefly, her curiosity battling with the unexpected rush of warmth his words brought. She slowly stepped forward, carefully cupping the Floo powder in her palm.
“Malfoy Christmas Cottage,” she said, her voice quieter but no less determined. She tossed the powder into the flames, watching them leap and twist before stepping into their embrace. The last thing she saw before vanishing was Draco’s smirk — half-mocking, half-sincere — and entirely infuriating.
She landed with a slight stumble in the familiar hearth of the cottage — their cottage. The room's warmth enveloped her instantly, and the faint smell of pine and woodsmoke brought forth a flood of nostalgia. All was as they had left it on Christmas Day.
The furniture remained pushed to the sides, the fort still stood proud, its patchwork of blankets and pillows slightly deflated but holding strong. Draco’s book, poorly hidden between the cushions of the sofa, lay exactly where he had abandoned it, a tiny, endearing detail that made her smile.
Ahead of her, Scorpius and Rose stood before the fort, their faces alight with excitement as they whispered in hurried, animated tones. Hermione stepped forward instinctively, drawn by the sight, only to pause as the Floo roared to life behind her.
She quickly moved out of the way, just in time to avoid Draco’s arrival, as he stepped from the flames with characteristic grace. His eyes swept the room, taking in the scene before landing on her. His smirk softened into something closer to a smile.
“What—?” Hermione began, her brows knitting together in confusion. “Malfoy Cottage?”
“We can’t ring in the new year without wrapping up Christmas properly, can we?” Draco replied, his smirk widening as he stepped further into the room. “This, of course, was a Christmas present I got for myself.”
Hermione stared at him, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “You bought the cottage?” she asked flatly, her tone incredulous. “For Christmas?”
“Naturally,” Draco said, his grin unapologetically smug. “Mr Walters was not happy about you overstaying your welcome, and I’ve been told I need to invest in more real estate — it was an excellent middle ground, don’t you think?”
Hermione gaped at him, her mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right words to respond, but none seemed sufficient for the sheer absurdity of Draco Malfoy casually buying a cottage as though it were a trinket at a holiday market.
“Come on, now,” Draco drawled, his tone light but edged with amusement as he rolled his eyes. He placed a hand lightly on her back, steering her gently toward the children, who were now crouched by the fort with a flurry of whispers and poorly contained giggles. “We’ve only got a few minutes left before midnight, and I refuse to let you spend them gawping like a fish.”
Hermione let out a huff, still incredulous, but allowed herself to be guided forward, her steps faltering only slightly as she tried to process his nonchalance. “You’re insane,” she muttered under her breath.
“Undeniably,” Draco replied, his smirk widening as his hand lingered briefly at the small of her back. Leaning closer, his voice dipped to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “But it’s far too late to back out now.”
She shot him a half-hearted glare, but the warmth in her eyes betrayed her. They ducked into the fort, its walls of mismatched blankets and cushions glowing softly from the enchanted fairy lights that adorned its makeshift ceiling.
“Only three minutes to go,” Rose said nervously, her eyes darting between the clock on the mantel and the stack of gifts.
Hermione squared her shoulders. “Everyone grab one and rip,” she instructed, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.
With a chorus of excited laughter and the rustling of wrapping paper, they dove into the pile, their tiny fort filling with the sound of tearing paper.
Rose had been the quickest to act, snatching up the present from Scorpius with a triumphant grin as he groaned in mock protest. Draco reached for the neatly wrapped package Rose had left for him, his expression betraying a faint curiosity at its size and shape. Scorpius, meanwhile, picked up the modestly wrapped gift from Hermione, his small hands carefully undoing the paper as though savouring the act itself.
As he pulled out the neatly folded jumpers and jeans, his eyes lit up with delight. “Muggle clothes,” he said, his dimpled smile spreading wide as he held up one of the jumpers to examine it.
Hermione beamed. “You can save those office clothes for later, and see here, it has pockets like Rose’s jumpers.”
Scorpius gasped dramatically, immediately tugging the jumper over his head, the hem slightly askew in his haste. “Pockets!” he exclaimed, patting them enthusiastically as though they were the most extraordinary invention he had ever encountered. He turned to Rose, his excitement brimming over, but she was already focused on her own gift, her small hands carefully unwrapping the delicate parcel Scorpius had added before their disastrous fight.
“It’s a Weasley-Malfoy Grimoire,” Draco explained, his voice carrying a touch of reverence as Rose lifted the ancient, leather-bound book. The edges of its pages glimmered faintly with gold, the worn cover embossed with the Malfoy crest entwined with a subtle flourish of Weasley red. “Every witch who has married into the family imbues her essence into a new Grimoire. It’s an old family custom that goes back centuries.”
Rose’s fingers ghosted over the intricate patterns on the cover, her wide eyes reflecting the soft glow of the enchanted lettering. “Whose was this?” she asked, her voice quiet.
Draco’s gaze softened as he leaned closer. “This belonged to a witch by the name of Ariella, who married into the family about four centuries ago,” he said with a small smile. “She was known for her mastery of Charms and Potions.”
Rose’s brow furrowed slightly as she opened the tome, her lips parting in a soft gasp as the enchanted pages shimmered to life. Intricate notes and sketches appeared, written in a script so elegant it seemed almost alive.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“More than that,” Draco added. “It’s a legacy.”
Hermione blinked back the sting of tears as Rose hugged Draco tightly, her small arms winding around his neck with a quiet fervour. “I’ll take good care of it,” she whispered again, her voice steady despite the shimmering emotion in her eyes.
Rose turned then, her gaze falling on Scorpius, who had been waiting patiently to her left. Without hesitation, she stepped toward him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a heartfelt embrace. “Thank you, Scorp,” she said softly, her voice thick with gratitude. “I love it — I love you.”
“I love you too,” Scorpius replied, his voice equally tender. He held her tightly briefly before pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “I love you so much, Rosie. And… I’m truly so sorry for what I said.”
“I know,” Rose said, her lips curving into a small, forgiving smile. “I’m sorry, too.”
Hermione’s gaze drifted downward as they shared their moment, her fingers brushing over the bracelet she’d just slipped onto her wrist. The delicate band was simple, elegant, with a barely noticeable inscription etched on the inside: Love you, Always. She smiled faintly at Rose’s gift to her.
Meanwhile, Draco had returned to eyeing the small package Rose had given him with a bemused expression. He pulled out its contents — a pair of sleek, dark sunglasses — and raised a brow, his scepticism thinly veiled. “Are these… sunglasses?” he asked, holding them up for inspection as though trying to discern their hidden purpose.
Rose beamed at him, unfazed. “They’re just like mine! Mum helped me pick them out for you.”
Draco turned the sunglasses over in his hands, his lips quirking into a faint, amused smile. “Well, then,” he said, sliding them onto his face with a flourish that was both exaggerated and undeniably Draco. “How do I look?”
“Like a rock star,” Rose giggled, clapping her hands together. “Or a spy. Oh, a rock star that doubles as a spy for the government!”
“Both, I think, or all three?” His smirk widened just as Scorpius let out a sudden, dramatic yelp.
“One minute!” Scorpius exclaimed, his eyes darting toward the large stack of unopened presents still piled near the fort. “We didn’t finish!”
“That’s okay,” Draco said gently, crouching to ruffle Scorpius’ hair with a calm, reassuring smile. “We can do the rest later. Right now, it’s time to celebrate.”
Hermione nodded, climbing out of the fort before stepping toward the television with her wand in hand. With a quick flick, the BBC broadcast sprang to life, the countdown clock glowing on the screen as excited voices filled the room.
“We bought some sparkling cider that day, I think,” she said, her wand lifting once more to cast a quick Accio.
The bottle flew neatly into her hand, and she examined it briefly before passing it to Draco. “Want to do the honours?”
Draco accepted the bottle with a playful bow, the ridiculous sunglasses still perched on his face, tilting slightly as he straightened.
“Thirty seconds!” Rose shouted, darting off toward the kitchen to grab the glasses Hermione had been about to conjure. Scorpius ran after her, his small hands quick to help as they carefully carried the tumblers back together.
Hermione turned to Draco, a glint of mischief dancing in her eyes. She stepped closer, her fingers skimming lightly over his wrist, a deliberate touch that sent a subtle jolt of anticipation through him.
“How about one more present to wrap up the year?” she murmured, her voice low enough to be just for him.
Draco’s brow arched slightly, curiosity flickering across his face as he studied her expression. They hadn’t yet discussed when they’d tell the children, but she suddenly felt resolved in her desire to start the year on the right note.
“What are you thinking?” he asked softly.
“Follow my lead,” Hermione said, her lips curving into a smirk.
“I’ll follow you wherever you want to go, Granger,” he murmured, removing his sunglasses.
The room seemed to still around them, the warmth of the moment pressing in close. The laughter of the children and the faint ticking of the clock on the TV faded into a gentle hum, leaving the two of them standing together, poised on the brink of something new, something monumental. The countdown loomed just seconds away, but for Draco and Hermione, time had already begun to shift, pulling them into an unspoken agreement.
“Ten!” Rose’s voice rang out as she hurried forward, tumblers clinking. Draco stepped back just enough to take them, his wand flicking quickly to charm each glass full of sparkling cider.
“Seven!” Scorpius called out next, his grin wide and infectious as he slipped his hand into Rose’s, squeezing it gently. The two children stood side by side, their eyes fixed on the TV screen, excitement bubbling between them.
“Three!” Hermione’s fingers found Draco’s, her touch firm as their hands intertwined. Her heart pounded in her chest, her grip tightening slightly as she glanced up at him.
“Two!” Draco’s gaze dropped to hers, and in that split second, the weight of what they were about to do became as undeniable as the air around them.
“One!” The children’s voices rose in unison, their cheers mingling with the jubilant shouts from the broadcast.
Hermione leaned in closer, her voice barely audible over the jubilant noise. “Happy New Year, Draco,” she whispered, her words layered with all the promises and possibilities of a new beginning.
Without hesitation, she closed the distance, pressing her lips to his in a bold and achingly tender kiss, their hands still firmly entwined as if anchoring them to the moment.
“Happy New—” Scorpius’s voice broke through as he turned, his words faltering as he froze, wide-eyed, under the gravity of what he was witnessing.
Rose followed his gaze, her eyes darting between the two adults locked in an unmistakable embrace. For a heartbeat, the room was silent but for the faint cheers from the television. Then Rose’s face split into a grin so wide it could rival the sunrise.
“Mission T.I.T.S.,” she shrieked, her voice ringing with unbridled glee,“is a success!”
Hermione broke the kiss, her cheeks flushing as she pulled back just enough to glance toward the children. Scorpius’s jaw had dropped, his expression a mix of shock and dawning realisation, while Rose bounced on the balls of her feet, positively vibrating with excitement.
“Come on, Scorpius, we must plan for part two!” Rose declared, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the door leading to their shared bedroom.
Her energy was infectious, and Scorpius stumbled after her with a bemused grin.
“And what will that be?” Hermione called after them, arching a brow as she leaned slightly against Draco’s side. Her voice carried a hint of playfulness, though she tried to mask it with a touch of exasperation.
Scorpius stopped mid-step, spinning on his heels with theatrical flair. “Mission B.O.L.S.,” he announced, his chest puffed out as though revealing a grand secret.
Hermione sighed, though the sound was more indulgent than annoyed. “Now, what is that supposed to stand for?” she asked, the corners of her lips twitching as she fought back a grin.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” Rose said with a smirk, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She tossed a quick wink over her shoulder. “But for now, we’ll leave you two alone to kiss some more.”
“But not too much more,” Scorpius added, his pout deepening as he crossed his arms. “We’re all supposed to sleep in the fort tonight like we were supposed to on Christmas Day.”
Hermione’s smile widened, her heart swelling at the sight of their earnest faces. “We wouldn’t dream of hindering it,” she assured them, her eyes flicking to Draco, whose soft smile mirrored her own.
Draco let out a low chuckle as the children disappeared through the doorway in a flurry of whispers and giggles, his fingers brushing against Hermione’s as they lingered near her side. “Mission B.O.L.S.?” he mused, his tone amused. “Should someone tell them they need to pick better names for their scheming?”
“One could try,” Hermione said thoughtfully, lifting her present for Draco from the pile, “but I think it would only encourage them. And honestly, what is life without a little tits and balls?”
“Dull, I’d imagine,” Draco quipped, smirking as he carefully tore the wrapping paper from his gift. Beneath it lay a set of books, their covers adorned with outrageously romantic and undeniably erotic imagery. He arched a brow, flipping one open. “What’s this?”
“Bodice-rippers,” Hermione replied smoothly, her smirk matching his. “One for every Christmas for at least the next decade.”
Draco flipped through the first volume, his ears turning a faint shade of pink as he caught glimpses of the steamy illustrations and florid descriptions within. His lips quirked into a faint smile, equal parts amusement and intrigue. “And what happens after the decade?”
“Then I’ll just have to buy you another decade’s worth,” Hermione said breezily, her tone teasing. “I have a brand-new book nook to fill, so I imagine it won’t be too much effort to shop for you while I’m at it.”
“Is that so?” Draco asked, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. His voice dropped slightly, his smirk softening into something more intimate as his fingers toyed with the fabric of her dress.
“Absolutely,” Hermione murmured, her voice dipping as she tilted her head toward him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Though if you’re good, I might even read them to you.”
Draco’s low laugh was warm and rough, the sound curling through the the space between them like the tender caress of a familiar lover.
His hand slid more firmly around her waist, pulling her against him, their bodies aligning naturally. “Careful, Granger,” he murmured, his voice a husky tease. “I might enjoy that too much.”
“Good,” she whispered, her lips hovering just shy of his, her breath mingling with his in the small, charged space between them. “Because I think I’d enjoy that a lot too.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and in the next heartbeat, he closed the gap, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that was nothing short of electric. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either — it was deliberate, heated, and filled with a promise that sent shivers down her spine. A promise she hoped would carry her through the new year, every year, for as long as it could be.
Hermione’s hands slid up, her fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck as she pressed closer, matching his intensity. Draco deepened the kiss, his free hand gliding along her side, fingertips brushing just enough to leave her skin tingling through the fabric of her dress.
Hermione groaned into his lips, her body arching instinctively toward him, craving more of the fire that ignited wherever his touch met her skin. For a fleeting, reckless moment, she wished they could ward the children out of the room — just a few more stolen minutes to lose herself in Draco’s hands and the heat of his mouth.
Draco caught the sound, swallowing it with a hunger that weakened her knees. His hand skimmed the curve of her hip, his thumb brushing over her in a way that sent sparks through her veins. But then he slowed, pulling back just enough to press his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling as they tried to steady themselves.
“Tomorrow,” Draco said, his sigh a promise as his thumb brushed over her knuckles.
“Tomorrow,” Hermione echoed, her nod slow, her gaze soft as it locked with his.
Tonight was for their two families, for the magic woven together by two determined children, an unexpected mission, and the lingering miracle of Christmas which had invaded all their lives.
They danced quietly in the living room, Draco twirling Rose in his arms as her laughter filled the space, light and pure. Hermione followed Scorpius’s careful lead, his small hands gripping hers with a mix of confidence and caution as if determined to get it just right.
They moved with unhurried steps, taking great care not to tread on the fort nearby, where it waited patiently for them to finally call it a night.
But none of them were ready to let go, not yet. And so they danced a little longer, their pyjama bottoms flaring with each turn, the quiet rhythm of their movements weaving something intangible yet deeply felt into the air around them.
Hermione caught Rose’s eye across the room. Her daughter’s head, resting lightly against Draco’s chest, tilted slightly, her gaze soft and sleepy as she met her mother's eyes. Hermione froze, wishing to capture the weight of that smile so she could hold onto it forever.
Rose’s smile widened as if she knew her mother was memorizing the scene before her.
Without a word, she nestled back against Draco, her small form relaxing completely in his arms. Hermione’s chest tightened, her heart swelling in a way she hadn’t anticipated, as the moment stretched around them — perfect, unspoken, and utterly theirs. She looked down at Scorpius, his head resting against her torso, and leaned down to kiss his head. He looked up at her and smiled so beautifully, it made it impossible for her not to give into the tears she'd been keeping at bay.
For her New Year’s resolution, Hermione decided she’d be late more often.
The first time she’d been late had brought her Rose. The second time she’d been late had brought her the Malfoys.
As she drifted to sleep in the blanket fort, cocooned by the warmth of their two families — now a perfectly imperfect blend of one — Hermione watched Scorpius and Rose holding hands between her and Draco, their breathing soft and steady as they drifted off. Hermione smiled faintly, her fingers brushing against Draco’s under the pile of blankets.
She wondered, just before sleep claimed her, what kind of miracle her third time being late might lead to.
Notes:
This wraps up Christmas Week in the year of 2010.
I have received so much love for TSM, and I understand you want more of these characters, but this story has, unfortunately, reached its finale with this chapter.
That being said, we have our two lovely epilogues to look forward to. The first will be the following Christmas. And the second will take place ten years from this very day, where we end TSM right now.
I have also created a series for TSM — with the plan being that we will get to see these lovely characters by way of one-shots I plan to write in the future. I can’t guarantee a timeline, but I am working on them as I write this note — and I have a few planned — one revolving around Astoria and Pansy, and their next summer vacation (lots of Rose and Scorp shenanigans, I promise). And another revolving around the kids when they finally go to Hogwarts.
I also plan to plan something revolving around Theo and George, and the fun they had at La Petite Volde-Mort 👀 — Hehehe.
If you wish to follow along there are a few ways - you can subscribe to me as an author, or you can subscribe to the series — if not, perhaps you’ll one day wonder what happened to these crazy kids, and come across the one-shots some other way. Any way is fine ♥️
I’ve got a tentative schedule for the epilogues jotted on the Summary — I hope to stick to it — but December is one of those months. Bear with me, and I promise to come back really soon to you with more of these crazy kids and a little more on Cormac, who I haven’t forgotten about, I promise. Not to mention — that prat Nick.
I will save all my emotions for the notes on the epilogues, but that being said, thank you so much for reading TSM, and all your love, kudos, recs and comments.
All my love to Cait and Mlekoimiodd for being the best team a girl could ask for. They are the reason this story is as joyous as it is.
Chapter 24: The Magic of Christmas Eve
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
One Year Later — 24th December, 2011.
Hermione had become accustomed to mornings with Draco, and the compromises they both made for moments such as this. Her fingers threaded through his feathery locks, her nails scraping gently against his scalp, drawing a growl from beneath the covers where Draco was now ensconced between her thighs, having decided it was time for her to wake up.
Compromise — she was learning, and loving to learn — was not always a terrible facet of relationships. Sometimes they brought forth a joy of their own. Or in their case, a kink she had not known she would enjoy as much as she did.
She preferred to sleep in until noon on her days off; Draco naturally awoke at the crack of dawn, no matter how late they stayed up. On those mornings, he’d go for a run and make a fresh pot of coffee. Sometimes, he would sit with one of his smutty books — of which Hermione ensured he never ran out — and the moment the clock struck nine, he’d crawl back into bed to wake her.
Sometimes, he’d kiss her, teasing the column of her neck and leaving faint blossoms upon her skin for her to find later. Other times, he’d slowly strip her as she hummed contentedly, still half-asleep, basking in the cool glide of his fingers across her skin, roused by the heat of his erection at her hip.
Then there were mornings — mornings like this one — when he’d coax her awake by teasing her mercilessly, his tongue skirting around her clit before swiping down once more, his hands firm but gentle as they commanded her legs to part for him effortlessly.
He moved with something so utterly Draco — equal parts teasing and taunting — his palms anchoring her thighs in place, thumbs brushing soothing circles against her skin while he worked her into a hazy, blissful state.
Draco’s name escaped her lips in a soft, breathless plea, and he chuckled low against her, the vibration sending another wave of heat rolling through her. His tongue slowed, deliberate now, as if savouring her climax, pulling forth a moan from her throat that she couldn’t hope to stifle.
“Good morning to you, too,” he murmured, his voice husky and edged with satisfaction as he crawled up her body, his face peeking out from below the sheets, a wicked smirk curling his lips.
“Mhmm,” Hermione replied, her voice low and teasing as she shifted him off her with ease. “It’s only a good morning when I can return the favour.”
Draco moaned as her thigh hooked over his waist, her knee brushing tantalizingly against his cock, where it strained against the soft fabric of his joggers. His breath hitched, and a growl rumbled from his chest.
“Fuck, Hermione,” he bit out as she slid down his body, her fingers deftly curling into his waistband, tugging just enough to tease him further. His hands instinctively gripped the sheets, his self-control fraying. “I wish I hadn’t let you sleep in now, but you’ll be late for your errands if you—”
She silenced him with a pointed look, her lips curling in a way that she knew made his head spin. In this moment, she hardly cared about errands, about the ticking clock, about anything beyond the way he shuddered beneath her touch.
“I’ll make it quick,” she murmured, though the wicked glint in her eyes suggested otherwise.
Draco let his head fall back against the pillow, a breathless laugh escaping him. “Liar,” he said, his voice raspy with anticipation.
Hermione smiled — a sly, knowing smile — and leaned down, letting her tongue tease up the length of his shaft, savouring the way his laughter gave way to a low groan.
This was her year to shine.
She had thought she’d outdone his Christmas presents from the previous year. Scheming with Rose and Scorpius to craft the perfect birthday surprise for Draco had been no small feat, and the pièce de résistance — a scrapbook full of photographs and mementos of their shared six months — had seemed unbeatable. Or so she’d thought.
Draco had unveiled his gift three months later: a charm, elegant in its simplicity, designed to keep her cool and him warm while they slept. Practical, thoughtful, and deeply personal, it was the kind of present that made her marvel at his ingenuity — and fume quietly at his ability to best her.
Hermione was not having it. She prided herself on being an excellent gift-giver, and she wasn’t about to let anyone dethrone her — least of all Draco Malfoy, the man she loved.
And this year, she wasn’t waiting for him to take the lead. Tonight, on Christmas Eve — and the anniversary of their first, well, almost everything — she was going to propose to him.
It wasn’t traditional, and she knew not everyone would be comfortable with her dropping to one knee in front of Draco — Lucius, for one, would be scandalised; Draco, most likely flustered — but for once within their relationship, she wanted to reach a milestone first.
He had loved her long before she’d even liked him. He had always expressed his feelings freely, openly, and with intent in every gesture, every thoughtful act, every quiet moment they’d shared over this past year. He had even gone out of his way to ensure she was never cornered into telling him she needed more time. He had loved her so thoroughly, so unreservedly, that Hermione had grown accustomed to living in a perpetual state of breathlessness.
And yet, for all of that, he had never told her just how much he loved her.
It wasn’t fear holding him back; she knew that much. He didn’t flinch when Narcissa shared wistful stories of the letters he had written home about Hermione during their school years. He hadn’t denied the tale of ripping down his Krum posters the summer after fourth year. Nor did he waver when Theo teased him or when Ginny made dry remarks about how thoroughly whipped he was, joking that he was beginning to resemble an “over-large House-elf.” (That quip had earned Ginevra Weasley a frosty two-month silent treatment from Hermione.)
No, Draco hadn’t said those words because he was waiting. Waiting for her to be ready.
And Hermione was ready. She had been for months, quietly planning a Christmas Day so memorable it would finally surpass the impromptu Not-Christmas Draco had orchestrated the year before.
Tonight, she would tell him she loved him. Tonight she would propose. Tonight, she would be the one to take his breath away.
“Gods, Hermione,” Draco groaned, his voice low and wrecked. His hands tangled gently in her curls, brushing aside the errant strands that had fallen into her eyes so he could watch, utterly transfixed, as his length disappeared between her lips.
Hermione hollowed her cheeks, her tongue teasing the prominent vein along his underside, and Draco let out a guttural sound that sent heat pooling in her own belly.
She couldn’t believe she’d once considered blowjobs an unfortunate task, a necessary evil to be endured rather than enjoyed. But so much of her relationship with Draco had been about discovery — learning not only what they liked but what they might like, both inside the bedroom and out.
That exploration, of course, had led to some rather illuminating moments. Hermione had quickly realised that while the idea of having sex in semi-public places thrilled her, the act of actually being caught (three times in the past year, no less) was more mortifying than exciting.
She still couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes without blushing furiously, not since the incident at Grimmauld Place on the night of her thirty-second birthday.
Draco shifted beneath her, his hips moving forward in a restrained thrust that brought the tip of his cock to the back of her throat for the briefest moment. He groaned, his hands tightening slightly in her hair, the tension in his body palpable as he tried to hold himself back.
Hermione smirked around him, pressing forward as she shifted her weight onto her knees, determined to drive him wild.
“Fuck, Hermione,” he rasped, his voice breaking as she took him deeper, her tongue flicking over him in a way that made his hips jerk involuntarily. “You’re going to kill me.”
She pulled back just enough to speak, her voice husky and teasing. “Not before tomorrow. I have plans.”
Draco let out a strangled laugh, his head tipping back against the pillow as he stared at the ceiling, his chest heaving. “If your plans involve any more of this, I’m not sure I’ll survive.”
Hermione hummed, a wicked gleam in her eye as she descended again, intent on ensuring he was absolutely, deliciously wrong.
She only wished to take his breath away — though she supposed she would likely kill him if he dared to die before she had the chance to do it properly.
* * *
“I’m only going to be out for half an hour,” Hermione called, rushing out of the bathroom, her damp curls bouncing around her face. “Ron gets back with the children around eleven, so if he shows up early for any reason, please make sure he takes the tea I bought for Lavender with him.”
Despite her meticulous planning, the jewellery store she’d chosen to resize her father’s wedding band had failed to deliver the ring on time, despite their promise to have it ready the day before. A whole lot of begging — and a strategically placed Confundus Charm — had convinced the manager to open the shop for exactly fifteen minutes at noon. It would take Hermione a trip back to London from the Cotswolds, but if she apparated instead of Flooing, she was certain she could stick to her schedule. Unfortunately, she’d also have to stop by the salon and get her hair done, because that was the only excuse she could think to give Draco.
She squatted in front of her suitcase, rifling through her packed sweaters, only to end up picking the one that had been right at the top of the stack. With an exasperated sigh, she shoved the rest back in.
“You know,” Draco began sourly, glaring at her suitcase as if it had personally offended him, “it would be so much easier if you and Rose just moved in here with Scorp and me.”
“And I told you we’re going to do this right,” Hermione hummed, grabbing a scarf and smoothing it out. “Besides, we’re here almost every weekend.”
“That’s only two days out of seven,” Draco pouted, his lips pulling into an exaggerated frown.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but before she could distract him — and she’d had a particularly effective method in mind involving the removal of her towel — the Floo in the living room flared, and she silently thanked every deity she could think of.
“Ah, fuck,” Hermione muttered under her breath, hastily fastening a bralette and tossing the rest of her clothes onto the bed. “They’d better not come straight in here.”
“I think everyone knows by now not to enter any room we’re in without knocking,” Draco mused, his smirk smug and entirely unapologetic. “Haven’t you noticed even Rose and Scorp wait a good few minutes.”
“That is mortifying, Draco,” Hermione shot him a glare, though her cheeks betrayed her with a flush of pink. He was still sprawled lazily across their bed, smirking like the cat that got the cream. “They’re nine — they shouldn’t have to do that!”
“Yes, well,” Draco replied with a casual shrug, entirely unbothered. “They probably also shouldn’t be conspiring for a brother or little sister.”
Hermione froze mid-step, her jaw dropping. “I knew it. That is what Bols is all about, isn’t it?”
“What clued you in?” Draco deadpanned, arching a brow.
“Rose asked me if you and I had been hugging every day,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes as a smirk tugged at her lips. “And if the summer months make more babies because people wear less clothing.”
“Well, that’s better than what I had to answer,” Draco grumbled, getting up.
Hermione turned to him, her curiosity piqued and her horror barely concealed. “What did Scorpius ask you?”
“At what age women stop menstruating,” Draco replied flatly.
“What?” Hermione gaped, her brows shooting up. “Where did he even learn that word?”
“I believe we can thank Muggle technology for that,” Draco said dryly.
“Will either of you come out now?” Ron’s voice bellowed from the other side of the door. “The walls are paper thin, just so you know.”
“Dad!” Rose’s indignant voice followed immediately. “I was listening to them!”
“Thank you, Mr Weasley, I didn’t need to hear any more,” Scorpius chimed in, sounding thoroughly unimpressed.
Hermione buried her face in her hands with a groan. “Why are we like this?”
Draco, meanwhile, had the audacity to laugh, leaning back against the bedpost as though the entire situation were some grand joke.
“Now get out there,” Hermione grumbled, tossing a pillow at him. “I need a minute to dress before they decide to bring the rest of the conversation in here.”
Draco caught the pillow effortlessly, but his face twisted into a scowl at the mere thought of Ron Weasley stepping foot into their bedroom. Without another word, he crossed the room in two long strides, slipping through the narrowest gap in the door he could manage, as if the very act of opening it wider would invite more unwelcome intrusion.
By the time Hermione emerged, dressed and braced for whatever awaited her, she found Draco leaning casually against the doorframe of the sitting room, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. Rose was perched on the arm of the sofa, clearly in the middle of relaying a particularly animated story, while Scorpius sat cross-legged on the rug, nodding along solemnly.
Ron, meanwhile, looked torn between amusement and discomfort, holding the box of tea Hermione had bought for Lavender as though it were a ticking time bomb.
“Good to see everyone behaving,” Hermione said dryly, stepping fully into the room.
Draco glanced over his shoulder, a smirk curling his lips. “Oh, it’s as civilised as only the British can be, love. Your ex-husband hasn’t even threatened me yet.”
“Yet,” Ron muttered under his breath, earning a sharp look from Hermione and an unapologetic grin from Draco.
Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I should have stayed in bed.”
“Too late for that now,” Draco said smugly, straightening to his full height and holding out his hand for her. “Welcome to the chaos, darling.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Ron said, running a hand through his hair. “Four days with these two, and I’m about ready to go home and lay down beside Lavender until the day I have to take her into St. Mungo’s.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Scorpius said, frowning. “We were actually on our best behaviour.”
“Only because Draco promised us matching broomsticks,” Rose said with a devilish smirk. “Scorpius wouldn’t let me do anything I wanted.”
“You wanted to test what foods made Lavy sick,” Scorpius retorted dryly.
“It was only an experiment,” Rose said, rolling her eyes. “I had anti-nausea pills on me.”
“Rose.” Hermione’s voice carried the familiar edge of a warning. “What would—”
“I only wanted to be proactive,” Rose said, scrunching her nose. “Trust me mum, I didn’t have the heart to do it after the third time I saw Lavy throw up just because dad was wearing cologne.”
“That is no excuse,” Hermione spluttered. “I hope you apologized to your dad and Lavy.”
“It’s fine,” Ron grumbled, waving a hand. “She didn’t need to run any experiments because everything makes Lavender sick these days. I even had to stop eating meat.”
Hermione snorted, unable to resist. “Been visiting Molly a lot, then, have you?”
Ron flushed, his ears going pink. “Only when the cravings get really bad,” he admitted sheepishly.
Draco smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Must be hard for you, Weasley. Sacrificing so much for love.”
Ron shot him a look, his expression caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “Don’t worry, Malfoy. I have a feeling you’ll be right where I am real soon.”
Hermione’s head whipped around, her glare landing squarely on Rose, who was carefully avoiding her mother’s eyes.
“Right, well,” Hermione said, clearing her throat in a tone that demanded attention. “That’s enough of that from you two.”
She glanced pointedly between Rose and Scorpius, though she wasn’t entirely sure if her words were meant for the children or the two men who had discovered they could coexist for roughly an hour, provided they communicated solely through scowls and half-hearted jabs.
“We’ve got everyone coming over for dinner tonight,” Hermione continued, straightening. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay, Ron? I made Roast.”
Ron hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced toward the door. “Thanks, Hermione, but I’d better not. Not to mention how awkward it would be when you got down—”
Hermione’s glare was instant and sharp. Leave it to Ron to almost blurt out the secret even the kids had managed to keep.
“—down to introducing me to everyone,” Ron corrected hastily, his face flushing red.
“Good call,” Hermione gritted out, her tone tight enough to cut glass. “I’m sure Lavender will appreciate you making it home in one piece.”
“Right, yeah,” Ron said quickly, backing toward the Floo with an awkward wave. “Good luck tonight. Don’t, uh… kill anyone.”
“No promises,” Hermione muttered under her breath as Ron stepped through the Floo, the green flames flaring before the room fell blessedly silent.
Draco, who had been observing the entire exchange with narrowed eyes, turned to Hermione for an explanation.
“Pregnancy brain,” Hermione said breezily, waving a hand as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Husbands get it all the time.”
* * *
Mipsy and Skippy had been granted access to the cottage — a fact Draco found both amusing and ironic, given that Hermione herself had yet to move in. The house-elves, however, operated under strict rules: they were only allowed to bake what they wished to bake, and both elves knew to send official invoices to Hermione — who had taken that onus on herself, because she knew they’d never actually send them to Draco.
Their presence, and Hermione’s limitations on their involvement, didn’t matter much to Draco.
He’d grown up learning to plan gatherings at his mother’s knee, and he had this evening mapped out with military precision. Invitations were staggered in fifteen-minute intervals, and first on the list were the Grangers, who were supposed to be making the drive up from London.
Of course, when he’d called to follow up that morning as Hermione had slept in — and to, once again, offer to send a car for them — Jean had had to inform Draco that Daniel would not be able to make it.
His bad days were getting progressively worse, and Draco knew that to be the main reason Hermione was reluctant to make the move to The Cotswolds, permanently. He knew it was only a few additional minutes in the grand scheme of things, but he did not begrudge Hermione the comfort of knowing she was only ever a few minutes away if her Mother needed her.
After Jean, his parents would arrive next. Draco had timed it deliberately, knowing better than to stagger them too far behind Jean, who they’d undoubtedly notice had been invited first. His mother’s sharp eye for social nuances wouldn’t miss a detail like that, and Draco had no desire to deal with any pointed remarks about it later.
Following them, the Parkinson-Malfoys, the Potters, and the Zabinis were scheduled to arrive in carefully planned intervals. Draco hadn’t bothered to send a specific time for Theo or George — experience had taught him that any attempt to impose structure on the two of them was a fool’s errand. They’d show up when they wanted, chaos often accompanying them, and would likely not leave until they had no choice not to.
For now, the plan was in place. He’d set the stage, and all that was left was to see if the evening would go according to his meticulous plan, for he had it all planned out.
He sat in his armchair by the fire, watching the warm, golden hue of the setting sun as it glowed and flickered, refracting off the Christmas tree in crystalline spheres that bounced around the room. His yearly bodice-ripper — an early Christmas present from Hermione — lay open across his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in a while. Instead he watched Scorpius moving deftly around the kitchen, taking great care not to disturb Mipsy and Skippy where they were clustered around the kitchen counter, applying their final embellishments to their creations: A Christmas Pudding and Mince Pies, respectively.
They had adorned the tree in advance this year — a necessity, considering the chaotic schedule of the children’s holiday schedule: first, Rose’s birthday at the Weasley townhouse in Chudley, followed by their return here for Christmas Eve tonight. Scorpius’ birthday would be celebrated at Malfoy Manor in true Malfoy fashion, and finally, Pansy and Astoria would whisk the children away to France for New Year’s Eve and an extended holiday before the start of the next school term.
Hermione had piled her hair high, errant wisps had escaped through her clip and turned frizzy with heat.
Draco leaned back in his chair, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched Scorpius peer over Hermione’s shoulder, listening closely to her murmur something, before she ushered him out of her way.
“There won’t be enough room,” Hermione huffed, straightening to set a steaming pot of roast down to cool before peeling off her oven mitts. “Scorp, is the cake ready to go in?”
“Mhhhm,” Scorpius mumbled, manoeuvring around her carefully with a pitcher of eggnog he was trying to cram into the fridge. “Mipsy and Skippy said they’ll put it in right before dinner is served so it’s warm when it comes out.”
“Okay, okay,” Hermione breathed, running a hand through her hair. “I think that’s it — that’s all the cooking done. And Mum’s bringing take-away with her since that’s now officially a Christmas tradition.”
“Yes,” Draco drawled from the doorway, his tone drier than the brandy in the pudding. “But storming out through the Floo is off-limits this year.”
He aimed a pointed look at Scorpius, whose face twisted into a grimace.
“I get my dramatics from you, you know,” Scorpius shot back, equally pointed. “Isn’t that why Miss Hermione punched you?”
Draco scowled, but the faint flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “I still can’t believe Potter told you that.”
“To be fair,” Hermione smirked, wiping her hands on a towel, “I’m surprised he held onto that nugget for six months before spilling it. But you know better than to bring that up, Scorp, Rose still hasn’t forgiven me for it.”
Draco chuckled, leaning against the counter with an infuriatingly smug grin. “She does love me the most, doesn’t she.”
“That’s fine, because Scorp definitely prefers me over you.” Hermione hummed. “Where is she?”
“Getting ready.” Scorpius groaned. “I liked it better when she didn’t care how she looked.”
“Excuse me, Mister-I-must-wear-my-best-bow-tie-tonight,” Draco drawled. “I had to go back to Wiltshire just to get it.”
Scorpius shrugged. “It’s not like I made you run to Wiltshire,” he said cheekily before disappearing into his bedroom.
“The rooms,” Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples. “Draco, how are we going to fit everyone if they want to stay the night?”
Draco moved around the kitchen counter, pulling her into his chest with practiced ease. His arms wrapped around her, and he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, where her curls were braided and pinned.
“It’s our home, Granger,” he murmured against her hair, his voice a warm rumble. “No one who isn’t invited to stay over will stay over. Your mum can take our bedroom, the kids can set up their fort, and Red—” he spat the name as if she had just now offended him, “—can take the children’s bedroom. But only because she’s having her thirtieth spawn and shouldn’t be Flooing at all, but does she listen?”
Hermione chuckled, leaning into his warmth. “Mhmm, so not because—”
“I will not dignify those odious lies with a response,” Draco grumbled, inhaling the sweet scent of cinnamon and vanilla radiating from her.
“—she’s your favourite cousin,” Hermione teased, unable to resist.
“Exactly.”
Hermione tilted her head back to peer up at him, her curiosity piqued. “Who is your favourite cousin?”
“Teddy,” Draco said immediately, far too fast to be convincing.
Hermione huffed a laugh. “Teddy hardly comes home from Hogwarts, and when he does, Andromeda soaks up all his time. You’ve what? Met him twice?”
“Exactly,” Draco smirked. “The kid at least doesn’t bombard me with stories about Potter’s sex life.”
Hermione snorted. “Yes, but as two people who’ve demonstrated their own sex life to Harry, we are fortunate that Gin only talks about it.”
Draco groaned, burying his face in her shoulder. “Why do you think I put them in the kids’ bedroom? Let Potter try to defile our home with a six-month pregnant woman on a single bed.”
“Draco!” Hermione let out a scandalised laugh, swatting him on the chest. “Don’t think I don’t know you’ve grown fond of Harry.”
“Oh darling,” he said, his tone dripping with mock sincerity as he pulled her into his arms.
In one fluid motion, he had lifted her and settled her on the kitchen counter — ignoring the exasperated huff that signalled the elves were nearby, disillusioned and most displeased with him.
“Every bookworm knows,” Draco said in a seductively low timbre, “there’s only one enemies-to-lovers trope in every story.”
Before Hermione could retort — not that she had one — the doorbell rang, echoing through the cottage.
With a shake of her head and a soft laugh, Hermione uncurled her fingers from where they had pressed into his shoulders. She hopped off the counter, her feet hitting the floor just as Draco turned on his heel and made his way to the front door — the door hardly anyone used since he’d Runed an Apparition point into the back garden.
Draco pulled open the door with his signature elegance, a warm smile gracing his face. “Merry Christmas, Jean,” he said smoothly. “May I take your coat?”
* * *
“So technically, you, too, were a stowaway, albeit of a different kind,” Jean exclaimed, her eyes alight with curiosity as Draco moved forward to refill her glass of wine. “Carefully hidden away, until needed.”
“Guilty,” Astoria laughed lightly. “Though, like most magical things, I was where I needed to be until my time came.”
“Fascinating,” Jean marvelled, scooching back on the sofa to allow for Draco to move across the small living room. Beside her Blaise smirked at Draco’s hospitality, earning him a glare from Draco who skipped him entirely, pouring Luna a respectable measure, before filling it to the brim in order to avoid pouring Potter his next round.
Some things died hard — and unfortunately for their rivalry, Draco’s action only earned him a bark of laughter from the man, who conjured a new bottle and de-corked it with an effortless wave of his hand.
Meanwhile, the children — the actual children — had relocated their elaborate fort to the hallway with the help of the house-elves, transforming it into a winding tunnel of blankets and chairs. They disappeared into it for long stretches of time, reappearing only when they needed more snacks.
Rose, naturally, emerged most frequently, flitting between two worlds effortlessly and causing mischief wherever she could. Yet, with Lucius Malfoy present, not even Hermione dared reprimand her daughter.
“Why are you couch-moping?” Rose asked innocently, plopping into the seat Draco had abandoned to carry out his hosting duties.
“I am certainly not couch-moping,” Lucius huffed, his tone dripping with indignation. “I am merely attempting to eat the way children apparently do these days.” He glared at the plate balanced precariously on his lap, as though the chicken curry Draco had meticulously plated for him might leap off and stain his pristine ivory robes.
“We only have a table for four,” Draco interjected smoothly as he re-entered the room, a fresh glass of wine in hand. “Not even my best Transfiguration charms could extend it to seat the entire party.”
“Oh hush, Lucy,” Narcissa said with a serene smile, cutting through Draco’s complaint with ease. “I’ve seen you eat off worse things.”
The room fell into a momentary silence, Narcissa’s remark earning her a series of blank stares. With a dramatic flick of her hand, she sent a playful gust of wind through the air, tousling everyone’s hair as if to knock some sense into them.
“We once had a certain guest who let his pets roam freely across the dining table,” Narcissa said, her tone prim but her words barbed with humour. “I’d Scourgify all your brains if we weren’t in polite company.” Her sharp gaze swept the room before softening as it landed on Jean. “Doctor Granger, please excuse this side of the lot. I did my best with them, but alas, I was only ever one witch tending to a brood of baby serpents.”
Jean, naturally, understood very little of the specifics, but the snort from Pansy across the room clued her in that Narcissa’s remark was meant jovially.
“Perhaps we can move to the dining table,” Jean suggested kindly, her gentle tone cutting through the moment with grace. “It might give the children some room to loosen up.”
“But we were couch-moping, Lucy,” Rose pouted, folding her arms in dramatic defiance. “You promised me a couch mope last time we met.”
“I’ll trade you a couch mope for a couch rot,” Lucius bargained, his eyes twinkling as he leaned back in his chair. “If you and Scorp would just convince your parents to move to the Manor once Miss Granger—”
“Skippy!” Hermione yelped, her voice an octave higher than usual, cutting him off abruptly.
The house-elf appeared in an instant, looking just as puzzled as the rest of the party, who had never known Hermione to summon a house-elf for anything.
“Will you please help Lucius to the dining table,” Narcissa said coolly, her tone all razor-sharp politeness as she sent daggers at her husband with her eyes. “It seems he’s had too much to drink.”
Lucius grumbled under his breath, though whatever he’d been about to say remained swallowed, locked behind a tight frown.
Skippy gave a small bow before shuffling over to assist, his tiny hands hovering near Lucius’s arm as though unsure whether touching the elder Malfoy might get him hexed.
“Don’t bother,” Lucius muttered, rising to his feet with far more dignity than expected for someone allegedly too drunk to move. “I’ll manage perfectly well, thank you.”
Narcissa gave him a pointed look but said nothing further as Lucius allowed himself to be escorted with a grumbling air of reluctant compliance.
“Thank you, Skippy,” Hermione said, her tone far too bright.
Draco rolled his eyes. Only one more hour — he hoped Hermione didn’t give herself a hernia in the meanwhile.
* * *
“You’re fine, everything is fine — he doesn’t suspect a thing.”
Pansy had been the first to claim Hermione’s — well, technically Draco’s — bedroom as her own for the evening. She’d Apparated in, bypassing the blanket fort with zero regard for the chaos it caused, Ginny had followed close behind, huffing as she waddled through the cleared path she had ordered from James, one hand braced against her pregnant belly. Her glare at Pansy was sharp enough to cut glass, a silent reprimand for stealing what Ginny clearly considered her place for the night.
It hadn’t taken long after that for the rest of the women in the house — including Rose — to drift into the bedroom, drawn by a mix of curiosity and the universal appeal of conspiratorial whispers. The energy in the room shifted almost immediately, buzzing with a mixture of excitement and nerves.
“Don’t let her fool you,” Ginny muttered, sinking onto the edge of the bed and leveling Pansy with a pointed look. “She’ll say everything’s fine right up until she burns the house down.”
“Please,” Pansy scoffed, entirely unbothered. “I’d never let things get that far. Maybe a minor explosion. Adds drama.”
Hermione groaned, pressing her palms against her flushed cheeks as the other women laughed. “This isn’t helping.”
“Don’t listen to Pans,” Astoria chimed in, nodding for Narcissa to cast a Muffliato charm behind her. “For someone who fancies herself Medusa incarnate, her proposal was a lot like, ‘So, wanna get hitched now that we can?’”
“Hey, it was spontaneous,” Pansy defended herself, flopping down onto the bed beside Ginny, who was busy stifling a laugh.
“I knew when Blaise was going to propose,” Luna said dreamily, her soft voice somehow cutting through the commotion. “I told him it was lucky to propose in a field of Flutterby Bushes on the summer solstice. They say if you’re soul-mates, the flowers will be in bloom.”
“And that’s what he did?” Narcissa asked, pursing her lips like she was evaluating Blaise’s worth all over again. “That boy thinks he’s so suave. He could have at least cast an Obscuro.”
“What’s that?” Jean asked, settling herself beside Narcissa on the bed — the very spot where Hermione had knelt that morning while she’d... Merlin. Would it be too obvious if she cast a silent Scourgify? She hadn’t expected the entire party to invade the bedroom.
“Won’t they all be suspicious that you’ve followed me in here?” Hermione cried, waving her hands in exasperation. “Women don’t just up and vanish randomly in the middle of a gathering!”
“It’s okay, Mum,” Rose interjected, moving to hold Hermione’s hand with the practiced poise of someone who knew they were about to drop a bombshell. “I told Draco I’d begun menstruating and we’d planned a witchy ritual together.”
Hermione slapped a hand over her face, mortified.
“You’re going to ruin your hair,” Astoria scolded, stepping forward to grab Hermione by the shoulders and steered her toward the small vanity overlooking the back window. “Relax. Draco doesn’t suspect a thing. If anything, he’s too busy having a pissing contest with Harry.”
“They do love to rile each other up,” Ginny groaned, resting a hand on her belly. “This, right here,” she said, pointing to her bump, “is thanks to walking in on you at your—”
“Ginevra!” Narcissa snapped, swatting at Ginny’s ankles. “There is a child present.”
“Not to mention the mother,” Jean added weakly, her cheeks pink. “Two of us, actually.”
“How did it happen, Aunt Gin?” Rose asked, her curiosity clearly piqued. “Will you tell me? I need to know for a top-secret—”
“We all know about Bols, Rose,” Pansy interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you worry, it’ll happen — with the way these two—”
“Children!” Narcissa snapped, shooting a glare at Pansy that could freeze a fire.
“Yes, Narcissa,” Pansy drawled, grinning wickedly. “That’s exactly what we’re discussing.”
Hermione groaned again, burying her face in her hands. “This is a disaster.”
“No,” Astoria said, gently tugging Hermione’s hands away and meeting her eyes in the mirror. “It’s going to be perfect. You’ve got this. Now sit still so I can make sure your hair doesn’t look like you’ve just spent twenty minutes flailing around like a banshee.”
“Banshees don’t flail, Aunty Ria,” Rose said, rolling her eyes in exaggerated exasperation. “Mum looks like a Kneazle crawled into her hair. Oh! Does this mean we can finally get one now that she’s proposing?”
“Go on, Hermione,” Luna said softly, catching Rose around the waist and pulling her into her lap before she could cause more mischief. “Go make sure it’s all perfect — only ten more minutes to go.”
Hermione took a deep breath, smoothing her hair one last time as she glanced at the clock. Ten minutes.
It was happening.
* * *
Theo and George had taken charge of setting up the actual proposal. Hermione had asked them to help her pull it off, and neither had minded skipping dinner for the task. In fact, they’d jumped at the chance with alarming enthusiasm.
The plan had been simple — cast strong Disillusionment and Obscuro charms over the windows overlooking the backyard, then fill the space with Hermione’s signature bluebell flames to create an enchanting, glowing atmosphere. Theo had nodded along earnestly as Hermione explained, while George had scribbled notes that she was certain were mostly doodles.
What Hermione hadn’t accounted for was that the rest of her instructions were viewed as “optional.”
By the time the backyard was ready, it was a spectacle. Yes, the flames were there, flickering in soft hues of green and gold — but so were floating fairy lights, enchanted snow that shimmered rather than melted, and a massive garland of enchanted mistletoe arching over the center of the space.
“This way you’ll kiss,” Theo had said with a shrug when Hermione had glared at him.
“She’s proposing, my love,” George had added, his grin far too cheeky. “I think kissing was a given.”
Hermione had buried her face in her hands. “I asked for flames. Just flames.”
“And you got flames,” Theo pointed out, gesturing to the softly glowing fire that danced in the snow-dusted flower beds.
“Yeah,” George added, clearly enjoying himself, “but this way, it’s got panache.”
Hermione groaned but couldn’t deny the scene looked magical. Now all she had to do was get Draco outside without suspecting a thing.
* * *
Draco was firmly planted on the sofa, his arms crossed and his expression halfway between amusement and contentment. The seats Pansy and Luna had occupied moments ago were now conspicuously empty, a fact that seemed to have not gone unnoticed, even if everyone pretended otherwise.
It made Draco want to smirk, instead he turned his head in both directions, addressing the children that had boxed him in.
Draco arched his brow. “And where, pray tell, have the women gone off too?”
“Witch stuff,” Rose said vaguely, her tone laced with mischief as she plopped onto the cushion beside him.
“Big witchy ritual,” Scorpius added, nodding sagely as he took the other seat.
Draco glanced between them, a hint of a smile beginning to form on his lips. “Witchy ritual?”
Rose nodded, her grin only widening. “Yup. Very secret, very magical. You don’t want to know, Draco. I don’t even want to know.”
He assumed it had everything to do with the bogus menstruation claim Rose had lobbed at him earlier — the one that had resulted in Lucius choking on a chicken bone at her loud proclamation and Potter stepping in to perform the Heimlich.
The memory of his father’s affronted glare, paired with Potter’s excessive enthusiasm, was something Draco would savor at a later date.
“Mind if we step out for a breather?” Potter asked casually. “It’s hot in here.”
Draco rolled his eyes, even as his heart fluttered.
“Yes, let’s,” he drawled, smoothing the creases in his trousers with deliberate care. He followed behind Potter and Blaise, who’d been quick to stand, conjuring a sobering potion he downed in ten seconds flat before striding forward to obscure Draco’s view.
Draco’s lips twitched at the corners, though he said nothing, his sharp gaze sweeping the room one last time.
Just before stepping out into the gardens, Draco paused, his hands extending on each side. Rose and Scorpius darted over, each taking hold of one hand without hesitation.
“Come along, you two,” he said lightly, clearing his throat as quietly as he could. “Let’s give mum the night she’s been planning for three months, now.”
He couldn’t have orchestrated it better himself, Draco was certain.
Everything had been planned meticulously, every detail flawless — except for the one hiccup: the jeweller’s apology message that had come through on her cellphone. Draco had seen it completely by accident while trying to book out an entire ice-skating rink for their Christmas Eve-Anniversary.
It had been such a simple decision in the end — sacrificing his grand gesture for hers. Her desire to one-up him on a Christmas gift in exchange for the night he had planned to tell this witch — he was bewitched, mind, body and whatever remnants of a soul he’d had, and whatever more she’d brought back to life over this past year.
And so, for their second Christmas together, Draco Malfoy gave Hermione Granger the gift of surprise, pretending he had not registered her planning, day by day, for three months and counting. He pretended he hadn’t noticed the furtive glances he’d received and the hurried phone calls she’d take to the other room.
He pretended he was surprised when really he was in awe of the witch who stood before him.
Because if there was one thing Draco had learned in loving Hermione, it was that the best gifts were the ones that let her shine.
And tonight, she was dazzling.
She stood just ahead of him, in the very spot where he had once confessed his admiration, his fascination, his respect and love for her. Dressed in a simple gold sheath dress that shimmered faintly in the glow of the bluebell flames, Hermione looked radiant — effortless and achingly beautiful. Her hair had already been let down, cascading in soft waves around her shoulders as if she had known it would be the first thing he did as her fiancé.
Draco paused for a moment, his heart catching as he took her in. She was entirely herself, yet somehow more: his Hermione, the woman who had brought him to his knees without even trying.
“We’ll take these two,” Narcissa said smoothly, stepping forward on one side just as Jean moved on the other, each reaching for a child’s hand.
Rose and Scorpius gave him quick, cheeky grins before letting themselves be led away, leaving Draco alone to face the moment that had been hovering over him all night.
He walked forward in a daze, the world narrowing to just Hermione, the soft glow of the flames dancing around her, the snow falling silently at the edges of the garden. He had known — of course he had known — that she’d be waiting for him. He’d known all night, every carefully orchestrated moment had been leading to this. And yet, the moment had robbed him of breath.
Hermione looked up at him, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes despite the smile that graced her lips. Her gold dress caught the light, shimmering like something out of a dream, and Draco felt warmth rise in his chest that he could only describe as reverence.
“Draco.” She smiled, her voice trembling as tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill.
“Hermione.” He exhaled softly, his voice catching as he took another step closer, the weight of the moment settling between them.
“Shhh,” she rasped, lifting a hand as though to quiet him. “I’m trying to do a Draco Malfoy type of thing, here.”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound that melted the tension in the air.
“Draco, my love,” she began again, her words breaking as a sob slipped through. She paused, covering her mouth with one hand as she blinked back tears, then let out a shaky laugh. “Merlin, this isn’t going the way I practiced.”
“You practiced?” Draco smirked.
“Of course, I practiced,” she shot back, her voice trembling but still filled with that familiar Hermione Granger conviction as she wiped at her eyes with her free hand. “Now, shhhh.”
For a moment, it was as if they were back in the library at Hogwarts, Hermione commanding her territory with the grace of a queen; and the vehemence of a king, a force that simply could not be denied, no matter how hard he tried.
“Draco Malfoy,” she began again, her voice steadying, though her tears continued to shimmer in the flickering light. “I’ve never known a love like yours — never thought it existed beyond the black-and-white pages of a fanciful novel. Of a bodice-ripper meant to enchant and please, but never truly fulfil.”
She paused, her chest rising and falling with the effort to keep her emotions in check. “To have loved and been loved by you has been a magic all its own, and I wish to never again go without expressing…” Her voice caught, the words sticking in her throat as tears blurred her vision once more.
Before she could blink them away, Scorpius darted forward, a neatly folded handkerchief in hand — thank Merlin, the boy had finally graduated from wiping his nose on his sleeves. He offered it with a solemnity beyond his years, standing just long enough for Hermione to take it before running back to Pansy, who opened her arms and drew him into her side.
Hermione dabbed at her eyes with a soft laugh, glancing toward Scorpius before returning her gaze to Draco. Around them, the semi-circle of their closest family and friends stood silently, their smiles warm with unspoken blessings.
“Expressing,” she began again, her voice gaining strength, “just how much I love you.”
As she moved to kneel, Draco stepped forward, his hands grasping her shoulders before she could reach the ground. Without hesitation, he lowered himself alongside her, his presence steady, unyielding. He would give her this proposal, but kneeling in front of him? That, he couldn’t allow (at least outside the confines of their bedroom).
“Will you—”
“Yes.”
“Will you—”
“Yes.”
“Will you fucking let me say it?” Hermione huffed, exasperated.
Draco laughed, his warm, rich chuckle echoing through the garden as he pulled her into his chest.
“Ask me now,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her temple.
“Will you marry me—”
“Yes,” he interrupted once more, his voice full of love and certainty.
Her sigh was half a laugh, half a sob, as she tightened her grip around him. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are,” he teased, leaning back just enough to meet her gaze, his own shimmering with emotion. “It’s almost as if you couldn’t let a challenge go.”
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Draco silenced her with a kiss — soft, tender, and achingly slow. His hand cupped her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly against her skin as he held her there, grounding her in the moment.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she melted into him, her hands curling into the fabric of his shirt as though anchoring herself to him. The world around them faded; the laughter, the cheers, even the crisp bite of the evening air dissolved into nothingness.
He didn’t think she could ever fathom all that she meant to him, and all that she had meant to him, when he had been no one to her. Her long tresses danced in the charmed wind of their garden — reminding him of the days when he’d considered a glimpse from behind the most a boy like him could ever deign to ask for. Somehow, somewhere he’d done one good deed — for his friends — and it had started them on the path that had led him right here, right now — holding a woman who was too good to be his, yet choosing to be anyway.
He pulled back, just slightly, their foreheads pressed together, as he tried to retain some sense of composure. It was strange how, even when he had already known of her plans, she had still managed to floor him. Her eyes opened to find his, warm and steady and full of love, and in that moment he understood how it was that a person could breathe life into you, and yet still be capable of snatching it away.
“I love you, Hermione Granger,” Draco gasped, mesmerised by the smile he brought forth on her beautiful face, of being able to make her smile in such an enrapturing manner. “I’ve been in love with you for years now.” He at last said, expelling the last of his sins, before breathing anew.
Notes:
Oh my god. One more left to go! 😭 Thank you to everyone who’s stuck with me until the end.
I am a sucker for a good proposal, and the reason I went with Hermione taking the lead was simply because much of TSM - the story - conveyed Draco's love and admiration for her. He'd had years of knowing he cared for her, and Hermione was only just getting to know him, so we never got to see the moment when she realised she too loved him.
That being said, our girl Hermione has always been the competitive kind, and though initially all I had down for this chapter was "Sona write a proposal," when I got here, Hermione was adamant it had to be her, not Draco, who did it. You might hate it, it's definitely not conventional, but in my head - Hermione was always going to want to catch up to her greatest rival, arch-nemesis and ultimately her lover, and I am all for the *let's spoil Draco with love for a change agenda*.
I hope you liked the epilogue, and I'll see you sunday for more on the kids and where they ended up. Happy Thursday, and I hope your holiday preps are thriving ♥️
Please do send good vibes for Cait and Mlekoimiodd - They deserve so much love for the energy they bring to this story ❤️
Chapter 25: The Granger-Malfoy Apothecary & Match-Making Shoppe
Notes:
Content Warning
Minor mention of pregnancy, not graphic, not relevant to the overall epilogue.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Nine Years Later — 1st January, 2020.
Diagon Alley was eerily quiet for a Wednesday morning. The air hung heavy with a cold mist that softened the sharp edges of the cobbled streets — stillness broken only by the faint hum of distant magic as homes flickered to life silently.
Hermione wasn’t surprised to find the usually bustling street deserted. Most of the Wizarding world, like their Muggle counterparts, were likely home, nursing throbbing heads and sore feet after ringing in the New Year — and a new decade. The first day of the year was not meant for early risers, and certainly not for the chaos of new beginnings. Those were reserved solidly for the second day, when most people would finally act upon their resolutions — maybe.
Her own feet ached, though not from celebration.
The weight she carried on her hip, combined with the ever-expanding curve of her belly, was enough to make her wince with every step. Her New Year’s resolution, this year, was to never again allow Draco to sweet-talk her into wanting another child. Thrice was enough, and their (soon-to-be) family of six — plus all the miscellaneous extensions — more than plenty.
She was certainly not going to be adding any more after Sirius.
Her boots clicked sharply on the stones as she walked as briskly as she could manage. A stray curl stuck to her damp cheek, and her hands — both occupied — were of no use in brushing it away. She ignored the tickle and pressed on, passing the darkened windows of Gambol and Japes before turning a small corner and sighing. Finally, the storefront was in view.
It wasn’t much — just a crooked, two-story building that leaned ever so slightly to the right, as if too bowing to the passage of time. The lone window on the ground floor was streaked with faint condensation, and behind it sat a simple, hand-painted sign: The Granger-Malfoy Apothecary & Match-Making Shoppe - Grand Opening, January 2020.
She stopped in front of it, shifting the weight of her sleeping child as she took it in. The painted letters weren’t perfectly even, and the shop name was far, far too long (in her, otherwise ignored, opinion) — but it carried the weight of what Ron had finally relinquished the year before.
For a very long time they had been the Granger-Malfoys — her, Draco and Scorpius — and Rose had carried the Weasley-Malfoy name all alone on her (less tiny) shoulders.
She knew the distinction had not bothered her daughter, not when she now had the family she wanted. But when Hermione had become pregnant four years ago, it had dawned on Rose that the baby, too, would have a name she did not have — and then it had been a matter of plucking up the courage to ask a question she knew would inevitably hurt her father.
Rose had delayed it for a very long time, until finally, the previous year, when Scorpius and she had sat down to finalise what their future would look like after their years at Hogwarts ended, the idea for this shop had been borne — and the name had become a pressing concern once more.
To Rose’s surprise, Ron had agreed with only mild annoyance, and with a request of his own — that she, like Scorpius had done with Parkinson, would allow Weasley to remain as her middle name.
Ever the strategist, her ex-husband.
Rose had wholeheartedly agreed, and Draco had only grumbled something about no man ever being good enough for Rose, and so the possibility of her requiring any more surnames at any point in her life was moot.
She would be a Granger-Malfoy, forevermore, and that was that for him. Lucius had very enthusiastically agreed, and the women had all rolled their eyes and allowed Rose her small victory in peace.
As Hermione studied the name now, she thought the victory had been much deserved, and she was quite excited to watch just how their little store took the Wizarding World by storm.
It was a rather clever little set-up when you took into consideration Scorpius’s acumen for Potions and Rose’s interest in Law, although secondary to her interest in overall meddling. The shop would serve partially as a service where witches and wizards could meet other single eligibles, and the other half of the apothecary specialised in potions that enhanced intimacy.
It was a complete and total disgrace to Wizarding society that love potions were still marketed openly, despite Hermione’s many appeals to the Wizengamot — even Lucius agreed when she ranted about it, and Hermione and he never quite saw eye to eye on how far into the modern world the Wizarding World had yet to travel. Consent was really just a bare minimum, and still overlooked.
In response to it, Scorpius had decided to dedicate his N.E.W.T.s practicals to concocting a safer inhibition potion that could, if applied well, slowly eradicate the need for the more repulsive needs within society. With Blaise’s help, he had managed to get a license to experiment and sell, so long as a Potions Master was willing to sign off. Which had, of course, then led to a variety of new recipes that ranged from lowering nerves to affecting someone’s ability to think fast and Hermione’s favourite of them all, the Banter Began-er.
The reckless consequences of imbibing too much of that one, and ending up in The Grand Library of Malfoy Manor, now sat heavy in her belly, right over her bladder.
“We’re here,” Hermione sighed, more to herself than to the sleeping child who had started stirring in her arms at her lack of movement. With a final glance at the display, she stepped forward and passed through the wards Draco had set up the previous week, when the children had moved into the flat above the shop — and found herself face-to-face with her father-in-law.
“Salazar, did you walk all the way here like this from the Leaky?” Lucius frowned as he moved forward, deftly taking her daughter from her arms. The disapproval within his wrinkled eyes was practically palpable, and wisps of smooth, glossy hair escaped from his bun with the force of his exasperated head shake. “I will never understand your ways, Hermione.”
Hermione chose to ignore it.
“No need for theatrics, Lucy,” she replied, brushing past him with a slight roll of her eyes. “We stopped by Theo and George’s to deliver some hangover potions. She fell asleep there. It wasn’t too bad — just seven hundred metres or so. What are you doing here?”
Lucius grimaced, as though the question were beneath him.
“Draco mentioned something about needing extra wands to get the store ready by Monday over our morning run. But I’ve been here for twenty minutes now, and I don’t see any work happening.” The corners of his mouth tugged downward, as if the entire situation had been a cleverly disguised ruse to extract his help and then entirely abandon him.
Hermione chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Draco and Ron had to sort out an issue with the ingredient deliveries. They were supposed to arrive the week before Christmas, but the whole thing’s been delayed due to that virus in the Muggle world.”
Lucius’s gaze flicked toward the trapdoor leading to the flat above, his expression morphing into one of suspicion. “And the children?”
“They’re most likely hungover, Lucy. Freshly eighteen, and on their own. I imagine their night has ended with a pounding headache,” Hermione sighed. “Let’s begin. I’m sure they’ll be down any moment now.”
Lucius looked horrified, his pale features blanching as his eyes snapped back to her. “You are certainly not planning on working in your condition!”
“I’m not so much pregnant as I am bloated,” Hermione said dryly, arching an eyebrow at him as she set her bag down. “Shall we?” she asked in her most polite tone to cushion her dismissal of his anxiety, pointing at the boxes that required unpacking.
“Only because I am a good sport,” Lucius muttered, levitating an empty box he then Transfigured into a bed for the child he was cradling to his chest.
Hermione bit back a smile, knowing it was so much more than that. Having Lucius Malfoy be fond of her children — children that didn’t even have to be Draco’s — had not been on her bingo card when she’d first met him on this very street. But she knew her life would be bereft if it wasn’t so.
By the time Hermione had tackled the first box, Lucius had organised the shelf behind the counter into a neat display, sorted by prominence of use and then alphabetically — his meticulousness bordering on obsessive. The room was quiet but for the occasional clink of empty jars, now labelled and sitting ready to be filled and the rustle of packaging, until the trapdoor creaked open and Scorpius peered down, his face unusually serious.
“Mum, Grand-père?” he asked hesitantly, his gaze darting around the shop. “Where’s Bols?”
“Sleeping,” Hermione replied, brushing her hands down her dungarees and giving her son a sharp look. “And you know that’s not her name.” She punctuated the scolding with a playful cooling charm that floated out to dishevel his — albeit already much dishevelled — hair. “Honestly, Scorpius, you all need to stop with that. Her teacher called her Bols the other day. I wanted to die.”
“Sorry, Mum.” Scorpius grinned sheepishly, flattening his hair back down. “It’s hard — she’s been Bols since day one. Can’t help it now.”
“Ridiculous name,” Lucius muttered under his breath from where he was lining up a row of neatly labelled jars. His sharp gaze flicked to Scorpius. “Where the hell is your sister?”
“Er, sleeping,” Scorpius said quickly.
Hermione frowned, glancing at her wristwatch. “How hungover is she?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “I should probably… I have an extra potion in my bag.”
“No!” Scorpius’s voice came out louder than intended, his cheeks flushing the same pale pink Hermione recognised from Draco whenever he was flustered. “Er, no. Not hungover. Just sleeping. She’s got her, um, monthly, I think.”
Lucius gagged and moved away, for some reason Hermione would never quite understand.
Hermione’s frown deepened, but Scorpius avoided her gaze, turning his attention to inspect his grandfather’s painstakingly organised displays.
“Right, well,” Hermione said cautiously, her tone sceptical. “Perhaps I’ll come up and see if a warming charm on her back might help—”
“No, it’s fine!” Scorpius cut in hastily, moving to climb down the ladder. His long legs made the journey look easier than Hermione knew it to be, and when he finally turned to look at her, he was once more wearing the cool stoicism of his youth — though not as well as he’d carried it when she’d first met him. “I already did… er, that. Let her sleep in. She’s going to be the main brains of this operation starting next week. I think it’s best if we just… handle things for her today.”
Hermione didn’t buy it for a second, yet she still allowed Scorpius to steer her away from the trapdoor and back toward the boxes waiting to be unpacked.
She’d get to the bottom of it before the day was out, but for now, she bit back her frustration at her children’s increasingly odd antics and began to set up the other half of the shop. Still, her eyes never wandered too far from the trapdoor that separated Rose from them, and Hermione from the truth.
* * *
It was no surprise to Hermione that when they finally arrived, the two walked in bickering like an old married couple. Draco entered first, shaking off the light snow that had begun to gather on his silvery locks, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes deepening slightly as he scowled. Ron followed on his heels, his light smattering of greying hair a little more prominent to the eye than Draco’s.
“I had it handled; now he’s expecting an extra charge for a delivery that should have arrived two weeks ago,” Ron grumbled.
“And I told you money was not going to be the reason for a delay. Weasley, I know you have money — spend some of it, would you?” Draco shot back, his tone clipped as he removed his gloves.
Hermione had long ago accepted it would take an act of God to get Draco and Ron to go from their odd cordiality to friendliness, and though Rose was woman, she certainly was not yet God — no matter how often or how loudly she listened to that American song and pretended she was perfectly capable of doing anything she put her mind to.
There were some things even Rose was simply incapable of — such as getting Draco and Ron to have a relationship that was not entirely composed of faint insults and barbed rebuttals.
Even the flat had only been furnished on time because Hermione had taken it under her hands, ensuring whatever Scorpius and Rose would need had been bought, organised and tucked away — with great help from Scorpius.
“Still sleeping?” Draco asked, striding forward and pressing a kiss to the top of Hermione’s head.
“Rose is,” Hermione replied, her tone clipped. “Scorpius and Lucius are in the back, bringing more boxes forward.”
“It’s almost noon,” Ron said, grimacing as he moved around them to deposit what Hermione assumed was a delivery notice and a tracking rune onto the shop counter.
“And I’m sure you remember what it feels like to be freshly eighteen and have the world at your feet,” Hermione said, swallowing against the dull ache in her belly. “Sleeping late is practically a rite of passage after school ends.”
“Yeah, but noon’s pushing it, ‘Mione.” Ron rolled his eyes as Hermione flicked her wand. A rug from the Manor’s cellars began to unfurl itself, shaking off dust with a satisfying whoosh.
“Daddy!” a small voice called out, startling the adults. Hermione looked around, but her younger daughter was nowhere in sight.
“Bols!” Draco said, looking around the boxes in confusion.
“Up here, Daddy,” the voice giggled.
Hermione spotted her blonde curls just before Draco did.
Aster had stretched herself out on the floor of the flat above, peering down through the trapdoor with a mischievous grin.
“I is in Rose and Scorp’s house,” she declared proudly, her small face glowing with delight. “I snuck in like a good suhprent.”
“Bols, how’d you—” Draco began, only to be cut off by Hermione’s sharp hiss.
“That’s not her name, Draco,” Hermione hissed.
Honestly.
“What is her name?” Ron asked, frowning as though the thought had only just occurred to him. “I don’t think I even know.”
Hermione turned to glare at him, only to catch sight of Draco blinking, a sheepish expression creeping onto his face.
“Draco, tell me you know your daughter’s real name,” Hermione said, her voice dangerously even.
“I know,” Draco said, waving his hand dismissively. “It just — it feels weird to call her anything but—”
“Balls, Draco?” Hermione deadpanned.
“Aster,” Draco enunciated carefully, turning his attention back on their daughter. “What are you doing up there?”
“I is hiding from Rose,” Aster smirked, her tiny nose wrinkling with glee. “Rose has a boy here, and she trying to snuck him out the dinwow.”
Hermione’s eyes went wide just as Scorpius clambered into the room, a fresh set of boxes in his arms.
“Ah, fuck.”
Both Ron and Draco turned to Scorpius in unison, their expressions a mirror of incredulity and outrage. Before they could start, Lucius appeared behind Scorpius, his piercing gaze narrowed in suspicion.
This was not good.
“Expelliarmus,” Hermione said faintly, flicking her wand to disarm all three men, as well as Scorpius — there had been no getting around disarming him, in the process. Their wands flew through the air and collided with her wrist, before clattering to the floor. She bent down and scooped them up much more deftly than a woman her shape ought to have been able to.
Scorpius exhaled audibly, stepping cautiously around the now-unarmed men to move towards Hermione, who had herself moved to block the trapdoor with a protective stance.
“Everybody remain—”
“What boy?” Draco demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
“Hey, that’s my question to ask!” Ron snapped, whirling on Scorpius. “What boy?”
Scorpius manoeuvered himself further behind Hermione, his hands raised in surrender. “He’s a good guy, I promise!” he yelped, narrowly dodging Lucius’s wandless stinging hex. “I would’ve told you if he wasn’t—”
“What’s his name?” Draco barked.
“These are my questions!” Ron huffed, turning to glare at Draco, who had begun to stalk forward only to stop under the weight of Hermione’s steely glare. Ron turned back to look at Scorpius. “Name!”
“I—” Scorpius floundered, radiating an anxiety that he would have concealed in his youth. “I—”
“Well, she certainly must not think he’s a ‘good guy’ if she’s hiding him,” Lucius said, ever helpful. “I demand passage to go inspect who this boy is.”
“Oh yes,” Hermione said dryly, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because what teenage girl wouldn’t want to introduce her friend to two dads and a grandfather who are ready to hex him into the next decade at the mere mention of there being a him?”
“Her boyfriend, Mummy,” Aster added helpfully, grinning. “I saw them sleeping in the bed together.”
“Thank you, Bol— Aster,” Hermione grimaced. “Now come down before Rose finds out you’ve told everyone about her—”
“Crumb!” Aster sang cheerfully. “That’s a silly name. A Hufflepuff. He’s wearing yellow knickers.”
“Knickers?” Draco said hoarsely.
“Krum?!” Ron gaped.
“Like Viktor Krum?” Lucius asked, his brows lifting in surprise.
“That pervert!” Draco seethed, his face darkening. “I fucking knew—”
“His son, thank you very much,” Hermione interjected, her voice rising above the growing chaos. “All three of you met Nicholas at the graduation. Honestly.”
“I don’t like it,” Draco declared, crossing his arms in defiance.
“He was eighteen,” Ron said, his face still flushed with indignation. “And you — you were fifteen — and it was wrong!”
“Dumbledore should have stepped right in,” Draco added. “I can’t believe anyone thought it was okay, Hermione going to the ball with that forty-year old.”
“Exactly,” Ron said. “You get it, but no — I’m in the wrong for telling her she shouldn’t have gone. Bit my head off, this one.”
“Nah,” Draco said, waving a hand. “Good you did. He had no right—”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Hermione groaned. “He’s not Viktor. He’s Nicholas. And he’s perfectly respectable. His mum is Katie Bell, Ron!”
“Respectable doesn’t mean trustworthy,” Draco shot back.
“Like father, like son, usually,” Lucius piped in. “Though, I suppose in my case, it really ought to be like son, like father—”
“Exactly, and oye—” Ron suddenly turned, remembering Scorpius who had done an excellent job of disillusioning himself, though without his wand, his silhouette was still rather visible against the background. “Isn’t he the boy who used to pick on her?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t call it picking on her,” Scorpius frowned. “Made her miserable, but I think she liked it.”
“And you said nothing?” Draco genuinely looked hurt.
“It wasn’t my place, and besides — it’s very new,” Scorpius said, both to him and Ron, who seemed to have gone into a state of shock, relying on Draco to get him answers to the questions he had become incapable of asking himself.
“How new?” Draco narrowed his eyes.
“Well, let’s see,” Scorpius said slowly. “She decked him in the face at the final Quidditch game last year, and they were making out later that night at the after-party in the Slytherin common room.”
Ron groaned where he stood, braced against the counter, his head in his hands.
“Is this what I received a letter about from Minerva?” His voice was muffled. “She said he ended up in the hospital wing.”
“She decked him?” Draco said quietly. “Why?”
“Don’t ask me to explain their kinks,” Scorpius said. “They’ve been at each other’s throats since before I even knew her.”
Lucius, meanwhile, had begun pacing, muttering about the lack of standards in Hufflepuff households. “Where is a couch when you need one?” She heard him say before twisting on the spot, his robes flourishing gracefully behind him as he disappeared through the back door.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. What fresh hell was he going to bring back with him?
Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“You two, stay,” Hermione ground out. “Scorpius, go and bring your sister and her friend down. Bring Aster down as well. I have no idea how that child manages to be exactly where she shouldn’t be.”
At that, Draco snorted and mumbled something about, “Potter for a godfather,” earning himself an icy glare.
“I’m certainly not going up there to bring her down,” Scorpius said. “I have a business to set up, and frankly speaking, if I could get Rose to do things, she wouldn’t have brought him back to our place at all.”
“Good—”
“I told her to go to his place.”
“You’d better be joking, Scorp,” Draco fumed.
“Fine,” Hermione said. “I’ll go — and so help me Merlin, if either of you follow behind me, you’ll find yourselves hexed into a trunk at the bottom of my closet — together.”
With that, Hermione turned away, one arm wrapped protectively around her belly, a daughter giggling mischievously above her, and another daughter — wherever she was — undoubtedly listening with bated breath.
On the bright side, Hermione thought wryly, it seemed Rose was, in fact, God.
For the first time in Hermione’s life, her husband and ex-husband appeared to be firmly united.
Unfortunately for Rose, it so happened to be against her boyfriend.
* * *
Rose, it turned out, was listening — but not from inside her flat. She was planted firmly on the skewed balcony, tugging on a pair of jeans, her expression suggesting she was calculating just how badly she’d hurt herself if she jumped and bolted.
Her visitor — still only dressed in yellow boxers — sat awkwardly on the sofa, nursing what was clearly a hangover turned nightmare. Beside him, Aster was perched smugly, swinging her legs as though this were her personal entertainment.
“Hi, Mrs Malfoy,” the boy said hesitantly.
“Granger-Malfoy,” Hermione corrected, her voice sharper than intended. “Nice to see you again, Nick. And you—” She turned her gaze to Rose, arching a brow. “Come in here and put on a shirt.”
“This is a shirt,” Rose grumbled, tugging at the hem of her crop-top defensively. “If I made an effort to put on jeans, I definitely made an effort to put on a shirt.”
Hermione grimaced at the sight of it.
“If you want both your fathers to live past forty,” she said, her tone biting, “you’ll come down wearing a longer shirt. And make sure he—” she gestured sharply at Nick — “comes down wearing some pants, and perhaps holding a wand. Do you know how to cast a Protego?” Hermione asked, turning to the dark-haired boy. He really was Viktor in miniature, only with a leaner build that she supposed came courtesy of Katie.
“Yes, Mrs Granger-Malfoy,” the boy, who’d taken her inattention to throw a pillow over his boxers, said sheepishly. “Though I suppose, against two, I don’t think it will matter if I throw up a Protego or my hands.”
“I suppose not,” Hermione sighed. “But I guess it’s a good thing I’m pregnant, then.”
“Er… should I come down too, then?” a voice asked hesitantly, drawing Hermione’s attention to the other bedroom.
There stood James Potter, looking equally as guilty as Nicholas and just as utterly dishevelled. His dark hair stuck up in its usual messy way, and his clothes — clearly borrowed from Scorpius — hung awkwardly on his frame, the sleeves slightly too short and the Ravenclaw crest on the jumper an ironic touch.
“Hi, Aunty Mione,” he said sheepishly, raising a hand in a half-hearted wave. “I don’t suppose you could sneak me out? I need to get back to Hogwarts for the new term before my dad realises I’m missing from his map.”
They filed downstairs in a cautious, strategic order. James went first, his steps hesitant. Rose followed, her expression defiant, as though daring anyone to challenge her. Hermione came next, carrying Aster, who looked utterly delighted with the drama. Nicholas brought up the rear, his wand tucked safely into his pocket, though Hermione had noticed him inching for it several times before her sharp glare stopped him.
“Ah, fuck,” Scorpius groaned as he caught sight of the group descending. His cheeks flushed the same shade as Aster’s unicorn onesie. “So you found him, then.”
“Actually, he volunteered,” Hermione said dryly. “Something about needing to sneak back to school.”
For better or worse, James’s sudden appearance seemed to have derailed the impending storm. Ron stared at Hermione, his brow furrowed as though trying to piece together why James had been in the flat. It was as if the dynamic duo had thrown a secret cousins party and forgotten to invite literally everyone except James.
Draco, meanwhile, was quicker to catch on. His eyes widened slowly, as though someone had lifted an Obscuro after keeping him in a dank, locked trunk for a decade.
Nicholas, in turn, looked like a cornered animal, unsure where to direct his pleas for mercy. His gaze darted between Draco and Ron before finally landing on Hermione, his eyes pleading.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Okay, then,” she began briskly.
James seemed to take that as his cue. “I’ll be going now,” he said with a cheeky grin, edging toward the door. “And if anyone asks, I wasn’t here.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Hermione said, flicking her wand to strip him of his own. “You’re sixteen, underage, and definitely not where you’re supposed to be. Your parents can come join us for lunch — same as Nick’s.”
“I’m eighteen,” Nicholas interjected quickly, his voice tinged with a mixture of defiance and desperation. “So I can—”
“And on my property,” Hermione cut in with a sweet but firm smile, her teeth gleaming. “Besides, your father and I go way back, Nicholas.”
“I think you go further with Katie,” Draco grumbled, shooting Hermione a sidelong glance. “But yes, let us all have lunch. You. Weasley. Krum. And I.”
* * *
“Hermy-own-ninny,” Viktor greeted warmly as he and Katie entered The Leaky Cauldron, their timing perfectly coinciding with the Potters’.
After a solid whack to the back of his head from Ginny, and a disappointed look from Harry that did absolutely nothing at all, James had all but been left alone. It didn’t take long for his hand to find its way back into Scorpius’s, who seemed to have decided there was no longer any reason to hide his affection now that everyone at the table was well aware of it.
“This is not the relationship I saw for us,” Harry muttered to Draco, his voice low but unmistakably weary.
To Hermione, however, it seemed both their complaints had little to do with Scorpius or James specifically and everything to do with the looming possibility that, one day, the two families would be even more closely entwined.
Not that Hermione was in favour of teenagers choosing their spouses so young. Absolutely not.
“I already have a hard enough time getting your wife to stop talking to me,” Draco grumbled, throwing a pointed look across the table at Ginny.
“Oh, Ferret,” Ginny replied with a wicked smirk. “If you think, when the time comes, I’ll allow you to plan the wedding all on your own, you’re so very wrong. You’ll just have to admit you’d prefer me coordinating with you on flowers rather than Harry.”
“At least let your child graduate first,” Hermione said dryly, giving Ginny a pointed look. No child of hers — or Harry’s or Ginny’s or Draco’s — would be so much as thinking about marriage before they’d had a chance to live their lives.
Ron, standing silently at her shoulder, nodded sagely. For once, it seemed, they were in complete agreement.
The moment she was shot of this lunch, Hermione resolved, she’d be giving all of them a thorough lecture on contraception charms. And maybe, just to be extra cautious, she’d venture into Muggle London for condoms.
Merlin.
Why did it always fall to her?
She entertained the brief, absurd image of asking Draco to buy Muggle condoms himself. No. Absolutely not. He’d probably perish on the spot, crushed under the combined weight of mortification and stress.
“Ah, young lovebirds! They is reminding me of us,” Viktor said, throwing a heavy arm around Hermione with a grin that seemed to grow wider as Draco’s glower deepened. “You voz very vorried vot everyone vould say also, but ve made a handsome pair, did ve not?”
“Er, yes,” Hermione replied stiffly, resolutely ignoring the way Draco’s eyes narrowed at Viktor’s casual familiarity. She carefully shrugged off the arm, patting Viktor’s shoulder in what she hoped was a polite dismissal.
Katie, to her credit, looked entirely unfazed, a small smile tugging at her lips. She leaned closer to Hermione, clearly accustomed to her husband’s flirtatious side.
Hermione cleared her throat. “But perhaps we should sit and talk about the kids,” she said pointedly, her tone diplomatic but firm.
“Vot is there to talk about?” Viktor asked, taking a seat across from her. “They are young. Young vons always vont a little fun.”
“There will be no having fun,” Ron bit out, glaring at Nicholas.
“Yes, sir,” Nicholas said quickly, nodding solemnly. “No fun at all. I swear.”
“Dad!” Rose groaned, but she quieted when Draco’s sharp gaze met hers.
“And just what we needed — Cormac,” Ron coughed, his tone a mix of dread and irritation as his gaze shifted to the door behind Rose. “Bloody hell, I’ve almost managed to evade him for a decade…”
“You,” the man seethed, striding forward with a fury that made Hermione flinch. His eyes burned with a rage she hadn’t seen since the war — or so she would have said if Rose and Scorpius hadn’t just been caught with their paramours barely an hour earlier by the very men now sitting on either side of her.
He’d lost weight since Hermione had last seen him properly — a few months after their trip, when he’d quit his job to take a better-paying one with a smaller, private company and she’d never thought twice of him again in the many years since.
“What does he mean?” Hermione asked, her scowl deepening even as she silently prayed Katie wouldn’t catch her expression.
“Oh, er, remember that Christmas when you told me to get rid of him?” Ron muttered, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I might have left him unconscious on the shady corner where Knockturn Alley meets Wretchwick Way… with a hag named Hildeldra. I heard through the grapevine it was a rough night. She ended up stalking him for a bit. Sent him cursed love letters for months.”
“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione groaned, her shoulders slumping as Cormac McLaggen approached the table, his gait stiff and his face pinched with the kind of desperation that set her teeth on edge.
He bypassed the adults entirely, stopping directly in front of Rose with an expression that was both wild and pleading
“Seven years, Merlin,” he began, his voice escalating. “Seven fucking years should be penance enough for what was no more than seven minutes!”
“Step away from my daughter,” Draco growled, rising from his chair and rounding the table in a single, fluid motion.
Ron and Harry flanked him instinctively, forming a wall of barely contained fury.
“I’m not doing anything!” Cormac spat, his frustration boiling over. “She’s been hounding me for years — but you’d know that if you hadn’t warded my owls out!”
“Excuse me… what?” Hermione’s brows furrowed, her voice dangerously calm. She couldn’t remember ever warding his owls out — but maybe Draco had?
“Howlers at my workplace. Trip jinxes whenever I visit Hogwarts for guest lectures. And just last month, just last month — as I was about to finally get married — guess what arrives?”
The table stilled. Hermione leaned forward, bracing herself.
“A paternity test,” Cormac seethed. “Claiming I’m expecting a baby boy and have refused to acknowledge it. I haven’t had sex in two years because your daughter has been hounding me with Howlers wherever I go! My home, my workplace — nothing I do will bar them entry. And don’t get me started on my fucking love life. Every time I’m on a date, this little fucker seems to know. Do you know how many of my dates have ended with women screeching at me for being a pig?”
“To be fair, I don’t think that’s entirely Rose’s fault,” Ginny offered lightly, taking a delicate sip of her tea. “You always were a pig, Cormac. Not that I believe you,” she added quickly, though her tone suggested otherwise, “but if Rose did do any of that, I think she deserves an Order of Merlin for services rendered to all womankind.”
“This isn’t funny!” Cormac yelled, his voice echoing through the previously subdued dining room.
Their booth, albeit large, had gone rather unnoticed until now. It had been nine years since Hermione and Draco had taken the Wizarding World by storm with their engagement. Since then, people had learned they were, for all their fame, rather ordinary — and had stopped gawking at them as they once had.
Now, with Cormac standing before their table, yelling at an eighteen-year-old, they once again found themselves the centre of attention, as if Voldemort himself had returned and decided to enjoy a pint with his mates. Susan Bones watched the entire spectacle with a weighted fascination, and Hermione just knew they’d yet again be making the press rounds in the morning.
“You’re spreading misinformation about my life!” Cormac spat, glaring at Rose.
“Oh, so you do get it!” Rose shot back, rising from her seat with a defiant glint in her eye. “You finally understand the utter shit you did that day at last.”
“Understand?” Cormac hissed, his face turning a mottled shade of red. “You’ve made sure I’ve lived it!”
“Good,” Rose smirked, her tone sharp and unyielding. “Now apologise to Draco, and I’ll consider you officially dead to me and my family.”
Cormac turned to gape at Hermione, his expression equal parts desperation and disbelief. But Hermione, still processing what she’d just heard, could only stare back at him, stunned.
Rose had been tormenting Cormac from the moment she’d received her wand.
Rose had silently and methodically waited, biding her time until she could make him pay.
Beside her, Draco remained silent, though from the curve of his lips, Hermione knew he was enjoying himself.
“If I apologise,” Cormac quietly fumed, his voice tight with barely restrained fury, “you’ll finally leave me alone?”
“Yes,” Rose said, her smile sharp, her teeth glinting like a predator closing in on its prey.
“Fine,” Cormac spat. He turned toward Draco with a pained grimace. “Malfoy, apologies. You are, in fact, not the murderer I thought you were.”
“Properly,” Rose growled, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Cormac’s jaw tightened, as if he were fighting an internal battle. Finally, his shoulders sagged in defeat. He turned back toward Draco, his expression carved from stone.
“I’m very sorry,” he bit out through gritted teeth, not sounding sorry at all for anything except himself — glaring at Draco as though the apology itself were a personal injury. Without waiting for a response, he spun back toward Rose, his face contorted in frustration.
Rose nodded triumphantly, crossing her arms. “Okay. I won’t be harassing you anymore.”
“Fine. Good!” Cormac snapped, before twirling around and storming out of the room, his robes billowing dramatically behind him.
The silence he left in his wake was broken by Nick, who leaned closer to Rose with a conspiratorial grin.
“You still want me to put those badgers in his office tomorrow?” he asked, his voice low but brimming with amusement. “They’re already sitting in my office, ready to go.”
“Gods, I love you,” Rose said, her voice softening as her grin widened — earning loud winces from the men beside Hermione. She reached out, her fingers brushing Nick’s wrist before curling gently around his hand. Her eyes gleamed with delight as she leaned closer. “Yes, please. But make sure it happens during my meeting with Mafalda. I’ll need a solid alibi.”
Nick chuckled, his thumb grazing hers in a small, familiar gesture of affection. “Done. I’ll set the timer to release them just as you’re outlining your case. Nothing says professionalism like plausible deniability.”
“And what about me?” Scorpius asked, his tone laced with mock exasperation as he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
“Someone has to actually go watch the disaster unfold,” Rose replied with a shrug, shooting him a pointed look. “We’ll need a memory of it for our treasure-trove.”
“And of course, it has to be me.”
“Exactly. Make sure you wear that protective cloak I got you for Christmas,” Rose added, her grin turning mischievous.
“Well, I suppose I see it now,” Katie whispered, drawing Hermione’s attention back to her. Her expression was a mixture of amusement and resignation. “Unfortunately, I don’t think this is a one-off, much as we’d like it to be.”
“No weddings,” Draco snapped, his voice cutting through the conversation like a whip. “And certainly no stayovers, for either of them. I didn’t buy them a flat just so they could have boys over.”
“I thought we were renting,” Ron interjected, leaning around Hermione to catch Draco’s eye.
“You’re renting your half, the one you insist on paying,” Draco said with a nonchalant shrug. “I bought the place the moment Rose said she wanted it. Real estate is a wonderful investment, Weasley, I keep getting tired of telling you.”
“Weasey is silly,” Aster mumbled, having woken from her nap. “But beautiful. Has hair like fire.”
* * *
“Why did you invite them over for dinner?” Rose sulked, trailing behind Hermione as they exited the Leaky Cauldron and made their way back toward the shop. The storefront still needed a fair bit of work if they were going to meet the scheduled opening.
“Because Katie and Viktor are old friends,” Hermione said evenly, her tone measured as she glanced over her shoulder at her daughter.
“And because we want to get to know that friend of yours,” Draco added, adjusting Aster on his hip as she toyed with a strand of his hair where it had fallen forward into his eyes. His words carried a subtle edge, though his expression remained deceptively calm.
Rose groaned, rolling her eyes. “You already know Nick. You met him at graduation.”
“Meeting him for two minutes over celebratory champagne doesn’t count,” Draco replied, arching an eyebrow as he fixed Rose with a look.
“And neither does him sneaking out of your flat in boxers,” Hermione added dryly.
Aster giggled, clearly delighted by the escalating tension. “Bols saw his yellow pants!” she chirped.
“Your name is Aster,” Hermione chided gently, fixing her youngest with a stern look.
“No, is not,” Aster replied defiantly, her little chin jutting out in challenge. “I is Balls.”
Draco coughed sharply, turning his face away as his shoulders shook, clearly struggling to suppress a laugh.
“Oh, what is he doing now?” Rose muttered, her attention snapping to the shopfront where Lucius stood, his wand moving in precise, rhythmic motions. Threads of magic shimmered faintly in the air as Lopper’s own energy crackled around them.
“Lucy!” Rose called, her voice a mix of irritation and disbelief.
“I am simply adding my own wards,” Lucius replied smoothly, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder. His tone was practiced calm, the kind Hermione imagined he’d perfected during the war, or his years with Rose. “Nothing to worry about. Your… friend may come, but he must leave promptly before curfew.”
“Mum!” Rose rounded on Hermione.
“And James?” Scorpius asked, his expression carefully neutral.
“He can stay,” Lucius said without hesitation. “I know him.”
“This is incredibly immature — no one likes a meddler!” Rose cried, throwing her hands up in frustration.
“Oh, darling,” Hermione said, her grin turning mischievous. “We all did learn to meddle from the best.” She paused for effect, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “You can think of it as Mission: K.I.D.S.”
Rose narrowed her eyes, clearly unimpressed.
“Mission: Karma Is Delightfully Satisfying,” Hermione added with a smirk, before turning to take Draco’s hand. “I’m knackered. Maybe we can come back tomorrow and wrap up once Lucy’s done?”
“Perfect,” Draco replied smoothly, his own grin widening. “I needed a reason to come back.”
The two turned slowly, making their way back to the Leaky so they could Floo home, leaving Rose and Lucius to bicker, as Scorpius watched on exasperatedly.
“How long do you think before she breaks through all the wards?” Draco asked as they stepped through the Floo to the cosy warmth of their cottage and the familiar scent of their home.
“Morning,” Hermione mused, slipping off her shoes with a sigh. “But at least you and I can have one night of peace in the meantime.”
Draco smirked, wrapping his arms around her from behind and pulling her close. “A couch-rot and takeaway dinner sounds like the best way to end it.”
Hermione hummed.
It was perfect — the chaos of their family would always be perfect — and she, for one, was ready for whatever more Rose and Scorpius had in store for them all, yet.
Notes:
From here on out, the Granger-Malfoy’s started naming their children differently. Flowers for girls, Constellations for boys. (Aster: is a flower, shaped like a star and means star in Latin).
Eeeeeek. We’ve reached the end. This week has been incredibly bittersweet for me, and I know it is for you, as well. These babies — our babies — are all grown up and living their best lives, though no less chaotically.
Thank you so much for following along with this WIP. We started it when we were in June and Christmas was a distant fever-dream in the middle of a heatwave, and look at us now, ten days away from Christmas. It truly has been such an honour having you read this fic and give it, and these characters so much love. Especially Rose. Right after I posted chapter one I saw a discussion on Reddit talking about how readers actively avoid fics that have her because of who her father is, and it made me so sad for her. I hope this little fic brought a little justice to her character.
Scorpius is, of course, so well-loved and most of my favourite fics have him, so the best I could do with him was explore other aspects of his character.
Hermione and Draco make so much sense in my head, and it is my genuine belief that had they ever been forced to spend a few days together after the war, well their love is, in every universe, inevitable.
This fic would not be what it is without all your constant love. So many of you have read it from day one — when it was just another entry in a fest — and followed it along, asking relevant questions that I simply had to incorporate as the story went on. Your love, feedback, comments, recs, kudos — EVERYTHING — has made this fic what it is, and I want to thank you for it.
Engagement truly does matter when writing, because you never know what sparks something. Mission T.I.T.S. would not exist if Samantha had not asked for a code-name on Discord - and how bereft this fic would be without it.
That being said, I have appreciated every single one of you — my Sundays became the most exciting day of the week for all your love.
I’d also like to thank Cait who signed onto a 60k word project (yes, estimated word-count for TSM was 60k once) and didn’t even bat an eye when it became double and then went over that even. She has read each chapter twice, thrice, four times if needed be, and deserves a lot of love and a round of applause for it.
Mlekoimiodd came on a little later, but you guys need to see the comments she leaves on the word-doc. So many of my anxieties are alleviated because she comes in with so much love and energy, leaving hilarious comments for me to find the morning when I post so I can relax.
I’d also like to thank Charingfae and Thornedhuntress for putting on the Daddy Knows Best Fest without which this prompt would not have caught my eye and this little idea would not have materialised.
I wish you a very merry Christmas (Happy Holidays if you do not practice) and the most amazing New Year ahead. I hope it’s magical, and treats us all well.
I will also have new projects dropping in the New Year, I’ll keep you all updated via my socials - or if you’d like, you can subscribe to me as an author.
Please do consider leaving behind a comment/kudo if you have enjoyed this fic, as it does bring me joy to know something within this fic has caused a little joy in the world.
Again, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
Now, I’m off to couch-rot, read some fics, and start a fresh new journey with these two idiots in love once more.
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P.S.: Here’s a link to A Drive Folder with Epubs (Covers already attached), for your convenience.
— Please note, it has two alternate covers, as well as High Res Images: